GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. August, 1842 No. 2.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Bud and Blossom
De Pontis
Harry Cavendish
The Sisters
Shakspeare
Error
Tousky Wousky
The Johnsons
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table
Poetry and Music
The Maiden’s Sorrow
Song
The Watchers
Elizabeth
To My Sisters
The Last Leap of Uncas
Sonnet
“Hath Not Thy Rose a Canker.”
To a Swallow That Dropped on Deck During a Storm
at Sea
Farewell to a Fashionable Acquaintance
Song
The Student’s Dream of Fame
The Zanoni Gallop
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Bud and the Blossom_,
Engraved by Welch & Walter, from a drawing by W. C. Ross, A.R.A.]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: AUGUST, 1842. No. 2.
* * * * *
THE BUD AND BLOSSOM.
A REASON FOR BACHELORISM.
BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.
“You have told me, Mr. Hunter, at least a dozen times, you would reveal
to me the secret of your bachelorism; now we have no visiters, and no
prospect of any; the quiet patter of the rain has tempted you to cigar
and slippers; and that dim burning of the coal in the grate, the drowsy
fire of June, just enough to dispel the damp, and not enough to rouse
one uneasy nerve, is of itself a pledge for a long, tranquil evening.
And yet—by no means, my dear sir, don’t toss aside your cigar, and as
to sighing, it is out of the question—you are too stout for sentiment,
have a well-to-do air, a sort of tell-tale good-dinner aspect, that
don’t accord well with the sentimental.”
Mr. Hunter drew from his bosom a small miniature, the portraits of two
sisters, the one a girl of seventeen, the other a child of seven or
eight—a bud and a blossom of female loveliness. Even I forgot the
well-to-do air, and found myself unconsciously sympathizing as his
smooth, unmarked face settled into an expression of melancholy. To be
sure it was unnatural, and, just as it was about to reassume its
habitual look of easy content, and the cigar was quietly restored to the
lips, he caught a glimpse of my eyes, and they might have looked
mischievous, for he flung the cigar aside, and declared he would never,
no never, satisfy my curiosity. “Women were all alike heartless,
untruthful, and full of whim. A man never knew where to find them—one
thing to-day, another to-morrow. A book that is all preface—the reader
never gets beyond the first page. No wonder married men are lean and
cadaverous. That same lean Cassius must have been a married man.
Othello’s occupation was done when he became a married man. Witness the
spleen of Iago—it is that of a married man. Macbeth was a married
murderer—it makes me desperate—”
“Yes, desperate to be married. I won’t enter into a defence, because, my
dear sir, I do so much want that same story. I forgive this little
ebullition of bachelor spleen, believing it may be of service to you.
But, Mr. Hunter, here is the secret of all the bachelorism in the
world—Inconstancy—remember the old ballad that saith,
‘Sigh no more, ladye, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever—
One foot on sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.’
“Now do tell me the story of these pretty girls, and I promise not to
annoy you.”
Mr. Hunter was too good-natured to refuse—bachelors _are_ good natured.
“This is a painting from a sketch I made of the two girls, shortly
before we embarked upon that fatal voyage. They were standing as you now
see; Ellen with the same tranquil, gentle demeanor, and the roguish Anne
in this very attitude indeed, but a thousand changeful meanings flitting
over her face.
“I was but twenty-two—full of life, health, and the enthusiasm of early
manhood. Ellen was the realization of my dreams, the one pure and
blessed being forever floating about the fancies of the imagination, the
impersonation of my ideal of womanhood at that time; meek, trusting,
dependent, and loving with a singleness and purity of soul that
sanctified every emotion. I need not say that the most restless dream of
ambition, the most alluring incitements to pleasure, were as nothing to
me when weighed by the wealth of her guileless tones of affection, the
earnest and touching accents of tenderness that fell from her sweet
lips.
“I was about to return to one of our southern cities, there to prosecute
my profession, and Mrs. Lacey, a widow of some fortune, and long an
invalid, determined to arrange her affairs and remove thither also, in
company with her two daughters, my sweet Ellen and Anne.
“The first evening of our voyage Ellen joined me for a promenade on the
deck, and as she confidingly put her arm within mine, I shall never
forget the renewed sense of manhood I experienced at that moment, nor
the exquisite delight arising from a consciousness that a creature of
such grace and tenderness relied on me, and me only, for protection.
Believe me, too, a woman can realize but once, I mean only in the one
individual who engrosses her whole heart, that sweet sense of
dependence, that delight in appealing to the manliness of a being, to
whom alone she is not ashamed to confess her weakness.
“You smile, but we bachelors know more of your woman hearts than you do
yourselves. For instance, you admire strength, because you are
physically inferior. You admire intellect, because however intellectual
you may be, you delight still more in the affections. Beauty is nothing
to you, but self-sustaining manliness is every thing. You admire
nobleness and generosity of sentiment, because they are not your own
characteristics—courage because you are cowards—”
“Oh! Mr. Hunter, Mr. Hunter, I _do_ protest—”
“Yet hear me through. Love with a woman must be commingled with
reverence. She cannot love deeply, fervently; she cannot feel that the
whole of her own exhaustless and beautiful sympathies are welling up to
the light, like a pure fountain gushing up to the sunshine, only as love
has become an idolatry, a holiness, a religion; and wo unto her when
such is its nature! Earth has set its seal against it; the very stars
look down sadly upon it; everywhere an altar arises to the living God,
on which the incense that may not, cannot find a worthy censor here, is
transferred to that of the Eternal. Thus it is that women are more
religious than men—and thus it is that one of the most gifted of their
number has said,
“‘Oh, hope not, ask thou not too much
Of sympathy below—
Few are the hearts, whence one same touch
Bids the sweet waters flow—
Few, and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet—
Such ties would make this world of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.’
“But to my story. We had been out three or four days, with favorable
winds, and the sea and sky had revealed to us each day their varied
aspect of beauty. A change had been threatening through the day, and as
the night approached the dense settling of the vapors seemed to hem us
in, and that strange utterance of the elements, where they call from
point to point, holding as they do undivided empire over the world of
waters, was sublime, not to say appalling. Mrs. Lacey was a timid woman,
and though the thread of life seemed every moment ready to sunder, she
still clung to it with a wild tenacity. Ellen thought not of herself,
and I believe she would have shrunk from witnessing the fearful uproar
about us, as the vessel plunged onward, bravely onward, yet helpless
even in her strength. I was leaning against the companion-way, alive to
an almost painful sense of sublimity, when the light form of Anne rushed
into my arms, and clasping hers about me she buried her face in my
bosom.
“‘Oh! Charles, dear brother Charles, don’t send me back—let me stay
with you and I shall fear nothing.’
“I gathered the sweet child to my bosom, and by a strange instinct
approached the tafferel of the ship. I became aware of a sudden and
terrible tumult—of a blackness even more dense than the thick clouds
about us. Anne clung convulsively to my neck, and I instinctively put
out my hands for support, for there was a fearful crash, a wild reeling
beneath me, and I felt myself lifted from my feet and borne onward in
the thick darkness. I was clinging to the chains of a larger ship that
had crossed our track in that fearful storm, and had passed over her
gallant souls, leaving all to perish, save us two so wondrously
preserved.
“When afflictions come singly upon ourselves we are overpowered with a
sense of desolation; we tread the wine-press alone, and the burden is
often too much for human endurance; but when the calamity is general the
individual is merged in the many, and the selfishness of grief is
forgotten. I scarcely wept for the gentle and beautiful Ellen. I was
conscious of a dull aching weight of bereavement; but then I felt as an
atom, a quivering, vital one indeed, but yet only as an atom in the
great mass of human suffering. The ocean, too, pure and deep, seemed a
fit resting place for the good and lovely.
“When Anne awoke to consciousness, she called frantically for her mother
and sister. Slowly and gently I revealed the sad reality. She stood with
her little hands clasped, her wet hair streaming over her shoulders, and
those deep earnest eyes gazing into mine with an intensity that pained
me to the very heart. When all had become clear to her, she dropped her
hands slowly and the tears gathered into her eyes; then, as by a new
impulse, she drew herself to my bosom, and nestled there, like a dove,
weary and desolate.
“Tender and beautiful sufferer! she gathered her duty only from my eyes,
and assented to the slightest intimation of my will. I was her only
friend on the earth, and her gentle nature, now doubly gentle in her
sorrow, lavished all its tenderness on me.
“Gradually she awoke from the listlessness induced by newness to
suffering, and the wonderful elasticity of her character revealed a
thousand glowing and impassioned traits, that had hitherto escaped my
observation. Frank and courageous, she regarded things as they were in
themselves, and not as they might appear to others. Challenging the
opinions of none, with an intuitive feminine tact, her conclusions were
always what one would desire.
“Nature is, after all, the best teacher—would women but yield
themselves to the promptings of a simple and womanly nature, they would
be far more effective than they at present are. Our sex are worshippers
of truth—you smile—but it is true nevertheless; and might you, dared
you preserve your primitive truthfulness of heart, we should fall down
and worship you.
“But I digress, and am describing Anne rather as she appeared when, like
Spenser’s Amoret, she ‘reclined in the lap of womanhood,’ than while she
sat upon my knee, a tender and simple child.
“I would scarcely assert that Anne was endowed with genius; and yet I
know not—at any rate it was thoroughly a woman’s genius—earnest,
truthful, affectionate, dependent, and yet nobly
self-sustained—impassioned and yet never mistaking or perverting her
emotions—embodying every quality of her sex, and yet elevating all—gay
as a bird, simple as a child; her own bright nature investing all things
with an ideal halo, and yet with a singular clearness of perception and
soundness of judgment correcting all such illusions; a creature of
contradictions, and yet grand in her consistency; a true woman; the
life-study of a man, aye, and were he the wisest of his sex, he might
never exhaust the sweet subject; just not an angel, but all a woman—
‘A creature not too bright nor good,
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.’
“The ship that had wrecked our own good barque was bound on a three
years cruise, and all that time Anne was the only one of her sex on
board. She never seemed to feel the peculiarity of her situation, all
she said or did was feminine and becoming, and her little state room
worthy of Goethe’s Margery, ‘it is not every maiden keeps her room so
chary,’ might have been said of her.
“Never shall I forget the wild delight with which she hailed our
approach to land, nor the care with which she nurtured the plants that
were to relieve the monotony of the voyage—the touching gratitude with
which she received the gift of a bird or animal that was to be her
especial pet. And then to mark her many little expedients to preserve
the order and taste of her poor garments: true, nothing could be more
picturesque than her half oriental costume, the loose trowsers and robe
confined by a girdle that every sailor vied in keeping tasteful. Her
dark, changeful eyes and luxuriant hair might well afford to meet a skin
embrowned by exposure, but rich with the brightest hue of health. The
sailors called her the little queen, from her proud air, and the
officers applied a thousand aristocratic epithets, all indicating a
playful reverence. She was a child in heart, but a woman in manner.
“I need not recount her studies, nor that pretty reserve that made her
apply to me, and to me only, for aid. Alas! I knew not the poison I thus
imbibed. I dreamed not that that sweet child could ever be aught to me
but a sister.
“At length, after an absence of four years, I placed the dear girl under
the protection of my mother. I was an only child, and she received Anne
as the gift of God, a new object of attachment.
“But why dwell upon these things? Why tell how the child ripened into
womanhood—beautiful, most beautiful, not in feature merely, though even
there few of her sex were her equals; but beautiful in thought, in
voice, and motion—that combination of parts, that wondrous result of
grace, even where shades may be defective yet producing an harmonious
whole? Why tell how her confiding, sisterly attachment remained
unshaken, while I learned to love her with all the fervor of manhood? I
felt it was hopeless, and became an exile from home, that I might not
inflict a pang upon her trusting heart. After a long absence, in which
time, which had only softened, I fondly trusted had cured me of my
passion, I returned to find Anne but more lovely and attaching, and now
doubly lost to me. When she pressed her maidenly lips to my cheek, and
again called me brother, I rebelled at the term and madly revealed the
truth.
“Poor Anne! she recoiled from me trembling and in tears. At length she
put her arms about my neck, and with the same gentle accent, the same
confiding tenderness that I remembered upon that fearful night at sea,
she uttered—
“‘Dear, dear brother Charles, am I not your sister? You do love me, you
will not cast me from you, though—though I have dared to love another.’
“I raised her head, and her calm eyes met mine, though her cheek and
bosom were dyed with blushes.
“‘Never, dear Anne, you shall be my sister; God help me to regard you as
such only.’
“I kept my promise. Oh, God! did I not, through years of agony that
tongue might never utter!
“Anne became the wife of another, and never, never, can I enough admire
her refined womanly deportment. Her whole soul, with all its unutterable
wealth of loving, was now his; and yet in my presence all was chastened
to a tranquil content, as if she, truthful as she was, dreaded I should
know her deep fount of feeling, lest it might enhance my own sense of
solitude. ‘Most excellent wretch,’ Othello would have said; every where
I traced the evidences of her benevolence, and every where was she
mindful of my happiness.
“Holy and generous woman! the earnest, the true-hearted—earth was no
place for thee. Enough, she died—died ere a shadow had fallen upon her
bright nature—ere the thought had assumed shape that the creature of
her idolatry had brought a desecrated gift to the altar.”
* * * * *
How many of that class—deemed by the throng so cold and
passionless—have for their solitary life some such cause as that which
made my friend a bachelor! Surely there lives not man or woman who has
not at some period loved; and thousands, like the heroes of fiction,
make but one cast of the heart.
* * * * *
THE MAIDEN’S SORROW.
BY WM. C. BRYANT.
Seven long years has the desert rain
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face;
Seven long years of sorrow and pain
I have thought of thy burial place.
Far on the prairies of the west,
None who loved thee beheld thee die;
They who heaped the earth on thy breast
Turned from the spot without a sigh.
There, I think, on that lonely grave,
Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There, in the summer breezes wave
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.
There the turtles alight, and there
Feeds with the spotted fawn the doe;
There, when the winter woods are bare,
Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.
Soon wilt thou wipe away my tears;
Yesterday the earth was laid
Over my father, full of years,
Him whose steps I have watched and stayed.
All my work is finished here;
Every slumber, that shuts my eye,
Brings the forms of the lost and dear,
Shows me the world of spirits nigh.
This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
This long pain, a sleepless pain—
When the Father my spirit takes
I shall feel it no more again.
* * * * *
SONG.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN, AUTHOR OF “GREYSLAKE,” “THE VIGIL OF FAITH,” ETC.
Why should I murmur lest she may forget me?
Why should I grieve to be by her forgot?
Better, then, wish that she had never met me,
Better, oh, far, she should remember not!
Yet that sad wish—oh, would it not come o’er her
Knew she the heart on which she now relies?
Strong it is only in beating to adore her—
Faint in the moment her lov’d image flies!
Why should I murmur lest she may forget me?
Would I not rather be remembered not
Ere have her grieve that she had ever met me?
_I_ only suffer if I am forgot!
_May 183-._
* * * * *
[Illustration:
_PAINTED BY DRUMMOND., ENGRAVED BY SARTAIN._
_The Watchers_
_Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]
* * * * *
THE WATCHERS.
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.
Sultana! Sultana! thy watch is in vain—
With the sun that is setting in gloom o’er the main
The empire from Selim is passing away:
Ho! up with Mustapha! Death waits on delay!
The morning that broke on the spires of Salles
Saw his ships ride triumphant upon the blue sea;
But the foam of the waves, ere the noon, was made red
With the blood of the wounded, the dying and dead.
They came from the mountains, as sand on the gale
That sweeps o’er Zahara, his throne to assail;
The fierce Otazi and the stern Almohade
Were kind, to the war-bands that follow El Said.
The courser of Selim flies wild o’er the plain,
His flag on the seas shall ne’er flutter again;
The reign of the son of Mohammed is o’er,
And thine eyes shall delight in his presence no more!
Then bind up thy tresses and dash from thine eyes
The tear that betokens distrust of the skies;
Nor deem that around thee one spirit’s so poor
As to bend to a sceptre not swayed by a Moor.
Away with thy watching! the son of thy lord
Of the chiefs of Morocco is monarch and ward!
Give him into their hands! bid them think of his sire,
And his safety, their triumph—shall crown each desire!
* * * * *
DE PONTIS.
A TALE OF RICHELIEU.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.”
CHAPTER I.
Beneath the vast superstructure of the _Palais de Justice_, a pile of
buildings erected under various dynasties, now appropriated to the
sittings of the several justiciary courts, and situate in the most
unwholesome and dirtiest quarter of the city of Paris, is a low, narrow
door—it may be seen on the right-hand of the grand staircase. This is
the entrance to the _Conciergerie du Palais_, a prison famous in the
annals of the French monarchy.
In May, of the year of grace, one thousand six hundred and forty,
waiting with the same intent, yet standing apart from the crowd, was
observable a maiden attended by an aged female domestic. At the hour of
eight in the morning, knelled by the old palace-clock, the portal was
opened to the admission, under heavy and inconvenient restrictions, of
the friends and legal advisers of prisoners. The group of visiters
entered the narrow threshold one by one, the maiden last, after
exchanging an affectionate adieu with her attendant. Such had been her
wonted custom the past week. Little curiosity existed among those who,
like herself, were seeking admission within the dreaded walls, else they
might have distinguished, what the mantle drawn close round the throat
could not wholly conceal—a fair face subdued by recent sorrow. Last was
she ever of the throng, for she shrank from the observation and contact
of those as unhappy as herself. Let us pass the threshold with the
maiden.
The narrow passage opened into a large, sombre vestibule, the walls of
rough masonry, and on which were affixed lamps affording a dim, feeble
light. At the entrance the damsel each day submitted a written order to
a pair of ruffianly jailers, whose unwashed faces and long matted hair
bespoke utter aversion to cleanliness. Holding the document to a lamp
above his head, the light fell on the seamed face, begrimed with dirt,
of the principal jailer. Hands of the same texture, and in the same
state, had in the course of a week so soiled the pass that it appeared
no longer the same document. The maiden who, whilst waiting in the
outer-bureau of the minister of state, had witnessed the carefulness of
the delicate hand, peeping from the lace-ruffle, which traced the
characters on fair royal paper, sealed it with green office-wax, and
bore it with all care in an envelop to Monseigneur, shrouded in his
closet, would not have dared to show the secretary his bespoiled
handiwork, and almost loathed receiving it from the grimed hand of the
cerberus—but it was impolitic to exhibit the disgust she felt, and so,
depositing the paper in its cleaner envelop, she walked through a long
gallery, lighted, like the vestibule, by lamps, the whole day long. The
gallery terminated in the prison-parlor, an apartment where the inmates
held interviews with relatives and friends. And a strange parlor it
appeared even to the maiden, though seen for the seventh time. Of the
same confined width as the gallery, there were interposed on each side
and at the extremity, strong iron rails; and between the bars of what
might be compared to a bird-cage on a gigantic scale, conversed the
prisoners and their visiters. Beyond the inmates’ side of the railing,
was seen another row of iron-bars, and between the interstices of the
latter, a scanty green whose blades of grass, few and far between, might
easily be counted. Flanking this lawn were open-staircases leading to
the apartments of prisoners treated with less rigor than others
condemned to the noisome cells of the old structure.
The maiden paused not on reaching the parlor—she appeared to know, as
it were intuitively, that the party she sought would not be found with
the herd—but proceeding to the extremity of the cage, awaited the slow
movement of the jailer’s assistant, who, seated on a bench, kept a sharp
eye on what was passing around. Rising reluctantly, he unfastened the
lock of the cage-door, admitting the fair visiter. She was about
producing, as usual, the order which afforded her the exclusive
privilege, but he motioned her to proceed.
“_Jour de Dieu!_ Mademoiselle,” said the lazy official, “I am glad such
commands are scarce, or I should have a fine life of it!”
Glad to escape further parley, she tripped forward to the gate which
opened on the green—shook it—but the chain which passed between the
bars of the gate and intertwined with the corresponding shafts of the
iron inclosure, was fastened by a padlock. She turned round, but the
jailer was at hand—and with something between a smile and a contortion
of the muscles, he said, “Mademoiselle’s sentiments, no doubt,
correspond with mine—there is no necessity for this vexation.”
The vexation complained of, was the being obliged to keep the gate
locked and the key on his person, which placed the functionary at the
mercy of every prisoner anxious to retire to the meditation of his cell,
when there might happen to be an equal anxiety on the part of the warder
to doze indolently with twinkling, half-opened eye on the comfortable
bench.
Forcing a smile in reply to the remark, she walked quickly across the
lawn—scant as the hairs on head of octogenarian—flew up one of the
staircases, and entering a narrow passage, was about to knock at the
chamber door, when it opened, and an elderly man, with a martial cast of
countenance, stood before her, smiling.
“As punctual as the clock, my good Marguerite,” said the prisoner in a
tone of gaiety, perhaps not wholly sincere.
Marguerite burst into tears and threw herself into his arms. The old
man—he was her surviving parent—chid the damsel, and leading her to a
chair—there were but two in the little chamber—bade her reassume the
courage becoming the daughter of an old _militaire_.
“Father! my news is not good—there is no hope yet!” exclaimed
Marguerite, drying her tears. She looked in his face, dreading the
impression which the intelligence would produce.
“No hope, Marguerite?” exclaimed her father, “that cannot be—fortune
indeed was never kind, but hope never forsakes me—she is as kind—as
kind as Marguerite. And I see,” (looking at a basket which she brought
under her mantle) “that you have not forgotten to cater for our
breakfast.”
It was the Sieur De Pontis, whose wants were thus carefully administered
to by an affectionate daughter. Of an ancient family in Limousin, and of
moderate estate, he had in early life followed the profession of arms,
serving in succession, and faithfully, the third and fourth Henry, and
the reigning monarch, Louis, thirteenth of that name. With a fondness
for the profession, rather than any ambition or abstract love of glory,
he had arrived at a fair rank in the armies of France, and been
personally noticed by the kings and princes whom he served. It were
reasonable to suppose of such a man, that without objection on the score
of family or descent, of fair estate, character and temper formed to
make friends rather than provoke enmity, and whose career had been
hitherto free from charge of neglect or error in military duties, that
he should have found himself in old age, at least as rich as when he
commenced life. Far from it! and the only way it could be accounted for
by himself or friends, was conveyed in the remark that he was singularly
unfortunate. Farm after farm had melted away, and there remained only
one _terre_ or estate—a barren place—in his native province, Limousin.
Was he prudent or did he indulge in the excesses of a campaigning life?
De Pontis, as we have said, had a fondness for the profession. He was,
moreover, a strict disciplinarian, frugal, saving, and free from the
prevailing vices of gaming and debauchery.
In endeavoring to account for the poverty of the old _militaire_, we are
thus driven back to his own assertion, that he was unfortunate. Such a
condition was perhaps satisfactory to De Pontis himself, who was merely
a philosopher practically—as his biographer, it becomes us to look
beneath the surface, and, if possible, pluck out the heart of the
mystery. Let us in a few words, with a view to elucidation, examine the
military system of the period.
De Pontis at the first start (and the mode was general) sold a portion
of his land to equip himself honorably—in a way befitting name and
lineage, as one anxious to maintain the standing of a French gentleman.
Horses for himself and servants, military baggage and accoutrements,
arms—and a few rouleaus of gold to lose with good grace and temper on
introduction to the general’s table—required a considerable amount of
money. In time of war, princes are needy. He who brought to the camp men
and horses was a good, dutiful subject; but he who could, in addition,
assist a distressed sovereign with a subsidy proportioned to his means,
was a welcome friend. On the other hand, the governments of conquered
towns and fortresses, the plunder of the enemy’s camp and country, and,
above all, the ransom of prisoners taken in battle, were the means by
which the French gentleman recruited his finances, and indemnified
himself for the charges of military outlay.
A fair share of these windfalls had been the lot of De Pontis, and his
excellent discipline and perfect knowledge of military tactics had
extorted, on several occasions, from the French monarchs, presents of
rare value. Still every year saw him grow poorer. And how happened it?
Returning once from a campaign in Germany, laden with gold, and a dozen
fine horses, the spoil of the Austrian archduke’s stud, he was swindled
out of the whole between Strasburg and Paris, by a youngster travelling
the same route in grand style, calling himself Baron De Champoleon—but
who was really only son of a poor minister of Nismes. Already an adept
in roguery, he was on the road to Paris, intent on villanous practices,
when he fell in with the unfortunate De Pontis.
Our _militaire_ bore the loss philosophically, only exclaiming, “If he
had but left me my favorite hack, _Millefleurs_, I should have been
content!”
Twice he had been taken prisoner, losing horses and personal property,
and obliged to instruct relatives at home to sell more paternal acres to
pay ransom—the alternative being to submit to a dreary _parole_
confinement in a remote town in Germany, and await the dubious and
uncertain chance of an exchange of prisoners. On the last occasion that
this calamity occurred, the distress was greatly aggravated by the
dishonesty of the party through whom the funds raised for his ransom
were conveyed—making necessary a second sale of land.
But without adding to the catalogue of untoward events, let it suffice
to say, that circumstances which to most people, and on most occasions,
proved instances of good fortune, were to the old soldier harbingers of
ill-luck and misfortune.
“My poor De Pontis never prospers!” exclaimed the good-natured Louis one
day, on hearing that the veteran had lost a diamond-ring, a late royal
gift.
His wife dead, there remained only for the solace of old age, his fair
daughter, Marguerite. Deeply as she felt her father’s distresses, fondly
as she endeavored to hide her grief, and contribute by every art to his
comfort, it proved that the damsel herself oftener stood in need of
consolation than the veteran sufferer. He possessed such a fund of
resignation, flow of strong animal spirits, and a heart void of high
ambitious views, aiming only at duty and loyalty, that the shafts of
misfortune lost much of their power.
Not so with Marguerite; though her father bore up manfully against
adversity, yet she had witnessed one parent droop, pine and fall beneath
the successive strokes of ill fortune, and despondency and gloom
gathered around her young heart.
Even now, as she arranged the little breakfast service, stepping to and
fro with an innate grace which quite dispelled the idea of the dread
walls which enclosed her, it was evident how much her repulse of
yesterday, of which she had barely hinted to her father, weighed on her
spirits. Marguerite was now nineteen. The promise of youthful beauty had
not disappointed expectation; each year of budding loveliness added to
her charms; and the little sylph had expanded almost to womanhood. The
roses smiled but languidly on her cheek; but the pale, delicate
complexion, regular features, and jetty-black eyes with long fringes—so
piquant in the drooping glance of a devotee—atoned for the departed
bloom. But the devotee with eyes “loving the ground” is oft but an
artifice of coquetry and affectation—whilst the timid, reserved glance
of Marguerite breathed a spiritual essence. She had been early touched
with the wand of sorrow, and the chastened spirits lent an impress of
melancholy grace to her looks, her actions, even her walk. Strange
contrast to the scarcely repining, ever sanguine, old soldier; and there
were times, when the daughter, dwelling perhaps on the memory of her
broken-hearted mother, looked up reproachfully in the calm face of the
veteran.
But why was De Pontis mewed so closely in the _Conciergerie du
Palais_—he, the favorite of three successive monarchs, and a master
whom he had served faithfully, still reigning? That same master’s royal
munificence was the unintentional cause! Let us, while Mademoiselle and
her father are breakfasting, make the paradox clear.
It was the custom in France, when an alien died—and there were no
immediate heirs to pray the throne’s mercy for permission—not always
granted—to take possession of the effects—that the estate, after
satisfaction to the just creditors of the deceased, became the property
of his most Christian Majesty. The law, or rather usage, was called _le
droit d’aubaine_. The king seldom availed of these royal waifs for the
advantage of his private exchequer or privy purse, but usually made them
over, in form of donation, to favorites. Courtiers were therefore on the
lookout, and there often ensued a competition or race between parties
anxious to gain prior audience of his majesty, and extort the royal
word, ere more powerful rivals were apprized of the windfall.
It so happened that Monsieur De Pontis and his daughter lodged in the
house of a rich upholsterer, a native of Spain. The man suddenly dying,
and being without wife or children, our _militaire_ had no scruple—as
it would beggar no orphans—of proceeding direct to the Tuileries, and
claiming audience of his master.
No man had less control over his own actions, or power over his own
proscribed rights and privileges, than Louis. He was a well-intentioned,
weak man, but an iron-handed, iron-hearted minister of state, the
Cardinal Richelieu, was so effectually dominant, that even Anne, consort
of royalty, could not select or dismiss a maid of honor without his
permission.
De Pontis, a favorite with Louis, was not patronized by the minister.
His petition was favorably received—but then there was the dreaded
cardinal! If he should wish to bestow _le droit_ elsewhere, he would
have but little scruple in overruling the veteran’s pretensions. Majesty
itself—in this matter on a par with the humblest follower of the
court—was obliged to manœuvre to gain its ends when the Cardinal Duke
De Richelieu was in question.
Louis had arrived at that stage of subjection to the master-intellect
which governed him, that it was useless longer attempting concealment of
the fact. He knew and confessed the infirmity—often seeking to make
league against the tyrant—and ever ready to jest on his weakness. He
resolved to serve De Pontis, and knew no other way of making the gift
sure and irrevocable than executing on the spot, without aid of
secretary, a warrant signed and sealed in due form.
“There, Monsieur!” exclaimed Louis, handing the document, “the cardinal
cannot undo that without making ourself less than a gentleman; and we
will hold to our pledged faith as a Bourbon.”
Kissing the royal hand, the old soldier departed, sighing at the
condition to which he saw the son of the illustrious and high-spirited
Henry the Fourth reduced.
With the royal warrant for authority, he took possession of the
extensive ware-rooms of the deceased, and selecting a bed with hangings,
an article of rare cost designed for a palace, curtains of silk and
coverlet of velvet embroidered, masses of rich ostrich plumes waving on
the summit of each of the four exquisitely carved columns, he sent it to
the Tuileries a present to the Queen Anne.
The court was in a ferment, and more than one favorite of Richelieu flew
off to Ruel to acquaint his eminence with the presumption of De Pontis
in asking for such a wealthy _droit d’aubaine_. To hear them address the
great patron, it might be supposed that each dependent had been deprived
of promised right, and that the cardinal, by the act of his majesty, had
been defrauded of the undoubted patronage of office.
A mandate from Richelieu came to De Pontis, prohibiting further exercise
of ownership over the property, till the circumstances of the deceased
had been made the subject of inquiry. What should the old man do? If he
resisted the order, the Bastille stared him in the face, despite the
sovereign’s protection. He repaired to the Tuileries, and, knowing the
situation of affairs, contrived to gain the ear of majesty without its
being known to whom the monarch gave audience. But royalty was at a loss
how to advise—he must temporize, go visit the cardinal, plead his
services to the State, and endeavor to mollify his eminence—meanwhile
relying on the pledged Bourbon word.
“Monsieur perceives,” said Louis, with a faint smile, “that our minister
expresses, ‘_till the circumstances of the deceased had been made the
subject of inquiry_.’ He does not dispute our prerogative.”
De Pontis returned home, took horse and rode to Ruel, a country-seat of
the cardinal, a few miles from Paris, and where he spent much time. His
eminence is descried walking on a verdant, close-shaven lawn, alone and
buried in meditation; friends and train have apparently received a hint
to leave the great man to himself; they are scattered over the park and
gardens.
The veteran would rather have marched a battalion of choice infantry
against a line of artillery, than attack the solitary and stately
priest. He ventured, nevertheless, into the presence, cap in hand and
bowing lowly.
“Ah! my friend, Monsieur de Pontis,” said the cardinal, glancing one
moment at the old soldier and continuing his walk.
Our _militaire_ walked by his side, or rather a little to the rearward,
cap still in hand, and asking permission to plead his suit. The cardinal
made a sign that he should replace his cap, which De Pontis construing
into a hint that he had liberty of speech, commenced a peroration of
services, alluding to the misfortunes of his career, the necessity of
making provision for a daughter, and the gracious wishes of his royal
master.
Still, as he talked, the minister paced the turf, inclining his head
occasionally without once looking the veteran in the face. De Pontis’
speech at length came to an end, and he awaited the illustrious man’s
reply.
“_Serviteur très-humble!_” said the cardinal, with a low bow, intended
for dismissal. The habits and peculiarities of his eminence were well
known, and his auditor was aware that these were the words used when it
was intended to negative the request of a petitioner; but De Pontis had
a more than ordinary interest at stake, and he faltered out, “If
Monseigneur would listen—”
“_Serviteur très-humble!_” thundered the haughty cardinal, striding with
a quicker pace over the green-sward.
The unlucky De Pontis started as though he had received a musket shot.
He turned from his eminence and rode back to Paris, fancying in each
echo of his horse’s hoofs that he heard the words “_Serviteur
très-humble!”_ of the cardinal duke.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
THE EXILE’S FAREWELL.
BY W. H. RACEY.
My own, my native land, my happy home,
Where lie inurned the ashes of my sires,
Mournfully from your sacred scenes I roam,
While, in my heart, the light of joy expires!
Far from your broad lakes, and your sunlit bays,
Your forests vast and boundless flowery plains,
Stern fate commands, and scarce its power delays
Till this rude harp has closed its dying strains.
The wanderer leaves: but if perchance he sees,
When far away, a fairer face or form,
Or if at eve, far floating o’er the breeze,
Some swelling melody is sweetly borne,
The sight will bring the loved and distant near,
And he will deem the soil he treads his own;
The music falling on his wearied ear
Will waken thoughts of home in every tone.
The wanderer leaves: but if a closing day
Departs with brighter glories in the west,
If e’en a cloud in evening shades away,
Stainèd with brighter hues than all the rest,
Then will he pause, where’er his steps may be,
Oh father-land! and, as he heaves a sigh,
Dream that, far o’er a thousand leagues of sea,
He treads your soil, he views your twilight die.
* * * * *
ELIZABETH.
BY J. T. S. SULLIVAN.
Oh, were I a bird that could sing all the day,
I would fly to her bower to carol my lay!
Or were I a breath of the soft scented air,
I would waft all my sweets to her bower so fair!
Or were I a thought could awaken a smile,
I would rest on her lip all her woes to beguile;
I would make my bright throne in her sorrowing heart,
And each impulse that grew should its pleasure impart!
Oh, were I a strain of some melody sweet,
I would steal to her chamber her slumbers to greet!
Or were I a dream could recall to her mind
The pleasures and joys she has long left behind,
I would hover around in the stillness of night,
And her visions of sleep should be joyously bright!
I would kiss from her cheek ev’ry envious tear,
And guard her fond bosom from sorrow and fear!
* * * * *
HARRY CAVENDISH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” THE “REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
THE LEE SHORE.
“All hands ahoy!” rang through the ship, as the shrill whistle of the
boatswain awoke me from a pleasant dream. I started, hastily threw on my
monkey-jacket, and in a minute was on deck.
The winter sun had set clear, without a cloud to fleck the heavens, and
when I went below at midnight, leaving the starboard watch in possession
of the deck, the cold, bright stars were out, twinkling in the frosty
sky; while a capful of wind was sending us merrily along. Six bells had
just struck as I sprang up the gangway, and the night was still clear
above, but, casting my eye hurriedly around, I saw a bank of mist, close
on the starboard bow, driving rapidly for us, and covering sea and sky
in that quarter, in a shadowy veil. The men were already at their posts,
and as my watch came tumbling on deck each member of it sprang to aid
his messmates, so that in less time than I have taken to describe it, we
had got the light sails in, had kept away the schooner a few points, and
were ready to let every thing go by the run, if necessary, as soon as
the squall struck us. Nor did we wait long for the unwelcome visiter.
Scarcely had our craft been made snug before the squall burst on us in a
whirlwind of snow, hail, rain, and wind, against whose fury it was, for
the moment, impossible to stand. As the gale struck the schooner, she
heeled over until her decks were fearfully inclined, while the tall
masts bent like rushes in the tempest, and the spars strained and
cracked as if they were unequal to the torture. For a moment I thought
that all was over, and clutching a rope I made ready to spring to
windward as soon as she should capsize; but after a second of breathless
uncertainty she slightly recovered herself, and dashed forward as if she
had been shot like an arrow from the bow, her whole forward part buried
in the foam that boiled around her bows, and flew high up the mast in
showers. All this time the wind was shrieking through the hamper with an
intonation like that of a tortured fiend; while the hail and snow
driving horizontally against the men fairly pinned them to their
stations. The ropes soon became coated with ice; while the cold grew
intense, so that it was with difficulty we could get the fore and main
sails reefed. At length, however, we stripped her to the fight, when she
rose until nearly level, bearing gallantly up against the gale.
Meantime, the snow fell thick and fast, covering the decks with its
white carpeting, and dressing the shrouds, booms, and the weather side
of the masts in the garments of the grave.
“Whew! what a flurry! Old Davy himself has laid hold of the bellows
to-night,” said the captain of the starboard watch, stooping before the
gale and turning his back to windward; “why it blows as if it would
whiff our little craft away, like a feather, before it. By the gods, but
that bucket full of hail that has just rattled on my shoulders was
enough to have felled an ox! It must be as black as the ace of spades to
windward—hark! how the infernal sleet sings in the rigging.”
“How long was the squall coming up?” said I, as soon as the roar of the
elements suffered me to speak, for it was only in the occasional pauses
in the gale, that I could hope to be heard.
“It came up like a pet in a woman—one moment her face is all smiles,
the next black as a thunder cloud. When five bells struck the sky was as
clear as a kitten’s eye, and now you can’t see a fathom over the
starboard bow; while we are driving along here like a chip in a
mill-race, or a land-bird caught by a nor’wester. Whistle,
whistle—howl, howl, why it blows as if the devil himself was working
the bellows up to windward.”
I could not help smiling at my messmate’s energy, and as he closed I
looked thoughtlessly over the starboard quarter, when a wild dash of
sleet right in my face, stinging as if ten thousand nettles had struck
me, forced me to turn my back on the storm more rapidly than I had faced
it.
“It is as sharp as a razor,” I ejaculated, when I recovered my breath,
“and cuts to the bone. But let me see, Mr. Merrivale,” said I,
approaching the binnacle, “this squall must be from the northeast. Aye!
not a point either way. It’s a lucky thing we have a good offing; I
wouldn’t be on the coast now for a year’s pay.”
“It would be an ugly berth,” said Merrivale, shaking the sleet from his
hair, “I’ve no notion of being jammed up like a rat in a corner, with a
lee-shore on one side, and a wind blowing great guns on the other, while
one’s only chance is to hug the gale under a crowd of canvass that
threatens to snap your masts off as I could snap a pipe-stem. No! thank
God, we’re far at sea!”
The words had scarcely left his mouth, and I was as yet unable to
answer, when a strange, booming sound, over the larboard bow, smote on
my ear, thrilling through every nerve; while, at the same instant, the
look-out shouted, in sharp, quick tones,
“Breakers ahead!”
For an instant there was an ominous silence, while even the tempest
seemed to die momently away. No one who has not heard that fearful cry
on a lee shore, when surrounded by darkness, can have any notion of our
feelings. Each man held his breath, and turned his ear anxiously to
leeward. In that awful second what varied emotions rushed through our
minds, as we heard, rising distinctly over the partial lull of the
tempest, the hoarse roar of the surf, apparently close under our lee.
“Port—a-port—jam her close to the wind,” almost shrieked Merrivale,
the energy of his character, in the moment of peril, divesting him of
his usual prolixity.
“Port it is,” answered the man at the helm, as the sheets came rattling
in and the schooner flew to windward, shivering the opposing wave to
atoms, and sending the foam crackling in showers over the forecastle. As
she answered to her helm, we caught sight, through the shadowy tempest,
of the white breakers boiling under our lee; and an ejaculation of
heartfelt gratitude broke involuntarily from my lips when, a moment
after, I saw the ghastly line of foam glancing astern.
“Thank God!” echoed Merrivale; “another instant of delay and we should
have struck. But how could we have made such a mistake in our reckoning?
Where are we?”
“We are off the Jersey coast, somewhere between Egg Harbor and
Barnegat,” I answered, “but I thought we were at least twenty leagues at
sea. How gallantly the old craft staggers to windward—she will yet
weather the danger.”
The exertions of the schooner were indeed noble. With her nose close
down to the tempest, and her masts bending before the fierce hurricane
that whistled along her canvass, she threshed her way to windward, now
doggedly climbing up an opposing billowy and now thumping through the
head sea, scattering the foam on either side her path, her timbers
quivering and groaning, in the desperate encounter. One moment the
parted wave whizzed along the side, glittering with spectral brilliancy;
and again, the wild spray went hissing by in the air, drenching the
decks with water. Now, a huge billow striking on her bows, with the
force of a dozen forge hammers, staggered her momently in her course;
and now, shaking the water proudly from her, she addressed herself again
to her task and struggled up the wave. Thus battling against sea, storm,
and hurricane, she held on her way, like a strong man fighting through a
host.