GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XVIII. May, 1841. No. 5.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
Worth and Wealth
The Reefer of ’76 (continued)
The Haunted Castle
My Grandfather’s Story
The Parsonage Gathering
Leaves from a Lawyer’s Port-Folio
A Descent into the Maelström
May-Day
Sports and Pastimes—Dog Breaking
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music and Fashion
The Mother’s Pride
The Dusty White Rose
The Voice of the Spring-Time
Alethe
To an Old Rock
To The “Blue-Eyed Lassie”
I Cling to Thee
Soliloquy of an Octogenarian
Life
The Sweet Birds are Singing
Ladies of Queen Victoria’s Court, Correct
Likenesses
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Engraved by J. Sartain._
_The Mother’s Pride._
_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by De Franca._]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XVIII. MAY, 1841. No. 5.
* * * * *
THE MOTHER’S PRIDE.
BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.
How beauteous is childhood—how blessed, how calm,
An eye full of sunshine—a bosom all balm—
A free gushing heart of unfetter’d delight,
Like a fount of pure water, untroubled, and bright.
Such—such is the morning of innocent youth,
When hope’s every promise seems gilded with truth,
When flowers lay scatter’d in heaps ’neath our feet,
And each passing gale brings its odorous sweet.
How fair to that baby—in half-dreamy rest
Reclining its head on a fond mother’s breast,
Looks the whole outward world to those soft smiling eyes!
How cloudless its visions—how brilliant its skies!
How clear the blue heaven, whose bright borrow’d gleams
Are reflected far, far o’er the sun-lighted streams!
How gentle the music of low melody
That is whisper’d from blossom, and flower, and tree!
The earth, like an Eden, is glowing with joy,
No serpent hath enter’d its peace to destroy,
A heaven-mission’d Angel—still watches the whole,
’Tis the spirit of God, in that baby’s pure soul.
Well, well may that mother look anxiously there
On that fair, snowy brow, all unshadow’d by care;
Then turn to the future with wondering gaze,
To trace on its pages its fast coming days.
How long will her ringlets of raven-like fold,
Lie darkly amid its thick tresses of gold?
That seem in their beauty of darkness, and light,
Like the sunlight of morning in dalliance with night.
She gazes upon him—her idol, her joy,
The hope of her bosom—her sunny-haired boy,
And feels the whole world in its domain so wide,
Hath nought in its gift, like her darling, her pride.
She thinks of the days when a glad little child,
Her heart, as her baby’s, was playfully wild—
Of her own watchful mother—her blessing, her prayer,
Who guarded those days from the footsteps of care.
Her far smiling home rises full on her view,
When she—like a blossom of summer growth, grew,
The fields where she roved in her innocent mirth,
And her indoor enjoyments around the old hearth.
Those days have departed—their sunlight has fled,
And pale is the ray that gleams over the dead;
The stateliest tree may be felled to the ground,
And its branches unguarded, be scatter’d around.
Her household is broken—her father no more
Recounts to his children the bright days of yore;
’Tis broken and dreary—her fond mother lies
Encircled by earth, and watch’d o’er by the skies.
She sees the old grave-yard—each white gleaming tomb,
And the forms that are slumbering in darkness and gloom,
And a tear of remembrance, and sadden’d regret
She sheds for the homestead she ne’er can forget.
These dreamings are casting their shadows e’en now,
And dimming the gladness that erst deck’d her brow—
Her heart wanders back—when to all things beside
She was like her own baby—a dear mother’s pride.
* * * * *
WORTH AND WEALTH,
OR THE CHOICE OF A WIFE.
BY ELLEN ASHTON.
“And so you intend to marry Lucy Warden—eh! Harry. What on earth has
put you in such a notion of that girl?” said Charles Lowry, to his
friend Henry Bowen, as they sat together, cracking almonds after dinner.
“And why not marry Lucy Warden?” quietly said his friend.
“Why? oh! because she’s not worth a sous; and besides I’ve heard she’s
the daughter of a brick-layer. You know, any how, that her mother kept a
little retail dry-goods store until an uncle left Mrs. Warden that
annuity on which they now just manage to subsist.”
“A formidable array of evils, indeed; but still they do not dishearten
me. As for money I do not look for it in a wife, because I should never
feel independent if I was indebted to a bride for my bread. Besides an
heiress is generally educated in such expensive habits that it requires
a fortune to satisfy her luxurious wishes. As a mere matter of business
this marrying for money is nine times out of ten a losing speculation.
You are forced to live according to your wife’s former style, and being
thus led into expenses which your income will not afford, you too often
end by becoming bankrupt. Then, too late, you discover that your wife is
fit only for a parlor; she becomes peevish, or wretched, or sick, and
perhaps all together. Domestic felicity is at an end when this occurs—”
“But her birth!”
“A still more nonsensical objection. It is one of the prejudices of the
old colonial times, and was imported from England by the servile adorers
of rank, who came over the Atlantic to assume airs in the provinces
which they dared not assume at home, and to sneer at the honester
members of society, who, instead of being like themselves drones in the
public hive, earned their bread fairly. It is this latter class to which
our country is indebted for its subsequent prosperity—a prosperity
which all the aristocrats of Europe could not have bestowed upon it. The
revolution, while it made us politically equal, did not destroy this
social aristocracy. The same exclusiveness prevails now as then, but
with even more injustice, for it is opposed to the whole spirit of our
republican institutions. Nor is this all: the prejudice itself is
ridiculous. How can people, who scarcely know their own ancestors beyond
one or two generations, and whose blood has been derived from every
nation and occupation on the globe, talk with any propriety of birth?
Why, there is scarcely a man or woman of our acquaintance, who is not an
example of this pie-bald ancestry. Take, for instance, Walter Hastings,
who, you know, boasts of his family. I happen to know all about him, for
he is a second cousin to myself. His father made a fortune, and married
into our family. But who was he? The son of a German redemptioner.
Hastings’ mother, it is true, is the grand-daughter of an English baron,
and the sister—a far higher glory—of a signer of our Declaration of
Independence. Such is a fair sample of our best families. Why I would
undertake to furnish from the ancestry of any of them either a peasant
or a peer, either a laborer or a drone. Birth, forsooth! The only
persons who boast of it in this country are generally those who have the
least claim even to an honest parentage; and the noisiest pretender to
blood I ever met with was the grandson of a fellow who was hung fifty
years ago for forgery.”
“Well, you’re really getting quite _low_ in your notions, Harry—where,
in the world, did you pick up such vulgar opinions? _You_, a gentleman
and a lawyer, to marry such a girl! She’s pretty enough I grant—amiable
no doubt—can sing and draw passably—and makes, I hear, a batch of
bread, or does dirty house-work as well as a common kitchen girl. But
perhaps that is what you want her for?”
“Your sneer aside, yes! It is because Lucy Warden _is_ a good
house-keeper, that I intend to marry her. Not that I would have a bride
_only_ because she could, as you say, make a batch of bread. Education,
amiability, a refined mind, and lady-like manners are equally necessary.
But a knowledge, and a practical one too, of housekeeping is no slight
requisite in a good wife. I know such knowledge is scarce among our city
ladies, but that is the very reason why I prize it so highly. Believe
me, refinement is not incompatible with this knowledge.”
“Pshaw, Harry; but granting your position, what is the _use_ of such
knowledge?”
“It is of daily use. Servants will always impose on a mistress who knows
nothing of her duties as the domestic head of the house. You are an
importer; but how long, think you, would you prosper if you left every
thing to the care of clerks, who would naturally take advantage of your
carelessness to fleece you? A mistress of a house ought to oversee her
establishment in person. This she cannot do unless—to use a mercantile
phrase—_she understands her business_. If she does not do this, nothing
will be well done. The whole evil, believe me, arises from the desire of
our women to ape the extravagance of the English female nobility, whose
immense wealth allows them to employ substitutes to oversee their
domestic establishments. But even had we incomes of hundreds of
thousands of dollars we could not carry out the plan, owing to the total
absence of good servants of this character in our country; and in this
opinion I am borne out by Combe, Hamilton, two of the most observant and
just of English travellers.”
“Well, Harry, you were born for a barrister, or you could not run on so
glibly. But it’s a shame that a gentleman who might command the choice
of the market, and marry the richest heiress in Walnut street, should
throw himself away upon a girl without a sixpence. Now there’s Charlotte
Thornbury and her sister who are co-heiresses,—why can’t you take the
one and I the other?”
“Merely because I love another. You smile; but despite the sneer I am a
believer in love. Of Charlotte I have nothing to say, except that she is
beautiful. You know how often we have discussed the matter. I only hope
she will make you a good wife.”
“_Allons!_ the ladies are awaiting us. You and I will never, on this
question, agree.”
The foregoing conversation has given our readers a pretty accurate idea
of the two young men to whose acquaintance we have introduced them.
Henry Bowen was a young lawyer, with a small annual income, but of—what
is called—an unimpeachable family. This, with his acknowledged talents,
would have procured for him the hand of many a mere heiress, but he had
wisely turned away from them all, and sought a companion for life in
one, without name or fortune, but who, in every requisite for a good
wife, was immeasurably their superior.
Charles Lowry, on the contrary, was a dashing young merchant, who by
dint of attention in the counting-house, could afford to be luxurious in
his style of living. He had imbibed many of the false notions of
fashionable society, and among others the idea that a rich wife was
indispensable. His sole object was to secure an heiress, as much for the
_éclat_ of the thing as for her fortune, although this latter was no
slight temptation to the young merchant. And he had finally succeeded.
Amid a host of rivals he had won the prize. Need we say that Charlotte
Thornbury, the beautiful, the gay, but the careless heiress, was the
guerdon?
The two friends were married in the same week. The one took his wife to
a small, but neat and convenient house in one of our less fashionable
streets,—while the other entered at once into a splendid mansion in
Walnut street, whose furniture and decorations were the theme of general
envy and admiration. The one bride kept but a single servant, the other
had several. Yet the mansion of Mrs. Lowry, though always magnificent,
was never tidy, while the quiet home of Mrs. Bowen was a pattern of
neatness and simple elegance. The young merchant never went home without
finding that his wife had been out all day either shopping, or making
calls, and was in consequence tired and silent, or perhaps out of humor;
while the young lawyer always found a neat dinner and a cheerful wife to
welcome him. As for Charles, he had always sneered at love, and having
married from motives of vanity and interest, a woman whose mind he
despised, he had nothing of sympathy with her, nor was it long
consequently before he found her society irksome. When the toils of the
counting-house were over he went home, because it was the custom, but
not because he expected to derive any pleasure from the conversation of
his vain and flippant wife. He was glad when the season commenced with
its round of dissipation, because then he found some relief in attending
the fashionable entertainments of his own and his wife’s acquaintance.
Since his marriage he had never enjoyed a single hour of real domestic
felicity.
How different was the wedded life of Henry and his bride. All through
the tedious duties of the day, the recollection of his sweet wife’s
greeting at night, cheered the young lawyer on in his labors. And when
evening came, and he had closed his office for the day, how smilingly,
and in what neat attire, would Lucy preside at the tea-table, or, after
their meal had been disposed of, bring out her work-stand, and sew at
something, if only at a trifle for a fair, while Henry read to her in
his rich, mellow voice. And then, sometimes, they would sit on the sofa,
and talk of a thousand plans for the future, when their income should be
extended, or, if it was in summer, they would stroll out for a walk, or
call upon some one of their few intimate friends.
“Dear Henry,” said Lucy, one evening to her husband, as they sat talking
together after tea, “how wearied Mr. Lowry looks of late. I think he
must be in bad health. How glad I am you are always well. I know not
what I should do if you were to be taken sick.”
“May that day be long averted, my own Lucy,” said the husband, as he
kissed her pure brow, “but I have noticed something of the same look in
Lowry; and have attributed it to the cares of business. His wife is a
woman, you know, who could do little to alleviate a husband’s
weariness.”
“Oh! how can she be a wife, and not wish to soften her husband’s cares.
Indeed, indeed, if you only look the least worried I share your trouble
until your brow clears up.”
“And it is that which makes me love you so dearly,” said the husband, as
he pressed her to his bosom. “Ah!” he continued to himself, “if Charles
saw me to-night I wonder whether he would not envy me?”
That evening there was a brilliant party at the house of Mrs. Lowry, who
was smiling upon her guests in all the elation of gratified pride. Never
had she appeared more happy. But even the envied mistress of the revel
was not without her care. One or two favorite guests whom she had
invited did not come, and she could not help overhearing some of the
ill-natured remarks of her neighbors. Her only gratification was in
listening to the flatteries of others of her visitors, who were either
more fawning, or more deceitful. At length, however, the entertainment
was over, and wearied and dispirited she paused a moment in the deserted
parlors before retiring. Her husband was there.
“Well, Mrs. Lowry,” said he, with a yawn, “so this grand affair is over
at length, and a pretty penny it has cost I do not doubt”—Charles had
latterly found that his income was frightfully beneath his expenses, and
had begun to wish his bride less extravagant—“But why did you purchase
those new ottomans—and these candelabra—and that,” and here he used an
oath, “expensive set of mirrors? I told you the old ones were good
enough, and here, when I come home, I find you have purchased them in
defiance of my orders. Why, madam, an earl’s fortune would not sustain
you in your extravagances.”
“And whose fortune, I wonder, buys these things?” said the passionate
beauty, “you wouldn’t let me have the common comforts of life if you had
your way.”
“Pshaw! madam, none of your airs. But I tell you this extravagance I
neither can nor will submit to.”
“You’re a brute,” said the wife, “so you are. Do you—you think” she
continued, bursting into tears, “I’d ever have married you, when I might
have had so many better husbands, if I’d thought you’d have used me this
way?”
“Well, madam, so you’ve got up a scene,” coolly said the husband, “all I
wish is, that you had married some one of your other suitors.”
“You do—you insult me—I won’t live with you a day. Oh! that I should
be abused in this way,” and the now really wretched woman burst into a
fresh flood of tears.
“As you please madam!”
But we omit the rest of this scene, which ended with a fit of hysterics
on the part of the wife, and a volley of curses on that of the husband.
The difficulty was the next day made up between the newly married
couple; but from that hour their altercations were frequent and bitter.
Charles began to think as his old friend had told him, that there was a
great difference betwixt marrying for love or for money.
Three years passed. At the end of that period, how altered were the
circumstances of Charles and his friend!
The expenses of his establishment had increased upon the former until
his fortune not only staggered but gave way under the pressure, and,
after several ineffectual attempts to retrieve it by speculations,
which, ending abortively, only increased his embarrassments, Charles
found himself upon the brink of ruin. In these circumstances he found no
consolation in the sympathy of his wife. She rather upbraided him with
the loss of her fortune, forgetting how much of it she had squandered in
her fashionable entertainments. Their altercations, moreover, had
increased in frequency and violence ever since the scene we have
recorded above, until Charles, unable to find even quiet at his own
fireside, sought for relief in the club. Hither he was led, moreover, by
the desire of retrieving his fortune, for his embarrassments were still
unknown to the world, and he trusted that by a lucky chance he might
place himself once more in security. Vain hope! How many deluded victims
have indulged in the same delusion before. His course from that hour was
downward. He became a gambler; he neglected all business; he lost; his
engagements failed to be met; and in a few weeks he was bankrupt.
Meantime the husband of Lucy had been steadily gaining in reputation,
and increasing his business, so that at the end of the third year the
young couple were enabled to move into a larger and more elegant house,
situated in a more desirable quarter. This change of location materially
strengthened the business of the young attorney; he became known as one
of the _rising young men_; and he looked forward with certainty to the
speedy accumulation of a competency.
“Have you heard any thing further?” said Lucy, one evening to her
husband, as he came in from a day’s hard work, “concerning poor Mrs.
Lowry or her husband?”
“Yes! my love,” said he, “and it is all over.”
“What! has any thing alarming happened?” said Lucy, anxiously.
“Sit down, dearest, and don’t tremble so,” said her husband, tenderly,
putting his arm around her waist, and drawing her to the sofa, “and I
will tell you the whole of the melancholy story.
“After his bankruptcy last week, some days elapsed before any thing was
known of the place to which my unfortunate friend had gone. It was
supposed at first that he had fled with what funds he could lay his
hands on. This was the more credible from the ignorance of his wife as
to whither he had gone. She, cold-hearted thing, seemed to care little
for his loss, but appeared to be chiefly affected by her deprivation of
fortune. She even upbraided her husband publicly, and it is said, when
some forgeries which he had perpetrated were discovered, and a strict
search set on foot after the criminal, she went so far as to hope he
might be taken and brought to condign punishment. But you know they
never lived happy together.
Well, every attempt to trace the fugitive having failed, the search was
about being given up in despair, when intelligence was brought to the
city this morning, that a dead body, answering to the description of
that of Mr. Lowry, had been washed ashore, a few miles down the river.
You may well look alarmed, for the intelligence was too true. It was the
body of my poor friend. It is supposed that grief, shame at his
bankruptcy, and perhaps remorse for his crime, led him to commit
suicide. Poor fellow! his sad fate may be traced to his ill-assorted
marriage. He chose a woman whose extravagance always outstripped her
fortune, and who, from having brought him wealth, considered him beneath
her. He did not know the difference in a wife between Worth and Wealth.
* * * * *
THE DUSTY WHITE ROSE.
BY MRS. VOLNEY E. HOWARD.
This is not thy place—oh! thou dusty white rose,
This is not thy place, by the dusty highway,
Thou shouldst bud where the murmuring rivulet flows,
And sings itself off through the meadows away.
Yes—there is thy place, on the distant green lea,
Where the sweet hawthorn blossoms, and wild warblers sing.
There, fanned by the zephyr, and woo’d by the bee,
Thou mightst rival thy fair sister buds of the spring.
Thou remindest me much, oh! thou poor blighted flower,
Of a fair human blossom, I met on life’s way;
She struggled and liv’d through dark Destiny’s hour,
But like thine, has her young bloom all wilted away.
In life’s rugged pathway, it is not the bright,
Lovely blossoms of beauty that soonest depart,
Far more do I grieve how soon sullies the light,
The pure and untainted,—the bloom of the heart.
Jackson, Md. 1841.
* * * * *
THE VOICE OF THE SPRING-TIME.
BY MARTIN THAYER, JR.
I come! I come! from the flowery South,
With the voice of song and the shout of mirth;
I have wandered far, I have wandered long,
The valleys and hills of the South among;
On woodland and glen, on mountain and moor,
I have smiled as I smiled in days of yore;
In emerald green I have decked them forth,
And I turn again to my home in the North.
I have roved afar through the storied East,
And held on her hills my solemn feast;
Through her cypress groves my voice was heard,
In the music sweet of my fav’rite bird;
Each plain I have clothed in sunlight warm,
And slumbered in peace ’neath the desert palm;
A garment of light to the sea I gave,
And melody soft to each rushing wave.
O’er the isles that gem the Ægean sea,
I sported and flew with frolicksome glee;
’Round the ruins grey of the olden time,
Bright garlands I hung of the creeping vine;
Ah little they thought, who slumber beneath,
That the warrior’s plume, and the victor’s wreath,
Would fade like the blossoms that spring-time flings,
’Round the cotter’s grave, and the tombs of kings.
O’er Marathon grey I walked in my pride,
And smiled o’er the plain where the brave had died.
On the field of Platæa I laid me down,
’Neath the shadows deep of old Cithæron’s frown.
Full soundly I ween doth the Persian sleep,
When the fir trees mourn, and the wild flowers creep;
His requiem soft I sang as I lay,
And dreamed of the glory won on that day.
O’er Italia’s hills soft sunlight I poured,
And her olive groves bloomed wherever I trod;
A coronet green to the mountains I gave,
And a robe of blue to each laughing wave;
With verdure I clothed each mouldering pile,
And laughed at the glory of man the while,
For I thought how old Time had trampled in scorn,
O’er the monuments proud of yesterday’s morn.
I come! I come! with the song of the thrush,
To wake with its sweetness the morning’s blush;
To hang on the hawthorn my blossoms fair,
And strew o’er each field my flowrets rare.
The lark, he is up, on his heavenward flight,
And the leaves are all gemm’d with diamonds bright;
The hills are all bathed in purple and gold,
And the bleating of flocks is heard from the fold.
Go forth! go forth! for the spring-time is come,
And makes in the North his bright sunny home;
The sky is his banner—the hills his throne—
Where in sunshine robed, he sits all alone;
In the depths of the woods his footsteps are seen
By each moss-covered rock and tell-tale stream;
And his voice is heard through each leaf-clad tree,
In the plaint of the dove and the hum of the bee.
* * * * *
THE REEFER OF ’76.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”
THE SEA-FIGHT.
“Sail ho!” sung out the look-out, one sunny afternoon, as we bowled
along before a pleasant gale. In an instant the drowsiest amongst us was
fully awake. The officers thronged the quarter-decks; the foretop-men
eagerly scanned the horizon; the skulkers stole out from beneath the
bulwarks where they had been dozing, and the late quiet decks of the
schooner, which but a moment since lay hushed in the drowsy silence of a
sultry afternoon, now swarmed with noisy and curious gazers.
“Whereaway?” asked the officer of the deck.
“Broad on the weather-beam.”
“Can you make her out?”
“A heavy square-rigged vessel.”
“Do her royals lift?”
“Aye, sir; but only this moment.”
“How does she bear?”
“West and by west sou’ west.”
“A West Indiaman, perhaps.”
“Ay, sir, I can see her to’-gallants now: they belong to a heavy craft.”
“Pipe all hands to make sail, boatswain.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“The strange sail is hauling up into the wind,” sung out the look-out.
“Ay—take the glass, Mr. Parker, and spring into the cross trees to see
what you can make of her. All hands aloft—loose and sheet home fore and
maintopsails. Merrily, there. How does she look, Mr. Parker?”
“She seems a heavy merchantman by her rig; ah! now her topsails lift,
large and square, with a cross in them. It’s not the rig of a
man-o’-war.”
“Ease off the sheet—man the lee-braces—hard down the helm.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the quarter-master, as he whirled around the wheel,
and the gallant craft danced lightly up into the wind, like a racer
beneath the spur; while the men stood at their respective stations
eagerly waiting the command.
“Round there, with the foretop-sail—haul in fore and aft—belay all!”
came in quick succession from the quarter-deck, as we bowed before the
breeze, and dashing the spray on either side our cutwater, went off
almost dead in the wind’s eye. The sharp wind, as it sang through our
cordage, and the momentary dashing of the sea across our bows, as we
thumped against the surges, afforded a pleasant relief to the occasional
creaking of the shrouds, or the dull monotonous sounds of the water
washing lazily alongside, which we had been listening to for the last
hour. The change had an exhilarating effect upon our spirits, which was
perceptible as well among officers as among men. Besides, we were all
eager for a prize. Every man, therefore, was at his station, and a
hundred eager faces looked out from the forecastle, the tops, or
wherever their owners chanced to be. The captain, too, was upon deck,
scanning the stranger with a scrutinising eye.
“Can you see her hull yet, Mr. Parker?” he asked.
“No, sir—her courses show to the very foot—but here it comes—six
ports on a side, sir, though they look like painted ones.”
“She’s setting her light sails.”
“Every one of them, sir: and wetting down their mainsail.”
“How are her decks?”
“Crowded, sir. There’s the glancing of a musket as I live; ah, of a
dozen. She carries troops, sir, I fancy.”
“A transport?”
“Aye, sir!”
The interest had gone on deepening, during these rapid questions and
answers, until at my last reply a suppressed buzz ran around the ship.
No one spoke, but each looked into his messmate’s face, and it was
obvious that the question, “could we capture our opponents, or would we
ourselves become the prey?” was uppermost in every mind. But the person
most interested in the event was apparently the least concerned of any;
and without moving a muscle of his face, the captain leisurely closed
his glass, and turning, with a smile, to his lieutenant, said,—
“We shall be likely to have a sharp brush, Mr. Lennox; in fact our men
are getting rusty, and we want something of a close-contested battle to
burnish them up. We shall open the magazine, and go to quarters
directly.”
Every thing that could be made to draw, was by this time set, and we
were eating into the wind after the stranger with a rapidity that
promised even to the most sanguine of us a speedy realisation of our
hopes. As we gained upon the merchantman, the crowded state of his decks
became more and more apparent, and we could plainly detect, by means of
our glasses, that every exertion, even to wetting down the sails to the
royals, was being made on board of him to escape. But all was in vain.
Few vessels afloat could beat us on the tack we were now going, nor was
it long before we had the chase within range of our long Tom.
“She hasn’t shown her bunting as yet,” said Captain Stuart, “but we’ll
throw a shot across her, run up our flag, and see what answer she
makes.”
The long gun was cast loose, the foot of the foresail lifted, and the
gunner applying the match, the ball went whizzing on its way; while at
the same moment our flag was run up to the gaff, and blowing out to
leeward, disclosed the arms of our colony.[1] For a few minutes the shot
might have been seen ricocheting along the waves, until it plunged into
the sea a few fathoms on the larboard of the stranger. Still, however,
no ensign was shown by the chase.
“Pitch a shot into her this time, Mr. Matchlock,” ejaculated the
skipper, addressing the gunner, “and see if that will bring her out.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the old fellow, squinting along his piece, and aware
that he was one of the best marksmen afloat in any service, “ay, ay,
we’ll awake them to a sense of their condition presently; we’ll drive
the cold iron through and through the reprobates: too high, a little
more starboard—steadily all, and mark the mischief,” cried the old
fellow, applying the match. The rest of the sentence was lost in the
deafening report of the cannon; a sheet of fire was seen streaming out
an instant from the mouth of the piece; and as the pale white smoke
sailed slowly eddying away to leeward, the old gunner might have been
discerned, bending eagerly forward, and shading his eyes with his hands,
as he gazed after the path of the ball.
“By the Lord Harry how it makes the splinters fly!” said the old fellow,
as the shot, striking full on the quarter of the chase, went through and
through her deck.
“And there goes her flag at last,” said Westbrook, as the ensign of
England floated from the quarter of the merchantman, while at the same
moment a cloud of smoke puffed from his stern, and a shot, skimming
along the deep, toward us, plunged into the waters a cable’s length
ahead.
“We’re beginning to make him talk, eh!” chuckled the gunner, waxing warm
in his work. “Let him have it again now—ah! that will bring out his
teeth—give it to ’em, you old sea-dog,” he continued, familiarly
patting his piece, “and by the continental Congress, he’s got it among
his sky-scrapers. There come his to’-gallant sails—hurrah!”
The fight now became one of intense interest, for the merchantman
perceiving that escape was impossible, seemed determined to resist to
the last, and kept up a brisk and well-directed fire upon us from his
stern-guns. Their range not being, however, so great as that of our
piece, we were enabled after a while to regulate our distance so as to
cripple the chase effectually without sustaining any damage ourselves.
But it was not long that we were suffered to maintain the combat on our
own terms. Worried beyond endurance by the havoc made among his spars,
the chase soon put his helm up, wore round, and hauling up his courses
in gallant defiance, came down boldly toward us.
“We shall have it now,” whispered Westbrook as he stood by the division
where he commanded, “they must outnumber us two to one—but we’ll give
them a lesson for all that.”
“Ay! hand to hand, and foot to foot, will be the struggle, and God
defend the right.”
No sooner had the chase altered his course, and shown a determination to
accept our challenge, than the firing on both sides ceased, and the two
ships steadily but silently approached each other.
The eve of a battle is a solemn time. However men may talk in their
jovial hours, or feel amid the maddening excitement of the contest
itself, there is something inexpressibly awe-inspiring in the
consciousness that we are soon to be arrayed in deadly hostility against
our fellow-creatures; and now as I gazed along the silent decks, and
beheld our brave fellows gazing, as if spell-bound, upon the approaching
foe, I perceived that their emotions were akin to my own. Yet there was
nothing of fear in those hardy bosoms. There was a compression of the
lip, an occasional flashing of the eye, and a half-suppressed word now
and then among the men, which showed that amid all their other feelings,
a deep, unflinching detestation of their tyrants was uppermost in their
hearts. At times their eyes would glance proudly along our sanded deck,
with all its apparatus of cutlasses, boarding pikes, and cannon balls,
and then turn indignantly, and almost triumphantly, toward the enemy,
now bearing down upon us. Meantime a death-like silence hung upon them;
not a sound was heard except the sighing of the winds through the
hamper, and the dash of the waters under our bows.
The chase had now approached almost within musket shot, and yet no
demonstration of an attack had been made. We could see that the chase
was alive with men. From every port, and look-out, and top, a score of
faces warned us of a bloody battle. Each man was at his post,
determination stamped on his countenance. As I gazed upon this
formidable array of numbers, and beheld the comparatively gigantic hull
of our adversary, steadily advancing on us, like some portentous monster
of the deep, I almost trembled for our victory; but when my eye fell
again on the brawny chests, and determined visages of our gallant crew,
I felt that nothing but extermination could prevent them from hoisting
our own flag above the proud ensign of our foe which now flapped lazily
in the breeze. But my reverie—if such it might be called—was cut short
by perceiving a sheet of flame rolling along the Englishman’s side, and,
while his tall spars reeled backward with the recoil, a shower of shot
came hurtling toward us. In an instant the gaff of our mainsail fell;
our sails were perforated in various places; and a cannon ball striking
us amid-ships, cut through both bulwarks, and laid one poor fellow dead
upon the deck. The men started like hounds when they see their prey.
“Stand to your guns—my men!” thundered the captain in this emergency,
“let not a shot be fired until I give the word. Bear steadily on your
helm, and lay us across their bows.”
The moments that elapsed before this endeavor could be consummated
seemed to be protracted into an age. Our gallant fellows could,
meanwhile, scarcely be restrained within the bounds of discipline. As
shot after shot came whizzing over us, the crew grew more and more
restive, casting uneasier glances at our commander at every successive
fire. Several of the spars had by this time been wounded, and our hull
showed more than one evidence of the foe’s skill in gunnery. At length a
shot came tearing through the bulwark but a short distance from where I
was stationed, and after knocking the splinters wildly hither and
thither, struck a poor fellow at his quarters, and laid him mangled and
bleeding across his gun. I ran to him. One of his shipmates had already
lifted the man’s head up, and laid it carefully in the lap of a comrade.
The face was dreadfully pale—the features unnaturally distorted. Agony,
intense and irresistible, was written in every line of the face. The
motion, however, revived him, and he opened his eyes with a groan.
Unsettled as was their gaze, they took in the anxious group around him.
He saw, on every face, the deepest commiseration. His glazing eye
lightened for a moment.
“How are you, Jack?” said the shipmate, in whose lap he lay.
The dying man shook his head mournfully.
“Don’t you know me, Jack?” said his messmate. There was no answer. The
eyes of the sufferer were closed. “God knows I little thought you were
to die thus!” continued his shipmate, with emotion. “For twenty years,
in gale and calm, in winter and summer we have sailed together, and now
you’re going to part company, without being able even to bid an old
messmate farewell,” and he wiped the cold sweat from the dying man’s
brow. “Jack, Jack, don’t you know me? Can I do nothing for you?”
The sufferer opened his eyes, and made a gesture as if he wished to be
lifted up. His desire was gratified. He looked around eagerly until his
eyes fell upon the enemy.
“Bury—me,” he faintly articulated, “after you’ve—hauled—down her
flag. And—and Rover,” and his voice, for an instant, became stronger,
“send the prize-money to the old woman—and—a—a.” He gasped for
breath.
“What?—in God’s name what?” But the senses of the dying man began to
wander.
“Speak!—Jack—for the love of God!”
“A—alls—we—e—el!” murmured the man, brokenly. He ceased. A quivering
motion passed across his face. His shipmate gently laid his head upon
the deck.
“He’s dead—and now boys, for revenge!” said Rover, as he started to his
feet.
The crisis had come. So rapidly had the foregoing scene passed, and so
intently had we all been gazing upon the dying man, that, in the
interval, the schooner had gained a position on the bow of the enemy,
and as the sturdy seaman rose up from beside his murdered companion, we
ran short across her in a raking position; and before the words had died
upon the air, the long-expected command came from the quarter-deck, to
open our fire.
“Fire!” shouted our leader, “one and all—pour it into them—remember
you fight for your all!”
“Give it to ’em like h—l, my boys,” thundered the gunner, “that’s it;
there goes her sprit-sail yard—hurrah!”
It was a terrific scene. No sooner had the signal been given, than, as
with one accord, our gallant fellows poured in their deadly fire. Every
shot told. Stung almost beyond human endurance by the restraint in which
they had been kept, and maddened by the spectacle of a messmate slain at
his post before he could fire a shot, our crew fought like demons rather
than men, jerking their guns out as if they were playthings in their
hands. Nothing could withstand them. Not a shot was wasted on the
rigging of the foe: every one was driven along her crowded decks. The
slaughter was immense. Man and boy, sailor and marine, officers and crew
went down before that murderous, incessant fire. The flashes of the
cannon, the roars of the batteries, the crashing of spars, and the
shrieks of the wounded and the dying rose up together in terrific
discord. Meanwhile the thick clouds of smoke settling down upon us hid
the hull of the enemy completely from sight. Nothing but her masts,
rising tall and gallantly above the dim canopy of her decks, could be
seen. Directly one of these was seen to stagger; then it swayed to and
fro a moment; and directly giving a lurch, the whole lofty fabric of
spars and hamper went tumbling over her side.
“Hurrah, boys! we have her now,” shouted the captain of a gun near me,
“there goes her fore-mast—let her have it again,” and, jerking out his
piece at the word, another deadly discharge of grape was sent hurtling
along the enemy’s decks.
By this time the two vessels had got afoul, the bowsprit of the foe
having become entangled with the shrouds of our mainmast. Unable longer
to resist the whirlwind of grape poured along their decks, the crew of
the enemy determined on making a desperate effort to retrieve the tide
of battle by boarding, and gathering suddenly forward, at the call of
their leader, they made an instantaneous rush upon us. But their attack
was as quickly met. A momentary vacillation of the veil of smoke hanging
over the deck of the foe, by disclosing the numbers gathering upon her
forecastle, betrayed to our gallant leader the intention of the enemy.
He saw at a glance that the attack must be repulsed speedily or that we
were lost. The vessels were already rapidly swinging around side to
side, and in a few moments the overwhelming numbers of the Englishman
would be enabled to leap upon our decks, with almost as much ease as if
we were moored along side of their craft in port. Not a moment was to be
lost. Either the enemy must be repulsed at once, and so promptly as to
preclude all future attempts of the like character, or else we must lose
every advantage we had already gained, and be overpowered finally by the
mere force of numbers. What I have taken so long to describe, flashed
through our minds with inconceivable rapidity. The captain did not
hesitate a moment. Waving his sword aloft he thundered,
“Boarders ahoy! muster at the main—to beat back the enemy,” and then in
a lower tone he added, “charge the long gun to the muzzle with grape—”
Obedient at the word our gallant fellows hurried to their stations, and
stood eagerly awaiting the onset of the foe; who having, by this time,
mustered on the fore part of their craft, stood ready to spring upon our
decks at the first opportunity. That was now at hand. The two ships,
which had momentarily receded, now rolled together, and every man of the
enemy’s crew strained his muscles to their utmost tension, as he
prepared to spring on our decks.
Never shall I forget that sight. Clustered around the fore-shrouds and
on the cat-head, and covering the whole space between, were the dense
masses of the enemy, their dark frowning countenances, and glittering
weapons forming prominent objects in the spectacle. They had sprung up,
as if by magic, from a score of lurking places, and gathering at the
call of their commander, now stood with threatening numbers about to
leap upon us. To resist such a whirlwind of cutlasses with our little
crew was well nigh madness. But our leader had already determined to
make their very numbers the cause of their ruin. At this moment, when
the two ships approached each other, he turned rapidly to the gunner,
and shouted,
“Give it to them with the long gun—fire!”
The effect was electric. With a noise, like the bursting of a volcano,
the instrument of death went off, belching forth its fiery torrent with
resistless fury. An avalanche could not have swept off its victims more
ruthlessly than did that discharge disperse the foe. Nothing could
withstand that hurricane of grape. Its effect was awful. Clearing a lane
through and through the crowd upon the forecastle of the enemy, it tore
its passage onward amid the spars and hamper of the ship with resistless
violence, almost drowning the shrieks of the dying, and the curses of
the wounded in its terrific crash. The enemy’s boarders staggered and
fell back, and before they could rally the two ships fell asunder. While
they were still wavering, our hamper became disentangled, and we once
more floated free of the enemy. As we passed along her side our fire was
renewed with redoubled impetuosity, while the Englishman, crippled as he
was by our last frightful discharge, could only feebly reply.
“Pour it in, my lads,” shouted the gunner again, “and we’ll soon bring
her to quarters—give it to ’em now, for the honor of old Plymouth.”
“God save the king;” came hoarsely back from the enemy, “blow the rebels
out of water.”
The speaker was standing just abaft the mainmast, and had distinguished
himself, during the attempt to board us, by his vehement gestures, and
apparent influence over the men. I noticed that the eye of Westbrook
watched him keenly as he spoke. Suddenly an officer approached and gave
him an order. He looked around, started from his protected situation,
and dashed up the main-shrouds, with the intention, as we now perceived,
of reeving a rope which had been shot away, and the loss of which
prevented the main-topsail from being hoisted to the cap.
“They’re about to make off,” said I to Westbrook, “he’s a daring fellow
to go aloft in this fire, any how.”
“He’s not so sure of success,” said Westbrook, “for they’ll have a shot
at him from the forecastle.”
The man had by this time, with almost inconceivable rapidity, effected
his purpose, although more than one musket had been fired at him from
our craft. He now turned to descend, but proud of his achievement, he
could not resist the temptation of a momentary bravado. He took off his
hat and gave a hurrah.
“It’s your last boast,” cooly said Westbrook, as he snatched a musket,
and lifting it to his shoulder, glanced his eye along the barrel, and
fired. I shuddered involuntarily, even though an enemy was the victim,
for I knew Westbrook’s deadly aim. My presage was true. The man
staggered on his footing an instant; made an abortive grasp at the air
instead of a rope; and falling backward, struck the shrouds, and
re-bounded into the sea. He squattered a moment on the water like a
wounded duck, and then sank forever, leaving only a small dark stain of
blood upon the wave to tell where he disappeared.
By this time the fire of the enemy had almost ceased, and, even amid the
smoke of battle, we could see that her scuppers were literally running
with blood. An ineffectual attempt was now made to escape from us, but
we ran down upon the enemy at the first symptom, and re-commenced our
fire with unabated fury. Their rigging was soon terribly cut up, as we
now aimed principally at that. As a few moments removed all possibility
of an escape on the part of the Englishman, and as we had suffered
ourselves in our hamper somewhat from his fire, we then ran off a short
distance, and began to repair our damages. An hour and a half sufficed
to place us in nearly as good a condition as before going into battle,
when running down upon the enemy we once more opened our battery. The
first gun, however, had hardly been fired, before the British ensign,
which had doggedly been kept flying, was hauled down. I was despatched
to board the capture. As I stepped upon her decks a scene of desolation
met my eye. My path was literally slippery with blood. Scarcely a man
was on deck. The helmsman, a single officer, two marines, and a few
common seamen, were the only ones, of all that numerous crew, who were
not wounded or dead. God knows a more terrific slaughter I had never
participated in! I think I behold it at this day.
-----
[1] The present national flag, consisting of the stars and stripes, was
not adopted until 1777, when Congress passed a resolution to that
effect. Prior to that time each commander used whatever device suited
his fancy. The first ensign of Paul Jones is said to have been a pine
tree, with a rattle-snake coiled at the foot, about to strike, and the
motto, “don’t tread on me.” The arms of a colony, as in this instance,
were often used.—Eds.
* * * * *
THE HAUNTED CASTLE.
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.
On the brow of a lofty and rugged hill, which overlooks the Rhine, stand
the ruins of the ancient Castle of Ehlendorf. The ivy has clambered over
its crumbling towers, as if to shield them from the destructive hand of
time, and bind with its creeping tendrils the wounds which he has made.
Once its halls resounded with the mirth of the young and gay, of brave
knights and ladies fair, while the songs of minstrels, and tales of
heroic enterprize, whiled away the hours of night, until the purple
light of dawn appeared. Now it has fallen to decay: the race of its
noble possessors has become extinct; and the ivy grows, and the owl
hoots amid its deserted courts.
At the time when our tale commences, it was in the possession of Conrad,
Baron of Ehlendorf, the remaining scion of that noble family. His
brother had died in Palestine, leaving to him the title and all the vast
estates of his ancestors. In early life he had wedded the beautiful
Elfrida, of Aldenburg, and never was a purer gem more dearly valued than
the young bride of Ehlendorf by her doting lord. Years of bright,
unclouded happiness rolled over their heads; and if unalloyed pleasure
has ever dwelt on earth, it was the portion of Conrad, of Ehlendorf,
when he looked upon his angel bride and their little Katrine, scarcely
knowing which was the loveliest, the mother or the child. Often as he
saw their fair offspring, with bounding footsteps, dimpled cheeks, and
laughing eye, throwing back her golden curls, and rushing with
playfulness and love into her mother’s arms, he felt that without her
his treasures were but glittering dust.