Inique, without comment, took up the word where the interruption

occurred.

“My reasoning took this shape. My daughter is a puny thing—there is no

probability of her surviving to even girlhood. What does it matter if

the baby is betrothed to her brother? As for De Ladron, if he ever

returns from the new world, how is he to recognize his boy, grown out of

remembrance, if the child does not die—he seems pining away

rapidly—before that time. Hernan Ladron I never saw again; but his

infant grew strong and healthy in our change of climate, and this vexed

me hourly. I had felt sure the weakly thing could not live, or the

exchange would not have been made; and now, he was growing up a quiet,

mild boy—pah! it made me sick to think he believed himself my son, as

did all the world beside. The sense of this contrast pushed from my

brain all other concern. I cursed the grasping folly which had tempted

me to barter a gallant fellow, like my own boy, for an estate and this

whey-faced child. However, he should go to war with me, and be cured of

his girlishness. But when, at St. Quentin, he fled before the first

charge of the French, cowering at my stirrup, I was frantic with rage

and shame. I had no love for the boy; his very existence was a daily

threat of exposure, and I beat him, as you all saw, with my sword hilt,

to drive him a second time into the fight. What followed, too, you all

knew. But, until this day, no mortal has learnt the yearning pity that

mastered my passions and filled my breast with remorse. I believe my

first resolution was to confess my infamy and restore the heir his

wealth and name; but I waited until he should recover, and when I saw he

was likely to remain an idiot, I changed my mind.”

“Don Augustino, you would have been less dishonored by confessing your

dishonor,” cried our knight, here. “You proved yourself, in the sight of

Heaven, a greater coward than your reputed son.”

“Sir,” replied the other, hotly, flushing red, “you forget I am your

equal in point of rank, if not virtue, and wear a sword. You tax my

forbearance heavily.”

“A horse in meadow neighs louder than a horse under saddle,” answered

Padilh. “Overlook the reproach, Don Augustino, and pass on.”

“I set some value on your friendship, and will not consent to lose it

for a hard word honestly spoken,” Inique said, not very contentedly.

“I altered my mind, but not altogether. I resolved not a fraction of his

income should be used in the service of me or mine, and reduced the

expenses of my household accordingly. Hilo, my real son, left to his own

guidance at home, had become a ruinous spendthrift, and openly revolted

at any curtailment of what he considered his rights. But against his

wickedness I had, as a set off, the patience and affection of the

supposititious son; the very qualities I had before despised now touched

me most—his mildness of face and speech, and trustfulness in my

protection—for the whole past seemed wiped out of his remembrance, and

but a single word was capable of recalling any portion of it—the word

the Constable of Castile spoke yesterday at table. Perhaps the cries and

sounds of battle might recall my shame and his sorrow, but my care has

hitherto proved successful in keeping such from his ears.”

“Yet there seems to me in all this, Don Augustino, no good reason for

your becoming the boy’s jailor,” said Sir Pedro.

“Stay. If it was hard to resolve on publishing my infamy with my own

mouth, was it easy to bear the thought that some day it must be realised

in the growing likeness of my prisoner to his true father, Ladron? I

watched this fast maturing resemblance with the anguish of one seeing

his death warrant signed, understanding to the full how the crime which

my voluntary confession might have softened in the eyes of the world,

would grow in odium as time elapsed. I fancied it was only needful for

you, or any one familiar with the father’s face, to catch a glimpse of

the son’s to detect my secret; and I kept the sole evidence near my

person, not because it was the safest, but the least harassing course it

was possible to pursue.”

“The least harassing, Don Augustino,” the knight said, “would have been

to acknowledge your criminality at first, and have made restitution

openly as you did in private. Better do so now than never.”

“What! when the son of a felon in yonder ship must be disowned only to

substitute a felon himself! No, sir; the most I can do is what I now

purpose—to find this reckless youth and turn him from his vicious life

by every means but that you propose. Only in the last extremity will I

show him to be as penniless in the future as now, and that the girl he

has exhausted his vileness to dishonor is his sister, and I the wretched

father of both.”

“And only in such extremity will your words have weight with Hilo de

Ladron, as I suppose, for your sake, he must yet be called, although I

grudge him the name. But it seems to me, Don Augustino Inique, you prate

more of dishonor than a man should who has committed felony to his own

conscience and in God’s sight; and that the honor you esteem so highly

is nothing better than the declamation of those who surround you.”

“A truce to your sarcasms,” cried Inique, pale with anger. “I am not

here, Padilh, to listen to a sermon or be ordered a penance. If you will

help me in this affair by your intervention, you will not find me

ungrateful; and I know enough of my own nature, as you might, to feel

assured that, left to my own resources, I may do that in the heat of

passion which cannot be undone. What! am I so fallen in your eyes that

you cannot afford me the time and occasion I need for amendment, or

distrust my best designs?”

“No, by St. Jago,” cried our generous don, “that I will not, Inique. I

have done you some wrong in thought, perhaps, but I will make amends by

assisting you where I may with proper regard to my own views and

affections. But, you understand, I annex a condition—the true Hilo must

pass from your care into mine as soon as we effect a landing. As his

nearest relative, I have a higher right to the charge of his person than

the—than yourself, Don Augustino.”

“Don Pedro,” answered Inique, slowly, after a pause, “you have justice

on your side, and I will not oppose the transfer if you insist. But I

beg you earnestly to consider that I, from hating, have come to love the

youth better—yes, better than my own children; and until the present

adjustment succeeds or fails, you may do worse than leave him in my

keeping, as before—only that the doors of his prison, as you seemed but

now to consider it, are open to you from this hour. I pledge you my

word, at all hazard or pain, to restore him to you at the close of this

expedition.”

“Well, let it be so,” replied Don Pedro, surprised and pleased at the

other’s words.

And the maître-de-camp, with a breast somewhat less burdened, betook

himself to his ship again.

A couple of days later the peaked and thickly-wooded shores of Tercera

were first visible, and the armada coasting along, to the mortal terror

of the Portuguese, who were parceled out in companies to defend the

accessible points, and miserably ignorant where the Spaniards would make

their descent, came to anchor off St. Catherine, where about fifty

French and twice as many Portuguese were drawn up to oppose the landing.

“It would be a pity to cross the humor of the French gentlemen, yonder,”

Santa-Cruz said, with a grim smile. “But their allies will only

embarrass their manœuvres, and had better be routed before hand. Don’t

you think we can frighten them, Pòlvora?”

“Frighten them!” cried that cavalier; “I can see, at this distance, the

finery of some glittering in the sunshine, as if the wearers were

shaking all over. Let us try if they are not too frightened to run.”

So the signal was given, and a general discharge of cannon followed from

the fleet, doing no special harm. I believe the widow Jean’s son was

decapitated, and that young fool, Allain, who must needs leave his

pretty sweetheart Annette in Floillé to pick up a little glory, that his

marriage might come off with more eclat than any in his village, lost a

leg or arm; but these were trifles nobody minds in a skirmish.

However, it was before the balls came bumping along the sands—indeed,

while they were disporting, like great whales, in the outer surf, and

casting up jets of water at each _ricochet_, that the brave rear-guard

took to their heels—a piece of prudence for which I beg the indulgence

of those military young men who are suffered by their employers to sport

moustachios in their shops and counting-houses, and whose chief motive

for advocating, in strong language, a dissolution of the Union, is

supposed to lie in the admirable opportunity to be afforded of winning

undying laurels in civil warfare; for I would intimate, however

reprehensible cowardice may be on any occasion, and on this in

particular, that watching the lively skipping from wave to wave of such

iron globes as a 42-pounder debouches, while chatting with the officer

of artillery, who has just sighted the piece at a hogshead anchored in

the bay, is quite a different thing from doing the same when serving as

the hogshead yourself.

“Yonder go a brave enemy!” cried Padilh, with a laugh, to his colleague

in the next barge, the two maîtres-de-camp heading the flotilla with the

landing party. “If any fall in your way hereafter, don’t forget they’re

women; spare their lives, as you wear spurs, señor mine.”

To this Inique answered, standing erect in the stern and shading his

eyes with his palm, quite another personage in voice and carriage from

the penitent of two days back:

“But the line of the French has not a gap in it—yes, one, which they

have just filled with a fresh man. There’ll be sharp work there, Padilh,

although we are strong enough to surround and capture the whole

detachment. Lay to your oars, men! Make prisoners of as many of the

gallant fellows as you can.”

“What’s come over the master?” grumbled a sergeant to a crony. “Last

time he marched against the French it was nothing but ‘keep your pikes

level, my lads; the man that fails to spit his man, deserves to be cut

over the head in return.’ And now it’s, ‘don’t hurt them, these fine

fellows.’ You see, I like a man to be one thing.”

“Why, they say Señor Inique has a cousin, or a son-in-law, or something

of the sort, who is no better than he should be, and at this moment in

the French camp. Who knows if the señor hasn’t an idea of turning coat

some day himself? It looks like it, don’t it, sergeant?”

“No; hang it, man, he wouldn’t do such a dirty thing. Why, don’t you

know, you unbelieving Thomas, there ain’t a gentleman in all Spain with

such a name for honor!”

“Well, may be; but I like to be sure of a thing of the sort. Honesty and

uprightness is my motto.”

“Hey! what’s that Mig’s saying?” said a sailor who pulled the bow oar,

with a grin, to his neighbor. “I lived near La Mécha myself, egad! and I

know there wa’n’t a lamb sure of being raised so long as _he_ was about.

May be he’s forgot my phiz, with the tip of my nose sliced off by that

turbaned chap’s cim’tar.”

So the gossip was kept up until a volley of twenty or so arquebuses, as

the fleet grounded in tolerable line, turned their thoughts too busily

in another channel to leave time for such tattling; and the old

campaigners of the later Moorish wars were out and formed in “battle”

before Capt. Bourgignon poured in his reserve fire, and fell upon the

invaders with the audacity of a hawk half as large as your hand pouncing

upon a turkey a fourth as big as your body; only that the enemy was not

in any respect like a turkey—more like a condor, I should say, in point

of ferocity and collected action. He marched up from the submerged beach

to the sands above high-water, with no more concern for the struggling

handful in front than you or I would for the whiff of sleet blown in our

faces on a windy day in the streets. To be sure, the smooth tablet left

by the last tide, was written over with a heavy stylus, and dabbled with

such ink as conquerors and others who leave their mark on the times in

which they lived, employ; moreover, there were numerous unsightly

blotches dropped about, which retained enough vitality sometimes to

scream in a manner calculated to shock our fire-eating civilians into a

wholesome distaste to civil collision and slaying. Of course, such

things are necessities, like lightning and volcanic eruptions, despite

the efforts of Mr. Burritt to show the contrary. The exception appears

strongest when one of us loses a brother or a husband, with a bullet in

the heart or head, as Amelia did George at Brussels, or more than one

acquaintance of mine, now wearing premature widow’s-weeds, in the late

Mexican war.

On the whole, there is something vastly fascinating in military display

and glory; and I confess, when I call to mind the bray of trumpets,

glint of steel harness, and gallant show of surcoats, paraded that July

morning along the St. Catherine beach, I am tempted to drag my obliging

reader into the thick of the fight, and recapitulate, with cannibal

appetite, the shouts, groans, and extorted cries of agony, by which you

could have told with shut eyes how the work advanced, and where this or

that poor devil was left sprawling on the driftweed, with a saucer full

of blood in a sea-shell, perhaps, just under his left side; to say

nothing of those who enacted the parts, as near as their heavy armor and

different locomotive organization allowed, of fowls recently beheaded—a

sight full of interest to even those darlings of mamma who are brought

up to feed sparrows with crumbs, but slay mice and centipedes without

restriction. All I intend relating of this skirmish is, that Capt.

Bourgignon was killed, as were most of his officers, and as to the

fifteen men remaining out of the fifty, not one was without a wound.

They could not have acquitted themselves better had De Chaste himself

been present, which he was not, but on the opposite side of a high

promontory lying next La Praya, making what haste he might to come up

with the combatants, whose whereabouts he knew by the cannonading.

Three days before this the viceroy had sent word to the commander that

the Spanish fleet could plainly be seen from the Peak; and riding along

the coast, De Chaste heard the sentinels posted on the mountains ringing

bells and firing their arquebuses, in token of the approach of the

enemy, who were not long in arriving within gun-shot of the shore, and

keeping the islanders in constant alarm, as before hinted, by cannon

shots and the hovering of a cluster of galleys about every available

landing. The French general had his hands full in following these last,

encouraging his little garrisons, and endeavoring to find bread for his

troops, whose dinners the Count de Torrevedros never troubled himself

about. Indeed, that viceregal nobleman had enough to do to consider how

best to ingratiate himself with the Marquis of Santa-Cruz, and for the

present keep out of harm’s way. It was not only the count, however, who

cared little for the landing of the Spaniards and ruin of the French,

provided their persons and property remained secure—a tolerably

universal wish being that their allies had gone to the bottom before

reaching Tercera and dragging them into a siege, when all they wanted

was safety and submission.

“Senhor Commandante,” said the Portuguese captain at La Praya, while the

pair rode out, as usual, with a company or two at their heels, “you can

now see for yourself, yonder, how little the number of the enemy has

been magnified.”

“So much the better,” answered the commander, like the Wolf in Little

Red Ridinghood; “we will have more to make prisoners.”

“O—h!” cried the Portuguese, the idea being new to him.

“Confound the man’s bragging,” he muttered to himself; “he talks as if

they were children or savages he has to do with.”

Whereupon De Chaste added, with something like a smile on his hard face:

“You see at least, senhor captain, they are not afraid of us, if we are

of them, for they pull within reach of our batteries; and here comes a

ball to measure the distance between us.”

“St. Hubert! Are we to stand here to be shot without chance of drawing

sword?” cried Captain Gaza, brushing the sand thrown over him from his

holyday doublet. “It is madness, sir commander, madness; and I cannot

expose my brave men to such needless danger.”

“As you like best; you will find a half mile up the beach out of cannon

range,” indifferently rejoined the French knight, and spurred closer to

the water’s edge, followed by his countrymen, many of whom, in passing,

saluted the Portuguese ironically, while others, out of earshot of the

conversation, wondered at the blanched visage of the captain, and his

taking himself and company to the skirt of the wood a mile or more back.

“Duvict,” said De Chaste, presently, to that cavalier, whom he had

called to his side, “you will ride over to-night to Angra, and tell the

viceroy we all count it strange, that, with the enemy threatening the

coast, he is no where to be seen; perhaps, if he is bent on shutting up

himself, he will take this captain off our hands; the fewer such cowards

in our ranks, the better chance will we have of successful defense. At

all events, I insist on the withdrawal of this Gaza, even if his troop

goes with him. Moreover, I demand in the queen’s name, an immediate

supply of rations for our men here and elsewhere. Lose no time on your

journey.”

“I am so well pleased with the errand, that I will set out this instant,

monseigneur, if you consent. Why wait until our return to Porta Praya?”

cried Duvict, cheerfully.

“Go, then,” answered the commander, nodding approval; “and if he is not

to be met with at Angra, search the country till you find him.”

The viceroy was not at Angra, that city being too exposed to bombardment

to suit his present fancy; but the Frenchman found him at his

country-house among the hills, keeping a sharp look-out over the roads

leading coastward.

“Tell the honorable commander,” replied Torrevedros, dissembling his

annoyance at the ambassador’s blunt message, “I will surely join him as

soon as I make certain levies, calculated to do him more service than

five troop of horse. But I take it ill, he shows so little faith in my

concern for his safety at the present extremity.”

“As for his safety,” answered Duvict, who was not much of a courtier,

“our commandant can very well take care of that and ours. It is for your

own honor, and the putting your people in good heart, which, by the

three kings, they want mightily! Monseigneur troubles himself with your

absence, M. le Viceroi. Meanwhile, it would not be amiss to give our

soldiers something withal to fill their mouths, especially as we may be

obliged to do most of the fighting before the new levies arrive.”

“You will soon have abundance for all,” the count made answer, smoothly.

“Hasten down, and inform your commandant I will delay here not an hour

beyond what is necessary, on the honor of a knight. You said truly, sir,

we must have no cowards in our ranks, either French or Portuguese.”

“M. le Viceroi, your acquaintance with your own countrymen is

indisputable,” Duvict here said superciliously, “but we French are

taught in a different school.”

“Let it pass,” rejoined Torrevedros, biting his lip. “If I designed to

wound your self-love, it would not be in my own house. I will show my

willingness at least to oblige M. de Chaste, by cashiering my captain at

Porta Praya in favor of one more reliable.”

It was this new captain, John de Castros, who carried De Chaste a letter

from the viceroy a day later, which that loyal nobleman had received

from Santa Cruz by a Portuguese, caught off the coast, and forced to

swim ashore with the dispatch tied about his neck—the French not

suffering any boat to approach within hail.

The commandant tore the paper to fragments as soon as he saw the

contents. “This Count of Torrevedros,” he said, with a short laugh, to

his maître-de-camp, who was present, “is either a fool, or doubts our

honor. The Marquis of Santa Cruz offers him here his life, and abundant

rewards, besides the freedom of his wife and children, now in Madrid,

provided he surrenders the island, which he might well enough do as far

as himself is concerned, but he wishes to be rid of us at the same time,

and therefore risks being reckoned a traitor in hope of inducing us to

accept the marquis’s conditions.”

“A traitor he is!” cried the lieutenant, indignantly. “And since he

proves himself so in so many ways, why not return to France as we are,

without further intermeddling between him and his lackland master.”

“You forget,” returned De Chaste, “all who have entered on this

enterprise, are bound in honor to see it through with what success their

energy may obtain. Still you, and other cavaliers who have joined of

your free will, and not by the queen’s direct command, may do as you see

proper, and leave us who remain to share the greater glory which must

attend a defense against greater odds.”

“Sir commandant,” the lieutenant responded, simply hearing him through

with some little mortification in his frank face, “you pain me by such

permission, for neither I, nor any other French gentleman here, would

leave you an instant without being compelled by your commands; and that

I am sure you know.”

“I know it so well,” cried the commandant at this, “that I am not sure I

spoke the truth in even hinting my distrust just now.”

And truly the lieutenant was as good as his word; for when the French

crossed the neck of the promontory I have mentioned, and coming too late

to reinforce Bourgignon, fell upon a strong party of the Spaniards,

detailed to take possession of a spring near by, with a determination

which brought about a general and very bloody battle; there was not one

in the tremendous uproar of voices and of arms, smoke of arquebuses,

blood spattered and welling, screams, shrieks, groans, and

huzzas!—huzzas! ensuing—who did such execution with the sword, as that

same lieutenant; it was he that killed the father of poor little

Margueretta, who, for want of bread, the next year became what even

famine must not excuse. And, perhaps, as he did his share of irreparable

mischief with an easy conscience, and certainly to the best of his

ability, when his corpse lay stark as the mail encasing it, that same

afternoon, by the eminence to the left, where Hilo was seen aiming an

arquebuse at one time of the fight, his spirit may have been regaling in

Paradise with other performers of that much abused sentiment, duty.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE NAME OF WIFE.

BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.

O name most blesséd, or most sorrowful, thou,

As from the Urim of Experience fall

The lights or shadows on thee; seeming now

Radiant as bliss upon an angel’s brow,

Then ghastly dim as Hope’s funereal pall!

Up to my vision thou dost ever call

Twin pictures—women—one with calm, meek eyes,

And soft form gently bent, and folded hands,

Brooding in dove-like peace o’er her sweet ties

Requited truthfully; the other stands

With sunken cheek by tears unheeded glazed,

Her wan feet bleeding, and her thin arms raised,

Knowing no help but from above the skies.

* * * * *

SONNET.—THE OLIVE.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

What sacred reminiscences dost thou

Awake within the breast, O olive-tree!

First did the silver-pinioned dove from thee

Pluck the sweet “Peace-branch”—it an olive-bough.

Fair evergreen! thoughts pure, devout, sublime,

Thou callest up, reminding us of Him,

The Man of Sorrows—Lord of Cherubim—

Who, erewhile, did, in distant Orient clime,

’Neath thy dark, solemn shade, once weep and pray

In woful agony; though now, above,

Seated on sapphire throne—the God of Love—

While round his head the covenant sign alway

Unfolds its rich and ever-living green,

Memento of Gethsemane’s affecting scene.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE WAY TO CHURCH.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by T. McGoffin]

* * * * *

SIN NO MORE.

BY R. T. CONRAD.

“Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon thee.”

Art thou young, yet hast not given

Dewy bud and bloom to Heaven?

Tarryest till life’s morn be o’er!

Pause, or ere the bolt be driven!

Sin no more!

Art thou aged? Seek’st thou power?

Rank or gold—of dust the dower!

Fame to wreathe thy wrinkles hoar?

Dotard! death hangs o’er thy hour!

Sin no more!

Art thou blest? False joys caress thee:

And the world’s embraces press thee

To its hot heart’s cankered core:

Waken! Heaven alone can bless thee.

Sin no more!

Art thou wretched? Hath each morrow

Sown its sin to reap its sorrow!

Turn to Heaven—repent—adore:

Hope new light from Faith can borrow;

Sin no more!

May a meek and rapt devotion

Fill thy heart, as waves the ocean,

Glassing Heaven from shore to shore!

Then wilt thou—calmed each emotion—

Sin no more.

* * * * *

WORDSWORTH.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks,

The golden day with pearls adorning,

When side by side with him we walked

To meet midway the summer morning.

The west wind took a softer breath,

The sun himself seemed brighter shining,

As through the porch the minstrel slept—

His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining.

He passed along the dewy sward,

The blue-bird sang aloft “good-morrow!”

He plucked a bud, the flower awoke

And smiled without one pang of sorrow.

He spoke of all that graced the scene

In tones that fell like music round us,

We felt the charm descend, nor strove

To break the rapturous spell that bound us.

We listened with mysterious awe,

Strange feelings mingling with our pleasure;

We heard that day prophetic words,

High thoughts the heart must always treasure.

Great Nature’s Priest! thy calm career,

With that sweet morn, on earth has ended—

But who shall say thy mission died

When, winged for Heaven, thy soul ascended!

* * * * *

INSPIRATION. TO SHIRLEY.

BY WM. P. BRANNAN.

What shall yield me inspiration,

What sweet spell entrance my thought,

Whilst I sing the adoration

By thy matchless beauty wrought?

Overcome with exultation

Which thy charming presence brought.

Incense-bearing breezes hover

Round my flushed and throbbing brow,

Minstrels in their shady cover

Chant divinest music now;

Nature, yield to nature’s lover

Language worthy of his vow!

Where she walks a richer splendor

Hallows all the earth and sky,

Unseen angels there attend her;

Heaven and love sleep in her eye—

Graces have no grace to lend her,

Zephyr breathes an envious sigh.

Thou thyself art inspiration!

Moving, breathing, blessing, blest;

The lily and the rose-carnation

Live upon thy cheek and breast,

Daring time and desolation,

Thrilling hearts with wild unrest!

* * * * *

EDDA MURRAY.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

Learn to win a lady’s faith

Nobly, as the thing is high;

Bravely, as for life and death—

With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,

Point her to the starry skies,

Guard her by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship’s flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true—

Ever true as wives of yore—

And her _Yes_, once said to you,

SHALL be Yes for evermore.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

It was a hot, sultry afternoon at —— ——, a fashionable summer resort

at the sea side. The three great events of the day were

accomplished—namely, the bath, dinner, and the arrival of the boat

bringing the mail; the visiters, therefore, had nothing to do but to get

rid of the afternoon in as noisy a manner as possible, keeping

themselves as warm and uncomfortable as they could, in order to prove

that they were enjoying themselves after the most approved fashion.

Ladies could be seen in every direction, passing from one hotel to

another, flitting in and out of cottages, dressed in the most

incongruous style—in silks, mulls, and gauzes, fitted for a full-dress

dinner or evening party; and surmounting this dressy costume was—the

only really sensible article to be seen in this dominion of Folly—the

prim, plain country sun-bonnet. Fashion had established that hats at the

sea-side were vulgar, and accordingly, every belle mounted one of these

useful, but exceedingly ugly head-dresses. Carriages and wagons of every

description darted to and fro, from the funny little Jersey sand wagon,

with horses of a Jersey match, gray and brown, or black and white, up to

the well matched, well ordered establishment of the _nouveau riche_, who

was willing to sacrifice his delicate town-bred horses, in order to

exhibit his magnificence to the _plebs_. A fine establishment drew up in

front of the entrance of one of the principal hotels, and the owner of

it, Mr. Martin, a prosperous merchant, with his fussy, dressy,

good-natured, fat little wife, entered it. As Mr. Martin handed his wife

in, he asked,

“Where’s Edda?”

“Oh, let her alone, my dear,” replied his wife, “she will get over her

moping after awhile. She’s fretted herself into a sick headache, and is

lying down.”

“Confound the fellow,” muttered Mr. Martin, “I wish she had never seen

him. If I had my way she should be divorced from him. What right has a

man to a wife when he cannot support her? Now, as long as he lives, I

suppose, our poor little darling will be down-hearted.”

“Oh,” said the wife, settling herself back comfortably in the luxurious

carriage, after having carefully disposed the folds of her rich, silk

gown and heavily embroidered mantle in a manner to crush them the least,

“wait until he gets fairly settled out at the West, and the winter

parties, and concerts, and operas commence, then Edda will cheer up.”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” ejaculated Mr. Martin, “and if money,

amusements, and fine clothes can make her what she was two years ago, I

shall be glad enough, for I hate a sad, gloomy face.”

While they were thus talking, their niece, the subject of their

conversation, was lying in her bed-room, burying her throbbing, aching

head in the pillows of the couch, wishing that an endless sleep would

come to her, and deaden the painful sense of grief.

Poor Edda Murray! Two short years before, a happier, more free-from-care

girl could not have been found. Then, she had never known a trouble. Her

aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who were childless, and possessed

ample means, had taken her at the time of her parents’ death, which had

occurred during her infancy, and from that moment up to the present, she

had been their spoiled pet and darling. They were good-natured, indolent

people, caring for but little else than the amusements of the

out-of-doors world. As Edda grew old enough to enter society, they took

great pleasure in dressing her extravagantly, and accompanying her to

every gay place of resort of the fashionable world. According to Mrs.

Martin’s ideas, every girl should be married early; and when Edda was

addressed by Mr. Murray, near the close of her first winter, and seemed

pleased with his attentions, her aunt’s rapture knew no bounds. Mr.

Martin was pleased also, for Murray, though a young man, was a rising

merchant, and was steady and industrious.

How Ralph Murray ever happened to fancy Edda Martin, was a mystery to

all those of his and her friends, who had observed but little of this

marriage business of life. As a general rule, both men and women,

especially when young, select the very companions that are the most

unlike their ideals, and what is still stranger, the most unsuitable for

them.

Ralph Murray was a reserved, dignified young man, rather stern for his

years, with the most rigid ideas of justice and propriety, even in

trifles; exact in every thing, and making but little allowance for

others less exact than himself. He did not require more than he was

willing to give in return, but he had no consideration, no patience, and

when disappointed, was apt to become cold, moody, and uncompromising. In

woman he had always required, “that monster perfection.” His mother had

been a model of feminine propriety. He had no sisters, but a whole troop

of cousins, who happened to be laughing, hoydenish, good-natured

creatures; but they were his utter abomination, he never countenanced

them, pronouncing them silly, frivolous, and senseless; but how they

laughed and teased him, when his engagement with Edda Martin was

announced—verily they had their revenge.

Edda was, indeed, a spoiled pet, full of caprice and whim, beautiful and

graceful as a fairy, and as untamed and uncontrollable as an unwedded

Undine. But, poor child, marriage brought no happy spirit to dwell in

her household. How could it? For they had married under the influence of

the maddest, wildest infatuation. Their love was beautiful while it

lasted; but soon the husband grew exacting, the angel became a mere

woman, and the darling, who had never obeyed any will but her own,

discovered she had a lord and master, whose will was stronger and more

unbending than even her own had ever been. Then Edda was extravagant and

thriftless, and thoughtless, a real child-wife, like poor Dora, that

English Undine creation of Dickens’s fancy, but with more spirit and

temper than “Little Blossom.” Edda’s character had in it qualities which

would have made her a fine woman, properly and gradually developed; but

her husband placed her on the scale of his own model of perfection, and

endeavored to drag her up to this idea of wifehood, without waiting for

Nature to assist him. It was the old, sad story told over

again—incompatibility of tempers, unreasonableness on his part,

petulance, waywardness and temper on hers.

God sent them a little babe, but the child brought no tenderness to the

heart of either parent for each other. Then trouble came upon Ralph

Murray in his business—unfortunate speculations, bad failures in others

he had trusted; but instead of going to his wife, and talking

affectionately, but candidly, remembering all the while what a spoiled

darling she had been, he considered himself aggrieved by her lavish

expenditure, and told her haughtily that she was now the wife of a young

merchant, and not the niece of a rich man, and ought to have sense

enough to observe economy. Poor Edda was offended, bitter words passed

between them, and they parted in anger. Her aunt found her in

tears—happening to come in just as the irritated husband had left her.

Edda turned to her thoughtless, childish aunt, for comfort, telling her

the whole story of her wrongs; and Mrs. Martin pronounced Mr. Murray a

brute, to treat her poor child so unkindly. Mr. Martin thought always as

his wife did, and in the first flush of temper, they carried the

weeping, angry wife, with her young babe, away from her husband’s roof;

the exasperated uncle leaving for Mr. Murray an angrily worded note, in

which he said that Edda had never ceased to be his niece, even if she

had been so unfortunate as to become the wife of a parsimonious

merchant, and an unkind husband. The following day Ralph Murray was a

bankrupt.

The news of other heavy failures of houses indebted to him, brought his

affairs to a crisis, and all his troubles seemed piled mountain high

upon him at once. Poor Edda would have gone instantly to her husband

when she heard of his trouble—for she had immediately repented of her

hasty step—but she did not dare; she remembered his sternness, and

dreaded a repulse which she felt she deserved. Then a new cause of

anxiety displayed itself, her boy sickened, and, after a few hours’

illness, he died in her arms. Her husband was sent for, but he did not

notice her; he stood beside the coffin of his child, pale, tearless, and

with a countenance as unchanging as a statue of marble; he never looked

at his sobbing wife, who, softened by her grief, would have willingly

thrown herself into his arms, and asked pardon for the past, and

forbearance for the future; but he coldly turned from her after the

funeral, without speaking a word.

Two months passed by, and still Ralph Murray treated his wife with the

same silent indifference. He never sought an interview nor an

explanation; it seemed as if the death of their child, instead of

softening him, had, to his mind, broken off all connection between them.

Edda grieved incessantly, until at last her health became seriously

affected. When the traveling season came, the physicians who had been

called in to heal the poor breaking heart, recommended an instant

departure for the sea-side. Fine apartments were procured, every

elegance, every luxury surrounded her; but she looked more wretched,

more unhappy every day.

She knew that their beautiful house belonged to another—every thing had

been sold; that she no longer had a home with her husband; and the

consciousness that she was a childless, lonely wife, became daily more

insupportable. Poor girl! life seemed very dark and hopeless to her. Her

trouble had lifted her spirit on almost a life time; all the childish,

capricious waywardness of girlhood had disappeared; sorrow had done the

work of years; and she was now a woman—but a suffering, loving woman,

ready to make any sacrifice, perform any duty, to atone for the past.

Her uncle and aunt caressed her, and sympathized with her, while they

incessantly spoke of her husband with words of reproach and blame; and

when she would check them, saying the greater part of the blame rested

on herself, they would think her still more lovely and amiable, and lift

their hands in surprise. How reproaching to her conscience was their

sympathy! and she grew more and more despairing and hopeless.

At midnight she would pace her room, wringing her little hands with

remorse for the past. Her husband’s stern face would rise before her,

blended with the beautiful, loving expression his countenance had worn

during the delicious season of courtship. Then she would recall every

noble, honorable trait in his character, and remember her own willful

conduct. All, all was over, and henceforth she would have to live

without him. This seemed impossible; and the poor girl would call on

Heaven, agonizingly, to take her away from life or give her back her

husband.

All her friends upheld her and blamed Mr. Murray. They called him stern,

cold and heartless. The fashionable world thought her a lucky woman in

possessing a rich old uncle to take care of her. Her quarrel with her

cross husband had taken place in the very nick of time, they said; now

she need not suffer from his mischances; when she would so willingly

have borne the very heaviest burden poverty could impose. But what could

she do but suffer idly?

Day after day passed by, still no message came from her husband. Her

uncle had told her that the principal creditors had willingly and

generously arranged matters; for, as every one said, the failure had

resulted from misfortune, not from mismanagement, and that he had heard

that a friend had offered Mr. Murray a situation in a commercial house

out in the very farthest west, with a chance of becoming a partner in

time. Then the next news that reached her was, that he was actually

leaving for his new home. And would Ralph leave her without a word—a

line? she asked herself over and again.

At last a letter came—a cold, stern, haughty letter, bidding her

farewell, as if for ever. There were one or two tender passages in it;

but the tone of the whole letter was so cold and unforgiving, that it

crushed her to the earth. She had received it the day before our little

sketch opens; and when her aunt urged her to drive out and shake off her

trouble, she only buried her little head still deeper in the pillows and

prayed still more agonizingly for death. The afternoon passed slowly

enough to the poor sufferer. Then came the evening—the noisy, gay

evening. As there was a ball in the saloon of the hotel, her

thoughtless, butterfly aunt and uncle joined the merry crowd of

triflers, after an earnest but unsuccessful persuasion of Edda to follow

their example.

The merry music of the band sounded loudly in Edda’s lonely bed-room;

but the lively dancing melodies seemed to her ears like the voices of

taunting demons. She restlessly rose from her bed and walked into her

little parlor, which opened on a balcony that swept around the house.

She stepped out on this balcony, and listened to the pealing thunder of

the ocean, which rolled unceasingly before her. Her agony increased, and

a demon seemed to whisper in her ears:

“What is life but a torment? Death is an endless, dreamless sleep. Why

suffer when you can so easily find relief?”

Shudderingly she put her little hands to her ears, and, closing her

eyes, hastened into the room, fearing that in another instant she might

be induced, by despair, to plunge headlong over the railings on the

cliff beneath. For a while she laid on the lounge, as if stunned; but at

last tears came to her relief, and she felt calmer. To avoid danger she

closed the Venetian shutters of the door and window, but drew up under

them the lounge, and threw herself on it, that the damp night air might

cool her fevered, burning head. She had not been long there when she

heard the sound of voices and laughter, but she was too weak to arise,

and remained quiet—remembering that she could not be seen from the

outside.

It was a little group of young girls, who were promenading after the

dance, and who had concluded that the upper balcony commanded a finer

view of the ocean. As chance would have it they selected that part of

the balcony just under Edda’s window for their gossiping lounge. One,

more sentimental than the others, pointed out the effect of the

moon-beams which made the edges of the rolling, dashing waves shine like

molten silver. But the beauty of the scene was quickly lost, even on

this moon-struck damsel, for she, as well as the rest, were soon deeply

interested in discussing a wedding that had lately taken place in the

_beau-monde_.

“Oh, dear, there’s Mrs. Jones,” exclaimed one, “she just came from town

yesterday, and can tell us all about it.”

The lady mentioned joined the group, and threw them into a state of

perfect felicity by telling them she had actually been present at the

wedding. Immediately she was called upon by a dozen eager voices to tell

them “all about it.” Poor Edda, she was doomed to listen to the whole

senseless detail, commencing at the bride’s India mull robe, and its

heavy, elaborate embroidery, her “exquisite and graceful head-dress,”

with the costly Honiton veil, the “rich splendid gifts” of the

relatives, and ending with the list of bridemaids and their costume. How

the whole description brought her own gorgeous wedding back to her

thoughts! and she felt heart-sick.

“Poor things!” she murmured to herself with a sigh, “I hope they will be

happier than Ralph and I have been.”

The conversation grew more bustling and detached; the lady who was the

reporter-general was giving, for the fifth time, to some new comer, a

description of the bride’s costume, which she did with a volubility so

eloquent and untiring as to have reflected credit on a French

_modiste_—expatiating largely on the beauty and costliness of the

materials of which it was composed, and united to her minute details of

the tucks, headed by rich rows of lace and embroidery, could be heard

exclamations of the others, who had already listened to the description.

“Oh,” said one, in a tone of voice that told what delicious satisfaction

costly articles of dress gave her, “it is too lovely to be married in an

India robe, with heavy embroidery and rich Valenciennes _berthé_ and

trimming. If ever I’m married, I intend to make ma order one of Levy’s

for me; it shall be imported especially for me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Jones, stopping in the midst of her harangue, _à

la_ parenthesis, “Mr. Grugan received the order for Blanche’s wedding

robe last year, the very day Mr. Holmes offered. No one knew it but her

family, except me—I knew it, of course.”

“I don’t believe she knew a word about it. Mrs. Jones is always

pretending she’s so intimate with every body,” said a young lady, _sotto

voce_; but Mrs. Jones was too deeply engaged in the tucks, and lace

trimming, and Honiton veil, to hear the doubt and charge. The

conversation increased in animation, and Mrs. Jones’s clear, high voice

was almost drowned.

“Ah,” exclaimed one, “it’s splendid to be married in such style.”

“Yes,” rejoined another, “and how delightful to go right off on a

journey, and to Europe, too.”

“Oh, girls,” exclaimed one, “only think—Blanche Forrester went to

school with me, and, here, she’s married!”

“Well,” said another, “her first bridemaid, Helen Howell, and Aubrey

Hilton, are engaged, and Helen was in the same class with me. We all

came out last fall together—you’re no worse off than I am.”

Some gentlemen joining the group, the conversation became too detached

and confused to be heard, and there were so many little bursts of

laughter as to make the whole affair quite a medley. Presently the

scraping of the violins, preceded by a loud crash of the whole united

band, announced that a waltz was about to be danced.

“Oh!” they exclaimed, simultaneously, “that delicious _Schottische_,”

and soon the balcony was empty—or at least so thought Edda; but she was

mistaken, for she heard other voices. A lady and gentleman had seated

themselves under her window, and were enjoying the sight of the waves

and moonlight. She knew their voices well. One was a Mrs. Howard, a

gentle, lady-like woman, for whom her husband entertained the highest

respect. Edda knew but little of her; she had met her in society after

her marriage, but had always drawn back a little in awe when she had met

with her, because she constantly heard Ralph holding her up as such a

model of wifely dignity and propriety. The other was a Mr. Morrison—a

cynical, fault-finding old bachelor—or, at least, Edda had always

regarded him as such. No wonder the poor girl shrank still closer to the

lounge—she seemed doomed to be persecuted.

Mrs. Howard and Mr. Morrison had heard part of the conversation about

the wedding, and the first that reached Edda’s ears were Mr. Morrison’s

severe, caustic remarks.

“Silly, senseless fools!” he exclaimed. “They talk as if life had but

two points to attain; to get married in an India robe, in such a style

as to produce a fine theatrical effect, and to go to Europe. What right

have such idiots to get married at all? What do they know of the

realities of married life—the holy, sacred obligations of marriage?”

“Very little, it is true,” answered his companion; “and this ignorance

is wisely ordered! for I am afraid, Mr. Morrison, if these young,

thoughtless creatures knew the one half of life’s stern realities,

whether married or unmarried, they would sooner lie down and die than

encounter them. Youth is as hopeless in trouble as it is thoughtless in

prosperity.”

“Very true, madam, very true,” said the old gentleman; “but it seems to

me that these frivolous creatures might be taught a little—enough to

give them some ballast. What sort of wives will they make? Why, I

declare it makes me shudder when I see these silly, thoughtless wretches

entering into marriage as they would into a dance—not displaying half

the anxiety that a man would on entering into a commercial engagement

that can be dissolved at will after a certain season.”

“Well,” said the lady, with a sweet, low laugh, “from what we see on all

sides, my dear sir, a great many of those who marry at the present day

seem to regard marriage only as a mere partnership, to be dissolved at

will.”

“I would pretty soon put an end to that divorce business, madam,” said

Mr. Morrison, “if I had the power. Every couple that could not live

happily together, and wished to be separated, should have their request

granted, but on one condition—that both, particularly the woman, should

go into some religious asylum, and spend the rest of their days in

entire seclusion, employed constantly in the performance of strict

religious duties and works of charity.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the lady, laughing outright, “I am very sure any husband

and wife would prefer the most inharmonious intercourse to such an

alternative.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Morrison, “they could have their choice, and it

would teach others to be more careful how they ‘married in haste to

repent at leisure.’ This is becoming a curse to society; on all sides we

see husbands and wives disagreeing. Now-a-days a wife must spend as much

money as she pleases, lead a dissipated life—for going to parties and

balls, and every other gay place, constantly is dissipation—entertain

admirers, and her husband must not complain. He, poor devil—beg pardon,

madam—must not express a wish for a quiet home and a companion, after

the toil of the day and the wear and tear of exciting, perilous

business. Oh, no! If he does madam will leave him in a huff, and he may

whistle for a wife, and life is a wreck to him ever afterward.”

“Do these unhappy marriages always result from the thoughtlessness and

selfishness of the wives, my dear sir?” asked Mrs. Howard. “I think

there are as many wives with domestic tastes, who have the same

complaint to make against their husbands.”

“Yes, yes,” answered Mr. Morrison, a little hesitatingly; “I suppose

there is blame to be found on both sides; but generally speaking, with

the married people of what is called ‘society,’ especially the young,

the fault lies with the wife. Yesterday I bade good-bye to as fine a

fellow as God ever created, whose whole happiness for life has been

wrecked by one of these silly, heartless fools. You know him, my dear

madam, and are, I believe, one of his few friends; for the whole world

unite in condemning him and upholding his doll-baby wife in her sinful

disobedience.”

“You are speaking of Ralph Murray, I am sure,” said Mrs. Howard, in a

sad tone.

Poor Edda writhed, but she had not power to move; she felt spell-bound,

and every word of the conversation fell on her ear with painful

clearness.

“Yes, I mean Murray,” replied Mr. Morrison. “God help him, poor fellow!

His haggard face haunts me like a ghost.”

“But,” said Mrs. Howard, “much as I love Ralph, much as I respect his

high, honorable character, I cannot hold him blameless.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Morrison, in a tone of surprise, “you cannot hold

him blameless? Why, what can you see wrong in any thing he has done?”

“He should not have married as he did,” replied Mrs. Howard; “or if

determined to gratify his fancy at the expense of his judgment, by

yielding to an infatuation, he should have had more patience with his

wife. If he felt willing to trust his happiness in the hands of a

petted, spoiled child, he should have remembered what she was, in the

hour of trial, and not exacted of her the ability and judgment which are

possessed only by a sensible, well-trained woman.”

“Yes, you are right,” answered Mr. Morrison, after a short pause; “he

was wrong in the first place—he never should have married such an

idiot. But, my God, madam,” he exclaimed, impatiently, “any woman who

was lucky enough to get such a noble husband as Ralph Murray, should

have been so proud of him as to have been willing to have made every

sacrifice of whim and caprice for his comfort.”

“That’s true man’s reasoning,” said Mrs. Howard, good-naturedly. “But,

Mr. Morrison, I think I am not mistaken when I say that if Ralph had

managed his pretty, petted, capricious fairy of a wife patiently and

properly, their happiness would not have been wrecked as it is.”

“_Their_ happiness!” repeated Mr. Morrison, sneeringly. “Little she

cares, while she has aunt to caress her and uncle’s money to spend.”

“Indeed you do her great injustice,” said Mrs. Howard. “To be sure, I do

not know Mrs. Murray intimately, but I am certain if you were to see her

pale, wretched face and frail figure, as I do daily in the corridor,

when they bring her in, half fainting, from the bath, you would think as

I do—that, let her husband’s sufferings be ever so great, the wife

suffers quite as much. Oh, my dear Mr. Morrison, how I wish I were Edda

Murray’s friend.”

“What would you do, my dear madam? Add another to her host of

sympathizers?” said the old gentleman.

“No,” replied Mrs. Howard, mildly; “I would tell her to send for Ralph,

to ask pardon for the past and patience for the future, and beg him to

take me once more to his heart, and help me to be a good, faithful wife.

This she must do, or never know peace in this life.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed Mr. Morrison; “why, my dear Mrs. Howard, if she had

sense and feeling enough to act thus, she would never have behaved as

she has done.”

“Edda Murray has acted willfully and selfishly, I admit,” said Mrs.

Howard; “but we do not know what provocations she may have had. Ralph is

a fine, noble fellow, but arbitrary and impatient—the very kind of man

that I should fancy it would not be easy to make happy in domestic life,

even if a judicious woman were to undertake the task. Think, then, how

many excuses should be made for his impulsive, wayward little wife, who

never in her life was subjected to control. I am certain this trouble

has done her good, however, for a woman’s character is seldom properly

developed in prosperity; like precious metals, it must pass through the

fiery furnace of affliction—it must be purified in the crucible of

sorrow, until it loses all recollection of self. There is a beautiful

simile in the Bible, which compares the purification of the soul to the

smelting of silver. Silver must be purged from all dross, until it is so

clear and mirror-like that it will reflect the countenance of the

refiner; thus the soul must be so pure, in so high a state of godliness,

as to reflect only the will of the Creator. I cannot recall the passage

exactly, but I often apply it to my own sex, whose characters, to be

properly developed, must be purged from all selfish dross, in order to

make them think only of the happiness of others—forgetful always of

self; then, like silver seven times refined and purified, their spirits

reflect only the countenance of the purifier, which is the will or

command of God.”

Just then Mr. Howard and some others joined them, and after a little

playful bantering about the flirtation of two such steady old persons, a

remark or two on the fine night and the beauty of the ocean scene, the

party moved off and Edda at last was alone.

That night, when Mr. and Mrs. Martin stopped at Edda’s room door, on

their way to bed, they found her sitting at her desk writing. She kissed

them, bade them good night, and thanked them for their affectionate

inquiries, in a more cheerful manner than she had shown for months,

which gladdened their silly, warm old hearts, and they went off

comforting themselves with the hope that all now would be well.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, as he composed himself to sleep, “you

were right—Edda is getting over it. She looked and talked more brightly

than she has since poor little Martin’s death.”

And Edda really felt so, but for a reason her uncle little suspected.

Mrs. Howard’s words had given form and impulse to her thoughts; she no

longer wasted time in mere actionless grief; she saw her duty before

her, and, hard as it was to perform, she nobly resolved to do it. A day

or so afterward, as Ralph Murray was leaving town for his new western

home—sad, lonely, and for the first time feeling that maybe in the past

he had not been entirely free from blame, he received a letter, directed

in the delicate, lady-like, hand-writing of his wife. With trembling

hands he opened it, and thick, short sobs swelled up in his throat and

hot tears sprang to his eyes, as he read her childish, frank, penitent

appeal.

“I am your wife, Ralph,” she wrote; “you must not leave me—you must

take me with you. God joined us, and trouble—death has bound us still

closer. Pardon my past waywardness, and take your penitent, suffering

Edda back to your heart. Think what a reckless, thoughtless,

uncontrolled child I was when you married me, and have patience with me.

I cannot live without you, Ralph. I shall die broken-hearted if you

treat my selfish, wayward conduct as it merits. God forgives the

penitent—will you be more just than He is, my beloved? Come to me, and

let me hear from your lips once more, ‘dear Edda.’ Do not tell me you

are poor; I can live on any thing, submit to any privation, if blessed

with your presence, your forgiveness, your love. You shall not find me

in the future a thoughtless, extravagant child, but, with God’s help, a

faithful good wife. Oh, Ralph, receive me once more, I pray you, and let

me be again your own darling little wife Edda.”

The fashionable world at —— was thrown into a state of astonishment a

few weeks afterward, by hearing that Mrs. Murray had actually gone out

west with her cruel, good-for-nothing husband, and a thousand different

stories were told about the matter, each one as far from the truth as

the other.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Martin made loud opposition when Edda told them her

resolve, but she looked so bright and happy, and throwing her arms

around her aunt and uncle, made them read the lover-like letter of her

husband, in which he not only freely forgave the past, but took on

himself all the blame.

“She’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Martin, to his wife; “but we must not

let them go—we must make them as comfortable as we can with us. Thank

Providence, I have enough for us all.”

But Ralph Murray steadily refused all offers of assistance from Mr.

Martin. He knew it would be better for them, for a little while at

least, to be away from all Edda’s old connections. Several years they

spent “out west,” and not until they had nearly reached mid-life, did

they return to their old home in ——; then, at the urgent request of

Mr. and Mrs. Martin, who had grown old, infirm, and tired of society,

and really needed Edda, they moved back. Edda was a lovely looking

matron at the time of her return—she seemed so happy and contented. I

well remember the pleasant effect it produced upon me when I saw her

surrounded by her troop of noble boys, and leaning on her husband, who

still retained his dignity, but blent with it was an air of loving

softness that he had gained by intercourse with his gentle, “darling

little wife.”

Her married life, even after their reconciliation, however, was not

exempt from trials. There were times when her husband’s old moods of

exaction and impatience would come over him, and her own willful,

rebellious spirit would stand in the way, and torment her with demands,

such as “what right has he more than I?” and the like—as if the

gratification of rights, merely for justice sake, made up the happiness

of home life, a happiness that is only gained, only insured, by love’s

sweet yieldings. They both tried to struggle against these dark

influences; but at such times life would be very dreary to her, and it

needed all the strict discipline of her faith—all her hope and trust in

Heaven, to make her victorious over self.

Their children, however, proved angel-blessings to them. They softened

and humanized Ralph, and soothed and occupied Edda. Dear Edda! her

spring season had been a wild, frolicksome one, bringing a stormy,

cloudy summer; but her autumn yielded a rich harvest of happiness, and

her little, throbbing heart thanked God hourly for his kindness and love

to her in sustaining her through all her dark hours.

“Seven great boys, and not one daughter!” exclaimed our old friend, Mrs.

Howard, to Edda, after her return to her old home—“what a pity!”

“Oh, no,” replied Edda, quickly; “I am always so thankful my children

are all boys. I would not have the charge of a daughter’s happiness on

me for a world.”

“Why!” asked Mrs. Howard with surprise.

“Because,” replied Edda, in a low tone, looking significantly at the

good old lady, “a woman’s character seldom develops in prosperity—it

requires, like precious metals, the fiery furnace of affliction—the

crucible of sorrow.”

Mrs. Howard’s surprise was increased, for Edda’s blushing face and lips,

trembling with emotion, told that she had a deeper meaning than the mere

expression of an opinion; but Edda soon removed her wonder. She told her

the whole history of the past—her struggle on that eventful night at

the sea-side watering place years before, when the fearful temptation to

self-destruction had assailed her; she caused the kind old lady’s eyes

to grow dim with tears, when she described the beneficial effect

produced by the overheard conversation between her and Mr. Morrison; and

added, with tears and smiles of joy—

“Yes, dear Mrs. Howard, your blessed words taught me my duty. If I have

any happiness in life, I owe it, through God, to you. But, happy wife

and blessed mother, as I am, I thank God I have no daughter’s future

resting on my heart. A woman’s lot in life is a dangerous one, either in

prosperity or adversity, and to tread her life-path well she seems to

require almost a special helping from God; to but few is this granted,

and many there are who wrestle darkly and blindly with sorrow through

life’s perilous journey unaided.”

“But,” replied Mrs. Howard, “does it not strike you that you are taking

but a one-sided, narrow view of life, my dear? When you speak so sadly

of woman’s lot, it seems as if you thought this life was all we had to

expect, when I am sure you do not think so. The perils of life belong to

both man and woman. But what matters all that we suffer in this state of

existence, when compared with the glory of the sun-light of

eternity—that sun which has no setting, and of the rising of which this

dark, perilous life-hour is but the precursor—the hour before the

dawn.”

“You are right, my dear madam,” said Edda, with a sweet look of meek

thoughtfulness, “and I, of all other women, should not speak so

hopelessly, for, after all my dark hours, light came at last; and so

beautiful is life to me now, that I sometimes fancy to me is given a

glimpse of Heaven’s dawning.”

* * * * *

SONNETS,

ON PICTURES IN THE HUNTINGTON GALLERY.

BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

I.—ST. JOHN.

I stood within the glowing, graceful ring

Of pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:—

The admiring murmur of the crowd did bring

My step to pause before a shape, in all

The thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed,

The sense of Beauty _felt_—but not defined.

Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness—

In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes;

On the rapt brow of holy earnestness

The light of prophecy reflected lies.

The mystic vision of the Apocalypse

Thy pen of fire sublimely did record:

But most we love His lessons from thy lips—

John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!

II.—MERCY’S DREAM.

Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded!

The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head,

Flinging a glory round thee, like the braided

And brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed.

O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought—

Born in his happiest hour of inspiration,

How more than fair the exquisite creation

His genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought!

How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” story

That made my childhood’s ever new delight:

Sweet Mercy! _now_, in tenderest grace and glory,

Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight.

Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! might _we_

But in _our_ dreams some guardian-angel see!

III.—THE MARYS AT THE SEPULCHRE.

The first faint crimson of the early morning

Dawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay;

And on the Marys, who for His adorning

Came bearing spices sweet, at break of day.

In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchre

The mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine—

And gazing down for the dear form divine—

The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger—

Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled,

And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread,

“Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hour

Well might a solemn rapture fill thy mind—

Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high power

To bear such joyful tidings to mankind.

IV.—PIETY.

Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin brow

Is set the beauty of submissive thought:

Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou,

Whose earnest eyes so reverently caught

The Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught.

How was the awakened soul within thee stirred

To suppliant or adoring tones, as fell

The quickening power of the Eternal Word,

Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwell

A germ not lost! A heavenly light serene,

Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien—

I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well,

Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have given

The bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!

V.—FOLLY.

And _this_ is Folly! Like a flaunting flower

Her red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:

Over the wreck of many a squandered hour

This poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.

But with the consciousness of beauty born,

Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—

(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—

She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.

The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lesson

Is a dead letter to her worldly spirit—

The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing,

The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit!

No claims upon a heritage divine—

This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine.

* * * * *

THINKING OF MINNA.

BY ELLIS MARTYN.

What though my way unblissful care

To weary solitudes incline!

I feel thy beauty everywhere;

Thy spirit brightens mine.

On all the dewy leaves that crowd

The moon-lit trees, I read thy name;

From every crimson morning cloud,

It flows through all my frame.

And when the spiritual eve advances,

To bathe the weary world in rest,

Thou comest near, with loving glances,

And leanest on my breast.

In all the ages, young or olden,

Was ever life so blest as mine!

Where’er I go the clime is golden,

And all the air divine!

* * * * *

THOMAS JOHNSON.

THE LAST SURVIVOR OF THE CREW OF “THE BONHOMME RICHARD.”

BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M.

[Illustration]

This venerable sailor is in the 92d year of his age; nearly sixty of

which he has spent on the ocean, and thirty-five under the stars and

stripes of his adopted country. Although almost helpless from age, his

mind is clear and his memory retentive. He remembers distinctly many

interesting incidents during his cruisings with that eccentric but

intrepid officer, John Paul Jones, and narrates many of the daring

exploits in which he was a participator under the direction of this

extraordinary man.

Thomas Johnson is a Norwegian by birth, the son of a pilot at Mandal, a

seaport on the coast of Norway, where he was born in the year 1758.

Having been engaged in that occupation for nearly twenty years, he was

consequently accustomed to a seafaring life; and in the absence of his

father towed the first American vessel into the harbor of Mandal. This

vessel was the _Ranger_, from Boston, carrying eighteen guns, under the

command of Captain Jones. The sight of a ship from a country which was

at this time struggling for independence, and of which they knew so

little, caused no little sensation among the inhabitants of that town.

After their arrival in port, Jones sent for the young pilot, and

presenting him with a piece of gold, expressed his pleasure at his

expert seamanship, which he had minutely watched during the towing of

his ship into the harbor.

He also observed that he had made the port of Mandal, in order to

enlarge his crew, not having sufficient men for the long cruise he was

about to make; and added, that if the father of the young pilot would

permit, he would be glad to engage him. Satisfactory arrangements were

made, and Johnson was received as a seaman on board the _Ranger_. It

will be remembered that Captain Jones had been cruising the last two

years as first lieutenant of the _Alfred_ flag ship, the first privateer

fitted out by Congress to cruise against British commerce.

In this ship he hoisted with his own hands the American flag, the first

time it was ever displayed on the ocean; its emblems were a pine-tree,

with a rattle-snake coiled at its root, as if about to strike.

The _Alfred_ was very successful, and had brought home several valuable

prizes. Congress, therefore, determined on the purchase of three other

ships for the same purpose, and Captain Jones was permitted to make

choice of either; he chose the _Ranger_, and was invested with the

command by the following resolutions:

_Resolved_, “That Captain John Paul Jones be appointed to command the

ship _Ranger_, and that William Whipple, Esq., member of Congress, and

of the Marine Committee, John Langdon, Esq., continental agent, and the

said John Paul Jones be authorized to appoint lieutenants and other

officers and men necessary for the said ship; and that blank commissions

and warrants be sent them to be filled up with the names of the persons

they appoint, returns whereof to be made to the Navy Board in the

eastern department.”

“_Resolved_, That the flag of the thirteen United States, henceforth be

thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; and the union be thirteen

stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation.”

Jones immediately commissioned the _Ranger_, and, singular to say, was

the first to display the new flag of the republic, as he did the

original one on board the _Alfred_, about two years previous. The

_Ranger_ was intended to carry twenty-six guns; but Jones begged to

exercise his own judgment, believing that she would be more serviceable

with only eighteen, and accordingly mounted that number, for which he

had often occasion to congratulate himself on his judicious forethought;

for the ship proved to be exceedingly crank, and with the whole number,

would have been nearly useless.

His first cruise with his new ship was to the coast of France, and on

his voyage there he chased a fleet of ten sail, under a strong convoy,

took two prizes, and carried them safely into Nantes.

From thence he took a short cruise on the coast of Norway, and putting

into the port of Mandal, as we before stated, engaged the services of

Thomas Johnson, the subject of this sketch.

After completing his arrangement, Jones returned to Nantes, and from

thence proceeded to Quiberon Bay, giving convoy to some American vessels

which were desirous of joining the French fleet commanded by Admiral La

Mott Piquet, who had been ordered to keep the coast of France clear of

British cruisers. Writing to the Marine Committee on the 22d February,

1778, he says, “I am happy in having it in my power to congratulate you

on seeing the American flag, for the first time, recognized in the

fullest and most complete manner by the flag of France; and as it is my

greatest desire to render useful services to the American cause, I would

suggest that, as the field of cruising being thus extended, and the

British navy, in numbers, so superior to ours, it would be well to

surprise their defenceless places, and thereby divert their attention,

and draw it from our coasts.” These suggestions contained the plan of

annoyance which was eventually adopted in Paul Jones’s cruisings in the

European seas. It was about the middle of April, 1778, so our hero

relates, that they found themselves on the coast of Scotland,

immediately in the vicinity of the birth-place of Jones, and in sight of

the port of Whitehaven, upon which he had determined to make his first

descent.

It was near the break of day, when Jones ordered two boats, and a

plentiful supply of combustibles to be prepared, with thirty-one men, to

leave the _Ranger_ and make for the outer pier. Jones commanded the

first boat himself, the other was under the command of Simpson, his

first lieutenant, conveying the combustible matter, and charged with

firing the vessels, about seventy in number, lying on the north side of

the pier, while he undertook the rest. They found two batteries at

Whitehaven, which Jones, with ten of his men, Johnson being one of the

number, scaled, taking the soldiers prisoners, and spiking the guns. He

then, with his party, started for the other battery, about a quarter of

a mile distant, which he served in the same way.

On his return he met his lieutenant, with the remainder of the sailors,

who stated that he had not done as he had requested him, having a

reluctance to destroy the undefended property of poor people, he had

hesitated until his candles had burned out, and then found it impossible

to execute his orders.

Jones was exceedingly angry, and vented his rage in the most insulting

language, saying at the same time, “that if the accomplished Lord Howe

would commit deeds of burning, pillage, and slaughter, upon the persons

and property of Americans, the right of retaliation belonged to us.” In

making such hasty remarks, he forgot that this enterprise was one of an

entirely different nature; the scheme, if it may be so called, was one

of his own forming, the American government not being apprised of any

thing of the kind, neither had he received any order to that effect. The

whole affair must be allowed to be one of the most audacious of its

kind, and will ever attach a lasting stain upon the memory of its

originator.

It was now daylight and the frightened inhabitants were beginning to

collect; still Jones was unwilling to depart without carrying any of his

intended depredations into effect, after surmounting so many

difficulties.

He posted to the nearest house and demanded a light, which, having

obtained, he deliberately kindled a fire in the steerage of a large ship

which was surrounded by others lying dry upon the shore, pouring a

barrel of tar into the flames; during this operation, Johnson, with

several other sailors, stood sentinel against any surprise he might

receive from the inhabitants, who by this time were attracted by the

flames, and had assembled to the pier in great numbers. On seeing them

approach in such formidable numbers, he seized his pistols, one in each

hand, and standing between them and the ship on fire, ordered them to

retire to their homes, which they did with precipitation. At length he

and his party entered their boats and rowed quietly to their ship,

where, from the deck, he could see the panic-stricken inhabitants

running in vast numbers to their forts, which was no little amusement to

him, as he had spiked their guns.

Jones afterward ascertained, much to his chagrin, that only the ship

which he himself had fired was destroyed, the surrounding ones were

saved by the exertions of the people. He consoled himself by saying,

“that he had done enough to show England that not all her boasted navy

could protect her own coasts, and that the scenes of distress which she

had caused the Americans to pass through, might soon be brought home to

her own doors.” On his return to the _Ranger_, Jones informed his

officers and men that he had not yet done with Scotland, that he had

another project in his head, which he intended to carry into effect;

that was, to obtain possession of the person of the Earl of Selkirk, a

nobleman residing at Selkirk Abbey, on a beautiful promontory called St.

Mary’s Isle, running out into the river Dee, and not more than two miles

distant from where they then were.

Jones conceived that if he could obtain possession of this nobleman’s

person, he could demand an exchange for some distinguished American

prisoner. He remained in the bay of Kirkcudbright till the following

morning, when he started with two boats and about twenty men, among whom

was Johnson, who relates the particulars of this singular adventure.

Johnson was in the first boat with Jones, who commanded it himself; the

other was commanded by Simpson, his first lieutenant. They landed on

part of the grounds, not more than two hundred yards from the house;

some laborers were at work near by, of whom they inquired if Lord

Selkirk was at home; they were informed that he was in London,

consequently, his end was frustrated. On receiving this information they

prepared to return to their boats, when his officers, of whom there were

four, expressed a wish to repair to the Abbey and demand the family

plate, pleading as an excuse, that it was the universal custom of the

English on the American coast. Jones, in his official report, says,

after some hesitation, he reluctantly consented, charging them to insult

no person on the premises, especially Lady Selkirk. During this delicate

embassy, Jones withdrew behind some trees, where he could perceive what

was going on. Simpson, with ten of his sailors, went to the house. Lady

Selkirk was at breakfast when they presented themselves at the window,

and supposing them to be the crew of a revenue cutter, sent a servant to

inquire their business, and to offer them some refreshment. Simpson

entered the room on the return of the servant, and stated his errand to

Lady Selkirk.

Her ladyship made no resistance, but sent the servant to collect the

remainder of the plate, requesting that the teapot, which was then on

the table, might be emptied and placed with it. After being collected,

it was carefully packed in baskets, and the party, having performed

their errand, withdrew to their boats, where Paul Jones met them. They

soon regained their ship, when the prize they had made was safely

repacked, and they set sail for the coast of France.

During their voyage from Scotland to France he fell in with an English

vessel called the _Drake_; a sharp conflict ensued, which lasted more

than an hour, when the _Drake_ surrendered, and was towed in safety into

Brest, a seaport of France. On the very day of his arrival at Brest,

Jones wrote the following eccentric epistle to Lady Selkirk, which one

of his biographers calls “the queerest piece of epistolary

correspondence extant.”

“MADAM,—It cannot be too much lamented, that in the profession of arms,

the officer of fine feelings and real sensibility, should be under the

necessity of winking at any action of persons under his command which

his heart cannot approve; but the reflection is doubly severe, when he

finds himself obliged, in appearance, to countenance such actions by his

authority. This hard case was mine, when, on the 23d of April last, I

landed on St. Mary’s Isle.

“Knowing Lord Selkirk’s interest with his king, and esteeming as I do

his private character, I wished to make him the happy instrument of

alleviating the horrors of hopeless captivity, when the brave are

overpowered and made prisoners of war. It was, perhaps, fortunate for

you, madam, that he was from home, for it was my intention to have taken

him on board the _Ranger_, and detained him until, through his means, a

general and fair exchange of prisoners, as well in Europe as in America,

had been effected.

“When I was informed by some men whom I met at landing, that his

lordship was absent, I walked back to my boat, determined to leave the

island. By the way, however, some officers who were with me could not

forbear expressing their discontent, observing that in America no

delicacy was shown by the English, who took away all sorts of moveable

property, setting fire not only to towns and to the houses of the rich,

without distinction, but not even sparing the wretched hamlets and

milch-cows of the poor and helpless, at the approach of an inclement

winter.

“That party had been with me at Whitehaven; some complaisance,

therefore, was their due. I had but a moment to think how I might

gratify them, and at the same time do your ladyship the least injury. I

charged the officers to permit none of the seamen to enter the house, or

to hurt any thing about it; to treat you, madam, with the utmost

respect; to accept of the plate which was offered, and to come away

without making a search, or demanding any thing else. I am induced to

believe that I was punctually obeyed, since I am informed that the plate

which they brought away is far short of the quantity expressed in the

inventory which accompanied it. I have gratified my men; and when the

plate is sold, I shall become the purchaser, and will gratify my own

feelings in restoring it, by such conveyance as you may please to

direct.

“Had the earl been on board the _Ranger_ the following evening, he would

have seen the awful pomp and dreadful carnage of a sea engagement; both

affording ample subject for the pencil as well as melancholy reflection

for the contemplative mind. Humanity starts back from such scenes of

horror, and cannot sufficiently execrate the vile promoters of this

detestable war;

For they, ’twas they unsheathed the ruthless blade,

And Heaven shall ask the havoc it has made.

“The British ship of war _Drake_, mounting twenty guns, with more than

her full complement of officers and men, was our opponent. The ships

met, and the advantage was disputed with great fortitude on each side

for an hour and four minutes, when the gallant commander of the _Drake_

fell, and victory declared in favor of the _Ranger_. The amiable

lieutenant lay mortally wounded, besides near forty of the inferior

officers and crew killed and wounded; a melancholy demonstration of the

uncertainty of human prospects, and of the sad reverses of fortune,

which an hour can produce. I buried them in a spacious grave, with the

honors due to the memory of the brave.

“Though I have drawn my sword in the present generous struggle for the

rights of men, yet I am not in arms as an American, nor am I in pursuit

of riches. My fortune is liberal, having no wife nor family, and having

lived long enough to know that riches cannot secure happiness. I profess

myself a citizen of the world, totally unfettered by the little, mean

distinctions of climate or of country, which diminish the benevolence of

the heart and set bounds to philanthropy. Before this war was begun, I

had, at an early time of life, withdrawn from sea-service in favor of

‘calm contemplation and poetic ease.’ I have sacrificed not only my

favorite scheme of life, but the softer affections of the heart, and my

prospects of domestic happiness; and I am ready to sacrifice my life

also with cheerfulness, if that forfeiture could restore peace among

mankind.

“As the feelings of your gentle bosom cannot but be congenial with mine,

let me entreat you, madam, to use your persuasive art with your husband,

to endeavor to stop this cruel and destructive war, in which Britain can

never succeed. Heaven can never countenance the barbarous and unmanly

practice of Britons in America, which savages would blush at, and which,

if not discontinued, will soon be retaliated on Britain by a justly

enraged people.

“Should you fail in this, and I am persuaded you will attempt it, (and

who can resist the power of such an advocate,) your endeavors to effect

a general exchange of prisoners, will be an act of humanity, which will

afford you golden feelings on your death-bed.

“I hope this cruel contest will soon be closed; but should it continue,

I wage no war with the fair. I acknowledge their force, and bend before

it with submission. Let not, therefore, the amiable Countess of Selkirk

regard me as an enemy; I am ambitious of her esteem and friendship, and

would do any thing consistent with my duty to merit it.

“The honor of a line from your fair hand, in answer to this, will lay me

under singular obligation; and if I can render you any acceptable

service in France or elsewhere, I hope you see into my character so far

as to command me, without the least grain of reserve. I wish to know the

exact behaviour of my people, as I am determined to punish them if they

have exceeded their liberty.”

This vain, Quixotic, and inexplicable epistle, is a perfect illustration

of the character of the writer; but with all its egotism and chivalry,

it did not produce the wished for answer from the “fair hand of his

amiable countess.”

It could not be for one moment supposed that Lady Selkirk would

condescend to answer a letter couched in such terms of gross

familiarity. The plate, after many difficulties and delays, was finally

restored, some seven or eight years after it was taken. The French

government being at this time on the eve of embracing the American

cause, overwhelmed Jones with congratulations upon his late

achievements. He received a letter from the French Minister, offering

him the command of the _Bonhomme Richard_, with permission to choose his

own cruising ground, either in the European or American seas, and to

cruise under the flag of the United States. Jones accepted the offer,

and accordingly prepared to form his crew by enlisting raw French

peasants and volunteers, having only thirty Americans in the whole,

these he transferred from the _Ranger_, with Johnson, our veteran

sailor. He commenced his cruising on the coast of Norway, from thence to

the west coast of Ireland, during which he made many valuable prizes.

He now determined to cruise around the English coasts, to intercept the

colliers bound to London, many of which he destroyed. It was during this

cruise that he was joined by the _Alliance_, the _Pallas_, and the

_Vengeance_, these, with the _Richard_, formed the squadron of which he

was commander. On the 23d of September the squadron was standing to the

northward, toward Flamboro Head, with a light breeze, when they

discovered a fleet of forty-one sail running down the coast, very close

in with the land. Jones soon discovered that this was the Baltic fleet

which he had been so anxious to encounter, but had never before had the

chance. This fleet was under convoy of the _Serapis_, a new ship,

mounting forty-four guns, and the _Countess of Scarborough_, of twenty

guns. Early in the evening the _Serapis_ was observed to haul round and

place herself between her convoy and the _Richard_, as if preparing to

engage her; she soon came within pistol-shot, when the captain of the

_Serapis_ demanded, “What ship is that?” and in reply, a shot was fired

from the _Richard_. This was the commencement of a battle more famous

for stubborn courage and heroic daring than perhaps the world ever knew.

The biographers of this eccentric but gallant officer have so often

described this triumphant conflict, that we shall content ourselves with

a few incidents with which our veteran sailor was more immediately

connected. He relates that the _Richard_ suffered severely at the first

of the battle, till Jones ordered his ship to be laid across the hawse

of the enemy; in doing so the two ships swung broadside and broadside,

the muzzles of the guns touching each other. Jones sent one of his men

to lash the two ships together, and commenced with his own hand in

making fast the jib-stay of the _Serapis_ to the _Richard’s_ mizenmast;

when the sailors saw what he was about to do, Johnson, with two others,

ran to his assistance, and soon performed the task. The firing continued

from the starboard sides of both vessels for more than an hour, the

effect of which was terrible to both ships. There was much skirmishing

with pistols and pikes through the ports, but no effort was made from

the _Serapis_ to board the _Richard_, although they must have observed

her crippled condition, she had begun to leak fast.

It was near ten o’clock when the _Richard_ had sunk considerably from

the water she had received through the shot-holes, which was now below

the surface. Some of the subordinate officers believing that she was

sinking, cried out lustily for “Quarter!” when Jones, in great anger,

threw a pistol at one of them, which he had just discharged at the

enemy, fractured the poor fellow’s skull, and sent him reeling down the

hatchway. Jones ordered all the hands that could be spared to the pumps,

and shortly after the _Serapis_ surrendered. At this moment there was

much confusion, as several of the crew, who were Englishmen, and near

their homes, took advantage of the _mêlée_ to desert in a small boat

toward _Scarborough_. Our hero well remembers seeing one of the

lieutenants of the _Richard_ appear on the deck and present several of

the officers of the _Serapis_ to Commodore Jones as prisoners.

The action had now ceased, all hands were ordered to assist in

separating the two ships which had been so long in deadly embrace, and

to extinguish the flames which were now raging in both vessels. It was

daylight in the morning when the carpenters were ordered to examine the

_Richard_. After a deliberate examination, they were of opinion that she

could not be kept afloat sufficiently long to reach any port. Jones was

not willing to abandon her till the last moment, and kept a lieutenant

with a party of sailors at the pumps for twenty-four hours; Johnson says

he worked for nine successive hours, and at last, when all hopes were

extinguished, they commenced removing the wounded and the stores to the

_Serapis_. They had not finished their operations more than half an

hour, when she sunk to rise no more.

The next cruise was to the Texel, and from thence to Amsterdam, where

they received great kindness from the Dutch. Jones still continued his

cruising with satisfaction to the American government until the

beginning of the year 1781, when he was sent with the ship _Ariel_ to

Philadelphia with stores for the army which had been waiting in France

for more than a year, no suitable conveyance having been provided. They

arrived in Philadelphia in February, 1781, the first time Johnson had

seen the land of his adoption. Here he received his prize money, and

having disengaged himself from the _Ariel_, determined to remain a short

time in order to become master of the English language, of which at that

time he knew but little.

At this time Congress was sitting in Philadelphia, and several of the

members were about removing their families to that city. Application was

made to Captain Jones to furnish a man to take charge of a sloop to

Boston, to convey the furniture of John Adams to Philadelphia; he

accordingly appointed Johnson, and he brought the furniture safely to

that city.

This circumstance often brought Johnson in contact with Mr. Adams, who

knew that he was one of the crew of Captain Jones, and consequently must

have been in the conflict of the _Serapis_ and _Richard_, which having

occurred so recently, was a subject of general conversation. Many of the

sailors frequented the hall of Congress, and Johnson became interested

in listening and observing what was so new to him that he was a daily

visiter. When the members found that the sailors were part of the crew

of Captain Jones, they frequently left their seats, and came over to

them to inquire the particulars of the recent engagement. Mr. Adams

particularly engaged the attention of Johnson; to use the veteran’s own

words, he says, “a nervous sensation seemed to pervade the patriot as he

listened to the description of the battle given by the sailors, fire

flashed from his eyes, and his hair seemed perfectly erect;” he would

clasp his hands, and exclaim, “What a scene!”

During the time they remained in Philadelphia, General Washington

arrived, and was presented to Congress; Johnson was present and listened

to the introduction by President Hancock, and the reply by the general.

Some days after, when the sailors were in the hall, Mr. Adams brought

General Washington to them, who kindly shook each by the hand, calling

them “Our gallant tars!” and asking them questions relative to the many

successful adventures they had recently achieved.

Johnson soon after left the navy, and engaged in the merchant service

for some years, but eventually returned to it again, where he remained

till, near the end of his life’s voyage, age obliged him to ask repose

and protection in that asylum provided for the grateful and worn-out

mariner.

* * * * *

THE MAIDEN’S LAMENT FOR HER SHIPWRECKED LOVER.

BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.

I heard a maiden by the tumid ocean—

The day had gone and night came on apace—

Chanting a hymn to the spray’s chiming motion,

Starlight and moonlight, and the sea’s dim face.

And, as the moon looked down, her song up-stealing

Fell thus upon my ear: “Hope of my hope,

Gone o’er the swelling waters, whence this feeling

That thou art dead? I give my fancy scope,

And see thee hideous, with Death’s image o’er

Those features I have loved, but know no more.

Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean,

What cavern holds thy form—

Cast by the furious storm?