GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. July, 1842 No. 1.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Polish Mother
The Fancy-Fair
Harry Cavendish
The Bridal
The Lightning of the Waters
The Sisters
Boston Ramblings
Autumn
The Brother and Sister
Tropical Birds
The Girdle of Fire
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music and Fashion
“Thou Hast Loved.”
Viola
Morning Prayer
Le Faineant
The Dying Minstrel to His Muse
The Daughter of Herodias
Callore
A Dirge
Sonnet to My Mother
To An Infant in the Cradle
Will Nobody Marry Me?
To ——
The Stage
“To Win the Love of Thee.”
Latest Fashions
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S
LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN’S
MAGAZINE,
EMBELLISHED WITH
MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, HENRY W.
LONGFELLOW, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, THEODORE S. FAY, J. H. MANCUR,
MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. SEBA SMITH, MRS. “MARY CLAVERS,” MRS. E. F.
ELLET, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, ETC.,
PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.
GEORGE R. GRAHAM AND RUFUS W. GRISWOLD, EDITORS.
VOLUME XXI.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEORGE R. GRAHAM, NO. 98 CHESNUT STREET.
...........
1842.
* * * * *
INDEX
TO THE
TWENTY-FIRST VOLUME.
FROM JUNE TO DECEMBER, 1842, INCLUSIVE.
An Appeal in behalf of an International Copyright. By 14
Cornelius Mathews,
Bridal, The. By Robert Morris, 13
Boston Ramblings. By Miss Leslie, 33
Brother and Sister, The. By Emma C. Embury, 38
Bud and Blossom, The. By Mrs. Seba Smith. 61
(Illustrated.),
Bryant, Wm. C., his Writings, 102
Ben Blower’s Story. By Charles Fenno Hoffman, 132
Bogart, Alexander H., 155
Bainbridge, Memoir of. By J. Fenimore Cooper, 240
Barrett, Elizabeth B., 303
Characterless Women. By Mrs. Seba Smith, 199
Clam Bake, The. By Jeremy Short, 215
Charles VIII. of France, Segur’s Life of, 286
De Pontis, a Tale of Richelieu. By the Author of “Henri 65, 135, 172,
Quatre,” 235
Dawes, Rufus, The Poetry of. By Edgar A. Poe, 205
Dale, Richard, Memoir of. By J. Fenimore Cooper, 289
Error, A Tale. By Emma C. Embury, 83
Editor’s Table, 106, 155, 221,
286, 343
Fancy Fair, The. By Mrs. A. M. F. Annan, 4
Fitch, John, Notice of. By Noah Webster, 108
Girdle of Fire, The. By Percie H. Selton, 50
Harry Cavendish. By the “Author of Cruising in the last 9, 69, 117,
War,” 201, 281, 330
Hester Ormesby. By Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 269
Hasty Marriage, The. By Robert Morris, 336
Johnsons, The. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 96
Lightning of the Waters. By Reynell Coates, M. D., 16
Malina Gray. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 210, 273, 304
Minstrelsy of the Revolution, 221
Niagara Falls, Letter from. By Horace Greeley, 107
Night at Haddon Hall, A. By the Author of “Letters from 194
Ancient Castles,”
Polish Mother, The. (Illustrated.), 1
Persecutor’s Daughter. By C. J. Peterson, 320
Reviews of New Books, 56, 102, 152,
218, 286, 339
Reprimand, The. By Epes Sargent. (Illustrated.), 216
Race for a Sweetheart, A. By Seba Smith, 326
Sisters, The, A Tale of the Sixteenth Century. By Henry 21, 73, 125
W. Herbert,
Shakspeare. By Theodore S. Fay, 142, 192
Somers, Richard, Memoir of. By J. Fenimore Cooper, 157
Sketch of a Case, or a Physician Extraordinary. By “Mary 187
Clavers,”
Scott’s Critical Writings, 218
Speculation, or Dyspepsia Cured. By H. T. Tuckerman, 279
Tropical Birds. By Park Benjamin, 44
Tennyson’s Poems, 152
Talfourd’s Miscellaneous Writings, 218
Truth, A Tale. By Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood, 316
Waste Paper, A Tale. By Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood, 146
Young Wife, The. By the Author of “A Marriage of 257
Convenience,”
POETRY.
Autumn. By Albert Pike, 37
Autumn, Approach of. By Wm. Falconer, 124
Alice, The Lady. (Illustrated.) By Park Benjamin, 145
Autumn, A Reverie in. By Wm. Falconer, 209
Affection, True. (Illustrated.), 319
Callore. By Alexander A. Irvine, 20
Daughter of Herodius, The. By Mrs. Frances Sargent 14
Osgood,
Dirge. By James Russell Lowell, 31
Elizabeth. By J. T. S. Sullivan, 68
Faineant, Le. By Charles F. Hoffman, 8
Farewell, The Exile’s. By W. H. Racey, 68
Farewell to a Fashionable Acquaintance. By S. G. 95
Goodrich,
Fame, The Student’s Dream of. By Robert Morris, 101
First and Last Parting. By C. F. Hoffman, 191
Farewell, The, 329
“Hath not thy Rose a Canker?” By Lois B. Adams, 82
Heart, The Haunted. By Mary L. Lawson, 141
Hymn for the Funeral of a Child. By James Aldrich, 172
Holy Nights, The. By Henry Morford, 332
“I Saw Her Once,” A Song. By Richard H. Dana, 256
Life, The Future. By William Cullen Bryant, 104
“Love’s Time is Now.” By Park Benjamin, 200
L’Amour Sans Ailes. By C. F. Hoffman, 272
Morning Prayer. (Illustrated.), 3
Minstrel, The Dying, to his Muse. By Wm. Falconer, 8
Maiden’s Sorrow, The. By Wm. C. Bryant, 64
Madoc, The Song of. By G. Forester Barstow, 120
My Mother. A Dream. By Mrs. Balmanno, 239
Pets, The Playful. (Illustrated.), 204
Prayer, The Child’s. By Robert Morris, 234
Pastor’s Visit. (Illustrated.), 336
Return of Youth. By Wm. C. Bryant, 185
Religion, The Power of. By Miss A. C. Pratt. 198
(Illustrated.),
Sonnet. To my Mother. By T. H. Chivers, 32
Stage, The. By William Wallace, 53
Song. By Charles F. Hoffman, 64
Sonnet. By W. W. Story, 79
Song. By Hon. Mrs. Norton, 95
Student, The Spanish. By Henry W. Longfellow, 109, 196, 229
Storm, The Sunset. By Rufus W. Griswold, 145
Sonnet. “Bear On,” 175
Sonnet. The Smile, 180
Sonnet. “Rejoice!” 214
Sonnet. The Unattained. By Mrs. Seba Smith, 256
Sonnet. The Serenade, 279
Shepherd, The, and the Brook. By William Falconer, 280
Sonnet. By Mrs. Seba Smith, 303
Sonnets, Four. By Elizabeth B. Barrett, 303
“Thou Hast Loved.” By Mrs. Seba Smith, 3
To an Infant in the Cradle. By George B. Cheever, 44
To ——. By George Lunt, 53
To My Sisters. By Anna Cora Mowatt, 72
To a Swallow. By Wm. Falconer, 82
To Fanny H. By Mrs. Seba Smith, 131
To a Lady Singing. By George Hill, 191
To a Belle who is not a Blue Belle. By Mrs. Ellet, 200
To Almeida in New England. By James T. Fields, 204
To the Earth. By James Aldrich, 204
To the Night Wind in Autumn. By George H. Colton, 336
Uncas, The Last Leap of. By Park Benjamin, 79
Viola. By James Aldrich, 3
Voyage, The Life. By Mrs. F. S. Osgood, 265
Watchers, The. (Illustrated.), 64
Walk, The Forest, and Picnic. By Alfred B. Street, 130
Will Nobody Marry Me? By Geo. P. Morris, 44
Wintemoyeh: A Legend of Mackinaw. By George H. Colton, 170
“You Call Us Inconstant.” By H. T. Tuckerman, 134
STEEL ENGRAVINGS.
LINE AND MEZZOTINT.
Morning Prayer, engraved by Sadd.
The Polish Mother, engraved by Dunnell.
The Bud and Blossom, by Welch & Walter.
The Watchers, engraved by Sartain.
The Proposal, engraved by A. Jones.
The Lady Alice, engraved by Dick.
The Blessing, engraved by Dunnell.
The Playful Pets, engraved by Sartain.
The Pet Rabbit, engraved by Sadd.
The Reprimand, engraved by Gimbrede.
True Affection, by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch.
Awaiting the Husband’s Return, engraved by Sadd.
The Pastor’s Visit, engraved by Dick.
MUSIC.
“To Win the Love of Thee,” A Ballad, 54
The Zanoni Gallop, 102
The September Waltz, 151
The Summer Night, 217
“Write to Me, Love,” 285
* * * * *
[Illustration:
E. T. Parris., E. G. Dunnel.
_The Polish Mother._
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: JULY, 1842. No. 1.
* * * * *
THE POLISH MOTHER.
It was a gorgeous bridal. The old hall of the palace was lit up with a
thousand lights, and crowded with all the wealth, beauty and rank of
Poland. The apartment blazed with the jewels of its occupants. Princes
with their proud dames, high officers of state, nobles whose domains
vied in extent with kingdoms, and lordly beauties beneath whose gaze all
bent in adoration, had gathered at that magnificent festival to do honor
to the bridal of the fair daughter of their host. And loveliest among
the lovely was the bride. Tall and majestic in every movement, with a
queenly brow, and a face such as might have been that of the mother of
the gods, she moved through the splendid apartment the theme of every
admiring tongue. Nor less remarkable was her husband. Warsaw beheld no
noble tread her palaces more lordly in his bearing than the Count
Restchifky. The fire of a hundred warrior ancestors burned in his eye.
The fame of his high lineage, of his extended possessions, of his feats
in arms, followed his footsteps wherever he went. In manly beauty the
court of Poland had no rival to the count, in majestic loveliness the
realm furnished no equal to his bride. And now, as they stood together
in that proud old hall, surrounded by all that was noble and beautiful
in the land, the peerless beauty of the countess and the princely
bearing of her husband shone pre-eminent.
Never had Warsaw seen such a festival. All that the most boundless
wealth and all that a taste the most fastidious could do to add to the
splendor of the occasion had been done, and the guests, one and all,
bore testimony to the success of the princely entertainer. The air was
laden with incense, flowers bloomed around, unseen music filled the hall
with harmony, and statues and carvings of rare device met the eye at
every turn. If Aladdin had been there he would not have asked that his
enchanted palace should excel in magnificence the one before him. No
visionary, in his wildest dream, could imagine aught more beautiful. And
through this unrivalled ball the count and his bride moved, conscious
that all this splendor was evoked for their honor, feeling that not a
heart in all the vast assembly but envied their exalted lot. At every
step congratulations met them until they turned away sick with
adulation. What wonder that the rose grew still deeper on the cheek of
the bride, that her eyes flashed with brighter brilliancy, or that her
step became more queenly? Could aught mortal wholly resist the
intoxication of that hour?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Years had elapsed. That fair young bride had become a mother; but time
had passed over her without destroying one lineament of her majestic
beauty. But the scene had changed from that through which she moved on
her bridal night. There were no longer around her wealth and splendor
and beauty, the flattery of the proud, the envy of the fair. She sat
alone—alone with her two children, one a lovely girl of sixteen, and
the other a smiling boy whose birth three years before had thrilled her
husband’s heart with ecstasy, filled a province with rejoicings. But now
that husband was away from her side, that province lay smoking around
her. Her own proud home, where since her marriage she had spent the
happiest hours of her life, had been sacked and given to the flames, and
she now sat leaning against a shattered parapet, with her face buried in
her hands, and the bitter tear of a mother’s anguish rolling down her
cheeks. At her feet, leaning on her for succor, and clasping her hand,
sat her daughter; while her boy, too young as yet to be conscious of the
misery around him, smiled as he played with the jewelled cross depending
from his mother’s neck. A broken sword, a dismounted cannon, the
shattered staff of a lance, at the feet of the group, betokened that the
vassals of the count had not yielded up her house to rapine without a
deadly struggle; and indeed, of the hundreds of hearts which beat there,
but the day before, only those of the mother and her two children had
escaped captivity or death. Part of the palace was yet in flames, while,
on the plain beyond, a village threw its lurid conflagration across the
sky. Desolation and despair sat enthroned around. Who that had seen that
mother on her bridal night, could have foretold that her after life
would reveal a scene like this?
The Polish war for independence had broken out. Among the foremost of
the patriotic band which perilled all for their country, was the Count
Restchifky. His sword had been unsheathed at the outbreak of the
conflict, his fortune had been poured the first into the coffers of the
state. From his own estates he had raised and equipped as gallant a band
as ever followed lord to the tented field. And for a short space the war
seemed to prosper. But then came the reverse. From every quarter the
haughty Catharine poured her countless legions, headed by the fierce
Suwarrow, into Poland, and smoking fields and slaughtered armies soon
told that the day of hope for that ill-fated land was over. Yet a few
noble spirits, among whom the count was foremost, still held out for
their country, fighting every foot of ground, and though retreating
before the overwhelming forces of the foe, compelling him to purchase
every rood of land he gained by the lives of hundreds of his venal
followers. It was at this period, and while the count was far from his
home, that his palace had been attacked, and given to the flames. Afar
from succor, unconscious whether or not her husband yet lived, and
trembling for the lives of her offspring amid the desolation which
surrounded them, what wonder that even the proud heart of the countess
gave way, and that she wept in utter agony over her ruined country and
her dismantled home!
“Oh! mother,” said the daughter, “if we only knew where father was, or
if he yet lived, we might still be happy. Wealth is nothing to us, for
will we not still love each other? Dry your tears, dear mother, for
something tells me that father lives and will yet rejoin us.”
At these words of comfort, more soothing because coming from a quarter
so unexpected, the mother looked up, and, drawing her daughter to her
bosom, kissed her, saying,
“You are right, my child. We will hope for the best. And if your father
has indeed fallen, and we are alone in the world, I will remember that I
have you to comfort me, and strive—to—be happy,” and, in despite of
her effort to be calm, the tears gushed into her eyes at the bare
thought of the possible loss of her husband.
“But see, mother,” suddenly exclaimed the daughter, “see the cloud of
dust across the plain—can it betoken the return of the foe?” and she
drew close to her mother’s side.
The mother gazed with eager eyes across the plain, and her cheek paled
as she thought she distinguished the banner of Russia borne in the
advance.
“It is, it is as I feared,” said the daughter, “they come to carry us
into captivity. Oh! let us hide from their sight—there are secret
recesses in the ruins yet where we might defy scrutiny.”
“No,” said the mother, all the spirit of her race rising in her at this
crisis, “no, my daughter, it would not become us, like base-born churls,
thus to fly from a foe. The wife and children of Count Restchifky will
meet his enemies on his own hearth-stone, all dismantled though it be.”
With these words she clasped her babe closer to her bosom, and sat down
again behind the parapet to await, as the daughter of a hundred princes
should await, the approach of her murderers; and although perhaps her
cheek was a hue paler, the lofty glance of her eye quailed not. Her
daughter sank to her feet and buried her face in her mother’s robe. But
after a few minutes she regained courage, and looked timidly out across
the plain. At the first glance she started and said eagerly,
“But see, mother, can they really be enemies? They wave their banners as
if to us—they increase their speed—surely, surely that gallant
horseman in the advance is my own dear father.”
A moment the mother gazed eagerly on the approaching horseman, but a
moment only. The eye of the wife saw that her husband was indeed there,
and, with a glad cry, she clasped her children in her arms and burst
into a flood of joyful tears. She was still weeping when the count,
dismounting from his charger, rushed forward and clasped her in his
arms.
“Thank God!” he ejaculated, “you at least are left to me. I had feared
to find you no more. May the lightning of heaven blast the cravens who
could thus desolate the home of a woman.”
“My husband, oh! my husband!” was all that the wife could say.
“Father, dear father, you are safe—oh! we shall yet be happy,” said the
daughter as she clung to her restored parent.
The father kissed and re-kissed them all, and for once his stern nature
was moved to tears, but they were tears of joy.
His story was soon told. Finding that all hope of saving his country was
over, and eager to learn the fate of those he had left at home, he had
cut his way through the enemy with a few gallant followers. As he drew
near the vicinity of his palace, he had heard strange rumors of the
sacking of his home, and on every side his own eyes beheld the ravages
of the foe. Torn with a thousand fears respecting the fate of those he
loved better than life, he had pressed madly on, and when the blackened
and smoking walls of his palace had risen before him in the distance he
had almost given way to despair. But, at length, his eager eye caught
sight of a group amid the ruins, and his heart told him that those he
loved remained yet to cheer his ruined fortunes.
No pen can do justice to the feelings of gratitude which throbbed in the
bosom of that father as he pressed his wife and children successively to
his heart. His plans were soon laid. He had, by remittances to England
on the outbreak of the war, provided his family against want, and
thither they now bent their steps. Over his ruined country he shed many
a tear, but, at such times, the smiles of his wife and children were
ever ready to cheer his despondency; and as he gazed on his lovely
family he felt that there was much yet in this world to bid him be
happy.
* * * * *
“THOU HAST LOVED.”
BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.
Dearest, in thine eye’s deep light
Is a look to tears allied—
Sorrow struggling with delight,
Each the other seeks to hide;
Thou, the freighted ark of life
Lonely floating on the sea,
With thy being’s treasure rife—
Thou hast wearied thus to be.
Thou hast sent thy dove from thee—
Forth hast launched thy dove of peace,
And the branch, though green it be,
Can it bid thy doubtings cease?
Though it speak of hope the while,
Verdant spots and sunny bowers,
Can it bring thee back the smile
That beguiled thy vacant hours?
Take thy dove and fold its wing—
Fold its ruffled wing to rest;
Deluge airs around it ring:
Let it nestle on thy breast.
Dearest, all thy care is vain—
Mark its trembling, weary wings;
But it comes to thee again,
And an olive branch it brings.
Take it, bind it unto thee,
Though the leaves are dim with tears;
Such thy woman lot must be—
Love and sorrow, hopes and fears.
Bind the branch of promise ever
To thy heart, with fear oppressed,
Let the leaves of hope, oh! never,
Withered, leave their place of rest.
* * * * *
VIOLA.
BY JAMES ALDRICH.
This simple chain of sunny hair,
Thus braided by thy gentle hand,
Anear my heart I ever wear,
Since thou art gone to shadow-land.
Whene’er upon the little gift
Of thy sweet love my eye is cast,
Will welcome memory come and lift
The curtains of the silent Past!
Ah! my fond heart, as well it may,
Feels then, in all its depth anew,
That which, when thou wait called away,
Ennobled and immortal grew!
Lost one! to thee I’ll constant prove,
Long as I walk this mortal strand,
So may I claim thy perfect love
When we shall meet in shadow-land.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
_PAINTED BY LUCY ADAMS._, _ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD._
_Morning Prayer._
_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]
* * * * *
MORNING PRAYER.
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.
He is not here!
We meet around the altar yet once more,
Where we our prayers have blent so oft before,
And drop a tear
Upon the holy book from which he read
Who sleeps, at length, in peace, among the silent dead.
Yet from on high
He looketh on us—widow, daughter, son—
Pointing the course by which he glory won.
He still is nigh,
On angel’s wings, to comfort us and guide,—
Unseen, but not unfelt, forever by our side.
Father in heaven!
Who hast called home the leader of our band,
And the bright glories of the better land
Unto him given,
O, be with us, and keep us in the way
That leads, through this dark night, to an unending day!
Strengthen our hearts
To bear, with fortitude, the ills of time;
Preserve them ever from the winter’s rime,
So let our parts
Be acted, that again the prayer and song
We may together blend, and through all time prolong!
* * * * *
THE FANCY-FAIR.
BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.
“With her personage, her tall personage,
Her height, forsooth, she hath prevailed with him.”
Shakspeare.
“Good morning, Saybrooke,” said a gentleman named Creswell, meeting a
friend; “I have just ascertained to whom Collins is married—a lady of
your city—Laura Sands.”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Saybrooke, striking down his cane with such energy
that the other started; “why, she is six feet high!”
“Not quite,” returned Creswell, laughing; “and, though somewhat large,
she is one of the most queenly looking women—”
“Pshaw! Victoria has put that word out of fashion, or at least changed
its signification.”
“I beg pardon—I had forgotten your horror of large women, or, rather, I
did not regard it, supposing it was your affectation—everybody has at
least one.”
“Affectation! take care, or I’ll raise my stick at you!”
“Well, it is unaccountable that a man of your inches should have such
notions. Now, for a little fellow, like myself, it would be bad taste to
be following women who might look as if they could flog him, but with
your six feet two, and abundant proportions, the case is different. On
the contrary, I can’t imagine anything more comical than a little wife
hanging on your arm; she would look like a reticule—not straining a
pun.”
“In saying I detest large women, I make no committal by preferring very
small ones; but, seriously, I would no more expect to find a woman’s
soul in all its sweetness, delicacy and purity hidden in a coarse,
capacious body, than I could think of loving a woman for the
recommendation—‘_Sexu fæmina, ingenio vir._’”
“There it is with you men of fortune! You become so finical from having
all sorts of attractions paraded before you, that you stand still
waiting for perfection, till at last, in despair, you tie up your eyes,
and, like a child at blind man’s buff, spring forward and secure the
first against whom you stumble. Now, we poor, hard-working dogs—but
I’ll get out of heart if I talk about my own grievances. I have a lady
selected for you, beautiful, accomplished, with a thousand excellencies,
and of station in society and all that, just to suit, but this last
freak has chilled my good intentions. So good bye, till I get into a
better humor!”
In the evening the two gentlemen met again, as Saybrooke was coming out
of an exchange office, in the act of securing his pocket book.
“Have you been filling or emptying that article, which?” asked Creswell.
“The more agreeable alternative,” replied his friend.
“Then you are the very fellow I wished to see. I have an appointment for
you to-night—to take you to a ladies’ fair.”
“The mischief! when you know that fancy-fairs are my aversion, and not
from caprice but from real principle. I don’t know anything more
disgusting than to see a room full of Misses, taking advantage of some
either really or nominally worthy purpose, to exhibit themselves to the
public, and to gratify a petty and an indelicate vanity, by flirting
over their pincushions and doll-babies with any fellow who can afford an
admittance shilling for the honor.”
“Come, come, that’s really too severe, but just now I have not time to
take the other side of the question. This, however, is no ordinary
occasion. It is an impromptu affair, undertaken by a number of charming,
whole-hearted girls, to raise a fund in aid of the sufferers by a recent
public disaster, and more taste, enthusiasm, and liberality, I have
never seen exhibited. If you wish to see the _élite_ of our beauty and
fashion, under the most favorable circumstances, you had better avail
yourself of my invitation.”
“If that is the case, I have no scruples. I intended to appropriate a
part of this very supply to a charity so unquestionable, and it may as
well pass through the medium you have selected as any other. So I’m at
your service.”
At the appointed time they reached the —— Saloon, in which the fair
was held, and Creswell, who from previous visits was posted as to all
concerning it, led his friend, for a cursory inspection, around the
room. Its arrangements were novel and tasteful, its decorations of the
most rich and appropriate character, and the fair projectors were
fulfilling their duties with a dignity, grace, and decorum that
surprised as well as gratified the fastidious stranger.
“Now, if you are satisfied,” said Creswell, “I’ll give myself the
trouble to advise you in the disposal of that spare cash of yours—come
to this table,” and bowing to its fair attendant, he took up a large and
magnificently bound quarto volume, and turned over its pages; “I have
heard you express a fondness, Saybrooke,” he continued, “for what you
call the only ladies’ science—Botany; did you ever see any thing to
equal this?” It was a collection of dried flowers, of such as best
preserve their color, pressed with great niceness and skill, and pasted
on the smooth, white pages so carefully, some singly and some in groups,
that it required close examination to distinguish them from delicate
water-color drawings. Beneath them were written, in an exquisite hand,
clear, full, and accurate technical descriptions, and on intermediate
pages quotations appropriate to their symbolical characters, or fanciful
and elegant passages, evidently original.
“This must have been the work of a lady, judging from its ingenuity and
beauty,” said Saybrooke.
“It was done by Miss Martha Grainger, was it not?” asked Creswell,
turning to the title page, which was a graceful vignette, executed, even
to the lettering, in leaves and flowers, but it contained no name.
“Of course,” returned the pretty vender; “no other of us could have had
the taste, patience, and knowledge for such a work, to say nothing of
the talent the literary illustrations display. I really think it was a
piece of heroism in her to give up a possession so beautiful, and one
that must have cost her a world of labor and care.”
“If it is not already sold, I shall be happy to become its purchaser,”
said Saybrooke; and paying for his acquisition with much satisfaction,
they walked on. The next thing that struck their notice was a large vase
encrusted with shells, and filled with fragrant and splendid flowers. It
was white, and transparent as alabaster, and of an antique form, as rare
as beautiful. Saybrooke examined it carefully. “How superior,” said he,
“to the unshapely, crockery-looking ware commonly seen as
shell-work—nothing could be more perfectly elegant and classical than
it is.”
“Is it of your workmanship, Miss Ellen?” asked Creswell.
“I am sorry to say, very far from it. It is a donation from Martha
Grainger; she had just finished it for herself, but, with her usual
generous benevolence, gave it up in hope that it might be turned to the
benefit of the unfortunate. The flowers, which you seem to admire so
much, Mr. Creswell, are also of her culture. Her windows, you know, were
the rivals of the green-houses, but she robbed them all to fill it.
Suppose you take it for your office? There is no one who will value it
more.”
“Ah, if I could afford to have all I value! but I would not desecrate
anything so pure and sweet, by stowing it away among the rough
book-cases, and dust, and cobwebs of a poor lawyer’s office. Now, my
friend here could give it a place not unworthy. If it were placed within
your curtains, Saybrooke, I’d engage that you would have more bright
eyes peeping through your windows than you ever had before.”
“The temptation is too strong to be resisted,” answered Saybrooke,
smiling, and he placed his card in a handle of the vase, as its
purchaser. “I am glad to find that the botanical lady has a real love of
flowers,” he continued, as he walked away with a China rose, which he
had selected, in his hand; “it is not always the case; a proficiency in
the science argues a clear and discriminating mind; the other seems to
belong to a naturally refined taste.”
“Pray, Mr. Creswell, can’t you find us a purchaser for this?” asked a
lady, pointing to a glass case, which contained a set of elaborately
carved ivory chess-men.
“An exquisite set,” said Saybrooke, “they look like fairy work.”
“I think this is not the first time I have seen them, madam; can you
remind me where they came from?” said Creswell.
“They were added to our stock by Miss Grainger, an effort of self-denial
that I fear I never could have attained. They were sent to her as a
present by an uncle in India, but she is so conscientious that she
offered them for our undertaking, saying that she could not be satisfied
to keep them for mere amusement, when a set for ten dollars would answer
as well. Of course we cannot expect to get their real value, as, very
properly, there are few persons who would offer a couple of hundred
dollars for a thing of the kind, but we are in hopes that some one
willing to aid the cause will take them at a price which, at least, will
not be unworthy of the generosity of the donor.”
“As it is not very likely, from present appearances,” said Saybrooke,
“that the artists of the Celestial Empire will have the courage and
leisure to execute toys so singularly elaborate and ingenious for some
time to come, I may as well avail myself of the opportunity, and take
possession of these. Will this be sufficient for them, madam?”
“Thank you, sir, for your liberality,—it is more than we expected;”
said the lady, looking after the stranger with much curiosity.
“That Miss Grainger must be a remarkable person to be possessed of so
much talent and industry, and so much open-handed generosity. But what
have you there?” Creswell was looking at a pair of small paintings which
ornamented one of the stalls, and Saybrooke continued, after joining
him, “these are really beautiful little things, and from their apparent
reference to the late calamity, they must have been furnished expressly
for this occasion. They are evidently by the same hand, yet it must have
been difficult for one person to do them in so short a time. There is
much feeling, as well as originality, in the designs, and not less
spirit than grace in their execution. May I ask, Miss, from whom these
were obtained?”
“They are from the pencil of a lady, sir,—the all-accomplished Miss
Grainger.”
“Miss Grainger again!” said Saybrooke smiling; “they are marked for
sale, I believe?”
“They are, sir, though we would prefer letting them remain here till the
sale is over.”
“Certainly; but you will let me secure them in time?” and having
completed the purchase, he followed Creswell; “there now,” said he, “I
think I have done my part, so I shall tie up my purse-strings; but pray
who is this Miss Grainger?”
“What do you imagine her to be?”
“An active, bustling, fussy old maid, such a person who is always to be
found in the like enterprises; but in addition she must have an enlarged
mind, which, having freed her from the selfishness peculiar to her
relative position, still furnishes her with resources to devote to
general benevolence.”
“You never were more mistaken in your life,—but what do you think of
that oriental _kiosk_ which the ladies have fitted up as the
post-office?”
“I was just going to remark that it is particularly tasteful and
beautiful.”
“The plan is another of the labors of Miss Grainger,—but we must ask
for letters to finish our business.”
“Certainly, but where is your fair _virtuoso_? you must point her out to
me.”
“Very well, come along, and I’ll introduce you, but of one thing I must
apprise you beforehand,—with all her admirable qualities she is,
unfortunately, quite—a large woman—the largest, I should think, in the
room.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Saybrooke, looking disturbed; “but as I wish
merely to have my curiosity gratified, and to pay a tribute of respect
to an intellectual and a useful woman, I shall put up with that.”
Creswell paused to speak with an acquaintance, and Saybrooke walked
forward. Suddenly a lady swept by, almost jostling him, and of a size
that over-shadowed all around her. She was beflounced and befurred, had
a tall feather waving above her hat, a decided shade on her upper lip,
and a step like a grenadier.
“See here, Creswell, you needn’t mind taking me to see Miss Grainger,—I
don’t want to be introduced to her,” said Saybrooke.
“You have changed your mind very suddenly,” returned Creswell.
“You told me she was the largest woman in the room, and by accident I
have just met her. I recognized her, of course, and my curiosity is
amply gratified.”
Creswell followed his eye, and burst into an irrepressible fit of
laughter. “Oh, very well,” said he, “if you are satisfied, so am I. But
here is the post-office. Anything here, ladies, for Stanley Saybrooke,
Esq.?—just excuse me, while you are waiting for your letter.”
The postmistress was one of the youngest of the association, and whilst
she was searching, with much archness and significancy, among the
letters, the eyes of Saybrooke fell upon a lady farther back in the
alcove, from whom a single look acted like magic on him. The features
were of a form and symmetry the most faultlessly classical, and were
radiant with an expression of sweetness and intelligence. Her eyes were
large and of a soft blue, her complexion was of the purest white and
red, and her hair, of a rich brown, fell in a single large curl, smooth
and glossy, down either side of her face. She wore a small black velvet
bonnet, which contrasted strikingly with the pearliness of her skin, and
which, excepting in a little bordering of blond around the face, was
entirely without ornament. Vexatiously, as our hero thought it, there
was nothing of her figure to be seen; she sat wrapped in a large shawl,
on an ottoman behind a table, and appeared quite unconscious of
attracting attention, or, at least, indifferent to it.
“Here is a letter, sir;” said the officious little postmistress, with a
mischievous smile, but Saybrooke stood unheeding; “there is nothing
else, sir;” she added, and recollecting himself, he walked reluctantly
away. The letter was a little poetical bagatelle, to which he paid no
attention, and reconnoitering the _kiosk_, he placed himself where, by
keeping among the folds of a curtain, he might retain a view of the face
which had so much fascinated him. Though, at his distance, he could not
overhear a word, he watched her quiet, yet neither cold nor languid
manner, to the many who approached and addressed her. “What a
lovely—lovely creature she is!” thought he, “if I had not so long
dropped my school-boy notions of love at first-sight, I really would
believe myself captivated!—how calm she is!—how unembarrassed and
dignified, and yet how gracious!”
Creswell returned, but Saybrooke, ashamed to ask a single question lest
it might betray him, pleaded fatigue, and declined walking farther, and
his friend, who had been watching him, to his secret amusement, left him
to the indulgence of his observations.
By this time the story of his liberality, exaggerated, of course, had
made its way over the room, and many were the efforts of the fair
promenaders to catch the attention of a stranger so fashionable in
appearance, so handsome, and reportedly so rich; but if he noticed the
attractions of any, it was only to remark how inferior they were to
those he was so intently contemplating. At length, to his extreme
delight, he observed that she had picked up the rose which he had
dropped on the table in his first bewilderment. “What a dolt I have
been,” said he to himself; “after coming here to lay out money in
charity, to take and retain an equivalent for it!” and to ease his
conscience, he decided to get rid of the vase. So calling a servant who
was attending on the tables, he directed him where to find it, and to
present it to the designated lady in the post-office, with the
compliments of a gentleman. He watched as the commission was executed.
There was no flutter in the manner of the fair incognito, no wonder nor
exultation. She merely asked the man a question or two, and dismissed
him without a message. Her bearing suited him to a charm. It was that of
a sultana receiving tribute.
“What a hand—what an incomparable hand!” was his next thought. One of
his very few coxcomberies was a passion for beautiful hands, and it had
its full gratification in the one which lay beside his vase, with whose
whiteness it did not suffer in comparison. It was not small, but was
exquisitely shaped, full, smooth and tapering, with not an irregular
protuberance to detract from its graceful outlines. It set his fancy at
a new picture. He imagined himself at his little mosaic
chess-table—which was so small that any two at it were in very sociable
proximity—and that snowy hand at the other side. Then he looked at her
forehead, which was large and nobly developed—he was something of a
phrenologist—and he decided that she had a genius for chess,
consequently, that his recent purchase of chess-men might thus be
suitably transferred. Accordingly, he hurried off to send it, but after
he had done so, he found, on returning, his place occupied by a crowd.
The room had filled, and disappointed and abstracted he wandered about
for an hour before he found an opportunity to speak to Creswell. The
latter at length approached him, saying,
“I have a message for you from a lady.”
“What lady?” asked Saybrooke, eagerly, hoping it was _the_ lady—the
only one he cared about at the moment.
“The one to whom you sent your vase and chess-men; she says that if you
don’t take them back she will offer them for sale anew.”
“I hope she did not think me impertinent in sending them?” said
Saybrooke, looking alarmed, “how did she discover that it was I?”
“It was easy to ascertain by whom they were purchased, and she judged
accordingly.”
“Then you know her?”
“Certainly.”
“Pray introduce me, won’t you?—immediately, if you please, my dear
Creswell.”
“I would rather not. You won’t like her—for a very _material_ reason.”
“I will—positively—I do like her—I’m half in love already.”
“With her face, you mean—that’s a pretty scrape for a man of twenty-six
to get into! however, I may have an opportunity after a while, so be
patient. There’s a fine figure,” he continued, looking through a glass
he had picked up from a table, and then handing it to Saybrooke—“there
in that recess—the lady with her back towards us.”
“Very fine, but the glass contracts too much; at full size I dare say
the proportions would scarcely appear so perfect. Who is she?”
“A particular favorite of mine, the owner of this shawl, which I am
carrying to her. Come along, and you shall have a nearer view.”
The lady was at the farther end of the saloon, and with some difficulty
they threaded their way towards her. She was talking, and still had her
back towards them. “A fine figure, indeed,” said Saybrooke, as they
advanced, “but, she seems—isn’t she rather large?—why, upon my
word—Creswell—she must be full five feet nine, if not ten!” and,
putting his arm through his friend’s, he was drawing him in another
direction.
“Stop! don’t jerk me off my feet, my dear fellow!” said Creswell; “I
must go on to deliver the shawl; allow me, Miss Grainger,” he continued,
“to present my friend, Mr. Saybrooke—” and as the lady turned round to
curtsey, Saybrooke recognized the brilliant face of the post-office.
Never was there a more instantaneous revolution. “I’ll call you out for
this night’s work!” whispered Saybrooke, while the lady was replying to
the parting compliments of her former companions. Creswell pretended to
look very much surprised, and after a little while, when he made a move
to proceed, Saybrooke gave him a deprecatory shake of the head, at which
they parted for the night.
The next morning Creswell called at the lodgings of his friend. “I am
glad,” said he, “that you were not disappointed in Miss Grainger.”
“Disappointed!—she is the most fascinating woman I ever met with—full
of sweetness, feeling, and intellect! I do not remember to have enjoyed
a conversation more in my life than the one we had as I escorted her
home last night”
“Why, Saybrooke! you certainly did not do that? she is unquestionably
large enough to take care of herself!”
“You are an impudent dog, Creswell,” returned Saybrooke, laughing.
“But, seriously, Saybrooke, it is a great pity that Miss Grainger is so
large; to a man of your sentiments, who never could see a woman over the
medium height without thinking of an ogress, it must very much
neutralize the effect of her unrivalled face, her winning manners, and
her delightfully _spirituelle_ conversation.”
“If you’ll oblige me by remaining civilly quiet, for a few minutes, I’ll
tell you how I argued that point. I stated to myself that the larger
women I had seen were as small ones examined through a magnifying glass,
every defect being thus rendered more apparent. Now, I continued, here
is a woman of the magnified size, without a single defect, and she is of
course entitled to a magnified portion of admiration.”
“Very good.”
“And then I recollected that I was not the first who had come to such a
conclusion. That Juno would not have looked the queen of Olympus had she
been other than a large woman—that had the rib of Menelaus been but a
small bone of contention, Troy might have been standing to this day.”
“Pshaw!” said Creswell.
“And that a man must have a very contracted imagination to fancy a
little Venus De Medicis, a little Cleopatra or a little Mary Stuart.”
About six months after this, a gentleman and lady passing, bowed to
Creswell through his office window while an acquaintance was sitting
with him.
“A magnificent looking couple—who are they?” said the latter.
“The new bride and groom, Stanley Saybrooke, and Martha Grainger, that
was. By the by, I made that match.”
“Indeed! how did you accomplish it?”
“Just by persuading the lady to sit still for a few hours. He had a most
absurd aversion to large women, and as I knew that Martha, who, in fact,
is a sort of cousin of mine, would suit him exactly in other respects, I
laid a plan to get him in love with her before he found out her size, so
I took him to a fancy-fair, where he saw a great number of her
productions, and heard a great deal of her character, and then I
contrived to give him a sight of her beautiful face, having, as I said,
apprised her that she would oblige me very much by keeping her seat
until I gave her notice. That finished the business. He stared till he
was conquered, and then the three or four extra inches became very small
matters indeed.”
“But now, since they are married, won’t the defects shoot up again?”
“Not at all. I never saw a fellow so proud of a wife. He says that a
small casket could not contain so lofty an intellect and so noble a
heart!”
* * * * *
LE FAINEANT.
BY C. V. HOFFMAN, AUTHOR OF “GREYSLAER,” “THE VIGIL OF FAITH,” ETC.
“Now arouse thee, Sir Knight, from thine indolent ease,
Fling boldly thy banner abroad in the breeze,
Strike home for thy lady—strive hard for the prize,
And thy guerdon shall beam from her love-lighted eyes!”
“I shrink not the trial,” that bluff knight replied—
“But I battle—not _I_—for an unwilling bride;
Where the boldest may venture to do and to dare,
My pennon shall flutter—my bugle peal there!
“I quail not at aught in the struggle of life,
I’m not all unproved even now in the strife,
But the wreath that I win, all unaided—alone,
Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown!”
“Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin
That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win,
Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more,
Up! Sir Knight, for thy lady—and do thy devoir!”
“She hath shrunk from my side, she hath failed in her trust,
Not relied on my blade, but remembered its rust;
It shall brighten once more in the field of its fame,
But it is not for her I would now win a name.”
The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh’d,
When he featly as ever his steed would bestride,
While the mould from the banner he shook to the wind
Seemed to fall on the breast he left aching behind.
But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart
Had corroded too long and too deep to depart,
And the brand only brightened in honor once more,
When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled shore.
* * * * *
THE DYING MINSTREL TO HIS MUSE.
BY WILLIAM FALCONER.
Farewell, gentle Muse! fare thee well, and for ever!
No more in the greenwood with thee must I stray:
Thy flowers which I cherished have bloomed but to wither,
Like youth’s vernal wreath, they all faded away:
Yet sweet was the morn, timid Muse, when I sought thee,
In the green ruined tower by the wild Scottish rill;
A heart framed for joy like the wine-cup I brought thee,
With Fancy’s rich draught thou the chalice didst fill.
O soft was thy dawning, thou mental Aurora,
It shed on my morning-dream heaven’s young ray,
With the seraph-wing’d bird through the cloudlets of glory
My soul soared exulting through life’s early day;
Then love’s vernal flush filled my bosom with gladness,
And she whom I loved shared its passion with thee;
She left me to pine in the chill shade of sadness,
Then crossed I in anguish the wide-spreading sea.
But thou wert more faithful, for rocked on the ocean
’Twas thou who mad’st lovely the dreams of my rest,
My spirit went forth on the wings of emotion
To sport with the bird o’er the blue waters’ breast.
Now in my pent bosom life’s last pulses tremble
Like sear fluttering leaves on yon wind-beaten tree,
With spring-loving birds on its boughs that assemble
My soul to the Land of the Spirit shall flee.
Then come, O my wild lyre, my sole earthly treasure,
’Neath Death’s downy pinions come slumber in peace;
Leave the world to the rosy-crown’d vot’ries of Pleasure,
Its garlands must wither—its Bacchanals cease!
Dear Enchantress, farewell! but that friend of my bosom
Revisit once more, o’er the waves’ deafening swell,
Inspire him that one fleeting flowret may blossom
To the memory of him who hath loved him so well!
_Paris, France._
* * * * *
HARRY CAVENDISH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” THE “REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
THE PRIVATEER.
I remained but a short time in the Arrow after we sailed finally from
the port of ——; for happening to fall in with and capture a rakish
little schooner, Captain Smyth resolved to arm and send her forth to
cruise against the enemy on her own account. A long Tom was accordingly
mounted on a pivot amidships, a complement of men placed in her, and the
command given to our second lieutenant, with myself for subordinate.
Thus equipped, we parted company from our consort, who bore away for the
north, while we were to cruise in the Windward Passage.
For several days we met with no adventure. The weather was intensely
sultry. He who has never witnessed a noontide calm on a tropical sea can
have no idea of the stifling heat of such a situation. The sea is like
molten brass; no breath of air is stirring; the atmosphere is dry and
parched in the mouth, and the heavens hang over all their canopy of
lurid fire, in the very centre of which burns with intense fierceness
the meridian sun. The decks, the cabin, and the tops are alike stifling.
The awnings may indeed afford a partial shelter from the vertical rays
of the sun, but no breeze can be wooed down the eager windsail; while,
wherever a stray beam steals to the deck through an opening in the
canvass, the turpentine oozes out and boils in the heat, and the planks
become as intolerable to the tread as if a furnace was beneath them.
It was on one of the hottest days of the season, and about a fortnight
after we parted from the Arrow, that we lay thus becalmed. The hour was
high noon. I stood panting for breath by the weather railing, dressed in
a thin jacket and without a cravat, feverishly looking out across the
ocean to discern, if possible, a mist or cloud or other evidence of an
approaching breeze. My watch was in vain. There was no ripple on the
deep, but a long monotonous undulation heaved the surface of the water,
which glittered far and near like a mirror in which the sun is reflected
vertically, paining and almost blinding the gaze. The schooner lay
motionless on the ocean, the shadow of her boom shivering in the wave,
as the swell undulated along. Silence reigned on the decks. To a
spectator at a distance, who could have beheld our motionless shadow in
the water, we would have seemed an enchanted ship, hanging midway
betwixt the sea and sky.
Noon passed, and the afternoon drew heavily along, yet still no breeze
arose to gladden our listless spirits. Two bells struck and then three,
but the same monotony continued. Wearied out at length I was about
turning from the weather quarter to go below, when I fancied I saw a
sail far down on the horizon. I paused and looked intently in the
direction where the welcome sight had been visible. For a moment the
glare of the sun and the water prevented me from distinguishing with any
accuracy whether what I saw was really a sail or not, but at length my
doubts were removed by the cry of the look-out on the fore-castle, and
before half an hour it became evident that the vessel to windward was a
square-rigged craft, but of what size or character it was impossible to
determine.
“They must have had a puff of wind up yonder,” remarked the second
lieutenant to me, “or else they could not have come within sight so
rapidly.”
“But the breeze has left them ere this,” I said, “for they have not
moved for the last quarter of an hour.”
“We shall probably know nothing more of them until nightfall, for the
wind will scarcely make before sunset, even if it does then. He has the
weather gauge. Until I know something more of him I would rather change
positions.”
“He is some fat merchantman,” I replied, “we will lighten his plethoric
pocket before morning.”
During the afternoon the calm continued, our craft and the stray sail
occupying their relative positions. Meantime, innumerable were the
conjectures which we hazarded as to the character of our neighbor; and
again and again were our glasses put in requisition to see if any thing
could be discovered to decide our conflicting opinions. But the royals
of a ship, when nothing else of her is visible, give scarcely any clue
as to her character; and accordingly hour after hour passed away, and we
were still altogether ignorant respecting the flag and strength of our
neighbor. Toward sunset, however, signs of a coming breeze began to
appear on the seaboard, and when the luminary wheeled his disc down the
western line of the horizon, the sea to windward was perceptibly ruffled
by the wind.
“Ah! there it comes at last—” said the second lieutenant, “and, by my
halidome, the stranger is standing for us. Now, if he will only keep in
his present mind until we can get within range of him, I am no officer
of the United Colonies if I do not give him some hot work. By St.
George, the men have had so little to do of late, and they long so
eagerly to whet their palates, that I would venture to attack almost
twice our force—eh! Cavendish! You have had such a dare-devil brush
with the buccaneers lately that I suppose you think no common enemy is
worth a thought.”
“Not altogether,” said I, “but I think we shall have our wish gratified.
Yonder chap is certainly twice our size, and he carries his topsails as
jauntily as a man-of-war.”
“Faith! and you’re right, Harry,” said my old messmate, as he shut the
glass with a jerk, after having, in consequence of my last remark, taken
a long look at the strange sail, “that’s no sleepy merchantman to
windward. But we’ll swagger up to him, nevertheless; one doesn’t like to
run away from the first ship he meets.”
I could not help smiling when I thought of the excuses with which the
lieutenant was endeavoring to justify to himself his contemplated attack
on a craft that was not only more than twice our size, but apparently an
armed cruizer, for I knew the case would have been the same if this had
been the hundredth, instead of the first vessel he had met after
assuming a separate command, as no man in the corvette had been more
notorious for the recklessness with which he invited danger. Perhaps
this was the fault of his character. I really believe that he would, if
dared to it, have run into Portsmouth itself, and fired the British
fleet at anchor. In our former days, when we had been fellow officers on
board the Arrow, we had often differed on this trait in his character,
and perhaps now he felt called on, from a consciousness of my opinion,
to make some excuse to me for his disregard of prudence in approaching
the stranger; for, as soon as the breeze had made, he had close-hauled
the schooner, and, during the conversation I have recorded, we were
dashing rapidly up towards the approaching ship.
As we drew nearer to the stranger, my worst suspicions became realized.
Her courses loomed up large and ominous, and directly her hammock
nettings appeared, and then her ports opened to our view, six on a side;
while, almost instantaneously with our discovery of her force, a roll of
bunting shot up to her gaff, and, unrolling, disclosed the cross of St.
George. There was now no escape. The enemy had the weather gauge, and
was almost within closing distance. However prudent a more wary approach
might have been hitherto, there was no longer any reason for the
exercise of caution. It would be impossible for us now to avoid a
combat, or get to windward by any manœuvre; and to have attempted to
escape by going off before the wind would have been madness, since of
all points of sailing that was the worst for our little craft. Gloomy,
therefore, as the prospect appeared for us, there was no hesitation, but
each man, as the drum called us to quarters, hurried to his post with as
much alacrity as if we were about to engage an inferior force, instead
of one so overwhelmingly our superior.
The moon had by this time risen and was calmly sailing on, far up in the
blue ether, silvering the deep with her gentle radiance, and showering a
flood of sparkles on every billowy crest that rolled up and shivered in
her light. Everywhere objects were discernible with as much distinctness
as under the noon-day sun. The breeze sang through our rigging with a
joyous sound, singularly pleasing after the silence and monotony of the
day; and the waves that parted beneath our cut-water rolled glittering
astern along our sides, while ever and anon some billow, larger than its
fellows, broke over the bow, sending its foam crackling back to the
foremast. Around the deck our men were gathered, each one beside his
allotted gun, silently awaiting the moment of attack. The cutlasses had
been served out; the boarding pikes and muskets were placed convenient
for use; the balls had already been brought on deck; and we only waited
for some demonstration on the part of the foe to open our magazine and
commence the combat in earnest. At length, when we were rapidly closing
with him, the enemy yawed, and directly a shot whistled high over us.
“Too lofty by far, old jackanapes,” said the captain of our long Tom,
“we’ll pepper you after a different fashion when it comes to our turn to
serve out the iron potatoes. Ah! the skipper’s tired of being silent,”
he continued, as Mr. Vinton ordered the old veteran to discharge his
favorite piece, “we’ll soon see who can play at chuck-farthing the best,
my hearty. Bowse away, boys, with that rammer—now we have her in a
line—a little lower, just a trifle more—that’s it—there she goes;”
and as he applied the match, the flame streamed from the mouth of the
gun, a sharp, quick report followed, and the smoke, clinging a moment
around the piece in a white mass, broke into fragments and eddied away
to leeward on the gale; while the old veteran, stepping hastily aside,
placed his hand over his eyes, and gazed after the shot, with an
expression of intense curiosity stamped on every feature of his face.
Directly an exulting smile broke over his countenance, as the
fore-top-sail of the ship fell—the ball having hit the yard.
“By the holy and thrue cross,” said a mercurial Irishman of the old
veteran’s crew, “but he has it there—hurrah! Give it to him nately
again—it’s the early thrush that catches the early worm.”
“Home with the ball there, my hearties,” sung out the elated veteran,
“she is yawing to let drive at us—there it comes. Give her as good as
she sends.”
The enemy was still, however, at too great a distance to render her fire
dangerous, and after a third shot had been exchanged betwixt us—for the
stranger appeared to have, like ourselves, but a single long gun of any
weight—this distant and uncertain firing ceased, and both craft drew
steadily towards each other, determined to fight the combat, as a
gallant combat should be fought, yard arm to yard arm.
The wind had now freshened considerably, and we made our way through the
water at the rate of six knots an hour. This soon brought us on the bows
of the foe. Our guns, meanwhile, had been hastily shifted from the
starboard to the larboard side, so that our whole armament could be
brought to bear at once on the ship. As we drew up towards the enemy a
profound silence reigned on our deck—each man, as he stood at his gun,
watching her with curious interest. We could see that her decks were
well filled with defenders, and that marksmen had been posted in the
tops to pick off our crew. But no eye quailed, no nerve flinched, as we
looked on this formidable array. We felt that there was nothing left for
us but to fight, since flight was alike dishonorable and impossible.
At length we were within pistol shot of the foe, and drawing close on to
his bows. The critical moment had come. That indefinable feeling which
even a brave man will feel when about engaging in a mortal combat, shot
through our frames as we saw that our bowsprit was overlapping that of
the enemy, and knew that in another minute some of us would perhaps be
in another world. But there was little time for such reflections now.
The two vessels, each going on a different tack, rapidly shot by each
other, and, in less time than I have taken to describe it, we lay
broadside to broadside, with our bows on the stern of the foe, and our
tafferel opposite his foremast. Until now not a word had been spoken on
board either ship; but the moment the command to fire was passed from
gun to gun, a sheet of flame instantaneously rolled along our sides,
making our light craft quiver in every timber. The rending of timbers,
the crash of spars, and the shrieks of the wounded, heard over even the
roar of battle, told us that the iron missiles had sped home, bearing
destruction with them. A momentary pause ensued, as if the crew of the
enemy had been thrown into a temporary disorder—but the delay was only
that of a second or two—and then came in return the broadside of the
foe. But this momentary disorder had injured the aim of the Englishman,
and most of his balls passed overhead, doing considerable injury however
to the rigging. Our men had lain flat on the deck after our discharge,
since our low bulwarks afforded scarcely any protection against the fire
of the enemy, and when, therefore, his broadside came hurtling upon us,
the number of our wounded was far less than under other circumstances
would have been possible.
“Thank God! the first broadside is over,” I involuntarily exclaimed,
“and we have the best of it.”
“Huzza! we’ll whip him yet, my hearties,” shouted the captain of our
long Tom; “give it to him with a will now—pepper his supper well for
him. Old Marblehead, after all, against the world!”
With the word our men sprang up from the decks, and waving their arms on
high, gave vent to an enthusiastic shout ere they commenced re-loading
their guns. The enemy replied with a cheer, but it was less hearty than
that of our own men. Little time, however, was lost on either side in
these bravados; for all were alike conscious that victory hung, as yet,
trembling in the scales.
“Out with her—aye! there she has it,” shouted a grim veteran in my
division, “down with the rascally Britisher.”
“Huzza for St. George,” came hoarsely back in reply, as the roar of the
gun died on the air, and, at the words, a ball whizzed over my
shoulders, and striking a poor fellow behind me on the neck, cut the
head off at the shoulders, and while it bore the skull with it in its
flight, left the headless trunk spouting its blood, as if from the jet
of an engine, over the decks. I turned away sickened from the sight. The
messmates of the murdered man saw the horrid sight, but they said
nothing, although the terrible energy with which they jerked out the
gun, told the fierceness of their revengeful feelings. Well did their
ball do its mission; for as the smoke eddied momentarily away from the
decks of the enemy, I saw the missile dismount the gun which had fired
the last deadly shot, scattering the fragments wildly about, while the
appalling shrieks which followed the accident told that more than one of
the foe had suffered by that fatal ball.
“We’ve revenged poor Jack, my lads,” said the captain of the gun,—“away
with her again. A few more such shots and the day’s our own.”
The combat was now at its height. Each man of our crew worked as if
conscious that victory hung on his own arm, nor did the enemy appear to
be less determined to win the day. The guns on either side were plied
with fearful rapidity and precision. Our craft was beginning to be
dreadfully cut up, we had received a shot in the foremast that
threatened momentarily to bring it down, and at every discharge of the
enemy’s guns one or more of our little crew fell wounded at his post.
But if we suffered so severely it was evident that we had our revenge on
the foe. Already his mizzen-mast had gone by the board, and two of his
guns were dismounted. I fancied once or twice that his fire slackened,
but the dense canopy of smoke that shrouded his decks and hung on the
face of the water prevented me from observing, with any certainty, the
full extent of the damage we had done to the enemy.
For some minutes longer the conflict continued with unabated vigor on
the part of our crew; but at the end of that period, the fire of the
Englishman sensibly slackened. I could scarcely believe that our success
had been so decisive, but, in a few minutes longer, the guns of the
enemy were altogether silenced, and directly afterwards a voice hailed
from him, saying that he had surrendered. The announcement was met by a
loud cheer from our brave tars, and, as the two vessels had now fallen a
considerable distance apart, the second lieutenant determined to send a
boat on board and take possession. Accordingly, with a crew of about a
dozen men, I pushed off from the sides of our battered craft.
As we drew out of the smoke of the battle we began to see the real
extent of the damage we had done. The ship of the enemy lay an almost
perfect wreck on the water, her foremast and mizzen-mast having both
fallen over her side; while her hull was pierced in a continuous line,
just above water mark, with our balls. Here and there her bulwarks had
been driven in, and her whole appearance betokened the accuracy of our
aim. I turned to look at the schooner. She was scarcely in a better
condition, for the foremast had by this time given way, and her whole
larboard side was riddled with the enemy’s shot. A dark red stream was
pouring out from her scuppers, just abaft the mainmast. Alas! I well
knew how terrible had been the slaughter in that particular spot. I
turned my eyes from the melancholy spectacle, and looked upwards to the
calm moon sailing in the clear azure sky far overhead. The placid
countenance of the planet seemed to speak a reproof on the angry
passions of man. A moment afterward we reached the captured ship.
As I stepped on deck I noticed that not one solitary individual was to
be seen; but in the shattered gun-carriage, and the dark stains of blood
on the deck, I beheld the evidences of the late combat. The whole crew
had apparently retreated below. At this instant, however, a head
appeared above the hatchway and instantly vanished. I was not long in
doubt as to the meaning of this strange conduct, for, almost immediately
a score of armed men rushed up the hatchway, and advancing toward us
demanded our surrender. I saw at once the dishonorable stratagem. Stung
to madness by the perfidy of the enemy, I sprang back a few steps to my
men, and rallying them around me, bid the foe come on. They rushed
instantly upon us, and in a moment we were engaged in as desperate a
_mêlée_ as ever I had seen.
“Stand fast, my brave lads,” I cried, “give not an inch to the cowardly
and perfidious villains.”
“Cut him down, and sweep them from the decks,” cried the leader of the
men, stung to the quick by the taunt of cowardice. “St. George against
the rebels.”
A brawny desperado at the words made a blow at me with his cutlass, but
hastily warding it off I snatched a pistol from my belt, and fired at my
antagonist, who fell dead to the deck. The next instant the combat
became general. Man to man, and foot to foot, we fought, desperately
contesting every inch of deck, each party being conscious that the
struggle was one of life or death. The clashing of cutlasses, the crack
of fire-arms, the oaths, the shouts, the bravado, the shrieks of the
wounded, and the dull heavy fall of the dead on the deck, were the only
sounds of which we were conscious during that terrible _mêlée_, and
these came to our ears not in their usual distinctness, but mingled into
one fearful and indescribable uproar. For myself, I scarcely heard the
tumult. My whole being was occupied in defending myself against a
Herculean ruffian who seemed to have singled me out from my crew, and
whom it required all my skill at my weapon to keep at bay. I saw nothing
but the ferocious eye of my adversary; I heard only the quick rattle of
our blades. I have said once before that my proficiency at my weapon had
passed into a proverb with my messmates, and had I not been such a
master of my art, I should, on the present occasion, have fallen a
victim to my antagonist. As it was, I received a sharp wound in the arm,
and was so hotly pressed by my vigorous foe that I was forced to give
way. But this temporary triumph proved the destruction of my antagonist.
Flushed with success, he forgot his wariness, and made a lunge at me
which left him unprotected. I moved quickly aside, and, seizing my
advantage, had buried my steel in his heart before his own sword had
lost the impetus given to it by his arm. As I drew out the reeking
blade, I became aware, for the first time, of the wild tumult of sounds
around me. A hasty glance assured me that we barely maintained our
ground, while several of my brave fellows lay on the deck wounded or
dying; but before I could see whether the ranks of the foe had been
equally thinned, and while yet scarcely an instant had passed since the
fall of my antagonist, a loud, clear huzza, swelling over the din of the
conflict, rose at my side, and, turning quickly around, I saw to my joy
that the shout proceeded from a dozen of our tars who had reached us at
that moment in a boat from the schooner. In an instant they were on
deck.
“Down with the traitors—no quarter—hew them to the deck,” shouted our
indignant messmates as they dashed on the assailants. But the enemy did
not wait to try the issue of the combat. Seized with a sudden panic,
they fled in all directions, a few jumping overboard, but most of them
tumbling headlong down the hatchways.
We were now masters of the deck. As I instantly guessed, the report of
the fire-arms had been heard on board the schooner, when, suspecting
foul play, a boat had instantly pushed off to our rescue.
“A narrow escape, by Jove!” said my messmate who had come to my aid,
“these traitorous cowards had well nigh overpowered you, and if they
could have cut your little party off they would, I suppose, have made
another attempt on the schooner—God confound the rascals!”
“Your arrival was most opportune,” said I, “a few minutes later and it
would have been of no avail.” And then, as I ran my eye over our
comparatively gigantic foe, I could not restrain the remark, “It is a
wonder to me how we conquered.”
“Faith, and you may well say that,” laughingly rejoined my messmate; “it
will be something to talk of hereafter. But the schooner hasn’t come
off,” he added, glancing at our craft, “without the marks of this
fellow’s teeth. But I had forgot to ask who or what the rascal is.”
The prize proved to be a privateer. She had received so many shot in her
hull, and was already leaking so fast, that we concluded to remove the
prisoners and blow her up. Her crew were accordingly ordered one by one
on deck, handcuffed, and transferred to the schooner. Then I laid a
train, lighted it and put off from the prize. Before I reached our
craft—which by this time had been removed to some distance—the ship
blew up.
We rigged a jury mast, and by its aid reached Charleston, where we
refitted. Our capture gave us no little reputation, and while we
remained in port we were lionized to our hearts’ content.
Eager, however, to continue the career so gloriously begun, we staid at
Charleston no longer than was absolutely necessary to repair our
damages. In less than a fortnight we left the harbor, and made sail
again for the south.
* * * * *
THE BRIDAL.
A SCENE FROM REAL LIFE.
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
The scene was one of mirth, and joy, and loveliness, and beauty. Two
spacious parlors had been thrown open in one of the largest houses in
Arch street. Lights had glittered in the various chambers since early
sundown—carriages by dozens had driven up to the door, each freighted
with friends or relatives, so that the world without found little
difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that some extraordinary scene
of festivity was in progress within the walls of that spacious mansion.
It was about nine o’clock when we entered. The two large parlors,
brilliantly illuminated by gas, and glittering with a rich collection of
young and beautiful females, each dressed in the most tasteful or
gorgeous manner, presented a scene truly magnificent. For a moment the
eye seemed to quail before the general flash, while the mind also grew
dizzy; but these feelings lasted but for the instant, as friends were to
be met on all sides, and we soon found ourselves mingling in the giddy
and trifling conversation that too many of our fair countrywomen seem to
delight in on such occasions. Still, as the first flash passed by, we
paused to contemplate the scene in a calmer and more meditative spirit.
The party was a “Bridal” one, and the bride was the daughter of one of
our most respectable merchants, a worthy, good-hearted man, who had
devoted himself to his business, and paid no attention whatever to the
frivolities of fashionable life. The bride seemed _very_ young—not more
than sixteen or seventeen. She could not be regarded as beautiful in the
general appreciation of the word, and yet she had one of the sweetest
faces that we ever saw. She had soft blue eyes, brown hair which fell
over her shoulders in ringlets, a pretty and expressive mouth, with
teeth that appeared to us faultless. Her complexion was clear, but her
face looked rather pale, although at times it became flushed and ruddy
as the rose. Her dress was of the richest white satin, and the ornaments
of her hair and neck and wrists consisted almost exclusively of pearls.
Her frame was slight and full of symmetry, and her voice was remarkable
for the gentleness and amiability of its tone. We gazed upon her calmly
for many minutes, and the thought passed through our mind—“So young, so
fair, so delicate, so happy, and yet so willing to enter upon the severe
responsibilities of the wife and the mother.” “Who,” we inquired of
ourselves, “may read that young creature’s destiny? Doubtless she loves
the object of her choice with a woman’s virgin and devoted
love—doubtless she believes that the next sixteen years of her life
will prove radiant with happiness, even more so than the girlish and
sunny period which has but just gone by—and doubtless the youth who has
won that gentle heart believes that he possesses the necessary
requisites of mind and disposition to render her happy. And yet how
often has the bright cup of joy been dashed from the lips of woman when
about to quaff it! How often does man prove recreant and false! How
often is he won from his home and his young wife, whose heart gives way
slowly, but fatally and steadily, under the influence of such
indifference and neglect!” But we paused and dismissed these gloomy
reflections. The nuptial ceremony was pronounced—for a moment all was
breathless silence—and then the busy hum broke forth as audibly as
ever. The wedding was a brilliant one in all respects. It was followed
up by party after party, so that nearly a month rolled away before the
giddy round was over. The only one who did not appear to mingle fully in
the general feeling, was the mother of the bride. She loved her daughter
so tenderly that it seemed impossible for her to consign her to other
hands. She was one of those women who devote themselves wholly to their
children, and who have no world without them. On the night of the
wedding, a tear would occasionally roll down her cheek as she gazed upon
her chaste child, and as a tide of maternal recollections melted all her
soul!
* * * * *
The world rolled on. We frequently saw the young bride in the streets,
and her cousin, who was our immediate neighbor, spoke of her prospects
as cheering and happy. But one evening, just after sundown, and less
than a year since we had seen each other at the wedding, he called, and
with rather a grave aspect invited us to accompany him for a few minutes
to the house of his aunt—the same house that had glittered with so much
light, and re-echoed with so much laughter on the night of the Bridal.
We proceeded along calmly, for although somewhat struck by the sedate
aspect of our friend, it did not excite much surprise. On arriving at
the house, the first objects that attracted attention were the closed
and craped windows, and the awful silence that seemed to “breathe and
sadden all around.” Our friend still refrained from speaking, but led on
to the _Chamber of Death_! Our worst apprehensions were realized. The
fair young creature, who less than a year before had stood before us
radiant with loveliness and hope, was now still, pale, and cold in the
icy embrace of death. Her last agonies were dreadful, but the sweet,
soft smile, that told of a gentle heart, still lingered on her features.
Her infant survived,—but the sudden decease of that cherished one shed
a gloom over that home and its happy household, which is not yet totally
dispelled. The windows of the dwelling are still bowed, and the
afflicted mother, although a sincere Christian, and anxious to yield in
a Christian spirit to the decrees of Divine Providence, frequently finds
herself melting in tears, and her whole soul convulsed with grief at the
memory of her dear _Clara_.
_And such are human hopes and expectations!_
* * * * *
THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.
BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
PART I.
Serene in the moonlight the pure flowers lay;
All was still save the plash of the fountain’s soft play;
And white as its foam gleamed the walls of the palace;
But within were hot lips quaffing fire from the chalice;
For Herod, the Tetrarch, was feasting that night
The lords of Machærus, and brave was the sight!
Yet mournful the contrast, without and within,
_Here_ were purity, peace,—_there_ were riot and sin!
The vast and magnificent banquetting room
Was of marble, Egyptian, in form and in gloom;
And around, wild and dark as a demon’s dread thought,
Strange shapes, full of terror, yet beauty, were wrought.
Th’ ineffable sorrow, that dwells in the face
Of the Sphynx, wore a soft and mysterious grace,
Dim, even amid the full flood of light poured
From a thousand high clustering lamps on the board;
Those lamps,—each a serpent of jewels and gold,—
That seemed to hiss forth the fierce flame as it rolled.
Back flashed to that ray the rich vessels that lay
Profuse on the tables in brilliant array;
And clear thro’ the crystal the glowing wine gleamed,
And dazzling the robes of the revellers seemed,
While Herod, the eagle-eyed, ruled o’er the scene,
A lion in spirit, a monarch in mien.
The goblet was foaming, the revel rose high.
There were pride and fierce joy in the haughty king’s eye,
For his chiefs and his captains bowed low at his word,
And the feast was right royal that burden’d the board.
Lo! light as a star thro’ a gathered cloud stealing,
What spirit glanced in ’mid the guard at the door?
Their stern bands divide, a fair figure revealing;
She bounds, in her beauty, the dim threshold o’er.
Her dark eyes are lovely with tenderest truth;
The bloom on her cheek is the blossom of youth;
And the smile, that steals thro’ it, is rich with the ray
Of a heart full of love and of innocent play.
Soft fall her fair tresses her light form around;
Soft fall her fair tresses, nor braided nor bound;
And her white robe is loose, and her dimpled arms bare;
For she is but a child, without trouble or care;
Now round the glad vision wild music is heard,—
Is she gifted with winglets of fairy or bird;
For, lo! as if borne on the waves of that sound,
With white arms upwreathing, she floats from the ground.
Still glistens the goblet,—’tis heeded no more!
And the jest and the song of the banquet are o’er;
For the revellers, spell-bound by beauty and grace,
Have forgotten all earth, save that form and that face.
It is done!—for one moment, mute, motionless, fair,
The phantom of light pauses playfully there;
The next, blushing richly, once more it takes wing,
And she kneels at the footstool of Herod the King.
Her young head is drooping, her eyes are bent low,
Her hands meekly crossed on her bosom of snow,
And, veiling her figure, her shining hair flows,
While Herod, flushed high with the revel, arose.
Outspake the rash monarch,—“Now, maiden, impart,
Ere thou leave us, the loftiest hope of thy heart!
By the God of my fathers! what e’er it may be,—
To the half of my kingdom,—’tis granted to thee!”
The girl, half-bewildered, uplifted her eyes,
Dilated with timid delight and surprise,
And a swift, glowing smile o’er her happy face stole,
As if some sunny wish had just woke in her soul.
Will she tell it? Ah, no! She has caught the wild gleam
Of a soldier’s dark eye, and she starts from her dream;
Falters forth her sweet gratitude,—veils her fair frame,—
And glides from the presence, all glowing with shame.