CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: WHY DON’T HE COME.]

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIV. March, 1849. No. 3.

Table of Contents

The Naval Officer

Florence

The Dial-Plate

Unequal Marriages

The Icebergs

Love

Doctor Sian Seng

A Billet-Doux

Western Recollections

Extract

The Unfinished Picture

The Heart’s Confession

Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem

Human Influence

Honor to Whom Honor is Due

Egeria

History of the Costume of Men

The Adventures of a Man

Summer’s Bacchanal

The Plantation of General Taylor

Fancies About a Lock of Hair

The Precious Rest

Wild-Birds of America

The Pine-Tree

Gems From Late Readings

To My Little Boy

Review of New Books

Editor’s Table

Oh Have I Not Been True To Thee

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

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

VOL. XXXIV. March, 1849. No. 3.

* * * * *

THE NAVAL OFFICER.

BY WM. F. LYNCH.

CHAPTER I.

It was just daybreak; the air was calm, and the whole face of nature was

shrouded in a light and silvery mist. Presently the mist became agitated

by a fitful breeze; rays of light, faint at first, but every moment

becoming brighter in their hue, penetrated it from the eastern horizon,

and at length gathering its folds, it prepared to follow the path of the

ascending sun. As it lifted, it disclosed a scene upon which the eye of

man delights to dwell.

An island, clothed with luxuriant foliage and redolent with the perfume

of the tropics, lay sleeping on the crystal waters. On its southern

side, the unruffled waves of a sheltered bay, broke with a murmuring

sound upon a white and shelving beach. At the foot of this bay,

embowered in a grove, was a small cluster of houses, whose white-washed

walls, seen through the interlacing branches of the trees, many of the

last laden with their golden fruit, looked the fit abodes of charity and

domestic peace. The flickering airs, soft and fragrant as the breath of

beauty, fanned the pale and attenuated cheek of an invalid, who, seated

at the foot of a cotton-tree, looked wistfully to seaward. A boundless

expanse of ocean, its undulating surface checkered with the prolonged

shadows of detached and scarcely moving clouds alone met his anxious

gaze.

Beside him, with a look as wistful as his own, but fixed on his wasted

features, stood a young and lovely female. Unconscious of her presence,

he seemed lost in revery, and the silence was for some moments

unbroken—for they were busied with the thoughts most congenial to the

nature of each—his of active exertion and the strife of men; while

hers, disinterested and pure, and true to the instinct of her sex, dwelt

only on _his_ hopes, _his_ prospects, and _his_ future happiness. With a

sigh, she broke the silence, and laying her hand gently upon his head,

she said,

“Oh, Edward! why this anxiety to leave us? Why this yearning for the

sea?”

“Mary, dearest Mary!” said he, looking up, “I knew not that you were

near. Sit down, dear girl, and I will tell you my little history. It

will be the best answer to your question, and your trustful nature

deserves implicit confidence. You know,” said he, as she complied, and

placed her hand in his, “you know that I am in the naval service of our

country, and that the captain of the ship to which I belong, sent me

ashore here some two months since, at the recommendation of the surgeon;

and you know, too, that your father, finding that I was connected with

some friends of his own in the United States, invited me to his house,

where, like a ministering angel, you have wooed me from the embrace of

death. This, save my unbounded gratitude and love, is all you know, and

unsuspicious of others as you are yourself confiding, hoping like an

angel, and believing what you hope, you have sought to learn nothing

more.

“I have no parents,” he proceeded to say, “and of a large family of

children, I am the sole survivor. My father died when I was yet an

infant; in my fourteenth year I lost my mother, and in the intervening

time, one by one, my brothers and my sisters fell, all swept off by that

insidious destroyer, whose victims waste away, even while the cheek is

flushed and the eye brilliant with anticipations of renovated health and

years of enjoyment. Oh, Mary! that you could have seen and known my

sister—for she was near your present age, and in many things you much

resemble her.”

“I should have loved her dearly, Edward?”

“You could not have helped it, for she was one of the purest, gentlest

beings I ever knew.”

“Describe her to me.”

“That is impossible, for, graceful as a fawn and with spirits buoyant

and elastic, her features, at one moment gleaming with hope, and the

next, subdued in sympathy, were changeable as the aspects of the summer

cloud, but beautiful in all its changes—for the light it reflected was

borrowed from heaven.”

“Hers, then, was the beauty of expression.”

“Yes, of angelic expression, and yet her countenance was exquisitely

lovely in repose. It reminded one of an inland lake, which, when serene

and undisturbed, reflects the flowers and the foliage around it; but,

when agitated, the shadows on its surface, the tiny crests of foam and

mimic waves brattling on the shore, all its wild and shifting beauties

are its own. She died on an early summer’s morning, the dew-drop yet

sparkling on the blade which, while it bent, it fertilized; and the

whole earth, in one gush of fragrance, sent up its tribute to the mighty

hand that made it.”

“Oh, Edward! it were happiness thus to die.”

“Ay, dearest, it is only a spirit pure and spotless as your own, that

can realize that death has no terrors where life has no reproaches.”

A pressure of the hand was her only reply, for his eyes were filled with

tears, and she felt too much moved to speak. After a slight pause he

proceeded. “In less than twelve months, my mother followed her to the

grave, and the day and the hour, the occasion and the scene, are deeply

graven in my memory; but,” he continued, observing her emotion, “I will

not distress you with the sad recital, although the sorrows of that

bitter hour were not without their solace—for, feeling that our loss

would be her gain, the showers and the sunshine, the alternate gloom and

brightness of the day without, were typical of our hopes and fears. My

patrimony was considerable, and my mother had named a distant relative

and seemingly attached friend as her executor and my guardian.

“A few weeks found me under the roof of Mr. Thornton. The exchange was a

sad one. I had left the home of my infancy, where every familiar object

was associated with some kindly phrase or act of endearment, to become a

member of a proud aristocratic family, which traced its lineage from

England. I could have endured privations without repining, but I was

peculiarly sensitive of neglect, and was like the vine cast from the

trunk which had supported it, whose tendrils, unsustained and drooping,

are swayed to and fro by the wind, seeking for something whereupon to

cling. Repelled by the cold indifference of the family, my yearning

nature found the sympathy it needed in the friendship of Mr. Winchester,

who was employed as a private tutor for Mr. Thornton’s children. Above

all men I have ever seen, he united the wisdom of the serpent with the

simplicity of the dove. Placed under his tuition, I made rapid progress,

he was pleased to say, not only in the acquisition of knowledge from

books, but in that more difficult branch which teaches us to analyze our

feelings, and to know ourselves. You remember Mr. Hamilton, who left

here shortly after my arrival?”

“Indeed, I do, and esteem him highly, for he is a most excellent man.”

“Well, imagine him a little taller, a shade more pensive, somewhat more

retiring in his manners, and with an enunciation yet more distinct, and

you have Mr. Winchester before you.”

“I see him—and with the character you give, feel that I could love him

too.”

“Ay, that you would, for his meek exterior concealed a spirit

incorruptible as that of Brutus, and as benevolent as Howard himself. To

him I am indebted for all that I am or can ever hope to be. At that time

politics ran high; Napoleon, the great human vulture, was gorging

himself with the blood of nations, and the blood-red flag of England

claimed the empire of the seas. The discordant clamor of party strife

was loud and vehement, and the whole country seemed to vibrate with the

throes of political convulsion. Warped by his pride of descent, and

giving the tone to his family, at Mr. Thornton’s fireside, in all

political discussions, the cause of England was strenuously maintained.

It was here that, as I grew older, I derived the greatest benefit from

the counsels of Mr. W. A pure patriot, without a parade of zeal, he ever

upheld the cause of his country. Pointing out the distinction between

the governments of Europe and the one we had adopted, how the former

strove to maintain an idle and luxurious class in exclusive privileges,

while the other recognized no difference between man and man, he

ingrafted in me an attachment to our institutions as warm and enduring

as his own. But for him, I might have imbibed the alien feelings of the

family with which I was domesticated.

“About the close of my second year under his tuition, news came of the

wanton attack upon, and inglorious surrender of the Chesapeake. At Mr.

Thornton’s table that day, much was said of the valor of the English,

and the craven spirit of the Americans. Mr. Winchester mildly but firmly

defended his countrymen; but his opposition provoked such a torrent of

abuse, and such violent denunciations of every thing pertaining to

America, that, interrupting Mr. Thornton in his loudest tirade, he

announced his determination of forever quitting a house which he

considered as a fit shelter only of foes and traitors. A violent

outbreak seemed inevitable, but his calm and lofty demeanor quelled the

rising storm; and, true to his word, he left the next morning. After his

departure, the last tie that bound me to the spot was severed, and I

applied to be sent to college. To my surprise, Mr. Thornton declined,

and threw out some vague hints of an unpaid bond and a threatened

lawsuit that might involve my whole estate. I then asked to be sent

elsewhere to school, but was again denied. I therefore determined, hap

what might, to leave the place, and make my way to one of the Atlantic

cities, where, in the sanguine spirit of youth, I felt sure of achieving

something. Any thing was preferable to the life there before me. I had

read of perilous escapes, and in my inexperience, confounding my

situation with that of some imaginary captive, and fearing a thousand

obstacles, I waited impatiently for a tempestuous night. It came at

last, wild and terrific to my heart’s content.

“Throughout the day the weather had been variable. At one time the tops

of the trees were bowed down by fitful gusts, while at another the wind

gently soughed among the branches, or dying away calm, every thing would

droop with the oppressive heat. The clouds, low, detached and ragged,

seemed to hover over us. The bold and craggy tops of the mountains were

wreathed in mist, and the same humid vapor filled the chasms and swept

down the distant slopes. Even before the sun disappeared, his disc

became lurid; the air seemed to thicken and respiration was difficult.

The untended cattle went lowing to their pens, and the poultry, with

discordant noises, hurried under cover. About dusk, a dense bank of

cloud gathered in the north-west, and while the thunder muttered in the

far-off mountains, it slowly approached us, the lightning playing across

it in incessant flashes. Suddenly, like the smoke of artillery, a number

of jets were thrown out from its upper surface, and then a flash,

compared to which, those were as artificial fire-works which had

preceded it, blinded the eye, and instantly every animate thing shrunk

with dread as a most terrific crash pealed upon the ear. Then came the

whirl and the roar of a tempest. The spirit of the storm was abroad, and

Omnipotence seemed, “to ride on the wings of the mighty wind.” Huge

trees and massive fragments of rock were whirled about like gossamer in

a summer’s breeze. An avalanche of rain followed, the very flood-gates

of heaven seeming to have opened above us.

“The long wished-for hour had now arrived, and bracing myself to the

desperate chance, I threw a change of raiment into a wallet I had

prepared, and hurried forth, preferring rather to encounter the battling

elements than abide with those I could not love. Breasting the driving

rain, I shouted with exultation at the prospect of achieving my own

fortune by my own exertions. Although ‘from cliff to cliff the rattling

crags among,’ I heard ‘the live thunder’ leaping, and the forked

lightning almost seethed the brain with its sharp and sulphurous fire. I

pressed on regardless of the storm and only fearful of pursuit. For some

miles the road, which ran winding among the hills, was overflowed, and

each indentation in the mountains had become the bed of a foaming

torrent. I was obliged to clamber the hill-sides, and spring from ledge

to ledge across the mad and plunging streams. But that I was in full

health, buoyant with hope, and of an elastic frame, I could never have

overcome the difficulties or survived the perils of that night. Once or

twice I nearly despaired, but the prospect of the unfeeling treatment to

which I would be subjected if I returned determined me to persevere.

After severe toil I gained the high-road, and threw myself down

exhausted. I had done so but a few minutes, when, borne upon the wind, I

heard a loud clatter, and now and then a shrill and piercing shriek.

Springing to my feet, I gazed anxiously up the road. The rain had

partially subsided, and a momentary luminous spot in the heavens, showed

the position of the moon; the thunder, no longer near, reverberated in

the distance, and the glare of the lightning, although less frequent,

was no less sulphurous and blinding. I could soon distinguish the tramp

of horses at full speed, and in an instant after, a carriage passed at

headlong velocity. The screams I had heard, satisfied me that there was

at least one person within, and I breathlessly hurried after it.

“A short distance below, the road descended a hill and crossed a stream,

ordinarily wide and shallow, but now, doubtless, swollen and scarcely

fordable. My fears were more than realized, for to my dismay, I soon

found myself up to the armpits in the water. The screams had ceased, and

I could hear nothing to guide me. Suddenly, through the lurid gleaming

of the storm, I saw the carriage, which seemed to be entangled with

something, while the horses, rearing and plunging, madly strove to free

themselves from the harness. With some difficulty I swam to it; the

lateral pressure of the water almost bearing me under by its velocity. I

found that the carriage had taken against a prostrate tree, and that the

struggles of the horses would soon precipitate it over on its side.

Fortunately, I had my hunting-knife with me, and swimming round,

contrived to cut the traces and liberate the horses, but not without

receiving a severe kick on my right shoulder. Forcing open the door, I

found a female form within, but whether alive or dead, in the uncertain

light I could not tell. The water was nearly up to the seat, and rising

with great rapidity. Bearing the body up, I hesitated what to do. With a

bruised limb, and supporting a lifeless form, it would be madness to

attempt to swim. Feeling about, I discovered that the front panel was a

large one, and forcing it out, dragged the wet and dripping figure

through, and placed her on the driver’s seat, while I loudly called for

help. Almost simultaneous with my own, I heard voices shouting along the

road, and guided by my call, assistance was soon procured, and the lady

(who had fainted) rescued from her perilous position.

“Mr. Stephens, a respectable merchant, was, with his wife, returning

from the springs, and had reached the village soon after the storm set

in. He had just alighted, and was holding forth his hand to assist Mrs.

S. to descend, when the horses, blinded by a flash of lightning and

terrified by the peal which succeeded it, ran off at full speed, and the

driver in his effort to recover the reins, fell to the ground.

“Mr. S. expressed so much gratitude for my efforts, and so frequently

proffered his services to aid me if he could, that, melted by his tones

of kindness, I confided to him the secret of my flight and all my future

plans. He listened with deep attention, and endeavored at first to

persuade me to return to my guardian, but finding my repugnance

insuperable, he suggested a mode of enfranchisement at the bare mention

of which my heart fairly leaped for joy. He proposed that I should enter

the navy, a profession, he remarked, which, although little esteemed by

the country, would, he felt sure, if an opportunity offered, gain for

itself a high and imperishable renown. Informing my guardian of the

course intended to be pursued, he exerted his influence, and in a short

time procured me an appointment.

“I made but one cruise previous to the war. Immediately after its

declaration, I was ordered to the frigate Constitution, then lying at

Annapolis. She was commanded by Captain Hull, who, with every officer

and man on board, was exceedingly anxious to get to sea before the enemy

should reach the Chesapeake in superior force. Our captain had twice

ineffectually written to the Secretary of the Navy, urging permission to

proceed to sea. At length he called up the officer of marines and said

to him,

“‘Have you no business that calls you to headquarters?’

“‘None, sir,’ replied the officer.

“‘Then you must make some,’ said the captain, and handing him a letter,

added, ‘you will start this evening so as to reach Washington early

to-morrow. When you get there, let it be your first business to call

upon the Secretary of the Navy and give him this letter, telling him at

the same time, that you will call in three hours for a reply. At the

expiration of the three hours, be sure to take your departure, and I

expect you to breakfast with me the morning after.’

“The officer strictly obeyed his instructions. When the Secretary had

read the captain’s letter, he remarked ‘I am very much occupied at

present, sir, but if you will call in two or three days, I will have an

answer ready for you.’

“‘Sir,’ replied the officer, ‘I am allowed but three hours in Washington

to see my colonel, and at two o’clock I am to start on my return.’

“‘Very well, sir,’ was the reply; and he took his leave.

“At two punctually, he called again, and the Secretary, somewhat

fretted, said, ‘Really, sir, I have not had time to attend to Captain

Hull’s letter, can you not wait until to-morrow?’

“‘Under my present orders, sir, it is impossible.’

“‘Very well, say to Captain Hull that I will write to him by mail.’

“‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the officer, ‘when I assure you that the captain

will be bitterly disappointed if I do not bring something from you.’

“With a gesture of impatience the Secretary drew a sheet of paper toward

him, and writing a few hurried lines, handed the note to the officer,

who took his departure. It contained these remarkable words:

“‘SIR,—You will proceed with the Constitution to New York, and should

you meet any vessels of the enemy, you will note it.’

“It was sufficient, and we immediately weighed anchor and stood to sea.

A short distance out, we encountered a squadron of the enemy, and the

chase that ensued has already become matter of history. Of the fatigue

we underwent, and the unsurpassed exertions we made, I can give you no

idea. For most of the time the wind was light, and occasionally it

subsided to a perfect calm. At such times the sun, fierce and fiery,

scorched us with the intensity of his blaze; while towing and kedging,

our crew toiled manfully and without a murmur: with the perspiration

streaming from their brows, no one dreamed of relaxation. Each one,

sleeping at his post, caught his meals as he could. At one time, the

nearest ship, being towed by all the boats of the squadron, was enabled

to gain fast upon us, notwithstanding our redoubled and almost

superhuman exertions. The surface of the ocean, unmoved by undulation,

and smooth as a mirror, reflected the black and threatening hulls of our

pursuers. Gradually, like huge, creeping monsters, they seemed all to

gain upon us, when, at the very crisis of our fate, a catspaw, faint as

a fleeting shadow, darkened a spot upon the water, and then disappeared,

leaving no trace behind; again, another, and another, imperceptibly

increasing in extent and force, until commingling into one, and rippling

the ocean with its breath, the light but glorious breeze came on.

Swinging the ponderous yards to meet its glad embrace, we thanked our

God that we were the first to feel it. The sails, late so listless and

inactive, first flapped exultingly, and then slowly distending, our

noble ship, in all her grace and pride and beauty, like a recruited

steed, renewed the race she had so nearly lost. With sail on sail,

packed wide and high, from the bulwarks to the trucks, each ship was

soon a pyramid of canvas. Behind us was captivity or death—before us

freedom, and perchance renown. Judge, then, with what thrills of delight

we soon perceived that we were leaving our pursuers. The wind freshened

as the night closed in, and early the ensuing day the enemy abandoned

the chase as hopeless. For sixty hours we had toiled unceasingly, and

human nature had been taxed to the utmost.

“Cut off from New York, our commander determined to proceed to Boston.

Off Long Island we spoke an American vessel, and by her the captain

wrote to the Secretary of the Navy, acquainting him with his escape, and

informing him that he would proceed to Boston, where he trusted to

receive permission to cruise at sea. We reached the harbor late one

evening, by midnight we had commenced taking in provisions and water,

and in twenty-four hours were ready for sea. For three days beyond the

time we should have heard from Washington, we were kept in the most

anxious suspense. All hands were detained on board except the purser,

who, on the arrival of each mail, hurried to the post-office, in the

hope of finding the desired letter. On the third day there did come an

official letter, but it was addressed to a ward-room officer on the

subject of his pay.

“It was then that Captain Hull took a resolution which evinced as much

wisdom as moral courage. He knew that the cruisers of the enemy swarmed

upon our coast, and he chafed with impatient desire to fairly encounter

one of them. He determined to put to sea without orders, and immediately

carried his purpose into execution.

“We had soon the satisfaction to meet an adversary. It was one of the

ships belonging to the squadron which had chased us. Instead of

increasing we now sought to lessen the intervening distance, and as we

approached, each ship, like a combatant in the arena, partially stripped

herself for the conflict. Under reduced sail, leisurely, deliberately,

we neared each other. It was a moment of intense excitement. England had

so long styled herself the mistress of the seas, and the arrogance of

the claim was so lessened by her almost uninterrupted career of victory,

that the boldest and most sanguine among us admitted probability of

defeat. Yet there was no shrinking of the nerve, not one instant’s

hesitation of purpose. Our country had sent us forth, and in the hour of

peril she relied upon us. We knew that we might be defeated, but felt

that we could not be disgraced. The flag, with the proud vessel which

bore it, might sink beneath the waves, or with it, by one terrific

explosion, be scattered in shreds and fragments upon its surface, but

each one felt that it could never be struck to a single adversary.

“I had thought before that I had some idea of a battle, but imagination

fell short of the stern and startling reality. Men, lately so calm,

collected, and seemingly almost impassive, were wrought to the highest

pitch of frenzy, and reeking with perspiration, and begrimed with

powder, as seen through the fire and the smoke, appeared like infuriated

demons. The ship, reeling like a drunken man, quivered with each recoil,

but there was no screaming, no shouting—the ministers of death were too

earnest for noisy exhibition, and except the stifled groans of the

wounded, and the brief, quick words of command, the human voice was

unheard.

“You know the result. At the report of the last gun in that conflict, as

at the blast of the Israelite trumpets before Jericho, the walls of

British invincibility fell—like them, too, never to rise again. But,

dearest, I tire you.”

“No, Edward, I love to listen to you. When I first read of that victory

I wept for joy. Now, although it is past, I tremble, while I rejoice, at

the danger you incurred; but tell me, did you escape unhurt?”

“I received a flesh wound merely, but it proved irritable and difficult

of cure. In consequence, I was prevented from again sailing in the ship;

but my promotion was secured, and I congratulate myself on my present

position. The ship to which I am attached is smaller than the

Constitution, but she is well-manned and ably commanded. There is no

telling at what moment she may meet with an opponent; and you, dearest,

would not have me absent while my shipmates are battling for our

country.”

“No, Edward, I will not be less patriotic than yourself; but we have so

shortly known and understood each other, that it is hard to separate so

soon, and when there is so much danger that we may never meet again;

beside, your impatience retards your recovery.”

“Fear not, Mary, the fever has entirely left me, and my strength

increases daily—thanks to your gentle nurture, for, unseen, though

hovering near, you not only supplied my wants but anticipated every

wish.”

“Speak of it no more, Edward; see, Alfred is coming to call us to

breakfast. I will take the path through the shrubbery and avoid him, or

he will have his jest at our expense when we meet at table.” Springing

from her lover’s side as she spoke, she lingered for an instant as she

gained the copse, and turned with a fond, confiding glance toward him,

but the sound of her brother’s footsteps checked the current of her

feelings, and she was out of sight in an instant.

Edward Talbot was in his 22d year. With a fine figure, his frame

indicated more activity than strength. His hazel eye, undimmed by recent

illness, expressed decision of character, and his dark hair fell in

untrimmed luxuriance over his pale but manly features.

Mary Gillespie was eighteen, and almost a woman. About the medium

stature of her sex, her light, elastic figure moved in unconscious

grace. Her silk-like chestnut hair shaded a neck of snowy whiteness; her

brilliant cheek, now white as a lily, now mantled with a blush, more

surely and more rapidly than words bespoke the current of her feelings;

while her deep-blue eyes, bathed in liquid crystal, and curtained from

the sight by their long and fringing lashes, rarely raised and as

suddenly withdrawn, struck the beholder with wonder and admiration.

Beautiful in person, sensitive in her feelings, and of a most confiding

and affectionate nature, she was a being formed for love.

Mr. Gillespie was a merchant who had resided eight years upon the

island, and for the last three held the situation of American Consul.

The war having interrupted his business, he had been for some time

winding up his affairs preparatory to returning home. He was an

unpretending man, of practical good sense and sterling integrity. He had

been five years a widower. Left with two children he had devoted every

leisure hour to their education. But his son, now in his 14th year,

proved more intractable than the daughter, and increased his anxiety to

return and place him under the charge of competent teachers.

Such was the state of things when Lieutenant Talbot was sent on shore

extremely ill. At first, in his province as consul, Mr. Gillespie had

procured for him the best lodgings that could be hired; but when he

heard his mother’s name, and found that through her the young officer

was related to an old and cherished friend, he at once had him removed

to his own house.

It was not to be expected that, under such circumstances, two kindred

spirits should meet and not assimilate. It is no wonder that thus thrown

together, they should become mutually attached. They did love! love only

as those can do who, trustful in their natures, are uncankered by care,

and in their thoughts, their prayers, their aspirations, and their

dreams, they soon become each other's constant and abiding theme.

The morning after the one with which this tale had opened, Mr. Talbot

threw open his casement, and stepping into the balcony, looked eagerly

toward the west. It was again calm, and the unclouded sun, just risen,

threw his unrefracted rays across the slumbering sea. It was Sunday, all

was silent, and not a vestige of a living thing was seen. Not a solitary

bird fanned the air, no roaming fish disturbed by its gambols the

mirror-like surface of the deep, but on the furthest verge of the

horizon,

“As idle as a painted ship,

Upon a painted ocean.”

floated a light and buoyant fabric, which alone, within the broad scope

of vision, proclaimed man as its architect. It was the Hornet, the

symmetrical Hornet, already renowned for a glorious achievement.

In a few hours the sea breeze set in, which, cool and refreshing, is

sent by a merciful Providence to temper the heat of a tropical sun. The

ship was soon under a cloud of canvas, and it was a beautiful thing to

see her inclined to the breeze, dashing along with graceful speed, while

the light tracery of her rigging was reflected upon the sails which

looked snow-white in the glancing beams of the sun. As if instinct with

life, she bounded across the water, and soon dropped her anchor in the

bay.

Captain Biddle, already distinguished for his gallantry, together with

several of his officers, dined with Mr. Gillespie that day. Before

midnight, they were again at sea, for there were enemies abroad, and

they felt bound to seek them.

It were useless to dwell upon the parting interview of the lovers. All

that the gushing fondness of two such natures could impart was

interchanged. Hap what might, though distance should separate, and

circumstances debar their intercourse for months or years, they felt

that unswerving confidence which true and loyal breasts alone can feel.

It is true that they both felt much anxiety—the maiden in especial, for

her lover was exposed to far more than the perils of the deep. But, with

a faith early instilled by the precepts of a pious mother, she placed

her trust on High, and with more of hope than fear, looked forward to

the future.

CHAPTER II.

For some weeks the Hornet sought in vain for a cruiser of the enemy.

Some valuable captures were made, and the vessels destroyed, and it was

determined to shift the cruising ground to the South Atlantic.

As they approached the equator, the atmosphere became humid and

oppressive, and they were deluged with frequent rain, compared to which

the heaviest showers of our own more favored clime, are as the dew-drop

to the overflowing cistern. Often at night the sea would be brilliantly

phosphorescent, and the water as dashed aside by the advancing prow,

fell over in curls of flame, while, gamboling around in very wantonness,

myriads of porpoises, the dolphins of antiquity, sportively chased each

other, and darting to and fro, without design or order, checkered with

lines of light the dark, unruffled sea.

The day on which they crossed the line was preceded by a night of

surpassing loveliness. Undisturbed and quiet as a sleeping infant, the

calm and placid ocean lay in beautiful repose, its very heavings, as if

moved by the modulation of sweet sounds, so gentle, as not to impair the

reflections of its mirror-like surface.

Toward morning, a mist arose, which, becoming dense, settled down and

banked around the horizon. As the night waned, faint streaks of light

tinged the dark cloud; gradually the hues became brighter and more

expanded, the violet became purple, the purple reddened into crimson,

and suddenly, as from a bed of flame, the sun looked forth upon the

quiet scene. The serene sky, the placid ocean, the soft breath of the

morning, and the gorgeous sun, were all in keeping with the attributes

of their Maker; while the tiny ship, a mere speck upon the waters,

girdled with iron and prepared for strife, was a fit emblem of the

frailty and insignificance of man.

The inconsiderate and the thoughtless were disappointed that the usual

ceremony of receiving Neptune was dispensed with on crossing the line;

but the Hornet was too well disciplined for such a disorderly

exhibition, and her commander wisely considered the custom of roughly

shaving the uninitiated as one more honored in the breach than the

observance.

After crossing the equator, the atmosphere improved and became balmy and

pleasant, and _so_ rarified that the stars became visible at the very

verge of the horizon. The pole star, the lamp hung out in heaven to

guide the wanderer on the northern deep, although steadfast as faith it

maintained its post, gradually disappeared, and others, more brilliant

but less endeared by association, rose upon the view. High up in the

heavens, two luminous bodies, like fragments of the milky way, became

visible, while lower down toward the pole, another of darker hue was

seen. They were the wonderful Magellan clouds which, from their position

and immovability, are supposed by Humboldt to be the reflections of the

Cordilleras.

The messmates of Talbot had soon perceived a marked change in his

demeanor: His hilarity was gone, and, avoiding his former associates, he

paced the deck or sat apart, wrapped in the visionary aspirations of a

lover. They all suspected the cause, but had too much regard for him to

wound his sensitive feelings by ill-timed jests and allusions. Indeed

their respect for him insensibly increased, for they perceived with

surprise that although completely absorbed in revery when he had no duty

to perform, yet he had become the most vigilant among them, and in

particular paid the most minute attention to the exercise of his

division at the guns and in the use of small arms. At such times, his

eyes sparkled with more than their wonted enthusiasm, and his very air

breathed some exalted purpose.

“Take care, gentlemen,” said the captain one day to a party of officers

near him, “take care! Talbot is wooing glory that he may win a bride,

and if opportunity offers he may bear away the palm.”

“Let him if he can,” was the reply, “we will not begrudge what must be

dearly earned.”

Nearly in a line with the extreme southern limits of two continents, at

the confluence of two mighty oceans, lies Tristan d’Acuna, a high, rocky

and uninhabited island, its summit wrapped in clouds, and, except in one

place, the surf loud and continuous broke upon its shore. The wind was

fresh, and the tumultuous waves ran high, when through the mist the

Hornet gained a sight of the land. While the captain hesitated whether

to venture in, or lie-to and await more favorable weather, the cry “sail

ho!” was heard from aloft.

“Where away?” was quickly asked by the officer of the deck.

“Broad off the weather beam, sir,” was the reply, and the Hornet wore

round and stood toward the stranger. None but those who have experienced

it can form an idea of the thrill of delight with which each man on

board of a cruiser, in time of war, hears the cry “sail ho!” which

ensures the excitement of a chase, and the probability of an engagement.

Long before the hull of the stranger was visible from the deck, her

spars and sails, enveloped in the mist, in their shadowy outline seemed

of gigantic size. Like a shapeless cloud rather than a thing of art, she

came down before the breeze, now and then the mist, in fantastic

wreaths, half concealing, half betraying her form and character. The

American hoisted her colors as an invitation to the stranger to declare

her nationality. Shortly after, the report of a gun came booming over

the water, and there was a shout of exultation among the crew of the

Hornet, as through the vapor they descried the ensign of St. George. The

commander of each vessel, however, was too good a seaman not to be aware

that the wind was too high, and the sea too rough, for a fair encounter.

Each one, brave himself, doubted not the valor of his adversary. With a

tacit understanding that they would meet when the gale abated, the ships

hove-to, in each other’s near vicinity. They rode out the night in

safety, each one carrying a light, to denote her position to the other.

The next day it moderated, and at 1 P. M. the Hornet hoisted her jack at

the fore, as an intimation that she was ready for the encounter. The

signal was promptly answered, and the vessels filling away on opposite

tacks, exchanged broadsides as they passed. Immediately after, like two

knights engaged _à l’outrance_, each again wore round and stood directly

for the other, while from forward, aft, successively as they bore, the

guns were fired with singular precision. As they neared each other, the

scene became more and more exciting: Beside the boom of the cannon, the

pealing of the musketry soon became incessant, and the hurtling of iron

and lead was terrific. The atmosphere was soon thick and stifling, and

the crews were working their guns with the energy of desperation, when a

severe concussion, followed by a harsh and grating sound, told that the

ships were afoul.

“Away! boarders away!” was the instant cry on board of the Englishman,

and a host of men, cutlas and pistol in hand, gathered on his

forecastle.

“Stand by to repel boarders,” was the prompt response of the American,

and a forest of bristling pikes was arrayed against the assailants. Talk

of serried ranks and wedged battalions; of the compact square, and even

of the deep moat and frowning parapet! who would not charge upon either,

rather than breast that fretted line of steel, held by those

stern-visaged men! The enemy paused and faltered.

By word and example, Talbot had encouraged his men to their utmost

exertion, and at the first call, had hurried with them to repel the

enemy; but, when that enemy hesitated, although but for an instant, he

shouted, “On them, men! on! on!” and rushed forward as he spoke, to

board them in turn.

“Hold, men! hold! Back, Mr. Talbot, back, I command you,” shouted the

captain. “My God! he’s gone!” he added, as the two ships, lifted high by

a passing wave, fell apart, and the fore-mast of the enemy came down

with a frightful crash. The instant before, Talbot had sprung upon her

bowsprit, and the next, just escaping the mast as it fell, he was upon

her deck.

Captain Biddle, although he had been firm as a veteran throughout the

fight, no sooner beheld the peril of his officer, than, trembling like

an aspen, he sprung into the rigging, and in a voice shrill and distinct

amid the uproar, called out, “Hurt but a hair of his head and I’ll sink

you where you lie.”

In the meantime, Talbot had not been idle. Striking right and left,

parrying where he could, but not stopping to return a blow, he pressed

on, and in less time than it has taken to narrate this incident, had

gained the quarter-deck, cut the halliards and hauled the ensign down.

Immediately on separating from the enemy, the Hornet ranged ahead, and

was prepared to throw in a broadside, but seeing the colors down, hailed

to know if they had surrendered. The reply was in the affirmative.

The prize was immediately taken possession of, and Talbot was found

almost insensible, endeavoring to staunch the blood from an ugly wound

with the flag he had hauled down.

So destructive had been the fire of the American that the prize was

completely riddled: She was therefore scuttled; and in a very short time

the Hornet was again prepared for action.

The wound of poor Talbot was so severe as to leave no hope of his being

able to perform duty the remainder of the cruise. A merchant vessel that

was fallen in with was chartered as a cartel, and all the prisoners,

with a few of the wounded, including Talbot, were put on board of her,

to be taken to the United States.

Under the judicious treatment of the medical officer who accompanied

them, he was fast recovering when they passed the island, where we first

introduced him to the reader. At his urgent request he was landed, the

cartel, after a few hours delay, proceeding on her course.

Like the anguish of the parting, the glorious ecstasy of the meeting of

the lovers may be imagined, but cannot be described.

“Dear Edward,” said the maiden, as soon as they were alone, “Dr. Holmes

has told me all, and you have more than realized my wildest and most

extravagant hopes.”

“Say not so, Mary! indeed you should rather take credit to yourself, for

if I have been swayed by any other motive than love of country, it has

been to prove myself worthy of your rare affection.”

“It was ever so with you, Edward—you first excite our admiration, and

then ascribe to others the fruits of your own good deeds.”

“Nay, sweet girl, you wrong yourself and me. Tell me, what is the body

without the soul?”

“An inanimate lump of clay—but why the question?”

“Because to me you are what the soul is to the body—the life which

animates and the spirit which directs it—you are at once my inspiration

and my hope—the burthen of my thoughts, the aim and object of all my

aspirations.”

“Hush, Edward, this cannot, nay, I would not have it to be true; let us

change the theme.” She laid her hand upon his mouth as she spoke—but

what maiden was ever yet displeased with the devotion of a favored

lover?

In the course of their conversation, Talbot learned that Mr. Gillespie

had completed his arrangements, and was on the look out for a vessel to

convey himself and family to the United States. The former was of course

anxious to accompany them, and in the midst of happiness was, perhaps,

the most impatient of them all, for Mr. Gillespie would not consent to

his daughter’s marriage before she had seen her relatives at home:

Perhaps, too, he wished to inquire more particularly than he had yet

been enabled to do, into the character and circumstances of the man he

was about to receive as his son-in-law. He knew him to be brave and

intelligent, and of frank and winning manners, but he knew nothing

more—the captain of the ship, when he dined with him, having answered

his questions in general terms of commendation.

They waited for a long time in vain. So ruinous had the war become to

American commerce, that for months not a vessel from the United States

had visited the island.

Late one evening a schooner, named the Humming-bird, formerly an

American letter-of-marque, arrived, bringing intelligence of peace

between England and the United States. The owners of the schooner had

without delay applied for a commission to the Colombian minister, and

she was now equipped as a privateer under that flag. The commander of

her, having been drawn from his course by a vessel to which he had given

chase and captured two days previous, purposed proceeding immediately to

Nassau, New Providence. As from thence a speedy conveyance to the United

States could certainly be procured, and no Spanish cruisers were

supposed to be at sea, Mr. Gillespie offered such inducements to the

captain that he consented to take them as passengers, and gave up his

cabin for their accommodation.

In less than sixty hours they sailed, with a light but favorable wind.

About 4 P. M. the second day, when they were nearly through the Mona

passage, it fell calm. Within the passage, from shore to shore, there

was not a ripple upon the water, and the light and buoyant little

vessel, without advancing a foot, rose and fell with the mysterious

undulation. A few miles ahead, without the passage, stretching from the

east toward the west, the dark and ruffled surface was relieved by the

white caps of the waves, whose tops were curling and breaking into

sparkling foam. It was the trade wind sweeping, unobstructed by the

land, toward the Great Bahama Bank. Several vessels were in sight, among

them a large one, coming down before the wind, but which, less than any,

excited their attention—for she seemed too burthensome for a Spanish

trader to the colonies.

“Captain,” said Talbot, half an hour after, “unless I am very much

mistaken, that large stranger to windward is a man-of-war.”

“Probably an Englishman.” replied the captain.

“Scarcely, the canvas is not sufficiently dark, and the upper sails

roach too much; it is evidently a frigate, and now I think of it, can

hardly be a Frenchman, for they rarely cruise in this direction. Are you

sure that there are no Spanish cruisers among the islands?”

“None so large as this,” answered the captain, “for the Isabella went to

leeward upward of a month ago.”

“May it not have been a ruse?” asked Talbot.

“Give me the glass,” said the captain, and he looked long and earnestly;

“I cannot make her out,” he said at length, “but do not like her looks.

Get out the sweeps, Mr. Long,” he added, addressing his lieutenant, “we

must have the Humming-bird out of this mill-pond, or her wings will be

useless.”

The order was promptly obeyed, and the little vessel was soon moving at

the rate of three or four knots through the water; but the larger vessel

was in the mean time coming down at treble velocity. As soon as the

schooner began to feel the influence of the wind, the sweeps were laid

in, and all sail made to the northward, in the hope that the stranger

would pass without observing them. In this, however, they were

disappointed, for, as the latter was brought to bear abeam, they

observed with anxiety, that she edged away toward them.

“I fear that we have been deceived in our intelligence,” said the

captain, in reply to a look from Talbot, as they noticed the suspicious

movement of the stranger.

“For Heaven’s sake, conceal your misgivings from Mr. Gillespie and his

family while there is a hope,” asked Talbot; to which the captain nodded

assent, and proceeded quietly to make his arrangements to elude, if

possible, the grasp of his pursuer; for he now felt convinced that he

saw the Isabella. The best sailing of the schooner was by the wind;

instead, therefore, of keeping away before it, she was hauled close to

it, and steered N. N. E. bringing the frigate to bear forward of the

weather beam.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

FLORENCE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

PROLOGUE.

An humble cottage, overgrown

With woodbine, stood beside a hill,

And nigh it, murmuring through moss,

Rippled a little rill.

The hill was high and wore a crown

Of leafiness, whence, gazing down,

An eagle might behold the towers

And turrets of a town.

And many a pleasant country cot,

Snowy, and peering through the green,

With, now and then, a rivulet,

Meandering, might be seen.

But in the landscape, like a king,

A short half mile or more away,

A grim old castle stood, erect,

Baronial and gray.

Around it lay an ample park,

With, here and there, a drove of deer;

A rude old Norman edifice,

Dark, desolate and drear!

Perhaps it was the morning sun

Which made the ancient building smile,

But, nevertheless, a pleasant look

Was on the agéd pile.

Perhaps it was with joy it smiled

That morn, the merriest of the year,

Which welcomed home its youthful lord,

Young Lionel De Vere.

Perhaps the thought of earlier days

Flitted athwart its granite brain;

Perchance it dreamed it might behold

Those golden hours again—

Those hours when, in the tournament,

Warriors, in glistering steel attired,

Tilted before young demoiselles,

Who blushed to be admired;

Or when the forest echoes rang

With many a merry bugle-horn,

And stag and hounds, a baying rout,

Swept by some autumn morn.

But whether it was the morning sun

Which made the ancient mansion smile,

Or other things, a pleasant look

Lit up the agéd pile.

PART I.

She stood among her garden flowers,

The very loveliest lily there,

Beauty, bloom, purity and truth

Unfolding on the air.

He paused among the trees and gazed,

And like a bark with sails unfurled,

His heaving heart went forth to seek

Another and a fairer world.

All heaven he felt was in her eye;

Its sunshine glistened in her glance;

The air he breathed was elfin air;

His soul was in a trance:

“Ah, spirit of some virgin saint,

Turn—turn those blesséd eyes on me,

And let me kneel and worship thee!”

Deliriously said he.

She raised her eyes, her maiden cheek

Mounting the crimson tinge of dawn,

And, looking timidly around,

Stood, like a startled fawn.

“Nay, do not fly,” exclaimed the youth;

“Remain; allow my thirsty eyes

To quaff thy beauty: I would drain

A draught of Paradise.”

Wonder awaking in her face,

The maiden stood, with lips apart,

Drinking his voice, whose cadence stole

In harmony to her heart.

And even as she stood he came,

And, kneeling, bade her fear no wrong;

While all the while the murmuring air

Moved musical with song.

His words were not as other’s words,

His voice was like no other voice,

Somehow, she knew not why, it made

Her maiden heart rejoice.

And from that moment all things grew

Lovelier with light, because of him,

And, like a cup of wine, her heart

Was crimson to the brim.

“What shall I call thee?” asked the maid;

“How name thee?” “Clarence is my name,”

Returned the youth—“an honest one,

Though all unknown to fame.

“And how shall I call thee?” quoth he.

“Florence,” replied the maid—“a mean

And humble village girl.” “But fit,”

Said he, “to be a queen!”

Day after day, at eventide,

The stranger sought her, breathing words

Of passion, while her timid heart

Beat like a frightened bird’s.

But not with fear, for every pulse

Was swayed by love, that, moon-like, rides

The empyrean of the adoring heart

And rules its purple tides.

PART II.

Merrily through the town they went

A proud, chivalric cavalcade

Of knights and nobles and esquires,

In silken robes arrayed.

And each sustained his high degree,

But foremost there, without a peer

In manly majesty of mien,

Rode Lionel De Vere.

The ostrich plumes which flowed and waved

In silver clouds above his brow,

Were gray and lustreless beside

That forehead’s dazzling snow.

The diamond broach which held the plume

Flashed in the sunlight, like a star,

Throwing its ever radiant rays

In rainbow hues afar.

The ruby burning on his breast,

Blazing and blossoming as he turned,

Was fervid as his heart, which, fed

With honor, nobly burned.

And as he passed, his lofty head

Bending in answer to the cries

Of loving vassals, nobler form

Never met woman’s eyes.

A smile for one of mean degree,

A courteous bow for one of high,

So modulated both that each

Saw friendship in his eye.

Onward he rode, while like the sound

Of surf along a shingly shore,

The murmur of a people’s joy

Marched, herald-like, before.

Timidly, while before them pressed

The peasants, in a little nook

Two women stood—two timid things—

To snatch a hasty look:

One, weak and old—an agéd dame—

December toward its latter day;

The other young and pure and fair,

The maiden month of May:

Trembling with curious delight

She rose on tip-toe, gazing through

The mass of heads which, like a hedge,

Bordered the avenue.

The sound of horns, which rolled and broke

Like summer thunder, and the crash

Of cymbals, while the hound-like drum

Howled underneath the lash;

The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds,

The silken murmur of attire,

As the proud cavalcade drew nigh,

Filled her young heart with fire.

He came, her lord, the lord of all

Who gazed and gazed afar or near,

And as he bowed they hailed with shouts

Lord Lionel De Vere.

A trouble flitted through her face—

A shadow, and before her eyes

She passed her hands, as if to check

Some terrible surmise.

Nearer and nearer, while like one

Struck dumb she gazed, the noble came,

And as he passed the people flung

Their blessings on his name.

One little cry—a feeble cry—

The name of “Clarence,” and she passed:

He heard it not, its tiny sound

Died in the clarion’s blast.

PART III.

The cottage stood in solitude,

The woodbine rustled on the wall,

The Marguerites in the garden waved

In murmurs one and all;

And, rippling by, the rivulet

Seemed sobbing, like a frightened child,

Who, wandering on, has lost its way

In some deserted wild.

The day was waning in the west,

And slowly, like a dainty dream,

The delicate twilight dropped her veil

On fallow, field and stream.

The purple sky was sown with stars

When Clarence came: she was not there,

And desolately frowned the night,

And stagnant was the air.

But on the little rustic seat

Where they had often sat, there shone

A letter, and the noble name

Along it was his own.

“Farewell,” it said, “that I exist

Breathing the word which is the knell

Of love and hope is not my will.

But God’s alone: Farewell.

“Never more on this once loved spot,

Never more on the rivulet’s bank,

Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord,

Insults thy lofty rank.

“Go, seek some fitter mate: for me,

Too poor to be thy wife, too proud

To be thy leman, grief, despair,

The death-bed, and the shroud.”

He read appalled, amazed, aghast,

Stern as a statue, and the stone

Was pale Despair, its haggard look

Less awful than his own.

A thought, and like a storm he dashed

Along the grassy walk: no spark

Shone from the cottage: all within,

Without, around, was dark.

He knocked and knocked, but no one came:

He entered, and the silent room

Was vacant, and his darkened heart

Grew darker with the gloom.

Next day the grim old castle stood

Neglected: whether its heart of stone

Was touched, I know not, yet I heard

The ancient mansion moan.

Perhaps I was deceived; the wind

Went howling over woods and moors,

And round the castle, like a ghost

Stalking its corridors.

PART IV.

The snow had fallen hour on hour;

The wind was keen, and loud and shrill

It whistled through the naked trees

And round the frozen hill.

The country everywhere was white;

The forest oaks that moaned and pined

Wore caps of snow, which, bowing low,

They doffed before the wind.

Twilight descended, and the air

Was gray, and like a sense of dread,

Night on the virgin breast of earth

Her sable shadows spread.

Slowly, with wavering steps a man

Moved on a solitary moor,

With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon,

A pilgrim pale and poor.

Slowly, with trembling steps he moved,

Pausing, as if uncertain where

To take his way, when, faint and far,

A bell disturbed the air.

And as with concentrated strength

He sought the sound, a little light

Shone flickeringly and glow-worm like

Through the ravine of night.

A little light that with each step

Became distinct, until his eyes

Beheld a convent’s welcome walls

Between him and the skies.

He reached the portal—rang the bell,

And as above him rose the moon,

Sank, like the storm: the portress found

The pilgrim in a swoon.

They bore the wasted wanderer in:

Pallid but beautiful he lay,

A dream which seemed to come from heaven

Though clad in suffering clay.

And when, long hours of anguish gone,

His eyes once more shone calmly blue,

Looks that seemed grievous memories

Dimmed their ethereal hue.

His soul, which many days had walked

The ploughshares of consuming love.

Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyes

Toward Him Who reigned above.

He sought the chapel; at the shrine

Knelt, while his eyes were wet with tears—

God’s love in holy harmonies

Filling his penitent ears.

Even as he knelt the solemn mass,

“ORA PRO NOBIS, DOMINE,”

Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings,

Seeking the heavenly way.

Concordant voices sweet and clear

Rang through the consecrated nave,

Discoursing melodies which rolled

And broke, wave over wave.

As in an ecstasy he knelt,

Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light,

Radiant, as if a saint, or Christ

Himself had blessed his sight.

For in the voices one sweet voice

Swam, like a spirit’s, in his ears:

He could not speak, or move, or breathe;

While slowly trickling tears

Ran down his cheeks, as, louder still,

The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell,

And on its cloudy height of song

Paused, trembled, moaned and fell.

But as its echoes died away,

His spirit trod that golden shore

Where hope becomes reality

And sorrow is no more.

He sought the abbess; on his knees

Unfolded, page by page, his grief;

While she, albeit cold and stern,

Wept, yielding to belief.

And Florence came, while Clarence stood

In breathless silence far apart,

A thousand hopes and joys and fears

Conflicting at his heart.

Throwing aside his pilgrim cowl

Clarence fell trembling at her feet:

“Florence,” he murmured, “loved and lost,

At last, at last we meet.”

She stood in silence, with her eyes

Fixed on the youth—a heavenly calm

From out whose subsidence of sound

Came “Clarence,” like a psalm.

And then he knelt and told his tale:

How he had loved in other lands,

And she he sought had faithlessly

Obeyed a sire’s commands,

And left him desolate; how, when,

After long weeks of aching pain

A pale, heartbroken, weary man,

With fevered brow and brain,

He sought his native land, and stood

Again within his castle halls,

But found that soothing Peace had flown

Forever from its walls;

And how, when wandering in the woods,

Accusing God of all his wo,

Madder with memories of the Past

Than any fiend below,

She, Florence, like an angel, rose

To calm his heart, and dry his tears,

And fill his brain with melodies

Stolen from statelier spheres.

And how he sought to test her love,

And feared, recurring to the past,

That this, his eidolon of joy,

Might prove too bright to last.

And so, in humble garb, in state

No loftier than the maiden’s own,

He sought her love, not for his lands

But for himself alone.

And how he came and found her gone,

And since, month after month, in pain,

Had followed her from town to town,

With burning heart and brain;

And how, when hope was gone, and life

Seemed like a land which lay behind—

The future like a desolate void—

How, when he most repined—

When death had been a welcome thing,

Her voice, the concord of the spheres,

Had called his memory from her tomb

On which it lay in tears.

She stood and listened with her eyes

And ears and heart—cheek, lip and brow

Serene with happiness which shone,

Like sunlight over snow.

And with a breathless eloquence

Which, more than words or vows, exprest

Her boundless confidence, she hid

Her blushes in his breast.

EPILOGUE.

One day, in early autumn time,

In spirit, I traversed the plain,

And sought De Vere’s ancestral towers,

And gazed on them again.

They stood in green and glorious age;

The rooks wheeled round the ancient walls,

And peals of mirthful merriment

Peopled the castle halls—

Loud laughs, which made the watchful deer,

With ears thrown forward, look and bleat

And seek a covert, while the sounds

Followed their pattering feet.

The swallows, twittering in the air,

Seemed sharers in the general gladness;

The stares from oak and beach and elm,

Chattered in merry madness.

Across the drawbridge, as I gazed,

A merry, laughing cavalcade,

With dogs in leash and hawk on hand,

Dashed madly down the glade.

Among them, stateliest of them all,

Sat one whose broad and ample brow,

Though white with time, was full of life

As lichen under snow.

And by his side, with smiling eye,

And swelling breast, in robes of green,

Rode one, round whom the nobles prest

As round a loving queen.

And after, hand on hip, two youths

Rode gayly onward, side by side,

Returning with admiring love

Their parents’ glance of pride.

While in the distance, like a sire

Who sees at Christmas festival

His happy children laughing round,

Smiled the baronial hall.

* * * * *

THE DIAL-PLATE.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

All rusty is the iron grate

That girds the garden desolate,

But there it stands, the dial-plate,

A thing of antiquated date,

Right opposite the sun.

The wild moss and the fern have grown

Upon its quaint, old-fashioned stone,

And earthy mounds about it strown

Seem each to say, in solemn tone,

“A race is run!”

Of yore, in vernal beauty smiled

This spot of earth so drear and wild,

And you might chance to see a child,

Up-scrambling on the gray stones piled

Around the dial-plate;

Then might you hear his laughter ring

Clear as the chime of bells in spring,

When, like a pompous little king,

He strutted on that queer old thing

In mock estate.

Long years have circled slowly round

Upon that wheel which hath no sound;

The urchin has in manhood found

A beauteous maid, and they are bound

By Hymen’s silken tie;

There stand the couple, side by side,

The bridegroom and his dainty bride,

The sunbeams from the dial slide

Deep in their cells beneath the tide—

As deep Love’s sigh!

Comes tottering age with thin, white hair,

And that same youth is standing there!

But now his head is almost bare,

And twinkles in his eye a tear,

Fresh from his withered core;

Gone are the loved ones of his breast,

Gone to their everlasting rest,

Grim Death has robbed the old man’s nest,

And they are now his mouldering guest

For evermore!

Ye pilgrims on the shores of Time!

Of every age and every clime,

Like flowers ye spring up in your prime,

Like them ye fade at vesper chime

In twilight of the tomb;

Oh! pluck the roses while ye may,

Each instant heralds Life’s decay,

Mark well the dial’s fleeting ray,

There is a world beyond the clay—

Beyond its gloom.

Old father Time expects his fee,

Look how he rubs his hands in glee,

A mighty pair of scales hath he,

To weigh Earth and Eternity,

“As misers count their gold;”

From earth he plucks each minute-pin,

And down the other he drops it in—

Take heed! the weigher soon must win

He stares upon you with a grin—

Your days are told!

* * * * *

[Illustration: W.P. Frith Addison

THE BRIDAL NIGHT.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

UNEQUAL MARRIAGES.

BY CAROLINE. H. BUTLER.

“Sister, are you determined, then, to marry Annette to Mr. Eccleson?”

asked Mr. Goodman of his sister, Mrs. Doily.

“Certainly I am, brother,” answered the lady. “In every respect it is a

most advantageous match for her; indeed, John, I assure you that I look

upon an alliance with the Eccleson family as one of the most desirable

things which could possibly happen, and so does Mr. Doily.”

“I do not agree with you,” said her brother; “and I fear in the end, you

may have reason to change your present views.”

“And why so, brother?” returned Mrs. Doily. “It seems to me you are

always looking upon the dark side! Now do tell me, John, what reasonable

objection you can possibly have to Annette’s marriage—I am sure I see

none—and, of course, no one can have her happiness more at heart than

her own mother! Is not Mr. Eccleson very rich, and nearly allied to some

of the very first families in the city? His age surely can be no serious

objection—indeed, it is all for the best, for a man stands still, while

a woman grows old; and fifteen years hence, depend upon it, no one will

think him fifteen years her senior. Then he is very agreeable, and

certainly uncommonly good-looking!” and with the air of one who feels

satisfied that they have the best of the argument, Mrs. Doily

complacently swung to and fro in her easy rocking-chair.

“Yes, Jane, he is all these—and, you may add, too, as proud as

Lucifer!” said Mr. Goodman.

“He has reason to be proud!” put in Mrs. Doily.

“Perhaps he has,” answered her brother, “and you will find that his

pride will not allow him to acknowledge willingly any connection with a

dry-goods retailer!”

“Ridiculous, brother—how foolish you talk! Pray, then, why should he

offer to marry Annette, if he looks upon the connection as something to

be ashamed of?” said Mrs. Doily, getting almost angry.

“Why? why because he has fallen in love with Annette’s pretty face; he

means to marry _her_, not her family, and he trusts to his future power

over her, and to a woman’s devotedness to her husband, right or wrong,

to wean her away from all her earlier ties!”

“John, you really talk very strangely!” exclaimed Mrs. Doily, almost

ready to cry. “What possesses you to run on in this way, just as if my

dear Annette could ever be brought to give up all her old friends for

strangers. I do wish you would not talk so—it really makes me nervous!”

“Well, my dear sister, I may be mistaken, and for your sake, and for

Annette’s sake, I hope to God I am! I call myself a pretty good judge of

character, and if I err not, Mr. Eccleson has so much pride, arrogance,

perhaps, would be the better word, for it is not the pride of a

high-minded, honorable man, as will make him callous what ties he rends,

or what sacred altars he may trample down to serve his own ambitious

views. Besides, Jane, I never yet knew any true happiness to result from

unequal marriages; and I tell you honestly, that were Annette my

daughter, I would sooner see her the wife of an honest young tradesman,

who has his own fortune and standing to build up, than the wife of Penn

Eccleson, were he ten times richer than he is!”

“Oh, yes, John, were Annette _your daughter_!” said Mrs. Doily, forcing

a laugh. “Yes, I know, old bachelors and old maids are always most

wonderful patterns of parental prudence! but with all your prejudices

you will allow one thing, I hope, that Mr. Eccleson is far from being

either a selfish or a mercenary man!”

“I deny the first,” interrupted Mr. Goodman.

“For he refuses to receive any fortune with Annette; true, we could not

give her much—five or six thousand dollars, perhaps—but even that is

something; and I am sure his refusal to accept of it is very noble. It

is Annette, and Annette alone he wants.”

“True, very true—it is Annette he wants, and not a penny of the

retailer’s money—there shall be no obligation of that nature to bind

him to the family of the future Mrs. Eccleson!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman,

starting up angrily from his chair. “Jane, Jane, I protest against this

marriage!” and seizing his hat and cane, he withdrew, leaving poor Mrs.

Doily bathed in the tears she was no longer able to restrain—tears of

vexation and anger, at what she deemed the willful obstinacy of her

brother.

If what Uncle John said was true, it was certainly yet to be proved,

for, perhaps, no marriage in the eyes of partial, hopeful parents, ever

promised a fairer prospect of happiness to trusting girlhood than that

so soon to be consummated.

* * * * *

Penn Eccleson belonged exclusively to the monied aristocracy. His

grandfather and father before him, had both commenced life with a

determination to be rich—richer—richest—and what the former had

accumulated from small beginnings and careful savings, were as carefully

and judiciously applied by the son, until little by little the broad

foundation of future wealth was successfully established.

In the days of their youth, when the freshness of their young lives

should have been given to better and holier ends, the parents of Penn

Eccleson looked forward only to the aggrandizement of themselves and

children, through the potent influence of money; and to this end they

toiled and delved in the service of Mammon, with a bondage almost equal

to that of the gold-seeking maniac amid the mountain fastnesses of

California, denying themselves all the luxuries, and most of the

comforts of life to swell the hoard of avarice, and feed their

ill-directed ambition.

As years took their flight, step by step the Ecclesons gradually emerged

from the obscurity of a narrow cross-street in the lower part of the

city, to the possession of one of the most elegant establishments in the

fashionable region of —— Square. The most _genteel_ schools were

selected for their children, who were expressly forbidden to form any

friendships with their little school-mates, save those whose parents

could at least boast of a carriage, and thus, their heads early filled

with conceit and pride, the little Ecclesons formed as disagreeable a

trio as one would care to see—for assuredly there is nothing more

unpleasing, than to behold the beautiful simplicity of childhood lost in

the supercilious airs and artificial graces of the fine lady!

The Ecclesons were regarded at first in no very favorable light, in the

quarter they had chosen for their debut into high life, and occasionally

their pride suffered severely. But with a pertinacity worthy a higher

aim, they firmly stood their ground, and upon the strength of their fine

dinners, and their splendid parties, were, in the course of a few years,

not only tolerated, but received with favor into those circles they most

coveted. Their only son, meanwhile, was traveling in Europe, with a

_carte-blanche_ in his pocket for any expenses he might choose to

indulge, and the sage advice of worthy Polonius engrafted on his mind,

in the sense, I mean, with which Mr. Hudson translates Shakspeare, that

is, “to sit up all night to make himself a gentleman, and take no pains

to make himself a man.”

Time rolled on. Their daughters made highly eligible matches, their son

returned elegant in person, polished in manners, and then it was time

for the old people to die.

Doubtless it would have been a satisfaction to them to have witnessed

their own sumptuous funerals; to have known how daintily their rigid

limbs were draped in the finest of linen, and upon what soft, downy

cushions within their narrow bed their heads were pillowed. It would

have been a splendid pageant for their pride—the richly emblazoned

coffin—the pall of velvet sweeping to the ground—the hearse, with its

long shadowy plumes—the high-mettled horses curbed to a solemn pace,

yet tossing their heads and manes as if nobly spurning from them the

trappings of fictitious wo in which they were forced to act a part—the

stately equipages which follow their dust to the “City of the Dead”—and

then their own epitaphs; it would have amazed them to have known how

many virtues of which they themselves were ignorant, that finely

chiseled marble bestowed upon them.

The old gentleman remembered each of his daughters and their families

handsomely in his will, and then bequeathed to his son the residue of

his large property, including the fine mansion in —— Square. Penn

Eccleson might therefore be considered by speculating papas and mammas a

most eligible match. Nature had also been most lavish in her personal

gifts, while Fortune, as we have seen, had already secured him her

favors.

But young Eccleson seemed in no hurry to take a wife, and he had nearly

attained his thirtieth year ere he began seriously to look about him. At

this time he accidentally saw Annette Doily at the Opera, and became

instantly a victim to love at first sight. It must be owned his ardor

was somewhat cooled, upon ascertaining that this beautiful young

creature was—nobody! that is, she was only the daughter of a mere

shopkeeper, who dealt out tapes and bobbins, and sold cambric by the

yard. This fact, for a time, was sufficient to keep his ardor in check,

but upon being thrown again into her presence, it broke forth with

renewed violence. He gave himself no rest until he had found a way to

make her acquaintance, and thus led by the little god, the haughty Penn

Eccleson, who walked the earth as though he were lord of all, became a

frequent visiter at the house of Mr. Doily, and a suitor for the hand of

his daughter.

Annette was, indeed, a lovely young creature, whose seventeenth summer

had scarcely dawned over her innocent, happy life. I would fain describe

her, as her image comes up before me in the dream of the past, but my

pen is unable to trace the indescribable charm which dwelt upon her

countenance, or the artless grace which pervaded all her movements. And

these were the least traits which endeared her to her friends, for never

was there a heart more affectionate and confiding, or a disposition so

guileless. What wonder that the polished manners and insinuating address

of Eccleson should have gained her heart, and that with all the fervor

and truthfulness of a first love, she blushingly consented to be

his—grateful, too, for the preference he had yielded a simple child

like herself.

Mr. and Mrs. Doily were proud of their daughter, and proud of the

conquest she had achieved. In the alliance they saw an immense

advantage; it not only placed their beloved Annette at once in the

highest circles of rank and fashion, but to Mr. Doily, the benefit to

his business, arising from a connection with the Eccleson family, would

be incalculable. He already fancied himself turning his back upon the

counter, and established among the bales and boxes of a large wholesale

house—perhaps an importer—a ship-owner; while Mrs. Doily, with the

true instinct of a mother, forgetting all self, rejoiced that her two

younger daughters would be ushered into society under the patronage of

their wealthy brother-in-law.

Uncle John was the only one who predicted aught but undivided happiness

from the union.

* * * * *

Had the cloudless heaven which dawned upon their wedding morn, and the

bright sun which burst in gladness over them, but typified their future

lot, how blest and happy would it have been.

Eccleson preferred to be married in church, and a gay retinue attended

the bridal pair to the sacred edifice wherein their solemn vows were to

be registered. As side by side they stood in the holy chancel, all eyes

turned admiringly upon them—she so charming, yet so unconscious of her

loveliness, as with her little hand nestled in his she received the holy

benediction of the priest, while as he bent his lips to her pure brow, a

softness rested upon the features of the bridegroom, which rendered his

beauty almost godlike.

The ceremony over, the two sisters of Eccleson, proud, haughty dames,

advanced and coldly saluted the pale cheek of the fair bride, and

honored the sadly happy mother with a stately bow. Eccleson touched his

lips to the proffered cheek of Mrs. Doily, and then receiving the

weeping Annette from the arms of her parents, bore her exultingly to the

carriage, as if eager to point the barrier henceforth to be raised

between _her_ and _them_.

The new married pair were absent two or three months on a bridal tour,

and then returned to the city—their house in the interim having been

newly and magnificently furnished to the tune of thousands, under the

supervision of Mrs. Dash and Townlif, the sisters of Eccleson. But

Annette pined to embrace her mother; not all the gilded baubles which on

every side met her eye, not all the splendors of which her husband

proudly proclaimed her the mistress, could for a moment quell the

yearnings of her affectionate heart; and scarcely bestowing a glance

upon the magnificence which surrounded her, she begged the carriage

might take her to her parents and sisters.

Poor Annette! she was now to receive her first lesson from her haughty

lord.

“No, Annette, you must not think of it,” replied Eccleson, carelessly

loosing the arms twined so fondly round his neck, “you are very tired,

love, and I cannot consent to your further fatiguing yourself.”

“Indeed, dear Penn, you are mistaken, I am not in the least tired; O,

pray let me go home, if only for an hour!” said Annette, with her little

hand upon his shoulder, and her large, dark eyes bent beseechingly upon

his.

“I tell you, Annette, I cannot suffer you to go into P—— Street

to-night; beside, love,” he added, “it pains me to hear you speak of

going _home_, as if this were not your home, your _only_ home, Annette.”

There was a meaning stress upon the word “only,” which, however, Annette

did not observe, so crushed was she by the disappointment his refusal

caused her. She hesitated a moment, and then once more flinging her arms

around him, she said,

“Dearest husband, I must go—do not refuse me. Only think, it is three

months since I have seen them—three months, Penn, since I have embraced

my mother. I know they are pining to behold me once more, for I was

never away from them even for a day until I became yours, dear Penn; I

am sure I shall not sleep unless I see them to-night.”

“Nonsense, Annette,” replied Eccleson; “you are no longer a child, I

hope, to be thus sighing and whining after your mother; really I am

quite ashamed of my little wife! Come, I will myself show you to your

dressing-room; you have not yet seen the splendid diamonds I have for

you, nor the elegant _trousseau_ my sisters have prepared. Come,

Annette,” and encircling her slender waist with his arm, he would have

led her from the room.

Tears stood in Annette’s beautiful eyes.

“Dearest Penn, will you do me a favor? If you object to my going home

to-night, then let the carriage drive round into P—— Street, and bring

my mother here.”

Eccleson drew himself up haughtily.

“Absurd, Annette—I shall certainly do no such thing. In the morning I

shall not object to your visiting your parents, provided you take an

early hour ere we may expect _my_ friends to call upon you; but the

truth is, the less frequent you make your visits in P—— Street,

Annette, the better I shall be pleased.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Annette, with a startled look upon the

countenance of her husband; “indeed I do not understand you, dear Penn.”

“Well, my dear girl. I will endeavor to explain myself more clearly,”

answered Eccleson. “You are, of course, aware that by your marriage with

me, your position in life has wholly changed; you are now raised to a

sphere greatly above that from which I took you; and as my wife will

henceforth move in none but the highest and most distinguished circles

of the city; and therefore, dearest Annette, for my sake as well as for

your own, it will be desirable that you forget all old associations as

soon as possible.”

“I do not understand you even now, I think,” said Annette, smiling

sadly. “No, I am sure, dear Penn, I do not take your true meaning—for

it cannot be you would have me sacrifice my parents to my new position,

to renounce all the fond ties of home! that is not what you mean?” she

added with an appealing look.

“In a certain sense that _is_ my meaning, love,” answered her husband.

“I shall offer no objections to your visiting your excellent parents

occasionally, or as your parents of receiving them into my house; but,

my sweet Annette, you must study to control your wishes for a very

frequent repetition of these family meetings. It may seem impossible to

you now, but believe me, dearest, you will soon find so much that is

novel and delightful to occupy your thoughts, that you will cease to

regret that which appears to afflict you so much at present.”

With her little hands clasped upon her bosom, and her eyes gazing almost

wildly into his, did Annette listen to the words of her heartless,

selfish husband. But there was no resentment, no anger visible in her

sweet face; with a sigh which would have moved any heart but his, she

said,

“I am grieved to hear you speak so, dear Penn; nothing can ever make me

forgetful of the ties of nature; you yourself would despise me, if,

through the allurements of wealth and fashion, I could be brought to

forget those who gave me being. You know you would; say so, dearest

Penn—you only wanted to prove me, did you?” and casting one arm fondly

around his neck, with a sadly sweet smile she bent her lovely eyes upon

him.

“Annette, we will not talk of this more at present,” answered her

husband; “enough that if you love me, you will, by and bye, better

understand and _do_ my meaning.”

The first night Annette passed under her husband’s roof was a sleepless

one. Her chamber, in its luxurious adornments, might have received a

princess—but little did she heed it. The beautiful hangings of pink and

silver which swept around the bed—the rich counterpane of white satin

which enveloped her lovely form—the downy pillows cased in the finest

lace—nor all the splendors which surrounded her, had power for a moment

to divert her saddened thoughts, or stay the tears of wounded affection.

But hope, bright hope is ever the blessing of youth as of age, and with

the morning dawn gladdened the heart of the young wife with its peaceful

influence, and whispered that her husband meant not the cruel words he

had spoken, and that all would yet be well.

At an early hour the carriage was at the door, and Annette was borne

once more to the arms of her parents. She hoped, but dared not ask her

husband to accompany her, and it was with a heavy sigh and a starting

tear that, after handing her into the carriage, she saw him once more

ascend the marble steps, and then, as the carriage drove off, kissing

his hand to her, re-enter the house.

In the fond welcome of home Annette lost the sorrow which already

touched her young heart. As she viewed each dear familiar spot, her

marriage seemed but a dream. From room to room she flew with the

gladness of a bird—the kitchen—the nursery—the dear old school-room,

all felt her light footstep now rapidly sweeping the keys of the piano

as she glided past—now chasing the little kitten from “mother’s”

work-basket—now releasing her pet canary from its wiry prison, to perch

upon her finger—and finally seating herself upon a low cushion at the

feet of her mother, with the shaggy, sleepy head of old Rover in her

lap, she prepared to answer some of the many questions poured upon her.

And what a proud, happy mother was Mrs. Doily at that moment—laughing

and crying at the same moment as she looked upon her dear, darling

Annette. How many affectionate inquiries she had to make about her new

son-in-law—what plans she laid for the future—why did not Mr. Eccleson

come with her? But she knew he would soon—and Annette must stay to

dinner; yes, the carriage must go back without her, she had been away

from them so long they could not spare her to-day; and Mr. Eccleson

would come to dinner—it was lucky, for they were going to have boiled

turkey and oysters, and the nicest, fattest pair of ducks she ever saw.

But Annette reluctantly excused herself—they were to receive their

wedding visits, and she must go—some other day, soon, very soon she

would come. And kissing them all a dozen times, she sprung into the

carriage and returned home with a lightened heart—for it could not be

that her husband would willingly deprive her of so much enjoyment as

that one brief hour had given her.

* * * * *

It is needless to trace, day by day, and hour by hour, the thralls which

gradually tightened around the kind, loving heart of Annette, who

passively yielded herself to the selfish demands of her husband.

By the haughty relatives of Eccleson she was received either with formal

courtesy, or with that condescending air of patronage, the most keenly

cutting to a sensitive soul. She would have loved them, poor girl, if

they would have suffered her love; but her advances were always

chillingly repelled—they wished her to feel the vast difference which

existed between a shopkeeper’s daughter and their “almighty dreadful

little mightinesses.”

Eccleson loved his young wife as dearly as it was in his nature to love

any one, save _self_—and all _but_ his pride, would have sacrificed to

her happiness. To a gay round of parties, _soirées_, the opera,

theatres, and concerts, he bore her night after night, until any less

gentle nature than Annette’s would have been lost in the giddy whirl of

fashion. Her dresses, her jewels, her equipage, out-rivaled all others;

she was the belle of the brilliant circle in which she moved; but she

pined in her gilded prison, and longed to lay her aching head upon her

mother’s bosom.

The very fact that her husband looked upon her relatives as inferior to

himself, marked the galling dependence of her situation. She was his

wife, but fettered by bonds which ate into her soul. Almost wholly was

she now debarred from the society of her own friends—for she could not

see them insulted, and no better than insult was the haughty bearing

which Eccleson assumed toward them, and therefore she preferred they

should think her the heartless thing she seemed, than by persisting in

her claims, subject them and herself to renewed contumely.

Better would it have been for Annette had she possessed more firmness of

character—a _will_ to do as she pleased—a determination to have her

rights respected. But she was by nature too gentle to wrestle with the

unfeeling hearts around her, and therefore yielded herself a passive

victim. Or better, perhaps, would it have been, had her bosom covered a

marble heart, and that, callous to all the tender ties which can make

life desirable, she should have walked through life that mysterious

anomaly—a beautiful woman without a soul!

But it was not so.

The step of Annette gradually lost its light elastic tread—her cheek

grew pale—her eyes no longer reflected the innocent gayety of a happy

heart, but bent low their drooping lids as if to hide their weight of

sorrow—the bright smile which lent its charms to her speaking

countenance faded sadly away. In less than two years after her marriage

with that proud, haughty man, poor Annette was dying—dying of a

broken-heart—of crushed and blighted affection!

Too late to save her did Eccleson see his error. He saw that he had

drawn too strongly upon her gentle, pliant nature, and that barred from

the light and sun of her childhood’s home—shut out from the kindly

sympathies of parental love, like some beautiful flower of the forest

torn from its genial bed, she was to fade and die at ambition’s altar!

To restore her, if possible, and bitterly repenting his cruelty,

Eccleson now did all in the power of mortal to stay her angel flight. He

brought her parents around her—he surrounded her bedside with the most

skillful physicians, and lavished upon her all the comforts which wealth

could purchase. He took her home and restored to her the treasured

associations of her early life.

Poor Annette was grateful—deeply grateful for this too long deferred

kindness; and now that in this reunion life seemed again to present so

many charms, she would have desired to live had her Heavenly Father so

willed it. But it was too late. The barbed arrow had penetrated too

deeply her innocent bosom to be withdrawn. With her hand clasped in that

of her repentant husband, and her head pillowed on her mother’s breast,

her gentle spirit took its flight.

Gentle reader, this is no exaggerated story I have given you. It is but

another life-drawn sketch of the evils which too frequently arise from

unequal marriages.

* * * * *

THE ICEBERGS.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

[This poem was composed after reading a vivid description of the passage

of a ship through the magnificent fields of ice in Hudson’s Bay, by

Ballantyne.]

Beautiful are the Icebergs! gorgeous piles,

White, green, gold, crimson in the flashing rays

Of the round sun. Along the waves for miles

They rise like temples of remotest days.

Or like cathedrals, churches, columns grand,

Grander than all that modern Art can claim—

The gilded fabrics of some Eastern land,

The mighty monuments of Roman fame.

Our vessel sails among them like a bird

Of darkest form, and plumage turned to brown,

Beside their lustre, as they lie unstirred,

Yet threatening to careen and topple down.

Strange, splendid, massive, fanciful, grotesque,

Of shapes as various as Invention drew—

Gothic, Corinthian, Grecian, Arabesque,

Perfect or shattered, age-renowned or new.

Builded upon the ice-fields, stretching vast

Into mid-ocean, like a frozen shore

Which skirts a continent, unknown to past

Or present time and shall be evermore.

Cities and towns girt round with crystal walls,

And filled with crystal palaces, as fair

As Boreal Aurora, when she falls

Brilliant from heaven and streams along the air.

No sound disturbs the stillness of the scene

Hushed in eternal slumber, calm and deep;

To break the spell no voices intervene,

The very waters share the death-like sleep.

No fragment severs from the solid mass,

No torrents from the hills translucent flow,

But all is rigid, while we slowly pass,

As glacial mountains in a world of snow.

No avalanche impends, but leaning towers,

Like that of Pisa, seem about to rush

In ruin downward, though for years as hours

They still may stand, nor fear a final crush.

Ye icebergs! held by adamantine chains,

Nor moved from your foundations by the gales

Which Winter, hoary tyrant, ne’er restrains,

But sends, relentless, where his power prevails—

Ye are stern Desolation’s home and throne,

Fixed on the boundaries of human life;

The lofty watch-towers of the Frigid Zone,

Locked in securely from the ocean’s strife.

I look upon you with deep awe, and feel

That all my generation will decay

Ere Cold shall cease your ramparts to congeal,

Or Tempest hurl you from your base away!

* * * * *

LOVE.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

The winds are tranquil on the heaving deep;

And from her azure throne Night bendeth down,

And to old Ocean’s brow transfers her crown

Of peerless beauty. All things are asleep!—

Save Love, who doth his ceaseless vigils keep

In my fond heart, where to thine image, now,

He kneeleth, breathing many a passionate vow,

And earnest prayer, filled with affection deep.

Like pious pilgrim at his sainted shrine,

His dearest treasures, and most precious things—

Devotion, constancy and truth he brings,

And lays them humble offerings upon thine,

Inspired with trusting hope that thou, who art

All gentleness, wilt smile, nor bid him to depart.

* * * * *

DOCTOR SIAN SENG

OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS

(FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)

(_Concluded from page 128._)

[Illustration]

“I am,” cried I, falling at her feet, “a simple mortal, who loses his

senses before your beauty.”

“Get up! doctor, get up,” said the _danseuse_, with a countenance of

severity suddenly assumed—“no nonsense before your god-daughter! You

forget yourself—she will tell a thousand stories when we get home. Have

you never seen the ‘Terrible Children of Gavarni?’ They are all spies,

these little innocents!”

I got up from my knees in confusion, and excused myself as well as I

could. Her anger seemed to cool. She gave me her hand, and drawing a

deep sigh, said,

“If I had all these beautiful things in my drawing-room, I should

consider myself richer than the Sultana Valida.”

“This evening, Mademoiselle, my Chinese parlor shall be transferred to

your hotel.”

“Well then, doctor, I will go and prepare for it. I hope you are in

earnest, for the fun of the thing, even if it were only to shame the

Parisians by your generosity. By the bye, wouldn’t you like to sketch my

left foot also? What will you do with one foot without the other—don’t

be modest—have the match to it!”

“Mademoiselle, I dared not ask you—”

“Ah! I am always generous—I don’t do things by halves.”

“What kindliness and grace! Mademoiselle, it is not this miserable

collection I should offer you. I would I could place at your feet the

pagoda of the suburb Vai lo ching, which is of porcelain, with tiles of

massive gold!”

“That would suit me exactly, _particularly the tiles_!—Is my foot

placed right?”

“My design is completed, Mademoiselle; my gratitude for your kindness

will never end—may I call to-morrow to visit you?”

“To-morrow—dear doctor, to-morrow is an unlucky day! I dance to-morrow,

and must practice for five hours.”

“The day after, then?”

“The day after? that’s Saturday—I always dine with my mother on

Saturday—Sunday I shall be free as air. Suppose I take you to

Versailles on Sunday? we can eat a hare at a country inn, and drink

milk. You will accept my invitation will you not?—agreed then. Oh! how

delighted I shall be to get into the fields and inhale the fragrance of

the flowers. Sunday, then, dear doctor, my carriage shall be at your

door at twelve o’clock; I am as exact as a Breguet watch—adieu!”

We have no women in China—it is the only thing our ancestors forgot to

invent! If Mademoiselle Alexandrine were to appear at Pekin she would

take the empire by storm! You can form no idea of that divine

creature—graceful as a bird—speaking as melodiously as she

sings—springing as she walks—doing a thousand delicious things in a

moment, and throwing at you sweet and flashing glances, like the

twinkling of a star.

In quitting my parlor, she left a void which made me nervous. It was

necessary to do something not to fall a prey to melancholy. I hurried my

servants to the four corners of the street for porters, and in about an

hour my room was cleared—before dinner my beautiful _danseuse_ had

received every thing. What a sweet night I had! I had the copy of each

foot in either hand! and I said to myself, at this moment she is

blessing me—she praises my generosity before the altar of Tien—in her

eyes a single man exists! and that is me!—for her the rest of the world

has disappeared!

With what impatience was Sunday expected—that Sunday which promised me

such happiness! I wanted to break all the clocks about me, because they

seemed joined in a conspiracy against me, to lengthen out Saturday!

Notwithstanding my impatience the hours rolled round, and on Sunday, an

age after the clock struck eleven, it announced mid-day.

I stood in my balcony and devoured every carriage with my eyes. At six

o’clock I had seen all the carriages in Paris roll by—and I was still

alone! Alone! when one has been promised a _rendezvous_! There is in

this deception the very delirium of despair!

As soon as it was proper I ran to visit Mademoiselle de St. Phar. The

porter, hardly concealing a smile, said, “Mademoiselle de Saint Phar has

gone to the country.”

“When will she return?” asked I, with deathlike visage.

“After Easter or Christmas,” answered the porter.

As I came away I heard loud laughter in chorus from the whole family of

porters.

No news of Mademoiselle de Saint Phar! Every night at the opera—but no

_danseuse_. Her name no longer appeared in the bills—it had disappeared

from the ballet as her person had from her hotel.

Could I abase my dignity as representative of the Celestial Empire by

causing search to be made for a _danseuse_? What would the grand

secretary for foreign affairs have said of me! I could only suffer in

silence. So I did suffer—and hold my tongue.

Forty days after that fatal Sunday I was walking along a great street,

whose name I forget, and having a habit of reading signs as I pass

along, what was my astonishment to read the following:

“CITY OF PEKIN!”

Chinese Curiosities at fix’d prices.

In taking a glance at the window, I recognized some of those I had

formerly owned. So I stepped into the shop, resolved to repurchase them

if the price were not too high. An involuntary exclamation escaped me!

the shopkeeper was a young woman—in short, Mademoiselle Alexandrine de

Saint Phar!

I was thunderstruck, and as immovable as one of my clay compatriots at

my side: but the _danseuse_ smiled charmingly, and without interrupting

her embroidery work, she said with a _sang froid_ sublime,

“Ah! good morning, dear doctor—you are very good to favor us so early

with a visit—look around and see if you cannot find something here to

your taste. Your god-daughter has the small-pox—she asks for her

god-father every day—the dear little Dileri!”

I crossed my arms upon my breast and shook my head—a pantomime which I

have remarked in a drama at the Theatre Ambigu means “what infamy!”

Mademoiselle cast a sidelong glance at me—shrugged her shoulders, and

biting off a scarlet thread with her teeth, said—

“By the bye, dear doctor, I am married now—I have been a wife fifteen

days—Madame Telamon, at your service. I will introduce you to my

husband—a very handsome man—you would scarcely reach to his waist even

if you raised yourself upon your toes. Hold! here he is!”

I saluted her hastily, and left the shop furiously angry, the more so

that I was obliged to conceal my rage. A single glance I gave toward the

husband—real or false—sufficed for me to recognize the pretended

decorator at the opera, who came to my box to invite my judgment upon

his Chinese kiosque. That I had been the victim of a regular conspiracy

was very evident—resignation was my only resource.

A fortnight afterward I assumed a disguise, and had the weakness to go

and promenade before the shop in the evening twilight, to catch a last

glimpse of the unworthy object of my idolatry.

The colossal husband was brushing the dust from a mandarin in porcelain,

and I heard him murmur,

“If that Doctor Sian Seng should attempt to set his foot inside my door

again, I’ll choke him, pack him in straw, and sell his carcass to the

doctors for fifteen louis!”

Oh no! I shall never see this beautiful monster again; I have the

resolution of a man and of a philosopher; I will fulfill my mission to

the end, and will again make myself worthy of you, oh! holy city, which

the silver moon illumines so caressingly when from the top of Mount

Tyryathon she hangs like a lantern of silk from Nanking!

In Paris there are physicians who devote themselves entirely to specific

diseases; there are some who treat only infants at the breast; others,

after weaning; others who prescribe only for those of sixty and above of

it. Bills are stuck up at the corners of all the streets, and

advertisements in the newspapers, proclaiming a thousand infallible

receipts for the six hundred maladies which the celebrated Pi-ké has

found to germinate in the human body. They have discovered amongst other

curious things in physics, how to put a new nose upon faces

unfortunately deprived of that ornament, and to elongate it when too

short. They make teeth of ivory for old men—hair for the bald—legs for

those who have lost them—eyes for the blind—tongues for the dumb—ears

for the deaf—brains for fools—and have wonderful methods to

resuscitate the dead. But they forgot to invent one remedy—a cure for

disappointed love! In China we know nothing about love; that passion was

first discovered in France, by a troubadour called Raymond—for five

hundred years it has ravaged fearfully. It is estimated that eleven

millions seven hundred and thirty-eight persons have fallen victims to

it, through assassinations, languishing death, and suicide, caused by

this scourge of the human race—that amounts to double the number of

victims of cholera in Asia since the reign of Aurengzebé. The French

government have never taken any means to stop the progress of this

epidemic, on the contrary, it pays largely toward the support of four

royal theatres, where they celebrate the power of love and another

mortal disease called champagne. Mr. Scribe has made a fortune of five

hundred thousand francs a year, by celebrating the delights of love and

champagne for the governmental theatres.

In leaving the shop where my _Chinoiseries_ were sold by Mademoiselle

Alexandrine de Saint Phar, I had another violent attack of love; and you

cannot imagine how I cursed that rascal Raymond. Having vented my rage

where it was so well deserved, I began to think seriously about a cure,

and I walked about the streets searching at every corner for some

advertisement of a remedy; useless trouble! I went to the Hospital for

Incurables, and asked the doctor there whether he had not some patient

afflicted with this malady, so perfectly unknown in our harems; but he

only shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back upon me. My head burned

like fire—my heart beat violently—my eyes glazed. The phantom of

Mademoiselle Alexandrine danced before my eyes continually with

fascinating grace, my ears were filled with her silvery voice—alas! I

lived only in her!

“Physician cure thyself,” has said the wise Menu—this thought suddenly

occurred to me. Since the French doctors have forgotten to invent a cure

for love, let us find a remedy; and we will give a Chinese name to this

grand consolation for suffering Europe!

If I could live for a week without thinking of Mademoiselle Alexandrine

I should be saved! It was impossible to remain in my lodgings, every

thing there reminded me of her, the faithless one! Besides, solitude

never cures the wounds of love, it only festers them. Visits to the

country are still more dangerous. The streets, boulevards and theatres

are filled with women, and the species too often reminds one of the

individual traitress; still it is necessary to live a week in total

forgetfulness of the ungrateful fair.

Fo has inspired me; let me render thanks to Fo! Paris is filled with

monuments, many of them very high; I chose four from among them—the

tower of Notre Dame, the Pantheon, the Column Vendôme and the tower of

St. James; by the payment of a few sous, one is permitted to ascend

these towers, which are kept by a tractable porter. I resolved to pass

some days in going up and down the stairs of these monuments and towers

without taking rest, only, to vary the monotony of this continual ascent

and descent, I jumped into a cabriolet occasionally at the Place

Vendôme, drove to the Depôt of the Railroad to Versailles, and traversed

the distance to that royal city five or six times, with my eyes shut.

When evening came I returned home, and, after a slight repast, went to

bed and slept soundly.

In my dreams I imagined that huge giants poised me in a swing, hung over

the moon on a golden nail, and the fright I had in such an alarming

position drove the phantom of Alexandrine from the boundless space in

which I undulated between the Pantheon and the fixed stars!

The eighth day the porters of the four towers closed their doors against

me, saying that I would wear out their stairs! My cure not being

complete, I took to the road to Versailles, and hiring a carriage by the

day, drove first on one side of the river, and then on the other, for

five days longer, with the most salutary fatigue—at the end of a

fortnight my remedy triumphed.

In looking back upon my endless routine of dark stairs—of dreamy

swingings—and the ceaseless rumblings of my carriage, I perceived in

the hazy distance the fleeting image of the false Alexandrine, and it

appeared as if my passionate love were like the tale of a past age, or

of an extinguished world!

A single instant I was recalled to the sensible recollection of her. In

looking over my cash, I observed the enormous void caused by the

expenditure of the 3700 francs at Garbo & Gamboi’s. The spirit of

Chinese ingenuity and enterprise inspired me with a happy thought. I was

upon the eve of recovering my lost francs! I inserted an advertisement

in all the journals of the day, as follows:

RADICAL CURE FOR

DISAPPOINTED LOVE,

IN FIFTEEN DAYS?!!

_Consult from 12 till 2 o’clock_,

DOCTOR SIAN SENG,

_Rue Neuve de Luxembourg_.

_No Cure, no Pay_:

I did not expect such success as attended me. What a city! what a

people! How quickly do new opinions become popular!

The first day I had 300 visits for consultation at 20 francs each. The

second I was obliged to seek at the Prefecture of Police four gend’arms

as a protection! They took my office by assault. At length I hit upon a

plan of giving advice to classes of twelve at a time, which in some

measure reduced the crowd.

The week following I gave public lectures at the Athenæum, at five

francs the ticket. Mr. Lefort told me the fashion would not last long,

and that I should “make hay while the sun shone”—a proverb Menu forgot

to make!—besides, there was danger that the prefect of police would

close the monuments. I therefore entered into a contract with the porter

at the Tower of St. James, to receive all my patients who subscribed for

a fortnight.

The two trains to Versailles were filled with victims with closed eyes!

I was told that if I would ask the minister for a patent, that he would

probably grant me a pension—as they did to Mr. Daguerre—of six

thousand francs a year.

My best reward, however, I found in the unanimous gratitude of my

relieved and happy patients; they wanted to strike a gold medal in my

honor!—unheard of enthusiasm!

Five of my most inveterate cases, aged from twenty to fifty years,

struck with an infatuation for the vaudeville, of which I relieved them,

became great proselytes to my doctrines, and are determined to prosecute

it on their own account after my departure—they even propose to

purchase the Tower of St. James by subscription, and add two hundred

more steps to the ascent.

Ti-en has given to the world no malady without its cure; he has placed

the water-lily by the side of the pimento—the wood to make the sluice

beside the torrent of Kiang-ho. It is for man to discover the remedy.

Ti-en knows always what he does—and _we_—we do what we know not!

My mind is now calm; my heart is light, as is every thing which is

empty. I shall now go and take my leave of the Minister for Foreign

Affairs, and endeavor to correct the errors in diplomacy I have made,

since I have been possessed by the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de

Saint Phar!

DOCTOR SIAN SENG.

“A true copy.” MERY.

* * * * *

A BILLET-DOUX.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Is your soul at home to-day,

Eulalie?

And if it be,

May mine come in and stay,

Eulalie?

Or has yours gone out to play,

Eulalie!

And if it be,

Will it be long away,

Eulalie?

I know it is the willfulest of things,

Eulalie!

But if it be

Too gay to shut an hour its frolic wings,

Eulalie,

When it alights, so tenderly it sings,

Eulalie,

That as for me,

More joy than some that longer stay it brings,

Eulalie!

And I would not have it fettered for the world,

Eulalie!

For if it be—

Ah! that lip, with laughing scorn I see it curled,

Eulalie!

Its wings would lose their light if they were furled,

Eulalie!

Then not for me,

No fetter be on them for all the world,

Eulalie!

If my soul, on calling, “not at home,” is told,

Eulalie,

I would make free

To wait till yours came back, tired and cold,

Eulalie!

And then it will be glad its wings to fold,

Eulalie,

And I should see

How long I might the glorious truant hold,

Eulalie!

They say that more domestic and more tame,

Eulalie,

It ought to be!

But if Heaven gave it wings, were you to blame,

Eulalie?

Ah, no! to tie a Peri were a shame,

Eulalie!

And they might see

It always carried joy where’er it came,

Eulalie!

* * * * *

WESTERN RECOLLECTIONS.

THE ILLINOIS RIVER AND THE OZARK MOUNTAINS.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

Every one knows of the Illinois River emptying into the Mississippi at

Alton, and of the fertile champagne country it waters. All are familiar

with the traditions of the hardships undergone in its discovery by the

good fathers Hennepin and Marquette; of the stirring wars of the

Illinois, Potawatamie and Peoria Indians, and of the recollections of

that cordon of military posts by which France united Detroit with the

great point d’appui of Fort Chartres, built near where Trinity now

stands, but of which scarcely a trace remains, except a portion of the

curtain and bastions. These are the associations which rise in the mind

of most persons at the word Illinois, which to me, however, is

suggestive of another train of ideas. In a south-western direction from

the point of confluence of the Gasconade and Missouri Rivers, extends a

broad chain of mountains, of which little except the name Ozark is

known. Many streams which elsewhere would be esteemed large rivers roll

from its valleys northward into the Osage, and in a southern direction

into the Arkansas. After crossing two-thirds of the state of Missouri,

this ridge passes through the north-west county of the State of

Arkansas, and thence reaches across the country of the Cherokees and

Chactas far into Texas. Through the passes of this range many important

rivers flow, among which are the Arkansas, Red and Canadienne. There is

a striking peculiarity in this mountain range—that all the waters

flowing from it, either northward or southward, are clear as crystal,

while all the other streams of the country are foul and turbid. On one

of these streams, the Neosho, stands the lonely post of Fort Gibson, and

twenty miles below is another river called the Illinois. This is not a

large stream, measuring certainly not more than a hundred miles, but is

one of the most picturesque imaginable. Flowing between two ridges of

the Ozark, it winds like a serpent around the bases of the mountains,

which now tower in immensity, clad to their very summits with huge

pines, or again gradually decrease in size until they spread into rich

and luxuriant prairies. The road from Fort Gibson to Fayetteville, in

Arkansas, is along this stream, which it crosses more than a dozen

times, and thus enables the traveler to behold all the wonderful

beauties of the scenery. Words cannot describe it adequately. I have

often in fording the river, which may at many places be done without

wetting the saddle-girths, looked up the bed. Smooth and transparent as

glass, rolling over pebbles of silex and crystal, it looks like a band

of silver beneath the arched boughs of the aspen and gigantic walnut

trees, while the immediate banks were fringed by the long-leaved willow

and cane. Not unfrequently a single glance would reveal to me, when lost

in admiration at the quiet beauty of such a scene, another of a far

different yet equally pleasing style. The current would quicken—small

islets would appear, scarcely more than a rood in breadth, against which

the waters would leap and lash themselves into fury. The current would

quicken yet more, and in the distance a rugged mountain would be seen.

Against the base of this the waters would rush and whirl into eddies

over the seething surface of which wild-fowl almost constantly floated.

The low grounds on the river abounded with the sloe or scuppanon, and at

distances of every mile or two, natural vineyards, bearing a large,

rich, luscious grape, without a particle of the musky flavor which

characterises almost all the American _uvæ_, were seen. So immense were

these vines that they ran from tree to tree, masking every thing with

their foliage, and displaying their grand clusters over the barren limbs

of the stunted oak or hickory. I have called the Illinois a beautiful

river, and have spoken of the lucidness of its water—I can give an

illustration of the latter which is most apropos. Several years since I

was stationed on the bank of this stream with a small detachment of men,

and without any other officer. In the long August days, when the

prairies were burned, and scarcely a breath of air was to be had in the

forests, I used to while away many weary hours upon the banks of the

river either fishing or bathing. One day I amused myself with an Indian

lance in killing the fine buffalo-fish, which I could see distinctly in

the translucent waters. I had _posed_ myself on the bow of the boat in

pursuit of one peculiarly large fish which shot up the stream with the

rapidity of an arrow. The soldier who sat at the stern of the boat, a

very active and nervous man, (he was killed, poor fellow, at the

storming of Taos, in New Mexico,) drove the boat after the quarry with

scarcely less rapidity. At last I had overtaken him, the boat hung above

him, like a gigantic leaf in the atmosphere, which could scarcely be

distinguished from the water below. Poising myself, I drove the lance

into the fish, and a second afterward, to my amazement, was floundering

ten feet below the surface of the water, and probably yet twenty from

the pebbly bottom. I would have sworn the water was not more than four

feet deep, and scrambled out I know not how, for I could never

swim—not, however, until I had upset the boat and made poor Orndorf a

sharer in my calamity. The clearness of the water, surpassing any thing

I have ever seen, is only approached by the one spring near Fort

Fanning, in Florida, upon which so much inquiry has been expended. I

would myself pronounce it the famous fountain of health for which De

Leon sought so long, were it not that every human being who drinks of

its transparent waters, unless craftily qualified, dies with that most

loathsome of all diseases, the ague and fever.

The first white man who ever trod in the valleys of the Ozark was the

famous Fernando de Soto. About the year 1539 or 1540, this gallant

soldier, capitan-general of Florida, and a marquis, made a voyage to his

commandery, for the purpose of conquering it. Sailing from Havana he

landed at the bay of the Holy Spirit, now called Tampa, Hillsborough,

Honda, etc., and occupied an Indian village not far from the mouth of

the Manittee River, and just opposite the present post of Fort Brooke.

The old ruins are still visible there, and the trace of an aqueduct or

canal which appears at some distant day to have connected the waters of

the great interior lakes with the gulf. People say the ruins are the

remnant of an old Spanish fort; but half a glance will satisfy any one

that all the Spanish troops ever in North America could not have

constructed that aqueduct, which to all appearance is old as the city of

Seville. The ruins belonged evidently to some older race, and are very

curious though they have nothing to do with De Soto.

De Soto marched through Florida across the country of Apalache Indians,

with whom he had a fight, across the Mississippi toward Mexico. De Soto,

first of Europeans, saw the Mississippi, and crossed it somewhere near

Memphis, if the account given by old Biedma, his historian, of

topography be true. Thence he now passed through the now State of

Arkansas, crossing the Ozark Ridge, passing over the Red River, and

marching along the false Wachita until he came to the famous Rio Grande,

since famous for the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, and

celebrated by the Mexican poet,[1] Ho Axe de Saltillo. De Soto did not

reach New Spain, but was forced to retrace his steps, died, and was

thrown by his soldiers into the Mississippi, to prevent the natives from

mutilating his remains. It was a fitting tomb for so great a man. Any

one who wishes to read all the items of this great march may find them

in old Biedma’s strange book, in the _vidas de los Conquistadores_, or

as those books are somewhat rare, in the Compendium of Discoveries until

1573, by Conway Robinson, Esq., of Richmond, Va., a person who devotes

himself for amusement and relaxation to digging out the gems of strange

old books most persons would think it hard work to read.

De Soto first looked on these Ozark Mountains and a weary time his

men-at-arms, in coats of mail and chain armor, must have had to climb

them. They were then, as they were until very recently, uninhabited, and

the home of all kinds of wild beasts known on the continent. The black

bear, the cougar, catamount, deer and elk, were found among its ravines

and the glades at their foot, and even now old beaver-dams attest the

existence of those bestial republicans on almost all the minor streams

which run into the Illinois. The land is barren, except upon the

immediate bank of the river, and the mountains seem masses of pebbles

similar in character to those over which the river runs. Strangely

enough gigantic pines grow upon the mountains, the dark foliage of

which, seen even in the sunlight, looks, compared with that of other

trees, like the shadows cast by what Schiller calls

Fliegende Wolken, Segler des Luft,

over the earth during a windy day of March. The table-land, however, at

the top of what I may call the secondary hills, is covered with what are

called black-jacks, the ugliest and most ungainly of all things on the

surface of the earth, not excepting the Mexican cactus, which is like no

other thing animal or vegetable, except the porcupine. The hills seem

vast masses of limestone, with the granite occasionally showing itself.

I have no doubt of the richness of the soil in mineral wealth, copper

being everywhere apparent, and the Ozark Mountains evidently connecting

themselves with the Sierra Madre and Cordillera of Mexico. Some day the

gold-hunter will deform this beautiful land, the vast groves and of

timber which crown its mountains will fall. Worse than all, the

picturesque Illinois will be deformed and forced to pass through some

series of plank troughs in the gold-washing establishment of Messrs.

Jones, Smith & Co.

In 1837 these mountains were uninhabited. One road wound among the

intricacies of the mountains between Fort Gibson and the village of

Fayetteville. After leaving the Methodist Mission of Prospect Hill smoke

was scarcely seen by the traveler until he had entered the limits of

Arkansas. There were a few hunting and bridle-paths, leading in a

direction parallel to the road, which were frequented exclusively by the

smugglers engaged in the nefarious business of selling whiskey to the

Indians. Since then a mighty change has taken place. On the removal of

the Cherokee Indians west, the North Carolina band selected these hills

as most like their old homes and established themselves among them.

Hamlets grew up in the valleys and farms were opened; so that in a short

time the intelligent Cherokee citizens, second to no agricultural class

in the world, followed in their train, and large plantations were

opened. One of these colonists, the well-known chief, Bushyhead, has a

magnificent estate comprising a prairie and grove of about one thousand

acres, which has none to surpass it in the country. A wooded knoll rises

at the back of his house, to the heighth of about 250 feet, and on a

calm summer-day the ripple of the Illinois may be heard in the distance

through the forests and green corn-fields. The writer has often partaken

of his hospitality, and has been a witness of the prosperity and

happiness of his whole household, Indian and Negro, (he has many

slaves.) This happiness would be without alloy but that the Indian

always knows he is but a tenant at will of the soil he stands upon, and

looks back, perhaps with regret, to the days when his forefathers

wandered in savage independence on the shores of the Atlantic. On the

other side of the Neosho River the mountains are higher and wilder, and

even now desolate; and in the year 1840 I crossed that portion of the

ridge on duty, and have a strange tale to tell of it.

After a furlough of some years, I returned in 1840 to the west, and

after reporting for duty to the headquarters of the department, was

ordered to join a squadron of my regiment then stationed on the Red

River. The navigation of the western rivers was then most uncertain, and

I was ordered to cross the intermediate country by land instead of

trusting to the tortuous navigation of the Arkansas, emphatically one of

those streams of which John Randolph said, “they were dry in summer and

choked up with ice during the winter.”

The old officers of the post told me I might easily have my orders

changed by applying to the general, and advised me to do so, as my route

lay through a peculiarly wild and desolate country. They told me what

they had heard of the Ozark Mountains, of the precipices and torrents,

the almost impassable _resacas_, _etc._ I was, however, an old _coureur

des bois_, and all this but stimulated me to attempt the passage. Fort

Gibson lay at the head of navigation at that time, though steamboats

have since passed far above the Cape Farewell of 1840. Similarly

situated was Fort Towson, on the Red River; between the two lay the

country of the Cherokees, Chactas, and Chichasas, and many formidable

rivers, such as the Canadienne, the Verdigris, and the whole of the

southern tributaries of the Arkansas. To cross this country with all its

difficulties on the first Wednesday in April, 1810, I left Fort Gibson,

with no equipage, or what Cæsar calls _impedimenta_, other than one pack

mule, loaded with provisions, and a servant, like myself, mounted, who

rejoiced in the name of Barny. I often wonder what has become of him,

and whether, like Latour d’Auvergne, first grenadier of France, he may

not have “died on the field of glory,” during the Mexican war.

As my orders contained no recommendation to make the journey with

peculiar rapidity, and as I was aware that nothing awaited me at Fort

Towson but the monotonous existence of a subaltern, I loitered along the

road systematically, as a veteran colonel _en route_ to reinforce a

militia general, and on Sunday lay by on the banks of a picturesque

stream, whiling away time with my rod and angle, which Isack Walton

recommends as “fosterers of meditation, and gratitude to God for having

made so many fine fish for man’s especial benefit,” and which I was too

old a soldier to be without in the North American wilderness. Monday

broke upon me cold and chill, and wearied even by my voluntary halt, I

set out to continue my journey. There had been during the night a mist

and sleet, so that the prairie, which on the day before had looked like

a garden covered with periwinkles, the beautiful wild indigo, and the

sensitive-plant, was now become a glacier. I rode on, therefore, wrapped

in the cape of my dragoon cloak, and scarcely noticing what passed

around me. Few persons except half-breeds had ever crossed the prairie

in this direction before, and having to depend merely on general

direction for my course, it is not surprising that I became lost. Any

one ever lost in the north-western prairie is aware that when once

astray, every attempt at correction makes matters worse, and what with

the uniformity of the whole face of the country, at nightfall I was

utterly bewildered. I was forced to encamp on the bald prairie,

sacrificing to my comfort the solitary tree which I afterward learned

was a land-mark. It made a very bad fire, being filled with sap, but

sufficed to broil a rasher of bacon which, with a cup of coffee

transformed into what the Spaniards call a _gloria_ by a glass of “old

corn,” constituted my supper. The sleet had by this time disappeared,

and the cattle hobbled and allowed to wander at will, fared better than

I, on the young prairie grass, which they relished not a little after

their dry provender at Fort Gibson. Tuesday came fair and bright, and

far in the distance I saw one of the Ozark’s peaks rising tall and

solitary in just the direction I had not been marching on the day

before. To it I directed my course.

The country soon became broken, and on each side of me rose rough hills.

I knew at once I would be forced to cross the ridge, and set manfully to

the task. As I progressed the scenery became every mile more grand, and

I began to be thankful for the accident which had led me into the

bewildering maze.

I have stood on tall mountains, having threaded the Alleghany, and

looked on the boldest peaks of wilder lands. Above rose a tall peak with

half precipitous sides, its base skirted with a dense growth of the

Osage orange. This strange and peculiar tree merits a more minute

description. It belongs, I believe, to the same genus with the box-tree

of our forest, for from its limbs and leaves, when broken, exudes a

milky gelatinous humor, not unlike that of the fig and India-rubber

plant. Its leaves are smooth and glazed and so precisely like those of

the Florida orange that the two cannot easily be distinguished. It bears

a large fruit in character similar to the balls of the sycamore, but

which becomes during the process of decay a noisome pulp, and is said to

be a deadly poison. The size of the fruit is about that of the

cocoa-nut, divested of its husk, and the heighth of the tree about

thirty-five feet, with thick, gnarled limbs, covered with long, straight

spines, like those of the honey acacia. By the Canadian colonists of

Arkansas and the French of Louisiana it was called the _bois d’arc_,

from the fact that of this the Natches and Opelousas made their bows.

This beautiful growth is now rapidly disappearing, it having been

discovered that it furnishes a dye of a brilliant yellow, long a

desideratum in the arts. During the last few years many cargoes have

been sent to France, and the cutting it has, like the procuring of

log-wood, become a distinct and important branch of industry. Many

stories are told of this tree which would make us believe it exerts an

influence scarcely less baleful than that of the fabulous Upas tree of

Borneo, popular superstition attributing to it the deadly disease of man

and brute known as the “milk sickness.”

The base of the peak before me was skirted with thickets of this

beautiful tree, intermingled with the dog-wood, then in the glory of its

flower, and three or four varieties of the acacia and Canadian redbud.

Here and there on the very hill-side were expanses grown up with the

tall green-cane and the beautiful Mexican oats. Through such a growth I

commenced my ascent, and soon passed by the sinuosities of an Indian

trail into an expanse of cupriferous volcanic rock, almost without any

other growth than the red-root, or Indian tea. Passing through this, I

came into a belt of tall pines, reaching far above the crest of the

peak. No engineer could have constructed a glacis with a more regular

inclination than this portion of the mountain displayed. At last I stood

upon the crest, and a prospect opened before me I have never seen

surpassed or equaled. I was on the very backbone of the ridge, and

before me lay a succession of peaks, gradually descending into the bosom

of a vale perhaps ten miles wide, while beyond this happy valley rose

another ridge, parallel, descending gradually as the one on which I

stood had become elevated. A clear, cold stream ran at the foot of the

peak on which I was, and amid the stillness of a calm spring day I

distinctly heard the murmur of its ripples. Down the bleak hill-sides of

the other ridge I could trace more than one silver line which marked the

descent of tributary rills. I could have remained long on that bald

mountain-peak, but was warned by the descent of the sun to proceed

downward. Taking the horses by the bridle, for I committed the care of

the pack-mule to poor Barny, I began carefully to follow the pathway,

and was ultimately enabled to reach the base in spite of sundry falls of

the heavy pack, which, in spite of discipline, wrung hearty curses from

poor Barny’s over-burdened heart. I encamped at the foot of the peak, on

a branch of the Boggy, or _Bogue_, itself a tributary of the Red.

After many days of painful travel, precisely similar to the one I have

described, except that the western ridge was more difficult than the

eastern, I reached the prairie through which the Red River runs. On the

summit of several of the peaks I had found large springs and pools of

water, and in the valleys the streams expanded into beautiful lakes. In

some of these valleys were grand groves of the wild-plum, and a variety

of other growths, among which was the iron-wood and box-elder. The

cotton-wood, so common northward, has disappeared. At last I arrived at

Fort Towson. I had missed the direction, and to reach a point about one

hundred miles from Gibson, had traveled three. Twenty miles after

leaving the latter post, I had seen the smoke of not one hearth till I

reached the yellow water, about ten miles from Fort Towson, yet during

all this time I had been in a small labyrinth of mountains, surrounded

on all sides by the dense population of the Cherokee and Chickasa

nation, the Opeloulas of Louisiana and Western Texas.

I afterward was informed that the Indian path I had more than once

passed was a portion of the great Delaware trail which crosses the whole

American continent, from Erie, in Pennsylvania, to California, and which

marks the migration of those American Gitanos from the homes where the

white man found them to the chief seat of the tribe on the Missouri

River, to the outposts on the Red River and on the Pacific. Along it

they still go, and not unfrequently two of their well-armed and gallant

braves will fight their way through hordes of hostile and degenerate

Indians of the prairie. It will be found always to cross the streams at

the most fordable point, and he who strays from it to avoid travel, will

generally find that the longest way round is the nearest way home. After

my arrival at Fort Gibson I did not regret my mistake, which had made me

acquainted with so beautiful a country; and I hope my reader is weary

neither of the Illinois River or the Ozark Mountains.

-----

[1] C. F. Hoffman, of New York.

* * * * *

EXTRACT.

BY HENRY S. HAGERT.

So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst

Its leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best—

The flower may pine and perish with the thirst

For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest,

Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast

The modest violet at Spring will bloom,

And speak their noteless epitaph—the west

May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,

But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.

It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,

That taught within a flower might dwell the soul

Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed

Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,

Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll

Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet

To know that when the dews from heaven have stole

Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,

The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!

Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd

Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate

Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud

Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great

Laugh at thy misery, do thou await

The coming of that hour which shall decide

The issue of the game; and then, with state,

Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide

Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride.

* * * * *

THE UNFINISHED PICTURE.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

CHAPTER I.

O God! to clasp those fingers close,

And yet to feel so lonely!

To see a light on dearest brows,

Which is the daylight only!

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

I was sitting one morning in the library of a friend, looking over a

valuable collection of works of art, made during a five years residence

abroad, and listening to his animated description of scenes and places

now become familiar to every one who reads at all, through the medium of

“Jottings,” “Impressions,” and “Travels,” with which the press abounds.

Among the paintings were small copies in oil from Corregio, Guercino,

Guido, and Rafaelle. There was a head of the latter, copied from a

portrait painted by himself, and preserved in the Pitti Palace. With the

slightest shade of hectic on the cheek, and the large unfathomable eyes

looking into the great beyond, it was truly angelic in its loveliness.

No wonder the man for whom nature had done so much, and who delighted in

portraying the loftiest ideal beauty, no wonder he was called “divine!”

“Here,” said my friend, lovingly holding forth one of those inimitable

creations, the beauty of which once seen, haunts us for a lifetime,

“here is the far-famed ‘violin-player,’ the friend of Rafaelle. By the

bye, I must tell you an anecdote I heard while abroad. There were two

gentlemen sight-seers looking at pictures in the Vatican; one called to

the other, who was at a short distance from him, ‘come, look at this,

here is the celebrated violin-player.’ ‘Ah!’ said his companion,

hastening toward him, ‘Paganini!’ I give you the story as I heard it

related for truth, and as a somewhat laughable example of traveled

ignorance.”

On one side of the room in which we were conversing, stood a picture

apart from all the others, which soon engrossed my entire attention. A

young man was represented reclining on a couch, and wrapped in a robe

falling in loose folds about his person. His countenance bore the traces

of suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the light of love, and

hope, as they looked up into the face of a young female bending

mournfully at his side. On the head of this female the artist had

lavished all the _love_ of genius. With the sunny hair parted on the

fair forehead, and the rich braids simply confined by a silver

arrow—the dark eyes from which the tears seemed about to fall—the

half-parted lips quivering as if from intense devotion—oh, it was

transcendently lovely! The rest of the figure was in outline, but as

vividly portrayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by Flaxman,

in which a single line reveals a story.

“How is this,” said I, after gazing long and earnestly upon it, “how is

this?—why is the picture unfinished. And who was the painter?”

“The tale,” replied my friend, “is a sad one; and if you are tired of

looking at pictures and medals, I will relate it to you.”

“Not tired, yet I should like to hear the story to which this picture

imparts an unusual interest.”

“You remember Paul Talbot, who left here some years ago to pursue the

study of his art abroad.”

“I do, but that young man—sick—almost dying—I thought the face a

familiar one; but can that be Paul?”

“Alas! yes—he is dead!” and my friend dashed away a tear as he spoke.

“Dead!” repeated I. “Paul Talbot dead! when did he die?”

“Not long before my return. Poor fellow! he endured much, and his career

was an exemplification of what a man of untiring energy can accomplish

under the most adverse circumstances.

“Soon after the birth of Paul, his father died, leaving little, save a

mother’s love and a stainless reputation to his infant son.

“Mr. Talbot was a man of refined taste, and had collected round him

objects of which an amateur might be justly proud—and thus from

childhood had been fostered Paul’s love for the beautiful.

“Well educated and accomplished, Mrs. Talbot undertook the tuition of

her child, and by giving lessons in drawing, painting miniatures on

ivory, and small portraits in oil, kept herself and her boy above the

pressure of want. Carefully she instilled into his tender mind those

lofty principles of rectitude, of uncompromising integrity, and that

child-like trust in the goodness of an overruling Providence, which

sustained him through all the trials of after years.

“How holy, how powerful is the influence of a mother! The father may do

much, but the mother can do more toward the formation of the mind, and

the habits of early childhood. Exercising a power, silent, yet

refreshing as the dews of heaven, her least word, her lightest look,

sinks deep into the hearts of her children, and moulds them to her will.

How many men have owed all that has made them great to the early

teachings of a mother’s love! The father, necessarily occupied with

business or professional duties, cannot give the needful attention to

the minor shades in the character and disposition of his little ones,

but the mother can encourage and draw out the latent energies of the

timid, can check the bold, and exert an influence which may be felt not

only through time, but through eternity.

“It was beautiful to see Paul Talbot standing by his mother’s side, with

his childish gaze fixed upon her face, while receiving instruction from

her lips, and to hear him as he grew in years, wishing he was a man,

that he might be enabled to supply her every want.

“‘You know,’ he would exclaim, while his fine eyes was flashing with

enthusiasm, ‘that I will be an artist; and, oh, mother, if I could, like

Washington Allston, be a painter-poet; could I but paint such a head as

that we saw in the Academy, and write such a book as Monaldi, then,

mother, I would gain fame; orders would crowd upon me—and then—then we

would go to Italy!’

“Go to Italy! of this he thought by day, and dreamed by night; and to

accomplish this was the crowning ambition of the boy’s life.

“He was willing to toil, to endure privation and fatigue, could he but

visit that land where heavenly beauty is depicted on the canvas, where

the marble wants but the clasp of him of old to warm it into life, and

where the soft blue of the sky, and the delicious atmosphere brooding

over the glories of centuries gone by, make it the Mecca of the artist’s

heart.

“But amid all these dreams of the future, all these ambitious aspirings

of the gifted youth, death cast his dark shadow over that peaceful

dwelling, and the mother, the guardian angel of the fatherless boy, was

borne away to be a dweller in the silent land.

“With what passionate earnestness did he call upon her name. How did he

long to lie down by her side. His mother! his mother! she had taught his

lisping accents their first prayer; she had watched over his little bed,

and moistened his parched lips when he was ill with fever—so ill, that

his mother’s watchful tenderness was all, under God, that saved him from

the grave. As he grew older, she had spoken to him, not like the boy he

was in years, but like the man to whom she would impart her thoughts,

and with whose mind of almost premature development, she might hold

converse, and feel herself understood. And now, in his fifteenth year,

when he was thinking of all that he could, nay, of all that he _would_

do for her, his mother had died! Who can wonder that the boy pined, and

sat upon her grave, and longed for her companionship, and wept as if his

heart must break.