finger, whispering—
“He has just fallen asleep. Praise to God, the crisis is past, and the
dear youth will recover! His fever has left him—his skin is no longer
hot—he is free from delirium.”
The words of the faithful old creature almost took away Mrs. Wentworth’s
breath; she felt herself turning pale, and her brain swam around.
Happily, the room was imperfectly lighted, so that the nurse could not
detect the changes in the countenance of her mistress.
“_And is there any fear of a relapse?_” said Mrs. Wentworth, forcing
herself to assume feelings, outwardly, far different from those really
raging in her bosom. “Is the _dear boy_ safe?”
“The chances are infinitely in his favor; yet there is a possibility of
a relapse. I pray God no such evil may overtake Master Herbert.”
Her mistress nodded, and feeling that she could not much longer maintain
her composure, she said that she would return to her room for a moment
to procure her slippers, when she would aid her in watching by the sick
bed, as she was _too overjoyed to sleep_.
What pen can paint her feelings when she reached her chamber? Here were
all her bright visions dissipated. The prospect before her was darker
than ever. What would become of herself after her husband’s
death?—what, indeed, would that husband say when he returned and heard
Herbert’s version of his brother’s and her conduct? What would become of
her darling son, subject, perhaps, to his father’s displeasure, and, at
most, left with nothing but a younger son’s fortune, with which to
support his expensive habits? She paused in the centre of her room. A
thousand furies seemed agitating her countenance. Pride, fear, hate, all
chased each other, by turns, through her bosom. Suddenly her face
assumed a look of comparative calmness. She walked to a neighboring
closet, took from its wall a small phial, and then, gazing a moment at
her face in the glass, she placed her slippers on her feet, and sought
the room of the invalid. Motioning to the nurse to keep her seat, this
fearful woman crossed to the other side of the bed, and sat down by the
little table on which stood the medicine for the sufferer. The cup
already contained the dose which was to be given him at the expiration
of the hour. She looked at the watch—but a few minutes remained to the
time. She looked around the room—no one was in it but the nurse, who
was concealed by the curtains of the bed. She hastily uncorked the
phial, and, with a trembling hand, let fall a few drops of the liquid it
contained into the cup. The phial was then secreted, and, with a face as
ashy as the dead, she heard, the next instant, the clock strike the
hour. The patient awoke at the noise, and, almost on the instant, the
nurse came around and took the cup in her hand. My pen trembles so I can
scarcely proceed—but I must. Suffice it to say the cup was drained, and
the invalid, as if exhausted, sank back on his pillow. When next the
attendant drew aside the curtain, she gazed on the face of the dead.
Let me escape from this terrible tragedy. The young heir was buried in
lordly state, and no suspicion ever arose that he died otherwise than by
a sudden relapse. But was Mrs. Wentworth happy? She saw her son the
acknowledged heir of the estate, and for this she had labored her whole
life—but was she happy? I will answer, in the words of Scripture, when
speaking of the wicked—“Terrors take hold on him as waters; the tempest
swalloweth him up in the night. . . . _For God shall cast upon him and
not spare._”
Time passed. Even Mrs. Wentworth began to find, in the lapse of years,
and in gazing on her son, now near eighteen, some alleviation for her
tortured mind. But God, whose inscrutable Providence had hitherto seemed
to forget the unholy deed we have just narrated, was now preparing for
its author a fearful retribution.
It was just five years from the day of Herbert’s death, when the doating
mother was standing in the door of her house, surrounded by a party of
visitors of her own age, waiting for the approach of a gay cavalcade of
young people, coming up the avenue. The sky was gloomy and threatened a
storm, and the riders were evidently returning in haste. But the tempest
was quicker than even their fleet steeds, and the group, with young
Wentworth at its head, was yet some distance from the door, when the
storm burst on the riders. Each put spurs to his horse, and the young
heir, as wilful as ever, instead of awaiting his companions, dashed
forward as fast as his steed—the fleetest of them all—could carry him.
He was already several rods in advance of his companions, when the wind,
suddenly bursting out into a hurricane, swept across the avenue, taking
in its course a huge, but somewhat decayed tree, whose trunk, after
swaying forwards a moment, was seen to yield to the gale just as young
Wentworth came underneath it.
“Look out!” shouted those who saw the danger.
“Save him!—oh! save him!” shrieked the mother.
It was too late. Down, with a crash like thunder, came the gigantic
tree, the trunk striking the unhappy youth right on the head, and
bearing him to the earth as if he was a mere twig. There was a wild cry,
and all that remained of the victim was one quivering hand, extended, as
if in supplication, beyond the trunk of the tree.
The spectators stood aghast, transfixed with speechless horror, at the
fearful sight. A deathlike stillness of a moment, and only of a moment,
followed. It was broken by a long, wild, harrowing shriek of anguish, at
the remembrance of which, even now, my blood runs cold. They all turned
instinctively in the same direction—towards the mother of the
victim—for that shriek could have come from no one else. They saw her
fall like marble to the earth. They sprang to her side. Her eyes were
wide open, glaring fearfully on vacancy—the foam had gathered, thick
and white, on her bloodless lips—her whole frame was quivering in an
agony such as—thank God!—mortal man has rarely seen. There she lay,
struck by the hand of God, writhing in convulsions. Tell me not there is
no retribution! Oh! fearfully was that murdered boy avenged.
They took her up, bore her into her stately chamber, and despatched
messengers on every hand for medical aid. All that the skill of the
profession could do to restore her was exerted, but for a long time
unsuccessfully. At length, however, Mrs. Wentworth showed signs of
recovery. Slowly, consciousness appeared to return to her; but just when
her attendants were beginning to hope that the danger had passed, she
sprang up in her bed, and, placing her hands before her eyes, shrieked,
“save him—save him—oh, God! have mercy—I am the murderer—he is
innocent,” and with other ejaculations, equally as terrific, she sank
down on the couch, in a paroxysm of madness. _She was a maniac._ It was
not many days before nature gave way beneath the struggle, but, during
the ravings of her phrenzy, she recapitulated the whole of the dreadful
tragedy, and in words too that made her listeners tremble to hear. It
has often occurred to me, that, if the death-bed revelations of but one
year could be made public, they would make us avoid our fellow-men as
beings of a darker world.
One word and this melancholy leaf is ended. Mr. Wentworth never returned
from his mission, but fell a victim to the climate of South America. His
estate having been entailed to the issue of his own body, of course,
failing such issue, passed in the regular course of succession; and
descending to nearly a score of collateral heirs, who divided the
property betwixt them, was soon broken into fragments. The old Hall was
shunned with superstitious fear, and is now in ruins. So pass away the
things of this world.
D.
* * * * *
MY BONNIE BLUE-EYED LASSIE, O!
A SCOTTISH BALLAD.
SUNG BY
MR. DEMPSTER.
_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.
[Illustration: musical score]
I sing the bonnie E’e of her,
My bonnie, bonnie Lassie O!
I
[Illustration: musical score]
sing the praise of ane I luve,
My bonnie, bonnie Lassie, O!
I sing of monie a time and aft,
We’ve gane thegither cheerly, O!
And bless the E’e that welcomes me,
My bonnie blue-eyed Lassie, O!
Her face sae fair, her winning air,
Sure nane is like my lassie, O!
When e’r we meet, she smiles so sweet,
My bonnie blue-eyed lassie, O!
And monie a time at fair or green,
We’ve prattled aft and dearly, O!
I press’d my suit, she pleaded youth,
My bonnie blue-eyed lassie, O!
Yes, woo I still, yes, woo I will,
My bonnie, bonnie lassie, O!
The world can ne’er ha’e charms for me,
Without my blue-eyed lassie, O!
When last we met, I saw her e’e
Half turn’d aside so winning, O!
I named the kirk, she gied consent,
My ain dear blue-eyed lassie, O!
* * * * *
COTTAGE PIETY.
BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.
“Early had they learned
To reverence the volume that displays
The mystery, the life which cannot die.”
_Wordsworth._
There is no piety like that in our cottages. Go through the land from
one end to the other,—enter, if you will, at every door you pass,—seek
out the dying in lordly hall, and lowly dwelling,—and you will find
that the humble tenants of the humblest roof, are often the most
acceptable in the eyes of their Maker, and that in the words of Holy
Writ, “not many wise, not many noble are called,” but “God hath chosen
the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.” And there is a
philosophy in this. The rich have wherewithal to enjoy themselves in
this life, and what care they for the one to come? but the poor find no
peace from toil on earth, and gladly hail the message which bids them to
a better and a brighter world, where “the weary are at rest.” Then, too,
the Sabbath of the cottager! They who live in cities, or dwell in
stately palaces in the country, have no idea of the soothing calm, of
this day, to the poor man. All through the weary week, in summer or in
winter, amid cold and rain and heat, he is compelled to toil for the
scanty pittance which barely keeps his wife and little ones alive—and
when the Sabbath morning comes, and he sees all so tidy about him, while
the sun smiles pleasantly through the casement, and there is an eloquent
stillness on all without, a feeling of freedom and of untold peace,
comes stealing over his soul, such as those who have never shared his
toils cannot imagine. If he has a heart it is melted into gratitude. If
he is a godly man—and do not these very things purify his heart
insensibly?—he will call his little ones around him, and, together,
they will lift up their thanksgivings for the blessings of another week.
Oh! how often—in some old country house, far, far away from the crimes
and cares of the town—have we listened to the morning hymn, sweetly
rising on the air, and seeming to go up to heaven all the sweeter for
the songs of birds and the murmurs of the stream, with which it mingled.
Yes! we love
“The sound of hymns
On some bright Sabbath morning, on the moor
_Where all is still save praise_; and where hard by
The ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun;
The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook—
All look as if they knew the day, the hour,
And felt with man the need of joy and thanks.”
Yonder is a cottage, down in the glen. If you will come and stand with
us beside the casement, you can just see the white walls of that humble
home, smiling through the embowering foliage. There live a daughter and
her parents, and if you would see piety, go into that cottage. Shall I
tell you how their Sunday is spent? It will be a lesson to us all.
When breakfast is over, the little family, attired in their best, set
forth to church, the daughter walking betwixt her aged parents, and
kindly supporting their steps, while every thing around them soothes
their hearts for the duties of the day. It is a September morning, and
all Nature is filled with harmony. Not a leaf that rustles on the air,
nor a brook that babbles by, nor a bird that whistles in the wood, nor
the voice of a child singing from the overflowing gladness of its heart,
but is sweeter to their ear, and more soothing to their souls, than the
music of a Garcia. And when they reach the old church how every one will
make room for them! And so, after service, will they return home.
And in the afternoon, they will gather around the little table, beneath
the open casement, through which float gently the hum of bees and the
fragrance of flowers, and there they will sit, listening to the word of
God, as their daughter reads it aloud. There is such a quiet, a soft
dreamy quiet around, that it soothes them insensibly to a holy calm. The
very clock seems to tick less audibly; the cat sits purring in her
lowest tone; the bird, from his cage, looks silently down; the sunbeams
fall hushed on the clean, bright floor; and the rose-leaves by the
window, that now and then float to the ground, strike with a faint low
sound on the earth, like the foot-fall of a fairy at moonlight.
Every word of that sacred volume the listeners drink in eagerly, for are
they not “athirst for the waters of life?” Aye! they drink it in the
more eagerly because read by her, whose voice, to them, is softer than
that of a cherub.
And such is Cottage Piety. The proud may sneer at it—the rich may
regard it as a fiction—the dwellers in town may look on it as an
enthusiast’s picture; but the great God who made us all, and who notes
every deed, beholds thousands of such scenes, every Sabbath of the year.
* * * * *
Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.
Before making choice of a gun, the sportsman should determine what
weight he can conveniently carry. The heaviest gun, as regards shooting,
will be most effective; but he should recollect, that unless he be a
very robust person, a light gun will on the whole bring him more game,
as a few pounds in the weight makes a deal of difference in the distance
the person can carry it with ease, and few persons can shoot well when
fatigued.
The most approved guns under the system which prescribes a heavy charge
of powder and a light one of shot, are double-barrels, bearing the
following relative proportions of length to calibre:[1]—fourteen gauge,
thirty-four inches long; seventeen gauge, thirty-two inches long; twenty
gauge, thirty inches long. For the shooter who never uses shot larger
than No. 6 or 7, these are proper proportions; and did the guns weigh
nine or ten pounds each, they would shoot No. 6 or 7 shot well. But when
under seven pounds and a half, which is the heaviest gun we should think
of using in hot weather, or for a long day’s woodcock shooting, they do
not throw small shot as effectively as a short gun throws large shot.
Barrels twenty-eight inches long, and fourteen, sixteen, or eighteen
gauge, are of convenient size for a gun not exceeding seven pounds and a
half. Those of eighteen gauge shoot shot well; but those of fourteen
throw a cartridge more satisfactorily. Sixteen is a desirable medium.
These barrels are as efficient as long ones for short distances, viz.
under thirty yards; and nine tenths of game brought to the bag is killed
within that distance. And for making long shots, the wire cartridge has
obviated the necessity of using long guns. A short gun, of the same
weight as a long one, is much less tiresome to carry. A pound additional
weight at the breech is not so fatiguing to the arm as half that weight
added to the end of the barrel; it is the top-heavy gun that distresses
the shooter.
Taking the season throughout, we are convinced that the most effective
gun is a short light one, for which our standard charge is 1-5/8 drachm,
or the tenth part of an ounce of powder, and 2 oz. of No. 2 shot,
containing 220 pellets.[2] But when game is wild, we would charge the
reserve barrel, and on some occasions both barrels, with nearly double
the above quantity of powder, and a No. 5 cartridge for winter partridge
shooting in an open country, or with a No. 4 or 5 cartridge for grouse
shooting. No. 7 is best for snipe shooting. Small shot may be used for
partridge shooting in September, though we do not see any reason for not
adhering to No. 2, except that birds very near the gun are liable to be
more disfigured by it.
All guns of the same weight require nearly the same weight and
proportions of powder and shot. Unless they are bored with an unusual
degree of relief or friction, a difference in size of the bore, or in
the length of the barrel, renders less variation in charging necessary
than is generally supposed.
The different proportions of powder and shot must be regulated chiefly
by the weight of the gun and the size of the shot used. The following
may be about the proper proportions for the generality of guns not
exceeding seven pounds and a half.[3]
_Size_ _Weight_ _Weight_
_of_ _of_ _of_
_Shot._ _Shot._ _Powder._
No. Ounces Drachms.
2 2 1-5/8
3 1¾ 1¾
4 1½ 2
5 1-3/8 2¼
6 1¼ 2½
7 1-1/8 2¾[4]
These proportions cannot be materially deviated from without destroying
the effect. If the powder is decreased, the discharge is weakened; if
the powder is increased, the shot spreads; if the weight of the charge
of shot is decreased, there will not be a sufficient number of pellets
for effective shooting; if the weight of the charge of shot is
increased, the discharge is weakened.
The usual objection to large shot is, that after it has travelled thirty
yards it becomes dispersed; but let the powder be reduced to 1½ drachm,
and that objection fails. If it is not overcharged with powder, a light
gun will shoot No. 2 shot close enough to bring down game with more
certainty, at thirty or forty yards’ distance, than if charged with
small shot and two or three drachms of powder.
As few sportsmen ever tried so small a charge of powder as 1½ drachm
with so heavy a charge of shot as 2 oz., or as large size as No. 2, we
invite a trial of the experiment we are about to suggest, with any gun
that may happen to be in their possession, _not weighing more than_ 7½
lb. With the above proportions of powder and shot—the shot being
oiled—let the shooter fire at forty yards, with good elevation, because
large shot droops more than small, at an unbound book nailed to a wall,
with an open newspaper (double sheet) spread in front of it. And
afterwards let him charge the _same_ gun with No. 6 or 7 shot, and any
variation of the relative proportions of powder and shot that his fancy
may suggest, and fire at a similar target. The newspaper will prove that
the large shot is carried with sufficient closeness; and the book will
show which broadside would have told the best on a grouse. On opening
the book, the large shot will be found to have penetrated farther, and
the leaves will be bulged in beyond it.
-----
[1] The size of the bore, gauge, or calibre of a gun—by which is meant
the diameter of the barrel—is distinguished by the number of leaden
balls fitting it which make a pound;—thus, eighteen leaden bullets,
each fitting an 18 gauge barrel, make a pound; sixteen fitting a 16
gauge, or fourteen fitting a 14 gauge barrel, are also equal to a pound.
The different gauges are also known by the number of thirty-seconds of
an inch the diameter consists of;—thus, the diameter of an 18 gauge
barrel is 20½-32’s of an inch; a 16 gauge 21½-32’s; and a 14 gauge
22-32’s.
[2] The powder and shot chargers may be regulated by weighing the powder
with a sixpence, and the shot with four half-crowns. The shooter must
not adopt these proportions if smaller shot is used, as they would not
only cause the gun to recoil, but would be dangerous.
[3] If the gun shoots too close, and does not recoil, the quantity of
powder may be increased.
If it shoots too close and recoils, the quantity of shot must be
reduced.
If it spreads shot too much and does not recoil, the quantity of shot
may be increased.
If it spreads shot too much and recoils, the powder must be reduced.
[4] When these proportions are used, the gun recoils least with the No.
2 and most with the No. 7 charge.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Joseph Rushbrook, or the Poacher._ By Captain Marryatt, _Author
of Peter Simple_, _Jacob Faithful_, etc. etc. _Two Volumes.
Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._
It has been well said that “the success of certain works may be traced
to sympathy between the author’s mediocrity of ideas, and mediocrity of
ideas on the part of the public.” In commenting on this passage, Mrs.
Gore, herself a shrewd philosopher, observes that, whether as regards
men or books, there exists an excellence too excellent for general
favor. To “make a hit”—to captivate the public eye, ear, or
understanding without a certain degree of merit—is impossible; but the
“hardest hit” is seldom made, indeed we may say _never_ made, by the
highest merit. When we wrote the word _seldom_ we were thinking of
Dickens and the “Curiosity Shop,” a work unquestionably of “the highest
merit,” and which at a first glance appears to have made the most
unequivocal of “hits”—but we suddenly remembered that the compositions
called “Harry Lorrequer” and “Charles O’Malley” had borne the palm from
“The Curiosity Shop” in point of what is properly termed _popularity_.
There can be no question, we think, that the philosophy of all this _is_
to be found in the apothegm with which we began. Marryatt is a singular
instance of its truth. He has always been a very _popular_ writer in the
most rigorous sense of the word. His books are essentially “mediocre.”
His ideas are the common property of the mob, and have been their common
property time out of mind. We look throughout his writings in vain for
the slightest indication of originality—for the faintest incentive to
thought. His plots, his language, his opinions are neither adapted nor
intended for scrutiny. We must be contented with them as sentiments,
rather than as ideas; and properly to estimate them, even in this view,
we must bring ourselves into a sort of identification with the sentiment
of the mass. Works composed in this spirit are sometimes purposely so
composed by men of superior intelligence, and here we call to mind the
_Chansons_ of Béranger. But usually they are the natural exponent of the
vulgar thought in the person of a vulgar thinker. In either case they
claim for themselves _that_ which, for want of a more definite
expression, has been called by critics _nationality_. Whether this
nationality in letters is a fit object for high-minded ambition, we
cannot here pause to inquire. If it is, then Captain Marryatt occupies a
more desirable position than, in our heart, we are willing to award him.
“Joseph Rushbrook” is not a book with which the critic should occupy
many paragraphs. It is not very dissimilar to “Poor Jack,” which latter
is, perhaps, the best specimen of its author’s cast of thought, and
_national_ manner, although inferior in interest to “Peter Simple.”
The plot can only please those who swallow the probabilities of “Sinbad
the Sailor,” or “Jack and the Bean-Stalk”—or we should have said, more
strictly, the incidents; for of plot, properly speaking, there is none
at all.