This exploit caused a sensible change in the treatment of the officers,

who were then captives in Tripoli. On the first of March, they were all

removed to the castle, where they continued for the remainder of the

time they were prisoners, or more than a twelvemonth. Several attempts

at escape were made, but they all failed; principally for the want of

means. In this manner passed month after month, until the spring had

advanced into the summer. One day the cheering intelligence spread among

the captives that a numerous force was visible in the offing, but it

disappeared in consequence of a gale of wind. This was about the 1st of

August, 1804. A day or two later, this force reappeared, a heavy firing

followed, and the gentlemen clambered up to the windows which commanded

a partial view of the offing. There they saw a flotilla of gunboats,

brigs, and schooners, gathering in towards the rocks, where lay a strong

division of the Turks, the shot from the batteries and shipping dashing

the spray about, and a canopy of smoke collecting over the sea. In the

back-ground was the Constitution—that glorious frigate!—coming down

into the fray, with the men on her top-gallant-yards gathering in the

canvass, as coolly as if she were about to anchor. This was a sight to

warm a sailor’s heart, even within the walls of a prison! Then they got

a glimpse of the desperate assault led by Decatur—the position of their

windows permitting no more—and they were left to imagine what was going

on, amid the roar of cannon, to leeward. This was the celebrated attack

of the 3d August; or that with which Preble began his own warfare, and

little intermission followed for the next two months. On the night of

the 4th of September, a few guns were fired—a heavy explosion was

heard—and this terminated the din of war. It was the catastrophe in

which Somers perished. A day or two later, Bainbridge was taken to see

some of the dead of that affair, but he found the bodies so much

mutilated as to render recognition impossible.

Bainbridge kept a journal of the leading events that occurred during his

captivity. Its meagreness, however, supplies proof of the sameness of

his life; little occurring to give it interest, except an occasional

difficulty with the Turks, and these attacks. In this journal he speaks

of the explosion of the Intrepid, as an enterprise that entirely failed;

injuring nothing. It was thought in the squadron that a part of the wall

of the castle had fallen, on this occasion, but it was a mistake. Not a

man, house, or vessel of Tripoli, so far as can now be ascertained,

suffered, in the least, by the explosion. Bainbridge also mentions, what

other information corroborates, that the shells seldom burst. Many fell

within the town, but none blew up. Two or three even struck the house of

the worthy Nissen, but the injury was slight, comparatively, in

consequence of this circumstance.

At length the moment of liberation arrived. An American negotiator

appeared in the person of the consul general for Barbary, and matters

drew toward a happy termination. Some obstacles, however, occurred, and,

to get rid of them, Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies, a judge of human nature, and

a man superior to most around him, proposed to the Bashaw to let

Bainbridge go on board the Constitution, then commanded by Com. Rodgers.

The proposal appeared preposterous to the wily and treacherous Jussuf,

who insisted that his prisoner would never be fool enough to come back,

if once at liberty. The minister understood the notions of military

honor that prevailed amongst Christian nations better, and he finally

succeeded in persuading his master to consent that Bainbridge might

depart; but not until he had placed his own son in the Bashaw’s hands,

as a hostage.[3]

The 1st of June, 1805, was a happy hour for the subject of our memoir,

for then, after a captivity of nineteen months, to a day, was he

permitted again to tread the deck of an American man-of-war. The entire

day was spent in the squadron, and Bainbridge returned in the night,

greatly discouraged as to the success of the negotiation. Finding Sidi

Mohammed D’Ghies, they repaired to the palace together, where the Bashaw

received them with wonder. He had given up the slight expectation he

ever had of seeing his captive again, and had been sharply rebuking his

minister for the weakness he had manifested by his credulity. Bainbridge

stated to the prince the only terms on which the Americans would treat,

and these Jussuf immediately rejected. The friendly offices of M. Nissen

were employed next day, however, and on the third, a council of state

was convened, at which the treaty, drawn up in form, was laid before the

members for approval or rejection.

At this council, Bainbridge was invited to be present. When he entered

he was told by the Bashaw, himself, that no prisoner in Barbary had ever

before been admitted to a similar honor, and that the discussions should

be carried on in French, in order that he might understand them. The

question of “peace or war” was then solemnly proposed. There were eight

members of the council, and six were for war. Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies and

the commandant of the marine alone maintained the doctrine of peace.

There may have been preconcert and artifice in all this; if so, it was

well acted. The speeches were grave and dignified, and seemingly

sincere, and, after a time, two of the dissentients were converted to

the side of peace; leaving the cabinet equally divided. “How shall I

act?” demanded the Bashaw. “Which party shall I satisfy—you are four

for peace, and four for war!” Here Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies arose and said

it was for the sovereign to decide—they were but councillors, whereas

he was their prince; though he entreated him, for his own interests and

for those of his people, to make peace. The Bashaw drew his signet from

his bosom, deliberately affixed it to the treaty, and said, with dignity

and emphasis, “_It is peace._”

The salutes followed, and the war ceased. The principal officers of the

squadron visited the captives that evening; and the next day the latter

were taken on board ship. A generous trait of the seamen and marines, on

this occasion, merits notice. A Neapolitan slave had been much employed

about them, and had shown them great kindness. They sent a deputation to

Bainbridge, to request he would authorize the purser to advance them

$700, of their joint pay; it was done, and, with the money, they bought

the liberty of the Neapolitan; carrying him off with them—finally

landing him on his own shores.

At Syracuse, a court of inquiry was held, for the loss of the

Philadelphia. This court consisted of Capts. James Barron, Hugh G.

Campbell and Stephen Decatur, jun. Gen. Eaton was the judge advocate.

The result was an honorable aquittal. The finding of this court was

dated June 29, 1805.

The country dealt generously and fairly by Bainbridge and his officers.

The loss of the Philadelphia was viewed as being, precisely what it was,

an unavoidable accident, that was met by men engaged in the zealous

service of their country, in a distant sea, on an inhospitable shore,

and at an inclement season of the year; and an accident that entailed on

the sufferers a long and irksome captivity. To have been one of the

Philadelphia’s crew has ever been rightly deemed a strong claim on the

gratitude of the republic, and, from the hour at which the ill-fated

ship lowered her ensign, down to the present moment, a syllable of

reproach has never been whispered. Bainbridge, himself, was brought

prominently into notice by the affair, and the sympathy his misfortunes

produced in the public mind, made him a favorite with the nation. The

advantage thus obtained, was supported and perpetuated by that frank and

sincere earnestness which marked his public service, and which was so

well adapted to embellish the manly career of a sailor.

The officers and crew of the Philadelphia reached home in the autumn of

1805, and were welcomed with the warmth that their privations entitled

them to receive.

Capt. Bainbridge had married, when a young man, and he now found himself

embarrassed in his circumstances, with an increasing family. But few

ships were employed, and there were officers senior to himself to

command them. The half-pay of his rank was then only $600 a year, and he

determined to get leave to make a voyage or two, in the merchant

service, in order to repair his fortunes. He had been appointed to the

navy yard at New York, however, previously to this determination, but

prudence pointed out the course on which he had decided. A voyage to the

Havana, in which he was part owner, turned out well, and he continued in

this pursuit for two years; or from the summer of 1806, until the spring

of 1808. In March of the latter year, he was ordered to Portland, and,

in December following, he was transferred to the command of the

President 44, then considered the finest ship in the navy. Owing to

deaths, resignations, and promotions, the list of captains had undergone

some changes since the passage of the reduction-law. It now contained

thirteen names, a number determined by an act passed in 1806, among

which that of Bainbridge stood the sixth in rank. The difficulties with

England, which had produced the armament, seemed on the point of

adjustment, and immediate war was no longer expected. Bainbridge hoisted

his first broad pennant in the President, having the command on the

southern division of the coast; Com. Rodgers commanding at the north. In

the summer of 1809 the President sailed on the coast service, and

continued under Bainbridge’s orders, until May, 1810, when he left her,

again to return to a merchant vessel.

On this occasion Bainbridge went into the Baltic. On his way to St.

Petersburg, a Danish cruiser took him, and carried him into Copenhagen.

Here, his first thought was of his old friend Nissen. Within half an

hour, the latter was with him, and it is a coincidence worthy of being

mentioned, that at the very moment the benevolent ex-consul heard of

Bainbridge’s arrival, he was actually engaged in unpacking a handsome

silver urn, which had been sent to him, as a memorial of his own

kindness to them, by the late officers of the Philadelphia.

Through the exertions of this constant friend, Bainbridge soon obtained

justice, and his ship was released. He then went up the Baltic. In this

trade, Capt. Bainbridge was induced to continue, until the rencontre

occurred, between his late ship, the President, and the British vessel

of war, the Little Belt. As soon as apprized of this event, he left St.

Petersburg, and made the best of his way to the Atlantic coast,

over-land. In February, 1812, he reached Washington, and reported

himself for service. But no consequences ever followed the action

mentioned, and a period of brief but delusive calm succeeded, during

which few, if any, believed that war was near. Still it had been

seriously contemplated; and, it is understood, the question of the

disposition of the navy, in the event of a struggle so serious as one

with Great Britain’s occurring, had been gravely agitated in the

cabinet. To his great mortification, Bainbridge learned the opinion

prevailed that it would be expedient to lay up all the vessels; or, at

most, to use them only for harbor defence. Fortunately, the present Com.

Stewart, an officer several years the junior of Bainbridge in rank, but

one of high moral courage and of great decision of character, happened

to be also at the seat of government. After a consultation, these two

captains had interviews with the Secretary and President, and, at the

request of the latter, addressed to him such a letter as finally induced

a change of policy. Had Bainbridge and Stewart never served their

country but in this one act, they would be entitled to receive its

lasting gratitude. Their remonstrances against belonging to a

_peace_-navy were particularly pungent; but their main arguments were

solid and convincing. After aiding in performing this act of vital

service to the corps to which he belonged, Bainbridge proceeded to

Charlestown, Massachusetts, and assumed the command of the yard.

War was declared on the 18th June, 1812; or shortly after Bainbridge was

established at his new post. By this time death had cleared the list of

captains of most of his superiors. Murray was at the head of the navy,

but too old and infirm for active service. Next to him stood Rodgers;

James Barron came third, but he was abroad; and Bainbridge was the

fourth. This circumstance entitled him to a command afloat, and he got

the Constellation 38, a lucky ship, though not the one he would have

chosen, or the one he might justly have claimed in virtue of his

commission. But the three best frigates had all gone to sea, in quest of

the enemy, and he was glad to get any thing. A few weeks later, Hull

came in with the Constitution, after performing two handsome exploits in

her, and very generously consented to give her up, in order that some

one else might have a chance. To this ship Bainbridge was immediately

transferred, and on board her he hoisted his broad pennant on the 15th

September, 1812.

The Essex 32, Capt. Porter, and Hornet 18, Capt. Lawrence, were placed

under Bainbridge’s orders, and his instructions were to cruise for the

English East India trade, in the South Atlantic. The Essex being in the

Delaware, she was directed to rendezvous at the Cape de Verdes, or on

the coast of South America. The Constitution and Hornet sailed in

company, from Boston, on the 26th October, but the events of the cruise

prevented the Essex, which ship was commanded by Porter, his old first

lieutenant in the Philadelphia, from joining the commodore.

The Constitution and Hornet arrived off St. Salvador on the 13th of

December. The latter ship went in, and found the Bonne Citoyenne, an

enemy’s cruiser of equal force, lying in the harbor. This discovery led

to a correspondence which will be mentioned in the life of Lawrence, and

which induced Bainbridge to quit the offing, leaving the Hornet on the

look-out for her enemy. On the 26th, accordingly, he steered to the

southward, intending to stand along the coast as low as 12° 20′ S.,

when, about 9, A. M., on the 29th, the ship then being in 13° 6′ S.

latitude, and 31° W. longitude, or about thirty miles from the land, she

made two strange sail, inshore and to windward. After a little

manœuvring, one of the ships closing, while the other stood on towards

St. Salvador, Bainbridge was satisfied he had an enemy’s frigate fairly

within his reach. This was a fortunate meeting to occur in a sea where

there was little hazard of finding himself environed by hostile

cruisers, and only sixty-four days out himself from Boston.

In receiving the Constitution from Hull, Bainbridge found her with only

a portion of her old officers in her, though the crew remained

essentially the same. Morris, her late first lieutenant, had been

promoted, and was succeeded by George Parker, a gentleman of Virginia,

and a man of spirit and determination. John Shubrick and Beekman

Hoffman, the first of South Carolina and the last of New York, two

officers who stood second to none of their rank in the service, were

still in the ship, however, and Alwyn, her late master, had been

promoted, and was now the junior lieutenant.[4] In a word, their

commander could rely on his officers and people, and he prepared for

action with confidence and alacrity. A similar spirit seemed to prevail

in the other vessel, which was exceedingly well officered, and, as it

appeared in the end, was extra manned.

At a quarter past meridian, the enemy showed English colors. Soon after,

the Constitution, which had stood to the southward to draw the stranger

off the land, hauled up her mainsail, took in her royals, and tacked

toward the enemy. As the wind was light and the water smooth, the

Constitution kept every thing aloft, ready for use, closing with the

stranger with royal yards across. At 2 P. M. the latter was about half a

mile to windward of the Constitution, and showed no colors, except a

jack. Bainbridge now ordered a shot fired at him, to induce him to set

an ensign. This order, being misunderstood, produced a whole broadside

from the Constitution, when the stranger showed English colors again,

and returned the fire.

This was the commencement of a furious cannonading, both ships

manœuvring to rake and to avoid being raked. Very soon after the action

commenced, Bainbridge was hit by a musket ball in the hip; and, a minute

or two later, a shot came in, carried away the wheel, and drove a small

bolt with considerable violence into his thigh. Neither injury, however,

induced him even to sit down; he kept walking the quarter-deck, and

attending to the ship, greatly adding to the subsequent inflammation, as

these foreign substances were lodged in the muscles of his leg, and, in

the end, threatened tetanus. The last injury was received about twenty

minutes after the firing commenced, and was even of more importance to

the ship than the wound it produced was to her captain. The wheel was

knocked into splinters, and it became necessary to steer below.[5] This

was a serious evil in the midst of a battle, and more particularly in an

action in which there was an unusual amount of manœuvring. The English

vessel, being very strong manned, was actively handled, and, sailing

better than the Constitution in light winds, her efforts to rake

produced a succession of evolutions, which caused both ships to ware so

often, that the battle terminated several miles to leeward of the point

on the ocean at which it commenced.

After the action had lasted some time, Bainbridge determined to close

with his enemy at every hazard. He set his courses accordingly, and

luffed up close to the wind. This brought matters to a crisis, and the

Englishman, finding the Constitution’s fire too heavy, attempted to run

her aboard. His jib-boom did get foul of the American frigate’s mizzen

rigging, but the end of his bowsprit being shot away, and his foremast

soon after following, the ships passed clear of each other, making a

lucky escape for the assailants.[6] The battle continued some time

longer, the Constitution throwing in several effective raking

broadsides, and then falling alongside of her enemy to leeward. At

length, finding her adversary’s guns silenced and his ensign down,

Bainbridge boarded his tacks again, luffed up athwart the Englishman’s

bows, and got a position ahead and to windward, in order to repair

damages; actually coming out of the battle as he had gone into it, with

royal yards across, and every spar, from the highest to the lowest, in

its place! The enemy presented a singular contrast. Stick after stick

had been shot out of him, as it might be, inch by inch too, until

nothing, but a few stumps, was left. All her masts were gone, the

foremast having been shot away twice, once near the catharpings, and

again much nearer to the deck; the main-topmast had come down some time

before the mainmast fell. The bowsprit, as has been said, was shot away

at the cap. After receiving these damages, the enemy did not wait for a

new attack, but as soon as the Constitution came round, with an

intention to cross his fore-foot, he lowered a jack which had been

flying at the stump of his mizzenmast.

The ship Bainbridge captured was the Java 38, Capt. Lambert. The Java

was a French built ship that had been taken some time previously, under

the name of La Renommée, in those seas where lies the island after which

she was subsequently called. She mounted 49 carriage guns, and had a

sufficient number of supernumeraries on board to raise her complement at

quarters to something like 400 souls. Of these the English accounts

admit that 124 were killed and wounded; though Bainbridge thought her

loss was materially greater. It is said a muster-list was found in the

ship, that was dated five days after the Java left England, and which

contained 446 names. From these, however, was to be deducted the crew

for a prize she had taken; the ship in company when made the day of the

action. Capt. Lambert died of his wounds; but there was a master and

commander on board, among the passengers, and the surviving first

lieutenant was an officer of merit.

In addition to the officers and seamen who were in the Java, as

passengers, were Lieutenant-General Hislop and his staff, the former of

whom was going to Bombay as governor. Bainbridge treated these captives

with great liberality and kindness, and, after destroying his prize for

want of means to refit her, he landed all his prisoners, on parole, at

St. Salvador.

In this action the Constitution had nine men killed and twenty-five men

wounded. She was a good deal cut up in the rigging, and had a few spars

injured, but, considering the vigor of the engagement and the smoothness

of the water, she escaped with but little injury. There is no doubt that

she was a heavier ship than her adversary, but the difference in the

batteries was less than appeared by the nominal calibres of the guns;

the American shot, in that war, being generally of light weight, while

those of the Java, by some accounts, were French.

It has been said that Bainbridge disregarded his own wounds until the

irritation endangered his life. His last injury must have been received

about half past two, and he remained actively engaged on deck until 11

o’clock at night; thus adding the irritation of eight hours of exertion

to the original injuries. The consequences were some exceedingly

threatening symptoms, but skilful treatment subdued them, when his

recovery was rapid.

An interesting interview took place between Bainbridge and Lambert, on

the quarter-deck of the Constitution, after the arrival of the ship at

St. Salvador. The English captain was in his cot, and Bainbridge

approached, supported by two of his own officers, to take his leave, and

to restore the dying man his sword. This interview has been described as

touching, and as leaving kind feelings between the parting officers.

Poor Lambert, an officer of great merit, died a day or two afterwards.

The Constitution now returned home for repairs, being very rotten. She

reached Boston February 27, 1813, after a cruise of only four months and

one day. Bainbridge returned in triumph, this time, and, if his

countrymen had previously manifested a generous sympathy in his

misfortunes, they now showed as strong a feeling in his success. The

victor was not more esteemed for his courage and skill, than for the

high and chivalrous courtesy and liberality with which he had treated

his prisoners.

Bainbridge gave up the Constitution on his return home, and resumed the

command of the yard at Charlestown, where the Independence 74 was

building, a vessel he intended to take, when launched. Here he remained

until the peace, that ship not being quite ready to go out when the

treaty was signed. In the spring of 1815, a squadron was sent to the

Mediterranean, under Decatur, to act against the Dey of Algiers, and

Bainbridge followed, as commander-in-chief, in the Independence, though

he did not arrive until his active predecessor had brought the war to a

successful close. On this occasion, Bainbridge had under his orders the

largest naval force that was ever assembled beneath the American flag;

from eighteen to twenty sail of efficient cruisers being included in his

command. In November, after a cruise of about five months, he returned

to Newport, having one ship of the line, two frigates, seven brigs, and

three schooners in company. Thus he carried to sea the first two-decker

that ever sailed under the American ensign; the present Capt. Bolton

being his first lieutenant. During this cruise, Com. Bainbridge arranged

several difficulties with the Barbary powers, and in all his service he

maintained the honor and dignity of his flag and of his command.

Bainbridge now continued at Boston several years, with his pennant

flying in the Independence, as a guard ship. In the autumn of 1819,

however, he was detached once more, for the purpose of again commanding

in the Mediterranean. This was the fifth time in which he had been sent

into that sea; three times in command of frigates, and twice at the head

of squadrons. The Columbus 80, an entirely new ship, was selected for

his pennant, and he did not sail until April, 1820, in consequence of

the work that it was necessary to do on board her. The Columbus reached

Gibraltar early in June. This was an easy and a pleasant cruise, one of

the objects being to show the squadron in the ports of the

Mediterranean, in order to impress the different nations on its coast

with the importance of respecting the maritime rights of the republic.

Bainbridge had a strong desire to show his present force, the Columbus

in particular, before Constantinople, whither he had been sent twenty

years before, against his wishes; but a firman could not be procured to

pass the castles with so heavy a ship. After remaining out about a year,

Bainbridge was relieved, and returned home, the principal objects of his

cruise having been effected.

This was Bainbridge’s last duty afloat. He had now made ten cruises in

the public service; had commanded a schooner, a brig, five frigates and

two line-of-battle ships, besides being at the head of three different

squadrons; and it was thought expedient to let younger officers gain

some experience. Age did not induce him to retire, for he was not yet

fifty; but others had claims on the country, and his family had claims

on himself.

But, although unemployed afloat, Bainbridge continued diligently engaged

in the service, generally of the republic and of the navy. He was at

Charlestown—a favorite station with him—for some time, and then was

placed at the head of the board of navy commissioners, at Washington.

After serving his three years in the latter station, he had the

Philadelphia yard. Bainbridge had removed his family twenty-six times,

in the course of his different changes, and considering himself as a

Delaware seaman, he now determined to set up his _penates_ permanently

in the ancient capital of the country. An unpleasant collision with the

head of the department, however, forced him from his command in 1831;

but, the next year, he was restored to the station at Charlestown. His

health compelled him to give up this yard in a few months, and, his

constitution being broken, he returned to his family in Philadelphia, in

the month of March, 1832, only to die. His disease was pneumonia,

connected with great irritation of the bowels and a wasting diarrhœa. As

early as in January, 1833, he was told that his case was hopeless, when

he manifested a calm and manly resignation to his fate. He lived,

however, until the 28th of July, when he breathed his last, aged

fifty-nine years, two months and twenty-one days. An hour or two

previously to his death, his mind began to wander, and not long before

he yielded up his breath, he raised all that was left of his once noble

frame, demanded his arms, and ordered all hands called to board the

enemy!

Bainbridge married, in the early part of his career, a lady of the West

Indies, of the name of Hyleger. She was the grand-daughter of a former

governor of St. Eustatia, of the same name. By this lady he had five

children who grew up; a son and four daughters. The son was educated to

the bar, and was a young man of much promise; but he died a short time

previously to his father. Of the daughters, one married a gentleman of

the name of Hayes, formerly of the navy; another married Mr. A. G.

Jaudon, of Philadelphia, and a third is now the wife of Henry K. Hoff, a

native of Pennsylvania, and a sea-lieutenant in the service, of eleven

years standing. He left his family in easy circumstances, principally

the result of his own prudence, forethought, gallantry and enterprise.

At the time of his death, Commodore Bainbridge stood third in rank, in

the American navy; having a long list of captains below him. Had justice

been done to this gallant officer, to the service to which he belonged,

or even to the country, whose interests are alone to be efficiently

protected by a powerful marine, he would have worn a flag some years

before the termination of his career. Quite recently a brig of war has

received his name, in that service which he so much loved, and in which

he passed the best of his days.

Com. Bainbridge was a man of fine and commanding personal appearance.

His stature was about six feet, and his frame was muscular and of

unusually good proportions. His face was handsome, particularly in

youth, and his eye uncommonly animated and piercing. In temperament he

was ardent and sanguine; but cool in danger, and of a courage of proof.

His feelings were vehement, and he was quickly roused; but, generous and

brave, he was easily appeased. Like most men who are excitable, but who

are firm at bottom, he was the calmest in moments of the greatest

responsibility.[7] He was hospitable, chivalrous, magnanimous, and a

fast friend. His discipline was severe, but he tempered it with much

consideration for the wants and health of his crews. Few served with him

who did not love him, for the conviction that his heart was right, was

general among all who knew him. There was a cordiality and warmth in his

manner, that gained him friends, and those who knew him best, say he had

the art of keeping them.

A shade was thrown over the last years of the life of this

noble-spirited man by disease. His sufferings drove him to the use of

antispasmodics, to an extent which deranged the nerves. This altered his

mood so much as to induce those who did not know him well, to imagine

that his character had undergone the change. This was not the case,

however; to his dying hour Bainbridge continued the warm-hearted friend,

the chivalrous gentleman, and the devoted lover of his country’s honor

and interests.

-----

[1] There appears to have been some uncertainty about officers remaining

in service, after the peace of 1801, that contributed to rendering the

reduction irregular. The resignations of Dale and Truxtun, and the death

of Barry, brought the list down to nine; the number prescribed by law.

As the Tripolitan _war_ occurred so soon, a question might arise how far

the peace establishment law was binding at all. Certainly, in its

_spirit_, it was meant only for a time of peace. On the other hand, Mr.

Jefferson, by his public acts, did not seem to think the nation legally

at war with Tripoli, even after battles were fought and vessels

captured.

[2] There already exists some disagreement as to the question on which

of the two principal portions of this reef, the eastern or the western,

the Philadelphia ran. Captain Bainbridge, in his official letter, says

that the _harbor_ of Tripoli was distant three or four miles, when his

ship struck. But the _harbor_ of Tripoli extends more than a mile to the

eastward of the _town_. Fort English lies properly near the mouth of the

harbor, and it is considerably more than a mile east of the castle;

which, itself, stands at the southeastern angle of the town. Com.

Porter, in his testimony before the court of inquiry, thought the ship

struck about three miles and a half from the _town_ of Tripoli, and one

and a half from the nearest point of land, which bore _south_. By the

chart, the _western_ margin of the _western_ reef is about 4000 yards

from the nearest point in the town, and the _western_ margin of the

_eastern_ reef, about 6000. Three miles and a half would be just 6110

yards. This reef, too, lies as near as may be, a mile and a half north

of the nearest land; thus agreeing perfectly with Com. Porter’s

testimony. In addition, the western portion of the reef could not have

been reached without passing into five fathoms water, and Capt.

Bainbridge deemed it prudent to haul off when he found himself in eight.

All the soundings show, as well as the distances, that the frigate

struck as stated in the text, on the eastern half of the Kaliusa Reef;

which might well be named the Philadelphia Reef. It may be added, that

the nearest land would bear nearer southeast, than south, from the

western half of these shoals.

[3] It is pleasing to know that this son has since had his life most

probably saved, by the timely intervention of the American authorities.

A man-of-war was sent to Tripoli, and brought him off, at a most

critical moment, when he was about to fall a sacrifice to his enemies.

He is dead; having been an enlightened statesman, like his father, and a

firm friend of this country; though much vilified and persecuted toward

the close of his brief career.

[4] Alas! how few of the gallant spirits of the late war remain!

Bainbridge is gone. Parker died in command of the Siren, the next year.

John Shubrick was lost in the Epervier, a twelvemonth later; and Beekman

Hoffman died a captain in 1834; while Alwyn survived the wounds received

in this action but a few days.

[5] Some time after the peace of 1815, a distinguished officer of the

English navy visited the Constitution, then just fitted anew at Boston,

for a Mediterranean cruise. He went through the ship accompanied by

Capt. ——, of our service. “Well, what do you think of her?” asked the

latter, after the two had gone through the vessel and reached the

quarter-deck again. “She is _one_ of the finest, if not the very finest

frigate I ever put my foot on board of,” returned the Englishman, “but,

as I must find _some_ fault, I’ll just say that your wheel is one of the

clumsiest things I ever saw, and is unworthy of the vessel.” Capt. ——

laughed, and then explained the appearance of the wheel to the other, as

follows: “When the Constitution took the Java, the former’s wheel was

shot out of her. The Java’s wheel was fitted in the Constitution to

steer with, and, although we think it as ugly as you do, we keep it as a

trophy!”

[6] On the part of the enemy, in the war of words which succeeded the

war of 1612, it was pretended that the Constitution kept off in this

engagement. Bainbridge, in his official letter, says he endeavored to

close, at the risk of being raked; though the early loss of the

Constitution’s wheel prevented her from manœuvring as quickly as she

might otherwise have done. When a frigate’s wheel is gone, the tiller is

managed by tackles, below two decks, and this makes awkward work; first,

as to the transmission of orders, and next, and principally, as to the

degree of change, the men who do the work not being able to see the

sails. There are two modes of transmitting the orders; one by a tube

fitted for that express purpose, and the other by a line of midshipmen.

But the absurd part of the argument was an attempt to show that the

Constitution captured the Java by her great superiority in

small-arms-men; Kentucky riflemen, of course, of whom, by the way, there

probably was never one in an American ship. This attempt was made, in

connection with a battle in which the defeated party, too, had every

spar, even to her bowsprit, shot out of her! All the witnesses on the

subsequent court of inquiry appear to have been asked about this

musketry, and the answer of the boatswain is amusing.

_Question._ “Did you suffer much from musketry on the forecastle?”

_Answer._ “Yes: and _likewise from round and grape_.”

Another absurdity was an attempt to show (see James, Ap. p. 12) that the

Java would have carried the Constitution had her men boarded. The

Constitution’s upper deck was said to be deserted, as if her people had

left it in apprehension of their enemies. Not a man left his station in

the ship, that day, except under orders, and so far from caring about

the attempt to board, the crew ridiculed it. The Java was very bravely

fought, beyond a question, but the Constitution took her, and came out

of action with royal yards across!

[7] A singular proof how far the resolution of Bainbridge could overcome

his natural infirmities, was connected with a very melancholy affair.

When Decatur fought the duel in which he fell, he selected his old

commander and friend, Bainbridge, to accompany him to the field.

Bainbridge had a slight natural impediment in his speech which sometimes

embarrassed his utterance; especially when any thing excited him. On

such occasions, he usually began a sentence—“un-_ter_”—“un-_ter_,” or

“un-_to_,” and then he managed to get out the beginning of what he had

to say. On the sad occasion alluded to, the word of command was to be

“Fire—_one_, _two_, three;” the parties firing between “Fire” and

“three.” Bainbridge won the toss, and was to give the word. It then

occurred to one of the gentlemen of the other side that some accident

might arise from this peculiarity of Bainbridge’s—“one _two_” sounding

so much like “un-_ter_,” and he desired that the whole order might be

rehearsed before it was finally enacted. This was done; but Bainbridge

was perfectly cool, and no mistake was made.

* * * * *

SONG—“I SAW HER ONCE.”

BY RICHARD H. DANA.

I saw her once; and still I see

That placid eye and thoughtful brow;

That voice! it spoke but once to me—

That quiet voice is with me now.

Where’er I go my soul is blest;

She meets me there, a cheering light;

And when I sink away to rest

She murmurs near—Good night! good night!

Our earthly forms are far apart;

But can her spirit be so nigh

Nor I a home within her heart?

And Love but dream her fond reply?

Oh, no! the form that I behold—

No shaping this of memory!

Her self, her self is here ensoul’d!

—I saw her once; and still I see.

* * * * *

SONNET—THE UNATTAINED.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

Is this, then, Life? Oh! are we born for this?

To follow phantoms that elude the grasp!

Or whatsoe’er secured, within our clasp

To withering lie! as if an earthly kiss

Were doomed Death’s shuddering touch alone to greet.

Oh Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss?

Must still the Unattained allure our feet?

The Unattained with yearnings fill the breast,

That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest?

Yes, this is Life, and everywhere we meet,

Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat—

Yet falter not, thou dost apply a test

That shall incite thee onward, upward still—

The present cannot sate, thy soul it cannot fill.

* * * * *

A YOUNG WIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.”

CHAPTER I.

An she shall walk in silken tire

And siller hae to spare.

_Scottish Song._

“No, no, Lowndes,” answered Mr. Gilmer, in reply to some question which

the former had made his friend touching the accomplishments of his bride

elect. “No, no: you will find Miss Vivian very different probably from

what you expect. Men at my age, who know the world, know that talents

and accomplishments are not the first qualities to seek in a wife.

Freshness of heart and mind, _naïveté_ and disinterestedness are the

charms that we prize as we grow older, for they alone, springing from

the heart, can insure us happiness. No, you will not find Miss Vivian

accomplished to any high degree. Her extreme youth precludes that. But

what music or language can equal the melody and eloquence that speak in

a young voice fresh from a warm heart! Of disinterested affection, one

can feel sure in a creature so young; and the pleasure of cultivating a

heart and mind all your own, of feeling that every flower that springs

there is of your own planting, is worth more to my taste than the utmost

perfection of acquirements ready made to the hand.”

Mr. Lowndes, who was also mature in the world’s ways, was somewhat

amused at his friend’s warmth, while he smiled as he thought of the

_disinterestedness_ that leads sixteen to wed with forty-two, and he

said,

“The lady is beautiful, no doubt. For with all your philosophic

knowledge of the world, Gilmer, I doubt whether you would appreciate so

highly the charms of a youthful mind were they not united to the

loveliness of a youthful person.”

Gilmer replied with a smile,

“I think you will find she does credit to my taste. You must let me

introduce you;” and the friends having agreed to call at Mrs. Vivian’s

for that purpose in the evening, separated; Gilmer pitying Lowndes’

forlorn state as an old bachelor, while Lowndes could not but be amused

to see his friend so enthusiastic in a folly he had often ridiculed in

others.

Mr. Gilmer, at forty-two, knew the world as he said; and what is more,

the world knew him; and having run a gay career, to settle in a grave

and polished middle age, he would now renew life, and start afresh for

the goal of happiness; deeming himself, old worldling that he was, a fit

match for bright sixteen, and a natural recipient for the first warm

affections of that happy age.

But is time to be so cheated? Let us see.

“Look!” cried the little bride elect, “is not this beautiful?” showing

her mother an exquisite _cadeau_ from her lover. “Oh, mamma,” added she,

clasping her little hands in an ecstasy, “how he will dress one!”

“Yes, my love,” said her mother tenderly, “it is beautiful, indeed. How

very attentive and kind in Mr. Gilmer to remember that passing wish of

yours.”

“Oh yes! and what perfect taste too he has,” continued the little lady,

evidently much more intent upon her present than her lover; and so she

flew to her aunt to show the rich present she had just received. Miss

Lawrence, a younger sister of her mother, who resided with them, had

been absent when this engagement took place; and having examined and

admired the jewel to the satisfaction of her niece, said,

“I am quite anxious to see this Mr. Gilmer of yours, Charlotte.”

“Are you? Well, he will be here this evening, I suppose; and I dare say

you will like him. He likes all those sensible, dull books that you and

mamma are so fond of. He’ll just suit you.”

“I hope,” replied her aunt, smiling, “he suits you too.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a little hesitation, “only he is too grave and

sensible: but then he’s old, you know,” she added with a serious look.

“Old!” replied Miss Lawrence, “what do you call old?”

“Oh, I don’t know; thirty, or forty, or fifty, I don’t know exactly; but

he must be quite as old as mamma, maybe older: but,” added she, with

more animation, “I shall have the prettiest phaeton, with the dearest

little pair of black ponies you ever saw, just to drive when I shop, you

know, and an elegant chariot to pay visits; and I mean to give so many

parties and a fancy ball regularly every winter;” and she continued

dwelling on her anticipated gaieties to the utter exclusion, in all her

plans, of husband or lover, to the surprise and amusement, not unmixed

with anxiety, of her aunt, who soon began to perceive that her niece’s

young brain was dizzy with the prospect of splendors and gaieties that

her mother’s limited income denied her, while her heart was as untouched

by any deeper emotion as one might naturally have expected from her

joyous, unthinking, careless age. She was dazzled by Mr. Gilmer’s

fortune and flattered by his attentions, for he was _distingué_ in

society; but _love_ she deemed out of the question with a man as old as

her mother; and she was right. It _was_ out of the question with a girl

young enough to be his daughter; for however age may admire youth, there

is nothing captivating to youth in age. His fine mind, cultivated tastes

and elegant manners were lost upon one whose youth and ignorance

precluded her appreciating qualities she did not comprehend; and she

only looked forward to her marriage as the first act in a brilliant

drama in which she was to play the principal part.

“Are you quite satisfied, sister, with this engagement of Charlotte’s?”

asked Miss Lawrence, with some anxiety.

“Perfectly,” replied Mrs. Vivian, “more than satisfied. Mr. Gilmer’s

fortune and station are all I could ask. He is a man of sense and a

gentleman. What more could I desire?”

“He is that, certainly,” replied her sister, “but I confess I wish that

the disparity of years between them was less.”

“I am not sure that I do,” answered Mrs. Vivian. “His age gives me a

security for his character that I could not have otherwise. And the

younger the wife the greater the idol generally. Charlotte has been too

much of an indulged and spoiled child, if you will, to humor and support

the caprices of a young man, and I had rather she were an ‘old man’s

darling than a young man’s slave.’”

“If she were compelled to either alternative,” said Miss Lawrence.

“Beside,” continued Mrs. Vivian, scarce hearing her sister’s

interruption, “his fortune is immense; and the certainty that she will

always be encompassed by every luxury wealth can procure is to me an

unspeakable comfort. You cannot know, Ellen, with what idolatry a mother

loves an only child, nor can you, therefore, comprehend how anxiously I

would guard her from every trial or privation that could beset her path

in life. My income is so small that with me she must suffer many

privations both as to pleasures and comforts that will now be showered

upon her with a liberal hand; and I own I anticipate her marriage with

as much happiness as a mother can look forward to a separation from her

only child.”

And now the preparations were rapidly making for the marriage, and every

day brought some new finery to deck the pretty bride, who was in one

continued ecstasy at every fresh importation; and when the wedding-day

arrived and brought with it a _corbeille_ from Mr. Gilmer, which, when

opened, disclosed a bouquet of sixteen white camellias, and underneath

the bridal veil of costliest lace, with other elegancies too numerous to

mention, she fairly danced in her childish glee as she threw the veil

over her head and flew to the mirror; and the only shadow or doubt that

crossed her fair young face that day, was lest Martille, that most

faithless of _coiffeurs_, should disappoint her in the evening.

The veil is at last arranged, with its orange buds and blossoms, and as

the sparkling, white dress floats around her airy figure, a prettier,

brighter, more graceful creature has rarely glanced across this world

than that beauteous young bride; and Mr. Gilmer as he stood beside her,

high-bred, grave and middle-aged, looked better fitted to perform the

part of father than of groom.

As his friend Mr. Lowndes gazed upon the flashing eyes and glowing

cheeks of the young beauty, and heard the merry tones of her childish

voice, and then glanced round at the small rooms and plain furniture of

her mother’s house, he perfectly comprehended the infatuation of his

friend and the motives of his bride.

CHAPTER II.

That may gar one cry, but it canna gar me mind.

_Heart of Mid Lothian._

“Well, Charlotte,” said Mr. Gilmer, after they had been married about

six weeks, “I suppose our wedding gaieties are nearly over?”

“Oh! I hope not,” cried she, looking almost aghast at the idea. “Why

they have scarcely more than begun. There would be very little use in

being a bride indeed, if it were to end so soon,” she continued.

“So soon!” replied her husband. “Why I should think that even you would

be tired of this incessant gaiety. I fairly long for one quiet dinner

and evening at home.”

“I agree with you,” she returned, “the dinners _are_ bores. To be

obliged to sit four or five mortal hours and talk is very dull. But the

balls are delightful, and I hope may continue these three months. You

don’t dance, however,” she added, “and I don’t wonder you find it

tiresome. Mamma used to complain of it too, and I dare say it is dull to

you old folks who look on. But to us who waltz, you don’t know how

charming it is,” and as she shook back her curls and looked up in his

face, with such an expression of youthful delight, he was compelled to

swallow with good humor the being classed with “Mamma” and the “old

folks,” unpleasant as it might be, in the hope that she would soon weary

of this heartless gaiety, and ceasing to be a child, “put away childish

things.”

Finding, however, that her youth was more than a match for his patience,

he soon wearied of playing the indulgent lover, and within two months

after their marriage he said,

“Charlotte, after to-night we go to no more evening parties. I am

thoroughly tired of them, and you have had enough for this season.”

She would have remonstrated, but the decision, almost amounting to

sternness with which he spoke, startled her, and she only pouted without

replying. Her usual resource, to complain of her husband to her mother,

was left her, and Mrs. Vivian’s spirit quickly fired at seeing her

darling child thwarted, and she said with the feeling more natural than

judicious in a mother-in-law,

“Tell your husband, Charlotte, that if he does not wish to go, I am

always ready to accompany you,” and the young wife returned triumphantly

to her husband to say, “that mamma would take her to Mrs. Johnson’s.”

Mr. Gilmer could not reasonably object to the arrangement, little as he

liked it; but thus Mrs. Vivian laid the foundation of a dislike between

her son-in-law and self that took root but to flourish and strengthen

with time.

Mrs. Vivian calling soon after on her daughter, found her poring over a

large volume most intently.

“What are you reading, Charlotte?” inquired her mother.

“Oh!” she said, tossing the book from her, “the stupidest thing you ever

read. Mr. Gilmer insisted on my reading it. He wants me to ‘cultivate my

mind,’ to read and think, but I won’t think for him,” she said,

pettishly pushing the book from her, “he can’t make me do that, do what

he will. Now is it not hard,” she said, appealing to her mother, “that

just as I have left school, I should be surrounded by masters and forced

to study? He insisted on engaging Signor F. to give me Italian lessons,

as he says that time will hang heavy on my hands if I have nothing to do

when he is absent. Not nearly as heavy, I can tell him, as when I have

something to do I don’t like. And, then, these stupid dinners he _will_

give, where he has only grave, sensible old men. If I had thought I was

to lead such a life as this, I would have married a young man at once;”

and thus she poured out her complaints, which were “as fresh from a warm

young heart,” as Mr. Gilmer himself could have desired in his most

enthusiastic mood. In fact, he was beginning to find that this

“cultivating a wife’s mind” was not the easy delightful task he had once

promised himself; and the _naïveté_ that had so charmed him before his

marriage, annoyed him now not a little, as he saw it amuse his friends,

particularly Mr. Lowndes, whose quick eye would involuntarily glance at

him as his wife let forth most unconsciously some of the little

_disagrémens_ of their _ménage_. That same _naïveté_ is the most

unmanageable quality in an establishment where all does not run

smoothly, and for that very reason, perhaps, often more amusing to

strangers. But we pity the proud reserved man who is to be tortured with

the “simplicity” by which he was once captivated.

And if she was weary of the “grave sensible men” that surrounded his

table, he was not less so of her young companions, who chattered and

gossiped till his ears fairly ached with their nonsense.

The career of self indulgence, generally denominated a “gay life,” that

Mr. Gilmer had led, was not the best of preparations for an indulgent

husband, and resuming, as time wore on, the selfishness that had been

laid asleep or aside in the first excitement of winning his little

beauty, he became more decided and less tender in his manner toward his

young wife. Finding he could not make her a companion, and having no

respect for her understanding, nor sympathy in her tastes, he soon began

to treat her as a child, that is, as a being having no _rights_. She on

her side, quicker in feeling than defining, felt as every child feels,

when defrauded of their due, that she had claims to assert as well as

himself; and thus commenced a struggle that each urged as far as they

dared. We say dared, for there was a cold, stern decision about him,

that awed her in spite of herself; and he saw a look in her eye

sometimes that told him it were best not to push matters to extremities,

or he might raise a spirit, once raised not so easily laid. Mrs. Vivian

seeing her beautiful child consigned to the cold selfishness rather of a

step-father, than the indulgent affection of a devoted husband as she

had expected, injudiciously took part in their little differences, and

could not help giving her son-in-law an occasional _cut_ that neither

sweetened his temper nor mended his manners. He respected her

understanding, and feared her penetration; and fear and respect too

often engender dislike; and it was not long before a state of feeling

arose between mother and son-in-law less seldom than sorrowful.

CHAPTER III.

“Nae treasures nor pleasures

Could mak us happy long;

The heart’s aye the part aye

That makes us right or wrong.”

_Burns._

The birth of a daughter at length opened new feelings and hopes to the

parents; and the thought “that Mr. Gilmer could no longer treat her as a

child, and require her to study and read,” added not a little to the

happiness that flashed in Charlotte’s eyes as she kissed her baby with

rapture; and the quiet but deep satisfaction with which Mr. Gilmer

contemplated his child, was partly founded in the expectation, “that

Charlotte, in assuming the duties and feelings of a mother, would sink

the giddiness of the girl in the steadiness of the woman.” But little

did he know in supposing that youth and nature were thus to be cheated

of their privileges by the assumption of the responsibilities of maturer

age. That Charlotte loved her infant with the liveliest affection, is

true; but it was rather the playful fondness of a child for its

play-thing than the passionate love of a mother for her first born; and

although she would delightedly fondle the infant for a few minutes, yet

easily terrified by the cries of the little creature, drawn forth by the

awkward handling of its inexperienced parent, she would quickly resign

it to the soothing cares of its nurse, who, in fact, dreaded the sight

of the young mother in the nursery. Once, indeed, after having been

admonished and lectured by her husband on her new duties and

responsibilities, she took it in her head, at the imminent risk of life

and limb of her child, to wash and dress it herself, and which was most

terrified and exhausted under the operation, mother or child, it would

be difficult to say; and very soon she resumed her usual routine of

life, only varied by occasional visits to her nursery. Mr. Gilmer,

disappointed in the change he had hoped to see in her character and

tastes, became more impatient and less yielding than before. Had he, in

the indulgent spirit that should have accompanied his age and knowledge

of the world, given way to the joyous spirits and excitable feelings

natural to her youth, he would have won to himself a heart naturally

warm and affectionate, at the same time that he quenched her ardent love

of pleasure in satiety. But, too selfish to put that constraint on

himself, he expected at once that calm indifference to society, in a

girl of scarce eighteen, that was in himself the result of twenty-five

years devotion to its frivolities, and his wife’s thirst for gaiety

seemed to increase in proportion to the difficulties and objections he

threw in the path of her enjoyment—and it was but natural that she

should escape with delight, looks of grave displeasure, quick words of

impatience, and selfish forgetfulness of her tastes at home, for the

gaiety of brilliant throngs where she was followed, admired and

flattered, and which she enjoyed the more, that the opportunities were

rare and doubtful.

And thus time wore on, adding rather than diminishing the discontents of

all parties. We have said before that the feelings subsisting between

Mrs. Vivian and her son-in-law were any thing but kind and friendly; and

they now rarely met without quick and biting sarcasms on her side,

retorted by a cold and haughty disrespect on his. Age, too, was now

adding its usual exactions to his natural selfishness of character, and

that he might enjoy that luxurious indolence and tranquillity so

necessary to his happiness, and withdraw his wife from the pleasure so

opposite to his tastes, and, above all, that he might free himself from

the interference and investigation of Mrs. Vivian, and separate

Charlotte from her mother as much as possible, he resolved to purchase a

place in the country. Regardless of the wishes of his wife, heedless of

her remonstrance, the idea was no sooner conceived than executed, and

however much Mrs. Gilmer disliked the removal, there was no resource but

to submit. That she submitted with a good grace we cannot say, for

Charlotte had now learned to _think_, (as what woman does not that makes

an ill-assorted marriage?) although her mind had not expanded in the

direction that her husband desired. She had become acquainted with her

own claims, and in penetrating the heartlessness and hollowness of her

husband’s character, had learned to mourn over the sacrifice of her

youth and beauty with indignation and anguish. Resenting the steady

pursuance of his own plans, to the utter exclusion of all consideration

for her wishes, she in her turn became careless of his comforts and

negligent of her duties. Who that passed that beautiful place, with its

rich lawns, noble trees and magnificent views, would have suspected the

discontented tempers and unsatisfied hearts that dwelt in that embowered

paradise. Her child was a source of unmingled happiness to her as it

grew in beauty and intelligence. But will the love of a child alone

compensate for that want of companionship and sympathy that the heart

asks for in vain where there is no equality of mind or years?

The society of her mother had been her greatest source of comfort during

the last few years of her existence, as she turned to her for that

indulgence and love of which she felt the want more and more; and which

was poured forth upon her more fully in her hour of disappointment than

even in her petted childhood by her doting parent. And now how gladly

did she hail every little excuse the calls of life afforded her, the

procuring a servant, the necessary purchases, &c., to drive to the city

and spend as many hours as possible with that dear friend. And oh, how

doubly happy was she on such occasions, if she were caught in a storm,

or losing the boat, was compelled to remain a few days in that small

house, which with its mean furniture she had once been so anxious to

escape, but which was now to her the centre of all happiness, for there

she found liberty, sympathy, love; and her mother acknowledged to

herself that when she had so anxiously essayed to guard her child from

every sorrow and trial of life, she had attempted a task not to be

achieved upon earth. Cares and sorrows are the lot of earth’s children;

but they fall comparatively lightly on those whose hearts are

strengthened and sustained by an all-supporting and enduring love for

those to whom fortune has connected their destiny.

And was Mr. Gilmer happier for the new mode of life he had adopted? No.

Accustomed to the habits of a city, he was wanting in that personal

activity necessary for the enjoyment of country pleasures, or keen

interest in the agricultural improvement of his place. His literary

pursuits, wanting the stimulus of congenial spirits, was degenerating

into careless reading and sedentary habits, only diversified by light

dozing; and, after spending the afternoon and evening hours in his

library alone, there was a dreamy abstraction in his eye, that the keen

vigilance of Mrs. Vivian having once detected, she knew immediately came

neither from literary excitement nor intellectual meditation. Thus will

the selfish pursuance of one’s own gratification, alone, fall back upon

the head of him who essays to secure all for himself in yielding nothing

to others.

A wasted youth and useless manhood must end in a neglected and unhonored

age.

Should a few years bring forth a young and beauteous widow, society may

look for the natural results of an unnatural youth, in that saddest of

anomalies, _a gay widow_. And should she essay a second “Experiment of

Living,” we fear that having been worldly when she should have been

romantic, she will now be romantic when it would be more graceful, or at

least more respectable, to be worldly, and the result will scarcely be

less unfortunate and infinitely more ridiculous than the first.

F. E. F.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Fanny Corbaux_, _H. S. Sadd, N. Y._

_The Pet Rabbit_,

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

* * * * *

THE PET RABBIT.

True were your words, heart-reader, Jacques Rousseau—

’Tis woman’s nature to be loving ever;

Though like the winds, the amorous winds that blow,

She to one object may be constant never.

The gentle Julia, fickle as she’s fair,

Still cannot triumph o’er the pleasing habit.

Live without love? As well without the air!

She scorns her husband, but—_adores her rabbit_.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Destouches., Eng^{d} by J.N. Gimbrede.

_The Reprimand_,

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THE REPRIMAND.

BY EPES SARGENT.

In this utilitarian, leveling, democratic age, when candidates for the

Presidency are expected to attend “mass clam-bakes,” at Seekonk, Squam,

or some equally central and populous locality, it is quite delightful to

meet with a good, old-fashioned, uncompromising aristocrat like Aunt

Adeline. Possessing no discoverable attraction, personal, intellectual,

or moral—masculine in her features, voice and manners—penurious in her

habits—and violent in her prejudices—all these little foibles and

defects are redeemed and dignified by her magnificent family pride. Her

grandmother was niece to a lady, whose husband had a cousin, whose

husband’s brother’s wife’s sister had been lady-in-waiting to Queen

Anne. What a blessed privilege! What a cause for felicitation and

delicious retrospection to the remotest posterity!

Amy Ammidon and her brother Harry had the

never-to-be-sufficiently-appreciated good fortune to be the children of

Aunt Adeline’s brother, and to partake consequently in the lustre of her

ancestral glories. At the time of the incident, the particulars of which

have been communicated to me, Mr. Ammidon, who had been a prosperous

merchant, had met with reverses in business, which compelled him to

circumscribe his expenditures. Harry was supposed to be traveling in

Europe; and Aunt Adeline, much to the chagrin of all concerned, had

undertaken to supply the void in the family, occasioned about a year

before by the death of an affectionate mother and wife, by taking up her

residence amongst them. Such were the circumstances of the little group

early in the spring of 1842.

What a dear, artless, sunny-tempered creature was Amy! Vainly, vainly

has the limner tried accurately to trace her face and figure. He

deserves credit for what he has done. I can see a resemblance—a strong

one, in the picture which the graver of Gimbrede has transferred to

steel. But where is the ever-varying expression, the sparkling animation

of lip and eye, too evanescent and too mutable to be daguerreotyped even

by memory with fidelity? Art can do much, but it cannot do justice to

such a Protean beauty as Amy.

Although born in the city—although the din of Broadway was the first

noise that broke upon her infant slumbers—Amy was as much out of place

in New York, with its reeking gutters, its eternal omnibuses and its

“indignation processions,” as a pond lily would be in a tanner’s pit.

The country, with its wealth of foliage, its fields and its wild

flowers, was her delight. The anticipation of visiting it seemed to be

alone sufficient to fill her heart with cheerfulness during the winter

months. A little cottage, in Westchester county, to which the name of

Glenwood had been given, and which had not been sacrificed in the

general wreck of her father’s property, was her _beau ideal_ of

Paradise. And a delicious spot it was—cool, sequestered, rich in its

smooth lawns and ancient forests, and commanding a fine view of Long

Island Sound, from which a fresh breeze was wafted in the hottest days

of summer. I cannot imagine a more suitable place at which to introduce

Amy to the friendly regards of my readers.

But before I proceed, let me express my regret that a rigid adherence to

truth and candor will not permit me to conceal the fact that there was

one trait of character in which Amy was lamentably and unaccountably

deficient. Notwithstanding the lessons and the example of her

respectable aunt—notwithstanding the hereditary _blood_ in her

veins—notwithstanding the family tree and the family pictures, Amy had

not one particle of that praiseworthy and truly disinterested pride

which springs from the contemplation of the superiority of some remote

ancestor over ourselves. She had not sense enough to see (poor thing!)

why the circumstance of her great grandfather’s having been a bishop was

a sufficient proof of her own orthodoxy and worth, or what her

grandmother’s merit had to do with _hers_. Had she been in the habit of

quoting poetry, she might have adopted the base-spirited sentiment

expressed by Pope:

What can ennoble fools, or knaves, or cowards?

A great fallacy, and one which never failed to excite the vehement and

proper indignation of Aunt Adeline! I am sorry that at the very outset I

am compelled to tell these things of Amy, but, as they illustrate her

conduct on an important occasion, they could not well be omitted.

It was a bright and beautiful afternoon in June. The air from the water

was fresh and elastic. The bees about Glenwood were plying a brisk

business among the clover, and the birds were singing as if their life

depended on the amount of noise they could make. Amy stole in from the

piazza that encircled the cottage, and, with her apron full of newly

plucked flowers, sat down in the big leathern armchair in the library to

arrange a nosegay. To one who could not sympathize with her admiration

of their fragrance and beauty, her delight would have seemed almost

childish, for she kissed them and laughed, and laughed and kissed them

again, then put her forefinger to her mischievous lips, and whispered

“hush!” as if warning herself against intrusion, then shrugged her ivory

shoulders and laughed once more, as if congratulating herself upon the

undisturbed enjoyment of some interdicted pleasure.

But Amy was mistaken in supposing that she was alone and unobserved, for

at that moment Aunt Adeline, who had been watching her antics from

behind a door, burst in upon her with an exclamation which made her

start from her seat and drop the half-formed nosegay, and scatter the

flowers upon the floor, while she stood trembling like a culprit, with

one hand grasping her apron, and her left elbow instinctively resting on

a couple of large volumes which concealed a whole wilderness of pressed

flowers.

And what was Amy’s crime? Listen, and perhaps you may find out.

“So, Miss—so!” screamed Aunt Adeline, at the top of her voice, which,

in its melody, resembled a Scotch bag-pipe more than a Dorian flute. And

having uttered these monosyllables, she tossed herself into the vacated

chair, as if preparing for a reprimand of some length. Then, pointing to

the abandoned flowers, she sternly asked—“How came you by those

flowers? Speak, minx!”

Amy continued silent; and Aunt Adeline renewed her interrogation with

more severity. A little indignation began now to mingle with Amy’s

grief, and she was on the point of astonishing her aunt with a spirited

reply, when the latter exclaimed:

“You needn’t tell me where you got them, Miss. I know all about it. They

were given to you by that plebeian clodhopper, Tom Greenleaf, the

milk-man’s son. Yes, you mean-spirited thing, you. The milk-man’s son!”

It was even so. Mortifying to my feelings as it is to make any such

admission in regard to a heroine of mine, I must confess that Aunt

Adeline was right, and that the flowers were the gift (pah!) of an

individual of thoroughly rustic extraction. Some twenty years since, old

Greenleaf was the owner of a snug farm on the island of Manhattan; where

he obtained a frugal subsistence by selling milk to the denizens of the

city. It was even true, that occasionally, when the old man was confined

at home by the rheumatism, Tom, who was then a mere lad, would mount the

cart and go the rounds in his father’s stead. While engaged in this

employment, it was his lot to meet Amy Ammidon, whose family he supplied

with the snowy beverage enclosed in his large tin tubs. Amy was then as

rosy-cheeked, black-eyed a little maiden as ever perpetrated unconscious

damage in the hearts of venturous youths. Tom instinctively discovered

her fondness for flowers, and the nosegays he used to bring her in

consequence surpassed all computation. Years rolled on; and one fine

summer day the old milk-man was overwhelmed with astonishment at

discovering that his little thirty-acre farm was worth a hundred

thousand dollars. He sold out, purchased a beautiful estate in

Westchester, removed to it, and just as he was beginning to feel the

_ennui_ of inert prosperity, he died, leaving Tom the sole heir of his

safely invested property.

Tom showed himself a man, every inch of him, in the course he pursued.

He had always had a taste for reading, and he now devoted himself with

assiduity to the attainment of a fitting education. At the age of

twenty-one he graduated at a respectable college, and then wisely chose

the profession of a farmer. He had not been home many days, when in one

of his walks he encountered his old friend Amy. Both were equally

delighted at renewing the acquaintance; and one step led to another,

until Tom had the audacity to send her the nosegay which had called down

Aunt Adeline’s appropriate indignation.

“Hear me, Amy Ammidon,” continued she; “if you dare to disgrace your

family by receiving the addresses of that son of a cauliflower—that

low-born, low-bred cultivator of turnip-tops and radishes—that

superintendent of hay-mows and pig-pens—that vulgar cow-boy—if you

dare to sully the blood of an Ammidon by such a union, I will utterly

disown you, and you shall never have the advantage of my society again.”

Strange to say, Amy’s eyes brightened at this menace, and I am afraid

she was just on the point of exclaiming, “O, then, I will marry him, by

all means;” but she checked herself, and said: “Can’t one receive a few

flowers from a gentleman without risking the imputation of being engaged

to him?”

“Gentleman, indeed! Tom Greenleaf a gentleman!”

“Yes, Miss Adeline Ammidon,” exclaimed Amy in a tone which transfixed

her aunt with amazement, “as true a gentleman as any ancestor of yours

or mine ever was! A gentleman not only in mind and manners, but what is

better far, in heart—and therefore a perfect gentleman!”

“Oh dear! What a deal of spirit Miss Innocence can show when a word is

said against the clodhopper! Why doesn’t she show as much indignation

when Frank Phaeton and Harry Hawker, from both of whom she has had

offers, are abused?”

“I shall be eighteen next January—heigho!”

“So, you mean by that to taunt me with your approaching freedom; but we

will have you married before that time in a manner becoming your rank.

Have you forgotten what I told you about Col. Mornington, a son of the

Earl of Bellingham, being in the city from Canada? My friend, Mrs.

Ogleby, has promised to give him a letter to me, and I am daily

expecting a call. When he comes, I mean to invite him to pass a week at

Glenwood, and if you are not a fool you can bring him to your feet.”

“Isn’t he very dissipated?”

“That is not of the slightest consequence, my dear, when you think of

his splendid connections.”

“I am told he is utterly destitute of principle.”

“He will be a lord when his eldest brother dies. It is ridiculous to

bring up such frivolous objections.”

While this conversation was going on, Greenleaf, who had been lying in

wait for Amy near the porch, was attracted to the window by the loud,

objurgatory tones of aunt Adeline’s voice, and, to his dismay, found

that Amy was the victim of her anger. He was on the point of jumping

into the room, and gagging the old woman, when his eye fell on a

suspicious-looking flask near the window-sill, and he charitably

concluded that the cordial it contained was at the bottom of the

disturbance. How far this conjecture was correct I have never been able

to ascertain. Tom was soon joined by Amy, who, with tears in her eyes,

told him of her aunt’s violent behavior. The lovers sauntered away, arm

in arm, and, as they reached the termination of a shady lane that opened

upon the highway, they saw a carriage, containing a young man of foreign

appearance, with long hair and moustaches, drive toward the cottage.

“That must be the Colonel Mornington, of whom Aunt Adeline spoke,” said

Amy, stifling a sob.

“Shall I knock him down?” asked Tom, clenching his fists.

Before Amy could reply, the carriage was suddenly stopped, and the

stranger, throwing open the door, jumped from it without waiting for the

steps to be let down. Then, rushing toward Amy, he threw his arms about

her neck, hugged and kissed her. So abrupt and rapid was the act, that

Greenleaf was thoroughly confounded at the fellow’s impudence, and had

no opportunity of interposing. He was making preparations to seize the

coxcomb, however, and throw him over the hedge, when he was relieved by

Amy’s exclaiming, “Brother Harry! Is it possible? I should never have

dreamed it was you, with those frightful whiskers.”

“Yes, Amy, it is Harry himself. And you—how you have grown! When I last

saw you, you were a chubby little girl, But, Amy, Amy, is that a tear on

your cheek? What is the meaning of it?”

“Oh, nothing serious, I assure you. I am so glad—so very glad to see

you, Harry! You intend to remain with us, do you not?”

“Nay, I must know the meaning of that tear. Father is well, is he not?”

“When I last heard from him, at Charleston, he was never better. We are

all well—quite well.”

“Introduce me to your companion, Amy.”

Amy did as her brother requested; and the introduction was soon

succeeded by a frank explanation of the position of the parties, and of

Aunt Adeline’s ferocious opposition to the existence of their present

relation.

“I will punish the old shrew,” exclaimed Harry. “I owe her an ancient

grudge, for making me go in petticoats, when a boy, a year longer than

was necessary. Let me see—she is daily expecting this Colonel

Mornington, you say?”

“Yes; and she is studying, with more zest than ever, the family records,

to enlighten him fully in regard to her pedigree.”

“Well, you must concur in a little plot, by which you can be relieved

from her present system of annoyance, and I can gratify the

long-deferred vengeance implanted by her opposition to my appearance in

jacket and trowsers. It is nearly ten years since she saw me. Of course

she will not recognize me with these hirsute appendages. I will appear

as Col. Mornington. I will make love to you. You must prove fickle, and

receive my attentions—and then leave the _dénouement_ to me.”

“Delightful! Do you approve of it, Thomas?”

“By all means. It will be a very harmless mode of revenging ourselves.”

An hour afterwards, as Aunt Adeline was peeping through the parlor

blinds, she saw, as she supposed, the long expected carriage of Col.

Mornington dash up before the door, and the colonel himself—the “dear,

delightful colonel,” with a remarkably languid air, alight. Preceded by

a servant, she hastened to receive him, and, as the door was thrown

open, welcomed him to Glenwood with an antiquarian courtesy. The

colonel’s manner of receiving her salutation was rather peculiar. Before

replying to her greeting, or saying a word, he slowly drew from his

pocket a leather case, from which he took an enormous opera glass. Then

hunting, first in one pocket and then in another, for a handkerchief, he

finally succeeded in finding one; and, in a manner which was not at all

significant of haste, proceeded to wipe the glasses. Then leisurely

returning the handkerchief to its place of deposit, he balanced himself

in a sort of easy straddle, coolly put the opera-glass to his eyes, and

took a long survey of Aunt Adeline’s physiognomy. As soon as he had

finished his inspection he returned the glass to its case, and asked, in

a drawling tone—“Are you Miss Am-Am-Amworth, or Amburgh, or Am—”

“Miss Ammidon, you probably mean,” said Aunt Adeline. “I am that person,

and you, sir, I presume, are Colonel Mornington. You needn’t hunt for

your letter of introduction. I have been expecting the honor of a visit,

sir, for some days, and now bid you heartily welcome to Glenwood. Have

the goodness to walk into the parlor. Your baggage shall be taken care

of. I must insist on your making our cottage your home while you are in

the village.”

“Thawideawquoitewavishesme,” said the colonel, but whether he was

speaking in the Choctaw or Hindostanee tongue, Aunt Adeline could not

guess.

Entering the parlor he encountered Amy, to whom he was at once

introduced by Aunt Adeline. He again went through the process of

inspection with the aid of an opera-glass, and Amy, in spite of her

aunt’s frowns, burst into a fit of laughter and left the room.

“Extwardinarygwirl!” exclaimed the colonel, in the same unknown tongue.

Then turning to Aunt Adeline, he abruptly asked for “bwandy and water.”

As soon as she could comprehend his wants, she recollected, much to her

chagrin, that there was no brandy in the house; and informed the colonel

of the fact, promising at the same time to send to the nearest grocery,

which was a mile off, and obtain the desired article.

“No bwandy! No bwandy in the house!” exclaimed the noble visiter,

staring at his dismayed hostess with an expression of utter

consternation and despair depicted in his countenance.

Assuring him that the brandy should be procured with all possible

expedition, Aunt Adeline hurried out of the room, and despatched all the

servants in different directions, promising a reward to that one who

would be the first to bring home a pint of brandy. No sooner had she

disappeared than Amy re-entered the parlor; and when Aunt Adeline

returned, which she did not venture to do until, after great exertions,

the brandy had been obtained, she saw to her surprise her niece and the

colonel sitting familiarly on the sofa, engaged, apparently, in

affectionate dalliance.

“Now, colonel, if you will try some of this brandy,” said Aunt Adeline.

“Throw it away!” exclaimed the colonel, “here is something better than

_eau de vie_!” and saying thus, he kissed Amy, first on either cheek,

then on her lips, to all which she submitted with perfect resignation.

Aunt Adeline flung up both arms in astonishment. “This is the quickest

wooing,” thought she, “that I ever heard of!”

The colonel had not been two days in the family before it was regarded

as settled that he and Amy were affianced. Aunt Adeline eagerly gave her

consent, notwithstanding some little eccentricities in the young man’s

conduct, of which she did not wholly approve. For instance, when she

undertook to bore him with an explanation of her family tree, he laughed

in her face, and told her that his mare Betsey could boast a better

pedigree. This was touching the old woman on a tender point, but she

suppressed the exhibition of her chagrin through a secret admiration of

that superiority in blood, which could afford to sneer at her genealogy.

Another circumstance was rather annoying, and some illiberal people

might have considered the trait it displayed objectionable in a lover.

The colonel, who had _apparently_ been indulging too freely in strong

potations, on meeting Aunt Adeline alone on the stairs, was rude to the

ancient vestal, and even attempted to throw his arms about her neck. To

tell the truth, Aunt Adeline was a very little shocked at this

ebullition, but when she recollected that the aggressor was the son of

an earl, she forgave him with all her heart, and determined not to

mention the occurrence to her niece.

These, however, were but trivial symptoms of depravity, compared with

those which were soon developed. The colonel had not been engaged two

days when he petrified the “old woman,” as he called her to her face, by

applying to her for money. She could have endured any thing but this

without faltering in her alliance. He might have been as tipsy and

profligate as he pleased, and still she would have thought him an

excellent match for Amy; but in money matters, Aunt Adeline was rigid

and inexorable as death itself. Although in the receipt of a competent

annuity, she had always contrived, from parsimonious motives, to live

upon her friends and relatives; and it was rare indeed that a dollar

found its way from her store. And now Colonel Mornington called upon

her, peremptorily, for a hundred dollars, and would not listen to a

refusal! It was like draining her of her life-blood, but there was no

remedy. With a heavy heart, and with many a longing, lingering look at

the money, she placed it in his hands. She had hoped that he would of

his own accord offer to give her his acceptance for the sum; but the

idea evidently did not occur to him, and she timidly hinted something

about a receipt.

“A what!” exclaimed the colonel in a tone, and with a stare, which

effectually prevented her from renewing the suggestion.

The very next day the colonel applied for another hundred dollars,

ingenuously informing her that he had experienced heavy losses at the

village nine-pin alley. Aunt Adeline at first peremptorily refused to

give him the amount, but she was finally so worked upon by his taunts

and menaces that she acceded to his exorbitant demands. The same scene

was repeated the next day, and the next, and the next, until the colonel

was her debtor to the amount of five hundred dollars, when she

unequivocally declared that she would advance him no more money. The

colonel left her presence, muttering mysterious threats.

Late that night, as Aunt Adeline, with a mind torn by unavailing regrets

and painful conjectures as to the probabilities of her ever getting back

her loan, was vainly trying to compose herself to sleep, she heard a

slight noise at the handle of her chamber door, and, turning her eyes in

the direction, saw to her horror the colonel enter with a dark lanthorn

in his hand and two enormous pistols under his arms. Gently closing the

door, he locked it, and stealthily advanced toward the toilet table,

where he deposited one of the murderous weapons, and then cocking the

other, approached the bed-side. Although Aunt Adeline was shaking with

fright, she had sense enough to feign slumber, and the colonel, after

examining her features and muttering, “it is lucky for the old girl she

is asleep,” proceeded to search the various drawers and trunks in the

room for plunder, having first abstracted a formidable bunch of keys

from under the venerable spinster’s pillow. The most valuable articles

he found were a bag filled with golden half eagles and a little casket

of jewels. Thrusting these into the pockets of his dressing-gown, he

replaced the keys where he had found them, took another look at Aunt

Adeline, to assure himself that she was asleep, and glided quietly out

of the room.

At the breakfast-table the next morning, when Aunt Adeline made her

appearance, both her niece and the colonel professed to be very much

shocked at her pale and altered features; and the latter pressed upon

her some patent pills, in regard to the efficacy of which he told some

wonderful stories. Had not Aunt Adeline been thoroughly convinced of his

wish to poison her, she might have taken some. The poor woman’s troubles

were by no means lessened on the reception of the following letter from

her brother, which was handed to her while her coffee was cooling:

“Dear Adeline,—Far from having my indignation awakened by your

account of Amy’s attachment to young Greenleaf, I was heartily

glad to hear that she had fixed it on so worthy an object. I

have the most satisfactory assurances as to his worth, his

unexceptionable habits, and his ability to make my daughter

happy. What more shall we look for? You say he is a milk-man’s

son, and ask if I am willing to see my child wedded to a

clodhopper. Let me tell you, it is no small distinction in these

days, when whole states have set the example of repudiating

their debts (or, in plain, downright English, of _swindling

their creditors_,) to be descended from an honest man, let his

vocation have been what it might. At any rate, I am delighted at

Amy’s choice, and I most earnestly forbid your throwing any

obstacle in the way of its fulfillment. I remain your

affectionate brother, etc., etc.”

As Aunt Adeline lifted her eyes from the letter, she beheld Amy seated

in the colonel’s lap, and playfully feeding him with a spoon, while at

intervals she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. The girl

was evidently wildly enamored of a character who had shown himself a

most eligible candidate for Sing Sing; and Aunt Adeline had the soothing

reflection, that she herself had originated and encouraged the

attachment. Requesting Amy to follow her to the library, she at once

made known to her the fact of the colonel’s unworthiness, and related

the occurrence of the night before. Amy professed her utter disbelief of

the charges against her “own Arthur,” as she called him, and on her

aunt’s offering to prove them, by calling in a magistrate, and having

the colonel’s trunk searched, the infatuated girl exclaimed:

“Well, what if he is guilty? His father is an earl, and his aunt is the

daughter-in-law of a duke, and happen what may I won’t give up my own

Arthur.”

Aunt Adeline groaned in spirit as she replied—“Have you so soon

forgotten that nice, respectable, amiable young man, Greenleaf, to whom

you gave so much encouragement? I never believed you could be so fickle,

Amy!”

“Greenleaf! Foh! Turnip-tops and cabbage-heads! Radishes and carrots!

How can you condescend to mention his vulgar, vegetable name after what

yourself have said about him to me, my dear aunt? Besides, how do you

know that the milk-man’s son has not changed his mind by this time,

seeing your hostility to his pretensions?”

Aunt Adeline had penetration enough to put a favorable construction upon

this last interrogation, and, leaving her niece, she started off to pay

a visit to Greenleaf. After an abundance of circumlocution, she ventured

to sound him upon the subject of her niece. To her disappointment, she

found him cold and impenetrable, and when she put him the question

point-blank, whether he wished to marry Amy, the upstart replied that he

had some young ladies in his eye, who, if they did not possess the

personal charms of her niece, could boast of more illustrious ancestors,

which, of course, rendered them far more eligible. Aunt Adeline could

only groan. The weapons with which she was foiled were of her own

forging.

Poor Aunt Adeline! After being tormented a couple of days longer, the

joke was explained to her, the money and jewels were restored, and

Colonel Mornington and Harry Ammidon were shown to be one and the same

personage. In the first blush of her mortification and rage, she packed

up her trunks, and removed to the city, where she bivouacked upon a

niece, who was blessed with a houseful of small children. Soon after her

departure, Greenleaf and Amy were married, and established in the new

and tasteful structure built by the father and embellished by the son.

Since that event, there has been but one ripple in the smooth stream of

their felicity, and that was occasioned by the reception of a letter

from Aunt Adeline, in which was the following passage:

“You know, Amy dear, that you were always my favorite niece, and I am

sure you will be pleased to hear that I intend paying you a long visit

next month. I am quite willing to forego the gayeties of New York, for

the pleasure of passing a year or two with you and your charming

husband. I hear you see a good deal of company, and are visited by many

highly genteel people from the city. I always said that my darling Amy

would make a creditable match. You may expect me early in October.”

Immediately on the arrival of this letter, there were a number of

anxious consultations in regard to its contents. A proposition was

brought forward by Harry Ammidon for blowing up the old woman with

gunpowder, after a plan that had been communicated to him in Paris by

one of the conspirators against Louis Philippe. This project being

objected to, he suggested whether she couldn’t be put into a haunted

room, and a ghost hired, for a small compensation, to torment her

nightly. But the house being one of modern construction, and no well

authenticated murder having been yet committed in it, this contrivance

did not appear altogether feasible.

When I took leave of the family, which was on a pleasant afternoon last

September, they were still plotting the means of averting the menaced

visitation. Should any thing interesting transpire in this connection,

perhaps I will give an account of it in a supplement to my present

narrative.

* * * * *

THE LIFE VOYAGE—A BALLAD.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Once in the olden time there dwelt,

Beside the sounding sea,

A little maid—her garb was coarse,

Her spirit pure and free.

Her parents were an humble twain,

And poor, as poor could be;

Yet gaily sang the guileless child,

Beside the sounding sea.

The hut was bare, and scant the fare,

And hard her little bed;

But she was rich! A single gem

Its beauty round her shed.

She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—

That pearl whose lustrous glow

Made her white forehead dazzling fair,

And pure as sunlit snow.

Her parents died! With tears, she cried,

“God will my father be!”

Then launched alone her shallop light,

And bravely put to sea.

The sail she set was virgin-white

As inmost lily leaf,

And angels whispered her from Heaven,

To loose it or to reef.

And ever on the dancing prow

One glorious brilliant burned,

By whose clear ray she read her way,

And every danger learned:

For she had hung her treasure there,

Her heaven-illumined pearl!

And so she steered her lonely bark,

That fair and guileless girl!

The wind was fresh, the sails were free,

High dashed the diamond spray,

And merrily leaping o’er the sea

The light skiff left the bay!

But soon false, evil spirits came,

And strove, with costly lure,

To bribe her maiden heart to shame,

And win her jewel pure:

They swarmed around the fragile boat,

They brought her diamonds rare,

To glisten on her graceful throat,

And bind her flowing hair!

They brought her gold from Afric-land;

And from the sea-king’s throne,

They pilfered gems to grace her hand

And clasp her virgin zone.

But still she shook the silken curl

Back from her beaming eyes,

And cried—“I bear my spotless pearl

Home, home to yonder skies!

“Now shame ye not your ocean gems

And Eastern gold to show?

Behold! how mine but burns them all!

God’s smile is in its glow!”

Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,

High shoots the diamond spray,

And merrily o’er the murmuring sea

The light boat leaps away!

They swarmed around the fragile bark,

They strove, with costlier lure,

To bribe her maiden heart to shame,

And win her jewel pure.

“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—

We bring thee pleasures free—

No empress, in her silk-hung bower,

May queen her realm like thee!

“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!

’Tis but a star, whose ray

Will fail thee, rash, devoted girl,

When tempests cloud thy way.”

But still she smiled a loftier smile,

And raised her frank, bright eyes,

And cried—“I bear my vestal star,

Home, home to yonder skies!”

The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—

High shoots the diamond spray!

And merrily o’er the moaning sea

The light boat leaps away!

Suddenly, stillness broods around,

A stillness as of death,

Above, below—no motion, sound!

Hardly a struggling breath!

Then wild and fierce the tempest came,

The dark wind-demons clashed,

Their weapons swift—the air was flame!

The waves in madness dashed!

They swarmed around the tossing boat—

“Wilt yield thy jewel _now_?

Look! look! already drenched in spray,

It trembles at the prow.

“Be _ours_ the gem! and safely launched

Upon a summer sea,

Where never cloud may frown in heaven,

Thy pinnance light shall be!”

But still she smiled a fearless smile,

And raised her trusting eyes,

And cried—“I bear my talisman,

Home, home to yonder skies!”

And safe through all that blinding storm

The true bark floated on,

And soft its pearl-illumined prow

Through all the tumult shone!

An angel, guided through the clouds,

By that most precious light,

Flew down the fairy helm to seize

And steer the boat aright.

Then died the storm upon the sea!

High dashed the diamond spray,

And merrily leaping, light and free,

The shallop sailed away!

And meekly, when, at eve, her bark

Its destined port had found,

She moored it by the mellow spark

Her jewel shed around!

Would’st know the name the maiden wore?

’Twas Innocence—like thine!

Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?

’Twas Truth—a gem divine!

_Thou_ hast the jewel—keep it bright,

Undimmed by mortal fear,

And bathe each stain upon its light

With Grief’s repentant tear!

Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,

By Flattery unbeguiled!

Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,

My pure and simple child!

* * * * *

HESTER ORMESBY.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

Aye, it is ever thus: in every heart

Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,

Some deep desire in every soul has part,

Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;

Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffed

That not _one_ drop was wanting to life’s draught?

“So Miss Ormesby is dead. Well, no one will miss her; these queer people

are never of any use in the world.” Such was the cold and sneering

comment made by a certain commonplace, precise, _pattern_ woman, upon

the sudden death of one whose exaggerated sensibility had been her only

fault, and who had expiated her folly by a life of sorrow and seclusion.

Such is the judgment of the world: a crime may be forgiven, while a

weakness receives no pardon.

Hester Ormesby had been one of those supernumeraries usually found in

all large families. She was neither the eldest child, the pride of the

household—nor the youngest, usually the pet: she was distinguished

neither for great beauty nor precocious talent, and as she had been not

only preceded in the world by four promising sisters, but also succeeded

by several sturdy brothers, she certainly occupied a very insignificant

position. The mother, who had early determined that the beauty of her

girls should purchase for them a more elevated station in society,

already saw in imagination her blooming roses transplanted to the hotbed

of fashionable life, but for this new claimant on her maternal care,

this humble little “_cinque-foil_,” a lowlier destiny must be

anticipated. She could devise no better plan, in aid of the child’s

future fortunes, than to bestow upon her the name of an eccentric old

relative, whose moderate estate was entirely at her own disposal. This

was accordingly done, and, notwithstanding the indisputable authority of

Shakspeare on the subject of names, it was Hester Ormesby’s _name_ which

decided the fate of her future life, since it was the means of placing

her under such influences as could not fail to direct the flexile mind

of childhood.

Miss Hester Templeton was a maiden lady who had long passed her grand

climacteric, and who lived in that close retirement which is so

peculiarly favorable to the growth of whims and oddities. At the age of

twenty she had been betrothed, but her lover died on the very day fixed

for their marriage; and the widowed bride, yielding to the violence of

her overwhelming sorrow, determined to abjure the world forever. For

years she never quitted the limits of her own apartment, and was

generally looked upon as the victim of melancholy madness; until the

death of her parents made it necessary for her to take some interest in

the affairs of every-day life, when it was discovered that whatever

might be her eccentricity, her intellect was perfectly unclouded. Acute

and sensible in all worldly matters, quite competent to manage her

pecuniary affairs, and gifted with a degree of shrewdness which enabled

her to see through the fine-spun webs of cunning and deceit, there was

yet one weak point in her character which showed how immedicable had

been the early wound of her heart. Her memory of the dead was still

religiously cherished, her vow of seclusion still bound her, and thirty

years had passed since her foot had crossed the threshold of her own

door. Living in a remote country village, which offered no temptation to

either the speculator or the manufacturer, time had wrought few changes

around her. The old homestead, in which she was born, was the spot in

which she meant to die, and she would have thought it sacrilege to

change the position of the cumbrous furniture, or even to displace a

superannuated article by a more modern invention. Her own apartment was

filled with memorials of her lost lover. His picture looked down upon

her from the wall, his books lay on her table, and in an antique cabinet

were preserved letters, love gifts, withered nosegays and all the

melancholy remnants of by-gone affection, which, to the bereaved heart,

are but as the dust and ashes of the dead.

To this lonely and isolated being, in whose character romance and morbid

sensibility were so singularly combined with worldly prudence and

sagacity, the acquisition of a new object of interest, in the person of

her little namesake, formed an epoch in life. She was flattered by the

compliment, and pleased with the importance which it gave her in her own

opinion. She determined to adopt the child, and, as she found no

difficulty in obtaining the consent of the parents, she scarcely waited

for the lapse of actual infancy ere she look the little girl to her

heart and home.

Few children would have been happy in such seclusion as that in which

Miss Templeton lived; but Hester Ormesby possessed that quiet, gentle,

loving nature which finds sources of content and fountains of affection

everywhere. With the quick perception of a sensitive nature, the little

girl had early discovered that she was not a favorite at home. She could

not complain of unkindness, for Mrs. Ormesby considered herself a most

exemplary mother, and prided herself upon the strict performance of

every duty. She would not, for the world, have given a cake to one child

without furnishing all the others with a similar dainty, but she was

quite unaware of the fact that in voice, and look, and manner may be

displayed as much of the injustice of favoritism as in the unequal

distribution of bounties. There are no beings on earth to whom sympathy

is so essential as to children. Those “little people,” as Dr. Johnson

calls them, well know the difference between simple indulgence and

actual interest in their concerns. The most expensive gifts, the most

unlimited indulgence, is of less value to them than an earnest and

affectionate attention to their petty interests, and the mother whose

influence will linger longest in the minds of her world tried sons is

she who has most frequently flung aside her work or her book, to share

their infantine sports, or listen to their boyish schemes of happiness.

This sympathy was denied to Hester. Her mother was proud of the four

beautiful girls, who attracted the notice even of strangers, but the

little sickly looking child, whose nervous timidity rendered her almost

repulsive, was merely one to be well fed, and clad, and kept from bodily

harm. The transition between this indifference and the affection with

which Miss Templeton treated her, was delightful to the shy and

sensitive child. In her father’s house she was perfectly insignificant,

in her new home she was an object of the greatest importance; and though

Miss Templeton’s quiet, old-fashioned mode of life offered few

attractions to a healthy and spirited child, it was exactly the kind of

existence best suited to the taste of a delicate one, like Hester, who

possessed a precocity of feeling more dangerous, in all cases, than

precocity of mind.

Miss Templeton had some excellent notions respecting education. Implicit

obedience, deference, perfect truthfulness and active industry were, in

her opinion, essential points; and as these requisites have become so

obsolete as to have quite gone into disuse in modern systems of

instruction, it may be judged how entirely the old lady had fallen

behind the march of intellect. Her affection awakened some of the

dormant energy of her character, and she applied herself diligently to

the task of training and disciplining the mind of her young charge. In

this, as in most other cases, usefulness brought its own blessing along

with it, and, as the child increased in knowledge, the heart of the

recluse seemed to expand to a wider circle of sympathies. It was,

indeed, a pleasant thing to see the frost of so many winters melting

away before the sunshine of childish happiness, and it may be questioned

whether Miss Templeton or Hester derived the most benefit from this

close connection between them.

But character in its earliest development is very chameleon-like, and

takes its hue from the objects with which it is brought directly in

contact. Miss Templeton educated Hester thoroughly and usefully; she

imparted to her a stock of knowledge far beyond that acquired at the

most of schools, she imbued her with noble principles and an accurate

sense of duty, but she also endowed her, unconsciously and involuntarily

it may be, with her own high-toned and romantic sentiments. Indeed, it

was impossible for a sensitive child to live within the atmosphere of

romance and not imbibe its spirit. The circumstances of Miss Templeton’s

life, her unselfish devotion to the memory of the dead, her reverential

love for him who had lain so many years within the tomb, her scrupulous

adherence to a vow made in the first anguish of a wounded spirit, her

quiet sufferance of a blighted heart during a long life, all were

calculated to make a deep impression on the mind of a girl whose

sensibilities were already morbidly acute. The unlimited range of her

reading, too, tended to confirm such impressions. With that respect for

every thing which bears the semblance of a printed volume, so

characteristic of a bookworm, Miss Templeton had carefully preserved an

extensive but very miscellaneous library. The poets and essayists of

England’s golden age were ranged side by side with the controversial

theologists—sermons were elbowed by cookery books—Sir Charles

Grandison was a close neighbor to the grave Sherlock—while Clarissa

Harlowe and Pamela were in curious juxtaposition with the excellent

Jeremy Taylor and Richard Baxter. Novels and romances formed no small

part of this heterogeneous collection, and Hester, who was a most

inveterate reader, devoured every work of fiction which came in her way.

To the present generation, who have become fastidious from literary

indulgence, and who, since the days of Edgeworth and Scott, ask for

_vraisemblance_ in the fiction over which they hang enraptured, the

romances of a preceding age seem dull, prosy and unnatural. But at the

time of which I speak, the great object of the novelist was to portray

heroines, such as never could exist, and events such as never could have

happened, while feelings refined to absolute mawkishness, and sentiments

sublimated beyond the limits of human understanding, were expressed in

parlance to which the language of common life was tame and trite. With

such models placed before her in her favorite volumes, and the example

of Miss Templeton to impress their truthfulness upon her ductile mind,

it is not surprising that Hester Ormesby should have been thoroughly

imbued with romance at an age when most girls are only thinking of their

dolls.

Hester was in the habit of paying an annual visit to her parents, but

seldom derived much pleasure from her short sojourn with the family. Her

mother derided her rustic manners, while her sisters ridiculed what they

termed her “highflown notions,” and it was rather in obedience to the

dictates of duty than in the hope of pleasure that she ever turned her

face toward the home of her infancy. On one occasion, however, her visit

produced a more lasting impression. Among the gentlemen who surrounded

her elder and lovelier sisters was one whose personal appearance was

little calculated to prepossess a stranger. Small in stature, and with a

slight deformity which destroyed all grace, his countenance full of

intelligence, but “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” Edward

Legard was not one on whom the eye of woman rests with pleasure.

Reserved and almost cold in manners, he mingled rarely in the gayeties

of society, and, excepting amid a select circle, seldom displayed the

treasures of his gifted mind. Yet those who had once seen him in moments

of enthusiasm, when the fire of genius lit up his dark eye, and the

honey-dew of eloquence hung on his pale lip, could never forget the

effect of his words and looks. But he was excessively sensitive, the

merest trifle discomposed him, and there were times when, for days

together, his manner was moody, sad, and almost severe. Legard was an

artist of no mean skill, but he was young and poor, and the poetic

images which filled his imagination, and were depicted on the speaking

canvass, or portrayed in the graphic language of eloquence, were unable

to secure him the gifts of fortune. The hope of his heart was a visit to

the birthplace of Art—the glorious land of shadows—the kingdom of

noble memories—even Italy; and for this he toiled day after day as if

life had no other object worth attainment.

When she first met Legard, Hester Ormesby had just numbered her

fourteenth summer, and the genial influence of renovated health had

given beauty to her countenance and symmetry to her form. Struck with

the bounding freedom of her step, the grace of her unfettered movements,

and the rich bloom of her dark but clear complexion, the young artist

had already made several sketches of the unconscious girl before she

became sensible of his notice. He regarded her as a lovely child, who

stood upon the very threshold of womanhood, while the sentiments which

were hereafter to become passions, were slowly budding within her heart,

their existence only known by their sweet and delicate perfume of maiden

modesty. He was charmed with her freshness of feeling, her enthusiasm,

her girlish romance, and found in her artless character a new and

delightful study. An intimacy, characterized by all the purest and best

impulses of human nature, sprung up between them; yet it was only the

familiar intercourse which might safely exist between a gifted man and

an admiring child. Legard would have denied the possibility of inspiring

a passion in so young a heart, but a very little knowledge of woman’s

nature might have led him to doubt the prudence of forcing into

premature existence those passions whose slow expansion formed so sweet

a subject of contemplation.

Hester returned from this visit almost reluctantly, and, for the first

time in her life, her home seemed dull and sad. She carried with her a

beautifully finished sketch of herself, painted by Legard, for Miss

Templeton, while a few stanzas addressed to her, on parting, by the same

gifted individual, and a faded rosebud which he laid once twined in her

long curls, were her own solitary treasures.

Not long after this, Miss Templeton was seized with a severe nervous

affection, which partially deprived her of the use of her limbs, and

compelled her to require the constant aid of others. Hester loved her

too devotedly to shrink from such attendance, and month after month

passed away, while she was confined to the invalid’s apartment, with

only her own thoughts to relieve the monotony of her existence. Had she

never met Legard, such thoughts would have been but

“The thousand things

That keep young hearts forever glowing—

Vague wishes, fond imaginings,

Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”