CHAPTER IX.

_The Arrow and the Raker._

The immense injury done to the English service by American privateers,

no less than the splendid victories obtained by our regular navy, had

at length awakened in the mind of our adversaries a proper respect for

American prowess. They had learned that the stars and stripes shone

upon a banner that was seldom conquered, and never disgraced. At this

period of the war their attention was more particularly directed to

the privateers, who seemed to be covering the sea. Almost every

merchantman that sailed from an English port became a prize to the

daring and active foe. The commerce of England was severely crippled,

and anxious to punish an enemy who had so seriously injured the

service, several frigates were fitted out to cruise especially against

the American privateers; these were chosen with particular reference

to their speed, and one which was the admiration of every sailor in

the service, called the Arrow, had spoken the merchantman, just as it

was entering the channel, a few days after its capture by the Raker.

No definite information as to the present position of the privateer

could be obtained from the merchantman, but having learned her

bearings at the time she was lost sight of, the Arrow bent her course

in the same direction, confident that if he could once come in sight

of her he would find little difficulty in overhauling her.

It was a black, murky, windy day, with frequent gusts of rain, and a

thick fog circumscribed the horizon, narrowing the view to a few miles

in each direction. Toward evening the fog rose like a gathered cloud

to westward, leaving that part of the horizon cloudless, and shedding

down a bright light upon the waters. Had the look-out on the Arrow

been on the alert he might have seen, directly under this clear sky,

the topsails of the American privateer, but the honest sailor had just

spliced the main-brace, and having deposited a huge quid of tobacco in

his cheek, was lying over the crosstrees, in a state as completely

_abandon_ as a fop upon a couch in his dressing-room.

All on the Raker, however, were on the broad look out, they knew they

were nearing the shores of England, and liable at any time to come

within sight of an enemy's cruiser as well as merchantman.

Lieut. Morris had for some time been anxiously scanning the horizon

with his glass, and had caught sight of the frigate's topsails almost

as soon as the fog lifted. As Captain Greene's wounds still in a

great measure disabled him, the lieutenant still kept the command of

the privateer. Unable to determine whether he had been seen by the

frigate or not, he at once gave orders to bear off before the wind,

hoping that even if such were the case, his little brig would prove

superior in speed to the frigate.

As his brig wore off, with her white sails glittering in the flood of

light, the worthy look-out on the Arrow had just raised his head to

eject a quantity of the juice of the weed. His eyes caught sight of

the sails as they rose and fell like the glancing wings of a bird;

rubbing his eyes, he took another careful look, and then cried "sail

in sight." The officer of the deck, as soon as he had got the bearings

from the sailor, could plainly see her himself, and after swearing

slightly at the look-out for not seeing her sooner, gave orders that

all sail should be set in pursuit. As the fog rapidly lifted from the

ocean, each vessel was able to determine the character of the other,

and when the sun went down, leaving a cloudless sky, it was evident

that the Arrow had gained on the privateer. Lieutenant Morris felt

that his brig must be overhauled unless the wind should slacken. The

breeze was now so powerful that, while it bore the frigate onward at

its best speed, it prevented the privateer from making its usual way.

Before a light breeze, Lieutenant Morris felt quite confident that he

could sail away from any frigate in his majesty's service. He

therefore calmly ordered every rag to be set that he thought the

little brig would bear, and kept steadily on, trusting the wind would

die away to a light breeze after the middle watch. It did indeed die

away almost to a calm, and when the day broke, although the Raker had

put a considerable distance between herself and the frigate, yet she

lay in plain sight of her, the sails of both vessels flapping idly in

the still air.

Morris knew that he must prepare for an attack from the frigate's

boats, and consequently every gun on board was loaded with grape and

canister, and carefully pointed; the captain of each gun receiving

orders to be sure his first fire should not be lost, for that is

always the most effective, and indeed often wins the battle, as many

sea-fights will attest. Every sail was kept set, as this was a

conflict in which it would be no disgrace for the privateer to run if

favored by the wind.

The frigate had by this time lowered three boats, which were speedily

filled by her brave seamen, and impelled by vigorous oarsmen toward

the privateer. As it would occupy them nearly two hours to make the

passage between the two vessels, the crew of the Raker paid no

immediate attention to their progress, but quietly partook of their

breakfast, and then girded themselves with their boarding cutlases,

and made ready to defend to the death the little bark they all loved

so well.

Lieutenant Morris watched with some anxiety for the moment to give

orders to fire. If he could cripple and sink two of the boats, he felt

confident that he could beat off all who would then attempt to board,

as that would reduce the number of his foe nearly to his own number.

The boats had now approached within half a mile of the privateer,

evidently making vigorous efforts each to take the lead. All was

silent on board the Raker, not the silence of fear, but of suspense.

They looked with a feeling somewhat akin to pity upon the gallant

seamen, many of whom were hurrying to death. Lieutenant Morris himself

stood by the long gun, holding the match in his hand, and frequently

taking aim over its long breech--another moment and the fatal volley

would be sped, but even as he was about to apply the match, his quick

eye saw the sails filling with the breeze, and with the true

magnanimity of a generous heart he stayed his hand.

The light bark fell off gracefully before the wind, and in the hearing

of the volley of curses, accompanied by a few musket-shots, from the

boats, the graceful brig shot away from them, leaving them far in the

wake. It was but a cap-full of wind, however, and again the privateer

was motionless upon the calm waters. Alas for many a brave English

heart! With a loud cheer from their crews the boats again came

sweeping on.

"Boat ahoy!" shouted Morris, "'bout ship or I'll blow you out of

water."

He was answered by a musket-shot, which struck his right arm lifeless

to his side, compelling him to drop the match. Another moment and the

foremost boat would be inside the range of the gun, but with a cool

courage which belongs only to the truly brave, Lieutenant Morris

picked up the match with his left hand, and though his wounded arm

pained him excessively, without hurry or confusion he waited the

dreadful instant when the gun would cover the boat--then the heavy gun

sent forth its smoke and deadly missiles--as the dense cloud lifted

from around the brig, he saw how terrible had been its effect; the

foremost boat was cut in pieces, and of its gallant crew only here and

there was one able to struggle with the waves; most had sunk under the

deadly volley. A few were picked up by the hindmost boat, the second

having pressed on with the valor characteristic of English seamen;

they were met, however, by a heavy fire from the starboard guns, which

had been depressed so as to cover a particular range, and the second

boat like the first was shattered to pieces. The third busied itself

in picking up the crew, and then lay on its oars, as if aware of the

folly of attempting to board under such a terrible fire. It is seldom

indeed that a boat attack is successful against a well armed and

expecting vessel, and the attempt on the part of the Arrow may justly

be considered rash, and doubtless arose from a hope that fortune would

favor the assault, rather than from a confidence in its success.

Lieutenant Morris had no desire to shed more blood, and he therefore,

after giving orders to load the long gun, kept his position by it,

with his match ready, but forbore to hail the boat, well aware that

any thing like a taunt from him would bring the gallant crew forward

even to certain death, and confident that a few moments reflection

would convince the officer of the boat that, if he should make the

assault, he would more likely be a candidate for immortality than for

promotion.

To such a conclusion did that worthy officer arrive, and having picked

up all his wounded companions, his boat returned to the Arrow, the

slow, heavy strokes of the oars showing how different were the

feelings of those that held them, from the excited valor with which

they pulled toward the privateer but a short hour before.

For the remainder of the day the two vessels held their relative

positions, but the heavy clouds gathering over the western sky

portended a storm of wind during the night, and the crew of the Raker

felt no little anxiety, as they were well aware that the frigate being

much the heaviest, would have every advantage over them in the chase.

But there was but one way, and that was to run for it, not yielding

till the last moment--for a sailor never yet sailed under the stripes

and stars, that would not rather see his flag shot down by an enemy's

ball, than strike it with his own hands.

The wind increased by the hour of sunset to so strong a blow, that it

seemed impossible that the little privateer should escape the

frigate--and it was not to be doubted that the two vessels would be

alongside each other before morning; yet the Raker was saved, and by

American hands.

On board the Arrow were several native-born American seamen, who had

been pressed into the English service, and compelled to serve even

against their own country. Three of these sailors were among the

middle watch on board the frigate. They had watched the whole conduct

of the Raker with a patriotic pride, and were in no slight degree

vexed and disappointed when they saw that the frigate must in all

probability overtake the little brig.

These three sailors were together in the bow of the frigate, the rest

of the watch being on the look-out, or pacing up and down between

decks.

"I say, Bill," says one, "isn't it too d--d bad that the little craft

has got to be overhauled after all. She's given this cursed frigate a

good run for it, anyhow."

"Yes she has; the old man has looked black all day, and sworn a little

I guess; here he's kept all ready for a fight for the last two

days--arm-chests on deck--cutlas-racks at the capstan and

for'ard--decks sanded down--and haint got within a long shot yet. God

bless the little brig, and the flag she sails under--the stars and

stripes forever!"

"Yes, the stars and stripes--'tis just the handsomest flag that

floats."

"By Heaven, and that's the truth! but avast now, Bill, can't we do any

thing for the little craft ahead?"

"D--d if I see how, Hal; we can't shorten sail, for we should be seen;

and we can't fire bow-chasers, for we should be heard--and those are

all the ways I know on to deaden a vessel's speed."

"Bill, I've got my grapples hold on an idear. I recollect once, when I

was a fishing in Lake Winnepisoge, in the old Granite State, where we

used to anchor with a heavy stone, made fast to a rope, and sometimes

we used to row with the stone hanging over the side, not hauled up."

"Well, Hal, what's all this long yarn about? If you call it an idear,

it strikes me it's a d--d simple one."

"Why the yarn aint much, I think myself; and I shouldn't tell it on

the forecastle in a quiet night, no how; but it's the principle of the

thing, Bill--that's what's the idear."

"Well, shove ahead--they allers told me on shore, before I came to

sea, that I hadn't got no principle--but that's no sign you haint."

"Now, boys, if we can only get some dead weight over the frigate's

side, it will lessen her way you see, and the wind may lull enough

before morning to give the little craft a chance to haul off."

"That's a fact, Hal; blast my eyes but they spoiled a good lawyer

sending you to sea. But what can we make a hold-back of? And there's

them cursed Britishers abaft, sitting on all the rope on deck."

"That's a poser!--no, I have it. Can't we drop these anchors?--that

would do it."

"They'll make a confounded noise running through the hawse-holes; but

let's try it, it's hard work for three men. Belay it round that pin,

Hal! Better take two turns, 'cause if any body comes toward us, one

more will hold it tight. I believe we shall do it."

"Do it--of course we will! aint we working for our country?"

The whistling of the wind through the shrouds, and the rushing of the

waters over the deck, aided the seamen much in their noble

achievement, and in a short time both anchors were run out to their

full length. Fortunately for them, the watch was changed before it

became apparent that the frigate was losing ground, and upon the after

investigation of the matter, no suspicion fell upon their watch, and

the perpetrators of the deed were never detected.

As any seaman knows, so heavy a dead weight on the bow of a vessel

would materially lessen its speed; and by the morning's sun the

privateer's topsails were but barely visible in the distance.

The commander of the Arrow was furious in his anger, and threatened to

flog the whole of the last watch, as before they took charge of the

deck, the frigate had neared the privateer so much as to give

assurance of taking her; but, after a rigid examination, no one was

punished, and all the captain could do was to keep a close eye on all

his crew, trusting to discover the traitors at some future time.

As for the gallant Americans, they had the proud consciousness that

though chained to an enemy's service, they had been able to serve

their own country, perhaps more effectually than if fighting under her

banner.

The wind slackened, and long before night the Raker was out of sight.

She was not, however, to be frightened off her cruising ground by a

narrow escape, and did not set sail for the States until she had a

full cargo; and, being favored by fortune, reached her port in

Chesapeake Bay, with wealth aboard for all hands, followed by three

English merchantmen--the English ensign at their peaks, with the

stars and stripes streaming over them.

The Raker had nearly prepared for another cruise, when she was stayed

by rumors of peace being declared between the two nations; the report

was soon confirmed, and the gallant crew of the Raker shook hands

together over the news. They were glad, for the sake of their country,

that the war was over, yet all had acquired a love for their wild and

exciting life as privateersmen; and there was much that partook of a

mournful nature in their feelings, as they thought that their number

must be divided forever. Some of the crew entered the regular American

Navy, some entered the merchant service; and a few, having sufficient

wealth to purchase farms, made the attempt to be happy ashore, but

after a short time declared it a lubberly sort of a life, and returned

once more to "do business upon the waters."

Lieutenant Morris purchased the Raker, and made one more cruise in

her--not for war, nor for gold, but for his lady-love. She who had

risen like a Naiad from the wave to be his bride. A year had passed

since he had seen her, and though he doubted not her truth, it was

with an anxious heart that he drew near the shores of England. He

feared lest some hand might yet dash the cup of happiness from his

lips--perhaps the unseen hand of death.

Mr. Williams's name was once more good on 'change; and his fair

daughter had once more seen crowds of suitors thronging their doors,

among them were the titled and the proud, who gladly laid at her feet

their titles and their pride--but still her heart beat true to the

young sailor, though her father now and then ventured to hint that she

had better accept the hand of Lord Augustus this, or Sir George

Frederick that, remarking that likely enough her lover had got killed

before the close of the war; and that if she did not be careful, she

might never get a husband of any kind. At these remarks, half

expostulatory and half petulant, from her worthy father, Julia would

smile very quietly, telling him she was sure her young sailor was

alive, and would soon be at her feet.

She was right in her prescience. The gallant sailor before another

week had passed, after her father's expostulations, had cast anchor in

the Thames--and without difficulty found the residence of Mr.

Williams. Julia presented him to her visiters with pride, for, in the

fashionable dress of the day, his appearance was more brilliant and

graceful than any one of her titled suitors. These soon discovered how

matters stood between the young American and the fair Julia. Some were

wise enough to retreat from the field with good grace; but vigorous

attempts were made to drive the lieutenant from the course by two or

three others, who could illy bear their disappointment; but the firm

and haughty bearing of Morris had its due effect upon them, and one by

one they dropped away, until the old merchant, who had not at first

received the lieutenant with much satisfaction, acknowledged to his

daughter that she had better marry him if she wanted any body, as he

was the only one left. To this Julia assented readily, and their

hands were joined as their hearts had long been; and the blessing of

the old merchant pronounced upon them, as he saw the happiness which

beamed from his daughter's eyes, as she gazed up from the altar that

had heard her willing vows.

Long years have since then joined the irrevocable past. Mr. Williams

lived several years, to witness the happiness of his child, but could

never be persuaded to visit America. He had no doubt, he said, but

that it was a very fine country, and he would go and see it, if it

wasn't for crossing the sea, and that he wouldn't do for nobody. After

he had been gathered to the dead, his children resided entirely on

the family estate of the Morris's, in New Jersey, where, at this day,

they still reside, surrounded by children with the lofty port of their

father, and the flashing eye of their mother. The tale of the pirate's

death, and the fate of poor Florette, is a tale that never wearies

their fire-side circle, and there, tears are still shed for the dark

scourge of the ocean, and his devoted mistress; and very often is an

old and gray-headed man, in whom the reader would hardly recognize our

old friend, John, asked to recount his perilous achievements on the

pirate's deck, and his wonderful escape, obtained by his own right

arm.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY ANNE C. LYNCH.

There are countless fields, the green earth o'er,

Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore;

Where hostile ranks, in their grim array,

With the battle's smoke have obscured the day;

Where hate was stamped on each rigid face,

As foe met foe in the death embrace;

Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose

Till the heart of the listener with horror froze,

And the wide expanse of crimsoned plain

Was piled with heaps of uncounted slain--

But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife,

Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life.

The hero that wars on the tented field,

With his shining sword and his burnished shield,

Goes not alone with his faithful brand:--

Friends and comrades around him stand,

The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh

To join in the shock of the coming fray;

And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe,

Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow,

And he bears his part in that conflict dire

With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire.

What though he fall? At the battle's close,

In the flush of the victory won, he goes

With martial music--and waving plume--

From a field of fame--to a laureled tomb!

But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life

Must stand alone in the fearful strife;

Alone in his weakness or strength must go,

Hero or coward, to meet the foe:

He may not fly; on that fated field

He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield.

Warrior--who com'st to this battle now,

With a careless step and a thoughtless brow,

As if the day were already won--

Pause, and gird all thy armor on!

Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will--

An ardent soul that no fear can chill--

Thy shield of faith hast thou tried and proved--

Canst thou say to the mountain "be thou moved"--

In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright--

Is thy banner inscribed--"For God and the Right"--

In the might of prayer dost thou wrestle and plead?

Never had warrior greater need!

Unseen foes in thy pathway hide,

Thou art encompassed on every side.

There Pleasure waits with her siren train,

Her poisen flowers and her hidden chain;

Flattery courts with her hollow smiles,

Passion with silvery tone beguiles,

Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave;

Trust not too deeply--they may deceive!

Hope with her Dead Sea fruits is there,

Sin is spreading her gilded snare,

Disease with a ruthless hand would smite,

And Care spread o'er thee her withering blight.

Hate and Envy, with visage black,

And the serpent Slander, are on thy track;

Falsehood and Guilt, Remorse and Pride,

Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide;

Haggard Want, in her demon joy,

Waits to degrade thee and then destroy;

And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near

To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest dear.

In war with these phantoms that gird thee round

No limbs dissevered may strew the ground;

No blood may flow, and no mortal ear

The groans of the wounded heart may hear,

As it struggles and writhes in their dread control,

As the iron enters the riven soul.

But the youthful form grows wasted and weak,

And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek,

The brow is furrowed, but not with years,

The eye is dimmed with its secret tears,

And streaked with white is the raven hair;

These are the tokens of conflict there.

The battle is ended; the hero goes

Worn and scarred to his last repose.

He has won the day, he conquered doom,

He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb.

For the victor's glory, no voice may plead,

Fame has no echo and earth no meed.

But the guardian angels are hovering near,

They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here,

And they bear him now on their wings away,

To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day.

Ended now is earthly strife,

And his brow is crowned with the Crown of Life!

[Illustration: SUPPLICATION.

Engraved Expressly for Grahams Magazine]

SUPPLICATION.--TWO SONNETS.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

I.

Hearts will sigh. The burdens of distress

Weigh on us all. E'en from the natal hour

The purest soul some hidden cares oppress,

O'ertasking far our vain and feeble power.

Clouds o'er each mountain summit ever lower,

And gloom enwraps each hushed and quiet vale:

Bright eyes grow dim, each rosy cheek grows pale,

For change is earth's inevitable dower.

Then the crushed soul, forgetful of its pride,

Turns from itself to what it may not see

But knows exists, for safety and for aid.

And well it is that we may lay aside

Our burdens thus, and in humility

Pray at a shrine where prayer was ne'er denied.

II.

And in that hour of weariness of soul,

Not 'mid a marble aisle, 'neath vaulted domes,

The stricken heart for aid and refuge comes;

But where from lonely hills bright torrents roll,

And placid lakes reflect the moon's bright ray,

Striving with clouds that ever seem to sway

Like ocean waves. When heaven's great scroll

Is spread before us does the heart unfold

Its agony to God's all-searching eye,

And pray to him to shield it from distress.

Then o'er the heart comes hopefulness again,

As moonbeams rush from out the clouded sky:

The brow grows bright, the spirit dares to bless

The unseen hand that loosed its heavy chain.

A VISION.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

[This piece was composed during a tremendous storm off Cape Horn, on

board the frigate "United States" in 1844.]

Night from her gloomy dungeon freed,

Had chased the lingering light away,

The landscape, clad in widow's weed,

Mourned o'er the couch of dying day;

Bright-shielded Mars, who leads the host

That watch around God's burning throne,

Placed sentinels on every post,

Whose beaming eyes upon me shone!

The tears of eve were falling fast,

With diamonds spangling every flower,

Whose gentle fragrance round was cast,

Like incense in some Eastern bower.

The wearied hind had left his plough

To rest within its furrowed bed,

And on full many a waving bough

Was heard the night-bird's lightest tread.

All else was still, save Nature's voice,

That whispered 'mid the waving trees,

And bade my lonely heart rejoice;

While oft the playful evening breeze,

Came o'er the moonlit Hudson's tide,

And brushed it with its playful wing,

As swift it hurried by my side,

Perchance in angel's bower to sing.

Afar the Highlands reared a wall,

To keep the clouds from passing by,

There, in a mass were gathered all,

Impatient gazing on the sky;

Where sister-cloud escaped was free,

Sailing the heaven's blue ocean o'er,

Like lonely frigate on the sea,

That seeks some fair and distant shore.

Where Summer's busy hand had wove

A shady roof above my head,

I sat me down and eager strove,

To spy the rebel cloud that fled.

I saw it soon, with wondering eye,

Take to itself a female form,

And hover toward me from on high,

As fall the leaves in Autumn storm.

Her dress was like the mantle fair

Which Autumn to Columbia brings,

And bids the moaning forest wear,

With rainbow hues of angel's wings;

Her voice was like the witching strain

Which laughing streamlets gayly sing

When Summer o'er the ripening grain

Spreads wide her warm and golden wing.

The rustling of her snowy wing

Was like the music of the breeze,

That seraphs mimic when they sing:

'T was sweet as when an organ's keys

Are touched by angel's hand at night,

When all the earth in slumber share,

And glimmering grave-yard meteors light

The church while spirits worship there.

Softly she spoke--"Awake! arise!

Thy doom is sealed, thou long must roam

Where ocean surges wet the skies,

And where the condor makes his home!

Thou'lt gaze on many a cloudless sky,

Where deathless Summer sweetly smiles,

Like restless swallow thou shalt fly

Where ocean's breast is gem'd with isles,

"Thy feet shall track the forests wide,

Like vast eternity unshorn,

Where great Missouri's arrowy tide

On pebbled couch is borne.

But when the World's imperial brow

Shall frown like wintry sky,

Then seek my cloud-winged bark, and thou

Shalt soar with me on high!"

She paused and vanished--but her form

In Heaven's blue lake I hail,

When oft before the raging storm

The clouds in squadron sail;

And when the fleet can live no more,

But in a mass are thrown,

On the horizon's circling shore

She skims the air alone!

MARY DUNBAR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE THREE CALLS."

CHAPTER I.

Once more the Stanwoods sat of a morning in their pleasant parlor.

Once more the sun streamed lazily and warmly through the heavy silk

curtains, and once more sat the cherished and beloved invalid in the

cosiest nook, with her spectacles beside her, and the book on the

little table before her.

Something of change might be felt rather than seen in the blooming

faces near her. A thoughtful shadow on the clear brows of youth, the

impression of mind and feeling that ever shows itself in the deeps of

the eye and about the mouth, where smiles alone no longer play, but

the experience of life is showing itself in slight but unmistakeable

and uneffaceable lines.

The bell rung, and presently a portly, calm-looking old gentleman came

in, and after chatting a few minutes on ordinary topics took his

leave. It was a Mr. Gardner of Connecticut; somewhere about the south

part, Louisa thought, and Alice thought him a very dull person, and

they were both rather relieved when he left them.

"Do you like him, grandmother?" asked Alice.

"No, not exactly: at least he is not a person I should like of myself;

but he is connected with much that has interested me, and he is

himself a more interesting man than you would think him."

"Now, grandmother, dear," said the young girls, with an earnestness

that brought a smile to Mrs. Stanwood's face, "now do give us one of

your _real_ stories: they are better, after all, than the latest and

newest novel, for they are true ones."

"This Mr. Gardner's story is rather an eventful one, certainly; he is

a phlegmatic sort of man, as you see, and yet he has not lived without

having the depths of his being stirred. I happened to know him and

about his affairs a good deal at one time, and afterward I continued

my interest in him, though I saw nothing of him for years--but it is

rather a long story."

"Never mind the length--no fear of its seeming long, because it will

be true, you know."

"Yes, it will be true, but it is liker a fiction than any of the true

stories I have told you: but if you are patient with an old woman's

stories, and are willing to begin with the beginning, I will try to be

as sketchy as possible."

"That will we be," said Alice; "when did you know us otherwise?" and

both the girls hurried to take their seats on a low divan before Madam

Stanwood's arm-chair, and to look attentively up in her kind face.

"Now then, to begin with the beginning, Mary Dunbar and myself were

visiting at a town somewhere in the western part of Massachusetts. I

could tell you where, but you may as well have some mystery about

it--well, there we were visiting, and enjoying all the hospitalities

of a small town where city people were rather rare articles, and

prized accordingly. The beauty of Mary, and her gentle winning

manners, made a great impression on every body, and a succession of

pleasant rides, walks, pic-nics, little sociables, and every thing

which could bring young people together, kept us quite delighted with

every thing and every body about us; and as attentions and admiration

are apt to have a pleasant effect on the disposition as well as the

countenance, I, too, came in for a share, and we were quite the belles

of the time. Every body regretted, however, and that continually,

"that _Mr. Gardner_ was not at home--oh! if _he_ could see Miss

Dunbar! and oh! if Miss Dunbar could see him!" and at last he did come

from Burlington, where he had been gone a good while, at last he did

see Miss Dunbar, and as in duty bound admired her very much. He was a

common-looking young man, as he is now an old one--only then he had a

fair youthful complexion and light curling hair, that united strangely

with a premature gravity, and methodical way of saying every thing. He

was not a _taking_ person as you say, Louisa, but he was the nabob of

the place. His father had died young, and the "Gardner place" was a

very small part of the large property which this young man had

inherited. He kept house, and managed his large domestic establishment

with the greatest propriety and hospitality. All these things are

looked into thoroughly in such a town as K----, and young Gardner's

character was pronounced unexceptionable, and the match every way most

desirable for any girl for twenty miles round.

"Mary did not seem to fancy him much, and when at length her brother

came for us, and Mr. Gardner quietly proposed himself to Mr. Dunbar as

Mary's suitor, and he had told him the connection would give _him_

great pleasure, they neither of them seemed to think much more was

necessary, for absolutely nothing was said to Mary till we got home.

Mr. Dunbar lived at Cambridge then, near Boston. He was a widower, and

Mary lived with him, and kept his house in some sort, and played with

his little boy occasionally. You may suppose she was not a very staid

personage, for she was at this time only seventeen years old, and as I

was more than twenty-seven, I occasionally checked her wildness, while

I could not help laughing at her graceful follies. She should have

been born of a French mother and a Spanish father, for she was gay and

volatile as the summer insect, and yet she had much depth of feeling,

and was full of romantic tenderness, with sometimes a haughty

expression that seemed altogether foreign to her usual character of

face, and looked only the index of what might be expected of her if

she should ever be exasperated to fight against her destiny. But so

far destiny seemed to wait humbly on her pleasure; she was beloved by

all, and though left early an orphan, had found in the indulgent

tenderness of her brother and his wife a delightful home.

"A little while after our return, Mr. Dunbar took an opportunity when

business did not press, for he went daily into Boston and left Mary

and me to ourselves through the day, just to mention the little matter

of Mr. Gardner's proposal to Mary; and to say he had accepted it so

far as he was concerned.

"Now, girls, you must not ask me about characters, I shall tell you

the facts, and you must guess at the characters of persons by them,

the _whys_ you can ascertain as well as I could tell you. When Mr.

Dunbar had told Mary, who received the intelligence in silence, he

dismissed the topic and no further allusion was made to it.

"I asked Mary soon after if she considered herself engaged to Mr.

Gardner.

"'Certainly not.'

"I asked her if she liked him, and she gave me the same laconic

answer. So I, too, dismissed the topic. There was a little mystery in

Mary's manner about this time. If she did not like Mr. Gardner she did

like young Randolph, a Southerner, and a student, who walked with her,

and sent her flowers, and notes, and all sorts of pretty and poetical

things to read--poems marked for her eye, and the sweetest and newest

music for her piano. Then of a moonlight night we had serenades

without number, and soft strains sung in a deep, rich voice, so that

what with flowers, music, notes and very expressive looking and

sighing, the prospect was all but shut out for poor Mr. Gardner, and

opening an interminable vista for Randolph.

"Weeks went on--oh, I forgot; in the meantime Mr. Gardner wrote two

letters, one to Mr. Dunbar about Mary, and one to Mary herself, but

not much about her. It was mostly a business letter, written in a

calm, friendly style, and asking her opinion about some alterations he

proposed making in the house, adding a wing, I think. He seemed to

consider her a person who had a right to be consulted in his

arrangements, and I remember he finished his letter with 'Yours, &c.'

Mary handed the letter to me with a look of extreme vexation, which at

length subsided into a hearty laugh. I laughed too, but Mr. Dunbar did

not, and looked rather surprised at us.

"In the course of four weeks from the time of our return, this ardent

lover appeared in person. He drove up to the door in a very handsome

carriage, and with his servant, all looking very stylish. I saw Mary

color extremely, but she sat quite still, and when Mr. Gardner entered

and went toward her holding out his hand, she remained in her place,

and did not move her hand at all. He shook hands with the rest of us.

Mary made tea, and one or two persons coming in, Mr. Gardner became

rather animated, and appeared as he was, a very gentlemanly,

intelligent person. At last Mary could bear it no longer. She ran out

of the room and went up to her chamber. She shared hers with me, and

Mr. Gardner's was adjoining ours. It was rather late, between ten and

eleven o'clock, and presently Mr. Gardner, who was somewhat fatigued,

bade us good-night and ascended to his own apartment. I then went to

Mary's room: I found her in a state of great excitement and

indignation, and yet though I sympathized fully with her, there was

something so comical in the business-like way of doing the thing,

which Mr. Gardner had adopted, and his entire unconsciousness of the

sort of person he was to deal with, that I began to laugh heartily.

"'Hush! hush! for Heaven's sake! he can hear every word! Oh, my

heart!--do you believe, he has come up stairs and gone straight to

bed, and is this minute fast asleep! there--hear him! don't laugh!

he'll wake as sure as you do!'

"But laugh I did, for I could not help it, albeit Mary's pallid face

and earnest eyes checked me in the midst.

"'Now I am going down stairs this minute to put a stop to all this at

once. I could not have believed stupidity could have gone so far. I

shall see my brother and have an end put to his journeys here: good

heavens! to think of it.'

"This I could not object to, of course. Indeed, from the first of this

very peculiar 'arrangement' I had not been consulted by either Mary or

her brother, and I had a dreamy sort of feeling that by and by we

should all wake up and find Mr. Gardner was only an incubus, instead

of the unpleasant reality he was getting to be.

"I sat still for nearly or quite half an hour, when Mary returned to

her chamber on tiptoe and looking very pale.

"'Now, what is it?' said I earnestly, for I saw it was no joke to poor

Mary: her very lips were pallid and trembling, and her hand was

pressed to her side as if to still the convulsive springing of her

heart.

"'I--I have been talking it over to William,' she said, in a thick,

hasty voice; 'I told him I could go no further with this man--this no

man--who is willing to take me, without so much as inquiring if I have

a heart to bestow--but oh! oh, Susan--Randolph has gone!' she sobbed

out in a complete passion of grief, that could not brook further

concealment or restraint.

"'But how do you know this?' I asked, after, as you may suppose, I had

soothed and hushed her as far as I was able.

"'William told me so himself. I told him I could not, would not marry

Mr. Gardner--and he would not believe me--called me a foolish,

nonsensical child, who didn't know my own mind--and at last, when

nothing else would have any effect on his mind, I said--I said--ah!

Susan, how hard it was and is to say it! I loved another!'

"'And how then, my poor child?'

"'Then--he just in his quiet, calm way, that kills one, you know--for

it seems the death-blow to all sentiment--he said, 'Mary, if you mean

young Randolph, whom I have sometimes met here, playing the lover,

all I can say is, he is too discreet to contest the field, witness

this note of farewell which was sent to my office this afternoon. He

desires his very respectful compliments to you, Mary.' Would you

believe it, Susan? I took that note--and read every word of it; yes,

and I smiled, too, as I gave it back to him, as if it were the most

indifferent thing in the world--though I felt then, as I do now, every

line of it chilling my heart like ice.'

"'Dear Mary,' I said, still very quietly, for she grew almost wild

with excitement, 'how is this? Why has Randolph gone? have you had any

quarrel?'

"'Quarrel! God help you--no!--how should that be? don't I love the

very dust he treads on!' she screamed out violently at last, and went

into a hysteric fit. The sound of her maniacal voice brought her

brother to the door with anxious inquiry, but as I told him Mary was a

little over excited, and quiet would soon restore her, at my earnest

request he retired. In a short time I was able, with bathing her head

in cold water, and constantly soothing her with low murmuring tones of

endearment, to see her sobbing herself into a troubled sleep, and as I

looked on her beautiful face, pale as marble, and the black hair

wetted and matted back from her fine brow, I felt that I saw a double

victim to the cruel indifference of others, and the violent emotions

of her own untutored nature."

Alice and Louisa Stanwood had gazed steadily into the face of their

grandmother, while in the relation of this true story, it lighted up

with remembered emotion.

"Poor, poor girl!" said they; "but where, then, was Mr. Gardener all

this while? Surely he must have relented."

"Truth compels me to say, my romantic girls, that this quiet-loving

lover, to all human appearance, was not in the least disturbed.

Indeed, as I listened to the painful breathings of Mary, every now and

then catching, as if for life, at a breath, and then hushed into all

but dead silence, I was distinctly aware of certain audible

demonstrations of profound composure on the part of Mr. Gardner. In

sooth, he was not a lover for a romance writer at all; but such as he

was--and you must remember our agreement was that I should only relate

facts, not account for them--such as he was, he rose with the lark and

took his usual walk, to promote his appetite and prolong his life.

"When he returned, as Mary was too unwell to go down stairs, I

descended to the breakfast-room where I found Mr. Dunbar uneasily

walking the room.

"'How is Mary?' said he, the moment he saw me? 'No better? Tell her to

be comforted--be quiet. God forbid I should do any thing to make her

unhappy. I will speak to Mr. Gardner about the matter myself, and tell

him it can't be.'

"His earnest manner quite convinced me that however he might seem, his

sister was really very near his heart, and 'albeit unused to the

melting mood,' I felt my eyes fill with tears, as I turned and ran up

to Mary's room to comfort her poor heart. She was comforted and

quieted, though she declined leaving her room till after Mr.

Gardner's departure; and I left her, at her own request, to silent

reflection.

"And now you will think all the trouble was over. But did ever faint

heart win fair ladie? Never. And Mr. Gardner's heart did not sink when

he was told the true story of Mary's indifference and aversion. Both

brother and lover had deceived themselves, or rather they had not

thought about it. But now that he did think about it, Mr. Gardner was

not inclined to relinquish the pursuit. He knew that women were fickle

and strange beings, and oft-times refused the very happiness they were

dying to possess. Whether Mary were of this species he knew not, but

at all events the prize was worth trying for. So he told Mr. Dunbar he

would not trouble Mary more at present, but leave it to time. Time did

a great many things. Time might make him acceptable to the very heart

that now tossed him as a scorned thing away.

"Now Alice, my dear child, don't give up my Mary, nor think her a

heartless being, when I tell you that in six months from that time she

became Mrs. Gardner. A very lovely bride she was, too--pale as a

snow-drop, and graceful as the lake-lily. She smiled, too, with a sort

of contented smile, not radiant, not heartfelt, not joyous; there were

no deeps of her being stirred as she stood calm and passionless by the

altar, and promised to love and honor Mr. Gardner, but a very quiet

and pensive sort of pleasure. A part of her soul seemed to have been

buried with the past, and to have been forcibly crushed down with all

its young ardor and bloom forever; but above it was an everyday being,

full of determination to do her duty, to make her husband happy, and

be as happy herself as she could. So she was married; and so she

stepped into a handsome carriage with Mr. Gardner, and the bridemaids

and groomsmen followed in another; and never was there a gayer and

merrier cavalcade than at Mary Dunbar's marriage.

CHAPTER II.

"Now, my dear girls, you must skip over a few years, during which I

neither saw nor heard of Mary Dunbar. I returned from a journey which

I had been taking, and was glad to feel that Mr. Gardner's house lay

in my nearest route home. I longed to see Mary in her new character,

now that she had had time to feel and perform her duties, and proposed

to be with her for a few days, that I might form my own opinion

touching this 'mariage de convenance.'

"Mr. Gardner's house was one of some pretension originally; that is to

say, it had been built in the style of country gentlemen in New

England forty years ago. A row of white-pine pillars surrounded the

house from roof to basement, and formed a piazza-walk very convenient

in a dull day. Six chimneys crowned the roof, and the whole

arrangement was tasteful and imposing. There was a terrace of green

turf all round the house, and the offices and out-buildings were at a

short distance from the main building. As the stage-coach wound up the

avenue, I noticed in the disposition of the grounds and shrubbery the

evident hand of female taste. Fantastic arbors, almost hid behind

clematis and honeysuckle; little white arches supporting twining roses

of twenty sorts, and trees arranged in picturesque groups, gave a

character of beautiful wildness to the scenery.

"I fancied Mary the presiding genius of the place as I last had seen

her, white and bright, with a little rose-tint on her cheek, caught

from nature and the happy quiet of her life--for I had heard that she

rejoiced in an infant, whose beauty and promise I knew must renew all

the affectionate sympathies of her woman's heart.

"The stage-coach stopped. A servant opened the door, and to my inquiry

for Mrs. Gardner, answered hesitatingly, that 'he believed she did not

wish to see company.' How much of apprehension was compressed into

that brief moment. What could have happened to her? Much might have

happened, and I not know it, for I had been living in great seclusion,

and had had no correspondence with Mary. However, I gave my card to

the man, and bade him take it to Mrs. Gardner, meanwhile sitting with

a throbbing heart in the carriage.

"The man returned in a short time with a message requesting me to

stop, and to have my trunks taken off. Not a welcoming voice or face

met me--and in silence I followed the servant to the parlor. Mary was

sitting there; some fire was in the grate, though it was in July; and

she hovered over it as if she sought to warm her heart enough to show

proper feeling at the sight of an old friend.

"'Mary Dunbar!' I cried out, with my arms outspread, for the figure

before me of hopelessness and gloom gave me a feeling almost

heart-breaking.

"The sound of her own maiden name acted like magic on Mary. She sprung

to my arms like a frightened bird, and clung to me with such intensity

of sad earnestness in her face, that it brought back to me all the old

sorrow of that night of suffering at her brother's. Once more I

soothed her, smoothed back the dark plumage of her hair, and with soft

words and gentle caresses, brought her to quietness.

"'You are ill, my poor Mary,' I said, as I looked at her sunken cheek,

and the deep gloom about her eyes. 'Where is Mr. Gardner?'

"'Oh, he is gone most of the time,' said she hastily, and then, for

the first time, seeming to recollect her duty as hostess, she added,

'but you are tired and travel-soiled, and hungry, too, I dare say; let

me make you comfortable.' She laughed a little as she spoke, but not

like her old laugh, it was affected, and died in its birth.

"She rang the bell, gave orders for lunch to be brought in, and a room

prepared for me, with something of her old activity, and saying

cordially, 'Now you must stay with me; now I have got you here, I

cannot spare you again.' She relapsed into thoughtfulness and absence.

This strange manner puzzled me not a little.

"I went up stairs. The white dreariness of my room chilled me. Mary

did not accompany me as she would once have done, to see that all was

comfortable for me. The muslin window-curtains hid the view outside,

and the stately high-post bedstead, with its gilded tester, looked as

if sleep would be afraid to 'come anear' it. My trunks were brought

up, and then a silence like death was in the house. No child was in

the house, that was clear--and nobody else it would seem. Well, I must

wait. I should know all in good time. I dressed and went down to the

parlor. Mary still hovered over the fire, looking, in her white

wrapper and whiter face, more like a ghost than any living thing. I

had intended to be calmly cheerful, to talk to Mary about old times,

and by degrees to lead her to speak of so much of her present life as

would give me an insight into the mysterious sorrow that reigned like

a presence over the dwelling.

"But as poor Ophelia says, 'we know what we are, but not what we shall

be.' So no more did I know how to look at that crouching figure and be

cheerful and calm. I lost all presence of mind, and could only sit

down and cry heartily. Mary rose at the sound of my weeping and came

to me.

"'Do you know I cannot weep, Susan? These fountains are drained dry.

See, there are no tears in my eyes, though God knows my heart is

drowned all day and night. It is dreadful to have such a burning head

as mine, and no tears to wet it withal.'

"I wiped my eyes and grew calmer when I saw the wild brightness of her

eye; and dreading another nervous attack, I did my best to quiet both

her and myself. The day passed on without further reference to any

present griefs; she showed me her little conservatory, with a few rare

flowers in it, which she had reared with much care, and led me over

the pleasantest paths in the grounds and groves attached to the house.

In one of these groves, at some distance from the house itself, was a

little cleared space, and in the centre of that a small, a very small

mound.

"I knew at once what it was. There slept the child I had heard of. So

had been broken the dearest tie Mary had felt binding her to life. She

stood with me a moment, looking at the mound with a steadfast look,

and then putting back her hair from her forehead, as if she tried to

remember something, she smiled sadly, and said in a broken voice,

"'You see I cannot shed one tear, even on my child's grave.' I led her

gently away among the old trees and quiet paths, and we sat in the

warm July shadows till the sun went down.

"You may guess how thankful I was to see at last, as we turned

homeward, the tears slowly falling over her face and dropping on her

dress, as she walked on, evidently unconscious of the blessed relief.

'Like music on my heart' sunk these tears, for I knew that with them

would come the coolness, 'like a welcoming' over her burning pulse,

and I carefully abstained from saying a word that would interrupt the

feelings rather than thoughts which now agitated her. We returned to

the house; tea was served silently, for even the domestics hardly

spoke above a whisper; and then we sat in the soft moonlight and

looked on the sleeping scene before us. The summer sounds of rural

life had long died away, and nothing but the untiring chirp of the

tree-toad was to be heard. The melancholy monotony of the scene hushed

Mary's spirit to a quiet she had not for a long time known, and at

last she became conscious of having wept freely.

"'I have wept, thank God! that shows I am human. Now ask me all about

what you want to know. I think I can talk about it. Mr. Gardner? Oh,

he is gone--he is gone a great deal, you know; his business leads him

continually away from home, and that leaves me, of course, very

dull--very. Shouldn't you think it ought to, Susan dear?'

"Thus incoherently she began; but the first step taken, and secure of

sympathy in her hearer, she went on, and you will believe me when I

tell you we talked till midnight, and that then Mary sunk, like a

weary child, into my arms in a sound sleep.

"I cannot give you her precise words, but the import of her relation I

shall never forget. A few words will suffice to tell you what it took

her hours of emotion and tears to reveal.

"You remember I told you she looked determined to do her duty, and be

as happy a wife as she could. Did ever a wife succeed in being happy

with duty for the material? Perhaps if Mr. Gardner had been an ardent

lover, somewhat impulsive, and eager to commend himself to her

grateful affection, he would have succeeded in doing so; indeed, I am

sure of it, in time it must have been so; but, alas! Mr. Gardner was a

calm, gentlemanly, sensible, phlegmatic person, who thought his wife's

impulsive and hasty nature should be occasionally checked, and who had

no toleration for, nor sympathy with, her excitable spirit.

Consequently, she soon learned to have a calm exterior when he was at

home, which his frequent absences made it easy to assume. They had

been married something like three years, and Mary was the delighted

mother of a healthy and lovely daughter. Her heart, which had almost

closed in the chilly atmosphere of her husband's manners, expanded and

flowered luxuriantly in the warmth of maternity. In her happiness she

reflected a part of its exuberance on her husband, and smiled with

much of her old gayety. 'I felt my young days coming back to me,' she

said.

"One day the post brought a letter for her, which she opened, and then

left the room to read. The letter was from young Randolph. The writer

apologized for his year's silence to her, by an account of a long

illness, &c. He knew of her happiness, of her child; in short, he

seemed to be informed of every thing about her. He asked to be

permitted to correspond with her. The letter expressed the strongest

and deepest interest, but couched in such respectful and friendly

terms as were difficult to resist. Mary struggled long with her sense

of what was due to herself and her husband; but right at last

conquered, and she re-entered the room with the letter in her hand.

Tremblingly she gave it to her husband, who read a part of it, and

then said, with much kindness of manner,

"'Correspond with any of your friends, male or female, my dear. I have

not the slightest objection.'

"Mary's good spirit was still at her ear, and she said with some

difficulty,

"'Mr. Gardner, the writer of this letter was once much interested in

me.'

"'And you in him, eh? Well, my love, those things are all gone by; I

can fully trust you. So again, I say, correspond with any body you

like, provided you don't ask me to read the letters.'

The generous confidence of her husband deeply affected Mary; but,

unhappily, it did not induce her to the safe course of declining the

correspondence with this fascinating and dangerous friend. The

correspondence went on for years, nay, it was continued up to the time

of my visit. And now, my dears, I must stop the current of my story

for a minute, to utter my protest against this most dangerous and

wretched of all theories--_Platonic friendships between a married

woman and her male friends._ But for the false notions of safety in

such a friendship, Mary Dunbar might now be a loved and loving woman.

This you will not believe could have been with Mr. Gardner; but

remember, Mary was getting to love Mr. Gardner a good deal, and habit

and duty and maternal happiness would have done much; so that _in a

sort_, she would have been both loved and loving. The letters from

Randolph, which she showed me, were very interesting, and full of fine

sensible remarks on education, all so interspersed with gentle and

deep interest for herself, that you saw she was never out of his mind

and heart for an instant. Just such letters as a happy married woman

would never read, and what any woman's instinct protects her from if

she listens to it.

"Things had gone on in this way for two years, or thereabouts, when

the child, who had been the subject of so many theories, and in whom

were garnered all the _conscious_ hopes of Mary, was taken suddenly

ill. Her anxiety induced her immediately to summon medical assistance;

and she could hardly believe her physician when he said there were no

grounds for apprehension. The child had a sore throat; there was a

considerable degree of inflammation about the system, and when he

left, he directed Mary to have some leeches applied to the neck of the

little girl, at the same time pointing to the spot where he wished

them to take the blood.

Mary was particular to place them there, but to her great alarm, the

blood issued from the punctures in such a quantity as to drench the

bed-linen almost immediately. In vain she tried to stop it--it flowed

in torrents, and before the horror-struck servants could summon the

physician, the life had ebbed from the child--nothing but a

blood-stained form remained. The physician said the jugular vein had

been pierced, and that it was something like half an inch nearer the

ear than he ever saw it before. I believe he was not to blame--far

less was the wretched instrument, whose agony I will not attempt to

describe.

"But from that hour the nervous spasms and depression of spirits

supervened, which I found had become the habit of her mind. I should

have premised that through all the distressing circumstances of the

child's death Mr. Gardner was absent. Undoubtedly, could he have been

at home, his fortitude and calmness would have been of the greatest

service to her; but he did not return until long after her maternal

agonies had sunk into a sort of stupor of wretchedness, which looked

like a resigned grief outwardly. Far enough was her spirit from the

enforced composure of her manner. By degrees she came to look upon

herself as born only to make others unhappy. That she had caused the

death of her own child was too horrible a thought to dwell on

voluntarily, yet it obtruded itself always--and she shuddered at the

grave of the being dearest to her heart.

"I remained with Mary until her husband's return, and then left her,

promising to visit her again in the course of a few weeks. I was

pleased to see the manly kindness of Mr. Gardner's manner to his wife.

He evidently did not understand her, but he was gentle and quiet in

his words to her, and so far as was in his nature to do, sympathized

with her. He was frequently called away from home for weeks together,

and had no idea of the effect solitude was having on the mind of his

wife.

"As soon as I could so arrange my affairs at home as to leave them, I

went to my sick-souled friend. I found her in her chamber and lying on

her bed. She looked paler than ever, and her eyes were dry and

tearless as when I first saw her before. All over the bed, and pressed

in her hands, were letters strewn, half open, and which she had

evidently been reading. She looked up at me when I entered, but

immediately began gathering up the letters with a strange carefulness,

placing them one above the other according to their dates, taking no

further notice of me. I saw something agitating had occurred, and

seated myself without speaking till she should be more composed. I

knew they were Randolph's letters; I had seen them before.

"Presently she spoke in a low voice and seemingly exhausted manner.

"'Susan!' I was by her instantly. She gave me a folded manuscript.

'Between you and me there is no need of words. Take this and read it.

It is the last death I shall cause. Leave me now, dear Susan; perhaps

I may sleep, who knows'

"She put her hands over her eyes--they were burning as coals--and

tried to smile, but the lips refused the mockery. I begged her to lie

down and try to sleep, closed the curtains, and left the room, not a

little anxious to see the contents of the manuscript which I hoped

would explain this new grief.

"The first letter was from a clergyman at the South, containing the

intelligence of Randolph's death, after a long illness, and

transmitting, at his request, the sealed packet to Mrs. Gardner.

"And saddening enough was the recital of the young man's sorrows. He

began with saying that he had scrupulously abstained from ever

mentioning his attachment to Mary while he had lived, but he could not

refrain from asking her pity for him when he could never more disturb

or injure her. He inclosed to her his journal, kept from the first day

he saw her, when he loved her with all the fervor of his southern

nature, and all the confidence of youth. Then followed the shock of

hearing from Mr. Dunbar's own lips of his sister's engagement and

approaching marriage. Then the farewell note of wounded affection that

assumed indifference. Then a long delirious fever; then the news of

Mary's marriage; and then the vain attempt to conquer his ill-fated

love. His delight in his correspondence with her; it had been the life

of his life, all that soothed the downward passage to the grave. To

that grave he had gladly come, feeling that happiness was forever

denied him, and only begged her to believe in his never-varying love

from the moment he met her to this dying hour, when he signed his name

to the last words he should address to mortal.

"All that she had lost--all she might have been, and might have

enjoyed in a union with this young man, so brilliant, so amiable, so

devoted, rushed on my heart, and contrasting with the reality a few

paces off, made me weep bitterly. Oh! had they never loved so kindly!

"I sat long with the manuscript, looking at the writing, some of it

years old, and written with a firm, flowing hand, then varying through

all the vicissitudes of health and feeling, till it trembled and died

away in its last farewell. The peculiar tenderness with which we look

on the handwriting of the dead, however personally unknown, affected

me. This young man I had seen, though seldom; and I easily connected

the memoir before me with the memory of his dark, curling hair, his

olive complexion, and the graceful dignity of his manner. I saw his

bright eye dim, the dew of suffering on his brow, his cheek pale with

anguish of heart and body, and the last flicker of his glorious light

going out in darkness.

"From these thoughts I was roused by a sudden and deep groan; it

seemed near me, and I sprung to my feet. Bells rang; there was a rush

on the staircaise--a shriek--another rush--the opening of doors

wildly; all this was in a moment--in the moment I ran out of my room

toward Mary's where an undefined and terrible fear taught me to look.

"You will guess what met my appalled gaze. Mr. Gardner, who had

returned from a journey while I was reading in my own room, hastened

up stairs to see Mary. At the moment he entered, she had completed the

act which terminated her life. He received in his arms the lifeless

body. The suffering soul still hovered unconsciously. We believe that

God who made us, alone can try us, and He who knew all the wo that

'wrought like madness in her brain,' can both pity and forgive."

A deep silence followed Madame Stanwood's relation. Alice and Louise

were thinking how little such an experience could have been guessed

from Mr. Gardner's exterior.

"I wonder," said Louisa at last, "if he ever knew he cause of Mary's

death--did you give him the manuscript, grandmother?"

"Well--what _should_ I have done?"

"Oh! I would have given it to him! I would have rejoiced to see him

one hour feeling all the agony which poor Mary had felt so long!"

"That is very natural, my child, for you to say; and, I confess, when

I saw him first--his clothes covered with his wife's life-blood, and

her marble face on his shoulder; when I saw _his_ calmness, his

complete self-possession, the directions he gave for the physician,

all the time keeping his hand so pressed on the wound, that no more

blood should flow; when I saw him hold her till the surgeon closed the

wound, and then place his hand on the heart, and watch its beating, if

happily life might yet linger there; when I saw this, I longed to say,

'thou cold-hearted being! she is beyond the chill of thine icy

love--care not for her! the grave is softer and warmer than thou art!'

"But life had gone out. Not, however, till the loss of blood had so

relieved the agonizing pressure on the brain, that reason had

evidently returned--for she opened her eyes, with a sweet, sad smile,

looked at us all--saw every thing--knew every thing that had passed.

She raised her hand to her neck, and then pointed upward, and

breathing more and more softly, like the dead child who had gone

before her, in its baptism of blood, she slept in peace.

"I thought of all that had passed in the hearts of the two young

persons for whom life had so early closed. They had suffered much, but

I did not see how any good could occur to the dead or the living by

further communication. If Mary had desired it, there had been

opportunity enough. She might have left the letters for her husband to

read. On the contrary, she had burned them immediately after I had

left the room. Her woman had brought her a lamp, and she saw her

setting fire to letters--and, in fact, the relics of them were still

in the chimney.

"I therefore said no more to Mr. Gardner. He had been much shocked

with the events of the day, and for some time was depressed. But he

recovered the tone of his mind, and to this day, I suppose, has very

little comprehension of what was about him and around him for

years--of the broken-heart that was so long breaking."

THE PROPHET'S REBUKE

BY MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL.

In a cedar-ceiled palace, the proud arches rolled,

O'erlaid with vermilion, and blazoned with gold,

While their graceful supporters in colonnade stood,

Like the children of giants, a grand brotherhood:

Around them the lily and pomegranate wreath,

In delicate tracery, while far beneath

The siren-voiced fountains beguile the long day,

And the tessalate pavement is gemmed with their spray.

The East from her treasury joyeth to bring

Her magnificent gifts to a world-renowned king;

Her birds, like to meteors, as brilliant and fleet,

And her rainbow-hued flowers are laid at his feet,

While he, in regality's power and pride,

Sits enthroned with the symbol of pomp by his side.

The beauty is glorious that beams in his face,

His mien is majestic, his movement is grace!

Before him a prophet, with hair long and white

Falling down o'er a mantle as sable as night,

With a glance of stern loftiness, cheek cold and pale,

And a gesture of earnestness, thus told his tale.

"Two men in this city there dwelleth, my lord--

One is blessed in the battle, and blessed by the board:

He hath numberless flocks in the field and the fold,

And the wealth of his coffers remaineth untold.

The other hath naught save one lamb, which he fed

Like a child of his household; it ate of his bread,

It partook of his portion of food and of rest,

It followed his footsteps, it lay on his breast,

It lightened his sorrows with innocent art,

And e'en, as a daughter, was dear to his heart.

A traveler came to the rich man's abode,

And he welcomed the guest in the name of his God;

Bade him tarry awhile, 'mid the fierce noontide heat,

'Neath the vine-tree's broad shadow, to rest him and eat.

Then straightway he hasted, with tenderest care,

To spread forth the board and the banquet prepare,

While he spared of his _own_ to take youngling or dam

But dressed for the stranger his _neighbor's ewe lamb_.

As a breath from the meadow, on wings of the wind,

To the sense that had breathed but the perfume of Ind,

Seemed this tale of simplicity, told to the heart

That had dwelt 'mid the spells of magnificent art.

Spake the king, while fierce anger flashed hot from his eye,

"Now, as the Lord liveth! this robber shall die!

To the victim of wrong let his cattle be told,

Till full restitution be rendered fourfould,

And _cursed_ be forever, with sword and with brand,

The wretch who hath done such foul wrong in our land!"

Then with stern condemnation the prophet replied

To the monarch, who sat in his purple-clad pride,

And his bold voice resounded throughout the broad span

Of the arches above them, "_Thou, thou art the man!_

Saith the Lord, I have raised thee from humble estate,

To rule o'er a nation most favored and great--

I have given thee Judah thy portion to be,

And the honor of Israel centres in thee!

Thy children, like olive boughs, circle thy board,

And the wives of thy master await at thy word,

But insatiate still, thou hast entered the dome

Of thy neighbor, and stolen the wife from her home;

Thou hast slaughtered the husband with treacherous wile,

And the vengeance of Heaven rewardeth thy guile!

The child of thy love from thy arms shall be torn--

And in sackcloth and ashes thy proud head shall mourn--

The wives of thy household thy rivals shall be--

As thou didst unto others, _so be it to thee_!

And the _sword_ thou hast taken, with murderous art,

From thy heaven-doomed lineage _ne'er shall depart_."

A SCENE ON THE SUSQUEHANNA.

HARRISBURG.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

The incidents of life around us--of common life--of everyday events,

and the common scenes which Nature has prepared on every side, are

full of interest, full of means of gratifying a taste formed or

cultivated to rational enjoyment. The Hymmalayen mountains may overtop

the Andes, and the Amazon bear more water to the sea than the

Susquehanna, but it follows not thence that the combination of

scenery--points of beauty to be associated with the eye--are less

attractive in the latter than in the former; and though thousands may

tread, may ride, or may murder on the unfrequented path of the elder

world, and give tragic effect to narrative, yet on all sides of us, in

our home experience, and our limited wandering, events are every day

occurring of as much interest to the participators as are those which

constitute the theme of the foreign tourist; and scenes are presenting

themselves almost daily within our own observation, that need only the

pen of a Radcliffe to describe, or the pencil of a Claude to depict,

to fix them on the imperishable canvas of the artist or the immortal

page of the gifted poet.

How often have we been struck with the clustering beauties of a

seashore by Birch, or some landscape by Russell Smith, and while we

gazed in admiration at the production so rich in artistic skill, and

felt astonishment at the fidelity of the representation, have shrunk

away from the picture, ashamed that objects so constantly before our

eyes should have remained unadmired till the pencil of the artist had

transferred them to canvas--had selected the moment when sunshine had

brought out the clustering beauties of some gentle promontory, or

shade had deepened the darkness of the dell, and all which to our eyes

had been daily spread out in constantly changing hues, had been fixed

in beauty to challenge our admiration and create new love for the

original.

Events which strike us with astonishment in their record, whether they

are real or imaginary, acquire much of their importance from our

knowledge of the antecedent circumstances and present condition of the

actors. We connect the present with the past, and our sympathies

becoming enlisted with the joys or sorrows of others, all that relates

to them acquires the exaggerated importance to us which it has with

those who are really connected with the occurrences. Every group of

immigrants we meet, every wedding party we attend, every funeral train

we join, contains in itself a story of deep and thrilling interest;

the power of genius only is necessary to collect and combine the

incidents, to bring in the feelings and hopes of the parties, and to

present to the reader what the unobtrusive actor does, feels, hopes,

fears and suffers.

Ungifted to catch the beauties of the landscape and transfer them to

canvas, unpracticed in the simplest movement of the artist's duties, I

can only stand and admire what Providence has spread around with a

profusion of bounty, and as colors deepen or fade, and beauties

augment or diminish, I bow with admiration at the object, and

increased love to Him whose hand garnished the heavens, and whose

goodness is as manifest "in these his lower works" as in the

constellated glories of the firmament, whose systems combine to enrich

with heatless light worlds of space--and the infinite seems exhausted

to gem with starry lustre earth's evening canopy.

Equally unsupplied am I with that genius which seizes on passing

incidents, and moulds them to important events, building the

interesting and the sublime on the simple and the ordinary. I have not

these gifts, but I have the love for the gifts, the sense of their

existence in others, and a sort of conception of the time and the

place in which they should be employed; and often, as I pass along, I

select groups and note incidents that with the child of genius would

be seed for a golden harvest. And scenes, too, that escape the general

eye, or only excite the exclamation "how beautiful," press upon me

till I wish that I had the genius and skill to fix the picture which

Nature has drawn, and show that our own land and own vicinity are full

of those beauties which true taste admires, which, transferred to

canvas, become in turn the stimulant to taste. Yet the scenes which I

see, and the occurrences which I note, may be of use to those who know

better how to combine and present the materials; and what I saw and

heard, others may present in an attractive form.

During the close of August and the first of September last I was, in

obedience to an imperative call, engaged in some business in

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The little borough was crowded with

delegates to two conventions then being held, for the purpose of

nominating candidates by the opposing parties for the office of

Governor of the Commonwealth; a part of the machinery to which our

institutions give rise, and those who affect to sneer at these

preliminary movements, do not understand the true theory and practice

of republicanism, where action, to be effective, must begin in the

_will_ of the people, and to be beneficially operative it must

continue in concurrence with that will. Notwithstanding the presence

of two antagonistic parties there were peace and much social

intercourse between the delegates of opposite creeds; nor was this

marvelous, the contest had not yet been delivered to the parties; the

rivalry and antagonism were between the members of the same party, who

should be the candidate--that settled on each side, then the divided

fronts of the main divisions would unite, and the hostility be

transferred from sections of the same party to the parties themselves.

The general field of contest was of course not taken there, so that

the elements of political warfare were held in abeyance, and the

thronged streets wore a holyday appearance of pleasure and hope.

Standing early one morning at the door of the hotel, before the

customary hour of rising, I was struck with a little procession from

the canal toward the centre of the place. A stern woman led the

company, in which were four men, two of whom, and the youngest, each

carried a child; and in the rear was a very tall man, bearing also a

younger child, wrapped about with parts of a ragged female dress. The

man by his height and measured tread drew attention particularly to

himself. The appearance of the whole was that of poor immigrants;

Germans probably; though the stateliness of the march of its principal

man was that of some one who had a spirit of independence, and felt

that whatever might be his appearance, he was, for a time at least,

above the influence of outward circumstances. The company passed me,

and for some time I lost sight of them, and indeed nothing but the

peculiar look of the woman and the remarkable tread of the man would

have kept them in my memory. It was not long, however, before I saw a

gathering in front of a public building, and loving to hear the

remarks of those who speak out unrestrainedly, I joined the little

company. Its centre was the band of immigrants. It was evident that

some movements toward effective sympathy had been suggested. What they

were or by what suggested I could not tell. The strangers could speak

little or no English, and for a time their appearance only appealed to

the kindly feelings of the multitude. I had pressed in close to the

strong man, who was still bearing the little child in the same

position in which it rested when he passed me at the door of the

hotel. The same fixed look of independence was in his face and his

position. There was much of sternness on the face of the woman, but it

was marked by pain, referable perhaps to her situation, and to the

marks of recent grief. Something was to be done, but what I could not

yet determine. As I pressed nearer to the man the company crowded

closer.

"You need help," said I to the strange man.

He intimated plainly that he could not understand me.

"You want _bread_," said I.

"_Das brod_," exclaimed he, shaking his head. "_Nein--das grab!_"

And he threw the clothes from the face of the child on his arm, and

the pale, quiet features of the little one were cold in death.

One low, agonizing cry went up from the depth of the woman's heart.

One proud look around was given by the father, but that look was

exchanged for one of anguish as he turned his eye downward toward the

burthen which his arm sustained.

The company had come up, not to solicit charity, that they might eat

and drink before they should die--but that they might obtain a

burying-place for the little one of their flock, whom death had

released from its parents' troubles.

It was a pretty child; the blue eyes were visible beneath the half

divided lids, and the long lashes hung over them like gentle palls,

defending them from the rudeness of earth's winds. The fine light hair

lay smoothly over the marble forehead, and a few white teeth shone out

from between the lips that were shrinking away from each other in the

coldness of death.

It was a _grave_ the parents needed.

The contributions were liberal, and a grave was provided. It would

seem that in the wilderness of unreclaimed lands which lie along the

public works of Pennsylvania, there might be found a resting-place for

an infant stranger, without the eleemosynary aid which had been

sought--but, alas! who does not desire when they "bury their dead out

of their sight," that it may be in a place which memory may cherish.

We cannot comprehend the unconsciousness of the grave. We hedge it

about, we make the last house as if comforts were to be enjoyed

therein, and we love to place our dead side by side with others, as if

there were fellowship with the mouldering clay. It is of no use to

argue against this--it is better perhaps to encourage the feelings,

and assist in their gratification. They refine the mind, they elevate

views, they meliorate passions and keep alive affections. Let the

resting-place of the dead be sanctified to all, it is the home of the

temple of God. It is the Moriah of the Christian dispensation.

I cannot leave Harrisburg at any season of the year, but especially in

the early part of Autumn, without seeking the shore of the Susquehanna

at sunset. All day long the river is beautiful, the quiet stream as it

goes shining down to the ocean is full of loveliness, and all upon it

or near it, partakes of its character. But it is exquisitely rich and

attractive near the close of the day. I went alone to enjoy the scene.

And placing myself upon the bold bank between the town and the river I

looked westward for the sight that had so often been enjoyed. It was

there; no change comes over such beauties; they are immortal, they are

without mutation. In the bosom of the broad river--glowing with the

golden beams of the retiring sun--sat the islands that break the unity

of the stream and augment its beauties. So rich, so full was the

sunlight upon the river, that these islands seemed to be floating in

the gorgeous light. Some shot out prominent angles into the water, and

presented salient points to break the uniformity, while others sat

swan-like down, their rounded edge touching the stream, as if they had

been dressed by art to present the perfection of symmetry; the dark

green of the shrubbery that sprung up in the moisture of the islands

was mingled with the golden hues of the sun, and here and there the

gentle current, by passing over some obstructing object, broke into a

ripple, that danced like liquid gold in the sunlight.

It was a rich and lovely sight, one to which frequency of enjoyment

can bring no satiety, and he who sits down to such a scene finds the

impressions of unfriendly association passing away--the resolutions of

revenge, which unprovoked rudeness excited, melting into the better

determinations of the heart--and all of bitterness and animosity which

unchastened pride encourages, are neutralized and lost in the deep

emotions of love which such a view of God's works and such a sense of

man's enjoyment necessarily promote.

I sat absorbed in the scene until the sun began to drop below the

hills, and the warmth of the coloring upon the water was yielding to

the neutral and colder tints of evening, but upward along the sides of

the hills the gorgeousness of the sunlight was in its fullness.

Casting my eyes away to the right, I noticed a gathering on the

upland: and on looking closer I could discover the forms of those who

had composed the morning procession. They had made a grave for the

little one of their flock, and had gathered around it to do the last

offices to the inanimate form. They all bowed together, as if taking

a last look, and when they raised their heads, I thought I caught a

little of the wild cry of the anguished mother--but I must have been

deceived, the distance was too great, but the signs of grief were

_visible_, and I saw the father sustaining with his arm the afflicted

wife, and the other members of the group cast their eyes toward their

afflicted female companion. The air was full of dust, the consequence

of a long drought, and as the floating particles reflected the

sunbeams, the funeral gathering seemed for a moment, bathed in the

glorious light of the setting sun, transfigured on their mount of

sorrow--transfigured from the poor mendicant wanderers they had

appeared in the morning, to children of light.

That glorious sunset on the islands and waters of the Susquehanna

cannot soon fade from my memory--nor shall I easily forget the blaze

of glory shed around the infant's grave. Strange that the richness of

sunlight should spring from the impure particles by which it is

reflected--but in this world of ours what but errors and impurities of

the human kind make visible and beautiful the grace of Him in whose

light and heat "we live and move and have our being?"

PEDRO AND INEZ.

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

[It is a well known fact that the hapless Inez de

Castro, the young and beautiful bride of Pedro of

Portugal, was murdered, while he was absent on a

hunting excursion.]

Softly broke the light of morning, through a pictured window's gloom,

Blandly strayed the zephyr's winglet 'mid rich plants of Eastern bloom,

Shedding a strong spicy fragrance round that gorgeous room,

Lightly on her couch of purple slumbered Pedro's new-made bride,

In her young unshadowed beauty, with no other thought beside

That which his deep love had poured o'er her spirit's tide.

Softly had Prince Pedro risen from his nuptial couch that morn,

Lightly donned his hunting vesture, at the call of hound and horn:

Yet he bends enamored o'er that face of Beauty born.

One more love-glance, yet another, on the sleeping face he cast;

Soft he stoops to meet that red lip--one light kiss--the last!

"God and our Lady bless thee, love!"--and so Prince Pedro passed.

Softly faded into twilight gorgeous gleams of gold and red,

Valley, stream, and purple mountain lay in mellow glory spread.

And the lemon's snowy blossom dewy odors shed.

Homeward through eve's tender shadows speeds Prince Pedro with his band,

While with love almost paternal his fond eye drinks in the land,

Over which he soon may govern with a kingly hand.

Now the mellow horn he soundeth through the leafy olive groves,

Far and wide the clear notes echo, but they bring not her he loves--

"Inez? is it thou, sweet Inez, where yon shadow moves?"

Never more shall Inez answer to that fond familiar call--

Of the lovely bride left sleeping, bleeding clay is all--

Of a fiendish hate the victim lies she, wrapt in gory pall.

Never more from that dread hour was Prince Pedro seen to smile!

Never more did chase or revel his still agony beguile--

But he walked in the shadow of dark thoughts the while!

With her martyred form forever graven on his memory,

He became a scourge and terror from whom all men sought to flee,

Tortured were his victims, but he smiled in mockery!

Such the change, and such the monarch whose reft hand made discord ring

Like a clarion through the country that had gladly hailed him king.

Darkly, like the tempest, rode he on the avenger's wing!

And when midnight drew her curtain round the land, that hour

In her blood-stained chamber did he stand with fearful power,

And renew the fatal vow to avenge his martyred flower!

A LEGEND OF CLARE.

THE TRICKS UPON TRICKS, AND THE TWISTS UPON TWISTS;

OR KHUR ENEIN KHUR, AGUS KHAOUN ENEIN KHAOUN.

BY J. GERAHTY M'TEAGUE.

CHAPTER I.

THE GUBBAUN SEARE.

One of my own dear countrymen, casting his eye on the above title, may

possibly recognize something in it familiar to him, especially should

he ever have resided on the classic shores of Galway or of Clare, our

own "Far West;" but to others who may chance to honor our legend with

a perusal, some few words of introduction are necessary to transport

them, "in their mind's eye," from the city of "brotherly love," to the

far distant and far different land of the O'Malleys, the

Macnamaras,[1] and the Blakes.

An Irishman is, in my humble opinion, rather unlike a prophet, for

this reason, he is in one sense only, to be honored in his own

country--transplant him; and though he may be unimpaired, perhaps, in

vigor of body; though he may make an excellent fabricator of

rail-roads and canals, yet it has always appeared to me he loses his

native _raciness_, except under very peculiar circumstances; he grows

_different_; in a word, he gradually becomes--_like the rest of the

world_!

[Footnote 1: Let me assure my readers that this word is pronounced

Macnam_ah_ra.]

Is it the absence of the unique fragrancy of his native turf smoke,

which at home he so freely inhaled, or is it the substitution of beef

and pudding for his former scanty meals of the never-failing root of

plenty? Let us leave these _vexatae questiones_ to those whom they may

concern, but on one point let us give our decided opinion. Our readers

may say, "O, now you all are changed! since your Father Mathew has

made five millions of you _teetotallers_, your country is not worth

the living in! No more doth the invigorating, all-inspiring, thrice

concentrated juice of the 'barley grain' push you forward to glorious

deeds of heroic daring--of skull-breaking, dancing, or of

story-telling; so that for all intents and purposes you have nothing

left worth chronicling--_you are getting like the rest of the world_!"

"Aisy a bit," say I, "the fiddle and the bagpipes have just the same

charms to 'put the capers in our heels' as in whisky's balmiest days;

and as for story-telling, _that_ we can do equally well over a good

cup of fine hot coffee. No, no; while the same fresh and _free_

breezes shall continue to be wafted across the Atlantic to us; while

we have our own green fields and wild, lofty mountains to behold,

Irishmen we shall be in all our better qualities; and though Father

Mathew may have been influential enough in cooling our heads, (we

admit,) yet our _hearts_ are as warm as ever!

Irish cabins, which you all have heard of, would not be such bad

concerns after all, and we should get

on very well indeed, if we were only a _leetle_ better treated. On all

hands it is admitted that we are pretty nearly able (and take my word

for it we are willing enough) to eat and to drink all that a bounteous

Providence causes to be brought forth from the most fruitful of soils;

in truth, a superficial observer might even be tempted to utter an

exclamation of surprise on being told that with a territory one

thousand square miles less than that of the state of Maine, and six

thousand less than that of Pennsylvania, ten millions of human beings

should be supported; but then consider, kind reader, when our beef,

and our butter, and our eggs, and even the little cabbages from our

gardens, must fly on the wings of steam to pay the rent, and that rent

flies away again, you know, to pay _whom_; (a slight glance at a

certain map will tell you that;) consider, I say, that we cannot

always be light-hearted, that a little sadness will sometimes creep

over us. Think how our poor countrymen must sometimes suffer, and let

ever our warmest sympathies be exerted when we hear of their

distresses.

But, "stop!" you say, "these are twists you're getting into, indeed.

What has this to do with your legend?" Well, then, reader, jump over

with me into a snug cabin, which is not so very unlike a log-cabin,

only built of stone or mud, (excuse me,) and sit down with me and a

collection of choice spirits, round a blazing turf fire, keeping it

warm, as we say, with the pipe and the "darlin' tibacky" taking their

accustomed rounds. I may as well introduce Jimmy Carmody to you--my

"Micky Free"--Tom Dillon, and a few others. So, now we are all

settled.

"What's this you're all discussing so learnedly, boys?"

"O, nothing very partic'lar, your honor, only we're just saying what

mighty quare owld ruins them is--them round towers. Did your honor

never see any of them? Sure there's one on Scattery Island, in the

Shannon, and one at Kilmacduagh, I believe, in this county."

"O, yes, Tom, I've seen those you mention, and a great many more, too;

and if any of you have ever been to Dublin by the canal, I'm sure you

must have seen the one at Clondalkin. There's one, too, you know, in

the county Wicklow, at the lake that Tommy Moore made the beautiful

song about:

'By that lake, whose gloomy shore

Skylark never warbled o'er.'"

"Why, now, yer honor's perfectially right!" said Jimmy, who just then

remembered some incidents in his former travels to Dublin about his

"little spot of a pratee garden, that was near being sowld at the Four

Courts for _non payment_. Quite right your honor is. Sure I wint down

to see where the blessed Saint Kevin done all his miracles--where he

turned the loaves into stones, and where he med the owld king's goose,

that he was so fond of, young again, and all that; but sure your honor

knows all about it; but after a while, the man that was there showed

me a little hole up over the lake in the _clift_ above, and 'look!'

says he, 'that's St. Kevin's bed,' says he. 'Why, then, now!' says I,

'up in _that_ little pigeon-hole!' says I. 'O! and did his blessed

reverince go up _there_ to bed?' says I. 'No! you fool!' says he, 'but

to avoid the darlin' young lady,' says he. 'And it's _there_ he threw

her down into the deep, cowld, dark lake,' says he. 'Would you like to

go up and lie down in his bed?' says he. 'Is it _me_,' says I, 'to do

it? Why my brain is like a spider's web wid lookin' at it,' says I.

But a young man that was used to crawling in them unchristian

places--them mines--went up; and I thought I could jump through a

key-hole, I felt so, to see him do it; and says I, when he came down,

'Young man, I pray, when you settle in life, you may have a handier

way of gettin' into bed than that, particularly if you're--'"

Here a burst of laughter, which it is not hard to elicit from such an

auditory, interrupted Jimmy, who is requested to tell "whether he ever

heard who built these round towers, or why they were built at all?"

"Why," remarks Jimmy, "_why_ they were built, no one can tell--they

don't look like any thing Christian; but the man that undoubtedly

built some of them was the Gubbaun Seare."

"Who was he, Jimmy?" asked all.

"Why, then, your honor, myself doesn't know much about the Gubbaun

Seare, only as the owld people tell us."

"Well, Jimmy, that don't make what the old people tell us of no

account; for with all our new improvements, (I had been explaining a

rail-road to them the evening before,) we are obliged to retain nearly

all their inventions also; so you may as well tell us what you know

about the Gubbaun Seare, for you may depend there must be some truth

and value in it."

"Why, then, that's true for your honor," said another; a sentence, by

the bye, which always greets you when you utter an opinion, correct or

incorrect.

"Well, then," said Jimmy, "in them owld times, I believe, when the

round towers was building, there was a mason--and if there was, he was

as fine a mason as ever lived, or ever will again--and, indeed, your

honor, you know the round towers would prove that, if he built

them--for where is the mason-work that's equal to what's on them? That

one at Glendalough is a fine one, to be sure--and there's many finer

than that. Well, he lived in a fine cottage, somewhere in Munster, and

I don't know exactly where.

"He had been married, and had an only son--and proud was he of him,

you may depend. Well, it was given up to the Gubbaun, that he was not

only the best mason in all the world, but along with that, sir, he was

the cutest man known, and the greatest hand at all kinds of plans and

contrivances. He was able for every one, and any one; and nobody ever

had to boast that they had gained the least advantage over _him_."

"I suppose, Tom, that with all this wisdom of the father, the son must

have been as wise as he was himself, or may be wiser?"

"Why, to be sure, so one would imagine; but it was far from him to be

as _good_ a boy as the father--and that the father knew right well,

for he was always trying to make him sensible of the scaming; but the

son was always too honest, and that vext the father.

"However, he said nothing until the son grew up a dashin' fine young

man; and if he wasn't the best av scamers, he was nearly as good a

mason as the father himself, and was quiet and _honest_, only a

terrible simpleton, and what the English gentleman that used to come

to see your honor called _spooney_; though what a man had to do with a

spoon, myself doesn't see. But the father racked his brains constantly

to find out some way to make him knowin'; and at last he came to be

determined in his mind that nothing would do the son so much good, or

put sinse so well into his head as a fine, clever, smart young woman

av a wife, if he could meet one to his mind; and, your honor, though I

never tried it myself, I have no doubt an excellent plan it is. Well,

sir, after he once hit on a plan, sorra long he was in puttin' it into

execution. One morning he got up very early, and called his son into

the field. 'Now, Boofun,' (that was the young man's name,) 'now,

Boofun,' says he, 'run an' catch the sheep beyant there--that big

white one, with the fine fleece, and bring her to me quick!' So Boofun

did; an' if he did, the Gubbaun pulled out his big knife, and kill'd

her; an' by the same token the summer was comin' on, and the fleece

was fine, and long, and silky."

"What did he do that for, Jimmy?"

"Wait a bit, your honor. When the Gubbaun had her skinned, he embraced

his son, (that's _hugged_ him, boys, d' ye mind,) an' spoke to him as

this:

"'Now, Boofun, avick, (my son,) and it's you _was_ ever the good boy

of a son to me, only I never could make you understand the coorse of

the world's doin's as well as I could wish; but never heed! you'll

improve yet--so take courage and do as I desire you; but mind, if you

don't, never call the Gubbaun Seare your father more, the longest day

you have to live! Do you see that skin?' 'I do, father--I see it,'

says he, innocent as a child. 'Well, Boofun, you must take to the road

now at once, and you must walk on, and never stop till you get some

one that will buy this skin, and pay you for it, and then give you

your skin back again into the bargain.'

"'O! O! father!' says the other, 'I'm a fool myself, I know, and yet

I'm sure I wouldn't do sich a simple thing as _that_,' says he, 'and I

think, indeed, father, you must be a fool _yourself_ to think so,'

says he. 'Howld your tongue, an' be off, you natral!' says the father;

'what do _you_ know about it! Be off at wanst; and here, take this!

here's cost enough for the road,' says he, 'and be sure an' remember

what I towld you,' says he.

"So poor Boofun, sir, wint off; and sorrowful he was to lave his

father, and his business, and his comfortable home, and to go away on

what he thought sich a wild-goose chase. It happened that it was

market-day at the next town, an' many a one overtook him, an' he

cryin'.

"'Well, Boofun,' they'd say, for they knew him, 'are you going to sell

that fine sheep's skin?' 'I am,' he'd say; 'but I know _you_ wont buy

it, for by the way I'm selling it, it would be a dear article for

you.' 'Why so, man? I'm in want of wool, an' very little would make me

buy the same _skin_, for it's fine _wool_.' 'Yes, but,' Boofun would

say, 'you must pay me for it, and then give it me back if you buy it!'

So he would be always laughed at, an' he was nearly dying av dishpair.

"However, on he traveled and walked; and many miles from home he came

to a beautiful lake, all surrounded with trees, very like that lake

where your honor and the captain, and the ladies used to go and fish,

and make peckthers, (pictures,) Inchiquin lake, sir; an' if he did,

there was as darlin' a young lady as could be seen, an' she standing

on the shore of the lake, and after finishing washin' some of the

finest fleeces of iligant wool. 'O!' said he to himself, 'if I could

only get this darlin' to buy _my_ fleece! But no one will ever do so

foolish a thing as that, an' I shall never sell it, nor get back

again!'

"However, Boofun took courage, and wint up to her. 'God bless your

work, alanna! 'tis yourself's not idle this morning! And what

beautiful wool! I've a fleece here myself, an' I thought it good, but

yours bates it intirely! I would sell mine, too, but neither you nor

any one else will ever buy it! A voh! voh!'

"'Why, that _must_ be a curious fleece, if no one'll buy it. Sir,'

says she, 'what may be the price?'

"'O, for that,' says he, 'it's for little or nothing I'd sell it; but

what good would that do you, agrah, when I'm never to enter my

father's house again, nor call myself his son, until I bring him back

the skin and the price of it as well! However, it's no use talking to

you, at any rate, for _you'll_ have nothing to do with me.'

"'Why, how can you say so till I tell you?' says she.

"'O, my thousand blessings for that word,' says he, 'it makes my heart

rise like a cork to hear you!'

"'Well, what will you take for the skin?'

"'O, very little, then--only so much, (mentioning a small sum.)

"'Very good,' says she, 'I'll give you that much, and welcome;' and

whisper, 'are you the son of the Gubbaun Seare?'

"'I am; but how could you guess that?'

"'Because,' says she, 'no one could think of such a plan but his own

four bones, _and I think I see the meanin' of it, too_,' says she.

'Hand me the skin.' So Boofun did, sir; and she fell to work, and in a

very short time she had the wool stripped off. 'And here, now,' says

she, 'here is your _skin_ back for you, and _here_ is the price of

it,' says she, handing him the money; and tell the Gubbaun a very good

_buraun_ the skin'll make,' says she.

"'O, my million thanks to you,' says he; 'though I never should have

thought of this in thousands of years, yet you've settled it with one

word!'

"So, sir, after much more talk, away he ran, and never stopped till he

came home; and the Gubbaun had just returned from his work, and

findin' the house so lonesome, was almost repentin' he'd ever sent

Boofun away. Glad he was, though, when Boofun came in, and gave him a

great account of all he had done; but what was his joy when Boofun

drew forth the sheep's skin, and counted out the money. Well, after

some of the joy was over, the Gubbaun put on a very long, sarious

face, 'And now, Boofun,' says he, 'don't as you love me,' says he,

'deny any thing I ask,' says he, 'but tell me the truth. I know, you

needn't tell me, it was a woman that thought of the plan of skinning

the fleece, for no _man_ in Ireland would think of it but myself.'

"'Faix, then, so she said herself,' says Boofun.

"'Hah! well, I knew it was a _she_; but was she young or owld? for, by

my trowel and hammer!' says he, 'the owld ones are _sometimes_ as cute

as any!'

"O, then, she was young, and handsome, too, and rich beside,' says he.

"'O, never mind the riches,' says the Gubbaun, 'for half a grain of

sinse is worth a ton of it; but you're my darlin' son at last, and be

off at the first light of morning,' says he, 'and take the best horse

I have, and put on the best clothes you have, and bring her home--and

I'll engage she comes.'

"Long before the Gubbaun was up, Boofun started; and not many hours

was he on the road, when he met the very same young lady, an' she

goin' to market all by herself. Well, sir, they had a great

salutation, an' he coaxed her to take a sate on the horse. She wanted

to get off at the market, but it wouldn't do, sir; and he came to his

father's house airly in the evening.

"Well, you'd think, sir, the Gubbaun knew it all. Some said surely

that he could foretell. There was the house, all beautiful and nate,

and a most splendid intertainment on the table; there was a large

party of the Gubbaun's friends, and plenty of all that was good.

"And the Gubbaun was the boy that _could_ intertain them all. And,

sir, when all were in high good-humor, and herself laughing and jokin'

with Boofun, then he brought forward _the match_. To be sure, she was

very shy, and ashamed, the crayther, (all by herself, you may say,)

but you know, sir, even now, as we see every day, a match isn't long

comin' round, when the parties are willin' an' the _spaykers_ are

good. So it was now; she agreed to lave all for Boofun--and she did

well. To make my long story short, in a few days they were married;

and in the meantime they had got _her_ friends' consint. And a great

weddin' they had."

"Well, Tom, now we've got them well married, jump up for some turf!

don't you see the fire's a'most out?"

"O, then, that your honor may never want for a good fire, I pray."

"Yes, Jimmy, nor a _good warrant_, like yourself, to tell a good

story."

"To be sure, sir, it shortens the night, as we say, an' if Jimmy wont

be offended, for taking the story out av his mouth, I'll tell your

honor some more of the Gubbaun's doin's."

CHAPTER II.

"That's a good boy, Tom," said Jimmy, myself doesn't remember any more

about him."

"Well, then, sir, they were not very many weeks married, when the

Gubbaun wished to _try_ the wife still more, to see whether she was

knowin' enough for him, in order that she might be depended on

completely, if any thing should happen. So one day he towld the son to

get ready, and to come with him, for that he had heard of a fine job

of work. So they started; and when they had got about three miles on

the road, the Gubbaun turned sharp round, and asked Boofun the

distance to the next place.

"'Twenty miles, no less,' says Boofun.

"'Well,' says the Gubbaun, 'every inch of the road we have to go,'

says he, 'but it's too long by ten miles.'

"'Sure I can't help that,' says Boofun.

"'You _can_, sir!' says the Gubbaun, 'you can make it _ten_ miles, if

you like; and if you can't, go back, sir, and stay at home with your

wife, for you're not fit to travel with me,' says he.

"Boofun said 'he couldn't do it;' so he had to go back. And when he

came home, his wife ran out.

"'Well, what's brought you back? Any thing the matter?'

"'Every thing!' says poor Boofun. 'We hadn't got three miles before

the Gubbaun towld me to shorten the road one half; and sure, you know,

_all I could say_ wouldn't shorten it!'

"'I don't know that,' says she, 'may be not; but take my advice, run

back, and begin to tell him some story,' says she, 'no matter whether

it is true or not, but amuse him as well as you can; and if he isn't

satisfied, cut my head off when you come back,' says she. So, sir, he

never stopped until he overtook the Gubbaun; and the very minute he

began the story, he had confidence in Boofun's wife.

"Now, Tom, tell us--what reason could he have had for that? Couldn't

they and she both have taken care of themselves?"

"Howld on a while, and maybe you'll see, sir."

"They traveled on and on, a hundred miles, or maybe more, and at last

they came to a most splendid, iligant, noble palace, that the King of

Munster was building. Thousands of masons, and carpenters, and all

kinds of workmen, were in full operation at it--and the finest of work

they were doing. It was just dinner-time, as it happened, when the

Gubbaun and Boofun came, but they made no delay, but asked the steward

of the works, sir, for employment, an' they didn't let an they were

_any thing in particklar_, only just masons.

"'O!' says the steward, says he, 'there's plenty av employment for men

in your line,' says he, 'but wait till after dinner, and then I'll

talk to you,' says he.

"'Why, for that matter,' says the Gubbaun, 'it's a while ago we eat

our dinner,' says he, 'and if it's all the same to you, we'll be glad

if you'll set us some piece of work that we can be at till you come

back.' And just then, sir, the dinner-bell began to ring. 'Well,

gentleman,' says the steward, laughin' out loud, an' turnin' up his

nose, an' winkin' round to the rest of the men, since you are so

impatient, an' sich wonderful men, just sit down here, and take that

block of marble,' says he, 'and have a cat an' two tails made out of

it when I come back,' says he, runnin' into dinner.

"Well, sir, it was a fine block of stone, sure enough, and likely,

rale Kilkenny marble; but it was any thing like a Kilkenny cat they

med, for they never stopped until they had a splendid cat, wid two

noble tails carved out, and all this before the lazy steward and his

men came back from their dinner; and what was the most astonishin' to

all, the surprisin' fierce pair of whiskers that the Gubbaun was

puttin' out from the cat's nose when the steward came out! But who

should be along with him but the King of Munster himself; and when he

saw the cat, and the two tails, and the warlike pair of whiskers, he

was all but ready to split with the laughin', and when he got words at

last, he never stopped praisin' the Gubbaun.

"'But,' says the King of Munster, turning round to the unfortunate

steward, (that hadn't one word to say,) 'you scoundrel! your intention

was to make game of this honest man, and now he has done in one hour,

what you wouldn't do if you were to live as long as that cat would

last; and it's _he_, and not _you_, that has the best right to be

steward here,' says he. So the Gubbaun was appointed steward over all

the palace; and it was he that made all the ornaments, and all the

images and statues that was in the place intirely, he and Boofun; and

the King of Munster grew fonder and fonder of him every day.

"But, sir, in the course of time the king got curious notions into his

head, and the worst was, that at last he determined that his palace

should not only be the finest and grandest in all Ireland, but what

was worse for the Gubbaun, he resolved that as soon as all was

finished, he would put an end to the poor fellow's life, and

particularly because he had lately found out that the King of Leinster

had heard of his beautiful palace, and that he intended to send for

the Gubbaun and construct one still finer.

"But, sir, though the King of Munster was certainly determined to kill

the Gubbaun Seare, he found it very difficult to lay a plan to do

it--for he well knew who he had to deal with, and how hard it would be

to catch him. However, the king incraysed his wages, and made him very

well off, so that he mightn't suspect any thing; but, for fear he

should, he sent for the man who owned the house where the Gubbaun and

Boofun lived, privately, and made him great presents to keep the

saycret, and to lay hands on the Gubbaun if he suspected that he was

about to start away in any hurry. But, sir, as luck would have it,

this very man's daughter, who loved the Gubbaun and Boofun dearly,

happened to be behind the door, or in a closet, while the king was

giving these horrible directions to her father, and determined at once

to let them know the danger they were in."

"I wonder, Tom, the Gubbaun didn't suspect something?"

"O, then, most likely he did, and was well prepared, I dare say, (for

we all know, sir, how hard it is to trust these kings and great

people,) still the girl found it very hard to make the Gubbaun

sensible of his danger; and she knew there was always a strict guard

over him, and spies out, for fear he'd make his escape; though, the

palace not being finished yet, the king did not like to do the action

for a while.

"One day the Gubbaun and Boofun had been hard at work at some grand

temple, and they came back at night, mighty hungry. This very girl was

the cook, and she had a very fine lookin' pot of pratees on the fire

for dinner."

"Potatoes, Tom! No! Why they came from America, a thousand or more

years after this!"

"Why, then, now, did they, your honor? Well, I suppose it was

something as good; any how, we'll call them pratees."

"'Good evenin'!' says the Gubbaun; 'is supper ready?'

"'O, quite ready,' says she; 'but it's a poor one we have to-day, only

pratees and eggs,' says she; for you know, your honor, they didn't

live _then_ as we do _now_--they knew better than that.

"'Well, them same's good,' says he. 'Did you never hear the old

saying, When all _fruits_ fail, welkim _haws_!' for he'd always a

pleasant joke or saying in his mouth. 'But what's this?' says he;

'Why, how came so many raw ones among them?'

"'O,' says she, looking hard at him, 'if you _will_ stop _here_, you

must take things as they come, agreeable and disagreeable, for that's

the way they're going!'