SECTION I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. May, 1852. No. 5.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

The Game of the Month

Stratford-On-Avon

Optical Phenomena

Eminent Young Men.—No. II. Stewart Adair Godman

The Physiology Of Dandyism

The Crystal Palace and Its Lessons

A Life of Vicissitudes (continued)

Rosalie

The Legend of the White Nun

A Canter to California

The Pampas Fired by the Indians

The Master’s Mate’s Yarn

Nelly Nowlan to Her Aunt After Her Visit to a

London Church

The First Age (continued)

The Arabs at Amboise

Arab and Camanchee Horsemen

Review of New Books

Graham’s Small-Talk

Poetry and Music

May Morning

The Urn of the Heart

Fanny

Stanzas

Sonnet.—The Stars

The Mother’s Answer

My Mother’s Spirit

Magdalen

The New Garden

Sonnet.—Amor

The Isle and Star

Homer

To One Afar

Carrie

A Mother’s Prayer

I Think of Thee

At the Water’s Edge

The Shepherd’s Song

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Drawn by Deshays, Eng^{d} by Tucker

THE BAVARIAN MAY QUEEN.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: SUNRISE.]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1852. No. 5.

* * * * *

MAY MORNING.

[Illustration: picture shows a group of people standing on a hillside

watching a sunrise. MAY MORNING.]

May has ever been the favorite month of the year in poetical

description; but the praises so lavishly bestowed upon it took their

rise from climates more southern than ours. In such, it really unites

all the soft beauties of Spring with the radiance of Summer, and has

warmth enough to cheer and invigorate, without overpowering.

May, sweet May, again is come,

May that frees the land from gloom;

Children, children! up and see

All her stores of jollity.

On the laughing hedgerow’s side

She hath spread her treasures wide;

She is in the greenwood shade,

Where the nightingale hath made

Every branch and every tree

Ring with her sweet melody:

Hill and dale are May’s own treasures,

Youths rejoice! in sportive measures

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!

Hail this merry, merry May!

Up, then, children! we will go,

Where the blooming roses grow;

In a joyful company,

We the bursting flowers will see;

Up, your festal dress prepare!

Where gay hearts are meeting, there

May hath pleasures most inviting,

Heart, and sight, and ear, delighting;

Listen to the bird’s sweet song,

Hark! how soft it floats along.

Courtly dames! our pleasures share;

Never saw I May so fair:

Therefore, dancing will we go,

Youths rejoice! the flow’rets blow!

Sing ye! join the chorus gay!

Hail this merry, merry May!

Book of the Months.

We give some further extracts, which poets, at different periods, have

sung in praise of the merry month of May:

[Illustration: a group of women and children watch birds flying against

a backdrop of a rainbow]

Happy the age, and harmless were the dayes

(For then true love and amity was found)

When every village did a May-pole raise,

And Whitsun-ales and May-games did abound:

And all the lusty younkers in a rout,

With merry lasses daunced the rod about;

Then friendship to their banquet bid the guests,

And poore men fared the better for their feasts.

Pasquil’s Palinodia, 1634.

From the moist meadow to the withered hill,

Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,

And swells, and deepens, to the cherished eye.

The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves

Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,

Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed

In full luxuriance.

Thomson.

Each hedge is covered thick with green,

And where the hedger late hath been,

Young tender shoots begin to grow,

From out the mossy stumps below.

But woodmen still on Spring intrude,

And thin the shadow’s solitude,

With sharpened axes felling down,

The oak-trees budding into brown;

Which, as they crash upon the ground,

A crowd of laborers gather round,

These mixing ’mong the shadows dark,

Rip off the crackling, staining bark;

Depriving yearly, when they come,

The green woodpecker of his home;

Who early in the Spring began,

Far from the sight of troubling man,

To bore his round holes in each tree,

In fancy’s sweet security;

Now startled by the woodman’s noise,

He wakes from all his dreamy joys.

Clark.

The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May

Round old Ravenna’s clear-shown towers and bay—

A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,

Last of the Spring, yet fresh with all its green;

For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,

Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;

And there’s a crystal clearness all about;

The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out,

A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze,

The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;

And when you listen you may hear a coil

Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;

And all the scene, in short—sky, earth and sea,

Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly.

Leigh Hunt.

I know where the young May violet grows,

In its lone and lowly nook,

On the mossy bank where the larch tree throws

Its broad dark boughs in solemn repose,

Far over the silent brook.

Bryant.

* * * * *

THE GAME OF THE MONTH.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH

AND FISHING,” ETC.

[Illustration: THE MALLARD. _Anas Boschas._ Green-head, Gray-duck.

THE AMERICAN WIDGEON. _Anas Americana._ Bald-pate.]

Both these beautiful ducks, perhaps, with the exception of the lovely

Summer Duck, or Wood Duck, _Anas Sponsa_, the most beautiful of all the

tribe, are along the seaboard of the Northern States somewhat rare of

occurrence, being for the most part fresh water species, and when driven

by stress of weather, and the freezing over of the inland lakes and

rivers which they frequent, repairing to the estuaries and land-locked

lagoons of the Southern coasts and rivers, as well as to the tepid pools

and warm sources of Florida, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama and

Louisiana, in all of which States they swarm during the summer months.

On many of the inland streams and pools of New York, New Jersey,

Pennsylvania and the Far West in general, including all the bays,

shallows and tributaries of the Great Lakes, as well as all the lovely

smaller lakes of New York, especially where the wild-rice, or wild-oat,

_zizania aquatica_, is plentiful, they are found in very great numbers,

especially in the spring and summer time, nor are they unfrequently

killed on the snipe-grounds of New Jersey, around Chatham, Pine-brook,

and the Parcippany meadows on the beautiful Passaic, and on the yet more

extensive grounds on the Seneca and Cayuga outlets, in the vicinity of

Montezuma Salina, and the salt regions of New York.

In the shallows of the lake and river St. Clair, above Detroit, on the

_rivière aux Canards_, and the marshes of Chatham in Canada East, all

along the shores of Lake Erie on the Canadian side, especially about

Long Point, and in the Grand River, they literally swarm; while in all

the rivers, and shallow rice-lakes on the northern shores of Lake Huron,

which are the breeding-places of their countless tribes, they are found,

from the breaking up of the ice to the shutting up of the bays and coves

in which they feed, in numbers absolutely numberless.

The Mallard is generally believed to be the parent and progenitor of the

domestic duck, which, although far superior in beauty of plumage and

grace of form and deportment, it very closely resembles; yet when or

where it was domesticated, is a question entirely dark and never to be

settled. It is certain that the domestic duck was unknown to the Greeks

and Romans, so late as to the Christian era, although the paintings in

the Egyptian tombs demonstrate beyond a peradventure that it was

familiar to that wonderful people from a very remote period; as it is

also known to have been among the Chinese, who rear and cultivate them

to a very great extent. Indeed, it is I think in the highest degree

probable that the Duck, in its domestic state, is an importation into

Europe from the East, where, as I believe in every quarter of the globe,

the Mallard is a common and indigenous native of the fresh waters.

The Mallard, or wild drake, commonly known in the Eastern States as the

Green-head, westward as the Gray Duck, and in Alabama as the English

Duck, weighs from thirty-six to forty ounces, and measures twenty-three

inches in length, by thirty-five in breadth.

The bill is of a yellowish-green color, not very flat, about an inch

broad, and two and a half long from the corners of the mouth to the tip

of the nail; the head and upper half of the neck are of a deep, glossy,

changeable green, terminated in the middle of the neck by a white

collar, with which it is nearly encircled; the lower parts of the neck,

breast and shoulders are of a deep, vinous chestnut; the covering

scapular feathers are of a kind of silvery-white, those underneath

rufous, and both are prettily crossed with small, waved threads of

brown. Wing coverts ash, quills brown, and between these intervenes the

_speculum_, or beauty spot, common in the duck tribe, which crosses the

wing in a transverse, oblique direction. It is of a rich, glossy purple,

with violet or green reflections, and bordered by a double streak of

sooty black and pure white. The belly is of a pale gray, delicately

crossed and penciled with numberless narrow, waved, dusky lines, which

on the sides and long feathers that cover the thighs are more strongly

and distinctly marked. The upper and under tail coverts, lower part of

the back and rump, are black, the latter glossed with green; the four

middle tail feathers are also black, with purple reflections, and, like

those of the domestic duck, are stiffly curled upward. The rest are

sharp-pointed, and fade off to the exterior edges from brown to dull

white. Iris of the eye bright yellow, feet, legs and webs

reddish-orange, claws black.

The female, and young male until after the first moult, is very

different in plumage from the adult drake, partaking none of his

beauties, with the exception of the spot on the wings. All the other

parts are plain brown, marked with black, the centre of every feather

being dark and fading to the edges. She makes her nest, lays her

eggs—from ten to sixteen in number, of a greenish white—generally in

the most sequestered mosses or bogs, far from the haunts of man, and

hidden from his sight among reeds and rushes. To her young, helpless,

unfledged family, and they are nearly three months before they can fly,

she is a fond, attentive and watchful parent, carrying or leading them

from one pool to another, as her fears or inclinations direct her, and

she is known to use the same wily stratagems, in order to mislead the

sportsman and his dog, as those resorted to by the ruffed grouse, the

quail and the woodcock, feigning lameness, and fluttering, as if

helplessly wounded, along the surface of the water, until she has lured

the enemy afar from her skulking and terrified progeny.

The Mallard is rarely or never shot to decoys, or _stools_ as they are

termed, since these are but little used except on the coast, where this

duck is, as I have previously observed, of rare occurrence, although it

is occasionally found in company with the Dusky Duck, _anas obscura_,

better known to gunners as the Black Duck.

“Like the Dusky Duck,” says Mr. Giraud, in his very clever and agreeable

manual on the birds of Long Island, “when pursued by the sportsman, it

becomes shy and feeds at night, dozing away the day out of gun-shot from

the shore.

“Early in the month of July, 1837, while hunting over the meadows for

smaller game, I came upon a pair of Mallard Ducks, moving slowly down

the celebrated ‘Brick-house creek.’ The thought occurred to me that they

were a pair of tame ducks that had become tired of the monotony of

domestic life, and determined on pushing their fortunes in the broad

bay. As I advanced they took wing, which undeceived me, and I brought

them down. They proved to be an adult male and female. From this

circumstance I was led to suppose that they had bred in the

neighborhood. I made a diligent search, and offered a sufficient bounty

to induce others to search with me—but neither nest nor young could be

found. Probably when migrating, they were shot at and so badly wounded

as to be unable to perform their fatiguing journey, perhaps miles apart,

and perchance only found companions in each other a short time before I

shot them.”

When the young birds are about three-fourths grown, and not as yet fully

fledged or able to fly strongly, at which age they are termed

_flappers_, they afford excellent sport over water-spaniels, when they

are abundant in large reed beds along the brink of ponds and rivers.

When full grown, moreover, when they frequent parts of the country where

the streams are narrow and winding, great sport can be had with them at

times, by walking about twenty yards wide of the brink and as many in

advance of an attendant, who should follow all the windings of the water

and flush the birds, which springing wild of him will so be brought

within easy range of the gun.

The Mallard is wonderfully quick-sighted and sharp of hearing, so that

it is exceedingly difficult to stalk him from the shore, especially by a

person coming down wind upon him, so much so that the acuteness of his

senses has given rise to a general idea that he can detect danger to

windward by means of his olfactory nerves. This is, however, disproved

by the observations of that excellent sportsman and pleasant writer,

John Colquhoun of Luss, as recorded in that capital work, “The Moor and

the Loch,” who declares decidedly, that although ducks on the feed

constantly detect an enemy crawling down upon them from the windward,

will constantly, when he is lying in wait, silent and still, and

properly concealed, sail down upon him perfectly unsuspicious, even when

a strong wind is blowing over him full in their nostrils.

For duck shooting, whether it be practiced in this fashion, by stalking

them from the shore while feeding in lakelets or rivers, by following

the windings of open and rapid streams in severe weather, or in paddling

or pushing on them in gunning-skiffs, as is practiced on the Delaware, a

peculiar gun is necessary for the perfection of the sport. To my taste,

it should be a double-barrel from 33 to 36 inches in length, at the

outside, about 10 gauge, and 10 pounds weight. The strength and weight

of the metal should be principally at the breech, which will answer the

double purpose of causing it to balance well and of counteracting the

call. Such a gun will carry from two to three ounces of No. 4 shot, than

which I would never use a larger size for duck, and with that load and

an equal measure of very coarse powder—Hawker’s ducking-powder,

manufactured by Curtis and Harvey, is the best in the world, and can be

procured of Mr. Brough, in Fulton Street, New York—will do its work

satisfactorily and cleanly at sixty yards, or with Eley’s _green_, wire

cartridges, which will permit the use of shot one size smaller, at

thirty yards farther. The utility of these admirable projectiles can

hardly be overrated, next to the copper-cap, of which Starkey’s

water-proof, central-fire, is the best form, I regard them as the

greatest of modern inventions in the art of gunnery.

Such a gun as I describe can be furnished of first-rate quality by Mr.

John Krider of Philadelphia, Mr. John, or Patrick Mullin of New York, or

Mr. Henry T. Cooper of the same city, ranging in price, according to

finish, from one hundred to one hundred and fifty dollars, of domestic

manufacture; and I would strongly recommend sportsmen, requiring such an

implement, to apply to one of these excellent and conscientious makers,

rather than even to import a London gun, much more than to purchase at a

hazard the miserable and dangerous Birmingham trash, manufactured of

three-penny skelp or sham drawn-iron, got up in handsome, velvet-lined

mahogany cases, and tricked out with varnish and gimcrackery expressly

for the American market, such as are offered for sale at every hardware

shop in the country.

The selling of such goods ought to be made by law a high misdemeanor,

and a fatal accident occurring by their explosion should entail on the

head of the sender the penalty of willful murder.

The Mallard is found frequently associating in large plumps with the

Pintail, or Sprigtail, another elegant fresh water variety, the

Dusky-Duck on fresh waters, the Greenwinged Teal in winter to the

southward, and with the Widgeon on the western waters.

On the big and little pieces—two large moist savannas on the Passaic

river in New Jersey, formerly famous for their snipe and cock grounds,

but now ruined by the ruthless devastations of pot-hunters and

poachers—I have shot Mallard, Pintail, and Black Duck, over dead points

from setters, out of brakes, in which they were probably preparing to

breed, during early snipe-shooting; but nowhere have I ever beheld them

in such myriads as in the small rice-lakes on the Severn, the Wye, and

the cold water rivers debouching into the northern part of lake Huron,

known as the Great Georgian Bay, and on the reed-flats and shallows of

Lake St. Clair, in the vicinity of Alganac, and the mouths of the Thames

and Chevail Ecarté rivers.

I am satisfied that by using well made decoys, or stools, and two

canoes, one concealed among the rice and reeds, and the other paddling

to and fro, to put up the teams of wild fowl and keep them constantly on

the move, such sport might be had as can be obtained in no other section

of this country, perhaps of the world; and that the pleasure would well

repay the sportsman for a trip far more difficult and tedious, than the

facilities afforded by the Erie Rail-road and the noble steamers on the

lakes now render a visit to those glorious sporting-grounds.

The American Widgeon, the bird which is represented as falling

headforemost with collapsed wings, shot perfectly dead without a

struggle, in the accompanying woodcut, while the Mallard goes off

safely, quacking at the top of his voice in strange terror, though

nearly allied to the European species, is yet perfectly distinct, and

peculiar to this continent.

It is thus accurately described by Mr. Giraud, although but an

unfrequent visitor of the Long Island bays and shores:

“Bill short, the color light grayish blue; speculum green, banded with

black. Under wing coverts white. Adult male with the coral space, sides

of the head, under the eye, upper part of the neck and throat brownish

white, spotted with black. A broad band of white, commencing at the base

of the upper mandible, passing over the crown.” It is this mark which

has procured the bird its general provincial appellation of “Baldpate.”

“Behind the eye a broad band of bright green, extending backward on the

hind neck about three inches; the feathers on the nape rather long;

lower neck and sides of the breast, with a portion of the upper part of

the breast reddish brown. Rest of the lower parts white, excepting a

patch of black at the base of the tail. Under tail coverts the same

color. Flanks brown, barred with dusky; lower part of the hind neck and

fore part of the back undulated with brownish and light brownish red,

hind part undulated with grayish white; primaries brown; outer webs of

the inner secondaries black, margined with white—inner webs grayish

brown; secondary coverts white, tipped with black; speculum brilliant

green formed by the middle secondaries. Length twenty-one inches, wing

ten and a half. Female smaller, plumage duller, without the green

markings.”

The Widgeon breeds in the extreme north, beyond the reach of the foot of

civilised man, in the boundless mosses and morasses, prodigal of food

and shelter, of Labrador, and Boothia Felix, and the fur countries,

where it spends the brief but ardent summer in the cares of

nidification, and the reproduction of its species.

During the spring and autumn, it is widely distributed throughout the

Union, from the fresh lakes of the northwest to the shores of the ocean,

but it is most abundant, as well as most delicious where the wild rice,

_Zizania pannicula effusa_, the wild celery, _balisneria Americana_, and

the eel-grass, _Zostera marina_, grow most luxuriously. On these it

fares luxuriously, and becomes exceedingly fat, and most delicate and

succulent eating, being almost entirely a vegetable feeder, and as such

devoid of any fishy or sedgy flavor.

In the spring and autumn it is not unfrequently shot in considerable

numbers, from skiffs, on the mud banks of the Delaware, in company with

Blue-winged Teal; and in winter it congregates in vast flocks, together

with Scaups, better known as Bluebills, or Broadbills, Redheads, and

Canvasbacks, to which last it is a source of constant annoyance, since

being a far less expert diver than the Canvasback, it watches that bird

until it rises with the highly-prized root, and flies off with the

stolen booty in triumph.

The Widgeon, like the Canvasback, can at times be toled, as it is

termed, or lured within gunshot of sportsmen, concealed behind

artificial screens of reeds, built along the shore, or behind natural

coverings, such as brakes of cripple or reed-beds, by the gambols of

dogs taught to play and sport backward and forward along the shore, for

the purpose of attracting the curious and fascinated wild fowl within

easy shooting distance. And strange to say, so powerful is the

attraction that the same flock of ducks has been known to be decoyed

into gunshot thrice within the space of a single hour, above forty birds

being killed at the three discharges. Scaups, or Blackheads, as they are

called on the Chesapeake tole, it is said, more readily than any other

species, and next to these the Canvasbacks and Redheads; the Baldpates

being the most cautious and wary of them all, and rarely suffering

themselves to be decoyed, except when in company with the Canvasbacks,

along with which they swim shoreward carelessly, though without

appearing to notice the dog.

These birds, with their congeners, are also shot from points, as at

Carrol’s Island, Abbey Island, Maxwell’s Point, Legoe’s Point, and other

places in the same vicinity about the Bush and Gunpowder rivers, while

flying over high in air; and so great is the velocity of their flight

when going before the wind, and such the allowance that must be made in

shooting ahead of them, that the very best of upland marksmen are said

to make very sorry work of it, until they become accustomed to the

flight of the wild fowl. They are also shot occasionally in vast numbers

at holes in the ice which remain open when the rest of the waters are

frozen over; and yet again, by means of swivel guns, carrying a pound of

shot or over, discharged from the bows of a boat, stealthily paddled

into the flocks at dead of night, when sleeping in close columns on the

surface of the water. This method is, however, much reprobated by

sportsmen, and that very justly, as tending beyond any other method to

cause the fowl to desert their feeding-grounds.

In conclusion, we earnestly recommend both these beautiful birds to our

sporting readers, both as objects of pleasurable pursuit and subjects of

first rate feeds. A visit at this season to Seneca Lake, the Montezuma

Meadows, or that region, could not fail to yield rare sport.

* * * * *

THE URN OF THE HEART.

BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.

Deep in my heart there is a sacred urn

I ever guard with holiest care, and keep

From the cold world’s intrusion. It is filled

With dear and lovely treasures, that I prize

Above the gems that sparkle in the vales

Of Orient climes or glitter in the crowns

Of sceptered kings.

The priceless wealth of life

Within that urn is gathered. All the bright

And lovely jewels that the years have dropped

Around me from their pinions, in their swift

And noiseless flight to old Eternity,

Are treasured there. A thousand buds and flowers

That the cool dews of life’s young morning bathed,

That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings,

And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life

And fairy beauty ’mid the melodies

Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there,

Dead, dead, forever dead, but oh, as bright

And beautiful to me as when they beamed

With Nature’s radiant jewelry of dew.

And they have more than mortal sweetness now,

For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost,

Is mingling with their holy perfume.

Like

A very miser, day and night I hide

The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn.

Oft at the midnight’s calm and silent hour,

When not a tone of living nature seems

To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth,

I lift the lid softly and noiselessly,

Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air

Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound.

And steal my treasures. With a glistening eye

And leaping pulse, I tell them o’er and o’er,

Musing on each, and hallow it with smiles

And tears and sighs and fervent blessings.

Then,

With soul as proud as if yon broad blue sky

With all its bright and burning stars were mine.

But with a saddened heart, I close the lid,

And once again return to busy life,

To play my part amid its mockeries.

* * * * *

STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

BY FREDERIKA BREMER.

It was a most glorious afternoon! The air was delightful. The sun shone

with the softest splendor upon the green cultivated meadow-land, divided

into square fields, each inclosed with its quick-set fence; and within

these, small farm-houses and cottages with their gardens and

vine-covered walls. It was altogether a cheerful and lovely scene.

Westward, in the far distance, raised themselves the mist-covered Welsh

mountains. For the rest, the whole adjacent country resembled that which

I had hitherto seen in England, softly undulating prairie. There will

come a time when the prairies of North America will resemble this

country. And the work has already begun there in the square allotments,

although on a larger scale than here; the living fences, the well-to-do

farm-houses, they already look like birds’-nests on the green billows;

for already waves the grass there with its glorious masses of flowers,

over immeasurable, untilled fields, and the sunflowers nod and beckon in

the breeze as if they said: “Come,—come, ye children of men! The board

is spread for many!”

The glorious flower-spread table, which can accommodate two hundred and

fifty millions of guests! May it with its beauty one day unite more true

happiness than at this time the beautiful landscape of England. For it

is universally acknowledged, that the agricultural districts of England

are at this time in a much more dubious condition than the manufacturing

districts, principally from the fact of the large landed proprietors

having, as it were, swallowed up the small ones; and of the landed

possession being amassed in but few hands, who thus cannot look after it

excepting through paid stewards, and this imperfectly. I heard of ten

large landed proprietors in a single family of but few individuals:

hence the number of small farmers who do not themselves possess land,

and who manage it badly, as well as the congregating of laborers in

houses and cottages. The laws also for the possession of land are so

involved, and so full of difficulty, that they throw impediments in the

way of those who would hold and cultivate it in much smaller lots.

The young barrister, Joseph Kay, has treated this subject explicitly and

fully, in his lately published work “On the Social Condition and

Education of the People.”

I, however, knew but little of this canker-worm at the vitals of this

beautiful portion of England, at the time when I thus saw it, and

therefore I enjoyed my journey with undivided pleasure.

In the evening, before sunset, I stood before Shakspeare’s house.

“It matters little being born in a poultry-yard, if one only is hatched

from a swan’s egg!” thought I, in the words of Hans Christian Andersen,

in his story of “The Ugly Duckling,” when I beheld the little,

unsightly, half-timbered house in which Shakspeare was born; and went

through the low, small rooms, up the narrow wooden stairs, which were

all that was left of the interior. It was empty and poor, except in

memory; the excellent little old woman who showed the house, was the

only living thing there. I provided myself with some small engravings

having reference to Shakspeare’s history, which she had to sell, and

after that set forth on a solitary journey of discovery to the banks of

the Avon; and before long, was pursuing a solitary footpath which wound

by the side of this beautiful little river. To be all at once removed

from the thickly populated, noisy manufacturing towns into that most

lovely, most idyllic life, was in itself something enchanting. Add to

this the infinite deliciousness of the evening; the pleasure of

wandering thus freely and alone in this neighborhood, with all its rich

memories; the deep calm that lay over all, broken only by the twittering

of the birds in the bushes, and the cheerful voices of children at a

distance; the beautiful masses of trees, cattle grazing in the meadows;

the view of the proud Warwick Castle, and near at hand the little town,

the birthplace of Shakspeare, and his grave, and above all, the romantic

stream, the bright Avon, which in its calm winding course seemed, like

its poet-swan—the great Skald—to have no other object than faithfully

to reflect every object which mirrored itself in its depths; castles,

towns, churches, cottages, woods, meadows, flowers, men, animals. This

evening and this river, and this solitary, beautiful ramble shall I

never forget, never! I spent no evening more beautiful whilst in

England.

It was not until twilight settled down over the landscape that I left

the river-side. When I again entered the little town, I was struck by

its antique character as well in the people as in the houses; it seemed

to me that the whole physiognomy of the place belonged to the age of

Shakspeare. Old men with knee-breeches, old women in old-fashioned caps,

who with inquisitive and historical countenances, furrowed by hundreds

of wrinkles, now gazed forth from their old projecting door-ways; thus

must they have stood, thus must they have gazed when Shakspeare wandered

here; and he, the black-garmented, hump-backed old man who looked so

kind, so original and so learned, just like an ancient chronicle, and

who saluted me, the stranger, as people are not in the habit of doing

now-a-days—he must certainly be some old rector magnificus who has

returned to earth from the sixteenth century. Whilst I was thus dreaming

myself back again into the times of old, a sight met my eyes which

transported me five thousand miles across the ocean, to the poetical

wilderness of the new world. This was a full-blown magnolia-flower, just

like a magnolia grandiflora, and here blossomed on the walls of an

elegant little house, the whole of whose front was adorned by the

branches and leaves of a magnolia reptans, a species with which I was

not yet acquainted. I hailed with joy the beautiful flower which I had

not seen since I had wandered in the magnolia groves of Florida, on the

banks of the Welaka, (St. John,) and drank the morning dew as solitary

as now.

Every thing in that little town was, for the rest, _à la Shakspeare_.

One saw on all sides little statues of Shakspeare, some white, others

gilt—half-length figures—and very much resembling idol images. One saw

Shakspeare-books, Shakspeare-music, Shakspeare-engravings, Shakspeare

articles of all kinds. In one place I even saw _Shakspeare-sauce_

announced; but that did not take my fancy, as I feared it might be too

strong for my palate. True, one saw at the same place an announcement of

_Jenny Lind-drops_, and that did take my fancy very much, for as a

Swede, I was well pleased to see the beautiful fame of the Swedish

singer recognized in Shakspeare’s town, and having a place by the side

of his.

Arrived at my inn, close to Shakspeare’s house: I drank tea; was waited

upon by an agreeable girl, Lucy, and passed a good night in a chamber

which bore the superscription “Richard the Third.” I should have

preferred as a bed-room “The Midsummer Night’s Dream,” a room within my

chamber, only that it was not so good, and Richard the Third did me no

harm.

I wandered again on the banks of the Avon on the following morning, and

from a height beheld that cheerful neighborhood beneath the light of the

morning sun. After this I visited the church in which were interred

Shakspeare and his daughter Susanna. A young bridal couple were just

coming out of church after having been married, the bride dressed in

white and veiled, so that I could not see her features distinctly.

The epitaph on Shakspeare’s grave, composed by himself, is universally

known, with its strong concluding lines—

“Blessed be the man that spares these stones,

And cursed be he that moves my bones.”

Less generally known is the inscription on the tomb of his daughter

Susanna, which highly praises her virtues and her uncommon wit, and

which seems to regard Shakspeare as happy for having such a daughter. I

thought that Susanna Shakspeare ought to have been proud of her father.

I have known young girls to be proud of their fathers—the most

beautiful pride which I can conceive, because it is full of humble love.

And how well it became them!

For the rest, it was not as a fanatical worshiper of Shakspeare that I

wandered through the scene of his birth and his grave. I owe much to

this great dramatist; he has done much for me, but—not in the highest

degree. I know of nobler grouping, loftier characters and scenes, in

especial a greater drama of life than any which he has represented, and

particularly a higher degree of harmony than he has given; and as I

wandered on the banks of the Avon, I seemed to perceive the approach of

a new Shakspeare, the new poet of the age, to the boards of the world’s

stage; the poet who shall comprehend within the range of his vision all

parts of the earth, all races of men, all regions of nature—the palms

of the tropics, the crystal palaces of the polar circle—and present

them all in a new drama, in the large expression and the illuminating

light of a vast human intelligence.

Shakspeare, great as he is, is to me, nevertheless, only a Titanic

greatness, an intellectual giant-nature, who stands amid inexplicable

dissonance. He drowns Ophelia, and puts out the eyes of the noble Kent,

and leaves them and us to our darkness. That which I long for, that

which I hope for, is a poet who will rise above dissonances, a

harmonious nature who will regard the drama of the world with the eye of

Deity; in a word, a Shakspeare who will resemble a—Beethoven.

On my way from Stratford to Leamington I stopped at Warwick Castle, one

of the few old castles of the middle ages in England which still remain

well-preserved, and which are still inhabited by the old hereditary

families. The old Earl of Warwick resides now quite alone in his

splendid castle, his wife having been dead about six months. Two days in

the week he allows his castle to be thrown open for a few hours for the

gratification of the curiosity of strangers. It is in truth a

magnificent castle, with its fortress-tower and its lofty gray stone

walls, surrounded by a beautiful park, and gloriously situated on the

banks of the Avon—magnificent, and romantically beautiful at the same

time.

In the rooms prevailed princely splendor, and there were a number of

good pictures, those of Vandyke in particular. I remarked several

portraits of Charles the First, with his cold, gloomy features; several

also of the lovely but weak Henrietta Maria; one of Cromwell, a strong

countenance, but without nobility; one of Alba, with an expression

harder than flint-stone—a petrified nature; and one of Shakspeare, as

Shakspeare might have appeared, with an eye full of intense thought, a

broad forehead, a countenance elaborated and tempered in the fires of

strong emotion; not in the least resembling that fat, jolly, aldermanic

head usually represented as Shakspeare’s.

The rooms contained many works of art, and from the windows what

glorious views! In truth, thought I, it is pardonable if the proprietor

of such a castle, inherited from brave forefathers, and living in the

midst of scenes rich in great memories, with which the history of his

family is connected—it is pardonable if such a man is proud.

“There he goes!—the Earl!” said the man who was showing me through the

rooms; and, looking through a window into the castle-court, I saw a

tall, very thin figure, with white hair, and dressed in black, walking

slowly, with head bent forward, across the grass-plot in the middle of

the court. That was the possessor of this proud mansion, the old Earl of

Warwick!

* * * * *

OPTICAL PHENOMENA.

BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.

[Illustration: Parhelia.]

_Parhelia._ Mock suns, in the vicinity of the real orb, are due to the

same cause as haloes, which appear in connection with them. Luminous

circles, or segments, crossing one another, produce conspicuous masses

of light by their united intensities, and the points of intersection

appear studded with the solar image. This is a meteorological rarity in

our latitude, but a very frequent spectacle in the arctic climes. In

Iceland, during the severe winter of 1615, it is related that the sun,

when seen, was always accompanied by two, four, five, and even nine of

these illusions. Captain Parry describes a remarkably gorgeous

appearance, during his winter sojourn at Melville Island, which

continued from noon until six o’clock in the evening. It consisted of

one complete halo, 45° in diameter, with segments of several others,

displaying in parts the colors of the rainbow. Besides these, there was

another perfect ring of a pale white color, which went right round the

sky, parallel with the horizon, and at a distance from it equal to the

sun’s altitude; and a horizontal band of white light appeared passing

through the sun. Where the band and the inner halo cut each other, there

were two parhelia, and another close to the horizon, directly under the

sun, which formed the most brilliant part of the spectacle, being

exactly like the sun, slightly obscured by a thin cloud at his rising or

setting. A drawing of this parhelion is given by Captain Parry, who

remarks upon having always observed such phenomena attended with a

little snow falling, or rather small spicula or fine crystals of ice.

The angular forms of the crystals determine the rays of light in

different directions, and originate the consequent visual variety. We

have various observations of parhelia seen in different parts of Europe,

which in a less enlightened age excited consternation, and were regarded

as portentous. Matthew Paris relates in his history:—“A wonderful sight

was seen in England, A. D. 1233, April 8, in the fifth year of the reign

of Henry III., and lasted from sunrise till noon. At the same time on

the 8th of April, about one o’clock, in the borders of Herefordshire and

Worcestershire, besides the true sun, there appeared in the sky four

mock suns of a red color; also a certain large circle of the color of

crystal, about two feet broad, which encompassed all England as it were.

There went out semicircles from the side of it, at whose intersection

the four mock suns were situated, the true sun being in the east, and

the air very clear. And because this monstrous prodigy cannot be

described by words, I have represented it by a scheme, which shows

immediately how the heavens were circled. The appearance was painted in

this manner by many people, for the wonderful novelty of it.”

_Paraselenæ._ Mock moons, depending upon the causes which produce the

solar image, or several examples of it, as frequently adorn the arctic

sky. On the 1st of December, 1819, in the evening, while Parry’s

expedition was in Winter Harbor, four paraselenæ were observed, each at

the distance of 21½° from the true moon. One was close to the horizon,

the other perpendicular above it, and the other two in a line parallel

to the horizon. Their shape was like that of a comet, the tail being

from the moon, the side of each toward the real orb being of a light

orange color. During the existence of these paraselenæ, a halo appeared

in a concentric circle round the moon, passing through each image. On

the evening of March 30, 1820, about ten o’clock, the attention of Dr.

Trail, at Liverpool, was directed by a friend to an unusual appearance

in the sky, which proved to be a beautiful display of paraselenæ. The

moon was then 35° above the southern horizon. The atmosphere was nearly

calm, but rather cloudy, and obscured by a slight haze. A wide halo,

faintly exhibiting the prismatic colors, was described round the moon as

a centre, and had a small portion of its circumference cut off by the

horizon. The circular band was intersected by two small segments of a

larger circle, which if completed would have passed through the moon,

and parallel to the horizon. These segments were of a paler color than

the first mentioned circle. At the points of intersection appeared two

pretty well defined luminous discs, equaling the moon in size, but less

brilliant. The western paraselenæ had a tail or coma, which was directed

from the moon, and the eastern also, but less clearly-defined.

_The Rainbow._ The most glorious vision depending upon the

decomposition, refraction, and reflection of light, by the vapor of the

atmosphere reduced to fluid drops, is the well-known arch projected

during a shower of rain upon a cloud opposite to the sun, displaying all

the tints of the solar spectrum. The first marked approximation to the

true theory of the rainbow occurs in a volume entitled _De Radiis Visus

et Lucis_, written by Antonius de Dominis, Archbishop of Spalatro,

published in the year 1611 at Venice. Descartes pursued the subject, and

correctly explained some of the phenomena; but upon Newton’s discovery

of the different degrees of refrangibility in the different colored rays

which compose the sunbeam, a pencil of white or compounded light, the

cause of the colored bands in the rainbow, of the order of their

position, and of the breadth they occupy, was at once apparent. The bow

is common to all countries, and is the sign of the covenant of promise

to all people, that there shall no more be such a wide-spread deluge as

that which the sacred narrative records.

“But say, what mean those colored streaks in heaven

Distended, as the brow of God appeased?

Or serve they, as a flowery verge to bind

The fluid skirts of that same watery cloud,

Lest it again dissolve, and shower the earth?

To whom the Archangel: Dexterously thou aim’st;

So willingly doth God remit his ire—

That he relents, not to blot out mankind;

And makes a covenant never to destroy

The earth again by flood; nor let the sea

Surpass its bounds; nor rain to drown the world,

With man therein, or beast; but when he brings

O’er the earth a cloud, will therein set

His triple-colored bow, whereon to look,

And call to mind his covenant.”

It is happily remarked by Mr. Prout, in his Bridgewater Treatise, that

no pledge could have been more felicitous or satisfactory; for, in order

that the rainbow may appear, the clouds must be _partial_, and hence its

existence is absolutely incompatible with _universal_ deluge from above.

So long, therefore, as “He doth set his bow in the clouds,” so long have

we full assurance that these clouds must continue to shower down good,

and not evil, to the earth.

[Illustration: Rainbow.]

When rain is falling, and the sun is on the horizon, the bow appears a

complete semicircle, if the rain-cloud is sufficiently extensive to

display it. Its extent diminishes as the solar altitude increases,

because the colored arch is a portion of a circle whose centre is a

point in the sky directly opposite to the sun. Above the height of 45°

the primary bow is invisible, and hence, in our climate, the rainbow is

not seen in summer about the middle of the day. In peculiar positions a

complete circle may be beheld, as when the shower is on a mountain, and

the spectator in a valley; or when viewed from the top of a lofty

pinnacle, nearly the whole circumference may sometimes be embraced.

Ulloa and Bouguer describe circular rainbows, frequently seen on the

mountains, which rise above the table-land of Quito. When rain is

abundant, there is a secondary bow distinctly seen, produced by a double

reflection. This is exterior to the primary one, and the intervening

space has been observed to be occupied by an arch of colored light. The

secondary bow differs from the other, in exhibiting the same series of

colors in an inverted order. Thus the red is the uppermost color in the

interior bow, and the violet in the exterior. A tertiary bow may exist,

but it is so exceedingly faint from the repeated reflections, as to be

scarcely ever perceptible. The same lovely spectacle may be seen when

the solar splendor falls upon the spray of the cataract and the waves,

the shower of an artificial fountain, and the dew upon the grass. There

is hardly any other object of nature more pleasing to the eye, or

soothing to the mind, than the rainbow, when distinctly developed—a

familiar sight in all regions, but most common in mountainous districts,

where the showers are most frequent. Poetry has celebrated its beauty,

and to convey an adequate representation of its soft and variegated

tints, is the highest achievement of the painter’s art. While the

Hebrews called it the Bow of God, on account of its association with a

divine promise, and the Greeks the Daughter of Wonder, the rude

inhabitants of the North gave expression to a fancy which its peculiar

aspect might well create, styling it the Bridge of the Gods, a passage

connecting heaven and earth.

[Illustration: Lunar Rainbow.]

The principles which account for the formation of the rainbow explain

the appearance of beautiful irridescent arches which have occasionally

been observed during the prevalence of mist and sunshine. Mr. Cochin

describes a spectacle of this kind, noticed from an eminence that

overlooked some low meadow-grounds, in a direction opposite to that of

the sun, which was shining very brightly, a thick mist resting upon the

landscape in front. At about the distance of half a mile from each

other, and incurvated, like the lower extremities of the common rainbow,

two places of peculiar brightness were seen in the mist. They seemed to

rest on the ground, were continued as high as the fog extended, the

breadth being nearly half as much more as that of the rainbow. In the

middle between these two places, and on the same horizontal line, there

was a colored appearance, whose base subtended an angle of about 12°,

and whose interior parts were thus variegated. The centre was dark, as

if made by the shadow of some object resembling in size and shape an

ordinary sheaf of corn. Next this centre there was a curved space of a

yellow flame color. To this succeeded another curved space of nearly the

same dark cast as the centre, very evenly bounded on each side, and

tinged with a faint blue green. The exterior exhibited a rainbow

circlet, only its tints were less vivid, their boundaries were not so

well defined, and the whole, instead of forming part of a perfect

circle, appeared like the end of a concentric ellipsis, whose transverse

axis was perpendicular to the horizon. The mist lay thick upon the

surface of the meadows; the observer was standing near its margin, and

gradually the scene became fainter, and faded away, as he entered into

it. A similar fog-bow was seen by Captain Parry during his attempt to

reach the North Pole by means of boats and sledges, with five arches

formed within the main one, and all beautifully colored.

The iris lunaris, or lunar rainbow, is a much rarer object than the

solar one. It frequently consists of a uniformly white arch, but it has

often been seen tinted, the colors differing only in intensity from

those caused by the direct solar illuminations. Aristotle states that he

was the first observer of this interesting spectacle, and that he only

saw two in the course of fifty years; but it must have been repeatedly

witnessed, without a record having been made of the fact. Thoresby

relates an account received from a friend, of an observation of the bow

fixed by the moon in the clouds, while traveling in the Peak of

Derbyshire. She had then passed the full about twenty-four hours. The

evening had been rainy, but the clouds had dispersed, and the moon was

shining very clearly. This lunar iris was more remarkable than that

observed by Dr. Plot, of which there is an account in his History of

Oxford, that being only of a white color, but this had all the hues of

the solar rainbow, beautiful and distinct, but fainter. Mr. Bucke

remarks upon having had the good fortune to witness several, two of

which were perhaps as fine as were ever witnessed in any country. The

first formed an arch over the vale of Usk. The moon hung over the

Blorenge; a dark cloud was suspended over Myarth; the river murmured

over beds of stones, and a bow, illumined by the moon, stretched from

one side of the vale to another. The second was seen from the castle

overlooking the Bay of Carmarthen, forming a regular semicircle over the

river Towy. It was in a moment of vicissitude; and the fancy of the

observer willingly reverted to the various soothing associations under

which sacred authority unfolds the emblem and sign of a merciful

covenant vouchsafed by a beneficent Creator.

* * * * *

EMINENT YOUNG MEN.—NO. II.

STEWART ADAIR GODMAN.

BY CHARLTON H. WELLS, M. D.

[Illustration: Portrait of S.A. Godman

with signature—Yours, Sincerely

S. A. Godman]

Emphatically is this, the nineteenth century, the age of

intellectuality. Never before has mind exercised such direct, positive

and appreciable influence as it now does; for never before, in the

history of the world, has there existed such an amount of mental

cultivation, of general education, of desire for moral improvement, as

is now manifested throughout the entire extent of the civilized globe.

Spiritual trains, as it were, are ready laid in every direction; and

those minds endowed by the Creator with the fire of genius, that

electrical energy which _will_ find vent, enkindle those trains, and at

once produce excitement, commotion, action, in the myriad magazines of

thought to which they lead.

The days of brute force are amongst the things that were; engulfed by

the irresistible, ever-advancing ocean of time, they are only remembered

among the legends of the barbarous Past. Intellect rules the

world—words are recognized as things—men are venerated in proportion

to the amount of mind, soul and spirit they possess: in the ratio of the

manifestation of their diviner essence—and not for those qualities,

merely physical or adventitious, which make them of kin to the brutes

that perish.

Nothing, therefore, is more eagerly sought after by the public, than

biographical sketches and portraits of those favored children of nature

who are recognized as the possessors of this inestimable

inheritance—mind; this priceless treasure—genius. Consequently, we

feel assured, that the following brief sketch of one of the most

powerful and popular writers of the day, of one, who, descended from a

line of talented and patriotic ancestors, has inherited their

distinguishing characteristics—stern integrity of purpose, indomitable

energy, untiring industry and brilliant genius in an eminent degree—and

who, though yet in the first flush of manhood, has already achieved a

name and earned a reputation, of which even the aged might be

proud—will be gladly perused by the readers of Graham.

Captain Samuel Godman, the paternal grandfather of Stewart A. Godman,

was born and educated in Virginia; he was the son of a planter who was

by marriage the uncle of Thomas Jefferson. He married, soon after he had

attained his majority, and removed to the city of Baltimore, Maryland,

where he engaged extensively in the shipping and tobacco business; at

that time the heaviest and most lucrative traffic of the place. Here he

remained several years, and having accumulated quite a handsome fortune,

he removed to the city of Annapolis, where he resided until his death,

in 1795. At the breaking out of the Revolutionary struggle, Captain

Godman, promptly and with characteristic energy espoused the cause of

liberty, and with the assistance of his two brothers, at once raised a

company of which he was unanimously elected captain, and tendered their

services to his suffering country. This company was gladly accepted, and

formed a part of the well-known regiment of the “Maryland Line,” which

upheld the honor of the struggling colonies and covered itself with so

much glory throughout our ever memorable contest for Independence.

During the whole war was Captain Godman true to his responsibility,

sharing in every battle in which his regiment took part, and making a

liberal use of his private means in supplying the necessities of his

command. At the memorable battle of the Cowpens, in Spartanburg

district, South Carolina, he was severely wounded, by a musket ball, in

the leg, which disabled him for awhile; but he soon, even before the

wound had healed, resumed his post at the head of his company, and

continued with them until peace was declared, the end had been

accomplished and his beloved land was free.

John D. Godman, M. D., the father of Stewart, was born at Annapolis in

1796. Before he was two years of age he had the misfortune to lose both

of his parents, and was subsequently defrauded by his father’s executor

of his inheritance; thus was he thrown, at an early age, entirely upon

his own resources. He also, while yet a boy, served his country: being

on board the flotilla during the bombardment of Fort McHenry by the

British, in the war of 1812. At the close of the war he commenced the

study of medicine. As a student, he was diligent, energetic and

persevering, and as an evidence of his proficiency and distinguished

attainments, he was called to the chair of Anatomy in the University of

Maryland (vacated by an accident to the Professor.) and for several

weeks before he graduated, filled this situation with so much propriety

as to gain universal applause. After his graduation, he entered upon the

active duties of his profession with the same energy and diligence which

had distinguished him while a pupil. He filled the chair of Anatomy in

the Medical College of Ohio, and subsequently, in 1826, was called to

the same chair in Rutger’s Medical College in the city of New York. In

these situations he acquired a popularity almost unparalleled. But his

professional duties, together with his other scientific pursuits, proved

too arduous, in that climate, for a constitution already subdued by

labor and broken by disease, and he was compelled to seek a more genial

clime. From this time his disease steadily progressed, so as to leave no

hope for his final recovery, but he still continued to labor in the

field of Science and Literature almost to the last week of his life. He

died in the thirty-fourth year of his age. The following merited tribute

to the memory of Dr. Godman, we take from an address delivered on that

occasion before the Medical Faculty and Students of Columbian College.

“There has recently appeared among us a man so remarkable for the

character of his mind, and the qualities of his heart—one whose life,

though short, was attended with such brilliant displays of genius, with

such distinguished success in the study of our profession and the

kindred sciences, that to pass him by without tracing the history of his

career, and placing before you the prominent traits of his character, as

exhibited in the important events of his life, would alike be on act of

injustice to the memory of eminent worth, and deprive you of one of the

noblest examples of the age.” To specify the numerous and admired

productions of Dr. Godman would occupy too much of our limited space,

but they have been before the public for a considerable time, and have

been received with high approbation, and several have been republished

in foreign countries.

The mother of S. A. Godman was the second daughter of Rembrant Peale,

Esq., the celebrated artist—who, still living, is the oldest and the

best painter of whom America can boast—his splendid allegorical

painting of “The Court of Death,” and his admirable likeness of

Washington, painted from an original portrait taken by him of the Father

of his Country, which hangs over the Vice-President’s seat in the United

States’ Senate Chamber—are familiar to thousands of your readers. Mrs.

Godman is a remarkable woman—possessing all the amiable traits that

most adorn the gentler sex, combined with an amount of energy and

decision of mind seldom to be met with—both developed and improved by a

thorough course of education in a celebrated seminary abroad.

Dr. Godman left three children, then too young to appreciate the full

extent of their loss—one, a daughter, now married to Dr. W. W.

Goldsmith, of Kentucky, is a most gifted and lovely lady; the others

were boys, the elder of whom is the subject of the present sketch—the

other, Harry R. Godman, M. D., is already known to the reading public,

and by the purity and depth of feeling, expressed with so much ease and

beauty in his writings, is winning for himself, surely and deservedly, a

reputation as one of the best of the younger poets of our country.

Stewart A. Godman was born in Cincinnati, Sept. 8th, 1822, a few weeks

before his father resigned his professorship in the Medical College of

Ohio; and at the early age of six weeks he commenced his

wanderings—being carried by his parents to the city of Baltimore.

It appears to be a provision of nature, and it is doubtless a wise one,

that, no matter what may be the surrounding circumstances, every man

destined to produce an impression upon his fellows, and to leave his

“footprints on the sands of time,” must, in his earlier years, encounter

a series of changes and difficulties, preparing him, as it were

perforce, for the position he is to occupy. The inborn, inherent energy

that is in them, produces a restlessness and a desire for something,

they know not what, that keeps them ever shifting from purpose and

pursuit, until at last they find the field and make the opening in which

they are fitted to shine. This want of stability, as it seems, and

dislike to plod along contentedly in whatever road circumstances have

placed them, subjects them oftentimes to the charge of fickleness, and

it is only when they have found their natural sphere—and true genius

ever will force a path to its legitimate position—is it admitted by

lookers-on that it was the resistless cravings of the governing,

controlling spirit eagerly seeking its own, that actuated them—instead

of fickleness.

This fate was not escaped by young Godman, for, although still

comparatively a young man, he has experienced vicissitudes, changes and

trials—mental, physical and pecuniary—greater than most persons have

to encounter who live to the allotted age of three score years and ten.

Naturally of an energetic and bold disposition, averse to restraint, and

deprived at the early age of eight years, by death, of his father—a

loss in any case so great, but in his, with such a parent, how

irreparable—his life has been checkered by the changing phases that

ever accompany the life-struggle of each man who strives to attain an

eminent position by paths novel and self-suggested. Blessed in an

unusual degree with friends, able, willing, indeed anxious, to assist

him, he would have had only to follow either of the many openings and

advantages that were freely tendered, to have attained certain wealth

and station at an early age. The natural independence of his character,

however, combined with his strong innate feeling of self-reliance,

caused him to undervalue and neglect the many easy roads to success,

that by the influence of his father’s numerous friends and admirers were

offered—and to prefer the more hazardous and difficult plan of carving

out his own road, of being the architect of his own fortune.

His primary education was most thorough; for quick, keen, inquiring and

industrious, and having the very best instructors, he made rapid

progress in every branch. At a very early age, when the brilliancy of

his mind and the promise he gave of doing credit to his preceptors were

already apparent, anxious to mingle in the real bustle and business of

life, he determined to leave school. At this time he was at the

Baltimore College, then under the charge of that finished scholar and

accomplished gentleman, John Prentiss, Esq., and despite the persuasions

of his friends and teachers he persisted in his determination. Removing

then from Baltimore to Philadelphia, he entered the large establishment

of that well-known merchant, David S. Brown, Esq., where he remained for

three years, and earned a reputation for business tact and ability such

as is seldom awarded a youth of his years. Not finding in the details of

commerce that mental satisfaction he sought, and unheeding altogether

the unusually advantageous prospects before him, much against the advice

of Mr. Brown, he resolved to try the profession of medicine. Returning

to Baltimore, to which place he was invited by Dr. R. S. Stewart (after

whom he was named) then one of the largest practitioners in the

Monumental City, but now retired with an ample fortune—he attended one

course of lectures at the University of Maryland. Here he stood first

among his classmates—but disgusted with the details of hospital

practice, at the end of the first winter he found that medicine was not

the path he wished to pursue.

His uncle, Thomas Jefferson Godman, residing in Madison, Indiana, was

anxious to have young Godman study law, and at his earnest solicitation

he went to Madison, and entered as a student the office of the Hon.

Jesse D. Bright, now United States Senator. Law, however, was not more

congenial to his spirit than medicine; and after three months hard

study, he threw aside Blackstone, Chitty, and their compeers, and

applied for admittance into the United States Navy, as a midshipman.

Although, at the time of his application, which was made directly to the

President, there was a very large number of applicants on record for

warrants, young Godman received his at once—“in consideration,” as was

written in the letter containing the warrant, “of the distinguished

services of his grandfather during the Revolution,” and for which

neither pension nor remuneration had ever been asked. Only about

eighteen months did Godman remain in the navy; at first the glitter,

pomp, and excitement of the service pleased, but he soon found that it

was no place to rise—for time, not merit, graduated promotion—so

quitting the navy, he entered the merchant service, and after making a

couple of short voyages, he returned home. His friends, fearful that he

would never settle down to regular business, opposed his again going to

sea, and persuaded him to re-enter the mercantile business. He then

determined to go to Charleston, where, through the influence of a

distinguished friend of his father, Dr. E. Geddings, he at once obtained

a situation in one of the largest stores in the city. He remained there

some eight months, when his independent spirit having been wounded, in

consequence of some misunderstanding with his employer, about a leave of

absence during the holydays, he relinquished his situation, and again

went to sea, as mate of a merchantman. A wanderer, did he thus continue,

until almost twenty-one, when an accident, seemingly the most trivial,

changed the entire course of his life.

He had just returned to Charleston from a voyage, and had fully

determined, having made all his arrangements, to go to China and settle

among the inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, when the suggestion of a

casual acquaintance caused him to reflect seriously upon the manner in

which he was squandering his life and talents; and he at once determined

to go into the country for a couple of years, and in the quiet of rural

life, to settle his mind, and chalk out a course for the future. Acting

upon this resolution, he went to Abbeville District, South Carolina,

where, as money was not his object, further than as a means of

subsistence for the present, he took a situation in a country store.

Whilst here, he became acquainted with and attached to Miss A. R.

Gillam, to whom, before he was twenty-two, he was united in marriage.

This event necessarily brought about a change in his plans, and induced

him to remain in the up-country of South Carolina. His wife died about

two years after their union. In 1848 he married Miss M. E. Watts, of

Laurens District. A short time previous to this marriage, Godman bought

the Laurensville Herald—a small country paper, having only three

hundred and fifty subscribers. To this he devoted all his energies, and

after having made for it an enviable reputation, he sold it at the

expiration of a little more than two years with a subscription list of

nearly two thousand. Seeing the necessity that existed for a Southern

Literary Newspaper of high standing, he last fall determined to

establish such a journal; and the great success and universal popularity

of the paper which he is now publishing, “The Illustrated Family

Friend,” clearly attests the tact, talent, energy and business

qualifications of its editor.

Inheriting the brilliant parts of his father, from his temperament

necessarily a hard student and deep thinker, with all the advantages

that an extensive and thorough knowledge of the world, which a keen,

inquiring, analytical mind must acquire, from close communion with

mankind under almost every phase of life—the unexampled success and

universal popularity that has been obtained by Godman, as a writer, are

not astonishing, though they are remarkable. Philosophic imagination,

vividness of conception, energy, and a conscientious endeavor to make

all that he does tend to some practical and useful purpose, are his

distinguishing mental traits. Although he writes rapidly, his style is

easy, graceful, natural, whilst at the same time, it is always bold,

vigorous, original, and worthy of all commendation for its elevated

moral tone. Should his life be spared, we are certain that he will win

for himself a reputation second to no author of whom America can boast;

for already, since the demise of the lamented Cooper, he has attained

the enviable distinction of being one of the best, if not the best

writer of Nautical Romances now living.

Socially, Stewart A. Godman enjoys an unusual degree of personal

popularity, and is respected and esteemed by all who know him; in his

deportment he is affable and polite to all; in conversation fluent,

though unstudied. With a mind stocked with a vast fund of anecdote, and

a vivid imagination to point the varied scenes through which he has

passed, he is always listened to with interest, while at the same time

he imparts knowledge to his friends, who esteem it a privilege to

cluster around him in his moments of leisure.

* * * * *

FANNY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

Through the broad rolling prairie I’ll merrily ride,

Though father may frown, and though mother may chide;

To the green leafy island, the largest of three,

That sleep in the midst of that silent green sea—

For there my dear Fanny, my gentle young Fanny,

My own darling Fanny is waiting for me.

Ho! Selim—push on! The green isle’s still afar,

And morning’s pale light dims the morning’s large star;

Before the sun rises she’ll watch there for me,

Her eyes like twin planets that gaze on the sea.

My young, black-eyed Fanny, my winsome, sweet Fanny,

My own darling Fanny, that waiteth for me.

Come, Selim! come, sluggard! speed swifter than this,

There are ripe, rosy lips that I’m dying to kiss;

And a dear little bosom will bound with delight,

When the star on thy forehead first glitters in sight.

My glad little Fanny! my arch, merry Fanny,

My graceful, fair Fanny, no star is so bright.

Then her soft, snowy arms round me fondly will twine,

And her warm, dewy lips will be pressed close to mine;

And her full, rosy bosom with rapture will beat,

When again, and no more to be parted, we meet.

My lovely young Fanny, my own darling Fanny,

My dear, modest Fanny, no flower is so sweet.

So father may grumble, and mother may cry,

And sister may scold—I know very well why;

’Tis that beauty and virtue are all Fanny’s store,

That while we are rich, she, alas! is quite poor.

My winsome young Fanny, my true, faithful Fanny,

My own darling Fanny, I’ll love you the more.

Ho! Selim! fleet Selim! bound fast o’er the plain,

The morning advances, the stars swiftly wane;

I see in the distance the green leafy isle,

Between us and it stretches many a mile,

Where my fond, faithful Fanny, my own darling Fanny,

Shall welcome us both with a tear and a smile.

* * * * *

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF DANDYISM.

BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT.

WHAT DANDIES DO.

[Illustration]

Fops differ from scare-crows in this particular—the latter guard the

young blades of green things by the appearance of their apparel alone;

but dandies are themselves young blades and green things, and are not

stationary effigies, but moving frights. They are not stuffed figures

which stand still, but empty semblances which perigrinate. They are

defective verbs, which “do” and “suffer,” it is true, but are only used

in certain moods and tenses: _to wit_, the indicative mood, and

imperfect tense—indicating that such things are, and are not worth

much. This etymological fact establishes that dandies do something, and

having settled into that conviction, it becomes necessary to inquire

with great gravity, what do they do?

It will not require an overwhelming quantum of credulity to lead the

reader to a belief that nothing of much importance has ever been done by

an exquisite. He neither adds to the character or the utility of

society. He aids not in commerce or manufactures—except, perhaps, as a

buyer of coats and kid gloves—being, as to those things, a consumer,

whether profitably so or not to the artist in cloth and professor of

gloving, a narrow inspection of their ledgers will only answer

satisfactorily. He is not what political economists call a producer,

unless the labor he bestows upon cultivating his moustache, may entitle

him to a place among the “sons of toil.” He adds nothing to the general

wealth; although he extravagantly expends the money which he borrowed

from a rich friend, or that which his kind grandfather, the

tavern-keeper, bequeathed him when he left off selling common brandy,

and went to “a world of pure spirits.” Except to “point a moral, or

adorn a tale,” the fop is therefore not useful. He is, like vice,

——A monster of such hideous mien,

That to be hated needs but to be seen;

but we trust that the further remarks of the poet, in regard to

familiarity of face, will not apply to the dandy, though many of that

tribe who saunter along Chestnut street have faces extremely familiar.

If a herd of bucks were interrogated as to their own opinions of their

positions in society, it is probable that they would assign themselves

to the ornamental department. But on that subject a very lively debate

might be held, and if it were at length decided that they were

decorations to the “solidarity of the peoples,” their relative situation

would be like gold leaf on gingerbread; extremely gaudy, to be sure, but

very unwholesome to swallow. They are ugly ornaments, like odd figures

upon Indian temples, serving no purpose but to mislead the veneration of

those who ignorantly worship at the shrine. They are like copper rings

in Choctaw noses, ungraceful extras upon the face of nature, and of no

intrinsic value. There can only be one point of view in which a buck may

be looked at in a useful light, and that is as an object to be laughed

at.

In a late number of Graham we devoted some space to an elucidation of

the question, “How are dandies made?” and having said sufficient upon

that topic, we pass to a notice of their doings. A prompt and

significant period might be put to these lucubrations, by the averment

that dandies do “an infinite deal of nothing,” but that would not be

literally true, for although their actions are of no public importance,

still those who write their biographies will be compelled to admit that

they do something. Ease is but a word which signifies a comparative

release from labor; idleness is but the definition of a state of

unprofitable action. Those who have nothing to do cannot exist without

doing something; and he who has much time on his hands is compelled to

employ it in some pursuit to escape from the horror of positive _ennui_.

Therefore, even dandies, those cob-webs of society, catch flies when the

unwary insects come into the meshes of their webs, and at times put

themselves to great inconvenience and fatigue, whilst enjoying the

felicity of their _otium cum dignitate_.

But how does the exquisite spend his hours? It may be safely asserted

that midnight very often passes before he seeks his bed, after the

fatigues of the day and night—and that the sun has mounted high in the

meridian before he awakes from slumbers which are not refreshing.

Then, as he endeavors to costume himself in the fifth story room of some

fashionable boarding-house, he finds himself environed with

difficulties. On a winter morning he will get out of his bed shivering,

and find all his toilet arrangements deranged by frost. His water will

probably be frozen in his pitcher, and scarcely disposed to yield to the

endearing demonstration of his gold-headed cane. His landlady may wait

upon him to assure him that his stockings and drawers, which were washed

on the previous night, are frozen stiff, and that she has not had time

to properly dry and iron them.

This will be sad news, indeed; for although your true dandy riots in

coats and variety of apparel which the world can see, he is generally

rather short in those articles which every one is presumed to have, but

which are not visible to the public eye. Perhaps the freezing of the

indispensables which the landlady brings him may put him to serious

inconvenience. If so, it must be borne. That will not be the least of

his troubles. The necessity of being particular about his whiskers, is

by no means the greatest of the cares which annoy him. Hours are daily

spent in the study of neck-cloths, the experimental philosophy of

dress-coats, the spindleizing of thin legs, and the tightening of

pantaloons. Those are home employments to which it is only necessary to

allude. The real business of the day commences when the fop, about

twelve o’clock, emerges for a walk on the south side of Chestnut street.

Here he is noted for those particularities of dress which are his own

glory, and “the badge of all his tribe.” Perhaps he meets one of his

associates, and arm-in-arm they mince their way along, talking of Miss

So-and-so’s party, or the “insufferable stupidity” of some who have not

as many coats as themselves; simpering and twaddling, thus their

movements may be varied by manœuvres which are indescribably odd. The

unmeaning faces which have for some time been expressive of nothing but

inanity, will suddenly become o’erspread with an appearance of

semi-consciousness, as some dashing belle approaches. By a movement

simultaneous and sudden, both exquisites will make a jerking bend of the

body from the hips upward—their right hands will be raised to their

hats; by the time the lady has passed them, and proceeded six feet in

the opposite direction, their beavers will be lifted from their noddles

at least twelve inches, held extended a moment, and by the time the

belle is twenty feet off, returned to the craniums on which they rested,

and the delighted couple pass onward, supposing they have made genteel

bows. None but those who have seen a first-rate fop publicly salute a

lady of his acquaintance, can have an idea of the ludicrous character of

his movements, and the comical nature of the entire manœuvre.

But the twain at length, tire of their promenade and adjourn to some

fashionable drinking saloon for a “whiskey skin,” or a “brandy plain.”

Still they must have amusement, and they accordingly determine to try

their skill at billiards—a gentlemanly game, which will not fatigue

their weak muscles or agitate their delicate nerves. The mysteries of

this diversion, like the oddities of backgammon, are well calculated to

puzzle the uninformed mind. It would, perhaps, be irreverent to compare

it to marbles, that fascination of youth, yet it resembles it much,

though sooth to say, it is not as readily understood by the unlearned.

Judging from appearances, billiards is a game in which the endeavor of

the player is to cause certain ivory balls to hit other balls

“back-handed licks.” With a thin rod of wood, the player is constantly

going through strange gymnastics. Sometimes he endeavors to strike one

spheroid against another. At other times he propels his ivory plaything

in such a manner, that it does nothing but fly from side to side of a

table enclosed by a padded rim, without producing any visible effect

whatever. Occasionally the great object seems to be to push a ball

against which mischief is evidently meditated, into a bag, or pocket,

some of which are ambushed in the corners, and others in the center of

the rim of the table. Then, again, the player does not seem to care a

half-penny for this triumph, though within his power, but rather seeks

to make one ball strike another, which flies off at a tangent, hits

another, and then in backing out from the concussion, touches one of the

balls already struck. Whilst all this is going on—an attendant is

constantly meddling with a frame of rods above the table, on which are

strung white and black wooden beads. Occasionally all the beads are

moved one way, then some of them are shifted to the place from which

they were removed. The spectator in vain endeavors to ascertain the

nature of the game. All that he can tell about it is, that the players

bend over the table with scientific calculation, and throw themselves

into many strange attitudes whilst considering how much force is

necessary to make one ball strike another, or to cause a series of

shocks among all which are upon the table. When it is all over, and the

cues are returned to the rack, Blessed Ignorance leaves the

billiard-saloon, satisfied that somebody has won the game; but why, or

how, it is impossible for him to determine, inasmuch as the whole

business seems to be a very grave and solemn mystery.

In these ceremonies fops delight, and it is pleasant to hear them boast

of their triumphs, in tones which should characterize important

achievements.

The afternoon promenade in Chestnut street, upon fine afternoons—when

belledom is abroad—is one of the principal occupations of the dandy.

There he is preëminent for the instability of his legs, the absurdity of

his over-coat, the glossiness of his hat, (the dandy _pure et simple_,

does not affect the Kossuth slouch,) the surprising appearance of his

shirt-collar, his cravat-tie _comme il faut_; his kid gloves—which just

now are of a bright green color; his light cane, the head of which is an

ivory facsimile in little of an opera-dancer’s leg—and his very

noticeable beard and moustache. Glorying in his appearance, conceiting

himself to be admired by the numerous beautiful women he passes, he is

supremely happy, and condescendingly deigns to stare at the most

handsome of those whom he meets, with undisguised impudence.

In the evening he goes to a party—should he be lucky enough to be

invited to one, by those who gave it, or by some _lady_ who has been

herself invited—there he appears in all the brilliancy of a little

coat, tight trowsers, fancy vest, and cravat-tie. Perhaps he small-talks

with the lovely Emma, or drawls out some observation about “the

weathah,” to Miss Mary. Perhaps he may even waltz in the modern

style—which is certainly the most ridiculous and vulgar that has yet

been taught in the schools.

Let the uninitiated reader imagine the right arm of the Exquisite placed

very carefully round the waist of the delicate creature, so as to draw

her closely to him—let it be supposed that he holds his left arm

straight out from the shoulder, bending it at the elbow, and extending

his hand above his head—think, that with that hand he grasps the taper

engloved fingers of the fair one, which hold a closed fan—presume that

the other arm of the dear creature rests lovingly on the right shoulder

of the dandy, and her head also, if she feels dizzy—picture to the mind

the exquisite on his tip-toes, afflicted also with a chronic bend at the

knees, which defies straightening—suppose that his back is so curved

that his head hangs over the face of his partner—in fact, imagine the

figure which a mark of interrogation would cut in a waltz with a note of

admiration, and you have a faint idea of the awkward appearance of a

buck and belle, about to start off in the Redowa or Schottische.

But even if imagination can picture these things, it will be

insufficient to realize fully, the latest style of waltzing, which bears

but little resemblance to the same diversion of five years ago. The word

_twiddle_, is about the only one which can convey a notion of the modern

step; which is no more the measured “one,” “two,” “three” of the old

waltz, but is rather a mincing trot, in which the dancers sometimes scud

backward or forward for considerable distances, or occasionally spin

round in dizzy circles, or gyrate in semicircles from right to left, and

then from left to right, the body of the dandy all crooked and

ungraceful as possible, and the fair one yielding herself a languishing

victim to the direction of the fop, and resting in his arms with the

most innocent abandonment.

If there should happen to be no party in the first circles in the

evening—the history of which we are now writing—the Exquisite goes to

the opera, if Maretzek happens to be in town. Here he uses his

_lorgnette_ with vigor, and gazes at all the ladies in the boxes. At

times, he smites the kid-glove in his right hand against that upon his

left, or shouts in a weak voice and at the wrong time “Bravo.” Perchance

he expatiates to his neighbor upon the _poetamentt della voce_ of Bosio,

or asserts that Salvi’s head voice is failing.

[Illustration]

But although he may do something here with his opera-glass, the great

place for his triumphs with that instrument is at a Hayes or Lind

concert at the “Musical Fund Hall.” It is one of the most confirmed

tests of the merits of an exquisite, that his sight is not good. There

are unfortunates who are not fops, to whom Heaven has been pleased to

assign but a limited scope of vision—it therefore does not follow that

every short-sighted person is a dandy, but _e converso_, as the lawyers

say, every dandy is indubitably short-sighted. The malady has become

epidemic within a few years, and an exquisite would not be admitted into

society without this optical certificate of his worthiness. To prove his

title he relies upon an eye-glass which hangs by a cord or chain from

his button-hole, and whenever there is aught to be seen he inspects it

with nose bestrid with these queer-looking aids to the eye. The failing

has advanced gradually until confirmed myopia has become alarmingly

prevalent, and the number and appearance of adventitious helps to the

vision has so increased that the fashionable preparations for a concert

or opera now-a-days are formidable. A quizzing-glass in times gone by

was an offensive ostentation. It made no odds if the possessor was as

blind as a brick wall without windows, he was sneered at, and liable to

continual insult if he dared to endeavor to put himself upon an optical

par with other people; but by degrees this prejudice was done away with,

and as the rights of seeing advanced the necessity became apparent.

Double-glasses for each eye succeeded the old quizzers—then the

single-barrel diminutive spy-glass was brought forth with fear and

trembling. It lived down opposition, and was succeeded by larger

instruments of the same pattern. At length small double-barreled

opera-glasses, with handles, were seen in the first circles—they were

permitted, and since that time _lorgnettes_ have been growing bigger and

bigger until they look like awful monsters, all eyes, which by unhappy

fate have been linked together, Cyclopean Siamese twins.

But this is a visionary digression—we must go back to the dandies at

fashionable concerts. Here he amuses himself by scanning the faces of

the performers and persons near him. As soon as the intermission

commences the fop rises, and distrusting his sight altogether, relies

upon his _lorgnette_ for a proper view of the lady who sat next to him

during the first part of the performance. His fellow dandies imitate

him, and the fair and confused object of short-sighted devotion is made

the centre for the focus of fifty opera-glasses, raised without blushing

by as many asses, who believe that they are acting quite genteelly.

Having got through with this ceremony, and having heard the Hayes

entirely through the programme, the buck repairs to “Guys” or

“Pelletiers,” and eats or drinks whatever his rich acquaintances request

and pay for. After a time he returns to his room in the fifth story,

goes to bed and snores until eleven next morning, when the servant

enters to awaken him to another day of similar events.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

Tell him I lingered alone on the shore,

Where we parted in sorrow to meet never more;

The night wind blew cold on my desolate heart,

But colder those wild words of doom “Ye must part!”

O’er the dark heaving waters I sent forth a cry,

Save the wail of those waters there came no reply.

I longed like a bird o’er the billows to flee

From my lone island home and the moan of the sea.

Away—far away—from the wild ocean shore,

Where the waves ever murmur, “No more, never more.”[1]

Where I dream ’tis his voice, and then wake but to hear

That lone song of the surges, so mournful and drear.

Yet tell him our own fairy isle of the sea

Is still dear in its desolate beauty to me,

Though a hollow wind sighs through the echoing bowers,

Where I wander alone through an Eden of flowers;

Though the wing of the tempest o’ershadows the wold,

Where the asphodel meadows once blossomed in gold,

And the silence and chill of the sepulchre sleep

On its dream-haunted woodlands that border the deep.

And say, though the night-wind blew cold, and the gloom

Of our parting was drear as the night of the tomb,

I know when all shadows are swept from the main,

Our own star o’er the waters shall tremble again.

When the clouds that now veil from us heaven’s fair light;

Their soft silver lining turn forth on the night;

When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel,

He shall know if I loved him, but never how well.

Though we meet not again in our island of flowers;

Though the hollow winds sigh through its desolate bowers,

Every bud that the wing of the tempest has riven,

Shall blossom again in the islands of heaven.

-----

[1]

No more—no more—no more!

Such language bears the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore.

_Lines to One in Paradise._

* * * * *

THE SIGH.

BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.

We meet no more in silent bower,

No more in festive hall—

Nor when comes on the twilight hour,

And night dews ’gin to fall—

The stars in quiet beauty shine,

As once they shone on high,

When all thy radiant looks were mine,

Though only now _thy sigh_.

Another looks within thine eyes,

So angel-like serene,

He cannot tell how softly lies

My spirit-love between—

I envy not thy hand in his,

But when I pass thee by,

For me there is enough of bliss

May I but hear thee sigh.

* * * * *

SONNET.—THE STARS.

BY REV. S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

Bright lamps of the illimitable sky!

Hung by Jehovah’s all-creating hand,

Amid the chambers of his temple high

Where ye have gazed with never-sleeping eye,

Upon this darkened orb, this far-off land,

While age succeeding age hath rolled away.

Ye saw fair Eden—the destroying flood—

The rise of empires, and their sad decay—

The deeds of heroes, and earth’s fields of blood:

Ye have beheld the path old Time hath trod

Man’s idol-worship—his neglect of God;

And, beaming as of old from heaven’s high tower,

To all the world, at evening’s hallowed hour,

Ye speak—how eloquent!—your Maker’s love and power!

* * * * *

THE CRYSTAL PALACE AND ITS LESSONS.

BY HORACE GREELEY.

Each age, each race, inscribes itself, with more or less distinctness,

on History’s dial. Nineveh, almost faded from our traditions of the

world’s infancy, revisits us in her freshly exhumed sculptures and in

the vivid narrations of Layard. The Egypt of Sesostris and the Pharaohs

survives no less in her pyramids and obelisks than in the ever-enduring

records of Moses and Manetho. Jerusalem, in her lonely humiliation, best

typifies the Hebrew state and race. Ancient Rome lives for us in the

Capitol and the Coliseum, as does her mediæval and sacerdotal offspring

and namesake in St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Royal and feudal France,

the France of Richelieu and Louis le Grand, still lingers in the

boundless magnificence and prodigality, the showy sieges and

battle-pieces of Versailles. The England of the last three centuries

confronts us in the Bank—not a very stately nor graceful edifice, it

must be allowed; but very substantial and well furnished—the fit

heart’s core of a trading, money-getting people. So we Americans of the

Nineteenth Century will be found in due time to have inscribed ourselves

most legibly, though all unconsciously, on the earth’s unfading

records—how, or in what, time alone can tell. Perhaps a railroad over

the Rocky Mountains, a telegraph across the Atlantic, a towering

observatory wherein all the storms and calms at any moment prevailing

within the earth’s atmosphere shall be portrayed on a common dial-plate,

and the storms which _shall_ take place at any point during the next day

or week, with their several directions and intensities—perhaps

something very different from any of these. Essential History still

insists on writing itself, and will not be controlled nor anticipated.

—The Crystal Palace, with its contents and purposes, was the clearest

expression yet given to the spirit and aspirations of our

time—aspirations not wholly utterable nor even comprehensible as yet,

but sufficiently so to demand and reward our deepest attention. That

Palace was the first edifice ever built for and consecrated to the uses

of Universal Industry. It was the first structure ever devoted to the

advancement and diffusion of the Useful Arts throughout the world—the

first in which, to the greatest extent consistent with individual

selfishness, the arcana of skill and production were thrown open to all

mankind, with an express invitation, “Come hither, and see how the most

successful workers accomplish their ends, and learn to rival or excel

them if you can.” Herein was assembled the first general convention or

council of Captains of Industry—the first practical Peace Congress ever

held. Magnificent in conception and most triumphant in execution, this

grand and fruitful enterprise deserves something more than the

journalist’s fleeting paragraph. We cannot waste the time that we devote

to its contemplation, even though I should succeed no farther than in

drawing your attention to the subject, leaving it to be pondered

unaided, unembarrassed, by my crude and hasty suggestions.

Who first proposed a grand Exposition of the Industry of all Nations at

London, it were hardly worth while to inquire. The suggestion might have

presented itself to any mind, and in fact probably _did_ present itself

simultaneously, or at least independently, to several. It was a natural

sequence of the profound peace everywhere prevailing—of the

all-pervading spirit of Enterprize generated by Commerce—of the rapid

march of Discovery and Invention—of the steady growth and at length

realized importance of the Useful Arts. Good ideas are rather abundant

in our day—too plentiful to obtain much credit from a busy, practical,

work-day generation. In this instance, however, the seed fell on good

ground, and the result was an immense though not yet fully gathered

harvest. Much credit is due to those who first gave the idea hospitality

and nurture, until it expanded in the warm sunshine of Royal favor into

the benignant reality whereto the nations were gathered. And perhaps the

most influential among the early and steadfast friends of the World’s

Exhibition was Albert, consort of Queen Victoria, and one of the most

constant and discriminating among the patrons and visitors of the great

undertaking. In an age when princes are plainly falling into discredit

and disuse, let us remember the good which this one powerfully aided to

do, and not suffer our republican prejudices to blind us to the moral.

Hereditary legislators and hereditary rulers are plainly absurd; but

hereditary patrons and stimulators of inventive genius and industrial

efficiency are not to be disparaged. Let them be remembered in the

approaching day of kingly tribulation and aristocratic downfall. There

are better uses for even the most obsolete and worthless than hanging

them. Royalty and Nobility may be at ever so ruinous a discount, but

Humanity is still at par. Kill the monarch, but save alive the man. His

purple wrappages have cramped and concealed him; strip them off and burn

them, but respect the glorious image of God which you have thereby

unswathed and liberated.

Nor is it worth while to attempt adjusting the measure of credit due

respectively to Paxton and to others, for the idea of the Crystal Palace

and its consummation. A solid, rather heavy, North-of-England

horticulturist, employed in overseeing the Duke of Devonshire’s

extensive gardens and conservatories, has a new tropical plant confided

to his charge, which, by a perfect knowledge of his art and an unbounded

command of means, he induces to vegetate and flourish in that high

latitude—of course, in an artificially fervid soil and under shielding

glass. Here it grows and aspires with unimagined rapidity to an

unprecedented height, threatening to shiver its frail covering in its

upward career. Necessity, mother of invention, pricks on the unideal

gardener to enlarge, and still enlarge, his glass shelter, which this

aspiring rival of Jack’s Bean-Stalk threatens to put his head and arms

through in quest of altitude and sunshine: so he elevates and expands

his crystal encasement, until, little by little, step by step, a stately

glass house has been erected; and this becomes the model of the hitherto

unsuggested Crystal Palace. The gardener had no premonition of this, no

idea of anything beyond sheltering his delicate though gigantic plant,

and saving its artificial Timbuctoo from destruction:

“He builded wiser than he knew.”

But when plans and designs for the immense edifice required to hold the

contributions of all nations to the grand Exposition were advertised

for, he was prepared to compete for the proffered reward; and his plan,

dictated to him by Nature herself, was found the best of all, adopted,

and, with some necessary modifications of detail, carried into effect.

The result was the Crystal Palace, the most capacious, convenient,

economical, healthful, and admirable structure ever devised for any

kindred purpose. Earth was ransacked for alluring marvels; Science

racked its brains for brilliant combinations; Art exhausted its subtle

alchemy in quest of dazzling effects; Labor poured out its sweat like

rain to fill this grand receptacle with whatever is beautiful and

winning: yet the Crystal Palace remained to the end the crowning triumph

of all.

Within the last century, London has expanded rapidly and immensely, but

especially toward the West, or up the Thames. Temple Bar, the western

boundary of the city proper, (or ancient London,) is now considerably

East, I think, of the center of the Great Metropolis; while the present

residences of nearly all the nobility and gentry are built on grounds

which were open country since the days of the Plantagenets and Tudors.

In the center of this magnificent “West end,” between St. James’s Palace

and Kensington Gardens, though much nearer the latter, stretches Hyde

Park, one of the most spacious and pleasant expanses of sward and shade

and water that eye ever feasted on. Boston Common would be somewhat like

it, if it were ten times as large and twenty times as well watered as at

present. Hyde Park is the favorite resort of the Aristocracy for

equestrian and carriage exercise, and thoroughly justifies their choice.

On the southern verge of this noble expanse, some three miles West of

the Bank, Exchange, and London Bridge, the Crystal Palace was erected.

It was not an imposing edifice. No stately gateway, no frowning turrets,

no graceful spire, no lofty tower, marked the capacious structure from

whose roof the flags of all nations rose and floated in perfect amity.

Its slender ribs of iron, covered and hidden for some thirty feet from

the earth by boards, like any house of wood, were thenceforth visible

through the glass which formed the upper siding and roof, like a

spider’s web on the grass of a dewy morning. Slender iron columns or

pillars, rising at intervals unperceived from beneath the floor, helped

to sustain the weight of the slight yet ponderous roof, through which,

though covered with canvass to modify the heat of the few sunny days

vouchsafed to an English summer, as abundance of light, not only under

the murkiest London skies, but even during the prevalence of the great

July eclipse, was at all times received. So immense was the volume of

atmosphere enclosed, or so perfect the arrangements for ventilation,

that no sense of exhaustion or of breathing vitiated air was at any time

experienced; for the building was something more than a third of a mile

in length from east to west, some three hundred feet wide, and rather

more than a hundred feet from floor to roof, with eight or ten large

doors for entrance and exit hardly ever closed during the day. On a

volume of atmosphere thus extended, and constantly changing, the

breathings of sixty thousand persons for hours could make no impression.

In this vast bazaar, which a few months saw advance from its first

conception to its perfect realization, and which yet was barely

completed at the day appointed for opening the exhibition, the choice or

characteristic products of all nations had already for some weeks been

accumulating. Under the mere corner (though of itself covering more than

an acre) devoted to machinery, mainly British, water-pipes and

adaptations of steam-power had already been conducted, the steam itself

being generated outside. An army of carpenters and other artisans had

been some weeks at work on the fixtures and decorations of the several

departments, so that, when the eagerly expected opening day at length

arrived, although the whole visible area had an unmistakable aspect of

haste and rawness—an odor born of green boards and fresh paint,—and

although an infinity of carpenters’ work still remained undone,

especially in the galleries or upper story, yet the Exhibition was

plainly there, and only needed time to perfect its huge proportions, and

stand forth the acknowledged wonder of the world.

The first of May, 1851, was a happy day for London. Her skies had

relaxed something of their habitual sullenness to usher in the pageant

whereby the Sovereign of the Realm, surrounded by her chief councilors

and grandees, was to inaugurate the first grand Exhibition of All

Nations’ Industry. The rain, which had dripped or pattered almost or

quite daily for weeks, held up the evening before and promised not to

return for this whole May-day—a promise which was only broken by a

slight shower at noon, too late to mar the interest or pleasure of the

festival. At an early morning hour, a strong current of human life set

westward from the city proper toward Hyde Park, and long before the

doors of the House of Glass were opened, they were surrounded by eager

groups, though no admission was purchasable save at the cost of a season

ticket—over fifteen dollars. Even thus, some thirty thousand enjoyed

and swelled the in-door pageant; while perhaps ten times as many gazed

from the parks and streets at the meagre procession out-doors which

escorted the Queen from her palace of St. James to the airier, richer

palace of the working millions, the hall of vastest prophecy. They

arrived, a robed and jeweled procession of Princes and Embassadors—of

noble Ladies and noble Workers—the Duke of Wellington and Mr.

Paxton—the Master of the Buckhounds, Groom of the Stole, Gentleman

Usher of Sword and State, Gold Stick in Waiting, Silver Stick in

Waiting, and other such antediluvian absurdities—attended Her Majesty,

along with the Foreign Commissioners, Architects of the edifice, her

older children, and some other living verities, on her slow and measured

progress from side to side and end to end of the mighty convocation.

This strange mingling of the real with the shadowy, the apposite with

the obsolete, gave additional piquancy and zest to the spectacle. Had

the courtly symbols of an out-worn, out-grown feudal age appeared by

themselves, we might have taken them for some fanciful creation of a

mind diseased by reading Froisart and Walter Scott, and watched to see

them exhale like ghosts at cock-crowing; but here they are so mixed up

and blended with undeniable entities; with the solid and practical

Prince Albert; with our own portly and palpable Embassador; with that

world-known Celestial who accompanies and illustrates the Chinese Junk,

himself first of matter-of-fact conservatives—a walking, human

Junk—that we cannot refuse to credit its total verity, in spite of the

glaring anachronisms. Then there was a prosy though proper Address read

by Prince Albert as head of the Royal Commission to his Royal consort as

head of the kingdom, telling her how the Exhibition was first started,

and how it had moved onward till now—rather superfluous it must be

confessed, since they had doubtless talked the matter all over between

them a dozen times when much more at their ease, and in a far more

satisfactory manner; but Queens must endure and take part in some dreary

absurdities as well as other people. This speech was through in time,

and was very briefly and fittingly responded to. I trust the prayer

which the Archbishop of Canterbury sent up in behalf of us all was as

graciously received. There was some music, rather out of place and lost

in the vastness of space to all but the few immediately under the

Transept, and some other performances; but all in perfect order, in due

and punctual season, without a betrayal of awkwardness or conscious

incongruity. Between two and three o’clock the pageant was at an

end,—the Royal cortege departed, and the Exhibition formally opened.

Let me now try to give some general notion of its character, by glancing

at the more obvious details, so far as I, at this distance of time and

space, may be able to recall them.

There are doors on all sides, one or more devoted exclusively to the

reception of articles for exhibition; one for Jurors in attendance on

the Fair; others for the Police, the Royal visitors, &c.; while the main

entrances for paying visitors are upon the south side, into the

Transept. But we will enter one of the three or four doors at the east

end, and find ourselves at once in the excessive space devoted to

contributions from the United States, and which thence seems sparsely

filled. Before us are large collections of Lake Superior Native Copper,

as it was torn from the rock, in pieces from the size of a bean up to

one slab of more than a ton, though still but a wart beside some masses

which have been wrenched from the earth’s bosom, cut into manageable

pieces of two to three tons, and thus dispatched to the smelting furnace

and a market. New Jersey Zinc, from the ore to the powder, the paint,

the solid metal, is creditably represented; and there are specimens of

Adirondack Iron and Steel from Northern New-York which attract and

reward attention. Passing these and various cabinets or solitary

specimens of the Minerals of Maryland and other States, we are

confronted by abundant bales of Cotton, barrels of Wheat and of Flour,

casks of Rice, &c.; while various clusters of ears of our yellow and

white Indian Corn remind the English of one valued staple which our

climate abundantly vouchsafes and theirs habitually denies. The “Bay

State” Shawls of Lawrence, the Axes of Maine, the Flint Glass of

Brooklyn, the Daguerreotypes of New-York and Philadelphia, (whose

excellence was acknowledged from the first by nearly every critic,) next

salute us; and near them are the specimens of various Yankee Locks, and

in their midst the invincible Hobbs, a small, young, shrewd,

quiet-seeming Yankee, but evidently distinguished for penetration, who

would have made fewer enemies in England had he proved a less potent

master of his calling.

And now we are at the Grand Aisle, across which is the U. S.

Commissioner’s office, with that much ridiculed “pasteboard eagle”

displayed along its front, and certainly looking as if its appetite

would overtax any ordinary powers of digestion. In front of the office

are Yankee Stoves, Safes, Light Wagons, and Carriages, Plows and other

agricultural implements, including the since famous “Virginia Reaper,”

which was for months a butt of British journalistic waggery, having been

described by one Reporter as “a cross between an Astley’s chariot, a

flying machine, and a treadmill.” They spoke of it far more respectfully

after it had been set to work, with memorable results; and it must in

fairness be confessed that beauty is not its best point, and that while

nothing is more effective in a grain-field, many things would be more

comely in a drawing-room.

But let us return to the main aisle, and, starting at its eastern end,

proceed westward.

A model Railroad Bridge of wood and iron fills a very large space at the

outset, and is not deemed by British critics a brilliant specimen of

Yankee invention. (One of them, however, at length candidly confessed

that its capacity of endurance and of resistance must be very great, or

the weight of ridicule heaped upon it must inevitably have broken it

down long before.) Upon it is a handsome show of India Rubber fabrics by

Goodyear; while beyond it, toward the west, in a chosen locality in the

center of the isle, stands “the Greek Slave” of Powers, one of the

sweetest and most popular achievements of the modern chisel, here

constantly surrounded by a swarm of admirers; yet I think it not the

best of Powers’ works—I am half inclined to say not _among_ his best.

He has several stronger heads, possessing far more character, in his

studio at Florence; and yet I am glad this statue was in the Exhibition,

for it enabled the critics of the London press to say some really smart

things about Greek and American slaves, and the Slave as a

representative and masterpiece of American artistic achievement, which

that heavy metropolis could not well have spared. Let us not grudge them

a grin, even at our expense; for mirth promotes digestion, and the hit

in this instance is certainly a fair one. “The Dying Indian,” just

beside the Slave, by a younger and less famous American artist, is a

work of power and merit, though the delineation of agony and approaching

death can hardly be rendered pleasing. Is it not remarkable that a

chained and chattelized woman, and a wounded, dying Indian, should be

the subjects chosen by American sculptors for their two works whereby we

shall be most widely known in connection with this Exhibition?—But we

cross the imaginary line which here separates the United States from the

nations of Continental Europe, and look westward.

How magnificent the prospect! Far above is the sober sky of

canvass-covered glass, through which the abundant light falls gently and

mellowly. Spacious and richly decorated galleries, some sixty feet

apart, overhang all the ground floor but the grand aisle, and are

themselves the depositories of many of the richest and most tempting

fabrics and lighter wares exhibited. The aisle itself, farther than the

eye can reach, is studded with works of art; statues in marble, in

bronze, in plaster, in zinc; here a gigantic Amazon on horseback, there

a raging lion, a classic group, or a pair of magnificent bronze vases

enriched with exquisite representations of scenes from the

master-singers of antiquity. Busts, Casts, Medallions, and smaller

Bronzes abound; with elegant Clocks, Chandeliers, Cabinets, etc.; for

each nation whose department we pass has arranged its most enticing

products in front, so that they shall be seen from the grand aisle,

putting its homelier though in some cases intrinsically more valuable

productions in the back-ground. Russia’s superb tables and slabs of

richest Malachite stand just far enough out of the aisle within her

allotted space to draw thither the wandering gazer, to view her imperial

structures of gilded Porcelain, colored Glass and other barbaric

marvels. Austria has brought hither and put in order a suite of rooms

sumptuously furnished and ornamented according to her highest ideal of

taste and luxury. France displays in the fore-ground her admirable

Bronzes, Porcelain, Musical Instruments, etc.; and so Northern Germany,

Switzerland, Belgium, and other European states, each “puts its best

foot foremost,” in a sense hardly metaphorical. Behind these dainty and

rare fabrics are ranged others less difficult of achievement—costly

Silks and Laces; then Woolens and Muslins; and behind these you often

stumble on coils of Rope or Wire; bars of Steel or pigs of Iron; Saws,

Files, and Hammers; Stoves, Grates, and Furnaces; Bedsteads, Chairs, and

Lanterns—these, as you pass laterally from the dazzling glories of the

centre aisle, between the well-filled sub-compartments devoted to

fabrics of taste and adornment, will greet you before you reach the

outer walls. For the Crystal Palace has its homelier aspects, like any

other, and it but follows the general usage in keeping them as much in

the back-ground as possible.

But we pass on down the Grand Aisle, to the Transept or cross, where

both the height and width of the building are considerably increased, in

order, it would seem, to save two stately and beautiful trees (elms),

which here stand in opposition some two hundred feet apart. The Transept

embraces and covers both, leaving each ample room to grow and flourish;

while half-way between them, in the exact center of the Palace, a

spacious and copious Fountain, wholly of glass, throws its sparkling

torrent high into the air, whence it descends from crystal cup to cup,

each considerably wider than that next above it, until it reaches the

lowest and largest near the ground, thence gliding away unseen. There

are few finer effects in the Exhibition than this of the Crystal

Fountain, which utterly shames the Koh-i-Noor, or “Mountain of Light,”

said to be the largest diamond in the world, and computed worth several

millions of dollars, which, obviously over-guarded against robbery,

rests in its gilded cage beside the Fountain. No child, looking from one

to the other, ever suspected, until told it, that the Diamond was deemed

worth more than the Fountain. Here are displayed full-length portraits

of Queen Victoria and her husband—the latter, once handsome, now

gross-featured and rather heavy, but still a man of fair appearance,

good sense and varied information. The Queen, never beautiful, has

sacrificed her youthful freshness to the cares of maternity and the

exactions of late hours and luxurious living, so that at thirty-two she

looks plain and old—not in this portrait, but in her living self. But

uncommon energy, activity, shrewdness, with an earnest desire to please

her people and promote their welfare, still remain to her, and have

rendered her the most popular British Sovereign of the Guelphic family.

The Transept is the heart of the Exhibition, to which all currents

converge, from which all expeditions, whether of criticism or discovery,

take their departure. Here abound Marble Statues, gigantic Brazen Gates,

and other works of Art; while around it are located the fabrics of

Turkey and of China, of Australia, and of British America, which are as

interesting and instructive in their rudeness and clumsiness as others

in their grace and perfection. You could hardly realize without seeing

them what wretched contrivances for Candlesticks, Culinary Utensils,

Locks and Keys, etc., etc., are still slowly, toilsomely fabricated in

Turkey, in Barbary, and in other half-civilized countries. A decent

knowledge of the Useful Arts is yet confined to a few nations, and is

imperfectly diffused even in these. And here, too, is sad Italy, not

allowed to compete in her own name, but sending feeble and timid

contributions, as “Sardinia,” “Tuscany,” “Rome,” etc., nothing being

allowed to come from Naples. The Roman States, in the heart of ancient

Civilization, with Three Millions of People yet, fill half-a-page of the

Catalogue, or about one-seventeenth of the space required by the more

distant United States; while the beautiful Statuary of the School of

Milan, including the Veiled Vestal, one of the most original and

admirable works in the Exhibition, is set down to the credit of

_Austria_! There is a debtor as well as creditor side to that

Austro-Italian account, and settlement cannot be refused forever.

Great Britain and her Colonies engross the entire Western half of the

Exhibition, and fill it creditably. In the Fine Arts, properly so

called, she has probably less than a fourth of what is contributed; but

in Iron and its multiform products she has far more than all the World

beside. In Steam Engines and Force-Pumps, Looms and Anvils, Ores and

Castings, Buttons, Steel-Pens, etc., all the rest combined could not

compare with her. I doubt if the world ever before saw so complete and

instructive a collection of Ores and Minerals as are here brought

together, or that Geology was ever studied under auspices more favorable

than this collection would afford. Nearly every metal known to man may

here be seen, first as ore, and then in every stage up to that of

perfect adaptation to our various human needs. So in the department of

Machinery. I think no collection so varied and complete of Looms,

Presses, Mills, Pumps, Engines, etc., etc., was ever before grouped

under one roof.

The immense Manufacturing capacity and aptitude of Great Britain are

here abundantly represented. From the unequaled Shawls of Cashmere to

the fabrics woven of reeds or bark by Australian savages; from the Coal

of Pictou to the Spices of Ceylon; almost every thing which mankind have

agreed to value and consecrate as property, is collected in the western

half of the Crystal Palace, under the folds of the meteor flag, and

displayed as specimens of the products of Queen Victoria’s spacious

Realm. Here Manchester unrolls her serviceable fabrics, and Birmingham

displays her cheap and varied wares; here Sheffield, Glasgow, Belfast,

and other centers of a vast manufacturing activity, solicit your

attention to whatever is most showy or most substantial among their

multiform productions. Gilded Fire-places of silver-shining steel, or

snowy, speckless marble; vessels of Iron, of Clay, or of Tin; Robes and

Couches, Cannon and Bibles, Grind-stones and Pianos, by turns arrest the

gaze in a bewildering medley, which yet is not quite confusion; for most

of the articles are roughly classified, and the vast area is divided

into an infinity of apartments, or “courts,” closed at the sides, which

are covered with cards of their proper wares, as is often the end

farthest from the center aisle, and sometimes a good part of the front

also. Behind each court is an open passage-way, walled in by displays

usually of homely wares and fabrics, mainly of iron, or brass, and

behind these again are other courts, more open and irregular than the

former, devoted to Castings, Metals, Ores, and the ruder forms of

mineral wealth, occasionally giving place to the Refreshment Saloons

wherewith the Palace is abundantly provided—to Committee Rooms, Jury

Rooms, and other incidents of the Exhibition. And, thus environed, we

move on, westward, until the grand Machinery Room absorbs henceforth the

entire space to the north of us, the hum of its innumerable Wheels,

Rotary Pumps, Looms, Spinning-Jennies, Flax-Dressers, Printing-Presses,

etc., etc., at all times audible from the distant center of the Palace,

in spite of well-directed efforts to drown it. At last we reach the

western doorway, half-obstructed by gigantic Bells and other bulky

Manufactures, beyond which is the naked Park, or would be but for the

still huger blocks of Coal, Stone, etc., for which no place could be

made within the building—and our journey is at an end.

But no—we have not yet mounted to the upper story, whither four broad

and spacious stairways in different parts of the building invite us.

Here is a new immensity of Silks and Scarfs, of Millinery and costly

Furniture, including illustrations of the Spaniard’s ideal of sumptuous

magnificence: here Belgium has tried her hand at bronzes with

indifferent, and at castings with considerable success: here the finest

achievements in Paper-Hanging and Window-Shading adorn the walls for

hundreds of feet, some of the spacious curtains scarcely inferior in

effect to any but the very best paintings; while the thousand costly

trifles born of Parisian art and elegance vie with London’s less

graceful but more massive creations in filling the vast amphitheatre

with wealth beyond the wildest dreams of a Sindbad or Alladin. Such

Pyramids of Jewelry and Plate were never before collected under one

roof. Clusters of Pearls and Diamonds, each a generous fortune, are here

lost in the ocean of magnificence; a single firm has One Million

Dollars’ worth within a moderate compass; while the displays of rivals

in pandering to luxury and ostentation stretch on either hand as far as

the vision can reach. The industry and practical genius of Britain are

evinced in the Machinery and serviceable Fabrics below, but her

unequalled riches and aristocratic pomp are more vividly depicted here.

But the eyes ache, the brain reels, with this never-ending succession of

the sumptuous and the gorgeous; one glimpse of sterile heath, bare sand,

or beetling crag, would be a sensible relief. Wearily we turn away from

this maze of sensual delights, of costly luxuries, and listlessly wander

to that part of the gallery nearest the Transept, with its towering

Elms, its Crystal Fountain, its gigantic Brazen Gates, its Statues, its

Royal Portraits, and Caged Diamond; but these we do not care to look

upon again. Man is nobler than the works of his hands; let us pause and

observe. Hark! the clock strikes ten; the gates are opened; the crowds

which had collected before them begin to move. No tickets are used; no

change given; it is a “shilling day,” and whoever approaches any of the

gates which open to the general public must have his shilling in hand,

so as to pay without stopping the procession as he passes in. In twenty

minutes our scattered, straggling band of Jurors, Exhibitors, Policemen

and servitors will have been swelled by at least ten thousand gazers;

within the hour fifteen thousand more have added themselves to the

number; by one o’clock the visitors have increased to fifty thousand:

every corner and nook swarm with them; even the alleys and other

standing room in the gallery are in good part blocked with them; but the

wave-like, endless procession which before and below us sweeps up and

down the Central Aisle is the grand spectacle of all. From our elevated

and central position almost the entire length of this magnificent

promenade is visible, from the pasteboard eagle of America on the east

to the massive bells and other heavy British products which mark the

western door, though the view is somewhat broken by a few towering

trophies of artistic skill, to which places have been assigned at

intervals in the middle of the aisle, leaving a broad passage-way on

either side. Far as the eye can reach, a sea of human heads is

presented, denser toward the center just before us, but with scarcely an

interruption any where. The individuals which make up this marching

array are moving in opposite directions, or turning off to the right or

to the left, and so lost to our view in “Austria,” “Russia,”

“Switzerland,” or “France;” but the river flows on unchecked,

undiminished, though the particular drops we gazed on a minute ago have

passed from our view for ever. Still, mainly from the South, a steady

stream of new comers, fifty to a hundred per minute, is pouring in to

join the eager throng, but scarcely suffice to swell it. The

machinery-room, the galleries, the side-passages, the refreshment

saloons, absorb as fast as the in-flowing current can supply; until,

about three o’clock, the tide turns, and the departures thence exceed

the arrivals. At length the hour of six strikes, and the edifice is

quietly, noiselessly vacated and closed.

But this vast tide of life, which ebbs and flows beneath our gaze as we

stand in the gallery, near as we may to the Crystal Fount, is not a mere

aggregation of human beings. London, herself a mimic world, has sent

hither not merely her thousands but her tens. Among that moving mass you

may recognize her ablest and her wisest denizens—her De la Beche, her

Murchison, her Brewster, and others honorably distinguished in the

arduous paths of Science. Here, too, are her Cobden, her Sturge, her

Russell, and others eminent in council and in legislative halls. Of the

Peers who make her their winter residence, the names of Canning,

Granville, Wharncliffe, Argyle, De Mauley and others are honorably

connected with the Exhibition, to which they give their time as Jurors;

and they are among its almost daily visitors, mainly distinguished by

their quiet bearing and simple, unpretending manners. And there, too,

may be often seen the age-enfeebled frame of her veteran Wellington, the

victor in so many hard-fought fields and the final vanquisher of the

greatest of modern warriors. Though his eye is dim and his step no

longer firm, the conqueror of Hindostan, the liberator of the Peninsula,

the victor of Waterloo, still emphatically “the Duke,” is among the most

absorbed and constant visitors of the great Exhibition, carefully

scanning the more interesting objects in detail, and gazing by the hour

on achievements so different from those of Assays, Salamanca and the

Chateau of Hougomont. Do those dull ears, though deafened by twenty

years’ familiarity with the roar of artillery, catch some prophetic

premonition of the New Age dawning upon mankind, wherein Carnage and

Devastation shall no more secure the world’s proudest honors, while

Invention and Production sink into unmarked graves? Sees that dim eye,

rekindled for a moment by the neighborhood of death, the approach of

that glorious era wherein Man the creator and beautifier shall be

honored and feted and Man the destroyer discrowned? His furrowed brow,

his sunken eye, return no answer to our eager question, as he slowly,

thoughtfully plods on.

But not London, not England, alone: the Civilized World is here strongly

represented. America and Russia, France and Austria, Belgium and Spain,

have here their Commissioners, their Notables, their _savans_, earnestly

studying the Palace and its contents, eager to carry away something

which shall be valued and useful at home. A Yankee Manufacturer passes

rapidly through the Machinery-room until his eye rests on a novel

combination for weaving certain fabrics, when, after watching it

intently for a few minutes, he claps his hands and exclaims in

unconscious, irrepressible enthusiasm, “That will pay my expenses for

the trip!” On every side sharp eyes are watching, busy brains are

treasuring, practical fingers are testing and comparing. Here are shrewd

men from the ends of the earth: can it be that they will go home no

wiser than they came? Many are here officially, and under pay from their

respective governments; some of them sent out of compliment to Her

Majesty, who specially invited the coöperation of their masters; but

there are skillful artificers, and mechanics also, from Paris, from

Brussels, and from far Turin, sent here by subscription expressly that

they may study, profit by and diffuse the Arts here exhibited in

perfection. About the pleasantest fellow _I_ met in London was a Turkish

official, military by profession, born a Frenchman, but naturalized at

Stamboul, who spoke good English and seemed to understand the world very

fairly, though (I judge) rather less a Saint than a Philosopher. The

noblest and truest man I encountered in Europe was a Belgian

Manufacturer and Juror; and though there were doubtless many unworthy

persons attracted to London by the novel spectacle, I doubt whether any

General Council of the Christian Church has ever convened an assemblage

on the whole superior, morally and intellectually, to that summoned to

London by the great Exhibition.

So much for the Crystal Palace and its Contents. And now of its Lessons.

I rank first among these that of the practicability and ultimate

certainty of Universal Peace. There have been several amateur Peace

Congresses after a fashion; but I esteem this the first satisfactory

working model of a Peace Congress. The men of the Sword and their

champions tell us that Nations _will not_ submit their conflicting

claims and jarring interests to the chances of Arbitration; but here

they _did_ it, and with the most satisfactory results. Individual

heart-burnings there must ever be; cases of injustice, neglect of merit,

and partiality; there probably were; but as a whole, the award of Prizes

at the Fair was discriminating and satisfactory. If the representatives

of rival nations there assembled had set to fighting for the honor and

credit of their several countries; hired all the bravoes and marketable

ruffians they could find to help them; run in debt for more than they

were worth; and finally burned up the Glass Palace with all its contents

in the heat of the fray—who imagines that the result would have been

more conclusive and satisfactory than it now is? Yet the contrast

between the settlement of National differences by War and by Arbitration

is as favorable to the latter mode as in the parallel case of rival

pretensions to superiority in Art and Industry.

But while I hold that Arbitration is the true mode of settling National

differences, and War at all times a blunder and a crime on the part of

those who wage it, refusing to arbitrate, I do _not_ therefore hold that

those who seek only justice should disarm and proclaim their unqualified

adhesion to the doctrines of Non-Resistance, and thus invite the despot,

the military adventurer, the pirate, to overrun and ravage at their

will. I do not believe that peace and justice are in this way

attainable, but by quite a different, an almost opposite course. Let the

lovers of Freedom and Right repudiate all standing armies, all military

conquests, under any conceivable circumstances—all aggressive

interference in the domestic concerns of other nations; but let each

People be essentially prepared to resist tyranny at home and repel

invasion from abroad, each with its own chosen weapons when others shall

have proved ineffective. Let the just and pacific take up a position

which says to the restless and rapacious, “Be quiet, and do not put us

to the disagreeable necessity of quieting you, which you see we are

perfectly able to do,”—then and thus we may hope for peace; but not

while the “old man,” absolutely relies on driving off the “rude boys”

who are “stealing his apples,” with “words and grass” only.

Akin to this is my view of the question of regulated or unrestricted

Trade between Nations, which worthily holds so prominent a place in the

popular discussions of our time. That men should buy and sell precisely

as their several interests (real or fancied) shall dictate, without

interference therewith or tax thereon by Governments,—this is a very

natural and popular demand, which clearly harmonizes with a prevailing

tendency of our time, whereof the deification of the individual will and

pleasure is the end. But, standing amidst this labyrinth of British

machinery, this wilderness of European fabrics, I cannot but ask,—How,

with totally unregulated trade, is the all but resistless tendency of

Manufactures and Commerce to Centralization to be resisted? How, for

instance, shall we rationally hope for the rapid, extensive

naturalization of new Arts, the establishment of new and difficult

branches of Manufacture, requiring large capital, practiced skill and

ample markets to ensure their success, in any quarter of the globe but

Europe, while that continent remains the focus of the world’s commercial

activity and thrift? Suppose, for example, an American should be able to

produce the richest and most tasteful fabrics of the French or Flemish

looms as cheaply as, or even _more_ cheaply than, his European

rivals,—what are his chances for success in the manufacture? Are there

ships departing from _our_ seaports daily to every inhabited portion of

the earth, laden with the assorted cargoes of ordered and anxiously

expected _American_ fabrics? Have we great mercantile houses engaged in

buying up such American fabrics for exportation? Nay, do our own

Countrywomen stand ready to buy his Bareges or Laces at the prices which

they are daily and freely paying for just such goods from Europe?

Suppose he _could_ fabricate a hundred thousand pieces per annum at the

lowest possible price for which they can be made in Europe, could he

sell them as fast as produced? No, he could not; he does not. The

producers in immediate proximity to, in intimate relations with, the

“merchant princes” of Europe, who are the life-long factors of the

traders of India, of Australia, of Asia Minor, Africa and Russia, have

an immense advantage over any rivals located on the Western Continent,

or at any similar distance from the commercial centers of Western

Europe. The rule that “To him who hath shall be given, while from him

who hath not shall be taken away even that he hath,” is perpetually and

powerfully operative to concentrate the Manufactures and Trade of the

world upon London, Paris, and their out-of-town workshops, which, for

all commercial purposes, are a part of themselves. This Centralization,

unchecked, tends to depopulate and barbarize the rest of the earth to

build up a bloated and factitious prosperity in Western Europe—a

prosperity whereof the Laboring Millions are instruments, not sharers—a

prosperity whereof a few immense fortunes, amassed at the cost of the

world’s impoverishment, are the sole enduring trophies. The system which

in the name of Free Trade is calculated to secure a monopoly of

Production and Commerce in all but the ruder Arts and Manufactures to

Great Britain, France and Germany, tends to tax the food-grower and the

artisan half the value of their respective products for the cost of

transporting them to and exchanging them with each other, and so keep

them in perpetual vassalage and debt to the “merchant princes,” instead

of rendering them neighbors and direct exchangers, and thus saving the

heavy cost of reaching each other across an ocean and a continent. These

convictions are not new to me, but they were strengthened by weeks of

earnest observation in the Crystal Palace. More and more was I there

convinced that Price is not an infallible measure of Cost, and that a

foreign fabric is not proved cheaper than a home-made one because it is

purchased in preference, nor even because it is sold at a lower price.

If the whole Earth is ever to be truly Civilized, it must be by the

diffusion of the Useful Arts and their Machinery rather than of their

finished products. If Universal Labor is ever to be constantly employed

and fairly rewarded, it must be through a more direct and intimate

relation of laborer with laborer; not through the system of complexity,

aggregation and needless expense wherein the grain-grower of Illinois

hires, through half a dozen intermediates, his Iron made in Wales, and

sends his grain thither to pay for the work, instead of having it done

at the ore-bed in his township, with the coal which underlies the whole

County. I know how strong is the current against this view of Labor’s

true interest, but the world will refuse to be ruled by names and

plausibilities for ever.

But the Crystal Palace has other lessons for us than those of Political

Economy—it has Social suggestions as well. Here are Hollow Brick,

destined, I think, to supersede nearly all others, saving half the

expense of solid brick for material and transportation; being far more

quickly and cheaply burned; far more easily handled and laid; rendering

houses entirely free from dampness, less susceptible to Summer’s heat

and Winter’s cold, while proffering new facilities for warming,

ventilation, &c. The invention and diffusion of this Brick alone seem to

me worth to mankind the cost of the Exhibition. Here, too, is Claussen,

with his Flax discoveries and processes, whereby the entire fiber of the

plant is separated from the woody matter of the stalk and rendered as

soft, fine, white and tractable as the choicest Sea-Island Cotton, which

it greatly resembles; while, by a little change in the mode of preparing

it, it is made closely to imitate Linen, Cotton or Woolen, and to blend

freely in the same web with either. The worth of this discovery to

mankind can hardly be over-estimated. Here, too, is his Circular Loom,

steadily weaving bags without a seam, and capable of infinite varieties

of practical application. Here is McCormick, with his masterly Reaper,

cutting as clean as Death’s scythe, and almost as rapidly; so that the

field of waving grain, which the eye could scarcely measure in the

morning, has been transformed by it into a field of naked stubble before

evening. Here is Ericsson, with his new Caloric Engine, threatening to

reduce steam to its primary insignificance—as, indeed, hundreds have

_threatened_ before, but as yet none have quite accomplished. Let us

hope that some of the present noble strivers will be more successful;

for, indeed, steam, though it has done the world good service, is a most

expensive ally; the great bulk and weight of fuel and water it requires

to have carried along with it have rendered it thus far entirely useless

for locomotive purposes except on a liquid or metallic track: while the

frequent stoppages it exacts, the nicety of management it demands, and

the serious disasters its use involves, unite to proclaim that a blessed

day in which mankind shall be able to dispense with it. Whether

Ericsson, Page, or some other “visionary,” shall achieve for us that

victory, I dare not predict; but that its achievement is close at hand,

I affirm with undoubting confidence.

A kindred improvement is about to be inaugurated in the more extended

and diversified employment of Gas. A hundred models of Gas Stoves, Gas

Burners, Gas Cooking Ranges, etc., were exhibited at the Fair, each

warranted, (as usual,) to save half the fuel and render treble the

service of any other; yet I was not able to designate any one of them as

particularly meritorious, nor did the Jury on this department award a

premium to any. All seems yet crude and infantile in this field of

invention. Yet the study of the various models and contrivances for

Gas-burning there presented, fixed me in the novel faith that Gas is

ultimately to be not only the main agent of illumination but the chief

fuel also of all cities and villages; that the time is at hand when the

head of a family, the solitary lodger, requiring either heat or light,

will simply touch a bell in his own room and be supplied with the

indicated quantity of Gas, whether for culinary purposes, for warmth,

for light, or altogether; and that thus the cost, the trouble, the dust,

of making fires in all parts of a building, carrying fuel thither and

removing ashes therefrom, will be obviated; and a single fire,

constantly maintained, subserve admirably the purpose of them all,

saving the labor and cost of five hundred wasteful kindlings and

clearings, beside affording heat at the moment it is wanted, and

stopping its consumption the instant the want is satisfied.

This is but one among a thousand noiseless agencies constantly preaching

the advantages and economies of Combination, and indicating the

certainty that through Coöperation lies the way whereby Labor is to

emerge from bondage, anxiety and need into liberty and assured

competence. This truth, long apparent to the eye of Reason, threatens to

be made palpable even to stolidity and stagnation by the sharp spur of

Necessity. Rude, rugged Labor must organize itself for its appointed

task of production, or it will soon have nothing to do. It must

concentrate its energies for the creation of commodious and economical

homes, or it will have no home but the Union Work-house. It must save

and combine its earnings, for the purchase and command of Machinery; or

Machinery, owned by and working for Capital alone, will reduce it to

insignificance, want, and despair.

On every side the onward march of Invention is constant, rapid,

inexorable. The human Reaper of thirty years ago, finds to-day a machine

cutting grain twenty times as fast as ever he could; he gets three days’

work as its waiter, where he formerly had three weeks’ steady

harvesting: the work is as well done as of old, and far cheaper; but his

share of the product is sadly diminished. The Planing Machine does the

work of two hundred men admirably, and pays moderate wages to three or

four; the Sewing Machine of moderate cost, performs easily and cheaply

the labors of forty seamstresses; but all the seamstresses in the world

probably do not own the first machine. And so muscular force, or _mere_

Labor, becomes daily more and more a drug in the market, shivers at the

approach of winter, cringes lower and lower at the glance of a

machine-lord or landlord, and vainly paces street after street, with

weary limbs and sinking heart, in quest of “something to do.”

The only effectual remedy for this deplorable state and still more

deplorable tendency is found not in Destruction but in Construction, not

in Anarchy and war on the rights of Property, but in Order and the

creation of more property by and for the Poor—not in envy and hatred of

the Rich, but in general study and imitation of the forecast and

frugality by which they were made rich, which are as potent this hour as

they ever were, and which wise Coöperation will render effective for the

Poor of to-day. In this country, where so much land is still

unappropriated and the legal right of Association is absolute and

universal, the Laboring Classes are masters of their own destiny, and

that of their brethren throughout the world. A thousand young men,

inured to labor and as yet unburthened with families, can save at least

one hundred dollars each in the space of two years if they will; and by

wisely and legally combining this in a capital of $100,000, investing it

judiciously in Land, Machinery and Buildings, under the direction of

their ablest and most responsible members, they may be morally certain

henceforth of constant employment for each, under circumstances which

will ensure them the utmost efficiency and the full reward of their

labor. To Woman, whose work is still more depressed and still more

meagerly rewarded, the means of securing emancipation and just

recompense are substantially the same. The workers, in every department

of industry, may secure and own the Machinery best calculated to give

efficiency to their labor, if they will but unitedly, persistently try.

Through the scientific Association of Labor and Capital, three-fourths

of them may within five years accomplish this, while by heedlessness and

isolated competition they are sure to miss it, and see their condition

grow gradually worse and worse. Labor working _against_ Machinery is

inevitably doomed, as the present condition of the hand-loom weavers all

over the globe sufficiently attests; Labor working _for_ Machinery, in

which it has no interest, can obtain in the average but a scanty,

precarious and diminishing subsistence; while to Labor working _with_

Machinery which it owns and directs, there are ample recompense, steady

employment, and the prospect of gradual improvement. Such is one of the

great truths confirmed by the lessons of the Crystal Palace.

Another truth forcibly taught there is that of the steadiness of the

march of Invention and the infinite capacity of the laws and forces of

Nature to minister more and more readily and amply to the sustenance and

comfort of Man. We are obviously as yet on the bare threshold of

chemical discovery and mechanical contrivance for the benefit of Man.

The inventor of the steam engine still lived within the memory of many

of us; yet even he never dreamed of the stupendous improvements already

made on his invention, and the infinite adaptations to human wants of

which it is fully proved susceptible. A first-class North River or Sound

Steam-boat, much more an Atlantic Steam-ship, would have astounded even

_him_. But though the capacities of Steam are not half exhausted, we

grow dissatisfied with its performance and impatient of its conditions;

we demand its power without its weight, its bulk, its cost, its

explosive tendencies, or rather those of the elements from which it is

evolved—and Electricity, Air, Gunpowder, and other potencies are

analyzed and interrogated in quest of the most advantageous

substitute—a search which will ultimately achieve success. The only

question is one of time. So in every department of mechanics and

manufactures: The victory of to-day opens the path to grander and more

beneficent victories to-morrow. There never was a single mind capable of

conceiving and working out the idea of the Power Printing-Press of

to-day, nor that of the best Carpet-Looms and Paper-Mills in use; each

has been produced by gradual, step-by-step improvement; the goal of one

inventor serving as the starting-point of his successor; and often an

invention which failed to subserve its intended purpose has been found

eminently useful in a very different sphere and connection; or, after

having been cast aside as worthless, has supplied the necessary hint to

another inventor, who has been guided by it to a new achievement of

signal beneficence. No real penetration into the arcana of Nature’s

forces was ever fruitless or unsuggestive. The unpractical side of a

newly discovered scientific truth indicates the position and nature of

the practical side as well. To my mind nothing is clearer than this—the

immense strides and vast scope of invention and discovery during the

last age, render morally certain the achievement of far more and greater

triumphs during the like period just before us. The Railway and its

train are by no means the utmost possibilities of over-land locomotion;

the Telegraph is not the last word of electricity; the Steam-ship is not

the acme of Ocean navigation. These ennobling triumphs herald others

which shall swiftly succeed them; and so in all the departments of

applied science. And among the agencies which aided and accelerated the

march of Invention, which impelled the car of Industrial Progress, I

doubt not that our children, looking back on that progress from heights

whereof we can but vaguely dream, will honorably distinguish the World’s

Exhibition of 1851.

Nor can we hesitate to class among the lasting benefits of this

Exhibition the wider and deeper appreciation of Labor as a chief source

of human enjoyment and a ground of respect and honor for its votaries, I

know how little sincerity or depth there is in the usual Fourth-of-July

declamation in behalf of the dignity of Labor, the nobleness of Labor,

and the like, by men who never did a _bona fide_ day’s work with their

hands unless absolutely driven to it, and who would be ashamed of being

caught wheeling a barrow or wielding a spade, unless absolutely for

exercise or pastime; yet, since “Hypocrisy is the homage which Vice pays

to Virtue,” even this empty glorification of Labor has some value as a

demonstration, if not of what the fortunate think, at least of what they

think they ought to think. But the tribute paid to Labor in the Great

Exhibition was far deeper and higher than this. Here were tens of

thousands gathered daily to study and admire the chosen products of the

loom, the forge, the shop, the studio; nine-tenths of them from no other

impulse than that afforded by the pleasure and instruction found

therein. Can all this sink into the ground and be forgotten? Shall not

we, for instance, who presume ourselves better appreciators of labor

than the gilded aristocracies and squalid peasantries of Europe, think

more of Industrial capacity since we feel that our country was saved

from disgrace at this grand tournament of Industry by the genius of

Hobbs, of Steers, of Dick, of McCormick? And shall not the Dukes, the

Lords, the Generals, the Honorables, who met from day to day to inspect,

scrutinize, compare and judge the rival products of England, France,

Germany and America, in order to award the palm of excellence to the

worthiest in each department—who severally felt a thrill of pleasure

when a countryman bore off the palm, and a pang of disappointment and

chagrin when none such was found entitled to commendation,—shall they

not henceforth hold in juster esteem the sphere of Creative Art wherein

such trophies were lost or won? I cannot doubt the beneficent influence

of this Exhibition, both in inspiring workers with a clearer

consciousness of the quiet dignity of their own sphere, and in

diffusing, deepening, a corresponding appreciation in the minds of

others. If so, who shall say that the Great Exhibition was held in vain?

Yet one more lesson: The “World’s Fair” shall teach us the cheering

truth that there is rightfully no such thing as “Over-Production,” or a

glut in the Labor market. There may be mis-directed, wasted, useless or

worse than useless Industry, like that devoted to the fabrication of

implements of Gaming or Intoxicating Beverages; but of the Labor and

Skill devoted to the production of whatever is needful, is tributary to

Man’s physical sustenance, intellectual and moral culture, or material

comfort, there are not and cannot be too much. If all were to insist on

being employed and subsisted in the fabrication of Hats or of Chintzes,

of Pianos or Wall-paper, there would of course be a glut in that

particular department, but a corresponding deficiency in others. Not

until every family shall be provided with a commodious and comfortable

habitation, and that habitation amply supplied with food and fuel not

only, but with Clothing, Furniture, Books, Maps, Charts, Globes, Musical

Instruments, and every other auxiliary to Moral and Intellectual growth

as well as to Physical comfort, can we rationally talk of excessive

Production. There is no such thing as general Over-Production, and can

be none. Immense as the collection of useful products which the Crystal

Palace enfolds, it is yet but a drop in the bucket when compared with

the far vaster aggregate required to satisfy the legitimate wants even

of Europe alone, though that is by far the best supplied of the four

quarters of the globe. If each dwelling in wealthy and profusely

manufacturing England alone were to be fitly and adequately furnished

from the existing stores, the undertaking would very soon dismantle not

merely the Crystal Palace but nearly all the shops and ware-houses in

the Kingdom. There is at no time a lack of employment because no more

needed work remains undone, but only because the machinery of Production

has not yet been so adjusted and perfected as to bring the Work and the

Workers into their rightful and fruitful relation. Up and down the

streets of every great city wander thousands after thousands, seeking

work from day to day, and seeking it in vain, when they themselves would

reciprocally afford a demand for each other’s labor, a market for each

other’s products, if they could but be placed where they truly belong.

Several know how to spin Cotton, Flax or Wool; others to weave them all

into fabrics; and still others to fashion them into the garments whereof

the unemployed nearly all stand in need; while other thousands of this

hungry multitude know how to grow the grain, and dig or cut the fuel,

and make the bread, which are essential to them all. Then why roam this

haggard legion from day to day, from week to week, from month to month,

idle, anxious, famished, tattered, miserable, and despairing? Do you

answer that they lack Industrial training, and thence productive

efficiency? Then, I tell you, the greater shame to us, practical workers

or in some sense capitalists, who, realizing their defect and how it

crushes them to the earth—realizing, at least, that they must live

somehow, and that, so long as they may remain idle, their sustenance

must come out of our earnings or our hoards—still look vacantly,

stupidly on, and see them flounder ever in this tantalizing and

ultimately devouring whirlpool, without stretching forth a hand to

rescue and save them. As individuals, the few can do little or nothing;

but as the State the whole might do much—every thing—for these poor,

perishing stragglers. As I look out upon their ill-directed, incoherent,

ineffective efforts to find work and bread, they picture themselves on

my mind’s eye as disjointed fragments and wrecks of humanity—mere

heads, or trunks, or limbs—(oftener “hands”)—torn apart by some

inscrutable Providence, and anxiously, dumbly awaiting the creative

word, the electric flash, which can alone recombine and restore them to

their proper integrity and practical efficiency. That word no individual

has power to speak; but Society, the State, the Commonwealth, may

readily pronounce it. Let the State but decree—“There shall be work for

every one who will do it; but no subsistence in pauper idleness for any

save the incapable of working”—and all will be transformed. Take the

orphan from the cellar, the beggar from the street, the petty filcher

from the crowded wharves, and place them all where they must earn their

bread, and in earning it acquire the capacity to labor efficiently for

themselves—this is a primary dictate of Public Economy no less than of

enlightened Philanthropy. Palaces vaster and more commodious than Paxton

ever dreamed of might be built and furnished by the labor which now

wears itself out in vain attempts to find employment—by the application

of faculties now undeveloped or perverted to evil ends. Only let Society

recognize and accept its duty to find work for all who can find none for

themselves, and the realm of Misery and Despair will be three-fourths

conquered at a blow by Industry, Thrift and Content.

—But it is time the World’s Fair were closed, or at least this meager

account of it. The year 1852 has sterner work in hand, in presence of

which this wondrous bazaar would seem out of place and incongruous. Haul

down, then, those myriad banners, now streaming so peacefully from its

roof in the common breeze and flapping each other so lovingly; they

shall full soon be confronted in the red field where the destinies of

Mankind must be decided, the liberties of Nations lost and won. Roll out

these lumbering cannon, sleeping here side by side so quietly,

uncharged, unmounted, the play-things of idle boys and the gazing-stock

of country clowns, who wonder what they mean; their iron throats shall

tell a fearful tale amid the steadfast ranks and charging columns of the

Battle Summer before us. Gray veterans from many lands, leaning on your

rusty swords, and stirring each other’s recollections of Badajoz,

Austerlitz, Leipsic, and Quatre Bras—shake hands once more and part,

for the skies are red with the gathering wrath of nations, and air-borne

whispers that Kossuth is once more free, are troubling the sleep of

tyrants. Ho! Royal Butcher of Naples! you would not let your subjects

visit or enjoy the Exhibition of 1851; rest assured that they will bear

a part, and you with them, in the grander, vaster exhibition of 1852.

False juggler of the Elysée Bourbon! beware the ides of May, and learn,

while not too late, that Republican France has other uses for her armed

sons than that of holding sacerdotal despots on their detested thrones.

Kingly perjuror of Prussia! you have sworn and broken the last oath to

observe and maintain a liberal constitution to which your abused and

betrayed people will ever hearken from your lips. Prepare for a

reckoning in which perfidy shall no more avail you! Grim Autocrat of the

icy North! the coming summer has work in store for _your_ relentless

legions, not alone this time on the Danube, but on the Rhine, the Oder,

the Vistula, as well.—Tear down, then, this fragile structure of glass

and lath! too slight to breast the rugged shocks of the whirlwind year

before us. Ere we meet again as workers to test the fineness of our

rival fabrics, the strength of our metals, the draft of our plows, we

must vindicate by the mailed hand our right as men to speak, and think,

and be. Before us lowers the last decisive struggle of the Millions of

Europe for Justice, Opportunity and Freedom; let not its iron hail

appal, its crimson torrents revolt us; for the Bow of Promise gleams

through its lurid cloud, and the Dove of Peace shall soon be seen

hovering over the assuaging waters, fit harbinger of a new and more

auspicious era for Freedom and enduring Concord—for Industry and Man!

* * * * *

THE MOTHER’S ANSWER.

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORE.

Which do I love best? Question strange is thine!

Dost ask a mother which she loveth best,

Of the fair children that a hand divine

In tender love hath lain upon her breast?

Which do I love best? When our first-born came,

And his low wailing filled my darkened room

On my soul’s altar glowed an incense-flame,

And light ineffable dispersed the gloom

And since that hour, heart-music rare and sweet

Hath floated through my spirit’s inmost cell;

Oft hath its low peal given me strength to meet

Alike Care’s thrall and Pleasure’s luring spell.

And I have felt there was a holier power

In the charmed-words of _mother_ and _wife_,

Than in the brightest dreams of girlhood’s hour,

When young Romance flung glittering hues o’er life.

Our first-born—blessings on him!—he hath been

For four short years our treasure and our pride,

With his fair, open brow, and eye serene,

And winning ways of mirth and thought allied.

And now upon my breast a babe is nestling,

With her dear father’s eyes of darkest hue,

And dark brown hair upon her forehead resting,

And rose-bud mouth, just meet for kisses too.

Her very helplessness doth plead for love;

Yet of no sudden growth mine own hath been,

Taught by an instinct springing from above,

The mother loves her child, although unseen.

And ere her large, soft eyes had seen the light,

I longed to clasp her to my yearning heart

For then I knew what rapturous delight—

Pure, strong, deep mother-love, can aye impart.

Mine is a love-lit and love-guarded path;

Green is the turf my foot hath ever pressed;

Mine are the choicest gifts affection hath—

I cannot tell thee which I love the best!

* * * * *

A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the

District Court of the United States for the District of

Massachusetts.]

(_Continued from page 384._)

PART SECOND.

THE FIRST VOYAGE.

I learned to believe that there is something beyond the anguish of a

lover, or a husband, in the death of one beloved. I learned to think

that an acquired tie is never so strong as a natural one.

The whole course of life is a series of mistakes—made and corrected;

and this was one of them. The agony of the bereaved father was far

greater than my own, although I thought that I loved poor Louise as

strongly as it was possible for a husband to love—although I knew that

I loved her now far more than even before I became her husband.

I was not then aware that there is a love beyond that which I then

felt—a love, compared with which, a father’s, though it may be as

enduring, must be more cold.

We laid her in the still, still grave. We mingled our tears together,

and returned to the house, now solitary to us both. We said not a word

of future plans. We made no arrangements. We dealt with no business. The

life and the love that was gone, was a bond between us, which seemed

both to him and me, unseverable. At first, I gave way to my grief—sat

in the little room that had been hers. Wept by the side of the bed where

she had lain in my arms, and in the arms of death, and writhed under the

first great disappointment of my earthly hopes. Oh, how sweet, how

beautiful, how pleasant was her memory, and how bitter, how terrible the

thought that I could never hold her to my heart again.

For two days I was brutally selfish—I thought only of myself, and of my

sad, sad loss. In the last week, I had learned to love her more than I

ever loved her before. It seemed, indeed, as if we had become one, and

that my heart lay dead with hers in the cold earth.

I was roused from this sort of stupor by the old woman-servant coming in

as I sat there, and saying in her simple way—

“Ah! sir, it is very sad, indeed, for you, but there is one who has a

sadder fate than yours. In heaven’s name, shake off your sorrow, and go

and see him. You are young, and he is old. You have long years, and,

perhaps, bright days before you. He has nothing but darkness and

solitude between him and the grave. You have lost one whom you loved

well, but you have time, perhaps, to love again. But he has lost the

only one, and can love no more. Go and see him, sir. Go and see him; for

her whole heart was in you, and he will think that his child’s spirit

comes back to visit him with her husband. He has not broken bread,” she

added, “since we laid her on that bed, and there is no sorrow, like an

old man’s sorrow for the death of his only one.”

I took the good creature’s hands in mine, and wrung them hard, though I

could not speak, and went forth to seek the bereaved father.

I found him in his old room, with half-a-dozen books at his feet—tried,

and thrown down upon the floor. All his activity was gone. He was quiet

and still enough now; but when he saw me, he started up, and we ran into

each other’s arms, as father and son, weeping very bitterly.

We never mentioned her name, and I do not recollect that, during the

whole fortnight I remained there, he ever alluded to her except upon one

occasion, and that was, when we were on the eve of parting.

First, however, let me say how we came to part at all. Our minds had

become a little more calmed. We sat together, and sometimes conversed.

He had resigned his professorship, took no interest in any thing which

had pleased and amused him before, and saw no one but myself and one or

two old friends. One day, however, while we were seated together, not

talking, but with our eyes fixed upon vacancy, and our thoughts resting

on the past, the Chief of Police came in, and spoke to him in a whisper.

The old man’s attention was soon roused, and as he had a great hatred of

secret communications, he answered and asked questions in a loud tone,

which soon made me aware of the following facts: that France extending

her aggressions far and wide, and at this time exercising a sort of

Dictatorship over Prussia, under whose Protectorate Hamburgh was

supposed to be, had demanded that all emigrants who had found refuge in

that city should be expelled or arrested. Resistance was not very easy.

Submission was not very pleasant; and the mode which the authorities

took to escape from their difficulty was—to inform all emigrants of the

demand which had been made, with a hint that it would be better for them

to deliver Hamburgh from their presence. The amount of the whole

information was, that there was no longer any safety for me there; that

at any moment I might be arrested at the mandate of France, and no one

in those days could tell what would be the result.

The poor professor was in a terrible slate of distress and agitation;

and I was very much grieved to leave the father of my poor Louise. But

my resolution was soon taken. The ship in which I had engaged my passage

to America, was still in the port, and to sail in three days. All my

preparations were rapidly made, and nothing remained but to bid my good

father-in-law adieu. On my marriage day he had given me a _rouleau_ of

gold Frederics, amounting to the two thousand dollars he had promised;

but without this, I was comparatively rich; for my fifty _louis d’ors_

remained untouched, and I had accumulated a good many dollars by

teaching. I therefore took him back the _rouleau_, and told him I did

not think I had any right to retain it. He would not receive it,

however, saying:

“Put it up, put it up. Do you think, Louis, I would rob my dead child?

No, no, my dear boy. You and poor Louise were one. I had hoped that you

would have remained here to close my eyes; for my time will not be long.

But God punishes me by denying that satisfaction. You must write to me

as soon as you reach the shores of America, and you shall hear from me

very soon after. If I have occasion to communicate with you before, I

will address my letter to Boston.”

This was the only occasion on which he mentioned his daughter’s name.

His eyes remained tearless, however, and the words were spoken in that

dull, cheerless, despairing tone, which made me fear, not without

reason, that he would never recover from the shock he had received. He

saw me on board the vessel, and took leave of me, as a father might of a

son whom he could never behold again. He was very, very sad; and when he

had descended the ship’s side, and sat in the little boat, he bent down

his eyes, and never lifted them to look at the vessel which was about to

carry me away.

It was growing dusk when I embarked, and the ship was to sail about the

time of high water, which was at ten o’clock. I went down therefore at

once to my little, uncomfortable berth, with no great hope of sleeping,

but rather to be out of sight, for there were feelings in my heart at

that moment, which I did not wish exposed to the eyes of others. I was

weary, however, and exhausted; for I had slept but very little during

the last three days, and after lying in sad stillness, shut up in the

close, evil-smelling cabin for about an hour, I fell into the most

profound slumber that I ever recollect to have obtained. I heard

nothing, I knew nothing; and when I woke, the broad day was looking at

me through a round, thick glass window, like an eye, in the side of the

cabin; and I could hear a strange sort of rushing, gurgling noise close

at my head, giving me the first intimation that there was nothing but

that frail plank between me and the wide, deep sea. A negro, in a white

jacket, with his sleeves turned up from his large-boned, sinewy, black

arms, was laying a table in the middle of the cabin, as if for the

morning meal, and putting out my head, I asked him where we were.

He grinned at me with his white teeth, saying—

“Can’t tell, massa. No post-house in middle of sea. You glad of your

dinner, I reckon, habin’ had no breakfas’. You come and eat good dinner.

Keep him down if you can. He, he, he.”

I did not feel myself the least disposed to be sick, however, and the

ship seemed to be going with so smooth and easy a motion, that I felt

very sure for that day at least, I should escape the infliction which

most young voyagers have to endure. I rose and dressed myself, but had

hardly completed my toilet, when my friend, the negro, made his

appearance with an enormous piece of roast beef. He then brought in a

great tureen of pea-soup, and a dish of potatoes; and such was our fare

almost every day during the voyage, with the slight, and not very

pleasant variation of strongly salted beef, instead of fresh, which took

place when we had been about six days at sea. Such was the provision of

an American packet-ship in those days. Hunger, however, they say is good

sauce, and I must confess that I was ravenous. When the dinner was

served, the captain of the vessel came down, with his only other

passenger, one of the most extraordinary looking beings I ever saw. She

was a Madame Du Four; an emigrant like myself; dressed in the fashion of

the court of Louis the Fifteenth, with a robe of stiff brocade silk, not

very clean, and a petticoat, shown in front, of green satin. She had

strong-marked aquiline features, very keen dark eyes, and shaggy brows,

was enormously tall, and had also added to her height by a sort of tower

upon her head of most extraordinary construction, consisting, I fancy,

of a cushion, over which her hair, well powdered, was carried on all

sides, with a lace cap, and coquelicot ribbons surmounting the whole.

She was highly rouged, and painted white also; but those female vanities

did not prevent her from having a somewhat fierce and masculine look,

which was not at all softened by a sort of finikin _minauderie_ of

manner with which it contrasted strongly. On the first day, too, I could

not help thinking when she moved across the cabin, or walked about the

deck, that I detected a pair of Hessian boots under her enormous

petticoats. On the following day, however, she had shoes, buckles, and

silk stockings. Our dinner passed pleasantly enough, though the bluff

American Captain could hardly get on with his meal for laughter whenever

Madame Du Four opened her mouth. The fun he had out of her during the

passage was quite as good as double passage money, although I must

acknowledge she spoke English very well, and therefore it was not at her

language that he laughed. She was exceedingly agreeable, too,

notwithstanding her oddities, had an immense fund of information, and

seemed to have traveled a great deal. Like all Frenchwomen she had great

curiosity, and never rested till she had wormed out of me, my whole

history, with the exception of that part which referred to my poor

Louise—a subject too sacred to be touched upon by me. To my surprise,

and not altogether to my satisfaction—for it made me accuse myself of

indiscretion—she took down the name of Father Bonneville and Madame de

Salins, and I endeavored to get in return, some information respecting

herself. But there she was proof against all enquiries; and I could only

discover that she had friends or relations in Louisiana.

After dinner I went upon the deck, and there the principal part of my

time was spent during the voyage, whether the weather was fine or foul;

for the cabin was close and miserable.

I have heard men, and read books, expressing the highest enthusiasm and

admiration of the sea, but I suppose I am very unimaginative; for I

never could discover any thing in it to excite my admiration, except

perhaps a certain degree of sublimity, which always attaches to

vastness. As we passed along over the bosom of the waters, with one

unvarying expanse around us, that ocean about which men rave so much,

seemed to me nothing but one great, dull, brown heaving mass, very

unpleasant to the eye, and exceedingly monotonous. As the sun went down,

however, the prospect was a little varied on that first day, by the

long, bright line of ruby light which he cast from the horizon to the

ship; but except twice, we never had the honor of seeing his face in the

evening; though once or twice he broke out about mid-day. Generally the

sky was covered with clouds, and very often a thick mist enveloped us,

exciting greatly the indignation of the captain, who seemed to think he

had a right to clear weather. I was not even treated to a storm, though,

occasionally, it blew what the captain called half a gale, and then the

great, greenish brown, drugget-looking thing that surrounded us was

tossed up into some very uncomely and disagreeable billows. Happily for

myself I was not in the slightest degree sea-sick, which raised me

greatly in the opinion of the captain, who used to wink knowingly at

meal times toward the cabin of good Madame Du Four, who never appeared

in rough weather, and say, with a laugh, “The old woman is laid up on

the locker, I guess.”

At the end of three weeks one of the sea phenomena which I had often

heard described, occurred as we were passing some fishing banks. It was

night, and the sky was very cloudy, but the whole sea was in a blaze of

light, as if the Milky-Way had been transferred to its bosom. Every wave

that passed was loaded with stars, and not only the wake of the ship,

but long lines in different directions where the sea was agitated,

seemed all on fire. This continued for many hours, and I have seldom

seen any thing more marvelously beautiful.

Here, too, we saw a great number of small fishing vessels—the first

ships of any kind that we had met with. A whale or two also came in

sight, and long troops of white porpoises; but nothing else occurred to

enliven us during the whole passage; and I must confess, that I cannot

conceive any thing more dull, heavy and uninteresting, taken as a whole,

than a voyage across the wide Atlantic.

Certainly my spirits did not rise during the passage. I had made up my

mind to write and read a great deal, and to occupy my thoughts as far as

possible with indifferent subjects; but I did nothing of the kind, and I

have remarked since that a ship is the idlest place in the whole

universe. Nobody seems to do any thing but the sailors, and they nothing

more than they are obliged to do.

At length, oh blessed sight! just as day was beginning to break we

perceived a light-boat, and the captain announced that we were on the

coast of America. I never was so rejoiced at any thing in my life,

especially when, a few minutes after, I heard him order a gun to be

fired for a pilot. But whether in punishment at my repining, or in order

that I might have a full and competent knowledge of the sea, before I

had done with it, the cannon had hardly roared out its first call for a

pilot, when the wind chopped round suddenly from the west with a little

south in it, and in a quarter of an hour was blowing a heavy gale off

the coast. For four long, tedious days we continued struggling against

this merciless enemy, in no little danger, as I understood afterward,

and during the whole of that time I was enlivened by hearing the

plaintive voice of Madame Du Four exclaiming to herself, “_Oh, mon Dieu!

je vais mourir_,” together with other sounds, not nearly so euphonious.

At length, however, we got into the beautiful port of Boston; and as we

sailed peacefully amongst the blue islands, up came Madame Du Four,

painted, patched and brocaded, and as brisk as a bee.

A NEW WORLD AND NEW OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

The captain of the vessel kindly took me to a small inn, not very far

from the port; where I got tolerable accommodation. My first task was to

seek for a warm bath; for my long voyage of more than five weeks

duration, made me feel as if I had been pickled. It was with

considerable difficulty that I procured what I wanted; for Boston was

not famous for baths in those days. I succeeded at length, indeed, and

then dined very well, though with less appetite than had savored the

coarser provisions at sea. No one can tell with what satisfaction I

looked forward to resting in the good, steady bed which my room

contained; but the sea had not done with me yet, and for two whole

nights, as soon as I lay down, every thing began to move with me and

swim about just as if I was still upon the ocean. I could hardly

persuade myself that the house was not afloat. The next morning, while

at breakfast, one of the black waiters came in and told me that a

gentleman had called to see me, and on ordering him to be admitted, a

tall, good-looking man, of about thirty-five was ushered in. His face

was familiar to me, though I could not recollect where I had seen it

before, and he was dressed with great neatness and precision, partly in

black, partly in drab, with a thick cravat round his neck, and a pair of

Hessian boots drawn up to his knees.

“Monsieur De Lacy,” he said, taking my hand, “I am glad to see you in

America. Allow me to congratulate you on your safe arrival.”

I thanked him, told him that he had the advantage of me in knowing my

name, and begged to be told whom I had the honor of addressing.

The waiter had, by this time, quitted the room; but my visitor still

took the precaution of putting his lips close to my ear, while he said,

“Madame Du Four—at present Monsieur Du Four, if you please.”

“Good Heaven!” I exclaimed, “what could have induced you to adopt so

strange a travestie?”

“The very simple motive of concealing myself as best I might,” he

replied. “In regard to yourself, and many of the other emigrants, the

good people of Hamburgh had the choice given them by their tyrannical

masters, either to arrest or to expel. In my case the order was simply

to arrest, and send me off to France as a prisoner. They were ready to

wink at any evasion, however, and to the eyes of French spies my

great-grandmother’s petticoats, like charity, covered a multitude of

sins. Now, Monsieur De Lacy, I think I can be of assistance to you; for

I have had a great deal to do with emigrants, am in continual

communication with them in various parts of the world, and probably can

obtain for you information regarding the friends you are so anxious to

hear of. Some of them, I think, are now in Russia, where I have passed a

good deal of my time, under the favor and protection of that mild and

excellent potentate, the Emperor Paul. As it is well known, however,

that he is not long for this life, I thought it might be as well to be

absent at the accession of a new sovereign, and therefore betook myself

to Hamburgh. However, I have still friends and connections in Russia, as

well as in many other parts of the world, and I think if you will let me

know where you are to be found, I can obtain for you information which

may be satisfactory.”

My plans were all unsettled, and I knew not where I might go, or what I

might do. I was at this time richer than I had ever been in my life

before, but I knew that my little store was not inexhaustible, and I

resolved to seek speedily for some employment. Without telling my new

friend, then, the exact state of my finances, I consulted him where I

should go, and what I should do.

“You can stay here in Boston,” he replied, “as long as the weather is

warm, and probably may find some employment; for you have a rich, active

and intelligent population; but don’t remain in the winter; for it is

the coldest city in the universe. In point of temperature, St.

Petersburg is comparatively a terrestrial paradise. However you can

receive letters wherever you may be by having them directed here, if you

will take the precaution of always sending your address to the

post-office. I do not mean to say that they will come to you rapidly;

because of course every thing goes on with less regularity and

certainty, under a republican than under a monarchical government. In

republics, where place and power depends upon mere popular favor, the

greater part of the business of the State is carried on by inexperienced

men, for, generally speaking, each public officer is kicked out before

he can gain the experience necessary for his office—just as a

tradesman, without capital, does all his work by apprentices. There are

exceptions of course—men who get such hold of public confidence, that

even faction cannot shake them—but these are rare, and to have work

half done and ill done is part of the compensation to be paid for great

rapidity of progress and general diffusion of comfort. But I am

digressing. You have nothing to do, Monsieur De Lacy, but to leave your

address at the post-office, and you shall hear from me as soon as I

obtain intelligence.”

He added a good many of very judicious instructions as to my conduct in

Boston, where he certainly must have been before, although he did not

say so; and he left me, I confess, with a much more pleasant impression

of his male than his female character.

I did not anticipate much, it is true, from his promises, and perhaps

did not feel quite so sure of his sincerity as I ought to have done. I

suppose there are some professions and some occasions in which

charlatanism is absolutely necessary; but I think we rarely respect the

people who practice it; and the impression produced by his appearance in

the character of Madame Du Four, was never, and never will be effaced

from my memory. I could not get rid of the ludicrous recollections, and

we rarely expect much service from people who make us laugh.

Letters of introduction to persons in Boston, I had none; and I suffered

for several days all the inconveniences which a stranger, without

personal friends in a city, feels at his first residence. The

solitariness, as it were, pressed upon me, and the more people I met in

the crooked and narrow streets, made me only feel the more solitary. Of

Monsieur Du Four I saw no more at that time, and I began to think of

removing to some other town, where the people were not so cold and

repulsive, when I suddenly made an acquaintance which greatly changed

the current of affairs.

One day as I was walking along the streets, I thought I might as well

purchase some French books, of which I had only one with me, in order

that I might not quite forget my own language. I entered therefore a

great bookseller’s shop—dingy and dull enough it was, in all

conscience—and asked for one or two works which I named.

Although it may seem to have no connection with this part of my history,

yet I must say something of my personal appearance at this time, as I am

convinced it had some effect upon the events that followed. I was now

within quarter of an inch of six feet high, robust in frame, from much

exercise, tanned almost a mahogany color by exposure to the sea air, and

with a moustache long and thick for my age. My hair had been suffered to

grow very long, and floated wildly in its unshorn curls, and I was

dressed in deep and new mourning of a foreign cut. Thus in the streets

of Boston, I had something at least to distinguish me from the citizens

of the place, where no one wore moustaches at all, and most of them had

their hair still thickly powdered, and tied in queue, while those who

had not, wore it as closely cut as the ears of a terrier dog.

In asking for the books, I spoke in a grave, and perhaps somewhat abrupt

manner; for the death of my poor Louise, had left upon me a sort of

carelessness of men’s opinions, and a lack of the desire to please,

which is rare in youth.

The shopman answered at once in a somewhat flippant manner that he

guessed they had none of them; and I replied in the same cold and

imperative tone in which I had first spoken, that I would trouble him to

do something more than guess—to make sure; whether the books were there

or not, and if not, whether they could be procured for me.

“I reckon you are from the old country,” said the man, with the most

good humored impertinence.

“That is nothing to you, my friend,” I replied. “We will reckon when I

have got the books.”

“Then I calculate you had better speak to our boss,” said the shopman.

“A very good calculation,” I replied, “if you mean your master.”

“I h’aint got a master,” rejoined the man, with a look of considerable

indignation.

“Well then,” I said, “let me speak with any one who supplies the place

of a master, and who is master at all events of the shop, if he is not

of the shopman.”

“I think you might have called it store, stranger,” said my friend; but

as by this time I had taken up a book from the counter and begun to

read, he went away to call his “boss,” as he termed him.

A moment after, from a little dingy den behind, came out a neat, dapper

little man, with a very straight-cut, snuff colored coat, fastened with

a hook and eye high up upon the chest, in order to permit the liberal

extension of a very smart flowered waistcoat, and a stomach, somewhat

too large in its proportions, shaped like the back of a mandolin.

Energy, activity, and acuteness, were in all his movements and sparkled

in his bright black eye; and, roused by his step, I could perceive that

as he approached, he scanned me from head to foot with a rapidity truly

marvelous. Before I knew what I was about he was shaking hands with me,

and before I could ask for my books, he was asking me innumerable

questions—who I was—where I came from—what my name was—what was my

profession—how old I was—whether I intended to stay long in Boston,

and—what I thought of America.

I was strongly inclined to laugh, but I was out of the habit of laughing

now, and I answered gravely:

“Order in all things, if you please, sir. Are you what this person calls

the ‘boss,’ or what I should call the master of this shop—or store?”

“Oh, never mind him,” replied the new comer. “He is from another state,

and doesn’t half understand English. It’s only in Bost’n I guess that

there’s any thing like English to be found in all the universal world.

I’m the master of this store, sir, and a very pretty little considerable

quantity of literature you will find therein, I guess.”

“Well then, to reply to your questions,” I said, “I am a stranger in

this city. I come from a distant part of the world. My name is my own,

for any thing I know to the contrary. I am of any profession that suits

me at the moment. I am somewhere between twenty and thirty, I have no

notion how long I shall stay in Boston, and having only seen two square

miles of America, I do not think the taster is decisive of the

cheese.—Now, sir, will you have the goodness to tell me about the books

I want.”

“Capital, capital, capital!” cried my new friend. “I guess such answers

would pose half the men in Congress. We Yankees are terrible question

askers it must be acknowledged. It’s a way we have, and not a bad way

either; for if we get an answer, we are all the better for it, and if we

get none, we can do very well without it. Now, sir, you’re just the man

we want: I can see that in a minute. We haven’t had any thing new in

Bost’n for six months—that is, since the giantess, and the horse with

three tails. They did very well, but we want something literary now, and

if you chose to come out with a lecture, or a book, or a pamphlet, or a

sermon against the Trinity, or something very racy upon democracy and

federalism—take which side you will; it’s all the same to me—or even

in defense of the old country, showing that we are all rebels and

traitors and ought to have been hanged long ago, it’s sure to answer—it

will sell, sir,—it will pay—it will bring in the dollars.”

There was something so perfectly good-humored in my new friend, that I

could not be at all cross, even though I might not quite enter into his

notions. I was obliged to inform him, however, that I had never given

lectures, written books, pamphlets, or sermons. That I was not an

Englishman. That I was not well acquainted with American history, and

had no idea whether his friends and himself deserved to be hanged or

not—though I confessed I rather thought not.

He was very pertinacious, however, and suggested a dozen different

courses of acting for me, being in truth at that moment in desperate

need himself of a stranger to supply the place of a literary man who had

absconded, and knowing the dire need in which the city of Boston stood

of some “new thing,” to fill the yawning void left by the giantess and

the horse with three tails. I began to fancy, as he went on, that

amongst all the pearls he was throwing before me, I might find one which

suited my own purpose, and at length it was determined that I should

write a little book for him, which he would immediately bring out in

what he guessed was the very best possible style. Our arrangements were

soon made, though, as I found afterward, he agreed to pay me about

one-third of the sum which I ought to have received. That book, however,

not only served to put a small sum into my pocket, but also to spread my

fame, and to occupy my thoughts. I was very glad of the latter; for the

moment I sat down by myself in my inn, I fell into sad reveries, and I

wished very much to let time do his work of consoling by those slow and

almost insensible steps through which he best effects his objects. The

subject, the treatment, was all discussed in less than half an hour; for

my friend, the bookseller, had very definite ideas, and knew to a nicety

what would sell, and what would not. While we were still talking over

these things, several gentlemen entered the shop, to whom the

bookseller—now in possession of my name—introduced me as the

celebrated Monsieur De Lacy. Thus I obtained occupation for the next six

weeks, and acquaintance with some of the pleasantest persons I ever met

with in my life; and the next morning I saw announcement in the public

prints that Monsieur De Lacy, the well known Vendeean chief had arrived

in Boston, followed by an apocripha twice as long as the book of Tobit,

regarding the bloody battles I had fought, and the victories I had

obtained in a district within which I had never set my foot. All this

was based upon a deep scar on my cheek, which I had received from the

heel of an Austrian soldier, as I lay upon the ground in the streets of

Zurich.

Although I smiled, while reading this account, the idea of being or

having been, one of the actors in the great and extraordinary struggle

in La Vendee was very pleasant to me. I thought of it a good deal, and

although I had fancied some weeks before that America was the country,

of all others, to afford me a peaceful and happy refuge, I now began to

long for a return to Europe, to take part in the active scenes which

were going on in my native land.

A LOSS AND A RECOVERY.

I need not dwell upon my course of life during the next few months. Most

men have experienced what it is to make one’s way in a strange town, and

I do not think it would be very interesting to any one, if I were to

give a detailed account of the process of being made a factitious lion

of. My good friend the bookseller would have it so in my case: he wanted

a lion at that moment: there was no other material at hand, and he made

me into a lion. Not a newspaper did I open, without seeing my name in

it. If I went to look at Faneuil Hall, or strolled from Court Street to

the Common, it was sure to be recorded for the public, and by the mere

act of iteration the public were driven by seeing my name every day, to

think I must be somebody. But the worst of this lion system is, that it

is not always very easy to shake off your lion skin when you are tired

of it. I confess I began to be weary of seeing my name in the columns of

the journals, and at first I was inclined to correct all the various

lies that were told about me, and to assure the people of Boston, in

print, that I had never done fifty things I was reported to have done,

and never intended to do fifty other things that were sketched out for

me by the fertile imagination of various editors. A kind and judicious

friend, however, advised me to refrain; and as this little sort of false

celebrity obtained for me a great number of most delightful

acquaintances, I was obliged to take the good with the bad, and receive

much hospitality and kindly and instructive communion, as some

compensation for being made to dance grotesquely in the public prints. I

lost no opportunity, however, of denying, in private, all that was said

about me in public, of telling all my friends in the city that I was not

the great man, or the celebrated character I was represented—that I had

never been in La Vendee in my life, and had never even seen a battle but

that of Zurich. I must do them the justice to say also, that these

confessions did not diminish their kindness in the least; and that when

they found me to be a very plain, humble person, they were, perhaps,

more hospitable and friendly than before. The writing of my book was

favorable to me in all respects. It was but a poor affair, it is true;

but it saved my little fortune, filled the pockets of the

bookseller—for its success was ridiculous, in consequence of all the

Charlitanism which was used before it appeared—and it did still more

for me, by weaning my thoughts from the one deep, sorrowful subject of

contemplation, which otherwise would have engrossed my mind continually.

The autumn was coming on rapidly when it appeared; the woods around were

glowing with colors such as I never in my life beheld in Nature’s robe

before; and partly to get away from the crowds of a great city, partly

to enjoy the loveliness of the scenery at a little distance from Boston,

I used to wander forth early in the morning, and often not return till

nightfall. I used sometimes, too, to call at the post-office and inquire

for letters, with very little expectation of receiving any. Who would

write to me, unless it were good Professor Haas or Monsieur Du Four? but

from the former I thought there had been but little time to hear, and

upon the promises of the latter I placed but little reliance.

One day, however, a thick letter was handed to me, with my address

written on coarse German paper, with a black seal, and bearing the

post-mark of Hamburgh. The handwriting, however, was not that of the

good old professor; and I opened it with considerable apprehension,

thinking that he must be ill, and must have employed some other hand to

write for him. It was worse than I expected. Professor Haas was dead;

and the letter was from his old friend the notary, who had drawn up the

marriage contract between Louise and myself. He informed me of the fact

of my friend’s death, in brief, formal terms, and then went on to state

that Professor Haas had left the whole bulk of his property to me,

naming as executors, one of his fellow professors and the notary

himself, with directions to sell his house, and all that he possessed,

and remit the money to a great banking-house in London for my benefit. I

thought this a somewhat strange proceeding till I read further. I then

found that the professor, who had always entertained the most profound

horror for Revolutionists, had, during his latter days, and especially

his sickness, become impressed with a notion that the French Republicans

would sooner or later get possession of Hamburgh, and plunder the whole

city. Ample directions were added to enable me to dispose of the money

in any way I pleased, and more than one half of the paper was occupied

with a long statement of accounts, which I did not even try to

understand. The sum already remitted to England, however, was large, and

enough to put me at my ease for life.

First impressions are, I suppose, always the most generous ones; and

however great might have been the relief at any other moment to know

that the means of subsistence were no longer to depend upon the caprice

of Fortune, the intelligence afforded me but little consolation, when

coupled with the death of my poor friend. I was very, very sad. The last

earthly tie between myself and my poor Louise seemed gone; and all the

painful memories connected with the last days of her life, revived as

darkly and gloomily as ever. I took no steps in regard to the property.

I did not even answer the notary’s letter; but day after day I walked

out over the curious broken ground, and cedar-covered hills to the south

and west of Boston, meditating sadly upon the past. At the face of

nature I used to look from time to time, finding I know not what, of

similarity between the fading aspect of the autumn-woods and the

withering away of my own hopes and happiness. But I looked little at man

when he fell in my way, and many a time felt half angry when a fellow

walker on the same road gave me good day, or stopped to ask me the hour.

There were very few human habitations in that direction at the time; and

one solitary public house, about four miles from the city, I used to

pass with my eyes always bent upon the ground. I know not what induced

me to raise my eyes toward it one day, as I was walking along, somewhat

more slowly than usual—for the weather had become suddenly sultry, in

what they call the Indian Summer. Perhaps it was that my eye caught an

indistinct sight of some one sitting under the veranda—an old man, very

shabbily dressed in brown. I could not see his features, for I was at

the distance of more than a hundred yards, and I only took a casual

glance. But as I returned by the same road, the old man was still

sitting there; and a young girl of twelve or thirteen years of age was

standing by, talking to him, and offering him something in a cup. In my

morose selfishness, I was going on without any further notice, when

suddenly he took the girl’s arm, and rose up feebly, looking straight

toward me. A strange feeling of recognition instantly seized upon me,

and I turned sharply toward the house, with doubt in my mind, but

certainty in my heart—a contrast that takes place more often than

people imagine.

As I got near, doubt vanished. It was Father Bonneville; but as doubt

disappeared with me, it seemed to increase with him, for it would seem

that, although he had been very ill, I was far more changed than he was.

Something in my gait and figure had struck him; but when he saw a broad

and powerful young man, instead of the stripling who had been separated

from him at Zurich, he could hardly believe in my identity, and did not

feel quite sure till his hand was grasped in mine. I never saw the poor

man so much agitated in all the many scenes we had passed through

together. His usual calm placidity abandoned him entirely; and for a

moment or two he wept with feelings which I am sure were not all

unpleasant. I sat down beside him, while the girl ran into the house to

tell her father, who was the landlord thereof, that the French gentleman

had found a friend; and during her absence he told me that he had been

living there for the last six weeks, almost on charity. He had sought me

he said, far and near, and at length, partly from some preconception of

the course I was likely to take, partly from some false information he

had received in Holland, had concluded I had sailed for America, within

four months after the battle of Zurich. He had in consequence embarked

for New York, and had at that time made many efforts to make me

acquainted with his arrival. For six months after reaching the shores of

America, he had continued to receive supplies of money; but suddenly

they had ceased, he said, and then for some time he had supported

himself by teaching. His scholars fell off, however, and he was advised

to try Boston; but his means were too small for the hotels or

boarding-houses of that city, and feeling himself ill, he had come out

to that remote place, both for purer air and greater economy. His money

lasted but a fortnight, and he had explained to the landlord his

situation. The good man—for he really was a good man—told him not to

make himself uneasy, and proposed that he should teach his two daughters

for his board until he was well enough to return to Boston again. But

poor Father Bonneville soon became too ill, either to teach or to rise

from his bed, and then all the native kindness of the people came forth.

His two little pupils nursed him, he told me, as if he had been a

parent. Their father supplied him with every thing that he required, and

brought a physician, at his own expense, to see him.

“This is the third time I have left my room,” he said, “and they are

still as kind as ever, though I have been a great burden to them.”

“No burden at all, my good man,” said the landlord, who was by this time

standing by our side. “It’s but little good one can do in this world,

and God forbid we shouldn’t do it when we can. I am very happy, however,

he has found one of his friends at last.”

“He has found one,” I said, shaking the landlord by the hand, “to whom

he has been more than a father, and who will never forget your kindness

to him. I thank God that I am now in a situation to say, he shall never

at least know what want is again.”

“Well, well,” said the landlord, “that is all very well. But you had

better come into the house and talk it out there. We are just going to

dinner, and there’s as good a chowder as ever was made. He told my girl

he couldn’t eat just now, but he’s got his appetite back now, I guess.”

We went in; and I sat down with them to their plain meal with more

satisfaction than if I had been invited to a prince’s table.

Although my good old friend was exceedingly anxious to hear all my own

adventures since we parted, I contrived to make him tell all that had

occurred to him, which amounted to little more than what I have already

stated. He had been detained by the Austrians, he said, for nearly two

months, had been sent to Milan, and put in prison there, but in other

respects had been well treated, and at length liberated, on its being

made clear that he was a French emigrant with no political character. He

hurried through the details, in order to get at my history, and then

said, with a look of parental affection, “But now tell me, my dear

Louis, what has happened to you since we met last? How comes that scar

upon your cheek? Where have you been staying? And why are you in such

deep mourning?”

The last words sent all the color from my cheek. I could feel the blood

rush away as if to fill my heart too full, and I shook my head sadly,

saying, “Do not ask me about that just now.”

I then related to him all that had occurred previous to my arrival in

Hamburgh; how, after I had shot the man who was going to murder him, I

had turned back to assist Lavater; how I had been knocked down and

trodden under feet by the Austrian soldiers, and afterward carried to

the hospital; I then told him that I had suffered from poverty as well

as himself, and that I had begged my way to the north of Germany. “That

is all over now,” I added, “and I trust that we shall never know such

days again.”

“Well, you two have had a pretty hard life of it,” said the good

landlord—for we had been speaking in English all the time, so that he

understood us. “You were great people in your own country, I dare say;

and that made it all the harder for you.”

“Not very great people,” I replied, “but very comfortable, and very

happy, till we were driven forth for no fault of our own.”

I judged from what I saw of good Father Bonneville at this time, that he

had not yet sufficiently recovered to return to Boston, and I therefore

left him where he was for the night, promising to see him early on the

following day. Although engaged to go out to a party in the city, I

remained at home that evening pondering upon my course of action. I read

over again, and more attentively, the letter from the notary, answered

it, and signed the accounts, although to say truth, I knew little of the

affairs to which they referred. I then considered long, and somewhat

anxiously, two plans which naturally suggested themselves to my mind.

The first was, to go to England, receive the sum which there awaited me,

and establish myself with Father Bonneville in that country. But strange

to say I had a dislike to the idea of visiting England. Father

Bonneville, in all our wanderings, had shown no desire to take refuge in

a land where so many other emigrants had found safety and met with

hospitality. Views prejudicial to England had been widely circulated

amongst the inhabitants of all those countries which entertain feelings

and jealousies against Great Britain, on account of her calm, steady,

and, at the same time, extraordinary progress in arts, sciences,

commerce and arms. Even the very Swiss, while they admired and applauded

it, did not like England; and the isolation of her geographical position

seemed to affect the character of her inhabitants as well as her policy

and her interests. Like every one who has never been in England, I

conceived the most false and inferior idea of her people, her views, and

her very aspect. I imagined that it was a cold, bleak, ungenial country,

everlastingly overhung by fogs, with the sun rarely, if ever, apparent,

and deriving its great wealth and importance solely from its commerce. I

believed the people to be haughty, self-sufficient and repulsive,

unsocial in all their habits, and although occasionally generous and

benevolent, actuated upon all ordinary occasions by motives of

self-interest and commercial selfishness. I had heard a great deal at

Hamburgh, in the society of the professors there, of her treatment of

scientific and literary men, of the cold neglect they experience, of

their exclusion from all that forms the ambition of others, of the

honors paid to them when dead, and the misery to which they were

subjected while living. The old maxim still rang in my ears, that France

was the country for a literary man to live in, and England for him to

die in; and I believed that there really could be very little good or

generous in a nation which displayed such cold neglect and bitter

injustice toward those who labored to elevate the human mind, and whose

names form no insignificant part of her glory. I was now, I thought, in

a beautiful and youthful country, comprising within itself every climate

and every soil, offering opportunity and encouragement to every one,

where thought and action were free, where progress was rapid beyond

conception, where no invidious distinctions existed, where competence,

if not wealth, was the sure reward of exertion—a land of youth, of

hope, and energy. I thought of England, in short, as England was at that

time conventionally represented on the continents of Europe and of

America; not as I knew it to be. It is not wonderful therefore, that in

the end I determined to remain in the country where I then was, and to

send for the funds which had been invested in London, without visiting

Great Britain myself. It must be remembered at the same time, that

Napoleon was now in the plenitude of his power, commanding sovereigns

and dictating to nations, and that England stood single-handed against a

world in arms. There was little hope therefore that I could aid even in

the slightest degree in relieving France from the tyranny under which

she groaned, and that seemed to me the only object worthy of desire,

which could lead me once more to traverse the Atlantic.

When I laid down my head upon my pillow that night, my determination was

fully taken to remain in the United States; and with my fondness for

visionary prospects, I drew a pleasant picture of a New England farm,

with competence and literary ease, and rural occupations, diversified by

those sports of the field which I had enjoyed so much in other years.

How soon, and how speedily, all such visions melted away; all such

resolutions came to an end.

I rose the following morning, carried my letter to the post-office, and

carelessly asked if there were any communications for me. The good man

with spectacles, answered yes, and from a great bundle, took out a

letter for which he demanded a high postage. It came from New Orleans,

and contained but a few words to the following effect.

“Faithful to my promise, I have made every inquiry, Monsieur De

Lacy, for the friends in regard to whose fate you were anxious

when I saw you. Of the good Father Bonneville I have been able

to obtain no intelligence; but Madame de Salins and

Mademoiselle, her daughter, are now in London, and perhaps a

letter addressed to them at _numero_ 3 Swallow Street, may

obtain for you information regarding Monsieur De Bonneville.

“Accept the assurances of the constant consideration and regard

of

Your devoted,

Charles Du Four.”

What was it that possessed me! What was it in the sight of those few

words which altered in a moment all my determinations? I speak

sincerely—and I looked into my own heart at the time, and have done so

often since—and I believe that it was solely the awakening of old

associations—the revival of the memories of happy youthful days. I

pictured Father Bonneville, and Mariette and myself all living together

again, as we had done in those happy days on the banks of the Rhine, and

my teaching Mariette to read and write, totally forgetting that she was

no longer a little girl of six or seven years old, and of our having a

pretty house of our own, and a nice garden, and spending our days in

pleasantness and peace. We are all dream-led in this world, and this was

but one of the pleasantest dreams of my life, come back upon me to show

how much the visions of imagination can effect against the realities of

reason. I left the door of the post-office, where I read the letter,

with my resolution fixed—and now unchangeable—to visit England as soon

as Father Bonneville was well enough to undertake the voyage.

A NEW LAND.

I was on the deck about half-past six ante meridian, on as fine a

morning as ever broke upon the world. We had encountered very severe

gales, varying from the north-west, at which they first began, almost

all round the compass. I could not think what was in the weather. Its

only object seemed to be, to battle the sea and to fret the Atlantic.

One glorious thunder-storm had diversified the monotony of the voyage,

and I shall never forget either the grand masses of cloud which rose up

in the splendor of the evening from the sea, like the purple mountains

of a new land, rising under the wand of an enchanter, or the vivid

flashes of the lightning as they blazed around us during the live-long

night. The thunder, I must confess, was far less loud and sublime than I

have heard it on land, where rocks and mountains and forests sent it

roaring through innumerable echoes.

To this storm succeeded much calmer weather, and on the morning which I

now speak of, the vessel with all sail set, and a favorable wind, could

barely reckon five knots an hour. There was a soft and sleepy splendor

about the sky as the sun rose—a bright softness of atmosphere, almost

misty—which received and retained long a tint from the rosy coloring of

the sun’s early rays.

My approach to the Coast of America, after the first voyage I had ever

made, had greatly disappointed me. Long, flat lines, like low islands in

a river, were not the contrast one anticipated after sailing over the

vast Atlantic; but as we now bore onward, I suddenly beheld upon the

left, a number of immense rocky masses, of a pale violet color, with the

sea, even in that calm weather, breaking furiously upon them, and not

long after, on the right, some high, precipitous rocks, detached from

what seemed to be the main land, and forming as I imagined the point of

a peninsula, sheltering the beautiful bay into which we seemed slowly

gliding.

I asked the helmsman what these two objects were; and he replied—“The

Scilly Islands and the Needles.”

This then was England—the England of which all the world had heard so

much—the fortress of the deep: slow to engage in warfare: resolute when

once engaged: unconquerable: inexpugnable: with a vitality that defied

time and change: with a progress which had something sublime in its

calm, fearless, equable march. This was the England which had twice

produced the conquerors of France, which had subjected a world to the

influence of its science and its literature; whose sails were on every

sea; whose arms were in each hemisphere; whose name was a redoubted

passport in every land; whose language was spoken on the coasts of every

continent. This then was England! And those rocky cliffs, and rugged

peaks, in their grand, silent majesty, seemed to me the image and the

emblem of the people.

As we slowly sailed on, keeping very near the coast, to get the most

favorable wind, and under the directions of a pilot, steering in and out

amongst banks, which added the interest of some peril to the general

charm of the scenery, the aspect of the country softened. Beautiful

green slopes, rich woods, gay looking towns, a picturesque country-house

here and there, and a group of cottages crowning a bold cliff or nested

at its foot, were seen all along the line of coast, and the very first

sight of that country filled the mind with ideas of home comfort, and

sweet domestic peace, and the rich prosperity of an industrious,

law-fearing people, and an equable, but firm government, more strongly

than the aspect of any other land I had ever seen. Oh! how all my

prepossessions vanished before that sight—and when about nine o’clock I

persuaded Father Bonneville to come upon deck, as we were proceeding

calmly up a channel between two lands, both plainly visible, the good

old man would hardly believe his eyes that this fair, sunshiny,

beautiful country, was the England of which he had so often heard.

It is the most extraordinary fact I know, that no foreigner whom I have

ever met with, who has never visited England, (and comparatively few of

those who have,) has had the slightest idea of what the land really is,

or what are its inhabitants. A Frenchman knows more of what is passing

beyond the equator, than he knows of what exists on the other side of

the narrow British channel.

The slow progress we made, which was not increased in speed in the least

by the cursing and swearing of the pilot—one of the most blasphemous

fellows I ever met with—rendered it late in the evening before we

approached Portsmouth, whither we were bound to deliver a large cargo of

various sorts of wood, to be employed experimentally, in the works of

the great naval arsenal there established. It was some occasion of

rejoicing, or of ceremony—as far as I recollect, some Prince, or great

man, or foreign minister, was taking his departure from the port—and as

we approached Spithead, where a number of enormous castle-like vessels

were lying, the thunder of cannon from the forts seemed to make the very

irresponsive sea echo.

We landed as speedily as possible; and I cannot say that the aspect of

humanity did not somewhat detract from the impression of the approach.

We were surrounded by a number of greedy and clamorous people, each of

whom seemed to have some peculiar object to serve, and escaped from them

with difficulty, into a lumbering, dirty, and foul-smelling vehicle,

with a broken window, and straw under our feet. We had obtained the name

of a good inn, however, and thither we ordered the coachman to drive.

The appearance of the place, as we passed through the streets, was

somewhat like that of the lower part of Boston; but when we reached the

hotel, the aspect of all things was very different, and I must confess

much more agreeable. There was a neatness, a comfortableness, an

attention without servility which was very pleasant. Two rooms were

shown to Father Bonneville and myself as our sleeping rooms, where every

thing was clean, precise, and regular, giving one for the first time a

complete notion of what is meant by the term snug. In each there was

firing ready laid and only waiting to be lighted, and in the

sitting-room, which was large and handsome, and connected with one of

the bed-rooms, the grate was already blazing with a bright coal fire. We

were scarcely installed when a waiter, with an apron as white as snow,

and a linen jacket without a spot upon it, came in with a long paper in

his hand, which he called a bill of fare, and asked us to choose what we

would have for dinner. As Father Bonneville’s stomach was still somewhat

under the influence of the sea, I selected what I thought would suit him

best, and with a rapidity, truly marvellous, the table was laid with a

bright clean damask cloth, and abundance of silver and glass, the fire

was poked, bread, and supernumerary plates and dishes set upon a

sideboard, and in three minutes after, two waiters appeared, bringing in

various articles of food, while a somewhat stately personage at their

head, dressed in black coat and black silk stockings, carried a silver

covered dish, which he placed at the top of the table.

I had chosen plainly enough, and the cookery was plain also; but the

very look of the viands, their tenderness, their excellence, might have

provoked gluttony in an anchorite.

Even good Father Bonneville recovered his appetite, and a glass of wine,

though savoring too much of brandy, for either his palate or my own,

aided in raising his spirits which had been somewhat depressed before.

Leaning his head gently on one side after the cloth was cleared away and

the waiters had disappeared, with fine, clear, tall lights upon the

table, the curtains closely drawn, and the fire crackling and sparkling,

and making strange faces for us in the grate, he began to talk to me

about England, in a sort of dreamy memory-like manner, which made me for

a moment fear that the good old man’s brain had suffered from grief, and

sickness, and time, and that he was slightly wandering.

“It will be fifty years, Louis,” he said, “on the twentieth of this

month, since I was last in this land of England. It was a very different

land then—or I have much forgotten it. True, I saw not much of the

country; for my life was in the capital—a great gloomy city, as it

seemed to me, with grand and splendid things going on in it, but

which—being excluded from most of them by profession—seemed like

pictures in what they call a phantasmagoria, where suddenly out of grim

darkness, richly robed figures rush upon you, and are lost again in a

moment.”

“I never knew you had been in England, my dear friend,” I replied. “You

never told me so, I think.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “no. But I was in London for nearly eighteen

months: the chaplain to the Embassy. Your father was a boy then, Louis,

and I taught him as I have taught you.”

This was coming upon a subject which I had often wished to broach, but

which he had never even approached before. I know not what were the

feelings which had prevented me from asking questions. Perhaps they were

mingled. We recollect such sensations more indistinctly than facts that

strike the eye and ear, and fix themselves upon memory by many holds.

Certain I am, however, that it was not want of curiosity or interest,

especially during our residence in Germany and Switzerland, where I

began to think of every thing, and of my own fate and situation more

than any thing else. As far as I can recollect, Father Bonneville’s

careful avoidance of the subject, and a sort of dark awe I felt at

removing the veil from what was evidently a mystery, a sort of

impression that there was something dreadful and horrible behind, often

sealed my lips at the moment I was about to speak. Now, however, I had

tasted enough of sorrow in the world to have manly resolution, and

though Father Bonneville’s weak state of health had prevented me from

inquiring since we had again met, I asked, at once,

“Who was my father?”

He laid his hand gently upon mine, as I sat beside him, near the table,

and looked in my face with an expression not to be forgotten—so

mild—so tender—so sorrowful.

“Ask me no questions, Louis,” he said. “Ask me no questions just now.

You will hear soon enough; and until I know why the remittances which

were always made me for your support and education were withheld when I

was in America, I am bound not to speak. If what I fear, is the case, my

lips will be unsealed. If not, you must wait patiently yet awhile.”

I looked down gloomily on the ground for a moment, and then asked in a

cold, somewhat bitter tone,

“Tell me at least, good Father, is there any thing disgraceful in my

birth.”

“Nothing, nothing,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands vehemently.

“Then was my father a villain, a knave, or a coward?” I asked.

“I loved him well,” replied Father Bonneville, in a tone of deep

emotion, “and so help me heaven, as I believe there never did exist upon

this earth a more gallant gentleman, a more honorable and upright man,

or a more sincere Christian than your father. He was only too good for

his age and for his country.”

A deep silence succeeded, which continued for several minutes, and then,

with a sort of gentle art, he turned the conversation to my residence in

Germany, and my poor Louise—for by this time I had told him all—and

strove to win me from a subject which he saw agitated me so much, by

leading me to one of milder sorrow. But my heart was too full to bear

it; my replies were as brief as reverence for him would permit, and thus

ended our first day in England.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

MY MOTHER’S SPIRIT.

BY KNYVETT THORNTON.

In the deep and solemn midnight,

All the household lost in sleep,

Comes thy holy spirit to me,

And in accents soft and lowly,

Bide me not to weep!

Come, thou blessed spirit, nearer,

Feel the beating of my heart;

How it longs to burst its fetters—

How it eager pants for freedom—

Now ’tis ready for the start!

Oh, my mother! be thou with me;

Guide my wandering steps to thee;

Watch thy son in sleep or waking,

And when fainting in his spirit,

Guide—oh guide—his steps to thee!

For I feel, if thou art near me—

If thy spirit watcheth me,

With its soft and faith-full eyes

Looking downward from the skies,

From its home in Paradise,

It will ever, ever cheer me!

* * * * *

MAGDALEN.

BY L. L. M.

O’er the shining walls of Sunset

Drooped the night-flag’s sable fold;

Far adown the dim old forest

Evening anthems slowly rolled.

Up from brakes and velvet mosses,

Heart-wrung pleadings faintly stole,

With Death’s anguish wildly wrestled,

All that night, a passing soul.

Wronged and wronger here had parted

In life’s glorious summer morn,

He, to win the world’s high honor,

She, to shrink from man’s fierce scorn.

She had sinned, and love’s sweet numbers

Rang from human lips no more,

But around her gently murmured

Voices from the Eternal shore.

Past her flowed the chiming waters,

Heaven-hued flow’rets bent above;

Upward rose their blended incense

To the God whose name is Love.

Downward through the forest arches

Swept the pine-trees fragrant balm;

O’er her fevered senses stealing

With a soft, delicious calm.

Angel eyes smiled down upon her,

Angel wings about her lay;

And a gleam from Heaven’s bright portals,

Flashed upon her upward way.

Calm she lay, the great All Father

Held her in his dear embrace;

And the peace of sin forgiven,

Rests upon her sweet, dead face.

* * * * *

ROSALIE.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY MRS. E. L. CUSHING.

In a luxurious dressing-room in one of the most aristocratic mansions of

Montreal, a young girl stood before a cheval-glass which gave back the

full-length reflection of her lovely person, from the rich luxuriance of

her rose-crowned ringlets to the sole of the fairy foot, now clad in a

sylvan buskin, laced with silken strings over the delicate and naked

ankle. The girl’s dress was a fanciful one—it had just been sent home

from the dress-maker’s, and she was but rehearsing in it, preparatory to

her appearance as the goddess Flora at a fancy-ball, to be given shortly

by the officers of the garrison to the _élite_ of the city.

An attempt to personate the bright floral divinity of Spring might seem

to argue undue vanity on the part of Alicia de Rochemont, but she had

consented to do so at the suggestion of her preferred admirer, Captain

Clairville, who declared that he had once met the celebrated Dutchess of

S—— in that character, at a masquerade, and that she looked divinely,

though even her fresh and radiant beauty was far less dazzling than that

of Miss De Rochemont’s. Alicia thought every one who flattered her

sincere, and so she believed the gay captain, and following his

directions as to her costume, stood now before her mirror, a lovely

impersonation of the ever-youthful deity who presides over the floral

creation.

Her robe, of the finest tissue, changed its hues with every motion of

the graceful wearer, now glowing with tints of sapphire, now assuming

the hue of the rose, then fading to a tender purple, or a violet-azure,

and the effect of all was softened by the transparent folds of an almost

impalpable veil, which floated around the figure of the goddess, like

the fleecy clouds which in the balmy nights of summer follow the bright

pathway of the moon, chastening often, but never obscuring her lustre.

Her white and rounded arms, bare to the shoulders, were wreathed with

flowers; her hair was crowned with roses, and in one hand she carried a

cornucopia filled with exquisite blossoms, which she was supposed to

scatter on the earth, as she passed over it.

For a few minutes Alicia continued to survey herself with evident

satisfaction—turning first to this side, then to that, and at last

retreating step by step, and again slowly advancing toward her mirror,

to study the full effect of her brilliant _tout ensemble_.

“Mrs. Wetmore says, Miss,” remarked her maid, “that there will not be so

beautiful a dress among them all as yours.”

“Nor so handsome a goddess,” responded Alicia, “did she not say that

also, Ferris?”

“Of course she did, Miss,” returned the maid, who always stood ready to

apply the unction of flattery to her young mistress—“everybody says

that,” she added, “and sure if they did not, your own mirror would tell

it to you.”

“But everybody might not believe what the mirror says, Ferris, though

neither you nor I think it tells lies,” said Alicia. “But never mind, it

is all very well, except these mock-roses, and they are such trumpery

things I will not disgrace myself by wearing them,” and snatching the

garland of artificial roses from her head she threw it contemptuously

across the floor. “I can have abundance of natural flowers of every

description except roses, and every one tells me they are not to be

found.”

“Then, Miss, how can you expect to have them? Sure, they will not blow

in the midst of these mountains of snow,” said Ferris.

“But Captain Clairville declares I am no true goddess without them,”

said Alicia—“that the Dutchess of S—— had the loveliest crown of

fragrant roses on her head, besides boquets of them in her hands and on

her bosom, and that to be seen with these things of cloth and wire would

make me ridiculous. No, it will never do; I must and will have real

roses—roses! roses! Ferris, for the Goddess Flora, or I will go to bed

and not get up again for a year.”

“Oh pray, Miss, don’t talk so,” said Ferris. “I am sure I would get

roses for you if I could—but where upon earth are they to be had in the

heart of this terrible winter? All the gardeners say theirs have frozen,

and for that matter, Miss, I was near being frozen myself the bitter day

you sent me out to ransack the suburbs for them—into every alley and

corner I went without finding so much as a bud to bless myself with,

though Dame Paton says hers never failed before, and in the coldest

weather the Misses Franchettes were never known to be without them.”

“But you said something, Ferris, of a rose-tree which a poor girl had in

some out of the way place, I forget where. Pray why cannot you get from

them the flowers I want, and which indeed I must and will have?”

“Oh, la! Miss, who would have the heart to rob that bush? It blossoms

but once a year, and is the only treasure of a poor girl who watches its

flowers to lay them on her mother’s grave.”

“How doleful! Is it a sad-looking rose, Ferris?” asked Alicia.

“Oh no, Miss, quite gay, and the loveliest white, with just the faintest

blush you ever saw,” said Ferris—“at least, so the buds looked which

were just bursting open—perfect wreaths of them, which would bring ever

so much money if the girl would only sell them; but no, she will not

part with one, saving them all till the anniversary of her mother’s

death, when she strews them over her grave, and they say it is a lovely

sight to see the heap of snow which covers it all of a blush with the

living roses.”

“How strange! quite sentimental, I declare,” said Alicia, adjusting her

veil into more becoming folds before the mirror as she spoke. “But,

then,” she added, “what a sin to throw away such lovely flowers; just

now, too, when there is nowhere else a rose to be had, and so many would

be thankful for them at any price. I am sure they would adorn the living

more than the dead, for exposed to this frightful cold they cannot even

beautify the grave many minutes before they are changed to ice.”

“Oh, Miss, old Suzanne says she has seen them lying there for days

together; stiff enough to be sure, but looking blooming, and so

beautiful in the white snow, and sometimes there falls a fine sleet and

freezes on them, and they sparkle as if covered with diamonds; and then

Rosalie, that is the name of the young girl, smiles and says the angels

have wept on them—so she watches them till they change, and then throws

over them the lightest snow she can find, and they settle down as the

snow melts, and in the spring their faded leaves are all found lying on

the green grave, sometimes quite fresh-like and sweet as it were.”

“What a fuss about nothing,” said the volatile beauty; “the girl must

have lost her senses, or if she has not, other people have, to see such

lovely roses perishing in the snow, and never taking the trouble to

carry them away from that frozen place.”

“What, Miss, lift them from the grave!” exclaimed Ferris, with a burst

of indignation that reproved the flippant selfishness of her mistress,

“who would dare do such a thing? It would be the very sin of sacrilege

that Father Dougherty talked of last Sunday, and I for one, would choose

never to look upon another flower, rather than pluck even a leaf from

those which that poor girl lays upon her mother’s grave.”

“Goodness me, Ferris, how very pathetic you are,” said Alicia, slightly

coloring, with shame we hope, “but I am not so easily melted, and the

roses I _must_ have—fairly purchased of the girl if she will sell them,

if not, by some other means, for obtain them I must; and if with your

aid, Ferris, a rich reward shall be yours—if you refuse it, there are

those to whom I have shown far less kindness than to you who would not

so willingly disoblige me.”

“Indeed, Miss,” said Ferris, half-crying and alarmed by the dread of

losing a good place, “there is nobody in the whole world that I would do

so much for as you—any thing that was right, Miss, I could never

disobey you in—but to rob the dead! who could do that and hope ever to

have a quiet night again?”

“Nonsense!” ejaculated Alicia, with a contemptuous curl of her pretty

lip, “what have you to do with the dead in this matter? I ask you to go

to the living, to the girl herself once more, and tempt her with gold,

which she must need, to give you these precious flowers. I do not care

what you offer her, sovereigns, guineas, any thing you please, if so you

win from her the roses—I am no goddess without them—but crowned with

such a lovely garland, I shall rival Flora herself—walk a divinity

among the men, and cause all the women to expire with envy.”

And at the bare thought of such a triumph, the spoiled little beauty

crossed the room with as regal a step as though she really trod the

cloudy heights of Olympus, and casting off her veil and robe of

changeful hue, she wrapped her fairy form in a luxurious dressing-gown,

and sunk quite exhausted into the arms of a capacious _fauteuil_, from

beneath the downy cushions of which she drew forth the last new novel,

and soon seemingly abandoned herself to its absorbing interest.

“I will try, Miss, once more for the roses,” said Ferris, as she turned

to leave the room, “unless you are willing Grayson should go—she knows

the place, for she went there with me, Miss, and would, I think, be much

more likely to get them than I should.”

“I care not a pin who goes, Ferris,” said Alicia, looking up from

beneath the mass of silk and down in which she sat half-buried—“only

let me have the roses and I will not even ask how they were got, or by

whom.” And again she sunk listlessly down into what might have seemed a

little bundle of embroidered silk, but for the crown of shining ringlets

just visible in its midst.

CHAPTER II.

The scene of our tale changes from the abode of wealth and fashion to

the humble dwelling of poverty, with its trials and privations—from the

exhibition of a spoiled and petted beauty’s vain and idle caprices, to

the manifestations of a pure and noble spirit, oppressed by misfortune,

yet true to its own high convictions of duty, gently submissive to the

Divine hand which guided and sustained it, and ever shedding around its

lowly sphere the light and peace of its own heavenly faith and love.

In a narrow cross-street of one of the most obscure suburbs of the city,

stood a dilapidated house, the small attic of which was tenanted by an

elderly man and his daughter, the former of whom was now lying

motionless upon his bed, either insensible or asleep; and to judge from

his wasted and ghastly appearance, approaching near the confines of that

world where the weary spirit finds release and rest. Beside him, at a

small table, sat a young girl of singularly sweet and interesting

appearance, without what a common observer would designate beauty, and

yet with “something than beauty dearer,” irradiating her calm, pure

face; a soul-light from within, shining and giving to it that heavenly

expression which reminded one of the angelic faces which beam from the

breathing canvas of Raphael. Her soft, brown hair fell back in wavy

curls from her smooth brow, and in her dark hazel-eyes, with their

long-fringed drooping lids, there was a depth of unrevealed and gentle

sensibilities, and a lurking tenderness around her mouth, which

indicated timidity and sweetness—some might have thought it weakness,

had not the slight and graceful curve of the upper lip rescued it from

that suspicion—denoting a firm, if a gentle soul, and a courage strong

to dare and endure in the path of woman’s duty, thorny and rugged though

that path might chance to be.

On the small table before her lay a cluster of snow-white camelias, with

a few other flowers of equal beauty. Whence, at so inclement a season,

came those frail and delicate blossoms into that bare and lonely attic?

A nearer glance informed the gazer that those lovely imitations of

Nature’s fairest forms were of wax, moulded by the skill and taste of

the young artist into such perfection as to deceive the most practiced

eye. Thrown by a series of afflictive dispensations wholly upon her own

resources for the support of her sick father and herself, Rosalie La

Motte had exercised in turn her various accomplishments to avert the

want and destitution which menaced her—but notwithstanding the elegance

of the various articles which she produced, she found it difficult to

obtain purchasers for them, though she did not hesitate to seek a sale

for them at the shops, and even to offer them at the doors of some of

the finest houses of the city. They were generally turned over with

indifference and dismissed, or purchased at half their value, by those

who thought more of making a good bargain than of aiding the pale and

delicate girl who was so nobly struggling against poverty and

misfortune.

In the disposal of her wax-flowers Rosalie had met with better

success—they were too exquisite not to win admiration, and several had

purchased single flowers or small bouquets without disputing the price,

and so encouraged, when she could procure the materials, she continued,

upon a small scale, her tasteful manufacture, and thus, for the present,

was enabled to provide comforts for her father, and defray the trifling

expenses of her humble home.

And thus to struggle on alone and unfriended, was indeed heroic in one

born to better fortunes, and nurtured in a home of ease and indulgence,

as was the young and gentle Rosalie. Early in life her father had

emigrated from Lyons to New Orleans, where he established a mercantile

house, which soon became one of the richest in the city. He married a

lovely woman, and children gathered around him. But then troubles came,

as they come to all—for they are part of life’s discipline, aiding us

to solve its deep mysteries, and unveiling our spiritual sight to behold

the glories of that higher life toward which the good and true are

constantly ascending. An infant son died, and then a darling daughter,

just budding into her tenth sweet summer. The mother was

grief-stricken—the father’s energies paralyzed, and during this season

of heavy trial, an ambitious and unprincipled partner of the house

availed himself of the opportunity to embark in a daring and uncertain

speculation, which failed, as might have been expected, involving the

whole concern in irretrievable ruin.

The same messenger who brought these evil tidings to the unhappy

merchant, then residing at his country seat, brought also letters from

an uncle of Mr. La Motte’s on the mother’s side, who had been for many

years a resident in Canada, engaged there in the lucrative North West

trade. The communication from Mr. McMillan stated that he had now

retired from active business, and having no home of his own, he wished

his nephew to remove with his family to Montreal, that he might find one

with those whom he intended as the heirs of his fortune.

Ruined in fortune, and broken down in spirit, Mr. La Motte resolved to

accept his uncle’s cordial invitation, and accordingly wrote him to that

effect, but unfortunately the letter never reached its destination.

Again Mr. McMillan wrote, but by some untoward accident his letter went

astray—and a rumor which soon after prevailed, owing to Mr. La Motte’s

remaining in retirement, that he had returned with his family to France,

reached the ears of his uncle, and prevented his writing again. In the

meantime, the cholera broke out in the devoted city of Montreal, and Mr.

McMillan was among its first victims. His life had not been such as to

enable him to meet death in peace, and in the vain hope that he should

thus make some atonement for his sins, he gave the whole of his property

to the church, and died in the belief that its purchased masses would

insure the safety of his soul.

Delayed by illness and other unforeseen causes, it was not till the

autumn of that fatal year, that Mr. La Motte, with his wife and

daughter, arrived in Montreal, only to meet new trial and

disappointment, for the first answers to inquiries respecting his

relative, informed him of his death, and the disposition of his entire

property to the church. Thus left friendless, almost penniless, in a

strange land, with a wife and child, bred in affluence, dependent upon

him, the unfortunate La Motte was ready to sink beneath the heavy burden

of his lot. But something must be done, so a small house was rented, and

through the friendly services of a distant relative of his late uncle,

Mr. La Motte obtained the situation of under-clerk, with a very moderate

remuneration, in a mercantile house in the city.

It was a new position for one who had been for many prosperous years at

the head of an extensive establishment of his own; but it averted

immediate want, and enabled him to provide a shelter for those dear ones

who leaned upon him—a humble one it is true, compared to the comfort

and luxurious beauty of their southern home; but it was their own—and

beautified by the wife’s patient sweetness, the daughter’s loving smiles

and tender assiduities for the happiness of her parents, it became a

haven of peace to the worn and weary man. So passed away the first year

of their northern sojourn; but with the falling of the next autumn

leaves, a gathering cloud threatened to overshadow their calm sky.

The change of climate and of circumstances had seriously affected Mrs.

La Motte’s health—her step became feeble—a cough convulsed her slight

frame, and the beautiful but fearful hectic of consumption lent its

fatal lustre to her cheek and eye. She faded fast, and with the early

snows of winter the broken-hearted husband and weeping daughter, saw her

dear and cherished form borne forever from the humble home, which her

presence had sanctified and blessed.

“Do not mourn thus bitterly, my Rosalie,” she said, on the day of her

departure. “I am not leaving you, my child, but only passing from your

outward sight, to be still nearer to you in thought and affection. This

life, dearest, we have found one of trial and change—but we both

believe that the one toward which I am rapidly advancing, upon which I

shall soon enter, is one of beauty and of peace—of joy unspeakable and

of endless development.”

“Yes, dear mamma, I know this,” said the weeping girl; “and for you I do

rejoice—but oh, this seeming separation—how sad it is!” and a fresh

burst of sorrow impeded her utterance.

“Ever think of it _but_ as a _seeming_ separation, for it is one only to

the eye of sense,” said Mrs. La Motte. “That which we call death, dear

Rosalie, is but a change in the mode of our existence—a continuation of

life, higher, fuller, more free than that which we know here, in a world

of light and beauty far more real than this.”

“Oh yes, dear mamma,” said Rosalie, “I dread death only because it

severs the close-knit ties of earth—thanks to your teachings, I have

always regarded it as a beautiful and benignant ministration of our

Heavenly Father’s love—as the birth-day of the soul to a higher and

happier life, without satiety or end. But this day, mamma, brings to me

a double bereavement, for it is that on which our sweet Adalia left

us—and now—and now—” She paused, covering her streaming eyes with her

hand.

“Yes, and she is near me—very near—waiting to conduct me to her

spirit-home,” said the mother, with a rapt look, as though she indeed

gazed upon the form of her departed child—as who shall say she did not,

or that our loved ones do not ever sit beside our dying pillow, as is

the sweet belief, and a true one, as we think, of many.

“The dear rose-tree she planted,” resumed the dying mother, after a

moment’s pause, “will soon be bright with blossoms, as on the day she

left us—let its flowers, my Rosalie, cover my snowy grave, and on each

anniversary of my departure, strew them there in remembrance of us

both.”

“Yes—yes, dear mamma!” was all the sobbing girl could utter.

“Do so, darling child,” said the mother—“our spirits will be with you,

my Rosalie—and never, never, dear one, forget while it lives, to

cherish for her sweet sake, the rose-tree her young hand planted.”

“Never! my own mamma,” sobbed Rosalie; “for her dear sake and yours, it

shall be a sacred thing to me always.”

It was on the first day of her illness that the little Adalia had

planted this rose-tree, then a tiny thing; and before another spring

came round, its flowers were strewn upon her grave. From that time the

plant was watched with reverent care by the tender mother; and when she

left her southern home for the colder north, this cherished thing

accompanied her, though there were many others far more useful and

costly that were necessarily left behind.

The death of his wife gave the final blow to Mr. La Motte’s health and

spirits—still he struggled on, but evidently with a broken-heart, till

finally a sudden paralysis, which partially affected the mind, and

wholly prostrated the physical powers, laid him helpless upon a weary

bed of pain. It was then, when every earthly stay seemed to have

deserted her, that all the hidden strength and beauty of Rosalie’s

character were developed.

Deprived at once of the power of active exertion, Mr. La Motte’s small

income ceased—the house they occupied, humble as it was, could no

longer be retained—and Rosalie, all inexperienced, felt the necessity

of looking out for a less expensive abode. After long and patient search

she at length discovered the old house with its unoccupied attic, where

we have introduced her to the reader, and to which she removed her

father, with the few articles of comfort and convenience she could

afford to keep, and there for many months she had now toiled

unremittingly for their support.

But amid all the toils and privations of her lot, her cheerfulness and

serene temper remained unclouded—her patience unshaken—her trust and

faith in her heavenly Father’s love and goodness, calm and unfaltering.

Nor, helpless and often querulous through weariness and suffering as her

father was, did she ever fail toward him in her task of duty, or in the

constancy of her affection. He only, of the dear household band,

remained to her; and the devotion she felt for him absorbed the whole of

her being, except that higher sentiment which belonged to Him who had

breathed into her an immortal spirit.

Her own frail and delicate appearance told, however, that the soul’s

struggle for resignation and cheerfulness, though successful, had too

terribly shaken the physical frame, ever to permit the flush of health

and joy to invigorate it again. Short and quick, after every exertion,

came the labored breath, and the slightest fatigue or emotion dyed the

fair cheek with that brilliant hue, which they who know its fatal

warning, tremble to behold.

CHAPTER III

The small apartment occupied by Rosalie and her father, though

scrupulously neat and clean, was almost bare of furniture. A few

necessary and very simple articles it contained, and nothing else,

beside the lovely wax flowers upon the table, worthy of observation,

except the tall and thriving rose-tree, whose bursting buds, fast

unfolding into full-blown flowers, were consecrated to the memory of the

departed. It was growing in the graceful Wedgwood vase in which the

little Adalia had planted it, and before the recess of the window where

it stood hung a curtain so thin as not to exclude the air, while it

answered the design for which it was intended, to screen it from the

curious eye of casual visitors. This curtain was now drawn aside,

revealing the graceful plant in its flush of beauty, and as Rosalie sat

moulding the plastic wax into exquisite floral forms with her delicate

fingers, she often turned her eyes from the still and deathlike features

of her father to its green branches, drooping with the weight of their

clustered buds, and a sad and tender smile would linger on her lips, and

a dewy lustre moisten her soft, hazel eye as she gazed—while at times

some secret thought framed itself into words, and fell in broken murmurs

from her tongue.

At last she rose, and advancing to the tree, lifted a trailing branch,

and wound it round a stronger one for support, tears like dew-drops

falling upon its bright buds as she said—

“Yes, dear mamma, the rose-tree our Adalia planted, and which you loved,

is blooming for you, and once again your daughter’s hand will strew its

leaves over your snowy bed. Once more! but another year—and who will

shed them there? Ah! it matters not—we shall ere then be reunited where

brighter flowers than those of earth will bloom for us eternally.”

A radiant smile lighted up her sweet face as she uttered these words,

and her delicate cheek flushed with the lovely but fatal hectic which

lurked in her system, and set the seal of truth upon her prophecy. As

she turned slowly from the window she saw her father move—he had

awakened, and she hastened toward the bed. The sick man looked upon his

child with a vacant eye, as she tenderly bent over him. She saw that his

lips were parched, and pouring some liquid into a cup, she held it to

him, and he drank eagerly.

“Have you slept well, dear papa?” she gently asked, as she tenderly

arranged his pillow, and smoothed the thin hair from his furrowed brow.

He turned his dreamy eye toward her, and it brightened up with loving

recollections, as he scanned in silence the features so dear, and so

familiar to his heart.

“Slept!” he said at last, in a low and feeble voice. “I have been

sailing, Rosalie, on a broad, bright river, and angels guided my vessel.

Adalia was in my arms, and she, your angel mother, sat beside me, with

her patient smile, and her sunny eye that, with its look of love, ever

chased the shadows from my heart.”

“Dear papa, you weary yourself,” said the anxious girl, as he paused,

laboring for breath. “Rest awhile, for I know it all—mamma was with

you, and you were happy.”

“Yes,” he answered with animation, “I was happy. I felt her hand in

mine, and we sailed onward and onward, far away from all sights and

sounds of earth, into a glorious atmosphere, golden with the light of

heaven—and all around us was _His_ near presence, wrapping our souls in

a garment of blessedness.”

“It is always round us, dear papa,” said Rosalie, alarmed at his

increasing excitement; “always—even here in this poor room, where we

seem left to drink the cup of poverty alone.”

“A dream!—but was it _only_ a _dream_ then, Rosalie?” murmured the sick

man with a troubled look.

“No, dear papa; but a visitation of angels to cheer your slumbers, and

whisper to your spirit of the peace and bliss of heaven,” said the

gentle daughter, imprinting a kiss of love upon his cheek.

“Yes, yes; and to tell me of her guardian care,” he said; then in a

clear voice, and with a burst of joyful triumph he repeated—

“‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,

If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;

What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’”

And so soothed by the cheering vision, the invalid sank again into a

deep and peaceful slumber, which was again brightened, as the sleep of

the departing often is, by glimpses of that fair spirit-land in which

the sufferer is so soon to awaken.

Rosalie had just finished adjusting the bed-clothes around her father,

when steps and voices were heard ascending the stairs. She glanced at

the precious rose-tree, and with eager hand hastened to draw the curtain

before the little recess where it stood, which she had scarcely time to

do, before the door was suddenly opened, without even the ceremony of a

rap, and a matronly lady, dressed in rich and fashionable costume, and

attended by a female servant, entered the apartment. Rosalie instantly

divined the cause of their appearance in her humble abode, for in the

person of the latter she recognized one of the women who, a few days

previous, had come there with a desire to purchase the cherished roses,

whose bloom she watched with interest and solicitude.

For an instant she stood silent and embarrassed before the intruders,

then recovering herself, with that graceful courtesy which ever

distinguishes the well-bred and refined, she drew forward a chair and

invited the lady to sit.

With a slight and condescending nod, Madame de Rochemont, for it was the

mother of Alicia, took possession of the offered seat, at the same time

casting a glance of eager inquiry around the apartment. As she did so,

her eye was attracted by the lovely wax flowers which lay upon the

table, and bending toward them,

“Bless me!” she exclaimed, “what exquisite flowers!” then, as a nearer

view revealed to her their true quality, she added—“and of wax too, I

declare! Are they for sale—and do you make them?” she asked, looking at

Rosalie.

“I make them, Madame, but these are already disposed of,” replied

Rosalie. “I shall gladly, however, make others if they are wished for,

and as many as may be ordered.”

“Oh, it is your business, is it,” said the lady superciliously; “and

pray, what may be your charge for a bunch like this?”

“Only a pound, Madame,” answered Rosalie, quietly.

“_Only_ a pound!” repeated Madame de Rochemont, with a sneering emphasis

on the “_only_.” “Very moderate, truly! and here are two camelias with a

bud, a Provence rose, and a sprig of myrtle—why you must be making your

fortune at this rate, child!”

“Considering the labor and expense attending the preparation of the

material, for I color and mould the wax myself, the profit is very

trifling,” said Rosalie. “Besides,” she added, “I have received few

orders for the flowers, as I am almost a stranger in the city, and have

commenced making them for sale only since my father’s illness.” Her

voice slightly trembled as she made this allusion, but her emotion

passed unheeded.

“Were your prices more moderate you would have more orders than you

could execute,” said Madame de Rochemont. “For instance, if you consent

to charge but ten shillings, instead of twenty, for a bouquet like this,

which is enough in all conscience, I will take one myself, and procure

you at least a dozen purchasers among my own private friends.”

“It is impossible, Madame, for me to make them at so low a price,” said

Rosalie; “it would not repay me for the cost of the materials—these

should bring me one pound ten, in justice to myself, but necessity

compels me to part with them just now at a lower rate than I can afford;

but I am to take them to the lady who ordered them at three o’clock, and

I shall decline making any more at that price.”

“Well, child, you cannot expect patronage, if you persist in such

extravagant terms,” said the lady, turning with an air of indifference

from the wax camelias, and adding, as she again sent her searching gaze

round the room—“but it was not to purchase artificial flowers that I

came here this morning. My daughter’s maid, and my own, whom (with a

glance at Grayson) perhaps you may recognize, in their search after

flowers for the fancy ball, found their way here a day or two since, and

brought back to us a story of the beautiful rose-tree you have somewhere

here, and of your refusal, owing to some sort of a whim, to part with

any of the flowers, though, from appearances, one would think you might

have been willing to exchange what must be useless to you, for a much

less sum than she was bidden to offer.”

“The roses she wished to purchase, Madame,” said Rosalie, with emotion,

“have a value to me, that, with all my pressing wants, gold fails to

possess. They are,” she added, tears filling her soft eyes, “memorials

of a beloved mother and sister—the tree was planted by the latter, and

for her sake fondly cherished, amid the wreck of almost all else that we

possessed—its first flowers were laid upon her grave, and now, yearly,

I watch its bloom to strew them on my mother’s—nor can I let even my

poverty tempt me to neglect this duty, which, on each anniversary of her

death, I promised her faithfully to perform.”

A covert sneer lurked round the mouth of Madame de Rochemont, who wanted

sensibility to appreciate a sentiment so tender and refined; but there

was a gentle dignity, a touching truthfulness in Rosalie’s words and

manner, that checked the sarcasm which else she might have uttered, and

with an air of cold nonchalance, she only said—

“Ah, I see—a little bit of romance—but never mind. If not too precious

to be seen, will you favor me with a sight of this wonderful rose-tree?”

Thus requested, Rosalie advanced to the window, and drawing aside the

thin curtain which screened it from observation, displayed the lovely

bush with its rich wreaths of spotless buds, now rapidly unfolding in

the light and warmth of a bright January sun, which streamed from the

brilliant azure of a Canadian sky full upon it. Madame de Rochemont gave

audible expression to her admiration at sight of the beautiful plant,

and renewed her request, at any price, to obtain its blossoms. But

Rosalie, true to her filial idea of love and duty, would not be tempted

to depart from it, even by the sight of the offered gold, one piece of

which would have lightened the incessant toil to which she was now

subjected.

The continued sound of voices in the apartment at length aroused the

sick man from his slumbers; and with that confused feeling which, even

in health, often accompanies the first moments of awaking from a sound

sleep, he looked up around, unable to conjecture where he was, or from

whom or whence the unusual hum of voices proceeded. At length, his ear

traced them to the window, and listening more intently, he caught some

words respecting the rose-tree—a thing not less sacred to him than to

his daughter—which startled and interested him. With a preternatural

strength he raised himself upon his elbow, and gazed at the speakers,

striving to take into his confused mind the meaning of the scene before

him, when he saw the woman Grayson, while her mistress held Rosalie’s

attention engaged, glide quietly to the opposite side of the tree, and

screened from their notice by its thick foliage, grasp a branch with one

hand, while in the other she held a glittering pair of scissors, with

which she was in the act of severing it from the main stalk.

Electrified by the sight, an unwonted energy nerved him, and he sent

forth a loud, unearthly cry, a sudden out-burst of mingled agony and

fear, which chilled the blood of those who heard it:

“The roses, the roses! Child, child, be not faithless to your mother’s

wish!” he gasped, in thrilling accents, and then sunk back exhausted on

his pillow. The scissors fell from the hand of Grayson in her momentary

fright, and she dropped the branch she had only partially severed; but

hardened and fearless, she would almost instantly have returned to

complete her purpose, had not Madame de Rochemont, with a look of

mingled terror and annoyance, beckoned her away.

“Let us be gone from this place,” she said; “all the roses in the world

are not worth the shock my nerves have received from the shriek of that

madman yonder. Let the girl keep her flowers, if she prizes them above

bread, and reap the fruits of her folly, as she will doubtless do soon.

Come, Grayson—I am in haste; for I cannot breathe in this horrid attic

another moment;” and sweeping past the bed without turning a glance of

pity or inquiry toward the apparently dying man, over whom the poor

daughter was bending in love and terror, she disappeared through the

door, followed by her reluctant waiting-woman.

Grayson, however—as determined a she-wolf as ever thirsted for the

blood of an innocent lamb—had by no means relinquished her purpose. She

was to receive a rich bribe from Alicia if she succeeded in it, and she

was resolved not to give it up. Ferris was too conscientious and too

tender-hearted to do any thing further in the matter, and she would have

lost her place for declining, had not her services been too valuable to

her selfish young mistress to be lightly dispensed with. But Grayson was

troubled with no such scruples of conscience, and the moment she saw her

mistress seated in her carriage, which waited at the end of the little

street, and had received her dismission, she returned to a small

Canadian house which stood just opposite the one she had recently

quitted, the occupants of which, an old man and woman, were known to

her.

Under the pretence of paying them a friendly visit, she sat down at the

window to watch for Rosalie, who, she remembered to have said, that at

three o’clock she was to take home the wax flowers she had made. She

waited patiently till the hour arrived—but then, when minute after

minute passed on, till a quarter sounded from the old clock of the

French Seminary, she began to fear that the sick man was either dead, or

so much worse as to prevent his daughter from leaving him. However, just

as she was hesitating what course to pursue, the door of the opposite

house was opened, and Rosalie appeared, with the gray capote of her

little Canadian cloak drawn closely over her head—for it was snowing

fast—and carrying a small basket in her hand. She tripped quickly down

the narrow street, and when Grayson saw her turn the corner, she rose

and said she must be going, but that she would first just step over the

way and see how the sick man was, to whom her mistress sometimes sent

jelly. The old woman nodded her approbation of the neighborly act, and

Grayson departed on her wicked errand. She found the street-door

opposite open, and softly ascending the stairs, she reached the attic

without encountering any one.

Rosalie had left the door of her room slightly a-jar when she went out,

as was her custom, that the woman who occupied the apartment below—a

decent and quiet person—might hear her father’s bell, should he touch

the small one beside him. She had left him in a tranquil sleep, and

apparently recovered from the preceding excitement, and expecting to be

absent a very short time, she felt no more anxiety than usual respecting

him, nor hesitated to leave him alone as she was in the habit of doing

when obliged to go out.

Grayson softly entered the room, and with the stealthy step of a cat

glided swiftly across it, casting a furtive glance at the sleeper as she

passed the bed to assure herself that all was safe—then flinging aside

the curtain which concealed the rose-tree, she drew forth her sharp,

bright scissors, and commenced the work of destruction. Wreaths and

clusters of those bursting buds and full-blown roses she relentlessly

severed from the parent tree, depositing them in a capacious

handkerchief which she had spread upon the floor to receive them, till

the beautiful plant—but just now crowned with living bloom and

beauty—stood before her shorn and disfigured by her cruel theft.

In haste to be gone, she cast the last roses on her heap of spoils, and

was carefully drawing the corners of the handkerchief together that she

might not crush them, when a low sort of hissing sound from the bed

startled her. She looked up, and at the sight which met her view, even

her bold heart quailed with momentary fear and awe. Sitting upright, she

beheld Mr. La Motte, his tall, erect form emaciated almost to a

skeleton, one hand feebly grasping the pillow for support, the other,

thin and shadowy, stretched with a menacing gesture toward her. His

ghostly face, rendered still more so by the black hair, streaked with

gray, which had grown long during his illness, and which hung round it,

giving it the livid hue of death; but intense life seemed centered in

his eyes, which—dark as night, deep sunk and large—glared upon her

with a look of terrible rage and ferocity, while his skinny lips, drawn

apart in a vain effort to give utterance to his wrath, disclosed two

rows of teeth glittering with deathly whiteness, that lent a

supernatural aspect to the countenance.

Quickly gathering up the stolen roses, Grayson darted toward the door;

but when the sick man saw her actually escaping with the treasured

flowers, his agony burst forth in burning words:

“Fiend! fiend!” he shouted; “you have robbed the dead! they are

here—they call you to give back—give back—the—” and his speech

failing by degrees, and his unnatural strength yielding before the

violence of the effort he made, he fell over insensible on the edge of

the bed, upsetting the little table, and causing the hand-bell—placed

on it for his use—to roll on the floor, ringing out its loudest peal as

it fell.

Without a moment’s pause, Grayson rushed down the two pair of shaking

stairs to the lower lobby. She found the street-door closed, and while

she was attempting to open it—which in her haste she did not quickly

accomplish—she heard the woman who occupied the room below the attic,

come out and ascend the stairs; and a moment after, her voice sounded

from the upper landing, calling to some one below—“Pray come up, quick!

I think the sick man is dead! Where is the girl? Can no one find her, to

come to her father?”

Grayson waited to hear no more, but hastily quitting the house, ran as

fast as her feet could move down the little street. Just as she turned

the corner, she encountered Rosalie, who started and turned pale, and

Grayson thought looked suspiciously at her; but she carried the bundle

of roses hidden under her cloak, and so she passed on unquestioned.

Rosalie, too—though with a heart filled with dark misgivings—went

quickly on her homeward way, to find, alas! those misgivings more than

realized in the new misfortunes which there awaited her.

CHAPTER IV.

As Rosalie ascended the stairs to the attic, she heard, through the

half-open door of a room which she passed, the words—“He is dead, and

the girl is away.” Every syllable fell like a bolt of ice upon her

heart, for to whom could they refer except to her father and herself?

She paused not to think or question; fear, agony—every terrible emotion

had lent wings to her feet, she flew upward like a hunted bird, one

dreadful thought impelling her onward till she reached the bedside of

her father.

Around it stood two or three females, tenants of the house, gazing on

the rigid, cold form, pale as marble, which, with closed eyes and

motionless hands lay extended before them. With a cry of anguish that

would have pierced the most stony heart, Rosalie sprang forward, and

laying her now burning cheek on the cold one of her father’s, and

casting her soft arms around his neck, she called to him in accents,

whose tender pathos none could hear unmoved; she implored him to speak

to his own Rosalie; to come back from death, and live for her who had

none to live for but him. She mingled passionate and broken prayers with

her adjurations, that God would restore her dear father again to her;

and while she prayed, warm tears fell like summer rain upon the pale

face against which her sweet one rested, and like the grateful dews upon

the faded herbage, they did indeed recall the departing from the gates

of death, to the consciousness of his daughter’s warm embrace and loving

kiss.

She felt at last the beating of his heart beneath the pressure of her

small hand, his respiration feebly fanned her cheek, his closed eyelids

quivered; and while her soul bowed down in thankfulness, they were

upraised with a beaming look of love, which sent its light and joy into

her sinking heart.

“My dear Rosalie,” he said, striving to cast his feeble arms around her;

“Still a dweller in the tearful valley of discipline and trial; but

courage, courage, my own love—the veil of earthly life has been lifted

from before me, and I have gazed into the unseen.” His voice sunk lower,

and he paused. Rosalie pressed her cheek still closer to his, but sobs

were her only utterance. “Peace, little one,” he said, with tenderness

ineffable. “Peace, for they are with us! I have seen them, and soon we

shall go home to them. Home! home!” he said exultingly—

“Where happy spirits dwell,

There, where one loving word

Alone is never heard,

That loving word, _farewell_!”

Again his eyes closed; and with a smile of serenity upon his lips he

slept, or seemed to sleep, tranquilly as an infant. Rosalie raised her

head and gazed upon his placid face.

“The peace which passeth all understanding, the peace of heaven is

within this breast,” she murmured, laying her head upon his bosom, while

the breath of prayer went up like fragrant incense from her crushed and

bleeding heart. The women had all withdrawn except one, and she, with

pitying and kindly purpose, remained to comfort the young girl, and give

aid, if need were, to the father; and so in silence a short interval

passed, when again the sick man moved, and the watchful child raised her

head to catch and interpret his first look; but, as she met his restless

and troubled gaze, she saw that the clear intellect had become clouded,

even before he spoke, and then, with his first word, her fear became

certainty. Casting an anxious glance toward the window—

“Has she robbed us of them _all_?” he asked.

“What? dear papa,” inquired Rosalie, tenderly.

“The roses, child; your mother’s roses, and Adalia’s. They asked me for

them just now; their bed, they said, was cold, and they wanted their

life and bloom to warm the snow which covered it.”

“Dear papa, I will lay them there to-morrow. It brings round the day on

which they left us,” said Rosalie, sadly.

“To-morrow, yes!” he responded; “but will there be any to shed them on

us when we shall lie there with them, Rosalie?”

“Dear papa, we shall be cared for then as now,” she answered soothingly;

“He who brightens our poor room with those sweet flowers, will then have

received us where brighter ones bloom—never to decay.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the invalid: then with an agitated look he asked

again—“but has she taken them all? Look, Rosalie—see if there be one

bud left and bring it to me, that I may know if it is like those I saw

on Adalia’s brow, in the spirit-land. Go, child!” perceiving her still

beside him; “Go, and bring me buds and roses from _her_ tree—their

fragrance will soothe me like the whisper of her loving voice.”

Thus urged, Rosalie rose to obey him. The fading light of the short

winter day was just deepening into twilight, but a bright ray from the

still illuminated west shot through the small window and rested on the

poor, shorn rose-tree, crowning it with a rosy smile, as if to comfort

it for the loss of its flowers. As she approached it, Rosalie was struck

with something strange in its appearance, but the day was waning, and

her eyes were dimmed with tears, and so no wonder, she thought, that the

objects around should seem distorted; nor was it till she stretched out

her hand to pluck the roses that she perceived her lovely tree despoiled

of its glorious bloom. Bare, mutilated, unsightly she beheld it; not a

bud left to tell of what had been, not a single blossom for the hand of

filial love to cast upon the sacred place of the dead.

Who could have done this cruel deed? She recollected her rencontre with

the woman Grayson—she remembered her guilty look, and the quick, yet

stealthy, pace with which she passed her, and to her mind the question

was answered beyond a doubt. The coming day was the anniversary of her

mother’s death, and must it pass unmarked by the only outward tribute it

was in her power to render to her memory? Thought after thought passed

through her mind as she stood silent before her desolated tree, but the

misfortune was irreparable, and sadly she returned at last to the

bedside of her father—he was sleeping calmly, his respiration was free

and natural, and the kind neighbor who watched with her, composed her by

the assurance that “the fit was over and the morning would find him

mending;” still at short intervals he woke, and the same question, “Are

they _all_ gone?” was constantly repeated, and then with an imploring

tone he would ask for “but one bud, to speak to him of her.”

CHAPTER V.

Alicia de Rochemont stood, as on the reader’s first introduction to her,

before the tall mirror which reflected back her youthful and lovely

figure, arrayed as when we before beheld her, yet with more care and

precision, for this was the night of the long-expected fancy-ball, and

as the Goddess of Flowers, her head was crowned with garlands of living

and fragrant roses, her snowy arms were wreathed with them, and the

artificial blossoms that had before filled her cornucopia, were replaced

by the most delicious flowers of the conservatory, among which roses of

snowy whiteness predominated, lending their pearly lustre and exquisite

fragrance to the whole.

The toilette of the young beauty had been for some time completed, and a

few admiring friends were now gathered to witness and approve its _tout

ensemble_, among whom was Captain Clairville, the assiduous attendant,

though not as yet the declared lover, of Miss De Rochemont. The dress of

the young lady elicited the commendation of all—for who could censure

what was in such perfect taste? But above all, the lovely profusion of

roses, which lent to it such a chaste and elegant effect, were

especially admired, and many inquiries arose as to where she could have

procured them—“such unique roses as they were”—“so unlike any they had

ever seen,” etc.; questions which an innate feeling of shame forbade

Alicia to answer.

Her refusal to tell where she had obtained them, and indeed her evident

desire to avoid the subject, a little excited the curiosity of Captain

Clairville, and awakened some suspicion in his mind that the knowledge

would not redound greatly to her credit. This doubt, however, he

scarcely admitted to himself, but it determined him, before finally

committing his happiness to the keeping of his fair Alicia, to study her

character more closely, and as a key to it, discover if possible the

story, for he was sure there was one, connected with the roses; but for

this evening he would strive to dismiss distrust, and enjoy the beauty

and vivacity which had almost completed their conquest over him.

With this resolution he was just preparing to depart for his lodgings

and dress for the ball, when a violent ringing at the street-door, and

then a bustle in the hall, attracted the attention of the little circle.

The servants were heard endeavoring to prevent some one from entering,

and then steps sounded on the stairs and the tones of a woman’s

voice—such tones as issue from the broken chords of a crushed

heart—came nearer and nearer, till they paused at the very door of the

dressing-room.

Captain Clairville arose and threw it open, when a slight figure,

wrapped in a gray Canadian cloak, crossed the threshold and stood within

the lighted room—but when she saw herself reflected in the large mirror

opposite the door she started and seemed for a moment on the point of

retreating, then, as if suddenly taking courage, she threw back the hood

which covered her head, revealing the delicate and spiritual face of

Rosalie La Motte. Casting a quick, but earnest gaze round the room, her

eye rested on Alicia, radiant as the goddess she personated, who stood

watching with interest the motions of the intruder.

For an instant the girl’s gaze seemed fascinated by so bright a vision,

then with an agitation visible in her whole frame, she rapidly crossed

the floor and paused before the _fauteuil_ in which sat Madame de

Rochemont. That lady’s native boldness and hauteur seemed to desert her

at the appearance of the young girl—her face grew scarlet through her

rouge, and her manner exhibited the utmost disorder and embarrassment.

Grayson, on the contrary, who stood behind her mistress, assumed a look

of fierce defiance when the object she had so wantonly wronged

unexpectedly presented herself. But Rosalie, regardless of every thing

save the one purpose she had come hither to accomplish, addressed

herself immediately with the utmost simplicity and directness to Madame

de Rochemont.

“You remember, Madame,” she said, “the object of your visit to me this

morning, but perhaps you are not aware that after your departure your

servant, having informed herself of my absence, stole back and rifled my

precious rose-tree! There are its flowers,” pointing to Alicia, “and I

have come to ask that they may be restored to me. They did not bloom for

the brow of beauty, but have been watered with tears and cherished for

the departed.”

“Grayson,” said Madame de Rochemont, fanning herself violently, and

without deigning a reply to Rosalie—“Grayson, she is a mad

creature—ring the bell and bid Atkins take her away.”

“Pardon me, Madame, if I countermand your order,” said Captain

Clairville. “Let us, at least, give this young girl a fair hearing

before we judge and send her away.”

Rosalie raised her soft eyes, full of gratitude, toward him, and that

speaking look strengthened his resolve to see that amends were made her

for the injury of which she complained. Rosalie, without heeding this

interruption, resumed her pleading.

“It is for my father’s sake, Madame, that I desire these flowers—they

are associated in his mind with my mother, and now that his intellect is

wandering—that he is dying—for oh, I fear it is so, he bids me bring

them to him that he may have peace.”

“How absurd!” ejaculated Madame de Rochemont—“the girl is an impostor,

and has some end to serve by such behavior.”

“Oh, Madame, the scene you witnessed this morning must assure you of my

truth,” said Rosalie, tears which she could no longer restrain falling

from her eyes—“I ask only for one cluster of those roses that I may lay

them on my father’s pillow, and see him smile upon me in his last

moments.”

“Here is money, girl,” said Madame de Rochemont, with the coarseness

which characterized her, “but the flowers form an important part of my

daughter’s dress and I will not consent to its being spoiled for such a

whim.”

At this insult Rosalie could no longer command herself—a bright blush

of wounded pride and shame overspread her face, and covering it with

both hands she bowed down her head and wept.

Captain Clairville, indignant at the treatment she received, felt all

his sympathies enlisted in her behalf, and as respectfully as he would

have addressed a duchess he approached, and with a few soothing words

endeavored to draw her toward a seat, for he saw that she was too much

overcome to stand. She however resisted his effort, but the interest he

thus expressed for her aroused the wrath of Madame de Rochemont, who

loaded the poor girl with the most opprobrious epithets, while the

sullen mood of Alicia changed to open resentment. Throwing down her

cornucopia, and tearing from her arms and head the rose-wreaths that

encircled them, she flung them scornfully upon the floor, darting, at

the same time, such looks of anger at Captain Clairville, as forced him

to the inward conviction that his bright mistress would better personate

one of the Furies than any gentler deity.

When Grayson saw the roses she had taken such unworthy pains to obtain,

cast angrily away, she quite forgot where she was, and rushing forward

she caught them up, declaring that “her young lady should not be cheated

out of her roses by the false tears and impudence of that beggarly

girl.” Terrified by the evil passions which were producing such a scene

of confusion around her, the gentle Rosalie began to look almost with

indifference on the precious roses, which lay withering in the heated

air of the apartment. Their pure leaves had been nurtured by tender

tears and loving smiles, and now that the hot breath of envy and

resentment had breathed on them, they seemed to her no longer the same,

and all unworthy to shed fragrance on the couch of the dying, or lend

beauty to the place of the dead.

“I must be gone,” she said to Captain Clairville, who still remained

near her—“my father will miss me—but I care no longer for the

flowers—let her wear them, they are fitter now for joy and beauty than

for sorrow and death.”

She was fearfully agitated—her frame trembled—her face was deathly

pale—unaccustomed to such outbursts of the lower passions, their

exhibition, invoked by herself, filled her with terror; she betrayed a

nervous anxiety to escape, like one in a den of ferocious animals, and

shrank close to the side of Captain Clairville as she moved toward the

door, seemingly afraid to go forward alone. When about to descend the

stairs he saw her falter, and supported her to the hall, but before they

reached it she had fainted. Ferris stood there with her bonnet and shawl

on.

“There is a cariole at the door, sir,” she said, “I will go with her, I

know the place.”

“I fear you will lose your situation, my good girl, if you take the part

of this poor young thing,” said Captain Clairville.

“I shall not mind, sir; there are plenty more as good,” she answered.

“There are, Ferris,” he replied, “and you shall not suffer for your

kindness.”

“I have snatched this for the poor child,” she said, when they were

seated in the cariole, lifting the corner of her shawl and showing the

garland of roses which had encircled Alicia’s head. “I felt sure her

young heart was breaking to leave the flowers she loved trampled under

foot, sir, and so I brought away this to comfort her.”

Captain Clairville smiled approval, but had not time to reply, as the

driver stopped just then at the door of the old house in which Rosalie

dwelt. The air had revived her, but in her pallid cheek and faltering

step were visible the effects of the scene through which she had just

passed—anxiety for her father seemed now to absorb every other thought,

and with a rapidity which her companions could scarcely equal, she

ascended the stairs, and pushing open the door of the still and darkened

room, advanced with a noiseless step to the bed.

The woman she had left with him still remained at her post, but her look

was solemn, and as she raised and then silently moistened the sick man’s

lips with a drop of water, she shook her head with a significance which

seemed to say there was no longer room for hope.

“You cannot mean that he is worse!” cried Rosalie, alarmed by her

manner. “He is sleeping calmly, and I perceive no change since I left

him.” And bending over him she pressed her lips fondly on his cheek. Its

marble coldness startled her, and she raised her eyes with a glance of

agony to the kind face of the woman.

“It is true child!” she said in reply to that look; “he will soon be

gone, and may God comfort the fatherless!”

A wild burst of sorrow escaped the poor girl at this confirmation of her

worst fears, and she laid her cheek on that of the dying, bathing it

with her tears and kisses. That cry—the touch of those fond lips,

arrested the departing spirit in its flight. The closing eyes opened and

fastened themselves with a look of inexpressible tenderness on the face

of his child—then they were raised upward with a radiant smile that

spoke of peace and blessedness—but immediately a mysterious shadow

passed over the countenance, and as it settled down upon it the spirit

quitted its frail tenement, but left its heavenly impress in the smile

which lingered long upon the pallid lips.

* * * * *

The dull, gray morning dawned slowly on that chamber of death shedding a

cold light upon the forlorn rose-tree, and stealing, as with a muffled

step, to the bed on which reposed, beside her dead father, the youthful

form of the gentle, heart-broken daughter. Long after his departure she

had seemed to sleep calmly on his bosom, but when they raised her up, to

remove her from him, the seal of death was on her angel features—this

last sorrow had been too mighty for her poor, tried heart, and in the

bitter struggle its chords snapped, and its music was forever hushed on

earth, to make glad melody in heaven.

Captain Clairville saw the last duties paid to the remains of the

departed father and daughter, whose sad history had awakened his deepest

interest, and whose prospects, had their lives been spared, it was his

hope and purpose to brighten. The precious rose-tree he consigned to the

charge of Ferris, who shortly afterward married an honest tradesman,

exacting from her a promise to shed its flowers annually on the graves

of those who so fondly cherished it—a promise which she faithfully

fulfilled.

Disappointed in his estimate of Alicia’s character, Clairville never,

after the affair of the roses, sought a renewal of his intercourse with

her, and the few times they met in society, it was as strangers. As soon

as the spring opened he obtained leave of absence and returned to

England, and when he again rejoined his regiment, he was the husband of

a lady, who, Ferris declared, was the very image of poor Rosalie La

Motte.

Mortified and chagrined by his desertion, Alicia affected a gayety which

she did not feel, and pursued her vain career of dissipation and vanity

till the bloom of youth faded from her cheek, when she gave her hand to

a man double her own age, who was supposed to be immensely rich. But he

shortly transported her to an isolated seignory, which was his only

possession, where, without any affection for her husband or any

resources within herself, she lived a wretched and discontented being,

and died unregretted and unwept.

* * * * *

THE NEW GARDEN.

BY EMILY HERRMANN.

He knows we love the flowers so well.

And so they bloom His love to tell.

Ewald

We are filling our new-fenced garden

With fresh young vines and flowers,

And here we are often busy

In the clear, long evening hours.

The sun shines through the paling,

And over the landscape green;

Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curling

O’er-arching the quiet scene;

They rise from the woodman’s clearing,

They rise from his chimney low,

They bend to his tiny wheat-field,

Then mount to yon hills of snow.

A change has come o’er its seeming

Since first when we knew the place,

A change in the woody landscape,

A change in a youthful face.

And changes have moved the spirit

That muses above it now,

Since the wild-berry clusters glittered

At noon o’er my upturned brow.

I stand in our pleasant garden

And gaze down the years’ long track,

I cherish right well their guerdon,

But I would not win them back!

Our brook on its way is babbling,

And hastes from the open space,

It misses the great oak’s shading—

It misses the wild-vine’s grace.

Yet it patiently stops to listen

The wood-bird’s evening hymn,

Then gushes a gurgling chorus

Ere the way grows cold and dim—

Where glooms of the arching forest

Lie dark on its lowly breast,

Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,

And the bird in her cradled nest.

Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit,

That lives in the hills and streams!

Like goodness it aye grows dearer

As we fade from our life’s young dreams!

As love to our hearts is precious,

Are voices of leaves and flowers;

Our God, in His wisdom, knew it,

In kindness He made them ours!

* * * * *

SONNET.—AMOR.

Cui amor nunc est similis? Of old

Painted they thee like beauteous boy, with bow

And quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,

Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—

Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,

Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;

Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,

Which sets herself to die at evening hour—

Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,

For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;

And see we thee when woman sheds a tear

Of sorrow over Him whose chief delight

Was, erst, in tents of men He came to save—

Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.

W. A.

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE NUN.

BY J. POPHAM.

“Pooh! pooh!” says the ‘strong-minded lady,’ “who ever believes in

legends now-a-days?” and she turns over our pages to look for a more

interesting article.

“Legends! Fudge!” says the practical man, who may give a supercilious

glance at the title, “I leave such nonsense for old women.”

“The Legend of the White Nun!” reads the sentimental young miss, or the

Byronic gent with curly hair, and a turned-down shirt-collar—“ah! a

story with a very heart-rending finale, no doubt!”

And then come the believers in Spirit-Knockings, and in Winking

Madonnas—and they will observe, “Here again is, doubtless, something

which will corroborate what the skeptical world is pleased to call

superstitions!”

I am not going now to answer these remarks in the negative or

affirmative. I will not anticipate the _finale_, or inform you at once

the character of the following tale. _That_ is opposed to all precedent.

I merely ask for a perusal before judgment; and then, perhaps, the

strong-minded lady, and the practical gentleman, and the sentimental

miss, will all find themselves wrong in their conjectures. A story is,

now-a-days, no more to be judged by its title, than a hypocrite by his

appearance.

With this preface, or apology, or left-handed explanation—or whatever

else the reader is pleased to call it—I shall commence.

* * * * *

While a young man I was very fond of field sports, and in the part of

England where I then resided, I had frequent opportunities for indulging

in them. Not only around my immediate neighborhood did I often saunter

with dog and gun, but oftentimes over the preserves of acquaintances in

adjoining parishes. In the month of November, 1809, I made a visit,

ostensibly for shooting, at the residence of Squire Primrose, of the

village of Tremington, in Devonshire. I say the object of my visit was

ostensibly to visit the Squire’s fields for pheasant and snipe, but the

real object was to see one of the Squire’s daughters. I cared more, dear

reader, for a smile from Jane Primrose than for a dozen brace of snipe;

and I am sure I would _then_ (for I am old and married to _another_

now!) have given fifty pheasants for a taste of her rosy lips. But

matters were not then sufficiently far advanced to avow what is called,

in such cases, “my intentions.” I was accompanied by an intimate friend,

called Bob Turner, or, as one would now say, (as we style every man from

a water-carrier to a millionaire,) Robert Turner, Esquire! Strange to

relate, Bob was similarly situated toward Jane’s sister, Elizabeth; and,

like me, made the Squire’s love for game a means for making love to his

daughter.

On the evening of our arrival, we, and the family, assembled in their

old-fashioned but comfortable parlor, before a blazing fire. Here we

amused ourselves in various ways, as young people are wont to do. After

the detail of all the gossip in the neighborhood—how that Dr. Balden’s

wife was said to be a little too intimate with the parson—how that Miss

Jenkings had been jilted—and that an old maid, named Smith, had offered

herself to her coachman, and was about to marry him, and so forth; the

Squire took up the newspaper, which weekly made its appearance, and

commenced to read aloud a very extraordinary ghost story.

As soon as he had finished, and our expressions of surprise had

subsided, an old lady in the company—Mrs. Scroggins—exclaimed, “Well,

now, this reminds me that my man, William, saw the ‘White Nun’ in the

convent grave-yard last night; and she so frightened him, that he

declares he will never pass there again after dusk.”

The mention of this aroused Bob’s curiosity and mine. We begged her to

give us the history, or the legend, if any, connected with this

mysterious personage.

Reader, have you ever heard of a gentleman who was asked in company to

sing, and who did not raise a thousand objections, although he was all

the while dying to exhibit his vocal abilities? Have you ever seen the

lady who was asked to play at a party, and who did not excuse herself in

fifty ways, although she had been practicing the whole day previous for

the occasion? If _you_ have, _I_ have not. Nor have I ever met with a

person who, when called upon for an anecdote, did not declare it was not

worth repeating, or that he or she was certain it had been heard before.

So it was with Mrs. Scroggins; we had to beg of her for this legend for

about a quarter of an hour, after which, like the vocalist and the

pianist, under similar circumstances, she consented.

THE LEGEND.

The convent of Hickle-path Hill, which two or three centuries since is

said to have presented a very imposing appearance, is now represented by

a few tottering remnants of walls, which all of you, I suppose, have

often seen on a clear day from the front window. A little beyond them,

to the right, are the ruins of a castle, which formerly belonged to the

Bassett family.

About the latter half of the fifteenth century, Sir Hugh Bassett

occupied the castle, which was then large and strong. He had a daughter

called Agnes, an only child, and a beautiful girl. She was the

admiration of every one who beheld her, and a standing toast at every

feast in the neighborhood. Her hair was said to have been raven-black,

her eyes dark, large and sparkling; her cheeks fresh as the leaves of a

full-blown rose; her teeth like pearls; her form and figure, “stately,

like a queen.” At least she was evidently very pretty; I wont say, for I

can’t say, she realized this description, for it seems as if copied from

the pages of a modern novel—and we know that there all heroines are

alike, superior to any thing ever seen in this world.

She lost her mother at an early age—a loss to a child for which nothing

can compensate. The want of maternal care and teaching was no doubt the

cause of some little peculiarities in her disposition. Being left much

to herself, having none but her father whom she recognized as her

superior, she acquired a spirit of independence and of firmness of

character which she would not likely have otherwise possessed. But

notwithstanding this, she did not want many good and kind qualities; and

she had a judgment and discrimination of character by no means common in

those times. To the poor of the neighborhood she was always kind, and

was much admired by them in return. With many of her own rank she was

reserved, although with others she was cheerful and communicative. It

was remarked that those whom she seemed to like most were generally more

distinguished for character than rank. She seemed, to the wonderment of

her father’s friends, to regard many an industrious peasant more than

she did some far-famed baron, with “quarterings” on his shield. To her

parent she always exhibited affection, and never withheld her respect,

even when she reluctantly bestowed him her submission.

Sir Hugh had descended from one who had accompanied William the

Conqueror to England. He was as proud as he was powerful. He measured

merit by military prowess—virtue, by wealth—and character, by the

length of ancestry; peculiarities which, we believe, are not altogether

unknown at this day. He loved his daughter more because she was _his_

daughter, than for herself; and he estimated her claim to respect, not

so much by her virtues, as by the Bassett blood which flowed in her

veins.

The fame of the fair Agnes naturally brought her many admirers and

suitors. For a long time her heart seemed untouched by their looks or

addresses. But no woman’s heart is impregnable! She may skirmish a great

deal, she may act as if about to make a powerful repulse, she may make

seeming preparations for a terrible encounter, but, if her opponent has

any knowledge of tactics in these matters, and is otherwise

unobjectionable, she will sooner or later “give-up,” hang down her head,

blush up to her eye-brows, and then, whisperingly utter, “take me, and

be happy!” So Agnes drove off suitor after suitor. One she frightened by

her freezing looks, which no one better than a woman can assume, when

she chooses. Others she dismissed with a flat refusal; while some were

driven back by her palpable contempt for their persons. But as time

crept on, a close observer might remark a slight blush rising on her

cheeks when young Rhoderick Wray made his appearance; and how, by some

unaccountable accident, they would be both found, soon after his

arrival, standing in close converse in some retired part of the room, or

strolling together upon the balcony.

This young man was an adopted son of a neighboring baron and his lady,

whose name he bore. His real parents were unknown. His adopted parents

found him, while an infant, laid at the foot of an oak, in Anchor-Wood.

Having no children, they brought him up as their own; and he never gave

them cause to repent of their choice—which is more than many parents, I

fear, can say of their offspring. At an early age he displayed unusual

sagacity, and a generous disposition. An old friar, who taught him

Latin, and the limited course of education then pursued, declared that

Heaven intended him for the church; but the Baron thought otherwise, and

intended him for arms. His appearance corresponded with his character.

He had a manly and a graceful figure, natural and well developed, not

manufactured with wadding, not braced up by stays, as I hear fashionable

men now are. He had a noble, open forehead, which you always find in a

good man, and a frank and kind expression upon a handsome face. At an

early age he was sent to the Low Countries, from whence he returned,

after the lapse of five years, bringing with him spurs of knighthood,

wounds and scars. He had been from his earliest days a visitor at the

castle, in company with his adopted parents, and always received by Sir

Hugh with cordiality.

From his youth he was a secret admirer of Agnes. Before he had entered

his teens—during that romance period of life—he often used to dream of

her. He would at times picture a beautiful castle, situate in a romantic

spot, surrounded by a lovely garden, interspersed with fountains and

grottoes, where he roamed about by her side, with happiness within, and

beauty above and around. He would then put eloquently loving language

into his mouth, and listen to an imaginary but equally sweet reply. She

occupied his thoughts when awake. In his studies, in his devotions, in

his walks, she was always next his heart. But delusions, however sweet,

are transitory. These beautiful fancies would quickly fade before the

substance of reality. The uncertainty of his origin, the pride and

prejudices of her father would rise to his remembrance, and tear away

all hope of that union which he so ardently longed for. In moments of

despondency he would even doubt the love of Agnes—for as yet it had not

been asked for or avowed. He sometimes thought, when they walked

together upon a hill opposite her residence, or rode together in a

hawking party, that she had a feeling deeper than mere partiality toward

him; but this cheering supposition was damped by the knowledge of the

uselessness of her consent, unless accompanied with her father’s

approval. Nevertheless, he continued to hope against hope. It requires a

great deal to cause the heart to abandon an object which it has once

cherished. He thought that by perfecting himself in his military

exercises, by acquiring fame in his intended profession, he might hide

the obscurity of his birth, and render himself, in the eyes of Sir Hugh,

a fitting husband for his daughter. With this impulse to stimulate he

was industrious and zealous in his duties, and obtained his departure

for Flanders sooner than his adopted parents had intended. _There_, he

fulfilled his expectations—he obtained fame for his prowess, and

admiration for his character.

Upon his return from the Low Countries, he was pleased to find that no

rival had apparently supplanted him in her affection. He was equally

pleased in observing that her manner had lost none of its wonted

cordiality toward him. Her father also treated him with more respect,

and his own friends looked on him with pride. But these propitious

appearances did not induce him to divulge his secret, but they

encouraged him to renew his former intimacy, so that he might with

greater safety formally offer himself as a suitor.

With a woman’s penetrating eye in these matters, Agnes early had

suspicions of his feelings and his intentions. She liked him before she

knew it herself, and she adroitly gave him opportunities for meeting

her, as if by accident; and he (but much more clumsily) would, at other

times, throw himself in her way, as if by inadvertence. These

intercourses, in time, displayed each other’s feelings too plainly for

concealment. He offered her his love—she returned him her heart!

This, the most solemn engagement that man or woman can make, (but, alas!

how often made lightly and thoughtlessly—how often made in ignorance of

its obligations, in the utter want of its requirements!) was no sooner

completed, than she thought for the first time about the approval or

disapproval of Sir Hugh. Like Rhoderick, she was afraid to have his

consent demanded at once; and as her lover seemed growing in his

estimation, she deemed delay desirable.

Among the numerous suitors for her hand, was one whom she disliked more

than all the others. He was noble in rank, and illustrious by descent.

He possessed broad lands and a numerous retinue. Apparently his manner

was agreeable, and his disposition good. But cruelty seemed to lurk

beneath his mildness, and pride beneath his affability. Such, however,

was the impression he made upon Agnes, and such he was known to be,

among those who were well acquainted with him.

From his first visit she endeavored to keep him at a distance; but the

effort was fruitless. He would intrude himself whenever he saw her with

Sir Rhoderick. A dark shade would pass over his countenance, whenever he

saw them apparently enjoying themselves. About two months after her

engagement, he repeated his former offer, and again received a refusal.

He therefore waited upon her father, and attributed his disappointment

to Sir Rhoderick.

Upon this information the old knight became highly enraged, not so much

for her refusal of the one, as for her acceptance of the other. He

stormed and swore, and then assured his lordship that she should accept

his hand, or none.

After the departure of the latter, Agnes was sent for by her father. He

very angrily communicated the news he had received, and, in an

incredulous tone, asked her if it was true? She replied in the

affirmative, and then attempted to justify her choice. She tried to urge

whatever she could in favor of him to whom she was betrothed, and in

disparagement of his rival. But this attempt only added fuel to the

flame. He waxed more wroth than before—he heaped abuse upon her, for

accepting one whom he called of base blood, and threatened him with

death, if he was again found within his castle.

He then entreated for her acceptance of De Burgh. He brought forward,

with all the eloquence he could master, his wealth, his rank, his

ancestry, his influence—but all in vain. True love is strengthened by

opposition. Every request was met with a determined refusal. At length

he threatened to send her to a convent if she persisted in her choice,

and as she saw no hope of a connection with her lover, she accepted the

offer. She felt that “a living death” was preferable to an odious

marriage.

The threat was eventually carried into execution. She was sent to a

convent not far distant from her home, where she at once entered upon

her noviciate. But even there she was not exempted from the disagreeable

importunities of De Burgh. He was frequently allowed to visit her, in

company with her father, and his entreaties increased with the number of

his visits.

Poor Agnes thus led a very miserable life. She was shut up from her few

friends, and from all sympathy. She dared not confide to the sisters,

because she knew they were in the interest of Sir Hugh. She therefore

looked forward to the period which would forever inclose her within her

cell, with melancholy satisfaction, as a painful release. Her nights

were occupied in tears and prayers; her thoughts were bound up with the

object of her affection, and she thus gradually seemed to pine away,

like a delicate flower when bereft of sunshine!

Rhoderick heard through a messenger which Agnes had privately sent him,

that their betrothal had been disclosed to Sir Hugh, and of his

consequent threat and displeasure. The grief this intelligence

occasioned him was much aggravated when he also learned that she had

been sent to a convent, and that his rival was De Burgh. His adopted

parents now became acquainted with the cause of his melancholiness, but

they felt that a personal remonstrance with her father was useless, and

all they could do, was to try and soothe him for his loss. But sympathy

is a poor doctor for sincere grief; she may help to bring hope to the

patient, but _that_ only aggravates disappointment when she disappears.

The Bible, silence and seclusion are the best balms for an aching heart.

That the great and most cherished object of his life should be snatched

away at a moment when he least expected, when all appearances seemed to

warrant success, was indeed a terrible disappointment. But with a

disinterestedness not oftentimes observable in men, he thought more of

_her_ suffering than of _his_ loss. He felt that his life would be

richly purchased by the securement of her happiness, and the removal of

her suffering. With this object, after one short internal struggle, he

induced his father to wait upon Sir Hugh, with a resignation of his

claim on Agnes, and a pledge to reside in some foreign land, provided

she was released from confinement and from the importunities of his

rival. The offer was accordingly made and rejected.

The period of her noviciate was now about to terminate. She had either

to become De Burgh’s wife or a nun. But as there was no hope of the

former, De Burgh formed a plot to carry her away, and marry her by

force.

On the night previous to the one appointed for its execution, one of the

men whom he had engaged to assist him, communicated the design to his

sweetheart, a former waiting-maid of Agnes, under a solemn promise of

secrecy.

I have read, observed Mrs. Scroggins, _par parenthesis_, in a very

interesting book, which has just appeared, entitled “Curiosities of

Literature,” by a Mr. D’Israeli, that in looking over some old letters,

written during the troublous times of Charles I., he found that those

which the writers most strongly urged to be _burned_ were most

_carefully preserved_! And I must say of my own sex, added she, if you

want them to spread any news faster than usual, you have only to tell

them it is a secret, and beg them _not_ to divulge it. You may then be

certain of hearing it in every direction in five minutes afterward. As a

matter of course, the maid above referred to had no sooner pledged

secrecy to her lover, than she flew to communicate the intelligence to

her former mistress—Agnes.

But Agnes, unfortunately, treated the disclosure with disbelief. She

said it was wholly improbable that he would attempt it, and he dared

not, if he could. She thought it so undeserving of notice that she did

not deem it necessary to communicate it to the Lady Abbess.

When night arrived, she departed to rest as usual, without taking any

precautions. She had slept about two hours, when she was awakened by a

noise on the balcony, and she was surprised by seeing a man open her

window without any apparent difficulty, and cautiously approach her bed.

It was dark, but she thought at once it was De Burgh. With fear, shame

and indignation struggling in her bosom, she grasped a small dagger

which hung by the bed, and as he advanced she plunged it into his

breast. A cry of pain burst from his lips, and informed her that it was

her lover, and not his rival, she had stabbed. She then sprang from her

bed, and fell senseless on the floor!

The noise awoke the abbess and several of the nuns, and brought them

running to her chamber. With horror they saw the spectacle before them.

They then obtained assistance to carry Rhoderick to his home, and

obtained a leech for Agnes.

It appears that De Burgh had employed a man to assassinate his rival

also, while he enjoyed his customary evening walk on the banks of the

beautiful little river Taw. By an accident which providence often

interposes, he discovered himself at the moment he was about to strike,

and thus enabled his intended victim to disarm and wound him. While

writhing from agony, and in momentary expectation of death, he divulged

to Sir Rhoderick that he was employed by De Burgh, who also intended to

carry away Agnes that night to a distant castle, where she would be

confined in a dungeon until she consented to become his wife.

Collecting a few men, he hastily departed for the convent, near which he

met his opponent. A conflict ensued, in which De Burgh was killed, and

several of his companions. Ascending the rope ladder which they had

secured to the wall which supported the balcony leading to her window,

he groped his way into her chamber, for the purpose of effecting her

deliverance. In that endeavor the fatal mistake occurred.

Shortly after his removal Agnes became somewhat restored, but only to

relapse into a worse state than before. In her delirium she would call

upon her lover, in a similar way that any other young lady would be

likely to do under such circumstances. Very pathetic, no doubt—but as I

do not like tragic scenes, nor tragic descriptions, I must pass over

this part of my story, and allow you to fancy what took place. However,

on the third day of her illness, while relating portions of her history

to a favorite nun, she suddenly stopped in the midst of her remarks and

gazed intently toward the foot of her bed. She seemed also to be

listening, and then, with the words, “Yes, I’m coming,” she suddenly but

quietly expired.

The persons who attended Sir Rhoderick’s funeral declared that when his

body was about to be lowered into the grave, in the church, a white

shadow was suddenly seen to enter the building, and reflect itself upon

the coffin. And the nun affirmed it was precisely at this moment that

Agnes died!

This remarkable coincidence excited the wonderment of his friends, and

they accordingly laid it before a friar who enjoyed a reputation for

great learning. He gave it as a reply, that the white shadow was the

spirit of Agnes, and that on each anniversary of her lover’s death she

would be required, as a penance, to visit his grave, in a white dress!

Tradition says that this duty has been regularly performed—that on the

night of the 7th of November—the day on which he died—she may be seen

about midnight, walking in this garb toward his grave, with a rosary in

her hand.

* * * * *

A silence of two or three minutes’ duration followed the recital of this

legend, when Jane expressed her dissatisfaction with the punishment

allotted to Agnes. She declared it was unjust, because Rhoderick’s death

was the result of a mistake, and in this opinion she was supported by

some others in the room.

I, however, boldly expressed my entire disbelief in ghosts, and in all

their species, at the same time complimenting Mrs. Scroggins for the

very eloquent manner (as the newspapers say) in which she had narrated

her story; for although fearless of spirits, I had great terror of the

old lady’s tongue, and was, therefore, careful not to draw down her

wrath, by an indiscriminate censure.

Bob, who prided himself upon his enlightened opinions, pompously

declared that a belief in such chimeras was the offspring of a weak or

ignorant mind.

Mrs. Scroggins hereupon cast on him a very disdainful look, but did not

deign to reply.

Mrs. Primrose shook her head, and very mysteriously declared she had

seen too many of such scenes in her life, to disbelieve them.

Elizabeth said nothing, but she seemed very much afraid.

The Squire was sound asleep.

A lady named Baker, who had hitherto remained silent, here expressed her

opinion that those who most ridiculed the belief in supernatural

appearances, in daylight or in company, were the most afraid of meeting

them, when alone in any place said to be haunted.

My comrade and myself took this as a challenge. In the presence of their

sweethearts young men always feign to be brave. The most modest youth

becomes the veriest Falstaff by the side of his lady-love. We therefore

felt it to be our duty to reiterate our skepticism in the strongest

terms, and to express ourselves ready, if need be, to encounter a whole

army of witches, warlocks, hobgoblins, fairies and will-o’-the-wisps, if

such things existed.

The offer seemed to spread terror among our listeners, and Elizabeth

imploringly begged me to say no more.

We felt we had made a favorable impression of our courage, and as the

hour was now far advanced, we made arrangements to rise early on the

following morning for shooting, and then went to our respective places

of rest, with a higher idea of our bravery than perhaps had Cæsar when

he had vanquished Pompey.

We rose about five, and started with our guns, etc. for a noted sporting

place, some five miles distant. It was a clear frosty morning, and in

the lightness and activity of youth, we briskly paced over our path, and

leaped over the gates and hedges which intercepted the way.

Our sport, however, did not equal our expectation. We therefore walked

two or three miles farther, where we bagged a few pheasants. We then

called upon an acquaintance, with whom we remained until 6 P. M., and as

dusk then began to make its appearance, we departed.

It happened that the places through which we had to pass in our return

to the Primroses, were noted for their connection with witches, and

other supernatural personages. Ruins of old castles, priories, convents

and churches, were to be found in every direction, each of which was

connected with many marvellous legends. In passing through a lonely

spot, “Anchor Wood,” we found it very dark. We had no light to guide us,

save a few faint rays of the moon, which glimmered between the trees. As

Bob was best acquainted with the place, I followed on his trail, Indian

fashion, each having our guns carelessly resting on our shoulders. On we

so walked without saying a word. I, thinking upon the anticipated

amusement of the party which the Primroses were to give on that evening;

and building—like all young minds do—beautiful castles in the air, and

imagining fame and fortune in the future. In the midst of these pleasing

though delusive reveries, I was startled, all of a sudden, by a

terrified exclamation from my companion.

“What is that?” cried he.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I mean that tall white object which is standing in front, directly in

our path.”

I looked in the direction he pointed, and to my amazement I saw what he

described. It seemed like a tall lady dressed in white, and she appeared

to be awaiting our approach.

“This is surely the White Nun Mrs. Scroggins was telling us about last

evening,” whispered Bob, with a face like a white-washed wall.

I pretended to poh! poh! the conjecture; but I must confess the attempt

was rather a failure. My courage was rapidly giving way. At last I said,

doubting whether to remain or run, “I’d rather I had not ridiculed that

legend last evening;” and with an effort to become philosophical, I

added, “that we ought in our present limited amount of knowledge to

treat these things at least with respect.”

“Oh, I wish you had then!” stammered poor Bob, whose teeth rattled

together like a negro-minstrel’s “_bones_.”

“Suppose we call out, and ask what she wants?” I suggested.

“_You_ do it.”

“No, I’d rather not.”

It was then agreed that we should call together, which was done; but no

reply was returned.

Bob now suggested that we should discharge a barrel of each of our

double-barreled guns obliquely toward the object, which was likewise

done; but it met no better success.

“There is no doubt it is a spirit, perhaps the Nun in question, who is

thus going to upbraid us for our disbelief,” whispered my friend again.

“Ah! I see her move! She is advancing—run,” I cried, flinging away my

gun, and setting the example.

_That_ was enough to make him follow. Away we ran over hedges, ditches,

amid mud, and brambles, and water; a small river stretched in front,

through which we could only now reach our destination. Cold and dark as

it was, we did not hesitate a moment, but plunged in, clothes and all,

and swam across. Ascending the opposite bank, we started off again, as

fast as our legs could carry us, until we reached the Squire’s

residence.

We entered, with our garments dripping with water, and our teeth

chattering with cold, without our caps, guns, or game—with our eyes

dilated from fright, and our faces pale with excitement. The family and

guests had been waiting for us; and you may conjecture their

astonishment when they saw our condition. Every mouth was accordingly

opened with inquiries; but several minutes elapsed before we could

reply.

At length I stammered that we had met a ghost, who looked like the nun

Mrs. Scroggins had described. This only increased their curiosity, and

with a little more delay I gave them a very incoherent narration of what

had taken place.

Poor Jane! I saw a tear silently trickle from her eyes while I was

pathetically describing our terror and our danger; and I fancied I saw

Elizabeth at that moment giving Bob a secret but affectionate squeeze of

the hand. All the others were, of course, amazed, and fully believed

every word we said.

We then speedily changed our clothes, and (Father Matthew forgive me!)

drank a tumbler of good brandy and water, which was considered an

infallible remedy against cold. After which we made our re-appearance in

the parlor, feeling like true-born heroes just escaped from danger.

At this moment the clergyman of the village arrived. All of us observed

something peculiar in his manner, and we inquired if he, too, had seen

the nun?

“Why,” said he, “while I was passing through Anchor-Wood, I saw what

appeared to be a lady in a white dress. I was somewhat startled at this

unexpected appearance, and I hardly knew what conclusion to arrive at. I

thought at first I would return home, but on second consideration I

determined to proceed. I did so, and to my great surprise and amusement,

I discovered it was no lady at all, and that the illusion was nothing

more than the moon’s rays reflected from a pool of water!”

A roar of laughter, which might have been heard a mile distant, followed

this disclosure. But no laugh came from Bob’s mouth or mine. No poor

mortals were evermore crest-fallen than we were. Any one might have

pitied us, when they saw how wofully down in the mouth we became. I

tried to be gay, to enjoy the joke, to alter the current of

conversation—but it was “no go;” only made matters worse. Mrs.

Scroggins made sundry cuts at my courage, Jane complimented my running,

and the old Squire wanted to know if I usually swam with my clothes on?

With mortification and anger and shame, I ran in desperation to my

bed-room, never more miserable in my life. For a long, long time after,

nothing gave me greater horror than to hear the slightest allusion made

to the “White Nun!”

* * * * *

THE ISLE AND STAR.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

In the tropical seas

There’s a beautiful isle,

Where storms never darken

The sunlight’s soft smile.

There the hymn of the breeze

And the hymn of the stream

Are mingled in one,

Like sweet sounds in a dream.

There the song-birds at morn

From the thick shadows start,

Like musical thoughts

From the poet’s full heart.

There the song-birds at noon

Sit in silence unbroken,

Like an exquisite dream

In the bosom unspoken.

There the flowers hang, like rainbows,

On wildwood and lea—

O, say, wilt thou dwell

In that sweet isle with me?

In the depths of the sky

There’s a beautiful star,

Where no yew casts a shadow

The bright scene to mar.

There the rainbows ne’er fade,

And the dews are ne’er dry

And a circlet of moons

Ever shines in the sky.

There the songs of the blest,

And the songs of the spheres,

Are unceasingly heard

Through the infinite years.

There the soft airs float down

From the amaranth bowers,

All faint with the perfume

Of Eden’s own flowers.

There truth, love and beauty

Immortal will be—

O, say, wilt thou dwell

In that sweet star with me?

* * * * *

A CANTER TO CALIFORNIA.[2]

To be very sure of what he is about to say, and to say it in the fewest

possible words, are golden rules which every young author should

inscribe, in letters of the same metal, upon the most prominent panel of

his study. Had the Hon. Henry Coke done this when he stepped out of his

stirrup, on his return from his Ride to California, he would have spared

himself the painful throes which appear to have attended the

commencement of his literary labor—would have spared his readers, too,

the triviality and platitudes which deface some of the earlier pages of

his otherwise spirited narrative of a most adventurous expedition. We

reckon it amongst the remarkable and hopeful signs of the times, that

young men of family and fortune voluntarily abandon the luxurious ease

of home for such break-neck and laborious expeditions as that whose

record is before us. Whatever the faults of the nobles of Great Britain,

effeminacy is certainly not of the number.

It is, indeed, from no feather-bed journey or carpet-knight’s tour that

Mr. Coke has recently returned. Take the map, reader, and trace his

route. From England to Jamaica, Cuba, Charleston, New York and St.

Louis, the great and rising capital of the Western States. We omit the

minor intermediate places at which he touched or paused. Thus far all

was plain sailing and easy civilized travel. The rough work began when

St. Louis was left behind. Across the wide wastes of Missouri territory,

through the inhospitable passes of the Rocky Mountains, the traveler

passed on to Oregon City and Fort Vancouver, thence took ship to the

Sandwich Islands, returned to San Francisco, visited the gold diggings,

steamed to Acapulco, rode across Mexico, and came home to England after

an absence of a year and a half, during which he had been half round the

world and back again.

Mr. Coke started from St. Louis with two companions: one an old college

friend, whom he designates as Fred; the other “a British parson, whose

strength and dimensions most justly entitled him to be called a pillar

of the church.” What the parson did in the prairies of the Far West does

not clearly appear. He certainly did not go as a missionary, so far as

we can ascertain from his friend’s book, and indeed his habits and

tendencies were evidently sporting and jovial rather than clerical,

although we do catch him reading Sunday prayers to Mr. Coke, when the

latter had the chills, and lay wrapped up in wet blankets on the banks

of Green River, with a boxful of Brandreth’s pills in his stomach. We

regret to believe that instances _have_ been known of parsons employing

their time far worse than in an adventurous ramble across the American

continent. Mr. Coke, nevertheless, thinks proper to veil his chaplain’s

identity under the heroic cognomen of Julius Cæsar, against which

distinguished Roman, could he be recalled to life, we would

unhesitatingly back the reverend gentlemen to box a round, wrestle a

fall, or handle a rifle, for any number of ponies the ancient backers

might be disposed to post. A stalwort priest and a powerful was Parson

Julius, and is still, we trust, if nothing has happened to him since Mr.

Coke left him at the court of his majesty Tamehameha III., at Honolulu,

on the eve of setting sail for the island of Owyhee. No better companion

could be desired on a rough and perilous expedition; and although his

careless friend manages to let his true name slip out before ending his

volume, we will not allow that the slip affords grounds for regret, or

that there is any thing in his journey of which, as a clergyman, he need

be ashamed.

Considerably over-provided with attendants, horses, mules, and, above

all, with baggage, the three friends left St. Louis. Their “following”

comprised “four young Frenchmen of St. Louis; Fils, a Canadian

_voyageur_; a little four-foot-nothing Yankee, and Fred’s

_valet-de-champs_, familiarly called Jimmy.” The journey was commenced

on the 28th of May, 1850, per steamer, up the Missouri. On the morning

of the 29th a disagreeable discovery was made. Fils, the guide, had

disappeared. The scamp had levanted in the night; how, none could tell.

Drowning was suggested; but as he had taken his baggage, and had

forgotten to leave behind him the rifle and three months’ advance of pay

which he had received from his employers, the hypothesis was

contemptuously scouted. Consoling themselves with the reflection that

his desertion would have been far more prejudicial at a later period of

their journey, the travelers continued their progress up the Missouri

(for whose scenery Mr. Coke can find no better comparison than the

Cockney one of “Rosherville or Cremorne”) to St. Joseph, which the

Yankees familiarize into _St. Joe_. Here they were to exchange the deck

for the saddle; and so impatient were they for the substitution that

they actually felt “annoyed at being obliged to sleep another night on

board the steamer.” They had yet to learn the value of a coarse hammock

in a close cabin. At last they made a fair start:

“_3d June._—After much bother about a guide, and loss of linch-pins,

fitting of harness, kicking and jibbing of mules, etc., we left the

Missouri, and camped five miles from the town. We pitched our tents in a

beautiful spot, on the slope of a hill, surrounded by a large wood. A

muddy little stream ran at the bottom. To this (with sleeves turned up

and braces off trying, I suppose, to look as much like grooms or

dragoons as we were able) we each led our horses: no doubt we succeeded,

for we felt perfectly satisfied with every thing and every body. The

novelty put us all in excellent humor. The potatoes in the camp-kettle

had a decidedly bivouacking appearance; and though the grass was wet,

who, I should like to know, would have condescended to prefer a

camp-stool? As to the pistols, and tomahawks, and rides, it was evident

that they might be wanted at a moment’s notice, that it would have been

absolutely dangerous not to have them all in perfect readiness. Besides,

there was a chance of finding game in the wood. If the chance had been a

hundred times as diminutive, we were in duty bound to try it.”

Playing at traveling, like playing at soldiers, is all very well when

the campaign is brief. The raw recruit or amateur campaigner plumes

himself on a night passed upon straw in a barn. Give him a week’s

bivouacking in damp ploughed fields, and he sings small and feels

rheumatic, and prefers the domestic nightcap to the warrior’s laurel.

Thus with Messrs. Coke and Company. They were in a monstrous hurry to

begin gypsying. What would they not have given, a week or two later, for

a truckle bed and a tiled roof? The varnish of the picture, the

anticipated romance, was soon rubbed off by the rough fingers of

hardship and reality. What a start they made of it! Mr. Coke is

tolerably reserved on this head; but through his reserve it is not

difficult to discern that, unless they had taken hair powder and a grand

piano, they could hardly have encumbered themselves with more

superfluities than those with which their mules and wagons were

overloaded. Many who read these lines will remember the admirable and

humorous account given by our lamented friend Ruxton, of the

westward-bound caravan which fell in with Killbuck and La Bonté at the

big granite block in Sweet Water Valley. Few, who have ever read, will

have forgotten that characteristic sketch;—the dapper shooting-jackets,

the fire-new rifles, the well-fitted boots and natty cravats, the

Woodstock gloves and elaborate powder-horns, the preserved soup,

hotch-potch, pickles, porter, brandy, coffee, sugar, of the amateur

back-woodsmen who found the starving trappers dining on a grilled snake

in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and generously ministered to their

necessities. With somewhat similar, but still more extravagant

provision, did our Jockey of Norfolk, Fred, and Julius Cæsar, go forth

into the prairie. Less fortunate than Ruxton’s Scotchman, they failed to

retain or enjoy what they had dearly paid for. Sadly altered was their

trim, piteous their plight, long, long before they reached the Rocky

Mountains. Disasters soon arrived, with disgust and discord in their

train. At their first halting-place, five miles from St. Joseph, a

pouring rain, pattering on their tent, forbade sleep; a horse and mule,

disgusted by the dirty weather and foretaste of rough work, broke loose

and galloped back to the town. These recovered, and the new guide,

successor to the faithless Fils, having joined, they again went ahead.

We may cull from Mr. Coke’s pages a few of the impediments and

annoyances encountered at this early period of the journey:

“Nothing could be more provoking than the behavior of our teams; each

animal seemed to vie with its yoke-mate in making itself disagreeable.

They had no idea of attempting to pull together, and all exertions on

our parts were discouraged by the most vehement kicks and plunges on

theirs. . . . The men were as incapable of driving as the mules were

unwilling to be driven, and before we had traveled three miles the

heaviest of our wagons was stuck fast. . . . . A doubt here arose as to

which road we had better take, and I clearly perceived that our guide

was deplorably ignorant of his calling, since in the very outset he was

undecided as to which route we should pursue. . . . . _7th

June._—Started at seven. Roads worse than ever. Heavy wagon, as usual,

sticks in a rut, and is nearly upset. Discharge cargo, and find it hard

work to carry heavy boxes up the hill. . . . . My black mare, Gipsy, has

run away. Take Louis, the Canadian, and go after her. Find her tracks in

a large wood, and hunt the whole day in every direction, but are at last

obliged to give her up.”

Incidents such as these, and others still more disagreeable, were of

daily occurrence. Nothing could tame the wilfullness of the mules, or

check the erratic propensities common to them and to the horses. The

wagons, overladen, continually broke down. Indeed, so aggravating were

most of the circumstances of the journey in this its early stage, and so

few the compensating enjoyments, that we believe most persons in the

place of Mr. Coke and his friends would have turned back within the

week, and desisted from an expedition which had been undertaken solely

with a view to amusement and excitement. With extraordinary tenacity of

purpose the three Englishmen persevered. Their followers proved terribly

helpless, and they were indebted to an old Mormon, whom they met upon

the road, for the repairs of their frequently broken wheels. Here is the

journal for the 12th June:

“Blazard (the Mormon) repairs our wheels. We three go out hunting in

different directions. See the tracks and skin of a deer, also fresh

tracks of wolves. Put up a wild turkey—horse too frightened to allow me

to fire at it. Killed a large snake marked like a rattlesnake, and shoot

a gray squirrel and two wild ducks, right and left, with my rifle. When

we came home we made a bargain with Blazard, letting him have the small

wagon for fifteen dollars, on condition that he took 300 lb. weight for

us as far as the mouth of the Platte. We talk of parting with four of

our men, and packing the mules, when we get to Council Bluffs.”

This project was soon put into execution. There the travelers camped, at

about four miles from the river; and Mr. Coke and Fred rode over to

Trader’s Point, crossed the Missouri, and called on Major Barrow, an

Indian agent, who cashed them a bill, recommended them a half-breed

servant, bought their remaining wagon and harness at an “alarming

sacrifice;” bought of them also “forty pounds of powder, a hundred

pounds of lead, quantities of odds and ends, and all the ginger beer!!!”

They had previously sent back or sold several hundred pounds’ weight of

lead and provisions; so we get some idea of the scale on which the young

gentlemen’s stores had been laid in. By this time, Mr. Coke says, “we

begin to understand the mysteries of ‘trading’ a little better than

formerly; but somehow or other a Yankee always takes us in, and that,

too, in so successful a manner as to leave the impression that we have

taken _him_ in.” Besides buying their goods a dead bargain, the Major—a

remarkably smart man, who doubtless thought that greenhorns capable of

taking ginger beer to the Rocky Mountains were fair game—attempted to

make money out of them in another way.

“The day cleared, and as we could not start till the evening, the Major

proposed to get up a race. He knew of a horse (his own) that could beat

any in our ‘crowd.’ He had seen him run a good many times, and ‘just

knowed how he could shine.’ Fifty dollars was the stake, and ‘let him

what won take the money.’”

Fred volunteered to ride a fast little gray of Mr. Coke’s.

Three-quarters of a mile were measured on the prairie. The Major brought

out his animal, greased its hoofs, washed its face, brushed its hair,

mounted the half-breed upon it barebacked, and took his station at the

winning-post. At first the half-breed made the running. Major and

friends were cock-a-hoop; but the Englishman was a bit of a jockey.

“They were now about three hundred yards from the post. Fred had never

used the spur; he needed but to slack the reins—away dashed the little

gray, gaining at every stride upon the old horse. It is our turn to

cheer! The Major begins to think seriously of his fifty dollars, when,

in an instant, the fate of the game is changed. The little gray

stumbles; he has put his foot in a hole—he staggers, and with

difficulty recovers himself. The big horse must win. Now for whip and

spur! Neck and neck, in they come—and which has won the race? ‘Well,

sir!’ said the Major, ‘slick work, wasn’t it? what is your opinion?’ I

might have known by this deferential question what his opinion was; but,

to tell the truth, I could not decide which horse was the winner, and so

I said. He jumped at this favorable decision on my part, and

‘calculated’ forthwith that it was a dead heat. I learned afterward that

he had confessed we had won, and thought little of our ‘smartness’ for

not finding it out. My little gray was thenceforth an object of general

admiration; and the utilitarian minds of the Yankees could not

understand why I was not traveling through the States with such a pony,

and making my fortune by backing him against every thing of its size.”

Mr. Coke is a good appreciator of the Yankees, and so lively and

successful in his sketches of their national traits and peculiarities,

that it is to be regretted he does not talk rather more about them. His

stay at New York he passes over in a couple of pages.

“I am not ambitious,” he says, “of circulating more American notes, nor

do I care to follow in the footsteps of Mrs. Trollope. Enough has been

written to illustrate the singularities of second-rate American society.

Good society is the same all the world over. General remarks I hold to

be fair play. But to indulge in personalities is a poor return for

hospitality; and those Americans who are most willing to be civil to

foreigners, receive little enough encouragement to extend that civility,

when, as is too often the case, those very foreigners afterward attempt

to amuse their friends on one side of the Atlantic, at the expense of a

breach of good faith to their friends on the other. . . . . I have a

great respect for almost every thing American. I do not mean to say that

I have any affection for a thorough-bred Yankee, in our acceptation of

the term; far from it. I think him the most offensive of all bipeds in

the known world.”

The English are perhaps too apt to judge a whole nation upon a few

unfavorable specimens; also to attach exaggerated importance to trifling

peculiarities. This latter tendency is fostered, in the case of America,

by those relentless book-makers, who, to point a chapter and raise a

laugh, are ready, as Mr. Coke justly remarks, to sacrifice a friend and

caricature facts. In our opinion, Englishmen and Americans will like

each other better when they see each other more. “All Americans I have

met,” says Mr. Coke, “were agreeable enough if humored a little, and

perfectly civil if civilly treated.” Brutes and ruffians (like good

society) are the same in all countries. At Sacramento, Mr. Coke one day

took up a newspaper to read an account of a Lynch execution which had

taken place at four that morning.

“I was perusing the trial, when a ruffianly-looking individual

interrupted me with, ‘Say, stranger, let’s have a look at that paper,

will you?’ ‘When I have done with it,’ said I, and continued reading.

This answer would have satisfied most Christians endowed with any

moderate degree of patience; but not so the ruffian. He bent himself

over the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the

other held the paper, so that he could read as well as I. ‘Well, I guess

you’re reading about Jim, aint you?’ ‘Who’s Jim?’ said I. ‘Him as they

hung this morning,’ he answered, at the same time resuming his seat.

‘Jim was a particular friend of mine, and I helped to hang him.’”

The narrative that follows, and which is rather too lengthy to extract

entire, is very graphic and striking—an excellent specimen of life in

California. Jim, it appeared, was a “Britisher,” an ex-convict from the

penal settlements, a terrible scamp and desperado. His offenses were

many, but murder was the crime he suffered for. Here is the horribly

thrilling account of his execution, as given to Mr. Coke by the “friend”

who helped to Lynch him.

“It was just about daylight. They carried him to the horse-market, set

him on a table, and tied the rope round one of the lower branches of a

big elm-tree. All the time I kept by his side, and when he was getting

on the table he asked me to lend him my revolver to shoot one of the

jurymen, who had spoken violently against him. When I refused, he asked

me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip. ‘It aint no account,’ said I,

‘to talk in that way, Jim; old fellow, you’re bound to die; and if they

didn’t hang you I’d shoot you myself.’ ‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘give me

hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how little I care for death.’ He

seized the cord, pulled himself in an instant out of the reach of the

crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough. Half-a-dozen rifles were

raised to bring him down, but reflecting that he could not escape, they

forebore to fire. He tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck,

slipped it up till it was pretty tight, and then stood up and addressed

the mob. He didn’t say much, except that he hated them all. He cursed

the man he shot; he then cursed the world; and last of all he cursed

himself; and with a terrible oath he jumped into the air, and with a

jerk that shook the tree swung backward and forward over the heads of

the crowd.”

We are cantering rather ahead of Mr. Coke and his friends, whom we left

at Trader’s Point, with a long trail before them. Their councils were

already divided. The members of the triumvirate could not agree as to

how many of their attendants should be retained. Finally, most of them

were paid off and sent back. This was a very painful and arduous part of

the journey. On the second day after leaving Major Barrow’s station,

they reached Elk Horn ferry. It had been broken up by the Indians, and a

raft had to be made, and the baggage taken across piecemeal. “The

animals were not so easy to get across. Some of us were obliged to swim

the river (which was sixty or seventy yards wide) eight or nine times,

taking one horse at a time, or driving two or three by flogging and

shouting behind them.” The musquetoes were in the ascendant; the rains

heavy and frequent; the Sioux Indians, it was reported, had received

from the Pawnees intimation of the movements of the Pale-face band.

“All the party rather out of sorts,” writes Mr. Coke on the 26th June.

“Our two best men, Louis and Jim, are very unwell. Nelson, a most

willing and hard-working fellow, is unused to the sort of life, and

wants to turn back. As to Jacob, his utter uselessness is a constant

source of provocation to me; and the parson’s indifference, and Fred’s

fidgetty disposition, make the chapter of our miseries complete. The

mules are not much better off than we are; five of them are suffering

from severe back-sores, and all of them object strongly to carrying the

packs; they frequently cast themselves in the night, and get their legs

badly cut with the picket ropes. It seems after all doubtful how far we

shall get. Some of us talk of going on alone.”

Trials of temper are inseparable from expeditions of this kind, and here

was a trio manifestly ill-assorted; one of its members rather fanciful

and capricious, another too phlegmatic and easy-going, the third—Mr.

Coke, could not be expected to set forth his own failings, but we

suspect him of being a little irritable and hot-tempered, although

evidently a good fellow, with plenty of pluck and perseverance. As yet,

however, there was no break-up. The party kept together, often in

straggling order, but usually reuniting at evening, to feed on rancid

ham, mouldy biscuit, and such flesh or fowl as their rifles had procured

them during the day. Nor were fish and reptiles despised when

obtainable. Occasional attempts at angling were not very fortunate, the

American fish being apparently unused to English flies; but sometimes a

fine salmon or two were got by barter, from the Indians who had speared

them. And a roast snake is by no means a despicable thing. Both Mr. Coke

and the Parson—for whom we entertain an intense respect, as a man of

few words but energetic action, a little tardy to move, perhaps, (a

slight dash of Athelstane the Unready in his character,) but most

effective and vigorous when movement was decided upon—went a snaking

now and then. He of Norfolk seems to have been a fair shot at starting,

and a first-rate one before he had half got over his journey, and he

stalked the buffalo very successfully, shot snakes through the head, and

contributed a large quota to the contents of the camp-kettle. The

chaplain also was considerable of a sportsman, and ready with his rifle.

Fat cow, tender loin, and juicy hump at times were plentiful in camp.

Failing those delicate viands, all was made game of that offered itself

to the wanderers’ muzzles.

“_12th July._—Shot two prairie dogs. Jim killed a hare and

rattle-snake. They were all capital eating, not excepting the snake,

which the parson cooked and thought as good as eel.”

Following a band of buffaloes, Mr. Coke was charged by a bull, and

awaited his onset, but waited a little too long. “My horse never

stirred; I had no time for any thing but to take aim, and having fired

between the neck and shoulder, I was the next minute, sprawling on my

back, with the mare rolling over four or five yards beyond me.

Recovering from the shock, I could not help admiring the picturesque

group we presented; I rubbing my bruised limbs, and the buffalo looking

on, half stupefied and astonished at the result of his charge.” The

contents of the rifle’s second barrel roused the bull from his

stupefaction, and he moved off. Up came the unfeeling parson and

followed the wounded brute, perfectly heedless of his friend’s mishaps.

Quite a man of business was this parson. Mr. Coke gives a description of

his appearance in the prairies, on the occasion of his purchase of an

Indian pony fourteen hands high. “He weighs fifteen stone, rides on a

heavy saddle with a heavy pair of holster pistols, carries a very heavy

rifle and telescope, a heavy blanket and great-coat, a pouch full of

ammunition, a girdle stuck with small arms and bowie-knives, and always

has his pockets crammed with _et ceteras_.”

Not altogether the right costume for a stall in a cathedral, although

highly appropriate upon the trail to California.

Incompatibility of taste and temper at last produced a split in the

caravan. Fred went on ahead, expecting to march thirty or thirty-five

miles a day. Mr. Coke and the parson kept together, proposing to limit

their daily progress to twenty-five miles. It was much oftener sixteen

or eighteen, sometimes only seven or ten. The men hired for the journey

had become so mutinous and discontented, and, upon the whole, were of so

little use, that to two of them a share of the provisions were given,

and they were allowed to go alone. Two others marched with Fred, the

fifth and last went alone, but occasionally joined company with Mr. Coke

and the parson, who were otherwise without attendants, and who had

eleven animals to drive and look after—“an awful number for two men,”

especially when they were unused to horse-driving and to the management

of the abominably vicious, obstinate, perverse brutes of mules, which

were constantly kicking off their loads, biting their masters, and

straying from camp. The first day’s march after the separation was the

most unpleasant they had yet had. The rain fell in chilling torrents; a

little black mule, the vixen of the party, kicked Mr. Coke to the

ground; and a gray one, her rival in mischief, who bit like a dog, made

a furious attack upon his calves. The distance accomplished was but six

miles. There were worse times coming, however, even than these. The

trouble occasioned by the mules and horses was soon diminished by the

loss of three or four of them, strayed, stolen, or foundered. The

country was barren and inhospitable, and destitute of game, and often

grass and water were for long distances unobtainable.

“Our provisions are barely sufficient to last, with the greatest

economy, to Fort Hall, even at the rate we are traveling now. Should the

horses give up, it will be impossible for us to carry enough food to

reach that station on foot. . . The only way to get out of the scrape

was to lighten the burden of the pack-mules, by throwing away every

ounce of superfluous weight. Turning out the contents of our bags on the

ground, we selected such things only as were absolutely necessary to

existence. What with lead, bullets, powder, geological specimens, and

old clothes, we diminished our load so as to make one pack out of two,

and left the ground strewed with warnings for future emigrants.”

Sand, sage-bushes, and weeds uneatable by the horses, were now the chief

productions of the country. Wood for fires was often lacking; raw ham is

heating and unsatisfactory food; the sun was blazing hot, and its rays

were fiercely reflected from the sand. Mr. Coke lost his appetite, and

suffered much from weakness. At last matters mended a little. They came

to a succession of small streams; caught some trout, and obtained other

fresh provisions; fell in with trappers, and with an express dispatch

from Oregon to the States, escorted by twelve soldiers. These had come

by the same road the Englishmen were about to travel, and the Boss, or

head man of the party, furnished information concerning grass, water,

and halting-places. From Fort Hall, he told them, they were still two

hundred miles, and from Oregon nine hundred! A trifling distance in

railroad-furrowed Europe, but oh! what a weary way in yonder arid

wastes, with those fractious mules, and amidst incessant toils and

hardships. “No one,” says Mr. Coke, “can form any idea of the real

length of _one_ mile till he has traveled a thousand with pack-mules.”

By this time, for various reasons, the travelers had given up the idea

of going straight to California, and had fixed upon Oregon as their

destination.

“_October 1st._—This month, please God, will see us through. The

animals, I am sure, will not survive another. As for ourselves, we have

but few provisions. The season, too, is getting late; and if we are out

much longer, I fear we shall suffer greatly from cold. Already a blanket

and a buffalo-robe are little enough covering for the nights. My

buffalo-robe, which I spread over the blanket, is always frozen quite

stiff. . . . Yesterday I met with a disaster, which distresses me

exceedingly; I broke my pipe, and am able neither to repair nor to

replace it. Julius has one, the fumes of which we are compelled to

share. If this should go, (and it is already in four pieces, and bound

up like a mummy,) I tremble to think of the consequences. In all our

troubles the pipe is the one and only consolation. _4th._—Oh, how cold

it was this morning, and how cold it was in the night! I could not sleep

for the cold, and yet I dreaded the approach of daylight, and the

tugging at the frozen ropes which it entailed. . . . Our poor beasts

actually cringed when the saddle touched the great raws on their backs;

the frost had made them so painful. . . . It seems as if this sort of

life was to last forever. Day follows day, without the slightest

change.”

Things got worse and worse. One after the other, the animals perished.

By-and-by Mr. Coke found himself a-foot. They had nothing to eat but

salt meat and salmon, and little enough of that. “Yesterday I tightened

my belt to the last hole; we are becoming more and more attenuated; and

the waist of my gigantic companion is almost as delicate as that of a

woman.” At last, on the 12th October, in rags, and with two mules alone

remaining out of their once numerous team, but still of good courage and

in reviving spirits, Mr. Coke and Julius reached the Dalles, a military

post in Oregon, where they found Fred, who had arrived two days before

them, and received a kind welcome and good treatment from the officers

of the garrison.

After a few days’ repose at the Soldier’s House, as the post at the

Dalles is called, the three friends, who had again joined company,

boated down the Columbia. This was a rather amusing part of their

expedition. The boat was manned by a Maltese sailor and a man who had

been a soldier in the American army. The only passenger besides

themselves was a big officer of the Yankee Mounted Rifles, a regular

“heavy,” and awful braggadocio, who boasted continually of himself, his

corps, his army and its campaigns. What were the Peninsular campaigns to

the Mexican war? Talk of Waterloo! Look at Chepultapec. Wellington could

not shine in the same crowd with General Scott. All this vastly amused

the Englishmen. What was less amusing was the utter ignorance of

seamanship displayed by the soldier-skipper, who, as part owner of the

boat, assumed the command. They were nearly swamped by his clumsiness,

and Mr. Coke, who has served in the navy, was obliged to take the

rudder. The rudder broke, the wind freshened, the river was rough, the

boat drifted into the surf and narrowly escaped being dashed to

splinters on the rocks. They drew her up high and dry on the beach, lit

a fire and waited for the storm to blow over. Wrangling ensued. The

Yankee, who had got drunk upon his passengers’ whisky, swore that,

soldier though he was, he knew as much about boat-sailing as any

midshipman or post-captain in the British navy. The “heavy” backed him,

and the military skipper swore he would be taught by none, and wound up

with the stereotyped Yankee brag, that “his nation could whip all

creation.”

“We had been laughing so much at his boasting that he doubtless thought

himself safe in accompanying the remark with an insolent look of

defiance. But what was his surprise when the parson, usually a most

pacific giant, suggested that if Fred would take the Maltese, I the

amphibious captain, he himself would with great pleasure thrash the

mounted rifle, and so teach the trio to be more civil and submissive for

the future. Whatever the other two might have thought, the ‘heavy’ was

by no means inclined to make a target of his fat ribs for the

sledge-hammer blows of Julius’s brawny arms; and with a few remarks upon

the folly of quarreling in general, and of fighting on the present

occasion in particular, not forgetting to remind us of ‘one original

stock,’ ‘Saxon race,’ etc., the good-natured ‘plunger’ effected an

armistice, which was sealed and ratified with the remains of the

whisky-bottle.”

After his recent severe experience, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Coke

would soon regret life in the prairies, with its painful alternations of

bitter cold and parching heat; its frequent privations, hunger, thirst,

fatigue, restive mules, hard labor, and scanty rest. During a seven

weeks’ passage between Fort Vancouver and the Sandwich Islands, on board

the Mary Dare, a wretched little coal-tub of a brig, he and his

companions actually found themselves vaunting the superior comforts of

their late land-journey. Confined by constant wet weather to a cabin

twelve feet by eight, without a mattress to lie on, but with a

superabundance of fleas, rats and cockroaches, they blessed the hour

when they first caught sight of the palm-crowned shores of the Sandwich

group. Mr. Coke’s account of his stay at the Hawaiian court is lively

enough, but of no particular interest; and the sort of thing has been

much better done before by Herman Melville and others. After the

adventurous journey across the Rocky Mountains, this part of the book

reads but tamely, and we are not sorry to get Mr. Coke back to North

America. He and Fred landed at San Francisco. A long letter which he

wrote thence, after a month’s stay in the country, is here reprinted,

having originally been inserted in the _Times_ newspaper by the friend

to whom it was addressed. He adds some further particulars and

characteristic anecdotes. His account of the diggings, both wet and dry,

but especially of the latter, fully confirms the mass of evidence

already adduced as to their incalculable richness.

“The quartz rock,” he says, “which is supposed to be the only permanent

source from which gold will eventually be derived, extends north and

south for more than a degree and a half of latitude. At Maripoosa, a

society, possessing several ‘claims,’ have established, at a great

expense, machinery for crushing the rock. They employ thirty men, whom

they pay at the rate of 100 dollars each a month. This society is now

making a clear gain of 1500 dollars a-day. This will show you what is to

be expected when capital sets to work in the country.”

Some of the sketches at _table-d’hôtes_ and gambling-tables are

extremely natural and spirited. Mr. Coke and Fred, whilst at San

Francisco, lived at El Dorado, the best hotel there; four meals a-day,

dinner as good as at Astor’s at New York, venison, grizzly-bear,

Sandhill-crane, and other delicacies; cost of board and lodging eight

dollars a-day—not dear for California. At the dinner-table they made

some queer acquaintances; amongst others a certain Major M., whose first

mark of good-will, after his introduction to them by a judge, (judges

and majors swarm at San Francisco) was to offer to serve as their friend

in any “difficulty” into which they might get. The judge suggested that

the two English gentlemen might probably have no need of a “friend” in

that sense of the word. The Major’s reply will be our last extract.

“‘Sir,’ said the Major, ‘they are men of honor; and as men of honor, you

observe, there is no saying what scrapes they may get into. I

remember—it can’t be more than twenty years ago—a brother officer and

I were opponents at a game of poker. That officer and I were most

intimately acquainted. Another bottle of champagne, you nigger, and fill

those gentlemen’s glasses. Very fine that, sir—I never tasted better

wine,’ said the Major, as he turned his mustaches up, and poured the

gooseberry down. ‘Where was I, Judge? Ah! precisely—most intimate

acquaintance, you observe—I had the highest opinion of that officer’s

honor—the highest possible opinion,’ with an oath. ‘Well, sir, the luck

was against me—I never won a hand! My partner couldn’t stand it. ’Gad,

sir, he _did_ swear. But my friend—another slice of crane, nigger, and

rather rare; come, gentlemen, help yourself, and pass the bottle—that’s

what I call a high old wine, you observe. Where was I, Judge? Ah! just

so.—Well, my friend, you observe, did not say a word; but took it as

coolly as could be. We kept on losing; they kept on winning; when, as

quick as greased lightning, what do you think my partner did, sir? May I

be stuck, forked end up, in a ’coon hole, if he didn’t whip out his

knife and chop off three of my friend’s fingers. My friend, you observe,

halloo’d loud enough. ‘You may halloo,’ says my partner, ‘but if you’d

had a full, sir, you’d have lost your hand,’ (an oath.) My intimate

friend, you observe, had been letting his partner know what cards he had

by putting out a finger for each one; and having the misfortune, you

observe, to hold three when my partner found him out, why, sir, you

observe, he lost three of his fingers.’”

Between his roguish friend and his ruffianly partner, the Major felt

himself in a dilemma how to act.

“‘I think,’ said the Judge, ‘I have heard the story before; but, excuse

me, I do not see exactly what relation it bears to these gentlemen, and

your offer to serve them.’ ‘That,’ said the Major, ‘if you will give me

time, is exactly what I am coming to.—Nigger, bring me a dozen

cigars.—The sequel is soon told. Considering my duty as an officer, a

friend, and a gentleman, I cut my friend, and shot my partner for

insulting him; and if, you observe, these gentlemen shall honor me with

their friendship, I will be most happy to do the same by them.’”

Whilst deprecating the good offices of this Yankee O’Trigger in the

shooting or cutting line, Mr. Coke and his companion availed of him as a

guide to an adjacent faro table, where the gallant Major lost eight

hundred dollars with infinite coolness, drank a cocktail, buttoned his

coat, and walked away.

As matter of mere amusement, Mr. Coke’s last chapter is his best. It is

crammed with diverting stories of “smart” Yankees and other originals

whom he encountered in California. The whole book, although in parts a

little drawn out, does him credit, and will doubtless be extensively

read and well liked. For various classes it has features of attractive

interest. The emigrant, the gold-seeker, the sportsman, the mining

speculator, the lover of adventure for mere adventure’s sake, will all

derive pleasure from its pages, and occasionally glean from them a hint

worth remembering.

-----

[2] A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California. By the

Hon. Henry J. Coke. London: 1852.

* * * * *

HOMER.

BY TRUEMAN S. PERRY.

Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios,

Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he—

Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds drifting

His words, like leaves about a withered tree.

Patiently all the day had he been standing

Where pour the ways their turbid tides along,

Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,

The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.

And now at night no home or friend received him;

Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,

For he had always walked apart from others,

A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.

Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,

And few did note that face so high and sad,

And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,

And many said the strange old man was mad.

Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,

He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,

When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,

He wist the coming of the even-tide.

Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,

Bathed in the amber light of setting day?

Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,

In the light leapings of the silver spray?

Vainly did even and her fairer sister

Pour all their glories on his sightless eye,

Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor,

The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye.

Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead,

With beard white waving round his loosened zone,

While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosom

Spake to the mightier stirring in his own.

The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts,

The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye,

And now he hears the sound of many myriads

Rushing along in thundering onset by.

Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides,

The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car,

The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus,

Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.

He marks the brief recoil, the fiercer onset,

The struggling waver of the deathful shock,

And hosts convulsed around each god-like hero,

Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.

His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosom

Heaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,

And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,

Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.

“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”

Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,

Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,

His night ended, and his day begun.

And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,

And listened to the wave’s untiring beat,

And sang of earth, and heaven, and hell, till morning

Recalled him, hungering, to the dusty street.

Sad was the hour that scourged thy spirit homeward,

While yet her pinions were untired and strong,

From those bright fields where she had found and tasted

The honied lotus, mighty one of song.

Loneness of soul, phantasies bright and wayward,

Neglect and sorrow, longings sad and wild,

Well didst thou prove, and faithfully bequeath them,

E’en to thy latest and thy meanest child.

O, pitied, jeered, adored! Time’s latest offspring

Shall turn with reverent heed those pages o’er,

Great with thy deathless thoughts—thy peerless glory

Shall brighten aye, till time shall be no more.

* * * * *

THE PAMPAS FIRED BY THE INDIANS.[3]

The sun had yet scarce tinged the horizon with the first dawn of light,

when, with a body hot and unrefreshed, I issued from the door of the

hacienda of San Jacinto, to enjoy the cool air of morning, and soothe my

limbs with the clear, pure water of a rivulet that coursed past the rear

of my last night’s resting-place.

All was yet still around—none seemed to be stirring—and as I glanced

over the extensive plains that extended on one side as far as the eye

could reach, I could only discern by the misty light a herd of wild

horses, as they swept along through the tall, wiry grass that arose

above their shoulders. Buckling my pistol-belt around me, I threw my

short rifle carelessly across my back, where it hung by its own strap,

and rapidly proceeded to descend the steep gully, at the bottom of which

the stream, one of the many that descend from the Andes, ran bubbling

and boiling, as it glanced over its rocky bed. Uneven and stony, with

the footing concealed beneath thick matted grass and small stunted

brushwood, I found my task any thing but an easy one, and almost

regretted that I had not gone round by the path used by the people of

the hacienda. Yet, as I swung from rock to rock by aid of the rank

herbage, I felt that the course I had chosen was most in consonance with

that wild, reckless spirit that had conducted me over so many lands.

As I reached the bed of the gully, the sun showed itself above the

horizon, and the misty haze that filled the deep valley was riven and

dispersed in eddying vapor before the warm breath of day. The curtain

risen, there lay before me a wide level space of the finest alluvial

soil, over which, it would appear, the stream at times extended, when

swollen with the melting snows of the Andes; but it was now confined to

narrow limits in the centre, now and then extending into large

water-holes, where the softer soil had been washed away, or a diverging

bend of the stream had given more power to its waters.

The scene was calm, happy nature illuminated by the glow of a tropical

sunrise, for it was December, and the sun had almost attained the tropic

of Capricorn. But my uncomfortable limbs, twitching with the effects of

numberless musqueto bites, would not permit me to enjoy, for any

lengthened time, the beauties of nature; so, divesting myself of my

apparel, I took my position on a flat rock in the stream, and plied my

person with frequent showers of water that I cast over myself, by the

aid of a large vessel I had brought from the hacienda.

At the spot where I stood, the stream nearly approached the opposite

side of the gully to that on which the buildings were erected, and

during a pause in my occupation, my attention was drawn to a rustling

noise among the low brushwood that lined the face of the precipitous

descent. They were times of danger and peril; vast numbers of Indians

were known to be scattered over the pampas, and so daring had they

become, by a large accession of numbers from the tribes of the lower

Sanquel river, that they had even taken and plundered several villages

along the foot of the mountains, in the direction of the route to

Paraguay. Accustomed to caution, therefore, the rustling sound was not

passed unnoticed, but with a keen glance I scanned the direction whence

the sound had proceeded; but naught told of the existence of any living

thing, much less danger.

Again, therefore, I sought the comforts afforded by the cool water being

thrown over my limbs, for I was afraid to trust myself into deep water,

on account of the many venomous reptiles that usually infest the South

American streams. Suddenly a cry of alarm startled me; I slipped from

the stone on which I stood, and fell at full length into deep water

beside me. As I fell, I felt a sharp twinge on my left thigh, and by the

color of the water became aware that I was wounded. It was all the work

of a moment, quick as thought; and when I turned my eyes to the spot

whence I had first heard the rustling noise, there stood, in the very

act of having discharged an arrow, and with bow yet elevated, an Indian

warrior, with his war-lock ornamented with a few bright feathers, and

his dark body entirely divested of clothing, with the exception of a

deep fringed leathern belt, fastened round the loins, and descending mid

thigh. Before he had time to draw another arrow from his quiver, and fit

it to the bow. I sprang from the stream on the bank, seized my rifle,

poised it, and fell on one knee close under a rock, which protected me

from the aim of my enemy, and at the same time afforded full opportunity

to try the effect of my rifle on his warlike form. But rapidly as he had

appeared and attempted my life, he disappeared yet more quickly; he

seemed to have sunk into the very rocks on which he had been standing;

but my knowledge of the Indians made me well aware he had only concealed

himself under the thick brushwood, which, although it would afford him

shelter when in a crouching posture, yet would be no screen to him if

attempting to leave the spot. So, reserving my fire, I merely covered

the spot with my rifle, where I knew him to be, calmly awaiting the

first good opportunity to try my aim.

At the furthest I could not be sixty yards from my enemy; the cry I had

heard, and which had saved my life, proceeded from one of the rancheros,

who had arisen, disturbed by my leaving the building, and followed to

the edge of the gully to demand some orders of me. Not wishing to risk

his neck in the descent, and considering the path too far round, he had

composedly stretched himself on the edge of the precipice to await my

return, amusing himself in the meanwhile by observing my motions.

Whilst so doing, his eye had chanced to alight upon the Indian, who had

been concealed previously, in the act of discharging the arrow. The

alarm had disturbed his aim and saved my life, the wound being only a

slight flesh one.

The shout of the ranchero had aroused all within the buildings of the

hacienda, and the face of the precipice was now crowded with numbers

hurrying down to my assistance as they best could; among the foremost

were my own companions of travel.

Each moment rendered the position of the Indian more critical; for on

the arrival in the flat of the many that were now rushing down its

sides, he would be exposed to a fire from which he would have but little

chance of escape.

With the instinct of his race, the warrior of the pampas seemed fully

aware of his danger, for, before any had reached half-way to where I

lay, his dark body sprang from the cover that protected him, and with

rapid bounds he sought to reach the summit of the gully. A fierce and

prolonged yell told of his attempt, and several shots were fired, but

ineffectually, on account of distance. I alone was within good shot;

covered with the rifle, whose aim had been so often proved, I felt his

life was in my hands; for a moment I hesitated—but the nature of my

position overpowered all thoughts of mercy—the mouth of my piece poured

forth its small sheet of flame, and before the sharp report had ceased

to reverberate, the body of my enemy was tumbling, a lifeless mass, from

rock to rock, forcing its way through the tangled, matted grass and

brush-wood.

Congratulating friends, and startled tenants of the hacienda soon

surrounded me, and the body of the Indian being dragged to the bank of

the stream, two friendly Indians of the party pronounced it to be that

of a powerful chief of one of the southern tribes, who were said to be

committing the depredations in the villages under the Andes.

What brought the chief away from his tribe, and in the neighborhood of

the hacienda, remained unexplained, until some of the guides who had

been dispatched at the first alarm, to bring in the few horses that

remained unturned out the previous night, joined the party, and informed

us that they had seen three other Indians issue from the gully, some

short distance down, and, mounting horses that had been in charge of two

companions, dash across the plain with a led horse, in the direction of

the mountains.

This news caused no inconsiderable stir amongst the motley assemblage,

and we returned to the hacienda to decide what course we were to adopt.

Ten days previous, with three companions, all Englishmen, three guides,

and four rancheros as attendants, we left St. Jago with the intention of

proceeding by land to Buenos Ayres. The reason of our employing the

rancheros was, that they had a short time previous accompanied a

Valparaiso merchant from St. Fé to St. Jago, and had been most useful to

him on the route. Absent from their own country they were glad of an

opportunity to return, and we secured them for a comparatively small

recompense.

The guides were the usual adjuncts to all travelers, and indispensable

in order to pilot us on our way, and catch horses for us, when those we

rode were knocked up. The previous evening we had arrived at the

hacienda of San Jacinto, after having two days before descended from the

Andes, whence it was distant some ninety miles.

A kind of station-house was here for the guides, where they changed:

those who had conducted us across the precipices and defiles of those

eternal snow-clad mountains, giving place to others who were to conduct

us to the settled districts of the Buenos Ayrean plains, where their

services would be no longer required. It was also used as a place of

refreshment, where the usual Pampa fare was to be obtained, with some

most execrable peach brandy, and a little bad wine.

Several other houses stood in the neighborhood of the hacienda,

inhabited by cross-bred herdsmen, almost as wild as the stock they were

in charge of, and a few women their companions in the wilderness, and an

odd child was also visible.

Several other travelers had arrived the same evening as ourselves, but

none traveling in our direction, and no European. Having consulted, and

the majority being of opinion that the Indians who had alarmed us were

merely a scouting party at some distance from their tribe, it was

resolved that all should proceed on their journey. Against this almost

unanimous decision, one of our companions, a mercantile man from St.

Jago, rebelled, and chose rather to return in company with the chief

body of travelers, who were proceeding across the Andes, than face the

danger of meeting the hostile Indians with our small force. Remonstrance

to change his resolve was of no avail, so, as soon as fresh horses had

been obtained, with my two companions and attendants I pursued my way,

leaving all around the hacienda in anxious preparation to receive any

attack that might be made on them by the Indians in revenge for the

death of one of their chiefs.

Under the suggestion of the guides we refrained from at once striking

across the plains the way our road lay, in order to deceive any one who

might follow, and descending into the bed of the gully by the path,

followed its course some fifteen miles before we ascended to the level

plains, and struck into the Pampas across which our journey was to be

performed.

When once on level soil we urged our horses to their utmost speed, and

when two hours before sun set we halted to refresh ourselves, it was

considered that a space of at least sixty miles divided us from the

scene of the morning adventure. Around naught could be seen but the

undulating bosom of the Pampas, as the tall, wiry grass that covered its

face, bent beneath a slight breeze that fanned our heated temples.

The guides soon cleared a large circular space, for our night’s

resting-place, of the parched grass, and a fire being kindled, a cup of

coffee, with some dried beef and a few biscuits, revived our wearied

frames.

In consequence of the circumstances of the morning, all the horses were

retained and made fast to pegs taken from the Spanish saddles of our

guides, who carried them for such emergencies.

Our course had lain eastward all day, and the sun was fast sinking to

the western horizon, whence we had come, when an exclamation from one of

the rancheros, who had risen to see to the perfect security of the

horses, drew our attention to a point whither he directed our view, by a

motion of the arm. Long and intense was the gaze, but our European eyes

could discover nothing, till a telescope was obtained from the traveling

case of one of my friends, which soon satisfied us that a large body of

horsemen were advancing rapidly along the very track we had come.

It was a moment of deep anxiety—what was to be done? Were we to wait

and take the chance of its being a friendly tribe of Indians or

travelers? We could not have a chance of escape on the jaded horses we

had so hardly tasked during the day, so, from inevitable necessity, we

determined, friend or, foe, to await them where we were. Rapid were the

preparations made to fight, in case they proved to be enemies. The

horses were saddled, some spare arms furnished to the guides, and rifles

and pistols being looked to, each man beside his horse, and drawn up in

line, we awaited the result. Nearer and nearer they approached; the

lower edge of the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, and anxiously we

prayed for darkness, when the guides pronounced the advancing party to

be strange Indians. Still clear light remained, and onward yet they

came. Their very number was appalling; sixty at least were in view, and

as they bent forward over their horses, and urged them on, the wild

gestures of their arms seemed to announce our doom, and to forewarn us

that our bones would bleach on the wild Pampas of Central America.

It was no time, however, for reflection. Their yells sounded in our

ears, and they advanced in a dense body within two hundred paces of the

position we had taken. Then came a halt, and out from the main body rode

a single Indian. The savage strode his horse without saddle or any other

appurtenance than a raw hide strap, formed into a bridle, with which he

managed his steed. His arms consisted of a bow and arrows, slung across

his back, with a long hunting-knife and heavy tomahawk suspended from

his belt; his followers were mounted and armed like their chief, none

possessing fire-arms.

Slowly he rode forward some hundred yards nearer than his people, till

he paused in a position where the rifle of any of the party could have

ended his days. But we were in no position to commence hostilities, so

we wisely refrained from such a useless sacrifice of life. We still had

a hope that the tribe in whose presence we were, formed no part of that

whose chief fell in the morning; and, in order to ascertain the fact,

one of the guides addressed the chief in a _patois_ of the Indian

tongue, but—although the attempt was renewed by the two others, it

called forth no response. He still continued calmly gazing at us.

Suddenly, as if actuated by a passing thought, he wheeled his horse

round, and joined his followers. Then, indeed, his voice was heard,

clear and distinct, and, from his commanding gestures, it was apparent

that he exercised supreme sway over the assembled warriors. At his word

the crowd dissolved, and keeping without the range of our rifles, they

formed a circle around us. It was no time for indecision; so, mounting

our horses, we formed a double line, back to back, each man with his

rifle or pistols ready. Then, indeed, imagination alone can depict the

fierce war-cries that issued from all around us, the rush of horses, and

the cloud of arrows that threatened annihilation to all. One of my

English companions fell from his horse at the first discharge. We

returned the fire with some effect, and, as a last hope, each for

himself, dashed fearlessly on the line as they closed upon us.

Darkness was just setting in, so our hope was to escape singly, and make

the best of our way back to the hacienda, if successful. The rush was

fearful. The bright knives of two enemies, on whom I dashed, glared in

my eyes; but fire-arms again proved their superiority: one fell, and the

stroke of the other but wounded my horse. Maddened with the pain of the

wound it had received, the noble horse I rode plunged forward, and, at a

tremendous speed, swept me in a moment beyond reach of a few stray

arrows aimed at me.

Still, yet still, I had a chance for my life. I thought of my

companions, but darkness hid every thing, beyond the space of a few

yards, from my view. On, on I dashed, plunging the long spurs, with

which my heels were armed, into the side of my willing steed. I could

perceive, by the voices behind, that many were in pursuit, and after a

mile or so had been passed over, I clearly discerned the voices gaining

on me, and from an occasional stagger of my horse, ascertained, but too

truly, that loss of blood was making him faint.

By this time it was completely dark, day having passed away with usual

tropical rapidity, and my resolve was made. Throwing myself on my feet,

I struck the noble brute that so far had saved me, and abandoned him to

his own head. Relieved of my weight, I depended on his keeping on some

distance before he could be overtaken by my pursuers. At the same time,

placing myself on my face, I trusted to being passed over

undiscovered—concealed, as I was, by the long grass. A minute had but

elapsed, when at least a score of horsemen rushed past, on either side

of me, inflicting no injury, but evidently urging, in the pursuit, their

comrades by voice and gesture.

When their voices could no longer be heard, I arose from my reclining

posture, and struck off at an angle from the course they had gone. I

toiled, with difficulty, through the long pampa-grass, encumbered as I

was, and had not proceeded more than a couple of miles, when voices

again drew near, and I had to conceal myself as before. Once more they

passed, but at some distance; and I then concluded they had overtaken my

horse, and discovered the escape of its rider. This nerved me to further

exertion, as I felt satisfied the strictest search would be made,

particularly as I was known to be an Englishman—and in those wild

regions that name is almost universally connected with wealth—so that,

for the sake of plunder alone, no exertion was likely to be spared to

effect my capture.

Onward, therefore, I forced my way, pushing aside the rank, dry herbage,

and, attracted by a sudden bright glare, casting my eyes behind, the

appalling fact was at once apparent, that the pampas had been fired by

the Indians, for the purpose of destroying myself and any others that

might have escaped the first onslaught.

To such a number of men as the attacking party consisted of, the firing

of the long, dry grass would offer but little danger; for, before so

doing, it is the habit of the Indians to clear a large space of the

herbage, and every thing that would afford fuel for the flame, in the

centre of this a safe retreat could be found until the fire had

exhausted itself on all around, leaving nothing but the naked blackened

plains. For a single individual there seemed no hope that I could clear

by unaided exertions, any such space as would afford a hope of safety;

so, in despair, still onward I recklessly rushed.

The night was still and calm; but there the fire was to be seen,

extending with fearful rapidity, as the expansion of the air by heat,

swept its sparks over the surrounding grass, dry as tinder.

All hope seemed fled. I was apparently doomed to die a fearful death by

fire, when, by the aid of the light yielded by the vast blaze, yet

distant some miles, I discerned the carcass of the gallant horse who had

so lately borne me from amongst my enemies. Further it was useless to

fly; the relentless element would soon overtake me; so I determined to

make here one more effort for my life.

The animal was dead, and it required but one look to assure me that he

bore many marks of tomahawk wounds, inflicted by the Indians in their

first moment of disappointment. Beside the body, also, lay a heavy

weapon of that kind, and on seeing it, my mode of proceeding, to effect

my safety, was resolved on.

With a case-knife I always carried about me, I cut or tore away the

herbage and grass for a short distance round the body; but my utmost

exertion enabled me only to do this to the extent of a few feet, when

the nearer approach of the fire warned me to other things. So small,

indeed, was the space thus cleared, that I felt satisfied it would be

impossible to exist, without other shelter, when the fire surrounded me.

That protection the carcass offered; so, seizing the tomahawk, I rapidly

ripped up the body with that and my knife, and tore from the inner part

the yet warm entrails.

The few minutes so occupied had brought the fire within a few hundred

yards, and, as I crushed myself within the reeking carcass, and covered

my exposed limbs with masses of the disgusting offal, I could scarce

turn my fascinated sight from the appalling scene.

As far as the eye could extend, on either side, nought was to be

distinguished but one bright mass of flame—some twenty feet high—above

which hung, in dense clouds, dark black smoke; while, yet higher still,

light white vapor floated and rose into the heavens. Around, all was as

bright as day, and the long, wiry grass could be even discerned bending

before the fearful element, as it advanced to annihilate. No breeze

swept over the plains; but yet the fire roared and raged, as if hurled

along before the breath of a hurricane. The fleeting instants of

suspense that elapsed before the fire reached the spot where I lay,

looked almost like long hours. My fate hung in the balance, and

uncertainty was worse than death. Years have since passed away, but when

lying on my calm and quiet bed, I yet start with alarm: the shadows of

the past flit over my memory, and I fancy myself yet awaiting the moment

that would enclose me in that fearful flaming sea. The agony of suspense

was passed; fire was around, beside, within me, as I swallowed the hot,

furnace breath of the atmosphere. Oh, God! my very vitals were dried up,

and my brain seemed ready to burst, as my swollen blood-vessels

distended to the utmost. Oh, thus to perish!—in the spring of life:

friends, home, early days, for an instant crossed my mind Oh! but to die

by fire!—frightful, fearful!—“Oh, great God, save me!”

The struggle seemed over; although the fire could not reach my body,

covered as it was, yet the intense heat seemed to destroy life, and for

a time rendered me insensible. When consciousness returned, the fire was

little more than visible on the horizon, and the cold and clammy flesh

and entrails pressed upon my burning, parched limbs. A violent thirst

actuated me, and in order to allay it, I was reduced to the necessity of

cutting a large mass of flesh from the buttock, and sucking the blood

and moisture therefrom; till then I could scarce breathe; the heated air

I had swallowed so parched and dried up my mouth and throat, that the

thick skin peeled off when touched by my tongue.

Revived by my application, once more my thoughts reverted to my

position, and the chance of escape. It was improbable that the Indians

would make any search over the plains till daylight made such

comparatively easy, and up to morning I calculated on safety.

Of the locality I knew but very little, merely what had been learned

from the guides; but of one thing I felt satisfied, that I should be

sure to be captured if I attempted to return in the direction of San

Jacinto. The guides had stated that for some distance to the southward,

many deep gullies, with streams in their beds, ran out for a great

distance in the Pampas, many of them in a straight line from the Andes,

at the foot of which they commenced. This determined me to strike off in

a southerly direction, guided by the stars, and endeavor to reach one of

these before daylight would leave any stray Indian to discover me with

little difficulty on the blackened, naked plains, where not even a rock

for concealment existed.

But when I attempted to walk, I found I could do so with great exertion

only; yet it was the last chance, so, abandoning my rifle and all other

things of any weight, except my pistols, and a small junk of

horse-flesh, I tottered along as I best could. Hour after hour I

struggled on; morning came, yet nothing was to be seen but one black,

scorched surface, as far as the eye could reach. Not a living thing was

in sight, not even the hum of an insect enlivened the atmosphere; all

was drear and desolate. Anxiously, from time to time, I glanced around

the horizon, but friend and enemy seemed alike absent.

The sun had risen into the heavens, three hours had elapsed since

daylight, when my sight was cheered by the distant view of a few shrubs

and verdure, which, on a nearer approach, I found to be growing along

the far side of a steep, narrow gully, at the bottom of which, as usual,

ran a stream. The fire had burned up all on one side, but the water had

effectually stopped its progress to the other, so here at last was a

good cover afforded me.

The wants of nature were first allayed—I drank long and heartily, and,

careless of all reptiles, actually rolled myself, clothes and all, in

the bed of the stream. Hunger I did not feel, thirst alone had afflicted

me, and in the course of my night’s journey I had sucked the piece of

horse flesh till it was as dry as my scorched boots themselves.

No time was lost, when I had revived myself, in following up the course

of the creek, now and again ascending to the edge of the plains, to

ascertain if pursuers were in sight; but I traveled on, mile after mile,

without seeing the glimpse of any living thing on the side whence I had

a right to look for the Indians. All that side of the creek or gully

bore evident marks of the late conflagration, which in no part extended

to the side I was now on.

I was quite uncertain whither I was proceeding; I only felt satisfied

that in some days I should reach the neighborhood of the Andes, by

pursuing the course I had taken, and there I hoped to find some village

or hacienda.

As day declined, however, I felt the calls of nature, and hunger made

powerful demands upon me; but I had nothing wherewith to satisfy it.

Throughout the day there had not appeared either horses or wild cattle,

from which it was to be inferred that they had been driven far from the

banks of the creek by the appearance of the fire on one side; so that

thus the small chance of being able to surprise and bring down a wild

calf, with my pistols, was taken away for the present.

Yet although at least thirty miles of ground were traversed from

daylight to sunset, I partook of no nourishment but the cool water

beside which I was traveling, and at night, overcome with fatigue, made

my bed with some grass I had pulled, beneath an overhanging rock,

without tasting food for twenty-four hours, notwithstanding my extreme

fatigue during that period.

Long and soundly did I sleep, but the damp, cold air of morning chilled

me, and disturbed those slumbers an hour or so before daylight, when, in

order to infuse warmth into my limbs, and make some progress on my way,

I pursued my path along the bed of the creek, without waiting for the

rays of the sun to direct my steps. Again for weary hours, under a

burning sun, I struggled on, till about mid-day nature became exhausted

from sheer want of food, and I sunk, unable to proceed farther, at the

side of the stream.

Starvation stared me in the face, and threatened my existence, with the

same certainty the fire had appeared to do such a short time before;

neither birds nor beasts showed themselves; roots there were none to be

found, and again despair overshadowed my soul, when I observed a large

water-snake issue from the stream, and leisurely trail its dark body

along toward the crevices of some rocks near at hand. It was the work of

a moment to hurl a large stone at it, which broke its spine, and a

stroke of a knife finished the matter. I then deprived the animal of its

head, in which I was aware any poison it possessed was contained, and

collecting a few pieces of dry kindling, of which plenty was scattered

along the plain, a fire was soon kindled, and the body of the Pampa

snake being broiled, afforded refreshment to the exhausted traveler,

such as he never had obtained from the primest eels of fatherland;

intense hunger made the food, disgusting at other times, more than

palatable on that occasion.

Invigorated by this food, after a short rest I pushed forward, taking

with me the remains of the snake, all of which I had cooked in order to

prevent the necessity of kindling a fire, the smoke of which might

attract the attention of the Indians, if in my vicinity. My caution

still continued, and in most convenient spots where the ascent was easy,

I still continued to seek the edge of the prairie, and carefully scan

its surface. It was during one of these reconnaisances that I first

caught sight of a scattered party of Indians, advancing at full speed

along the plains, on the other side of the gully, close by its edge.

Fortunately I was near to a buffalo track that had been formed by these

animals to the water, and along this I crept on all fours, till I had

gained some high thick grass, where I stretched myself in complete

concealment.

Whether the Indians were a portion of the party who had attacked us I

was not aware, but they seemed to take but a cursory view of the creek

as they passed rapidly along; they did not at all descend to its bed; so

I was in no danger of having my trail discovered. I could hear the tramp

of the horses as they swept along over the blackened, parched ground;

but I did not dare attempt to get a near view of them, lest their keen

vision should detect my lurking-place. When they had some time passed,

cautiously I arose, and scanned the horizon, to discover if any

straggling child of the wilderness was yet in view; but it appeared the

wearied traveler was alone in the scene.

My journey was renewed, but this time along the edge of the plain, as I

feared lest the Indians might suddenly come up when I should not

perceive their approach from the bed of the creek.

Another night, another day was passed, during which my only food was the

remains of the snake I had grilled. The gully gradually increased in

width, and a diverging branch of it, on the northern side, had

intercepted the progress of the fire in that direction; so again, on

both sides of the gully, nothing was to be discerned but the long waving

grass of the plains, with, as I left the scene of the conflagration

behind, occasional herds of wild cattle, and horses, which frequently

allowed a near approach before they fled.

On the fourth day I succeeded in surprising and shooting a young

buffalo, which, with many others, was standing in the water of the

stream, to endeavor to preserve themselves from the myriads of flies and

musquetoes that filled the air, and inflicted their stings without

cessation. Although brought down by the first shot, yet I saw

considerable danger from the remainder of the herd, who charged me, and

I only saved myself by taking refuge on the summit of some steep rocks,

in the side of the cliffs, which the enraged animals could not reach. A

second shot dispersed the herd, and they fled up the side of the gully

and across the plains till out of sight; whilst some thin steaks, cut

from the flank of the prize I had obtained, fully rewarded success. When

broiled and washed down with pure clear water, they satisfied appetite,

and strengthened my frame for further exertion.

Taking some beef with me, I pursued my weary journey, yet my spirits did

not fail; although at times my weary limbs flagged, hope was mine, and

that buoyancy of feeling, and presence of mind, which had conducted me

through so many trying scenes, never forsook me on this occasion for a

moment.

On the morning of the eighth day, I had reached a position close under

one of the spurs of the Andes, and was following up a track that I had

fallen across, and which I imagined might lead to some village, when my

ears were saluted with the pleasing sound of mule bells.

Joyous, indeed, were then my thoughts, and when in a few minutes I

joined a party of muleteers, conveying hides and tallow to the small

town of San Julianna, my thanks were many and fervent to that Supreme

Being who had preserved me through many dangers.

Having a few specie dollars about me, I procured every assistance from

the party I had so providentially fallen in with, and afterward

journeyed on to the town whither they were bound. Here, having obtained

what ready money I required on one of my St. Jago letters of credit, I

procured assistance, and set forward to the hacienda, where all my

troubles had commenced.

On the way, at another hacienda, I fell in with two of the rancheros,

both suffering from severe wounds received in our action with the

Indians, but who nevertheless had escaped by the speed of their horses,

and the neglect of all pursuit beyond a short distance, by the Indians,

who seemed to have turned all their exertions toward securing the

Europeans of the party. The other two rancheros, the guides, and my two

companions, had not been heard of, and were supposed, as I myself had

been, to have been killed in the attack, or to have perished in the

flames.

A subsequent visit to the spot, and the calcined remains of seven

bodies, satisfied me that my friends were no more; the Indians who had

fallen seemed to have been removed, and all that now points out the

scene of that bloody deed, is the raised mound that covers those of our

party who there fell.

-----

[3] Bentley’s Miscellany.

* * * * *

TO ONE AFAR.

BY ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.

This lovely morn—this lovely morn,

Ah! whither are thy footsteps straying—

Beneath what bowers of blooming thorn,

Art thou, in pensive mood, delaying?

This lovely morn—this lovely morn,

Ah! whither do thy bright thoughts wander?

What absent loved one dost thou mourn?

On what blessed image dost thou ponder?

This lovely morn, when all is fair,

And beautiful as Eden’s bowers,

Why have I not thy tender care,

Thy smiles to cheer the lonely hours?

Why have I not thy kisses warm?

Why am I not beside thee walking,

And leaning on thy doating arm,

While all the woods, of love are talking?

But here, alone, I sit and kiss

Thine image, with the tears upstarting,

And watch, afar, my dream of bliss,

Like mirage of the waste, departing.

* * * * *

THE MASTER’S MATE’S YARN.

BY H. MILNOR KLAPP.

In the year 18—, just as the U. S. frigate Constitution was about

leaving Leghorn on a cruise, a large Italian ship arrived from Genoa,

stripped of every thing valuable by a piratical schooner in the Gulf of

Spezzia. Two English men-of-war and a Frenchman were lying in port at

the time, and obtaining all the information they could from the master

and crew of the plundered vessel, all four set sail on the same day in

search of the daring marauder. Her usual fortune, however, attended the

American frigate, for, on the morning of the fourth day after leaving

port, she fell in with the fellow off the northern point of the Island

of Sardinia; and after a long chase—in which the schooner was

considerably cut up, the wind dying away to a calm—her capture was at

last effected by the boats. After removing the remainder of her crew, a

breeze sprung up at daylight, and the Constitution and her prize made

all sail for the bay of Naples.

The evening after we passed the Straits of Bonifacio, a difficulty

occurred between two of the elder midshipmen, which, but for the timely

interference of an old master’s mate, a great favorite in the ship,

would have inevitably resulted in an exchange of shots on the first

convenient occasion. The parties were bosom friends and near relatives,

which, of course, made the matter more difficult to adjust; however, the

mate was able to effect it, as, from some circumstances attending his

own history, he had more influence with them both than any other man on

board. In some untoward affair, long before he entered the service, he

himself had killed his man, and although he never spoke of the

encounter, it was believed by the mess that he bitterly regretted its

occurrence. He had been unusually grave and quiet after the capture of

the schooner, which was more noticed, for the reason that, in general,

he was as ready-witted, frank-spoken a fellow as ever felt salt spray on

his cheek. The truth was, he was one of that unfortunate class of seamen

who, well-connected and educated with care, have, nevertheless, spent

the best of their days alternately in ship’s forecastles and

drinking-shops, after having run upon some rock or other in their youth.

It is a matter of notoriety that there are too many such men to be found

afloat, but the peculiarity in Miller’s case was, that at some period of

his wild life he must have mustered resolution enough to overcome his

passion for strong drink. To have seen him on the decks of the frigate,

or at the mess, you would never have suspected that he had once sunk so

low in the scale of creation, had you not been better informed by that

sort of malice which is ever ready to hiss on the track of an altered

man. As it was, I may mention that he had entered the navy through the

hawse-hole and worked his way up to a master’s mate’s berth, where, of

course—according to the rigid rules of the service—he stuck. Great

confidence was reposed in him by the quarter-deck, and not one of the

mids but would have shared the last dollar of his pay, or fought to the

last gasp for old Harry, if he had ever needed a friend at a pinch. His

fine, off-hand way, and thorough seamanship, made him a great favorite

with the men, as was once rather awkwardly shown when some trouble

occurred in another frigate, on a former cruise. In fact, there was a

degree of kindliness about the man, which, combined with his good looks

and weatherly qualities, was well calculated to make him a general

favorite—to say nothing of a tinge of romance which, it seemed, neither

Neptune nor Bacchus could entirely wash out of him. No officer in the

ship had the same dashing way of laying a boat along-side in a rough

sea, or was better qualified to take charge of the deck on a sudden

emergency; and although you might have heard nothing of him before this

cruise, you soon felt compelled to yield the palm of seamanship to him,

when you once caught his quick, unembarrassed glance, or heard his deep

voice answering the quarter-deck on a dark night, in a squall, with a

clear ring in its pitch, which the men used to say was worth a dozen

trumpets. With all this, you felt that he ought to have been something

more than a mere master’s mate, never doubting by his ways that he had

commanded crafts of some sort in his time. The truth was, that he had

abused or slighted his opportunities; though having been well brought

up, not all the wear and tear of a hard life in every part of the globe,

together with the slough which he had waded through, could prevent the

thing from shining out. Apart from his seamanship—of that class which

embraced all varieties of crafts and services—he possessed a knowledge

of books, and a strength of imagination, which made you wonder still

more at the subordinate post he held in the ship. As Guy Willful, one of

our mess, afterward expressed himself—“though we all knew Harry Miller

to be a gentleman, it was not until that blessed night when I knocked

little Dick Afterblock into the lee-scuppers, that we found out the

pinch of diamond-dust in the mate’s composition.”

On the evening in question, after seeing the two friends shake hands,

the party had seated themselves quietly round the mate, who had offered

to spin a yarn that should last out the watch, when a voice from the

forecastle sung out, that there was a large whale close aboard of the

ship. Sure enough, there he was, close under the main chains, sending up

a succession of regular old-fashioned spouts, for all the world, the

true originals of those which every reflective reader will remember to

have once viewed with wonder and awe among the prints of his

spelling-book. These were attended by loud respiratory sounds, which

were heard fore and aft the deck.

Old Ironsides was jogging along before a lazy wind, which barely kept

the sails asleep; and the whale, after again expelling the vitiated air

from his blow-holes, having nothing more attractive to engage his

attention at the time, from a feeling of fellowship perhaps, kept way

with the ship. Some old heads on the forecastle soon hailed him for “a

finner,” bound on his travels to the Ionian sea, and forthwith

predicted, at the peril of their eyes, that we should see him “down

flukes” and off on a wind, before another bell had gone. There was

little sea running at the time, and the moon shining fairly on his track

gave us some idea of his gigantic proportions, which, to tell the truth,

these same veritable Tritons were in nowise disposed to curtail.

However, it was agreed among the mids, debating the matter in council

with the mate, that from his broad flukes to the small triangular fin on

the ridge of his back, and thence, from his spout-holes to the arch of

his lower jaw, he ran not less than an hundred feet. It was also

estimated that he would outweigh a drove of, at least, two hundred fat

oxen. His age, they unanimously declared, was a question to be left to

the learned professors. Even the bearded Nestors of the forecastle, wise

as mermen in aught appertaining to the sea—albeit they claimed him for

an old acquaintance—did not pretend to settle that point. He might have

been fourscore-and-ten, or he might have blown brine from his nostrils,

coasting undiscovered shores, long before the grand cruise of Columbus.

Mr. Willful, the reefer before referred to, took occasion to indulge in

a lofty flight of fancy, as he announced his adherence to the opinion

which measured the creature’s days by the scale of centuries.

“And I,” squeaked another, fresh from school, “whatever anguish of

spirit it may cost me—‘sink or swim’—I avow myself of the same faith

with the honorable gentleman whose eloquence has electrified the ears of

these venerable sheet-anchor-men.”

“Come,” said Dick Afterblock, reseating himself on the spars, “keep a

small helm, you featherheads, and let’s hear Mr. Miller’s yarn.”

The master’s mate was standing in the moonlight, seeming to watch the

freakish light, as it danced far away in the whale’s smooth wake, or

wandered among the barnacles on its rough noddle—or peered dubiously

into the wide curvature of its nostrils—or showed the living eye on the

crest of the weltering wave, twenty feet from where you looked to find

it—or rode triumphantly on its flukes, or upon the ridge of its

back-fin. You might have seen, then, by the stern, abstracted look of

the man’s face, that his mind was busy with something, which you felt it

was like groping in the dark to attempt to fathom. Then, as the

midshipman spoke, the old weatherly look came back, slowly though, as if

it cost him a struggle; and after a thoughtful turn or two on the deck,

reseating himself upon the spars, he commenced—

“I was once, gentlemen,” he said, “cruising near Cape Musseldon, in

command of an armed grab, in the service of the Sultan of Muscat, when,

one squally morning, in a part of the Persian Gulf where the navigation

is particularly intricate, we fell in with a large whale-ship, showing

American colors. When we first made her out she had one boat down,

waiting, apparently, for the whales to come up.

“Those seas were then famous feeding-grounds for the white whale, and

although we felt sure there was a shoal close by, some wonder was

expressed in the grab, at the boldness of the Yankee skipper, in sending

his men off in the face of the fresh squall then rising over the land.

However, as we neared her the shoal rose, and they fastened. We could

see him lower another boat, which pulled to leeward of the ship, when

the squall struck the grab, and we lost sight of them all at once. The

weather continued rough for several days, with fog and rain, and

although I felt great anxiety for the safety of the ship and her boats,

as we were almost embayed by banks and shoals, I heard nothing of their

fate, until sometime after my arrival at Muscat.”

Here the mate paused and walked to the rail to take another look at the

finner, still close aboard, heading with the proud old frigate, and

blowing away, from time to time, or lifting his sharp back half out, as

if he had a notion to speak us. You could see the white spray, mingled

with condensed air and mucus from his seething nostrils, rising, in two

divergent branches, straight up from the shifting gleam of the soft

swells, into the clear moonlight, from whence it faded, before you could

wink an eyelid, into the greenish mass of foam to leeward of his track,

between him and the ship. Two bells struck a moment after, and as the

clang died away in the lee rigging, and your ear caught again the

natural sounds of the craft, making her way through the water, the mate

returned to his place and resumed.

“I was so thoroughly disgusted with the illiberal manner in which the

British officers had acted in a late expedition against the pirates of

the Gulf, and with the servility of Syed Seeyd bin Sultan, himself, to

the agents of the East India Company, that I resigned my commission in

his service when the cruise was up, and had already taken passage in a

merchant dow, for Zanzibar, when the very whaleman I had seen in the

Gulf, came into the cove of Muscat to recruit, and changed my plans in

an unexpected way.

“I had been on the water that morning, in company with an Arab chief of

high rank, following in the wake of Muscat Tom, a large finback, which

haunted the harbor, coming in regularly at sunrise, and making an offing

at night, for fear that the current, which sets in shore at certain

seasons, might catch him asleep. He was as tame as a bull of the

pastures, and we used to arouse ourselves watching the fishermen

paddling after him, to pick up the fish which he killed, as he drove

through shoal after shoal—his mouth gaping like the after-hatchway, and

the pouch under his jaw as full as a herring-net. Had he lived in the

old days, they had certainly set up his shrine and paid adoration to

him, as he scared away the sharks from the harbor, and did no mischief,

beyond the playful capsizing of a boat when it pressed somewhat too

closely on his track. There is no doubt, gentlemen, that the ancients

would have made a very respectable sea-god of him.

“It was rather a curious sight to see him lying at rest in the cove,

spouting the brine in air, with the sun blazing on his back, while his

gray pellucid eye moved sluggishly after you, as your boat shot past the

angle of his jaws; or, stranger still, to watch him scooping up the

affrighted fish in his bone-net, while the brine poured off of his

enormous lips in two seething streams; and once and awhile, if you

managed the thing right, you might catch a glimpse of his immense

tongue, behind the long hairy slabs of bone, licking his prey down by

the scores. It made me feel rather antediluvianish, at times, I confess.

“However, as soon as we made out the starred flag at half-mast, in the

offing, we left Tom to follow his game, and Halil, spreading out his

turban to catch the breeze, while I plied the oars, we were speedily

under her counter—a huge, lumbering ship of eight hundred tons, with

six boats at the cranes, and ten short twelves mounted on a side, as a

defence against the Toassemes. She was very deep, being full of sperm

oil to the grindstone-tub; and although she was, as I hinted before, all

in a lump, yet as her skipper had knocked his lubberly tryworks to

pieces, set up his rigging, and crossed his lighter spars, besides

giving her a fresh lick of tar and paint, she looked, as the Scotch

quarter-master said of the fellow we fell in with off the Western Isles,

‘just no that bad, for a tallow-strainer.’

“I offered my services to pilot her in to a berth, and we were civilly

received by her skipper, who, to tell the truth, was not exactly the man

I expected to find on the weather side of her quarter-deck.

“You must figure to yourselves, gentlemen, a long-sparred, well-built,

Spanish-looking personage, dressed in a blue frock-coat, and spotless

drilling pantaloons, and a sombrero as big round as the capstan-head,

shading his dark face—the strip of crape round his hat fixing your eye

at once, in connection with the ensign at half-mast, until you found

that, besides losing a boat’s crew on the day we saw her in the Gulf,

his wife, who had made the voyage with him, had slipped over the stern

one night in a calm, and been drowned, in spite of every effort to save

her. The man’s features, though somewhat roughened by continual

exposure, and blackened by the sun, were as regular as if cut out of

stone by some master hand, from the broad brow and aquiline nose, to the

square jaw and finely modelled chin, fringed by a beard as glossy and

wavy as our first captain’s of the maintop. Every thing about him

contrasted oddly enough with his ragged and slovenly crew, and the

patched and greasy canvas over his head, until you would almost have

sworn, from his mustache, the eye-glass at his button-hole, and the

narrow strip of black ribbon, which fell across the snowy mouth of his

watch-fob, that he was some whimsical Monsieur on his travels in the

East. There was a courteous ease in his address, and a silver twang in

his voice, which indicated, rather unpleasantly, that in spite of the

bit of crape and the mourning flag, Captain Catherton had banished black

care from his end of the ship. Somehow or other, I felt, after the first

ten minutes’ interview, that there was a lurking devil behind his smile,

sweet as it was, and, with all his civil chaff, it was precious little

he would have done to serve me in my wish to reach home, had he not

chanced to want a mate to suit his purposes, in place of the man that

was lost in the boat.

“As soon as he discovered that I had commanded the grab, he at once

pressed me to take the chief officer’s berth, remarking of the other

five, that he would hardly trust them in charge of the deck, with the

cargo he had under hatches.

“To tell the truth, I was glad of the chance at the time; for, besides

that the place was too hot for a Ghebir—the thermometer standing at

midnight at 110° on the forecastle of the grab, then lying off the mouth

of the passage between Muscat Island and the main land—I was anxious to

leave the coast before a conspiracy, which I knew was forming to

dethrone the Sultan, should explode. The cholera, too, was sweeping off

the Arabs like flies, and in the very thick of it I had my life twice

attempted on shore, for naught that I could conjecture, except that I

had peremptorily refused to join the plot. So, as you may suppose,

thinking to be on the open seas in a few days, I stepped into the mate’s

place at once.

“I found the people at odds with the captain, and all at sixes and

sevens about the missing boat, which some of them seemed to think

Catherton had lost by design. However, the more words I heard flying up

the forecastle scuttle, the more I felt inclined at first to set this

down as mere sea-babble, together with some story about Mrs. Catherton’s

death, which I could not get hold of for a spell.

“You see, the fellows had been hard at work on the last cruise, cutting

in and trying out to their hearts’ content, as the skipper had been very

fortunate in finding white whales among the islands of the Gulf, where I

have seen immense shoals of them myself going in among the passages to

feed upon the eight-armed squids, which the pearl-divers, at some of the

fisheries, dread almost as much as the sharks. The Tartar’s boats had

been very successful, and now that the ship was full and the anchor

down, her crew were resolute to make amends for their precious outlay of

labor, regular whaleman fashion, by grumbling at every thing abaft, and

getting up an occasional quarrel with the boat-steerers—deeming it

otherwise a hardship to turn out to their meals, or to a game of cards

on their chest-lids.

“In fact they were altogether—excepting the second mate, the old

carpenter, and a few old sea-dogs—as green a set as ever stared at an

island of weed; and perfect torture it was, Mr. Afterblock, to see the

lubbers crawl out of the forecastle to make a voyage to the

scuttle-butt, or a long cruise, like so many tortoises, fore and aft the

deck. Two score and more of young, able-bodied men they were, to be

sure, strong enough, I dare say, to tow a raft of whales alongside in

any latitude. But the mischief of the thing was, that instead of the oil

getting into their joints and making them supple, it seemed to have

soddened brain and limb, until it fairly went against your stomach to

ask them a question, or to call them aft to hoist up a boat to the

cranes. Of course I did not expect them to equal our dying top-men, or

the nimble Arabs from Darra, of whom my crew were mostly composed in the

grab—especially as the mates hardly knew enough to put the ship about.

But, after having been twenty months at sea, I did look for them to know

one end of the ship from the other; and considering the heat of the

weather and the number of desperate wretches roaming in the harbor, it

was not too much, you’ll allow, to have them keep anchor-watch, or to

wash down decks at daybreak.”

“I wish, Mr. Miller,” said Dicky, “that we had a few of the slowest of

’em here. Green’s nigh to blue; and the higher you mount up in a squall,

the sooner you’ve got to come down. Why, the lubbers would have blessed

the service to their dying days, for making men of them.”

“Ay,” resumed the master’s mate, “I’ve seen the same thing again and

again. However, the captain, who spent most of his time on shore, at the

house of an old Parsee merchant, to whom he had letters from some port

where he had touched in the Persian Gulf, checked me more than once,

intimating that it was best to let them have their own way, until we got

into the open seas again, which, he said—although I saw no indications

of it—would be in a few days, as soon as he had finished some business

which he had with the old Parsee. He had seemed all along to have

something deeper in his eye, and, in fact, told me in confidence, the

very next evening, that he had been offered a large sum in hand to land

at a small port a short distance from Muscat, a beautiful Circassian

slave of the Sultan’s, named Zuma, and the departure of the ship was

only delayed until the woman could make her escape from the castle. This

gave me some uneasiness, as I had heard that Zuma had passed from the

old Parsee’s household into that of the Sultan; and apart from the

difficulty of baffling the black eunuch who had charge of Syed Seeyd’s

harem, I dreaded being involved in the plot I have alluded to, to depose

that monarch in favor of his cousin, whose father Seeyd had put to death

with his own hand at some castle near Rostak. Moreover, I had good

reasons for knowing that my friend, the Arab chief, Halil ben Hamet, who

was deeply engaged in the conspiracy, was the favorite lover of Zuma.

However, as it was Catherton’s affair, of course I could do nothing but

look about me the sharper, and see all ready to go to sea at the

shortest warning.”

At this moment some one interrupted the mate by calling out that the

whale was off at last.

“Something must have _gallied_ him,” said the man; “yonder he goes, head

out, like a channel-packet steaming against wind.”

“It was Darby Rattlesnake’s hanged ugly figure-head,” observed the gruff

captain of the forecastle, who was standing within ear-shot of the

group—“d—n me, if he be’n’t ugly enough to shear the whole coast of

Greenland.”

Having thus seriously hurt the feelings of the honest old tar, who was

quietly looking out to windward, the petty officer winked at his

fellows, screwing his own mahogany visage, polished as it was by the

moonlight, into a miniature maelstrom of wrinkles, which commenced at

the caverns of his fierce, pertinacious eyes, and wriggled gradually off

at the tail of his beard.

The mate started up just in time to catch a glimpse of the whale’s back,

with the flukes in full play, and a long line of white water behind it.

He was going at a tremendous pace straight in the wind’s eye, and, while

the mate followed him with his eye, suddenly plunged sheer down where

the dazzle was brightest; and before the man could draw a second breath,

had disappeared. It was impossible to say what had started him; but the

old seamen declared that these large solitary whales always steer a

course as duly as a ship; and that, having satisfied himself that the

frigate was the Old Ironsides, and nothing else, he was now only making

up for lost time, in resuming his course. For my part, I thought it

possible that, as he wallowed on his side, or raised his head from the

hollow of a swell, his eye might have caught a glimpse of the canvas

with the moonlight on it, as he was at one time so close to the ship’s

side, that a smart harpooner might have darted an iron into his back

from the chains. Be that as it may, off he was, and as Miller turned

from gazing on his long dim track, and the stir created by his sudden

disappearance sank, an unusual degree of quiet seemed to settle down

from aloft, over rigging, spars, boats and batteries, and indeed over

every spot of light and shade on the frigate’s deck. In the midst of

this you could plainly hear the murmur of voices in the tops, and an

occasional flap of the lighter duck, as some loftier sail stirred and

was at rest again, like a living thing in a dream—while every shadowy

port and silent gun on the spar-deck, appeared for the time, by the soft

witchery of moonlight, the abode of peaceful repose.

The fact was, the breeze was gradually failing from aloft, and we were

going to have a flat calm, as was easy to see from the hazy look of the

sky where the land lay, and the sluggish heaves of the sea, growing

shorter and shorter, as if to put us in mind of the far-famed bay to

which we were bound; while, as you thought of this, something of the

“_dolce far niente_” came over you, and walking across the deck to

glance at the pirate schooner to leeward, it became difficult to connect

the view with the stirring scenes of the chase, until the eye, aided by

the night-glass, distinguished the ragged white streaks in the side of

the prize, and turning round again, you saw the sentry at the dark

hatchway, listening, as he shifted arms, to the groans which rose, as it

seemed, from the very depths of the ship.

“There were only a few antique-looking dows,” continued the mate, “the

grab-brig and one Arab man-of-war moored in the gap where we lay, which,

in my opinion—melted out of me, as I may say—is the hottest place in

the round world in the same parallel of latitude; being shut in by a

wall of glaring granite—two hundred feet high—on one hand, and a

rampart of rough rocks—rising high above the Tartar’s royal truck—on

the other. You hardly felt a breath of air come on deck when you might;

and it really seemed to grow hotter and hotter, as the disease spread in

the town; the sky, all the time, like glowing steel by day, and so clear

and close at night, that you turned away from the stars and the

sickening light of the moon, longing, as you panted for breath, for the

least mutter of thunder.

“However, it was some comfort that as yet the disease had not boarded

the craft.

“The Tartar was on old ship, as rickety as a county bridge of our

grandsires’ times, though having been a regular tea-wagon in her best

days, she had known little crowding and banging. There was still a deal

of wear and tear in her leewardly black hull, though I couldn’t say much

for its model, which was as near like one of those large Pennsylvania

wagons as might be, considering that one was rigged for crossing the

seas, and the other the mountains. She had a respectable look, however,

if it were only for her size, with her ten gun-ports on a side, her high

rails, and a whale-boat on each bow, waist and quarter, except the

larboard one, where the mate’s had hung. She was well sparred, her

standing rigging being entirely new that voyage, and her ground-tackle

of the very best. I noticed this from the first, not dreaming at the

moment, that I should have greater cause to remember it afterward. She

had two cabins between decks, both of which, as I understood, had been

occupied by the captain and his deceased wife—the mates sleeping in the

house under the poop, while the boat-steerers, as is the custom in these

ships, messed in the steerage. The mulatto steward, who had been several

voyages with the captain, slung his hammock in the sail-room. Since the

unfortunate death of the lady, the after-cabin had been closed, the

doors being locked, and the keys, as I was told, in the steward’s

possession. The long cabin in which we dined, and which was separated

from the steerage by an unusually strong bulk-head partition, had two

small sleeping-berths in it, and over each of which was a star of

pistols. A number of boarding-pikes and ship’s cutlasses were ranged

round the mast, and a double stand of short muskets gave the midship

bulk-head—set off as it was with a few _krungars_[4] and Malayan

kreeses—a very warlike appearance. In the sail-room, which was

partitioned off from the for’ard cabin, were ranged in order, in their

sheaths, the instruments used in capturing and cutting up the whale,

consisting of harpoons, long steel-headed lances, fluke-spades,

two-edged boarding-knives, and heavy cutting-spades, all kept in

excellent order. In showing these implements to me, the second-mate

remarked that, as their legitimate work was done for that voyage, it was

well enough to have them under his eye, particularly as there were

several desperate characters in the ship.

“This second mate was an active, stirring young fellow, certainly an

exception to the others. From him and the old Kennebunk carpenter, I

afterward learned many particulars of the cruise, which were not set

down in the log. The former, at first, appeared to regard me with some

dislike, which was natural enough; coming unexpectedly, as I did—it was

hard to tell from where—between him and the chief officer’s berth, to

which, of course, on the mate’s death, he felt himself entitled. It was

just as these jealous notions had worn off, and we were beginning to

feel fair and above board toward each other, that the captain sent the

steward up one evening, after supper, to say that he wished to see me

below.

“‘Mr. Miller,’ said he, in a low voice, as soon as I followed the

mulatto down; ‘there is a friend of yours in the after-cabin, who wishes

to see you on particular business.’

“He pointed to the door as he spoke, and observing that it was open, and

a light shining within, I entered at once; when, to my surprise, I found

my friend, the Arab chief, Halil Ben Hamet, disguised as a fisherman,

seated before a table covered with papers; his scimetar and a brace of

pistols lying within reach of his hand. He saluted me after the Arab

fashion, by taking my hand and placing it on his head; and perceiving

that Captain Catherton had followed me in, I stood in silence, awaiting

an explanation, which, to say the truth, I dreaded. However, his

business with me after all was not exactly what I expected, knowing him

to be one of the conspirators.

“It seemed that Halil had already reason to fear spies on his track, and

anticipating some treachery which might involve the life of Zuma the

Circassian, had made arrangements to remove her from the harem to the

ship, on the night fixed for the rise. It was useless to gainsay him in

this, as he had already settled the thing with the captain, and I knew

that he was strongly attached to the female, for whose sake he had run

repeated risks under the very eyes of the eunuch. Moreover, he had saved

my life when I was beset by assassins near the old Portugese chapel; and

I had been his confidant in his intrigue with Zuma, having more than

once kept guard at the foot of the castle-wall, while one of the

Sultan’s household, who was in Halil’s interest, had admitted him within

a secret gate. Accordingly, as soon as he had opened his plans to me, I

readily agreed to be at the small rift of sand under the castle an hour

after midnight, on Saturday evening—this being Thursday—for the

purpose of bringing off the woman; Halil having, by the help of some of

his friends on shore, already arranged matters, so that—even if the

plot should fail—the search for Zuma would be diverted in an entirely

different direction.

“‘But, gentlemen,’ said I, in Arabic, looking at Captain Catherton, who

understood something of the language, ‘we must look sharp. That black

villain is as cunning as the old serpent himself, where women are

concerned. He’ll have the ship searched from truck to kelson, if it were

only for the chance of getting me in a scrape—depend upon it.’

“‘Well,’ answered the captain in English, while his dark face grew a

shade paler by the lamp, ‘it’s worth some risk, and I am determined to

run it. I’d go after the lady myself, only I think you can manage the

thing better, knowing every nook of the cove and the ground about the

castle as well as you do. Besides,’ he added, in a way which made me

glance round the cabin—where, by the way, I had never been

before—‘it’s a true love-affair; and by the rules of blue-water, you

know, we’re bound to help them out.’

“‘I am ready,’ I replied, ‘to risk my life twice over for the chief, and

to circumvent that accursed eunuch; but I don’t like involving the

Tartar.’

“‘I shall sail on Sunday evening,’ interrupted he, with something of the

manner in which he lorded it over the other mates. ‘The English frigate

goes to sea to-morrow, as one of her lieutenants told me in the Bazaar

this morning; we’ll take her berth as soon as she weighs, and the next

day but one, we’ll be off with the land-winds.’

“‘Very good, sir,’ I answered, turning round to return to the for’ard

cabin, while he went on to explain what had passed to the chief.

“How the latter came on board unperceived, even in his disguise, was a

mystery to me, accustomed as I was, by this time, to the ways of the

country. I had been on deck nearly all day, with my eyes pretty much

about me, and the crew had strict orders to prevent any strangers coming

into the ship without my consent, on account of the disease prevailing

on shore. However, he might have been smuggled into the Tartar at night,

and been on board more or less, for a week, for aught that I knew to the

contrary, as I had not seen or heard of him myself, since he made his

last attempt to induce me to join the conspiracy, the very day on which

the whale-ship came in. In fact, I remembered the moment I had leisure

to think, that the canoe in which Captain Catherton usually paddled

himself on shore, had been missed from the mizzen-chains for some hours

a few nights before. I had been apprehensive that the chief would renew

his solicitations for me to take part in the plot, as he seemed to set

an unnecessary store upon it, having all along ascribed the late attempt

upon my life as having originated with the Sultan; who, he said, had

taken umbrage at my leaving his service in the hasty manner which I did.

I knew this to be a mistake, for reasons which it is immaterial to

mention; and, believing Syed Ben Seeyd, apart from his toadyism to the

English, to be a wise and just prince, as the customs of the east go.

“I had always refused to have any concern in the business. I had now

good cause for fearing that the scheme was about to explode on the heads

of those who devised it, especially after the captain beckoned me back,

and I found that Halil was to meet the ship at a point on the Arabian

coast, where a brother of his commanded a fort.

“It was impossible to resist his appeal to assist him, with the

scimetar, as it were, hanging over both their heads; accordingly, I

pledged my faith to bring her off to the ship, provided she could get

safely out of the castle, the captain undertaking to secrete her on

board, in spite, as he said, of devil or eunuch. I could not help,

however, renewing my caution to Halil, whom, Catherton said, he could

conceal at the same time, if the conspiracy should be discovered.

“However, the chief appeared to be pretty confident, and our plans being

settled, after drinking a glass or two of Muscadene, I made my salaam

and went on deck. The night was as hot as usual, the land-wind blowing

like a fire-blast, or as the captain—who had been in the Brazils, and

who soon followed me up—said, like the breath of an _engenho_, during

crop-time. In fact, in the silence of the harbor, the dim wall of rocks

on either side of the passage seemed glowing with heat, until one almost

fancied that he saw the very lights on shore dancing in the tremulous

motion of the air, just as he had seemed to see the stones and bushes at

noon; while every now and then, a bat, as large as a pigeon, wheeled

past your ear, and some sort of sand-piper, common on that coast, sent

up its whistle, in two mellow, plaintive notes, as if it were too hot

for even the birds to sleep. Whether it was fancy or not, the place

seemed to smell like a vast charnel-house, still as it was at that

hour—the disease still spreading in the town, and having even boarded

one or two of the Arab craft, as I knew. However, Catherton, I must say,

appeared to stand it easily enough, sitting under the awning on the

poop, with his broad breast bare, and a sheroot in his teeth. Boats were

passing from the English frigate to the town, which was out of sight

from where we lay, and after some remarks about her going to sea the

next day, Catherton quietly asked me, if I had ever heard an opinion

expressed on shore, respecting the beauty of Zuma, the Circassian.

“‘She is uncommonly handsome, I suppose,’ said he, seeing that I

hesitated to answer his question.

“‘So report says,’ I replied; ‘though, as you may suppose, few can boast

of having seen her face.’

“‘They say,’ continued he, pursuing the subject, ‘that she cost the

sultan a round sum; for she is not his wife, as I understand from the

old Parsee, but only his favorite slave. It is natural enough for her to

hate him, as they say he has four wives already.’

“‘Why,’ said I, getting into a gossiping strain myself, to relieve my

mind of more serious thoughts, as it were, ‘Syed Ben Seeyd is too

strong-minded, and has too keen a sense of his own interests, to suffer

any fair face of them all to make a fool of him. His last wife, the

daughter of the Shah of Persia, he married, of course, purely from

policy, though it is well known that he has no issue by any of the

rest.’

“‘However,’ said Catherton, ‘he is likely to make short work with Zuma,

if she should be caught in _flagrante delicto_, as the lawyers say; the

sack, or the bowstring, or the scimetar, I suppose. But, do you your

part in bringing her off, and I’ll hide her from the eunuch, even if his

eyes were sharp as the wise old Greek’s, when he found out Achilles

beneath his petticoats.’

“I was not surprised at language like this; for I had already discovered

that Catherton had been educated above his present condition; it was

rather something in his manner that struck me, quiet as it was, as if

under an air of confidence—which the chief’s business naturally created

between us—he wished to get at something uppermost in his mind, without

my suspecting aught.

“He said little more worthy of repetition, and after a while, I turned

in, leaving him still smoking on the poop.

“The next morning he went on shore, as usual, after giving me orders on

what he wished to have done in the ship. At daylight we commenced

breaking out a portion of the cargo, to get at a leak—the ship having

touched on a reef on the late cruise. The carpenter was lucky enough to

find this, and after stopping it, the cooper and his mates were driving

some of the old casks, when a difficulty occurred between a boat-steerer

and some of the people. In putting an end to this, I found the fellows

were determined to see the sort of man they had to deal with, some of

them using mutinous expressions, and finally making a rush for the poop

to rescue a rascally Portuguese, whom the mates had placed in irons.

Driven for’ard of the mainmast, three or four of the worst of the

scoundrels attempted to turn a gun inboard, when the second mate and I,

well seconded by the rest, and the five harpooners, dashed in among them

with the capstan bars, and after cracking a few crowns in true

merchantman’s style, drove the rest _pell-mell_ down the scuttle. We

then secured a few more of the ringleaders, and turned all hands to

again, not a man daring to refuse work in a full ship, which, as the

second mate remarked, showed that they had some dim glimmering of their

own interests, after all. The English frigate went to sea with the first

of the land-wind, and we began to weigh as soon as I saw that her anchor

was a-peak. According to orders, I warped close to the mouth of the

passage, anchoring, with the stream, a little astern of the Englishman’s

old berth, and carrying a hawser to the rocks. This brought us ahead of

the grab and the Arab corvette, and so near to the entrance as to

prevent any craft which might come in from taking a berth so as to crowd

us should we wish to tow out suddenly; nevertheless, we were still lying

within the shadow of either shore, with an eye to the secret business

which the captain had on hand.

“After we were all snug, I examined our stock of water, and found enough

to last us to the Cape of Good Hope, or to St. Helena, as Catherton had

said something of touching there. There was a strong prejudice in the

ship against using the water from the wells of Muscat, and, accordingly,

the captain had resolved, if the quantity was sufficient to reach a

half-way port, to go to sea with the stock on hand.

“After dinner, while smoking our sheroots on the poop, the second mate,

for the first time, spoke in very decided terms of the detention of the

ship, dropping at the same time certain mysterious hints, which I

determined that he should at once unravel.

“‘But, Mr. Parker,’ said I, accordingly, in answer to one of those

dubious remarks, ‘Captain Catherton keeps matters pretty close, and to

my notion, he is not exactly the man to answer a straight-forward

question, even if you had made up your mind to ask it.’

“‘You may swear to that, sir,’ answered he, coming near the point at

once—‘that is, to his having cause to keep things close. To tell the

plain truth, sir, I’ve had my doubts of him, more or less, the whole

v’y’ge; especially,’ continued he, sinking his voice, ‘since we lost the

mate in the way we did—and since his wife’s spirit has haunted the

ship.’

“I scarce knew what to think of this, as the man spoke quite seriously,

glancing warily round the poop, and dropping his voice to a whisper,

which had something of genuine awe in its cadence.

“‘Come, come, Mr. Parker,’ said I, ‘no ghosts, if you please. We will

leave them to the old carpenter and his crony. I should like to hear,

though, how you lost that boat’s crew.’

“‘Well, sir,’ he replied, doggedly, ‘as you please—but as for the

spirit—’

“‘Pooh, pooh, man!—never mind that!—tell me how you came to lose the

boat. We will have the spirit after supper, if you insist on it.’

“‘Why,’ said he, with a sort of sigh, dropping the ghost with evident

reluctance, ‘I had to cut my line in that same squall, for it was in

running down to pick up my boat that the ship lost sight of the mate.

“‘You see, sir,’ continued he, after a pause, during which he looked me

full in the face in a half shrewd, half wistful way, as I thought, ‘it

is best to begin at the right end of a tangled yarn, if you want to

unravel it. Some of the boat’s crew-watch heard a splash under the

counter one moonlight night in the Gulf, and when the rest opened their

eyes and went aft, the poop was empty, and the lady not to be found in

the ship. One fellow saw her standing by the head of the after-cabin

stairs, when he went aft to strike the bell a moment before—another

heard the splash—but when the boats were dropped, nothing was to be

seen on the long, dazzling swell of the sea but the back-fin of a large

blue shark, veering slowly round between the boats and the ship, as if

he had missed his prey—except it were a gull asleep, with its head

under its wing—or the fresh branches of a tree, drifting toward the

mouth of the Gulf, on the current of the dry monsoon. As she was not to

be found in the ship, it was almost certain that she had been leaning

over the counter, watching the shark, perhaps, and losing her balance,

had perished before she had time to utter a single cry—at least so the

captain professed to think. However, it was the next day but one after

that, just as the lookouts were going aloft at daybreak, we raised a

large shoal of half-grown whales, crossing the ship’s wake, about two

miles off, between Gigot and the low island of Ippoo. It was a likely

place to meet with whales coming down the Ippoo passage at this season,

and as soon as the captain got a look at the spouts from aloft, we wore

round at once. The sea was too rough to make them out from deck before

they peaked flukes[5]; and as the ship was under single-reefed topsails

at the time, he must have noticed the fresh squall rising over the land

before he sent away the boats. To be sure, two forty-barrel bulls would

have filled us up. And after the accident to the lady, every soul in the

ship, as you may suppose, was anxious to see the tryworks hove in the

sea, and sail made for home. Be that as it may, when the word was given

to back the main-yard, instead of the captain sliding down a backstay,

in his hurry to be first, Mr. Jinney, the mate, came slowly down the

rigging, and kicking off his shoes, without a word, got into his boat.

He steered to windward about a mile, allowing for the Tartar’s drift,

and then peaked his oars, paddling from time to time, to keep his place,

head to sea—the wind fresh’ning all the while, and the clouds rolling

together over the land, while the swells got up so fast between the high

bluff of Gentoo on the larboard hand, and Divers’ Bank on the other,

that we could only see the mate and his harpooner, standing up on the

lookout, when the boat rose on the top of a sea. I was looking every

minute for the order to hoist the recall signal—as we use no ‘waifs’ in

this ship—when the infernal whales rose close to the boat, and almost

as soon as we knew they were up, the male was fast. The shoal

‘squandered’[6]—some running toward Gentoo, and some coming down toward

the ship. I was so eager to head off these last, when the captain sung

out to me from the crosstrees to lower away, that I forgot all about the

weather, thinking only of the fish, as you may easily understand, if you

have any notion of the heat into which things of this sort put a

whaleman. However, it was not until I had my whale spouting his last to

leeward of the ship, that the squall came down on us sharp as a

knife—cutting off the heads of the seas before it, and nearly swamping

the boat, as we labored to keep her close under the whale’s lee. After

he turned up we kept head to sea, until the ship came driving down in

the thick of it, with her three topsail-yards on the caps, and luffing

up to the gust, brought us close under her lee, so that we managed to

hook on and scramble inboard, just as the rain came down in a solid

sheet.’

“‘You saw no more of the mate, then?’ I asked, as he stopped short,

jerking the stump of his sheroot into the scum which floated round the

rudder, and staring at the birds which darted after it, and then at the

Arab cruiser, in an earnest, yet vacant way, which showed that his mind,

being full of his tale, or something at the bottom of it, took no more

note of the craft, at the moment, than if she had been up the Ganges.

“‘No, sir,’ he answered slowly, ‘for it was thick and squally for a day

or two afterward, and we had nearly lost the ship the same day, on a

coral-reef. There was a grab-brig in sight to windward at the time, and

we had hopes that she might have picked up the mate’s boat, only that

Captain Catherton swore that he saw the whale run it under before the

squall shut them in; which, as the third mate, who was aloft at the

time, afterwards said, showed that his glass must have had devilish

sharp eyes.’

“‘Well,’ said I, as he stopped short again, with a world of meaning in

his sharp face, ‘I commanded that grab, and I must say your ship was

handled well to have steered clear that time. We saw no more of you

after the squall struck us, and really it seems to me that Captain

Catherton did the best he could under the circumstances; since if he had

kept his luff, instead of bearing away before it, it’s more than

probable he would have lost two boats’ crews, in place of one.’

“‘Very true,’ said he, in a negative sort of a way; ‘but then, I doubt

the truth of the captain’s report that the whale took the boat under.

The third mate was on the topgallant-crosstrees, with his glass fixed on

the boat, when they put their helm up in the ship, and he says that the

fish never sounded at all. No man in his senses would have sent away a

boat in such weather; and it was the very first time on the v’y’ge that

the starboard quarter-boat—the captain’s own—hung at the cranes, and

the main-yard aback for a shoal of whales within half a mile of the

ship.’

“‘He was fond of the sport, then?’ said I.

“‘Ay,’ he answered, ‘he is famous for making short v’y’ges, and a bolder

whaleman never went over a ship’s side—though he wasn’t bred to the

work, either. He never let the chance slip before of having the first

dash at a shoal, setting great store on a trick of his own, of

pitchpoling a lance, that was very certain. He has killed two whales to

the mate’s one, for the v’y’ge—though his boat was oftener under the

carpenter’s hands—as he had a slap-dash way of laying on to a whale,

which suited no other harpooner in the ship, but the wild islander who

steers him.’

“‘He believed in the South-Sea-slogan,’ said I, ‘a dead whale, or a

stove boat.’

“‘Just so,’ he replied, apparently beguiled of deeper thoughts, for an

instant, by a natural interest in his profession; ‘and his boat’s crew

were all pretty much of the same creed. Two of the fellows we had in

irons below belong to it; and more troublesome rascals are not to be

found in the ship. However, the difference between the captain and the

mate in their boats, was this: the one was too headstrong, the other too

cautious. Once within dart of a shoal, the captain would have three or

four fish spouting blood, before the mate could clear away his lance;

though Jinney was always more sure to get on to a single whale—an old

schoolmaster, for instance—if you only gave him time; and he rarely had

his boat struck. However,’ continued he, recurring to the point which, I

could see, troubled him most, ‘I never dreamed that Jinney, cunning as

he was, would have died in the strange way he did.’

“‘Why, Mr. Parker,’ said I, glad to find him falling back to his

starting-point, ‘I have heard nothing, so far, to justify your

suspicions of the captain. The ghost is out of the question, and as

Catherton got along very well with his mate for two successive voyages

as you say, I cannot see his motive for wishing Jinney out of the ship

in the damnable way you point at.’

“‘Ay,’ said he solemnly, ‘but there was a motive—and a black one.

Nothing will ever convince me to the contrary, but that the poor lady

had foul play between the three of them—I mean her husband, the mate,

and the mulatto steward.’

“‘The devil!’ I broke out, staring him full in the face, with a confused

remembrance of some strange thoughts of my own in my mind. ‘What on

earth put that horrid notion in your head?’

“The lines deepened on the second mate’s shrewd face, and a doubtful

look wrinkled his narrow brows, as his eyes watched mine, as if to

fathom how far he might trust me in such a matter. It would not do,

however, and I saw that he felt compelled to speak, at all risks, like a

frank fellow, as he was, who had strong doubts of dark deeds done in the

craft—he could not tell exactly how—and was taking the first good

chance that turned up, of easing his mind. There was a look of honest

trouble about his twinkling blue eyes, and beardless swarthy cheek,

which, combined with his Yankee shrewdness—setting aside the stuff

about the ghost—made me repeat the question in a sharper tone, as my

mind again reverted to something I had heard before.

“‘The truth is, sir,’ said he, ‘I was convinced from the first, that

Mrs. Catherton came on board against her will. Something seemed wrong

between them from the start; for I remember, just after she was getting

over her sea-sickness, I began to observe the traces of tears on her

face, as she often came hurriedly up on the poop, when he was in the

after cabin. It was even a matter of talk for’ard, before the

blacksmith’s forge was off deck,[7] that he treated her ill; and as this

belief gradually worked aft, from _that_ end of the ship, before we had

harpooned a single whale, you may swear that it was true. I heard him,

myself, from the sail-room, one morning when he made sure I was asleep

in the house on deck, twitting her with her want of faith toward him,

and telling her how smoothly she had carried it on for years, while he

was at sea—she praying and moaning all the time, and calling on God to

witness her innocence; while the very sound of her voice—to say nothing

of her tears and her prayers—was enough to move the heart of a Turk to

believe her. She could not abide the sight of the mate; and the worst of

it was, he seemed to know well enough in his heart what it was for—in

short, sir, I had sailed with Jinney before, and had ought to know him.

As sure as every man’s conscience is an inward comforter or a scourge of

scorpions in this life, according as he listens to its voice or not, so

sure that man hated himself as he went about the decks. It was noticed

by all hands that he never spoke to her, nor she to him, although she

used to sit, for hours at a time, on the poop, with a book on her knees,

watching, as we drove along, something you could not see in the wake of

the ship, or it might be a gull, hovering over the track of foam; or a

Mother Carey’s chicken walking the sprays. All this time we were taking

whales, and as the captain showed nothing of the tyrant in his usage of

the crew, and the Tartar was a better found ship than I ever had the

luck to have been in before, the people had nothing to grumble about,

except the matters aft, which, to be sure, was no concern of theirs.

Either Captain Catherton, or Jinney, or the mulatto, were always

watching the poor lady on the sly, so that it must have been when the

boats were off, and the steward at the braces with the shipkeepers, that

she managed to stow away the letter that I found in my pea-jacket pocket

nearly a week after she disappeared. It was addressed to some friend of

hers on shore, and she must have watched until she discovered where the

jacket hung, and risked the chances; for the letter was wrapped up in

the blank leaf of a book, with a few words in pencil-mark on the margin,

begging me to deliver it to the address, if ever I had an opportunity to

do so. She was lost a week before I found the letter, and though it

looks something like it,’ continued he, while his blue eyes glistened,

‘I’ll never believe that she drowned herself, as she never complained

aloud; but just grew thinner and thinner, day by day, until it was plain

to the dullest head in the ship, that she was pining to death. It’s my

settled belief that she had other reasons for thinking her end was near,

and that the spirit that haunts the ship is hers. But be that as it

may,’ said he solemnly, ‘if Jim Parker ever lives to see the States

again, he will travel to the ends of the earth to deliver the letter.

Now, if there’s trouble ahead, Mister Miller, thank God, I’m ready to

meet it with a clear conscience.’

“‘Mr. Parker,’ I said, still believing the story to be an exaggeration,

in spite of the horrible twist he had given it; ‘your counsel is safe

with me; but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll say nothing more of the

captain’s wife, or the mate, until the voyage is up. If there has been

foul play, depend upon it, it will come out.’

“‘Just so,’ said he, ‘and if you had not been the kind of man I take you

for, I should not have broached a word to you, seeing that you are a

stranger to me, and seem to have met with Captain Catherton before.’

“‘The truth is,’ I answered, ‘I have been haunted with such a notion,

ever since I boarded the ship in the offing; but as I have repeatedly

racked my memory in vain to account for the impression, I begin to think

that we must have met in a dream, or that my mind has been misled by a

fancied resemblance to some one else, whom I have forgotten. However,’

said I, by way of a finale, ‘if he has murdered his wife and the boat’s

crew in the way in which you suspect, depend upon it, he is as certain

to swing in the wind, as a ship to her anchor, in a tide-way. In the

meantime, it is best to say as little about the matter as possible—and

you may as well turn the people too, and have the head-sails unbent.’

“‘Very good, sir,’ answered Parker, and down the poop-stairs he went,

while I dove into the sail-room.

“While the crew were sending up new sails in place of the old top-sails

and courses—worn as thin as sere leaves, blackened with the sooty smoke

of the try-works, and marked in fifty places, from the yard-arms down,

with gurry—the captain came off, with the old Parsee in company. I,

immediately, made my report to him of the difficulty which had occurred

in the morning, which he seemed disposed to treat lightly, informing me

in turn, that Halil Ben Hamet had gone ashore before daylight, and had

arranged every thing for the escape of Zuma on Saturday night.

“‘The blow is to be struck,’ he whispered, ‘at midnight, and on Sunday

evening we weigh.’

“He then went below, and in a few minutes afterward, as I stood in the

gangway, overlooking the preparations for sea, the two came up on the

raised deck, for the sake of the current of air, which was felt or

fancied under the awning of the poop. They were both in high spirits;

the captain laughing and making the best use of his Arabic, with an

occasional fragment of Persian, which he had picked up in his cruises;

while the grave, ghostly Parsee—whose thin, bloodless face, and

attenuated figure, seemed to set the boiling-point at defiance—sat

under the awning, cosily ensconced in a bamboo arm-chair, his back at a

luxurious angle, his slippered feet nestling in a sort of carved stool,

which wheeled from beneath, and the bowl of his crooked pipe resting on

the hot, white deck. He had exchanged his high, purple cap, embroidered

with white flowers, for another of lighter make and smaller dimensions,

the peak of which overhung and contrasted oddly with his orange cheek;

and as the men swaying on the buntlines, squinted oft at his collarless

white tunic, and calm, passionless face, with the scented smoke curling

up in blue wreaths from the thin mustache, to the gurgle of his hookah,

you’d’ve almost thought the fellows took the old Tartar’s poop for some

odd corner of the eastern paradise.

“I was dreaming of some such thing myself, when I was suddenly startled

by a half-smothered shriek from aft, coming, as it seemed to me, from

the cabin under the raised deck. The mulatto steward, who happened to be

passing along to the galley, dropped his basket of dishes with a crash,

while Catherton himself, grew pale as death, sitting still on the poop,

as it appeared, without the power to move a limb. The steward, however,

without waiting to count the fragments of his dinner-plates, ran

precipitately down the cabin stairs, while the second mate, who was

standing near the break of the deck, speaking to the men on the

mizzen-topsail-yard, slued half-round, turning as white as the canvas.

Catching my eye, he stood fast again, continuing his orders; though both

he and the men aloft, who heard the cry distinctly enough, were

sufficiently startled to show what they thought of it. One great, clumsy

fellow, slipping off the foot-ropes in his fright, when, doubtless he

would have made a ghost of _himself_, had not a boat-steerer caught him

by the breast of his duck-frock, and jerked him up on the yard again.

For my part, seeing the superstitious fears of the rest, and noticing

the change on the captain’s face, a strong contrast to his look a moment

before, when he was carrying it off so pleasantly, I did not know what

to make of it, thinking one instant of Catherton’s deceased wife, and

the next of the Circassian Zuma, who, it flashed upon me, might have

been brought on board without my knowledge. In a few moments, however,

the steward came up on the poop with the monkey clinging to him, and

told the captain, that one of the mutinous rascals whom we had confined

below, had worked off his irons, and breaking open a small slide between

the steerage and the store-room, had frightened master Jocko into

hystericks. I caught the second mate’s eye seeking mine again at this;

and Catherton called out from where he sat, to release the men, and turn

them to with the rest.

“This was done, and nothing more said of the occurrence at the time, for

a breeze suddenly sprung up, bringing in another of the sultan’s

cruisers, which had been in sight in the offing all day, with a fleet of

dows in convoy. She was a heavy frigate, with an English name, which I

have forgotten. She came to anchor on the flood, abreast of the palace

at the bottom of the cove, while the great, clumsy dows, moored in the

passage astern of the grab-brig.

“The Parsee merchant went on shore just after dark; and being engaged on

deck until late in the evening, I had no particular conversation with

the captain that night. Awaking from an uneasy sleep about midnight, I

went on deck.

“The harbor was still as death. The hot breath of the land-wind had

failed. Not a cloud was to be seen on the sky, where the moon and the

stars shone with resplendent beauty. The heat was excessive, the least

exertion causing the perspiration to stream from the pores. All at once,

as I leaned over the quarter, listening to a stir which sprung up on

board of my old brig, which had been dismantled and turned into a

floating hospital, it struck me that I heard a low murmur of voices,

proceeding from the galley of the Tartar. My curiosity being sharpened

by the shriek, which had so confused Captain Catherton and the steward,

and set Parker and I off on opposite tacks—he thinking of a ghost, and

I of the Circassian—I walked slowly for’ard on the larboard side of the

deck, anxious to know what was going on.

“I soon discovered that the two steerage cronies, the carpenter and the

cooper, with the sable master of the coppers himself, were engaged in a

solemn conclave. The two whites were great friends; though no two men

could appear more unlike in person and character. The carpenter, a

Kennebunk man, was short and thickset, as slow and heavy in his motions

as an elephant, with a broad, solemn face, as beardless and bare of

expression as a plain of sand, with the nose like a ruined obelisk,

rising out of it; while the hooper of staves, as straight and thin as a

lath, with sharp features, restless, ferrety eyes, and a nose like a

cockatoo’s upper mandible, was the very impersonification of an old blue

presbyter, on a cruise. These two fellows were the chief manufacturers

of the legends set afloat in the ship; nothing escaping the cooper’s

eyes and ears, which was deemed worthy of being poured into the

carpenter’s brain, from whence, by the slow process of infiltration, it

was given in its strength, drop by drop, as it were, to the crew. This I

had learned from the second mate; and as the slide of the galley door

was partly open on the side facing Muscat Island, as if to let out the

smoke of their pipes, and of some mess the cook was coddling in his

stew-pan, I could not resist the temptation of turning eaves-dropper for

once, and accordingly, sat quietly down on the spars to listen.

“The man of chips was speaking, with the slow gravity of an oracle, and

as his dull, dogged voice met my ear, I could not but think it fortunate

that I chanced to light upon the party at the very moment I did.

“‘You think now, my lads,’ said he, ‘that you have made a prime v’y’ge,

with forty-five hundred b’rr’ls sparm ile in the ship, and the tryworks

down—you, Bungs, with a good _lay_[8] and no finger in the

slop-chist—and the doctor, with his ten b’rr’ls of slush extra, besides

his perquisites for washing the mate’s clothes for twenty odd

months—wait till the anchor’s down in Bedford Bay, before you crow, my

lads. For my part, unless some lucky chance, as you knows nothin’ of

now, turns up, I no more looks to see home in this ship than I looks for

to see the new mate to turn missionary, or the skipper to kneel down to

the sun with the old Parshee—and eyther aire a long way from my

thoughts, I kin tell you. Isn’t the ship haunted in the cabins; and

ar’n’t there two Jonases, at least, on board—and another that I knows

of—not to speak of him that’s gone to his reckonin’, with murder on his

soul, as sartin as we three be settin’ here, as helpless as so many

gonies with fish-hooks in their beaks.’

“‘What kin a man do, Chips?’ answered the cooper, apparently much moved

with this pleasant prospect of his crony’s. ‘If we stir tack or sheet,

in the way you seem to pint, it’s mutiny—and we all know what that

leads to. If we makes a complaint to this here bashaw, or sultan, or

whatsoever he calls hisself, ten staves to a whitlin’, that the skipper,

or the old yaller nabob with the Teneriffe-cap—as they say kin do a

great deal here in his way—turns it all into gammon. If you, old head,

can see through this traverse, why don’t you say so at once—all among

friends—instead of bullragin’ a feller about a matter as he kin no more

work out of than a suckin’ whale kin stem a strong current?’

“Here I could hear him whiffing his pipe in high dudgeon, while the

other, lowering his voice to a true sea-croak, answered him all the

cooler; feeling his way, as I thought, to some plan of his own, which I

was doubly anxious to get at, as both men, from their stations in the

ship, had considerable influence with the crew.

“‘Thar be some things so dark, d’ye mind,’ said the oracle, ‘that no man

kin see through ’em till the Lord’s own time—and some as no man—not

even them as is concarned the deepest—kin give a reason for, no more

than you kin tell me why a whale always dies with his head toward the

sun. As I takes it, this matter about the mate and the skipper’s wife be

of this sort.

“‘Hows’iver, this much be sartin—eyther we must git rid o’ the two

Jonases, which is left, or the old Tartar are a doomed craft—ship and

cargo. Now, for the steward—t’other one once out of the way—his hash

is soon settled. I’d think no more of fetchin’ him a clip with my adze

than of strikin’ a shirk with a head-spade. I mistrusted the villain

iver since I fust sot eyes on the yaller frontispiece of ’im, with his

two gray toplights shinin’ like a cat’s in the dark. He’s as deep in as

t’other, and without his reason, it may be—hows’iver, to the pint—look

ye, I says there’s only one man in the ship which can manhandle the

bloody skipper, if he’s once put to the stumps.’

“‘Dat be Frank, de man-o’-war-man, I reckon,’ observed the cook.

“‘Or the Portagee,’ said the cooper, ‘or, if I’m to have a second guess,

nearer the mark, the Kanacker, John Kapooley.’

“‘John Kapooley be d—d! and the rest, too,’ said old Kennebunk,

scornfully. ‘I see it’s all lost time, as the students say at Cambridge,

to teach a nigger a logic, or a bung-driver to sarcumvent any thing but

hoops, heads and staves,’ he muttered, pushing the galley door farther

open to empty his mouth, though, luckily, he did not see me, as I sat

close abaft.

“‘I say, mates, there’s but one man which kin help us in this

quandary—and that’s the new mate.’

“‘Why, Chips,’ said the cooper, ‘Lord love you, he’s hand and glove with

him you knows of. ’Taint no manner of use of countin’ on him. He’d no

more listen to our story than the old Turk at the paliss yonder.

Besides, he’s used to sailin’ in other sort of crafts altogether, and

sticks up his nose at us whalemen. He’s jist the same sort as the Jonas

hisself, and they two is bound to stick togither this cruise—blow high,

blow low—till wind and wave parts ’em.’

“‘Dat bin ’xactly my notion, too,’ said the black, ‘him too much an

out-an-out sailor to go agin de captin.’

“‘Well, Bungs,’ answered the carpenter, ‘it’s many a long day since

you’ve been to sea afore this cruise, and you speak accordin’ to your

lights, I dare say. As to the doctor, why I can’t expect much better of

him, seein’ that he’s not long out of the bonds o’ iniquity. (The cook

was a runaway slave.) But, you see, I’ve talked the whole matter over

with Browning, and Shadduck, and Frank, the man-o’-war’s-man, as stands

for the whole o’ the starboard-watch—and says I to them, says I, what’s

to come o’ it, my lads, s’posin’ we _does_ get the ship out o’ this

blessed mess—a ghost aft, the cholery, the Turks and the tiffoons—and

the bloody skipper runs away with her, craft and cargo, after all—and

leaves us in some foreign port to go to grass with the greenhorns.’

“‘Why, where on airth could he run her to, I want to know?” said the

cooper. “If her invoice were drugs and spices, now—or teas and silks,

as in her old days, you might talk; but, as I take it, old head, it

would be hard to find a market in any quarter of the world, barrin’

Europe and the States, for sich a cargo of sparm ile as we’ve under

hatches.’

“‘So you think, my lad,’ retorted the carpenter, coolly, ‘’cause, old as

you are, you ar’n’t up to half the deviltry afloat now-a-days.’

“‘Mayhap, now, you ha’n’t forgot that old nob, with the powdered head

and the long cue, which were as thick as three in a berth, with the

skipper, at Pernambuke?’

“‘Lord love you, no, Charley,’ answered his crony. ‘I remembers him well

enough, by reason of the half-doubloon which he give the boat’s crew for

pickin’ up three of his niggers, when wild Frank capsized their canoe in

the harbor.’

“‘Well, then,’ continued Charley, ‘Don Josey Maria were his name, and

the richest senor he were, they said, between the _Recife_ and the Rio.’

“‘Well, Chips, what then?’ asked the cooper.

“‘Why,’ answered the other, as coolly as before, ‘it’s my belief,

growin’ in me, the whull v’y’ge, out of things as has turned up, one

arter another, that ship and cargo were as good as sold to that aire old

Portagee, afore we left the bloody Brazil coast behind.’

“‘Why, Charley, man,’ said the cooper, in a startled voice, ‘sure, you

don’t mean to say that _now_, and you niver broached a thought of it

afore.’

“‘Why, you see, my hearties, I were watchin’ all along to see how the

cat jumped, seein’ that the skipper be nyther one to be skeared out of

his course by a trifle, nor fathomed with a bit o’ dry yarn like a

pump-well. I’m cock-sure of it now—but, hark’e in your ears—one word

from me, when we gits up with the Cape, will block his game, deep as he

is, and sot that aire manhandlin’, pirate-huntin’ Mister Miller—as he

calls hisself—at t’other one’s throat like a Bingal tiger.

“‘Hows’iver, jist travel aft, Bungs, an’ strike the bell, whiles the

doctor hands out the grog and the prog—I reckon by that aire

screechin’, which aire none o’ the pleasantest, that the cholery’s set

his claws on more o’ the heathen.’

“I kept my seat while the man went aft and struck the bell, the dismal

echoes of the rocks drowning, for a moment, the faint cries to which the

carpenter had alluded. Just as the man came back three or four heads

were thrust in succession up the forecastle ladder, and as many of the

larboard watch clustered round the opposite door of the galley. The

fellow who had broken into the cabin was among them, and recognizing the

others as old hands, I sat close for a few moments longer, although

almost despairing now of learning the magical word by which old Charley

was to set the captain and I by the ears.

“However, little of moment was said at first—the talk turning chiefly

on the heat, and the cholera, and the prospect of getting to sea. One

fellow was beginning a story about the fever on the African coast, when

suddenly the carpenter asked the captain’s stroke-oars-man, about the

ghost he had seen in the cabin.

“‘You see, mate,’ said Kennebunk, ‘the story they made up aft about the

jackanapes be all in my eye; and if Frank, here, be of a mind, he can

give us the rights of it.’

“‘That be blowed!’ said the man-of-war’s man in his wild way. ‘If it

weren’t the monkey, with a table-cloth round him, as the steward said,

it might have been a ghost, or the devil hisself, for all I care. Pass

the pannakin this way—here’s sweethearts and wives, any how!—and no

malice to the new mate, for the clout on the sconce with the

capstan-bar.’

“‘Ay, ay,’ rejoined the carpenter, ‘you men-of-war’s men are all of one

mark; you know one another, meet where you may, jist as a shoal o’

whales comes togither, arter a squanderin’.’

“‘B—t me!’ said Frank, ‘if ever I sot eyes on him afore he joined this

ship, howsomever it may be with you, Chips.’

“Why,’ said Charley again, ‘may be I have, and may be I haven’t—I’m not

goin’ for to say now. Only so much, d’ ye see—he’s the very man to take

the old craft home, in case of any thing had happenin’ to the skipper.

If we _do_ go to sea on Sunday, as is give out in the ship—what I want

you lads of the larboard watch to do, is to keep a small helm till we

once gits in the Cape latitudes. If the skipper lays her course for the

Brazil coast, then—leave the rest to Charley Toppin.’

“‘Well,’ answered Frank, ‘we’re all of one mind, Chips; and if the

soft-sawderin’, murderin’, buccaneerin’ thief tries his hand at that

game, more than half t’other watch’ll jine with us. You see, lads, fair

play’s a jewel, and I did promise the steward to say nothin’ about what

I seed in the after-cabin to-day—hows’iver, as all hands is

concarned—and you all heerd the screach—why, sink me, if it’s a man’s

part to keep back the truth:—Either the ship’s haunted by the captain’s

wife’s ghost—or else he’s got a live missus stowed away in the cabins.’

“There was a regular burst of top-gallant oaths and exclamations at

this, until the carpenter took the word in a sort of triumph.

“‘I knowed it—I knowed it—I told you all the same thing—and who was

most ready to laugh at the spurrit but Frank—and now you hear him.’

“‘I only tell what _I_ saw, shipmates,’ rejoined the man-of-war’s man;

you may believe what _you_ like.’

“‘But let’s hear the rights of it, Frank,’ said the cooper.

“‘Well, then, you see,’ said Frank, after a pause, ‘when I slipped off

my irons and got into the pantry, looking for something to eat—for the

rum dying in me made me as ravenous as a wolf—the thought comed into my

head, somehow, to have a look at the Bluebeard-chamber, as we calls the

after-cabin all along. I knowed the mates were busy on deck, and the

skipper ashore—and I heers the steward go up with his dishes, afore I

slipped back the slide—so, mates, I walks like a cat in a

game-preserve, past the skipper’s berth, through the for’ard cabin—and

lays my hand on the nob of the door between. Sure enough it were locked

fast, and I outs sheath-knife to pry back the bolt—and blessed if that

very minute the lock doesn’t turn from the inside. This here you see,

sets me all in a tremble, and I stands still for a second, doubtin’ what

to do, and more nor half a mind to go back, as the thought of this here

ghost of the carpenter’s comes over me strong. Hows’iver, ‘here’s

venture,’ thinks I—and in I bolts. What with the deadlights down, and

something over the bulls-eyes, it were as dark as a dungeon at fust;

but, as I feels my way in, somebody moves on the poop—the light shoots

down in a stream—and I sees the wheel cabin pretty well, with a rack

full bottles and glasses between the doors, and the two ship models we

made on the fust cruise, standing on their ways, safe enough on the

transom. I steps up to see what sort o’ stuff might be inside the

bottles, and never sees sign of monkey, nor nothing else, ’till I give a

look in a big looking-glass, when blessed if I doesn’t see the door of

the starboard aftermost state-room open, and a woman in white standin’

inside, lookin’ straight at me. I slues round at this, and she gives the

scream as some on you heerd—and vanishes in a jiffy. Well, mates, while

I stands dumbfoundered at this, shakin’ worse nor afore, the steward

comes down the companion-way like a hot shot, and shoves me back into

the pantry—and away he drives agin like mad. In less than a minute he

comes back, quiet enough, with a tumbler of grog in his fist—and

‘Here,’ says he, ‘take this down, and say nothin’ to nobody about a

ghost at all—and I’ll lay it on the monkey.’ I nods and swallows the

stuff, and makes sail back to the steerage, where the third mate comes

down a minute arter, and takes off the other chap’s bracelets, and tells

us all to turn to.’

“‘And now, mates,’ said he, ‘it’s all Bible truth, jist as it took

place; and whether it be a ghost or no, it looked wonderful white and

thin—and as much like the poor lady, as if it were her picter, full

size, and done by some great painter—you know.’

“‘The Lord have mercy on us!’ exclaimed the cooper; ‘the likes of that I

niver ’spected to hear in this ship. But murder will out—and haunt the

cabins and the poop it’s sartain to do, as long as there’s a Jonas left

aboard.’

“‘Why,’ said another, ‘I’ve a notion to cut and run from this here

cussed craft to-morrow.’

“‘And lose your ile?’ suggested one fellow.

“‘And die of the cholery, among rig’lar heathens,’ said the carpenter.

‘No, no, Jack; I’ll teach you a better way nor that. Ye see, lads, while

the spurrit sticks to her end of the ship—’

“Here the ship’s bell struck one, and I went aft at once. Not a soul was

to be seen, though I walked up on the raised deck, and then straight

down to the wheel, above which the clapper of the bell hung, without the

least motion that I could perceive. I was puzzled myself, and as for the

fellows in the galley, they never stirred for the ten minutes which I

stood there, by the watch in the binnacle. At length, one of the boldest

made shift to get as far as the mainmast, when, seeing me in my

shirt-sleeves, he took fright and ran for’ard again. I then went below,

more than half-inclined to leave the ship myself, from what I heard; but

determined, nevertheless, to search the cabins myself, on the very first

occasion before we went to sea.

“The next morning we went on bending new sails fore and aft, the captain

going on shore in the canoe after breakfast.

“He had not been gone an hour, when a barge came off to the ship, with

the Sultan himself, the Ouale[9] of Muscat, and a few officers of his

household—among the rest my sable friend, Hadji Hemet, looking blacker

than a _fetisheer_, under a new Syrian turban, with a jeweled _krungar_

hanging at his girdle, and pearls of price in his ears. Though they took

us by surprise, I had the sides manned, and the ship’s guns fired, and

after showing Syed Ben Seeyd down into the cabin, where, to my

annoyance, the steward was not to be found, at the request of the

sultan—after apologizing for the absence of the captain—I showed him

and his officers through the ship. He seemed particularly interested in

the examination of the instruments used in capturing the whale, and paid

great attention to the construction of the boats, asking many questions

through the interpreter, most of which I left the second mate to answer.

When we returned to the long cabin, the steward had the doors of the

after one thrown open, the decks swept, and the dead-lights up. After

partaking slightly of the refreshments prepared, and making some inquiry

into the amount of capital invested in the whaling interests in the

United States, the party went into the after-cabin, where their

attention was immediately fixed on the two ship-models on the transom.

While they were examining these, I tried the doors of the state-rooms.

That on the starboard aftermost side was locked, the captain, as the

steward said, having the key in his possession.

“I said nothing more at the time, knowing it to be the one which Mrs.

Catherton had formerly occupied, and the mulatto, by his manner, seemed

quite as well satisfied to be rid of the subject. In a few moments more,

the sultan and his attendants went up on the poop, when I found the ship

decked out in all the flags she could muster, and the crew rigged in

regular liberty trim. We gave his mightiness nine cheers and a salute of

twenty guns when he left: the last sight which I saw through the smoke,

being the eunuch’s black face, looming, like a fiend’s, out of the

barge, from under his checked turban.

“As soon as the men shifted and turned to again, I went down into the

cabins, when, lo! the doors of the after one were closed and locked as

before. I thought this a good chance to fall regularly foul of the

steward, when the fellow closed my mouth at once, by saying in a

submissive way, that it was Captain Catherton’s orders, after his wife’s

death, that the doors should be kept closed. Of course, I could say no

more.

“We went on with our work aloft, and being strong-handed, after taking

in a few sheep and goats, were ready to go to sea by meridian, when in

the very noon-day glare and piercing heat of the sun, the Soliman Shah,

the Arab corvette, changed her berth also, finding the little strait too

hot for her at last, with ten deaths on board of her the night previous,

and as many more new cases in her sick bay.

“However, new life seemed to have inspired our men. They worked with a

will, notwithstanding that the terrific rays of the sun beaming upon the

awnings, or reflected from a thousand points of the rugged rocks, made

the gap like a gigantic oven. The land-wind was rising when the captain

came off, and the men, in running up the boats for the night, broke out

into a hearty song, the chorus of which opened the Arab’s eyes and did

one’s soul good to hear, as if the prospect of getting to sea at last

made them set the blue cholera itself, and all other evils which menaced

the ship, at defiance. There was another meaning in this, in connection

with what I had overheard the night before, which caused me to look

narrowly at the face of old Charley who started the song, and those of

one or two of the others, to see how far they were to be trusted, or

feared at a pinch; when suddenly averting my eyes I saw that Catherton,

who stood on the poop, was watching me narrowly, though he turned away

the moment his eyes met mine, gazing, with a frown on his brow, from the

ship to the frigate, as if something in the clamorous notes of the men

displeased him. It struck me that, whatever his plans were, carrying it

off in this way must seem natural enough to the Arabs, accustomed as

they were to the ways of English seamen. He said nothing, however, even

after listening attentively to my report of the Sultan’s visit, turning

the conversation upon the plan for bringing Zuma off to the ship.

“I did not doubt but that I should be able to bring her on board, but I

feared that she could not be concealed should suspicion be directed to

the vessel. I had watched the faces of the sultan and his attendants as

closely as I could, and remarked nothing to alarm me. Syeed’s demeanor

was as mild and gracious as usual; nevertheless, knowing something of

the policy in the East, I could not divest myself of the thought that we

were watched. Hadji’s black face, with the wiry mustache and the checked

turban over it, seemed to haunt every dark corner of the ship as the day

waned. Catherton, also, could not entirely conceal his anxiety. He had

been taking his grog freer than usual for the last two days, and as he

was by no means what is termed a hard drinking man, this tended, as I

thought, to unhinge his faculties in some degree, and give his cheek an

ashy hue foreign to its natural deep bronze. He smoked incessantly, the

sheroot being never out of his mouth, and his frequent change of

position, when every one else felt indisposed to stir after the decks

were cleared, showed a degree of restlessness which, under other

circumstances, would have been hard to account for. I thought it my

duty, notwithstanding, to give him another hint of the danger he was

running the ship into, and choosing my opportunity, accordingly spoke

out pretty plainly.

“‘I tell you, Captain Catherton,’ said I, ‘you can have no idea of the

means which that accursed eunuch has of obtaining information. He has

spies every where—perhaps in this very ship, and I know him too well

not to feel certain that, should any of the ship’s company be found in

any way implicated in the plot, you and I in less than an hour afterward

would be tenants of the same dungeon, with a fair prospect of being kept

prisoners for life, or perhaps put to death in some diabolical way.’

“‘Mr. Miller,’ he answered quietly, ‘I command this ship. Do you bring

the woman off safely, and I’ll stake my neck on the rest.’

“And without another word he walked down into the cabin. This was

decided enough, so I remained standing by the mizzen-rigging,

endeavoring to forget my presentiments of evil by watching the motions

of Muscat Tom, who had been cruising in the cove all day. By this time,

though the sun was behind the mountains, it wanted still an hour and

more of dark, when the second mate called my attention to the large

flocks of birds flying confusedly in from the offing and disappearing

among the rocks. A dirty, yellowish cloud suddenly obscured the air,

making it still more oppressive, if possible, and causing you to wonder

if the day was not nearer its end than you had deemed. The atmosphere

was insufferably hot and oppressive, the little air astir coming from

the land, like the breath of a furnace; you could see through the

stifling gloom that the thin strips of haze were melting away from the

peaks and small watch-towers in sight from our present berth: a swell,

too, was getting up with the tide, and, presently, we could hear from

seaward a low, indistinct, appalling sound—which every seaman knows

full well—rising, stealthily, as it were, over the hum of living voices

in the harbor. It was the moan of the Arabian Sea awakening from its

long sleep, and the swell was the forerunner of the heavy surf which it

sometimes sends in on the rocky coast, before a severe squall. All at

once, as we were noting these ominous signs, the whale, with a flap of

his flukes that was loudly reverberated by the rocks, threw half his

length clear, and then setting his stem-propeller and side-paddles in

play, commenced making an offing, slowly at first, but gradually

increasing his speed, until, before he was out of sight, the water was

all in a foam behind him. A moment after the gloom suddenly deepened,

till Parker’s face at my elbow seemed dusky as an Indian’s—a few large

drops fell upon the awning, and looking aloft we saw again, over our

heads and to the north, the glaring, vivid blue sky with nothing

between, as if the demon of the storm had flapped his wings at our

mast-head, and then sailed swiftly away, to wreak his wrath on more

defenseless heads. The land-wind, more like the breath of a flame than a

current of air, coming as it did from the sandy plains of the interior,

was less strong than usual; while the swell continued to rise with the

tide, the water lapping with a dull splash against the whaleman’s bends,

and the low, aweing, ominous sound still falling upon the ear at regular

intervals.

“When the captain came on deck, while the steward was setting the table

in the cabin, we got our heavy anchors all ready to let go at a moment’s

warning, and secured our boats inboard, though the Arab frigate did not

appear to take the alarm. In fact, Captain Catherton did not think it

advisable, _under circumstances_, to send down his upper spars, while

the heavy frigate rode to a single anchor, with boats towing astern, and

royal yards across. As for the corvette, she was hidden in her present

berth by Muscat Island.

“After supper, the land-wind died entirely away; the stars came

shimmering through the blue ether; the haze settled about the granite

peaks again, and, with the exception of the low, murmuring sound to

seaward, and the almost imperceptible rise of the swell, the night bid

fair to be as calm as the last.

“About nine in the evening I went below to get, if possible, a wink of

sleep. I had strong doubts of the weather, it being now near the time

for the setting in of the dry monsoon, although I thought it probable

that a day or two might pass before it took a decided change, having

seen the same signs prove false tokens before in this very harbor, the

land-wind sometimes filling the atmosphere with minute particles of

dust, and the whale regularly making a stretch to sea at sundown for

fear of the currents, which here, of all coasts in the world, are the

most shining and treacherous. The dust-cloud, too, might have driven the

birds to cover sooner than usual, and, in fact, the only sign to be

relied on was the distant moan of the sea, reaching the ear it was hard

to tell how, as there was not the least flutter of a breeze to be felt.

The tide, too, which rises here about six feet, was higher than usual,

and what with thinking of this, and of the stories I had heard about the

captain, to say nothing of the heat and the adventure before me that

night, it was long before I fell asleep.

“When I awoke, I knew, if it were only by the dull glimmer of the

cabin-lamp, and the capers the rats were cutting along the deck, that it

must be near the hour when Captain Catherton had settled to call me

himself. Looking across the cabin to his berth I saw that it was empty,

and feeling sure that he was on deck, I again closed my eyes against the

light. However, the mood was past for the time, and between the smell of

the oil, the rats and the roaches, and the captain, as I supposed,

walking the deck over my head, I found it useless to close an eyelid.

So, gentlemen, I lay wide awake listening to the tramp above, as of some

one in a spell of deep thought, and watching the pranks of the

long-tailed gentry as they manœuvred around the stands of arms on the

bulkhead, or marched in squads under the berths; the boldest of them

climbing up repeatedly into the foot of mine, and plumping down again

when I stirred, as if they were bent upon rousing me out for some end of

their own, which, as I afterward discovered, was for free admission into

a cabinet of marine curiosities, which the mate, who was dead and gone,

had been collecting for some scientific gentlemen of the Granite state.

Where the rats came from should have been submitted to these same

savants, when, as I heard afterward, they boarded every ship which come

into Bedford Bay for months after the Tartar was expected home,

inquiring after their curiosity-box, then lying snugly enough at the

bottom of the cove of Muscat.

[_Conclusion in our next._

-----

[4] Scimetars.

[5] Went down.

[6] Separated.

[7] This was only used early in the cruise.

[8] The crew of a whaleman are all on shares, or _lays_, according to

their stations in the ship.

[9] Governor.

* * * * *

CARRIE.

BY LILIAN MAY.

“She hath laid her down by the crystal river,

To bathe in its waters of life forever.”

We have lain the bud of our promise down

To rest in the darksome mold,

For the light within had flickered and flown,

And the pure warm heart was cold.

Now the crisping snow lies above her head,

And low is the wind’s chill moan,

That ruffles the sheet on her narrow bed,

But the spirit afar hath flown.

The glorious dawn of immortal life

Gilds the hope of our joy above,

And the heavy grief of this bitter strife

Is sunk in the light of His love.

With a golden harp in her little hand,

An emerald crown on her brow,

She walketh the halls of the better land,

And hymneth a sweet strain now.

* * * * *

NELLY NOWLAN TO HER AUNT

AFTER HER VISIT TO A LONDON CHURCH.

BY MRS. B. C. HALL.

“My dear Aunt,—I have often longed to turn my pen to the paper, but no

one, only the Almighty, knows how hurried, and bustled, and bothered I

am, getting myself up to understand every thing, _or to make believe to

do so_, which comes to much the same thing for a while anyhow, which I

daresay you don’t understand, and so best for you, Aunt dear!

“I’m with the lady still, and likely to remain, for she’s both kind and

helpless, and is well enough to do without a nurse, (she says,) though

if I’m not _that_ no one ever was. She’s not fractious, poor dear! only

humorsome, and does not care to stay long in one place—restless-like; I

have my trials with her too in many little ways—I didn’t want her to

know I could read, because she might ask me to read prayers and things

contrary to my religion, but unfortunately, I said I could write, and

that let her _into it_—she was ’cute enough to know that I must read

_first_.

“We were a while in a place, they call it by the name of Bath; it’s a

mighty unnatural city, where the _could_ water comes up out of the earth

in a continued boil, and you wouldn’t see a carriage with a pair of

horses in a week’s walk, for it’s the men are horses there and draw the

sick creatures, that bathe in, and then drink, the hot water, up and

down the hills, and you’d think it a holy place, for every second

gentleman you meet is a priest or a minister; yes, indeed, they must be

a mighty delicate set of gentlemen in England, for there’s a power of

them in Bath. My mistress never meddles with my religion, only folds her

spectacles in the Bible and leaves it in my way—but I take no notice. I

can hardly expect you to believe me, but the water comes as I tell you

_hot_ out of the earth; there must be a fire under it _somewhere_; but

who can tell _where_ that fire is, or _who_ looks after it? The

inhabitants, I’m sure, live in greater terror of an explosion than they

_let on_ to the poor innocents that do be looking after their health;

and maybe that’s the reason they fill up the town with the Clargy to

keep all quiet; sure it’s them we send for ourselves when any thing

unnatural is going on; if you mind[10] when the underground noises were

heard in Castle Croft, they sent for his Reverence Father Joyce at once,

and kept him ever so long about the place, and no one heard a stir of

noise since! so maybe, the holy men are useful that way in Bath, to keep

down the spirits of the waters in their right place.

“I told you my lady was fidgetty-like, and she very soon got tired of

Bath and would come to London. Now, dear, I’ll leave it to another time

to say what I’ve got to say about London—and remember, sure if I wrote

for a hundred years, I could not _insense_ you into what it is, or what

it is like. Aunt, it’s full up of people! underground, overground, high

up, down low—people—people in misery and sin, people in plenty and

pleasure; it’s never still by day or night, for at night, the very

breathing of such thousands and thousands of people, is like to stifled

thunder; it’s full of a pale withered-up sort of life in one place, and

it is blooming like a fresh May morning only a stone’s-throw from the

same, in another; it’s a city of contradictions—it’s the grandest place

upon the face of the earth, if it was only for the multitudes of living

immortal creatures it contains, and it’s the meanest place in the

universe:—they make money out of the very scrapings of the

streets!—and, bless your kind heart! it’s yourself that would be

troubled to see the people driving on, and on, and on forever, without

rest, and all so solid like. And, aunt, but it’s lonesome to be

surrounded by such thousands of people without knowing one of them from

Adam, only all black strangers, no one to bid you good morrow morning,

or say, God save you; for their manners are not our manners; they’re a

fine, kind-hearted people, but they’re mortal fearful you should think

so. The first lodging we were in, I thought to be very kind and mannerly

to the mistress of the house, and so when I met her the next day I

dropped her a curtsey—and says I, ‘The top of the morning to ye,

Ma’am;’ well, instead of returning my civility, she told my mistress I’d

insulted her; you see they’re an unaccountable people, but it’s not

_that_ I wanted to write about. Aunt, dear, I know you’re anxious about

how I get on with my ‘_duty_’ and I took your advice and resolved to

walk in my own way, and when I told my mistress I’d like to get leave to

go to my duty, she told me she was well satisfied with the way I was

going on, I was doing my duty perfectly; so I thanked her for her good

opinion, but said I wanted to make a clean breast, if I could find out a

proper Clergy to make it to; and then she smiled her faint, quiet smile,

just for all the world like a thread of moonlight, and said, she

understood now that what I meant by ‘duty,’ was going to the Priest, to

confession, and gave me leave to go next Sunday to first Mass. So I got

my instructions where to go and set off with a light heart. To be sure

it did me good to enter a place of my own worship again, and the music

was just wonderful—only they made me pay a shilling for a seat, think

of that! but I’d have paid ten, if I had it—to get in, my heart warmed

so. And the tears came to my eyes, when I see the fine men serving on

the altar and such fine blessed candles—all wax. And the _rale_ bowing

and turning; and little boys in their little albs that keeps all the

saints’ days, running about the streets, the darlings, in all sorts and

kinds of mischief. Oh, I was so delighted, and so thankful, and the

music and the velvet, and the painted windys with the sun shining

through them, and the beautiful things, put me a-past all judgment—if I

could have had you there just to see what a picture it was! But by ’n

by, I heard one of their reverences in the pulpit, though I was so

bewildered I never saw him go there, and I said to myself, ‘Mass can’t

be half over yet,’ think-it was soon for the _sarmint_[11],—and then I

thought again may be it was the difference of the country, and looking

round I saw all the ladies had crosses on their Prayer-books, and that

set me right again, for I was sure none but ourselves would have that.

Then the organ and the little boys in their little albs began again; and

I was fairly transported, for never had I heard such music—not

_singing-music_, but _talking-music_ it was. Oh my heart beat quick with

joy, to think how I had got into the right place, and how in the very

thick of a nation of heretics, there was every thing natural-like in my

own faith. I cried down tears of joy, and indeed others did the same.

Then another priest—a fine man intirely—got up into another pulpit,

and gave us I must say a fine _sarmint_, I never could desire a

better—and it’s the truth I’m telling you—he spoke of fasts, and

saints, and gave out the services on next saints’ days—and reminded us

of confession. Oh, aunt darling, don’t you or Father Joyce think bad of

it if I say—and it’s thrue as if they were the last words I should

write in this world—that no holy priest of Rome could pay greater honor

to the saints than himself; or insist finer on confession and fasts, or

bow with more devotion to the altar; I don’t care who gainsays it, but

he was a fine man. Oh glory! says I, aint I in luck? aint I blessed?

aint I happy? and I thought to myself I’d make bould to ask a fine grand

ould waiting gentleman, who carried his head high, and was all over

fine: I asked him where I could get spaking with any of their

reverences? and he said some of _the sisters_ were in the vestry then,

as they were going to change the _hour of vespers_, and, indeed, he

_was_ mighty civil, and said if I wanted to ask a Christian question I

might wait there, and he took me near the little room where they keep

the vestments, and presently a fine, grand lady came out, and I heard

her complain how she caught cold _at Matins_, and one of their

reverences came out and bid her good day by the name of ‘_Sister Mary_,’

and then the grand ould waiting gentleman bustled on bowing (not to the

altar, but to the lady), and called out for Lady Jane Style’s carriage.

I had a great mind to call out ‘Whist,’[12] for I thought it no way to

be shouting for carriages at the open door of a holy place. Well; one

young priest passed, and another, backing out and making obadience to

their _Shooparier_: and then came two more ladies—‘sisters,’ no doubt,

and then another priest. Oh! how my heart would have warmed to them,

only they seemed somehow only half way, and at last the _Shooparier_

himself came, and I thought any one could see he was the _rale_ thing;

he was the very stamp and moral of Father Joyce, and no cardinal could

be more stately—there was a lady, sweet-faced and gentle-looking with

him, but when I fell on my knees and asked to speak with him she smiled

and went on!

“He bid me stand up, and asked what I wanted.

“‘To make a clean breast, your reverence, whenever it’s convanient to

you, night or day. Your time is mine, holy father, and I would not delay

you long, for I’ve kep’ watch over my thoughts and actions; though, for

all that, I’m a _grate_ sinner.’ I spoke as _purty_ as ever I could to

the kind gentleman; well, he asked me if I wanted to be a _sister_, and

I said, No—I’d no inclination for a Nunnery, good or bad; and then, ‘My

good girl,’ he says—quite solid-like, ‘what is it you _do_ want?’—and

something quare came over me, at the changing of his countenance; and I

makes answer, ‘May be your reverence would tell me the time for giving

it: and as I like to be prepared and do the thing _dacent_, would your

reverence tell me the _charge for absolution_ in this town?’

“Now, aunt, I put it to you, could any thing be purtier, or fairer

spoken than that? but his white cheek flushed—he turned on me in anger,

only he could not hould a black look for a minute, and he says—

“‘Do you take me for one of the blind priests of Rome?’

“‘Indeed I did, sir,’ I made answer, ‘_how could I help it_?’ the words

came to my lips quite natural—though my heart was beating with what I

can’t tell, to think of his speaking that way of the holy fathers, and

he treading as hard as ever he could on their heels—and then the look

of pity he threw on me!

“‘Poor creature, poor creature,’ he says. ‘You come, I see, of a

benighted race.’ Well, I was bothered. He walked gently on, and the very

sweep of his coat, from head to tail, had a priestly swing with it; and

then he turned back and looked at me so gently. ‘Have you been often

here?’ he says. Well, I gave him another courtesy, but not so low as the

others.

“‘No, sir,’ I answered, (I did not ‘your reverence’ him that time,) ‘and

I wont trouble you again.’

“‘You do not trouble me,’ he says. ‘I only wish you trod in our paths.’

“‘I’d rather keep to my own, sir; and then I’ll make no mistakes.’ Well,

he was a quiet gentleman, for he smiled at that. And he says again, ‘I

would like to question you a little;’ and he was going on only I stopt

him. ‘Question Father John Joyce, if you plaze, sir; I’ll give you his

address—he always answered for me, and always will, that’s my comfort.’

And the name of my own blessed priest gave me strength. ‘He always

answered for me,’ I repeated, ‘and for my people; he knows what he’s

about, and will scorn to mislead any poor girl—it’s too bad, so it is,

to be situated this way, that I can’t tell the differ between a holy

priest and a protestant minister.’ Well, that settled him, as I thought

it would; and he walks right away, and the pale beautiful lady in black,

that had been leaning against a pillar like a _statute_, takes his arm;

and the stout goold laced old gentleman beckons me on, not crossly. So I

says, ‘Which of the sisters is that?’ And he gave a chuckle of a laugh:

‘That’s his _wife_,’ he says.

“‘Oh! holy Moses,’ says I, ‘look at that now! his wife!’ And I thought

of the candles and crosses and bowings; and all the saints he ran over;

and the little boys in the little albs, and every thing so like the

right—and yet the wrong; ‘his _wife_, and he a PRIEST! let me out of

the place,’ I says, ‘for it’s a sin and a shame; neither one thing nor

another; all a delusion; let me out;’ and then I stopt. ‘Maybe he’s not

a priest at all!’ I inquired, looking at the stout old gentleman, ‘and

if he’s not, what is he?’

“‘I’ll tell you, young woman,’ he answers, and he makes believe to

whisper; and then it came on me like a flash of lightning, that I had

got into neither the one nor the other, but into a _half-way house_!

“‘And have you none of them in Ireland?’ he inquires.

“Now, aunty, dear, that bothered me as much as any thing, how that stout

old gentleman knew I was Irish. I never told him so, and I am as well

dressed as any English maid can be; you would not know me, (though I was

always so nice,) I am so improved; and yet he says, ‘Have you none of

them in Ireland?’ and I answered quite proudly, ‘_No, sir; we’ve the

rale thing there!_’ and that settled _him_. I saw he was ashamed of

himself, and of all the goings on—creeping, creeping toward our holy

church, and yet purtending to talk of its blindness; yet we ought to be

content, for if they’re let to go on as they’re going, it’s asy told

where they’ll stop; _for the time’s coming_, as I heard at Moorfields,

where every thing was to my satisfaction, and I found the _rale_ priest

at last, though not so fine a man as our own dear Father Joyce, the

heavens be his bed! and may he and the holy saints keep sin and

heart-sorrow from you, my darling aunt! you who watched over me with as

much as a mother’s love. It’s the spring-time now, and I often dream of

the Bohreens, and the wild-bird’s song, and then again I feel as if the

whole shadow of the mountain was over me like a shroud; but it isn’t

long that lasts—as the song says—

“‘Hope will brighten days to come,

And memory gild the past.’”

-----

[10] Remember.

[11] Sermon.

[12] Silence.

* * * * *

A MOTHER’S PRAYER.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

I knelt beside a little bed,

The curtains drew away,

And ’mid the soft, white folds beheld

Two rosy sleepers lay;

The one had seen three summers smile,

And lisped her evening prayer;

The other, only one year’s shade

Was on her flaxen hair.

No sense of duties ill performed

Weighed on each heaving breast,

No weariness of work-day care

Disturbed their tranquil rest:

The stars to them, as yet, were in

The reach of baby hand,

Temptation, trial, grief, strange words

They could not understand.

But in the coming years I saw

The turbulence of Life

O’erwhelm this calm of innocence

With melancholy strife.

“From all the foes that lurk without,

From feebleness within,

What sov’reign guard from Heaven,” I asked,

“Will strong beseeching win?”

Then to my soul a vision came

Illuming, cheering all,

Of him who stood with shining front

On Dothan’s ancient wall;[13]

And while his servant’s heart grew faint,

As he beheld with fear

The Syrian host encompassing

The city far and near.

With lofty confidence to his

Sad questionings replied—

“Those armies are outnumbered far

By legions at our side!”

Then up from starry sphere to sphere

Was borne the prophet’s prayer,

“Unfold to his blind sight, oh, God!

Thy glorious hosts and fair.”

The servant’s eyes, bewildered, gazed

On chariots of fire,

On seraphs clad in mails of light,

Resistless in their ire;

On ranks of angels marshaled close,

Where trackless comets run,

On silver shields and rainbow wings

Outspread before the sun.

I saw the Syrian bands ere noon

Led captive through the land,

And longed to grasp the prophet’s robe

Within my feeble hand,

While my whole soul went out in deep

And passionate appeal,

That faith like his might set within

My babes’ pure hearts its seal.

-----

[13] 2 Kings, 6th chapter, 14-18 verses.

* * * * *

THE FIRST AGE.

By H. DIDIMUS.

(_Continued from page 360._)

BOOK THIRD.

SECTION I.

Again ten circles have passed, and thrice ten circles of the earth about

the sun; and the boy who proffered grapes, and the infant folded in a

mother’s warm embrace, have grown to manhood. The young earth, like

young life, passed through many a change in thrice ten years and ten;

and, from its teeming loins sent forth a still increasing multitude to

worship the great First Cause. Upon every hill an altar smoked; and

knowledge, with power to command the laws to which all matter is

subdued, had not wholly passed from among the sons of men. Not yet were

cities built, nor language confounded, nor the land parceled out among

hostile clans, to be worried and made desolate; but the herd and the

chase still supplied the simple wants which luxury has debased. In all

the arts of that rude time; to run; to cleave the briny sea, a strong

swimmer; to throw the spear; to draw the bow, certain of its mark; to

know the signs which divide the day and fix the watches of the night; to

call each tree and flower, beast and bird, by the name which Adam gave;

the youths were well instructed, and poured a flood of joy into hearts

which marked, from year to year, their growth in excellence and in

strength.