thousand miles from the abodes of civilization; and as one naturally
does, amused myself by examining with intense curiosity the most
indifferent object which served to remind me of more congenial
places. I kept my eye long fixed on the lock of my fowling-piece,
which had the word 'London,' and the maker's name engraved upon it;
then looked in the bottom of my cap, and was peculiarly interested
with the vignette which accompanied the manufacturer's name; and
an old almanac seemed to link me with the literary world, although
it was out of date by several years. The pictured little page, and
calculations of eclipses which had come off, and gone into the musty
record of by-gone events, the signs of the zodiac, the prophecies of
wind and weather, the old maxim of 'early to bed and early to rise'
and the way to make an apple-pudding, these had a fresh interest and
a zest hardly to be equalled by Bulwer's last novel. I felt that
there must be an 'imperfect sympathy' between Scollop Island and the
great world of literature, art, and learning.
But a deeper sense of satisfaction and security arose from
the presence of woman. A fair face and a fragile form glanced
occasionally across the apartment where we were seated, but retired,
driven back by harsh words and vile language. It was the wife of
Floys Boyo. She bore about her the marks of former beauty, although
altered in all its lines by a prevailing expression of wo, but she
still performed the duties of a wife with unflinching patience,
though coarse and cruel treatment had long since rendered it a
heartless task. Floys Boyo married her in the comparative innocence
of his youth, before he had yet blunted all the kindly feelings
of his nature. He had taken her from the abounding plenty of a
farm-house, and from parents who loved her with the tenderness which
falls to the lot of an only child. Afterward, as is always the case
with a drunkard, he cherished her no longer with affection; dragged
her about from one comfortless abode to another; and at last, on
this desert place, cut her off from the last link which attached
her to her friends. Still she adhered to him, when she might have
returned to the bosom of her family; so hard is it to shake the
fidelity which is a component part of a woman's nature, and so often
in this world are the extremes of disposition linked together, the
fierceness of the vulture with the enduring gentleness of the dove!
It was not until a late hour that we left the kitchen of the
Devil-Tavern, and retired to our apartment for the night; for the
prospect of sleep did not bring with it much consolation, although
extremely weary. Floys Boyo conducted us, leading the way up the
steps of a perpendicular ladder to a landing, whence he stepped
into a cockloft, set down the lamp on an empty barrel, and departed
with an oath, grumbling about the trouble which we had given him,
and wishing us in the Rockaway surf. 'He is an atrocious devil,'
said Tertullian; 'let us inspect the den, while the lamp holds out
to burn.'
We found neither lock, catch, nor fastening of any description;
and to have our slumbers supervised by any of the amiable crew
below, was not pleasant. Having tortured ingenuity a little, we
took an eel-spear and a broken oar which lay on the beams beneath
the roof, crossed them, and secured them against the door by the
aid of some tarred ropes, which were likewise at hand. Then we made
a broken barb of the spear serviceable by jamming it violently
between the floor and the lower part of the door; after which
we lugged a heavy old chest, and deposited it, together with
whatever movables were to be found in the room. This done, we threw
ourselves down upon the straw in all our clothes, drew over us our
cloaks, and over these the blankets which belonged to the bed,
and placing our fowling-pieces by our side, abandoned ourselves
to the protection of a kind Providence. In less than half an hour
Tertullian snored prodigiously, and had I been stretched on clover,
fanned with the sweetest airs of summer, and without a care to
ruffle my tranquillity, I never could have slept a wink with such
an uproarious fellow beside me. As it was, there were other causes
which kept me wakeful. For, beside the fears which might assail one
at midnight in such a solitude, it was dismal to hear the winds
raving about the house; the bricks tumbling from the chimney and
rolling with a hollow noise down the roof; the blast now screaming
in your ear and instantly heard afar off, as if it had gone off to
join the troops of the winds; the rattling of doors and loosened
window-frames, and the creaking on its rusty hinges and slam-banging
of the sign of the Devil-Tavern. To this might be added the moaning
of pine trees as their heavy tops swayed in the grove, the plashing
of the waves on the still shore, the roll and confusion of the
breakers at Rockaway. How impatiently I counted the hours, and
longed again for the light of day, that scatters fears and vagaries
with the brooding shades, and imparts fresh life, and courage, and
determined zeal.
It must have been half past two o'clock, or thereabout, in the
morning, when, being all on the alert, I was sure I heard a movement
in the house. A sound came from below stairs like the gruff voices
of men engaged in low conversation. It kept dying away as the winds
exceeded it in loudness, and then it came back monotonous, and was
continued several minutes without cessation. Then a door opened, and
a confused whispering succeeded, after which, slowly, and with a
creaking noise, I heard steps, one by one, ascend the rungs of the
ladder; and springing up on my elbow, my heart thumped so furiously,
and my brain whirled in such confusion, that for a moment I could
hear nothing. But a bar of light coming through the crevice in the
partition, flashed across the wall. Then there was an evident
pressure and force applied to the door, which it resisted well. I
sprang out of bed, pressed my eye to a crevice in the wall, and saw
the red-flannel shirt of one of the men; then rushing back, I shook
Tertullian violently by the shoulders. He rose up a moment, uttered
something impatiently, and fell back into bed. 'Tullian!' said I,
shaking him energetically, 'Tullian! Tullian! up, for heaven's
sake! we shall be--(here I placed my mouth close to his ear, and
whispered)--_murdered!_'
He pressed his fists to his eyes, and sprang upon his heels. I
never knew him wanting in an emergency. He rallied his senses, and
understood my suspicions in an instant. He understood them, and
supposed them ill-founded. But as we stood with our fowling-pieces
in our arms, the violence against the door was continued, with angry
imprecations, by those without. It was evident that the pressure
of the whole gang was upon it, and it could not hold out long.
What could we do against their numbers, and with so contracted a
place for battle? 'Up with the window and out of it!', exclaimed
Tertullian. As he uttered the words, he sprang toward the sash,
uplifted it, and told me to leap. I set my foot upon the sill,
crouched down in order to squeeze through the narrow aperture, and
sprang in safety upon the sands below. The distance was not very
great, but it was a leap in the dark. Before I could look up for
him, Tertullian was by my side, the sash slamming down as he leaped,
and the broken glass tinkling in little pieces at our feet. At
the instant a crash, an onset was heard above; oars, eel-spears,
chest, chairs, and the whole barricade must have given way, a light
streamed into the room and lit up the casement, shadows flitting
about; a shout and confused mingling of voices met our ears; we
could distinguish those of Floys Boyo and his men: 'The birds have
flown!' 'To the shore! to the shore!' exclaimed Tertullian, grasping
my arm, and attempting to hurry me along.
It was very dark, and I remember that we rushed through the deep
sands in company with frantic haste, never turning round, now
cast down by getting our feet entangled in briers, then panting
on against the cold night wind. It seemed as if our pursuers were
very near us, nay, almost at arm's length, outnumbering us, with
the weapons of death in their hands, and the only remedy was to
flee, flee for our very lives! Already I imagined the grasp of
Floys Boyo upon my throat, and the death-struggle near. Life, with
its delightful memories, its hopes of the future, the loves and
affections which were in store for me, a host of ideas and emotions
rushed through my brain with the rapidity of characters perused upon
the same page. There was a sudden and intense conception of the
preciousness of life, and the agony of losing it; and persisting
in the chase, I felt as one does who labors under a horrid
night-mare, and is pursued by phantoms or fiends, while his limbs
refuse to do their office, and his shrieks are inaudible murmurs,
which die away in the utterance. Oh, my sisters! my fair cousins!
dear, and beautiful betrothed! would to God I had never come to
Scollop Island! Onward, onward we went, scarce guided by the dim
star-light. 'Tullian, Tullian, I can go no farther; we can never
reach the water's edge!' Scarce had I spoken when the ground gave
way beneath us, we plunged forward, and sank into a hollow twelve or
fifteen feet. Breathless and wearied, we lay together in the sand,
with our fowling-pieces by our side. We were in a sort of cavern,
where the earth caving in stood around in semi-circular walls, and
was slightly arched above us. The place was sheltered from the
northern blast, and a pine grove partly shielded it from the icy
breath which came over the waves, while the sun had shone all day
upon its sands.
Were we pursued by the gang?--or had my fears as well as my ears
deceived me. 'Hush!' whispered Tertullian; 'do you hear voices?
Here they come! Lie perfectly close; if the worst comes to the
worst----' At the instant a clamor was heard behind us, as if a half
a dozen men were calling to each other from different points; it
came nearer, and ever and anon the oaths of the crew were borne with
horrid distinctness to our ears. Floys Boyo's hoarse voice called
his men to follow him to the shore. They passed round the hollow
where we lay buried, through the pine grove, and so down to the
water's edge, where their lanterns kept flashing about as they ran
upon the sands with a vain search, and we heard the hollow tramp of
their feet, as they leaped upon a sedge-boat which lay anchored near
by. We examined our locks and percussion-caps, and lay silently,
looking up at the stars, in painful doubt and suspense, as to what
issue was at hand; and unwilling to part with our 'sweet lives.'
How dreary and disconsolate were those moments! What a contrast with
the present, the scene which I had witnessed only three evenings
before; lights, and voluptuous music, beauty, and the dance; now
Scollop Island, Floys Boyo and his chosen men, and above us the cold
sky, about us the howling winds, and perpetual roar and confusion
of the sea. Hark! that was a woman's voice! A scream! Inarticulate
sounds come up from the shore, as if another boat well manned had
arrived. They are on the return to the Devil-Tavern. They approach
us; now they are by the pine grove; their indistinct forms are
visible by the light of the lanterns; Bullion stood there in a
horrible tableau! 'To Bone Cavern! to Bone Cavern!' we heard them
say, but the wind blew the remaining words away. 'Tullian! Tullian!
now comes the trial! Here they are!' murmured I, leaning my head
upon his shoulder. 'Stand fast! stand fast!' replied he. We held our
hands upon the triggers of our fowling-pieces. The men stood upon
the bank directly above us, causing the loose sand and gravel to
roll about us, and bury us still deeper, while the twigs and bushes
were now and then illuminated by the dancing lights which glittered
upon the ends of our guns.
It seemed at that moment that my heart, which had been fluttering
so long and fast, became perfectly calm, and wound up by the
excitement of the crisis which had at last come. I lay there,
uncertain, yet ready and composed, listening intently to every
word which they said. While I ardently awaited their movements,
they turned their backs upon the place where we lay, and moved
off; the light of the lanterns disappeared; their voices becoming
more and more indistinct, at last died away; and except the waves
which plashed upon the shore, there reigned a deep silence: we were
comparatively safe. We drew the sands around us, and lying close
together in our coats composed ourselves for the night. In a little
while Tertullian snored; and I myself, overwrought with excitement,
fell fast asleep. It was a sleep without dreams; and when we awoke
the sun had risen, and was shining into our eyes. We sprang from
our resting-place, clambered to the summit of the bank, and looked
around us in the direction of the Devil-Tavern. There hung its sign,
still creaking in the breeze, but not a sign of life appeared around
it. Its inmates must have resigned themselves to slumber. It was a
bright day, and the solitary island looked pleasant. We ran to the
shore, pushed off the skiff which lay safely in the place where we
had drawn it, seized the oars, and pulled merrily. The breeze blew
cold, but refreshing, and the sun glanced over the waves. We were
full of life and vigor, delighted with the idea of a safe return.
In a little while we paused to release some choice spirits which
were imprisoned in a bottle of old Otard. Tertullian poured forth a
volume of pure Latinity, and again a chorus was heard over the waves
which might have roused Floys Boyo and his crew:
'Cheer up, my lively lads,
In spite of wind and weather,
Cheer up, my lively lads,
And----'
The 'Spasm' shot over the waves with the speed of light; the shores
faded in the distance; our ancient adversary the Devil was lost in
his pictured proportions; and with a light heart we bade farewell to
Scollop-Island, and to the hospitalities of the DEVIL-TAVERN.
AN EPITAPH.
ALL that could suffer change and fade
Of one 't were sin to weep,
Deep in this narrow bed is laid
In everlasting sleep.
The grassy turf was never spread
Above a gentler breast;
O! bitter, bitter tears were shed,
When she was laid to rest.
Her praise might partial friendship swell
With not unseemly pride;
But this were vain--enough to tell,
She lived, and loved, and died.
JAMES ALDRICH.
_New-York, June, 1843_
JUNE.
BY HANS VON SPIEGEL.
SWEET June, the loveliest child of all the year!
With quickened life I hail thy slow return,
And feel my torpid soul within me burn,
As on the hill-side's verdant slope appear
The well-known flowers that mark thy presence near.
And not alone am I in loving thee!
For Nature dons her richest livery
When thou appearest; with a softer blue
The sky pavilions earth; the forest's hue
Is fresher; and the brooks more merrily
Gurgle their slender, changeful melody.
Were there a world where thou didst ever reign,
And I, _alone_, could reach it. I would fain
Dwell there for aye; nor sigh for earth again!
_June, 1843_
CÀ ET LÀ.
BY THE FLÂNEUR.
IT is the beginning, the _premier pas qui coute_, in all
compositions. Once started, there is no difficulty in proceeding;
but how to begin! Shall we borrow of the prolific JAMES?
'UPON a lovely morning in November, that season of the year when the
woods have doffed their summer green to robe themselves in sombre
russet, two horsemen were seen riding down a glade of one of those
noble old forests which are still to be met with in some parts of
England. The elder of the two, a fine, soldier-like figure, sat his
horse,' etc., etc. And there we will leave him, and look out for our
own beginning. Strange that a chapter on this subject is nowhere
to be found in any book on rhetoric or criticism. For our part we
are determined not to begin at all for the present, but to propound
a number of queries suggested to us by the name of the exuberant
novelist above mentioned.
First, then: Why are tears always called 'pearly drops?' Would not
that definition apply better to drops of milk? Lands have been said
to flow with milk, but never did the wildest romancer assert that
the lachrymal duct in the human subject was a milky-way.
Then, why does the _chevelure_ of dark-haired persons always
resemble the 'raven's wing?' Why not his tail-feathers,
occasionally, for the sake of variety? Or a crow's wing, a
black-bird's wing? Or why not say, 'Dark as the wool on negro's
poll?'--or as the mane of a bay horse?--or 'as black as my hat?' Is
it absolutely necessary that it should always be a raven's wing?
When you say, 'cherry lips,' do you particularize sufficiently? Some
cherries are yellow, some black. Should you not say '_red_ cherry
lips? If any 'young orphan' happens to be engaged in novel-writing
when cherries are in season, let him place two in juxta-position,
and remark what a mouth such a pair of labia would make! Why are
these cherry lips always slightly parted? Does not this give that
stupid expression which the French call '_bouche béante_?
Why are all necks, not bull-necks, 'swan-like?' Why does swan-like
in necks mean beautiful and well-proportioned, and crane-like
abominably extended, when the neck of a crane is no longer than
that of a swan? Why are handsome noses always 'chiselled?' Why are
fingers always 'taper?' And finally, for we must stop somewhere, why
are beauties '_lovelier far in tears_?' Did swollen eyes, bound with
red, and nose pinkish in tinge at its extremity, ever improve the
appearance of any mortal since the flood?
As it is not fair to destroy without creating something to supply
the place of the destroyed, we take the liberty of showing our own
ideal in stories:
'UPON a crimson sofa, in a darkened room, sits a lovely lady. Bright
are her eyes as gas-lights in a shop-window; dark her hair as Day
and Martin's best; and her red lips contrast with her white skin as
do the red stripes with the white in Stewart's peppermint candy.
Salt tears trickle from her eyes as fall the drops from an umbrella
in a gentle November drizzle; and James's last novel lies unnoticed
upon her lap. Why sits the lovely lady on the crimson sofa? And why
does she rest her pensive and pomatum'd brow upon her embroidered
handkerchief?'
_That_ we flatter ourselves _is_ an exordium, over which a
discerning public may hang entranced.
'This young lady was hight Liner, Catherine Julia Liner. She wept
for love of Shuffleshank, her inconstant beau.
'For one whole season Shuffleshank, whose soul, if he had any, was
in his toes, hovered about Miss Liner, and attended her every where.
He waltzed with her night after night, (and Shuffleshank twirled
divinely,) and in the pauses of the dance he wiped the perspiration
from his face, and with his touching and tender eyes,
'Gazed on the fair,
Who caused his care,
And wiped and looked, wiped and looked,
Wiped and looked, and wiped again,'
until her parents and herself were quite certain of an offer.
He certainly owed her one. She deserved some compensation for
listening to his interminable stories, which were as monotonous
as long. So celebrated a narrator was he, that his friends, when
endeavoring to give each other an idea of some distance traversed,
would say, 'It was one of Shuffleshank's stories,' or two stories.
Sometimes unfortunate men could tell of a six-story walk, and these
were looked upon as persons of great strength and vast powers of
endurance. But the heartless, ungrateful Shuffleshank allowed the
mercury to descend in the thermometer of his affections for Miss
Liner, and gradually his attentions grew colder and colder, until
they sunk below zero and became neglect. But the faithless one did
not long survive his treachery. He broke his wind in attempting to
finish his tenth story that day, and expired soon after suddenly. He
was discovered lying on his back, his toes turned out, and his head
resting on a volume of Cotillons _à quatre mains_. His executors
found among his papers the first sheet of a pamphlet on his favorite
science, waltzing, dated only a few days before his decease.
You will pardon us, friend KNICKERBOCKER, for giving your readers
one or two original rules of so great a professor:
'RULE I. The _cavalier_ should endeavor to waltz with women of a
suitable size. The relative test is, that the noses of the couple be
on a level.
'RULE II. He should put his right arm as far round the lady's waist
as possible, and draw her toward him with the other hand, so that
the noses before mentioned shall be not more than half an inch apart.
'RULE III. In case the lady should be inclined to jump, he must hold
her down to the floor by pressing firmly upon her _tournure_.'
Society has indeed suffered a sad loss by his untimely death. But
before we go any farther with our story, we will give a crow-quill
_croquis_ of the career of Miss Catherine Liner, down to the period
of Shuffleshank's catastrophe.
'Miss Liner was of a good family: her pa, a retired merchant, with
some tincture of the humanities, and she herself well educated;
that is, she knew enough Italian to say _pesch'e_; enough German
for '_es ist warm_;' and enough French for '_Oh, vee_.' Music she
loved to distraction. True, she sometimes nodded at a concert, but
then it was only to beat the time, and when awakened by a crash, she
would shake her head in languid ecstasy, and sigh out a sentimental
'_ah!_' Or, if the nature of the air required it, she could shout
in a voice sonorous as a cricket's: '_Divine!_' '_magnifique!_'
'_grandioso!_' or the hardest word she might remember out of any
language. The gentlemen in waiting caught the cue; and men who
had not ear enough to keep time when dancing, were unintelligibly
scientific in _allegros_ and _andantes_, and made frequent and
familiar allusions to Hummel, Meyerbeer, Beethoven, and Weber. We
ourselves must plead guilty of claiming an acquaintance where we
never had an introduction. How true is that saying of Fuller: 'The
best of God's children have a smack of hypocrisy!'
Miss Catherine's papa Silas was rich, and Miss Catherine was
fashionable. She came out and offered a book-muslin view of
herself to two hundred and fifty warm people. Bouquets, ay,
double-bouquets, were sent her by insane beaux, by means of which
young gentlemen who only knew two ladies in the room were converted
into flower-stands for an hour or two, trying to look easy and
at home, by gently rubbing the camelias against their noses from
time to time. And when Miss Catherine had given a ball herself,
then did she become perfect in manner; then handled she her fan
with consummate dexterity, and adopted an expression of intense
fashionable agony when a badly-dressed woman passed by, or a clumsy
_Unshuffleshankian_ waltzer ran against her. Then sighed she in
German to a gentleman from Connecticut, lisped in French to a dandy
from Philadelphia, and whispered in Tuscan to her Italian master, if
he happened to be within hail. Then waltzed she with young men, warm
or cold, dry or moist; she would have taken a turn with a steaming
tea-kettle, if tea-kettles wore white vests and _valsed_. Then
danced she like a Bacchante, and only left the ball-room just before
the lights; while melancholy Silas, pining for his pillow, clasped
his hands and sometimes muttered, 'Ultima July;' and sometimes, as
if desparing of rest below, '_in coelo quies_.' To have seen Miss
Catherine Julia, you would have sworn that she was a descendant of
Lord Lanesboro', _si passionné pour la danse,_ who, after the death
of Prince George of Denmark, waited upon Queen Anne, and advised her
to take a quarter, by way of consolation.
Let us pause a while to take breath.
FORGET-ME-NOT: 'MYOSOTIS AVENSIS.'
FROM THE GERMAN: BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
I.
THERE is a flower, a lovely flower,
Tinged deep with Faith's unchanging hue;
Pure as the ether in its hour
Of loveliest and serenest blue.
The streamlet's gentle side it seeks,
The silent fount, the shaded grot,
And sweetly to the heart it speaks,
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not.
II.
Mild as the azure of thine eyes,
Soft as the halo-beam above,
In tender whispers still it sighs,
Forget me not, my life, my love!
There where thy last steps turned away,
Wet eyes shall watch the sacred spot,
And this sweet flower be heard to say,
Forget! ah, no! forget-me-not!
III.
Yet deep its azure leaves within
Is seen the blighting hue of care;
And what that secret grief hath been,
The drooping stem may well declare.
The dew-drops on its leaves are tears,
That ask, 'Am I so soon forgot?'
Repeating still, amidst their fears,
My life, my love! forget-me-not!
OUR PUBLIC MEN.
NUMBER ONE.
PERSONAL TRAITS OF PRESIDENT TYLER AND HIS FAMILY.