CHAPTER IX.

“Wo the British soldiery,

That little dread us near;

On them shall light at midnight,

A strange and sudden fear.

· · · · ·

A moment in the British camp—

A moment and away,—

Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.”

—BRYANT.

It was evening. In a large and spacious apartment, elegantly wainscoted,

and filled with rich furniture, an innumerable number of lights were

blazing, as if the room was shortly to witness a festival. Disposed

about, on little exquisitely lacquered Chinese stands, were vases filled

with flowers, most of them white. A rich Prayer-book lay open on a table

at the head of the room. At the side a place had been fitted up for an

orchestra. These were the preparations for the bridal of our

heroine—strange mockery!

At length the company began to gather. Among numerous officers and other

guests came Col. Campbell, the commander of the post, little dreaming of

the tragedy in which unwittingly he was playing so very prominent a

part. He was followed by Mr. Mowbray, accompanied by the groom. Major

Lindsay was dressed in uniform, but he wore a white favor on his breast,

and his sword-knot was of snowy ribbon. He walked with a firm, proud

step, and looked around smiling. He knew that there was scarcely a

brother officer that did not envy him the possession of his bride, and

the consciousness of this increased the exuberance of his spirits. The

prize he had so long struggled for was now about to be won; and all

regret at his conduct had long since vanished. Gratified triumph was

written on every feature of his face.

Mr. Mowbray was attired with becoming elegance, though the guests

remarked that his dress was almost too sad for a wedding. It might,

indeed, with almost equal propriety have been worn at a funeral. The

dress, in fact, was no bad type of Mr. Mowbray’s feelings, and, perhaps,

had been chosen on that account. The truth was, that in secret he could

not reconcile himself to this union. Though Kate herself, weeping on his

bosom, had declared she was ready to marry Major Lindsay, and though

Mrs. Blakeley, herself deceived, had assured him that Kate’s agitation

arose only from the usual coyness of a maid, he could not expel from his

heart an uneasy fear lest Kate had consented to this marriage only to

save his life. Why else was she so pale? Why were her spirits so high in

company, while she bore traces, as he thought, of tears in secret? Only

that morning he had caught her weeping; and when he pressed to know the

cause, she declared she was merely nervous—an assertion which Mrs.

Blakeley corroborated. To purchase life with her unhappiness, was what

he could not consent to; and but for her, the aged patriot, perhaps,

would have scorned to purchase it on any terms.

As we have said, therefore, a secret presentiment filled Mr. Mowbray’s

heart with sadness. Something seemed to whisper to him that it was not

yet too late to draw back. He seemed, indeed, like one going to a

scaffold, rather than like the parent of a bride.

Directly the bride entered, attended by her aunt, and the daughter of

one of the officers. Kate was dressed in simple white, without a single

ornament, and every vestige of color had fled from her face, which

looked almost like snowy wax. Still, she was wondrously beautiful. Even

her deathly pallor, so like that of a corpse, that some of the females

present actually shuddered and drew back as she approached, could not

entirely destroy the effect of her surpassing figure, and the grace of

every movement. Yet she looked rather like a nun about to take the veil

than like a bride. Her smiles were no longer at her command—for the

near approach of her doom had completely prostrated her. She seemed now

what she was—a victim wreathed for the sacrifice.

She had sat in her room all that afternoon, in a sort of stupor, her

fingers convulsively clasping and unclasping each other, and her eyes

bent on the floor listlessly. The going out and coming in of her

attendants attracted no attention. But she had not shed a tear. The

fountains of her eyes seemed scorched up. When the time came to attire

her for the ceremony, they had to rouse her; and the vacant gaze of

inquiry she turned on the servant, made the slave, for a moment, think

her insane. But when her aunt came in to superintend her toilet, she

seemed to revive, and with an effort rose from her chair, and welcomed

her with a smile—but one like a sunbeam on a wintry day, cold, and

shuddering to look upon. From this moment, however, she was more like

herself, though at times the muscles of her mouth would twitch

convulsively. At other times she would turn away her head, and an

expression of heart-breaking wo would then shoot across her countenance;

but, on meeting her aunt’s eye once more, she would essay again to

smile.

A few moments before the ceremony was to begin, they left her alone for

a moment. She was standing before the mirror, and her eyes fell on the

reflection of her form.

“The sacrifice will soon be complete,” she said bitterly. “God forgive

me—yet surely I am doing right. Oh! that I could weep, but there is a

load here,” and she pressed both hands on her breast, “that keeps back

the tears. It is like burning fire.”

Who would have believed that this ghastly face was the once radiant one

of Kate Mowbray?

Her father stood near the door as she entered. He was struck with the

dry, stony expression of her face, and started forward to her side. He

spoke in a whisper, but with startling earnestness.

“I adjure you, my daughter,” he said, “tell me—are you willing to go on

with this matter? Say but a word, and it shall be broken off.”

Kate lifted her eyes to his with a sudden movement, and the glance they

gave was full of unutterable love. It was such, if we may say so without

presumption, as a martyred spirit might have turned to heaven from the

stake. It thrilled every nerve in that father’s frame. That same sad,

sweet smile, too, was on her face, as she placed her hand in his, and

said,

“Let it go on, dear father. I am only faint and nervous. I shall soon be

better.” Ay! better in the grave.

His doubts were only half resolved, but he could say no more, and

together they advanced to the temporary altar, where the bridegroom and

priest stood awaiting them.

Kate felt a choking in the throat, as her eyes first fell on Major

Lindsay, and it seemed to her, for an instant, as if her knees were

failing her. But she remembered that her father’s eyes were bent

anxiously on her, and from that moment there was no longer any faltering

on her part.

The buzz which attended her entrance had now subsided, and a deep hush

fell on the room. Every ear was strained to catch the first sound of the

minister’s voice. A watch might have been heard to tick.

“Dearly beloved,” began the minister, in the time-hallowed form of the

Episcopal church, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God—”

He had proceeded thus far, when such a sudden and startling burst of

tumult arose from the distant street, that he raised his eyes, with a

look of alarm, from his book. It was like the confused ringing of bells,

half-drowned in the shouts of people. All at once the town-bell itself,

close at hand, took up the uproar, and its iron tongue was heard

clanging hurriedly and fiercely on the night.

The male part of the company sprang to their feet.

“Hark!” said Col. Campbell, “can it be the town on fire?”

“There it goes, louder and louder,” exclaimed a second; “it must be an

insurrection.”

The women now lent their shrieks to the tumult. The officers, with their

hands on their swords, rushed toward the door. The divine had dropped

his Prayer-book, and his looks were full of inquiry and astonishment.

Kate, with a quick look of alarm, shrank back to her father’s side. All

was wonder, terror, and dismay.

The uproar without increased. Louder and fiercer the alarm-bell rang;

steps were heard hurrying to and fro; and at length distant shouts,

mingled with the report of fire-arms, came to the ear. Then drums were

heard beating hastily to arms, and at this signal every military man

present rushed out into the air.

“Be not alarmed,” said the bridegroom, turning to Kate, “it is only a

false alarm, or a drunken mutiny. I will soon be back!” and with these

words he sprang after his companions.

The females were now left alone, excepting the minister and Mr. Mowbray.

But the tumult was obviously no trifling one. The shouts seemed to

approach, and grew louder; a rushing sound, as of an advancing crowd,

was heard; the rattle of fire-arms was almost continual, and seemed

closer at hand each moment; and still louder, and more hurriedly, the

call to arms was beaten, while fiercer and fiercer the alarm-bell, in

its neighboring cupola, clamored over the din. A broad light now gleamed

across the windows from the darkness outside, and cries of terror were

heard increasing every moment.

Mr. Mowbray handed Kate to her aunt, and hurrying to the casement flung

it up. At this the confused sounds without assumed more distinctness,

and grew louder. He looked out.

“It is Marion and his men,” he cried exultingly. “Hark! here they come.”

With a wild cry at these words of promised deliverance, Kate sprung to

her father’s side and looked out. At the lower end of the village one or

two houses were in flames, and their bright glare lit up the otherwise

black prospect. Close at hand, and retreating toward her in disorder,

was a company of the royal soldiers, among whom she saw the largest

portion of the officers lately assembled in that apartment. She could

distinguish Colonel Campbell and Major Lindsay among others, sword in

hand, endeavoring to rally the men.

But further down the street was a spectacle that filled her bosom with

the wildest and most tumultuous joy. Here the way was blocked up, from

side to side, by a press of assailants, who wore the uniform of Marion’s

brigade, and who were advancing with loud shouts, charging continually

on the retreating foe, whom they drove before them as wolves drive

frightened sheep. As the battle drew nearer, she could distinguish the

several war cries.

“Huzza for Marion—Remember his oath—Drive on the dogs!”

These were the shouts of the assailants, to which the royal officers

replied,

“Stand fast for old England. Down with the rebels. Stand fast!”

For a moment the retreating fugitives rallied, and made a stand. This

was almost opposite the window where Kate remained with her father, in

spite of the danger, chained, as if by fascination, to the spot. A

reinforcement of soldiers, at the same instant, came running down the

street, and their companions parting right and left to make way for

them, they gained the front and threw in a withering volley on the foe.

These, not expecting such a sudden check, fell into some disorder.

“Now charge on the rascals,” cried a voice, and Col. Campbell sprung to

the van, waving his sword. “Give them the bayonet, lads, and the field

is ours.”

The issue of the combat hung trembling in the balance. The assailants

showed signs of falling back, and Kate’s tumultuous hopes died within

her, when suddenly the tramp of horses’ feet was heard, and a body of

cavalry came thundering up the street. At their head, on a powerful

charger, rode a form that Kate instantly recognized, as the lurid light

of the distant fire played redly on it. Need we say it was that of

Preston? His uplifted sabre flashed in the wild glare like a blood-red

meteor.

“The oath of Marion,” he shouted, in a voice of thunder. “Strike home

for revenge.”

This sudden apparition, and more than all that stirring shout, seemed to

infuse a strange and wild frenzy into the assailants, so lately about to

turn.

“The oath of Marion!” exclaimed a stalwart figure at Preston’s side, as

he smote a royal grenadier to the earth with a single stroke.

The cry was caught up by the crowd. “The oath of Marion—the oath of

Marion!” rung from a hundred voices: and the assailants, with that cry,

rushed on the royal troops like an avalanche rushes from the sky. But

foremost of all rode Preston and his serjeant, while their terror-struck

enemies around them went down, with every sweep of their good swords,

like grain on a harvest-field.

The royal troops broke in every direction. The officers, seeing

resistance was vain before so headlong a charge, turned also to seek

safety in flight. Col. Campbell, however, seemed disposed to stand his

ground, but Macdonald riding his powerful steed against him bore him

down, and the next instant the commandant, to save his life, yielded

himself a prisoner. It was at this moment that Major Lindsay saw, for

the first time, the face of Preston. With an oath, hissed between his

teeth, he snatched a fire-lock from a dead soldier beside him, and

pointed it at our hero, who, not perceiving him, would infallibly have

fallen, but that his name uttered in a shriek by Kate arrested his ear,

and turning he beheld his enemy, who was almost in a line with the

window whence the warning had been heard. The lightning that rives the

oak is not quicker than was the blow from Preston’s sabre. Down, right

on the head of his adversary, descended the heavy steel, crashing

through the skull as if it had been only so much paper: and with that

blow, the soul of the villain and assassin went to his long account.

Kate saw no more. She scarcely indeed saw that. She only knew that her

lover had been warned in time, and had escaped; for her father now drew

her forcibly in, and shut the perilous casement, around which the pistol

balls were rattling like hail. Then she swooned away.

The rest of that night is matter of history. The town was, for a while,

wholly in the hands of the assailants, and the victory would have been

complete but for some misapprehension in the hour at which the different

detachments were to attack, which enabled a part of the enemy to gain

their garrison, where they were too strongly entrenched to be taken

without artillery. The assailants accordingly retired after having

captured the town and made Col. Campbell prisoner.

Preston had heard Kate’s voice, and, leaving his lieutenant to pursue

the fugitives, sought her out immediately. His were the eyes she first

looked on when she recovered from her swoon. Her glad surprise, or his

own joy to find her still his own when he had feared their arrival was

too late, we must leave to the imagination of the reader. It was one of

those scenes human language is too feeble to portray.

When, toward daybreak, Marion gave orders for the town to be evacuated,

Kate, so late fainting and heart-broken, took her place on horse-back

between her father and Preston, almost as rosy-looking and happy as

ever. A spectator could scarcely have recognized in her the pale and

drooping lily of the evening before.

Mr. Mowbray, on hearing the sacrifice which his daughter would have made

for his life, betrayed the deepest emotion. He pressed her to his bosom,

but could not speak. There was a gentle reproach in his eyes, however,

which Kate answered by a glance of unalterable love.

Though Preston learned that old Jacob had claimed his assistance without

the authority of Kate, he was consoled by her assurance that she loved

him as well as if she had herself despatched the messenger. In a few

weeks she became the wife of our hero. She would have pleaded for delay,

but her father said he was uncertain how long his life might be

continued, and that he wished to see her have a protector before he

died, so Kate yielded to his wishes.

Macdonald did not, like his master, live to see the war concluded. He

fell shortly after the attack on Georgetown, leaving behind him the

reputation of one of the most gallant soldiers of the time.

As for old Jacob, he survived to dandle the children of Kate and Preston

on his knee. He had not only taken part in the fight at Georgetown, but

quite distinguished himself, having slain an English soldier in single

combat. On this feat he was accustomed to dilate with much

self-complacency. He always wound up the story with these words.

“He tried now to run me through with his bayonet, but it was no use, you

see. De sarjeant had larned me his back-handed stroke, and I brought it

around jist so,” suiting the action to the word. “Wid dat he fell dead

and suspendered his breath.”

NOTE.

The leading incidents of this tale are historical, though slight

anachronisms have been purposely committed in order to condense

it in point of time.

* * * * *

HEART STRUGGLES.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

It was a foolish thought, beloved,

’Gainst which I vainly strove—

That after years of joy might see

Another win thy love.

It well nigh broke my saddened heart

To think the time might be,

When thou wouldst give another bride

The vows once given to me.

But I have calmer grown since then,

And though ’tis fearful still,

To think a stranger may be here

My place at home to fill—

To think that on her lip and brow

Thy kiss will be imprest,

Her cherished form be warmly clasped

When I am cold at rest—

’Tis fearful—yet ’twere selfish, love,

To bid thee live alone,

And let none other share thy heart

When I from thee am gone.

I know thou never wilt forget

My simple morning flower,

Nor how I nestled to thy side

At twilight’s holy hour.

I know a thousand memories

Within thy soul will rise,

_Our_ happy past be with thee still,

Though bound by other ties.

I know it would be selfish, love,

To bid thee live alone,

And let none other share thy heart

When I from thee am gone.

And yet, to know that heart a shrine

By one dear image filled,

With all the holy warmth of love,

Of _early_ love unchilled—

To know no other head but mine

Should on thy breast be laid,

None other hear the tender words

Which thou to me hast said—

No other name be on thy lips

When life’s last hour drew nigh,

No wish but for _our_ meeting, love,

How blesséd thus to die!

* * * * *

LIFE IN NEW YORK.

A SKETCH OF A LITERARY SOIREE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

My own blue-belle!

My pretty blue-belle!

Don’t fear that your secrets I’m going to tell;

My wings you view,

Of your own bright hue,

And oh! never doubt that my heart’s “true blue!”

THE BUTTERFLY’S SONG.

Somebody once said of our fair hostess, that she reminded him of a

cathedral with a simple, unpretending portal, which gives you no idea of

the rare revelations within, and through which you pass to wonders that

you did not dream of before. Once within, you are overwhelmed with the

grandeur, the beauty, the mystery, the majesty around you—the lofty and

magnificent arches, the dim, far-reaching aisles, the clustered columns,

the vaulted roof, lost to the eye from its wondrous height—the glorious

pictures by the master-hand—the iris-colored light from the painted

windows poured softly over all—the silence, the religious calm

pervading the place—all combine to awe and elevate the stranger, who

has perhaps rashly and unthinkingly entered that sanctuary of the soul.

He was an enthusiast, a noble one, who said this, and I cannot tell if

it be true. I only know that she exerts over my individual self a

magnetic attraction and influence, which I do not care to analyze or to

resist, because it soothes and satisfies me whenever I am with her,

however restless and unhappy I may have been the moment before.

A pleasant party were assembled in her drawing-room. There was the

statuesque Georgine—

——“with stately mien

And glance of calm hauteur,

Who moves—a grace—and looks a queen,

All passionless and pure.”

A creature of faultless harmony and grace; but whose perfect repose of

manner, attitude, look and language, exquisite as it is, almost

frightens you away from her at first. So still, so fair, so pure—like a

snow-cloud moving serenely through the silent air. There she sits; with

her graceful Greek head bent slightly forward, its luxuriant, light

brown hair wound carelessly and wavily around it; her chiseled features

serenely beautiful, and her hands, white as Pentelican marble, resting

half-clasped upon her knee.

If I mistake not, beneath that snowy crest, there are flowers of fancy

and fountains of feeling—all the lovelier and purer for being so

guarded, by the vestal, from the world.

Her cheek is almost always pale

And marble cold it seems;

But a soft color trembles there,

At times, in rosy gleams!

Some sudden throb of love, or grief,

Or pity, or delight,

And lo! a flush of beauty—brief,

But passionately bright!

She ’minds me of a rose I found,

In a far, Southern land—

A robe of ice its blushes bound,

By winter breezes fanned.

But softly through the crystal veil,

That gleamed about its form,

There came a fitful glow to tell

The flower beneath was warm!

Oh! that all women could thus proudly wear the veil! It is a protection

we need so much—that mantle of snow! But there are those (and they most

want it) in whose hearts the waves of feeling never rest long enough for

the winter crust to form—who never stop to think, to look back, lo

reflect, to prepare; but dash on to the ocean “over bank, brake and

scaur,” giving back only half-formed or broken images of the beautiful

visions that beam above their way—the bird—the cloud—the flower—the

star—now humming a careless carol to the breeze, now murmuring a

plaintive chant, now thundering in torrent tones, as they madly leap

adown the rocks that would oppose them, and now dancing out of sight

into the dim, untrodden forest-depths, where none will dare to follow.

We have seen the statuesque—there were not wanting the “grotesque and

arabesque,” as well to our literary _soirée_.

There was one unique, whom I hardly dare attempt to describe. In

speaking he deals principally in antithesis, and he himself is an

antithesis personified. The wildest conceits—the sharpest satire—the

bitterest, maddest vituperation—the most exquisite taste—the most

subtil appreciation of the delicate and beautiful in his subject—the

most radiant wit—the most dainty and Ariel-like fancy—with a manner

and a mien the most quaint, abrupt and uncouth imaginable—it is like

nothing in nature, or rather it is so exceedingly natural that it seems

almost supernatural. His discourse is all thunder and lightning—every

play of his impish eye-brows is an epigram, every smile a jeu d’esprit.

At one time affectionate, confiding, careless, buoyant, almost boyish in

his mood; at another, irritable, ferocious, seemingly ready for a

tiger-spring upon any foe, and again calm, cold, haughty, and

uncomeatable as an Indian of the olden time. Here is a stranger original

than any his favorite author ever drew. He is the ideal Yankee of the

nineteenth century.

There, too, nestled demurely in a corner of the sofa was that little

“will-o’-the-wisp,” V—, whom nobody knows what to make of—wild,

wayward, capricious as an April day—changeable as the light

spring-cloud, and restless as the wave—the spoiled child of Fancy,

“Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The love of love!”

To those who care for her, all trust and truth, and poetry and sportive

fondness, and deep impassioned feeling—to all the rest of the world

proud, still, reserved, dull, apathetic, reckless of opinion and of

consequences: a tame Canary-bird to kindness, a lioness to injustice and

oppression. Nature, with her sympathetic ink, has drawn pictures in her

soul, which seem to the cold and careless only pale, frost-work, wintry

views; but which, in the warmth of affection, change to glowing summer

scenes, with flowers and foliage, and gleaming springs, shifting clouds,

and singing birds and butterflies, all of which were always there, and

needed only the summer of sympathy and love to draw them out.

By her side sat the man of exhaustless and most whimsical wit, whom

_she_ calls the “laughing philosopher,” and whom _I_ strongly suspect of

having found, and selfishly concealed the “philosopher’s stone.” He is

the most refreshing, contented, and sunshiny-looking mortal that ever

smiled in this cold world of ours. Ever ready and brilliant, he whispers

his irresistable bon-mots and his charming jeux d’esprit, as if he were

ashamed of them, and calls it a breach of confidence if they are

repeated aloud.

Next to him sat the stately, intellectual, and warm-hearted Mrs. ——,

who, according to her witty neighbour, always looks “up to an epic.” I

suppose he will call _this_ a betrayal of confidence; but when these

pages meet his eyes, I shall fortunately be far beyond the reach of his

cutlass-irony; so spare yourself, till I come back, “most potent, grave,

and reverend seignor,” and don’t “waste your _satire_ on the desert

air.”

In earnest conversation with the lovely and loveable Mrs. S——, was

young ——. His rare and pure intellect; his “Doric delicacy” of taste;

his gentle and winning manners; his sensitive, generous, and trustful

nature, are best appreciated by those who know him best.

Well—first we played the game of “What is my thought like.” Smile not,

sagacious reader—Canning did the same. Several good answers were

elicited in the course of the game, among which were the following:—

“Why is a dew-drop like Miss R’s sash?”

“Because it trembles on a flower.”

“Why is fame like a clasp?”

“Because it is all a catch.”

“Why is Mrs. —— like an omnibus?”

“Because we are all carried away by her.”

“Why is my heart like a mirror?”

“Because you can see _yourself_ in it.”

When the game was over, one of the gentlemen took from his pocket a

volume of poems, by that Proteus author, “Anon,” of which he happened to

have the only copy in the country, and read aloud the following verses,

in a voice tremulous with the weight of its own melody and feeling:—

TO ——.

You would make hearts your stepping stones to power.

And trample on them in your triumph-hour;

But mine was formed for nobler fate than this,

It knows the treachery of your Judas-kiss.

You talk of “lofty feelings pure and high,

Too pure, alas!” and then you gently sigh;

You mourn the trials, which a soul like yours,

So true—amid the meaner herd endures.

You say ’tis sad, but yet you would not part,

For worlds, with that proud dignity of heart!

Now never breathed in woman’s breast, I ween.

So poor a spirit, ’neath so bold a mien.

I’ve learned you well—too well—your serpent-smile

Is fond and fair; but cannot “me beguile.”

I’ve seen it called, and on your soft lip worn,

To win a heart those lips had laughed to scorn.

I’ve heard that voice—’tis very sweet, I own,

Almost _too much_ of softness in its tone;

I’ve heard its tender modulations tried,

On one you’d just been slandering—aside.

I’ve seen you welcome, with that fond embrace,

A friend who trusted in your frank, bright face;

And while her parting steps the threshold pressed,

Her love, her looks, her manners turned to jest.

You triumph in the noble trick you’ve found,

Of winning love and trust from all around;

While cold and reckless, with a sneer at heart,

You plead, manœuvre, bind with Circe art.

But day by day, the flimsy veil grows thin,

And clearer shows the worthless waste within;

And one by one, th’ idolators resign

The wavering flame of their Parhelion’s shrine.

The mysterious book was then handed to Georgine, who took it tranquilly,

and read in a most musically modulated voice, while a faint rose-color

warmed her usually hueless cheek.

TO ——.

Ah! do not let us worse than waste,

In idle dalliance, hours so dear;

At best, the light-winged moments haste

Too quickly by with hope and fear.

Be ours to wreath, (as swift in flight

They pass—those ‘children of the sun,’)

With Fancy’s flowers, each wing of light,

And gems from Reason’s casket won.

The Passion-flower has no perfume,—

No soul to linger when it dies;

For lighter hearts such buds may bloom,

But, oh! be ours more proudly wise.

And wouldst thou bind my soul to thine,

Bid Truth and Wisdom forge the chain;

Nor o’er its links, as bright they twine,

Let Folly breathe one burning stain.

Thy mind—so rich in classic lore,—

Thy heart, from worldly taint so free;

Ah! let me not the hours _deplore_,

Which might be all _embalmed_ by thee.

At last the “will-o’-the-wisp” was called upon for a recitation, and

after laughing, and blushing, and scolding, and making as “much ado

about nothing” as the Lady Heron did about singing “Young Lochinvar,”

she gave, in her own peculiar way, the following song:—

They call me a careless coquette;

That often, too often, I _change_; they chide

Because every being on earth I’ve met,

Of the glorious mark in my hope falls wide.

It is only a yearning of soul,

For the lovely—the noble—the true and pure;

A fond aspiration beyond my control,

That was born with my being, and must endure.

But I know that shadow and shine

Must over this world, float side by side;

That Reason and Folly still entwine

Their flowers of light and bells of pride.

And I, in whose heart so wild,

Too often Love’s music in Discord dies;

Oh! should I not—idle and dreaming child—

Shrink back from a being all pure and wise?

I will hush in my heart that trust,

I will hide from the world that daring dream,

And seek in the sand for the golden dust,

Since ever they mingle in Life’s deep stream.

The gay party separated about 12 o’clock, apparently highly satished

with each other and themselves. It is to be hoped, they will meet again

as “beautifully blue” as ever. And in the meantime, forgive me for

having converted “_pro bono publico_,” their classic saloon, into a

modern “Ear of Dyonisius.”

* * * * *

FANNY.

BY MRS. MARY SUMNER.

A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

WORDSWORTH.

I revel in my right divine—

I glory in Caprice.

MRS. OSGOOD.

Have you seen the summer clouds

Troop along in rapid crowds,

Throwing shadows soft and warm,

Flitting ere you mark their form,

O’er some landscape still and sweet,

Where the wild and lovely meet,

Ravishing by turns the eye

With beauty and with mystery?

Dusky wood and rolling meadow

Bask in light or sleep in shadow,

And the river’s rippling wave,

Flashing smiles or chill and grave,

Fascinates the dazzled sight—

In the flitting shade and light

All, howe’er familiar, seems

Magical as fairy dreams.

So do swift emotions chase

Over Fanny’s radiant face;

Such a fascination lies

In each change that o’er it flies,

Light and shadow, varying still,

Set at nought the painter’s skill,

And so beautiful their play,

That you would not bid to stay

E’en the grace that charms you most,

Lest a sweeter should be lost.

Vain to question what may be

The secret of her witchery;

Still her speaking face enchants us,

And her dancing figure haunts us,

And those dark Italian eyes

Like a thralling vision rise,

And we could not if we would

Break the spell her sunny mood

Flings upon the heart and brain;

With a triple-woven chain

Bindeth she our hearts to hers,

Turning friends to worshipers.

Her high soul, her feelings warm,

Even her gay caprices charm,

Startling you with fresh surprises,

As each impulse that arises

From her being’s depth displays

Yet another brilliant phase;

Crystal-like at every turn,

Rainbow glories flash and burn,

Till you see revealed her whole

Beautiful and gifted soul—

Mirrored forth without disguise

From her large, impassioned eyes,

Full of warm and lustrous light,

That would witch an anchorite.

That mood passes, and no trace

Lingers on her chiseled face,

Only from that scaled book

Speaks the lofty lady’s look;

Dignity and quiet grace

Sit enthroned in form and face,

And a grave, commanding air

Bids the thoughtless one beware

How he scorn the high decree

Of her maiden sovereignty.

Then there comes a sudden thought,

With some merry meaning fraught,

Like a flash of meteor light,

As quick-glancing and as bright,

And her laugh, as sweet and free

As a child’s unthoughtful glee,

From her buoyant heart upswells,

Like clear-ringing fairy bells;

And the awe in which you stood

Of her stately womanhood,

Flies before that silvery laughter,

As if banished ever after.

Have you angered her quick spirit?

Touched her haughty sense of merit?

All on you will rest the shame,

All on you the heavy blame.

Nothing daunted, wait in hope

The turn of the kaleidoscope.

Like the bright blue after rain,

Comes her gladness back again;

Kindling eye and lip and cheek

All the same sweet language speak—

Welcome as the sunshine warm

Following a summer storm,

Welcome as the song of birds,

Her clear voice and friendly words!

Firm of purpose, proud and high,

With a flashing, dauntless eye,

Yet impulsive, gay and wild,

Now a queen and now a child,

Now a woman, mild and wise,

Strong to counsel and advise,

Full of nobleness and truth,

Of the generous zeal of youth,

So enchanting, so divine,

That of all who please and shine,

None can match her own sweet self;

Now a sportive, wilful elf,

Whose least word and will and way,

Strongest reasons oversway—

Who can count on each vagary

Of the charming, changeful fairy?

Who can tell, when brightest beams

Her warm love upon your dreams,

At what moment words unmeant

May disturb the gracious bent

Of her fickle fantasy,

And chill shadows flitting by

All its splendor overcloud?

At what moment a quick crowd

Of unbidden, fitful feelings

May seal up the high revealings

That her soul’s deep voice had been,

And your spirit reveled in?

Yet you cannot choose but love her.

With a love that passes over

Whatsoe’er it cannot praise,

For the sake of her sweet ways.

Vow that you will never more

Such inconstant charms adore,

Never more your joy and peace

Rest upon her light caprice,

All your wise resolves are vain,

She will lure you back again;

With a single winning smile,

Trusting word and childlike wile,

Make you feel that love cannot

For such trifles be forgot—

Looks so bright and tones so sweet,

Mortal could not coldly meet;

Wild as ever your love burns,

And your heart as fondly turns

To the wayward, witching creature,

As if every changing feature

Her impulsive being owned,

Howsoe’er it vex and wound,

In her gracious mood became

One to praise instead of blame.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY L. J. CIST.

They may talk as they will of “omnipotent love,”

And of lone disappointment’s sad lot—

That the image once shrined we can never remove,

That the once loved may ne’er be forgot:

’Tis the talk of the silly, the childish, the weak,

For a man (though a lover) may still

The idol he worships, if faithless, forsake,

And the false one forget—_if he will_!

They say that the heart which once truly shall love,

With love must continue to burn,

Though the idol unworthy devotion shall prove,

And away from the altar we turn;

But ’tis false!—for in man there’s a spirit of hate,

When he wills it that spirit to move,

And ’twere then all as easy to hate and forget

As it were to remember and love!

What! think you forever to fetter the mind

In the meshes of love’s silken snare,

When the strong man awakes from his slumber, to find

His enchantments all vanish in air!

Ah no! he may mourn that his slumber is o’er,

He may weep that the dream was but vain,

But he starts up, resolved he will yield him no more

To that vision deceitful again.

There are monarch’s despotic, throned tyrants, by Fate,

And serfs there are millions, by birth;

But the slave of the cold and the heartless _coquette_

Is the veriest slave upon earth:

And for me, I were sooner the Autocrat’s thrall,

Or the lowliest slave in our land,

Than the tool of the flirt, at her feet still to fall,

And abjectly sue for her hand!

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 132._)

PART V.

He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold,

And heaps of pearl. He stretched his hands

He hears a voice—“Ill man withhold!”

A pale one near him stands.

DANA.

It was near night-fall when the Swash anchored among the low and small

islets mentioned. Rose had been on deck, as the vessel approached this

singular and solitary haven, watching the movements of those on board,

as well as the appearance of objects on the land, with the interest her

situation would be likely to awaken. She saw the light and manageable

craft glide through the narrow and crooked passages that led into the

port, the process of anchoring, and the scene of tranquil solitude that

succeeded; each following the other as by a law of nature. The

light-house next attracted her attention, and, as soon as the sun

disappeared, her eyes were fastened on the lantern, in expectation of

beholding the watchful and warning fires gleaming there, to give the

mariner notice of the position of the dangers that surrounded the place.

Minute went by after minute, however, and the customary illumination

seemed to be forgotten.

“Why is not the light shining?” Rose asked of Mulford, as the young man

came near her, after having discharged his duty in helping to moor the

vessel, and in clearing the decks. “All the light-houses we have passed,

and they have been fifty, have shown bright lights at this hour, but

this.”

“I cannot explain it; nor have I the smallest notion where we are. I

have been aloft, and there was nothing in sight but this cluster of low

islets, far or near. I did fancy, for a moment, I saw a speck like a

distant sail, off here to the northward and eastward, but I rather think

it was a gull, or some other sea-bird glancing upward on the wing. I

mentioned it to the captain when I came down, and he appeared to believe

it a mistake. I have watched that light-house closely, too, ever since

we came in, and I have not seen the smallest sign of life about it. It

is altogether an extraordinary place!”

“One suited to acts of villany, I fear, Harry!”

“Of that we shall be better judges to-morrow. You, at least, have one

vigilant friend, who will die sooner than harm shall come to you. I

believe Spike to be thoroughly unprincipled; still he knows he can go so

far and no further, and has a wholesome dread of the law. But the

circumstance that there should be such a port as this, with a regular

light-house, and no person near the last, is so much out of the common

way, that I do not know what to make of it.”

“Perhaps the light-house keeper is afraid to show himself, in the

presence of the Swash?”

“That can hardly be, for vessels must often enter the port, if port it

can be called. But Spike is as much concerned at the circumstance that

the lamps are not lighted, as any of us can be. Look, he is about to

visit the building in the boat, accompanied by two of his oldest

sea-dogs.”

“Why might we not raise the anchor, and sail out of this place, leaving

Spike ashore?” suggested Rose, with more decision and spirit than

discretion.

“For the simple reason that the act would be piracy, even if I could get

the rest of the people to obey my orders, as certainly I could not. No,

Rose, you, and your aunt, and Biddy, however, might land at these

buildings, and refuse to return, Spike having no authority over his

passengers.”

“Still he would have the _power_ to make us come back to his brig. Look,

he has left the vessel’s side, and is going directly toward the

light-house.”

Mulford made no immediate answer, but remained at Rose’s side, watching

the movements of the captain. The last pulled directly to the islet with

the buildings, a distance of only a few hundred feet, the light-house

being constructed on a rocky island that was nearly in the centre of the

cluster, most probably with a view to protect it from the ravages of the

waves. The fact, however, proved, as Mulford did not fail to suggest to

his companion, that the beacon had been erected less to guide vessels

_into_ the haven, than to warn mariners at a distance, of the position

of the whole group.

In less than five minutes after he had landed, Spike himself was seen in

the lantern, in the act of lighting its lamps. In a very short time the

place was in a brilliant blaze, reflectors and all the other parts of

the machinery of the place performing their duties as regularly as if

tended by the usual keeper. Soon after Spike returned on board, and the

anchor-watch was set. Then everybody sought the rest that it was

customary to take at that hour.

Mulford was on deck with the appearance of the sun; but he found that

Spike had preceded him, had gone ashore again, had extinguished the

lamps, and was coming alongside of the brig on his return. A minute

later the captain came over the side.

“You were right about your sail, last night, a’ter all, Mr. Mulford,”

said Spike, on coming aft. “There she is, sure enough; and we shall have

her alongside to strike cargo out and in, by the time the people have

got their breakfasts.”

As Spike pointed toward the light-house while speaking, the mate changed

his position a little, and saw that a schooner was coming down toward

the islets before the wind. Mulford now began to understand the motives

of the captain’s proceedings, though a good deal yet remained veiled in

mystery. He could not tell where the brig was, nor did he know precisely

why so many expedients were adopted to conceal the transfer of a cargo

as simple as that of flour. But he who was in the secret left but little

time for reflection; for swallowing a hasty breakfast on deck, he issued

orders enough to his mate to give him quite as much duty as he could

perform, when he again entered the yawl, and pulled toward the stranger.

Rose soon appeared on deck, and she naturally began to question Harry

concerning their position and prospects. He was confessing his ignorance

as well as lamenting it, when his companion’s sweet face suddenly

flushed. She advanced a step eagerly toward the open window of Spike’s

state-room, then compressed her full, rich, under-lip with the ivory of

her upper teeth, and stood a single instant, a beautiful statue of

irresolution instigated by spirit. The last quality prevailed; and

Mulford was really startled when he saw Rose advance quite to the

window, thrust in an arm, and turn toward him with his own sextant in

her hand. During the course of the passage out, the young man had taught

Rose to assist him in observing the longitude; and she was now ready to

repeat the practice. Not a moment was lost in executing her intention.

Sights were had, and the instrument was returned to its place without

attracting the attention of the men, who were all busy in getting up

purchases, and in making the other necessary dispositions for

discharging the flour. The observations answered the purpose, though

somewhat imperfectly made. Mulford had a tolerable notion of their

latitude, having kept the brig’s run in his head since quitting Yucatan;

and he now found that their longitude was about 83° west from Greenwich.

After ascertaining this fact, a glance at the open chart, which lay on

Spike’s desk, satisfied him that the vessel was anchored within the

group of the Dry Tortugas, or at the western termination of the

well-known, formidable, and extensive Florida Reef. He had never been in

that part of the world before, but had heard enough in sea-gossip, and

had read enough in books, to be at once apprised of the true character

of their situation. The islets were American; the light-house was

American; and the haven in which the Swash lay was the very spot in the

contemplation of government for an outer man-of-war harbor, where fleets

might rendezvous in the future wars of that portion of the world. He now

saw plainly enough the signs of the existence of a vast reef, a short

distance to the southward of the vessel, that formed a species of

sea-wall, or mole, to protect the port against the waves of the gulf, in

that direction. This reef he knew to be miles in width.

There was little time for speculation, Spike soon bringing the strange

schooner directly alongside of the brig. The two vessels immediately

became a scene of activity, one discharging, and the other receiving the

flour as fast as it could be struck out of the hold of the Swash and

lowered upon the deck of the schooner. Mulford, however, had practiced a

little artifice, as the stranger entered the haven, which drew down upon

him an anathema or two from Spike, as soon as they were alone. The mate

had set the brig’s ensign, and this compelled the stranger to be

markedly rude, or to answer the compliment. Accordingly he had shown the

ancient flag of Spain. For thus extorting a national symbol from the

schooner, the mate was sharply rebuked at a suitable moment, though

nothing could have been more forbearing than the deportment of his

commander when they first met.

When Spike returned to his own vessel, he was accompanied by a

dark-looking, well-dressed, and decidedly gentleman-like personage, whom

he addressed indifferently, in his very imperfect Spanish, as Don Wan,

(Don Juan, or John,) or Señor Montefalderon. By the latter appellation

he even saw fit to introduce the very respectable-looking stranger to

his mate. This stranger spoke English well, though with an accent.

“Don Wan has taken all the flour, Mr. Mulford, and intends shoving it

over into Cuba, without troubling the custom-house, I believe; but that

is not a matter to give _us_ any concern, you know.”

The wink, and the knowing look by which this speech was accompanied,

seemed particularly disagreeable to Don Juan, who now paid his

compliments to Rose, with no little surprise betrayed in his

countenance, but with the ease and reserve of a gentleman. Mulford

thought it strange that a smuggler of flour should be so polished a

personage, though his duty did not admit of his bestowing much attention

to the little trifling of the interview that succeeded.

For about an hour the work went steadily and rapidly on. During that

time Mulford was several times on board the schooner, as, indeed, was

Josh, Jack Tier, and others belonging to the Swash. The Spanish vessel

was Baltimore, or clipper built, with a trunk-cabin, and had every

appearance of sailing fast. Mulford was struck with her model, and,

while on board of her, he passed both forward and aft to examine it.

This was so natural in a seaman, that Spike, while he noted the

proceeding, took it in good part. He even called out to his mate, from

his own quarter-deck, to admire this or that point in the schooner’s

construction. As is customary with the vessels of southern nations, this

stranger was full of men, but they continued at their work, some half

dozen of brawny negroes among them, shouting their songs as they swayed

at the falls, no one appearing to manifest jealousy or concern. At

length Tier came near the mate, and said,

“Uncle Sam will not be pleased when he hears the reason that the keeper

is not in his light-house.”

“And what is that reason, Jack? If you know it, tell it to me.”

“Go aft and look down the companion way, maty, and see it for yourself.”

Mulford did go aft, and he made an occasion to look down into the

schooner’s cabin, where he caught a glimpse of the persons of a man and

a boy, whom he at once supposed had been taken from the light-house.

This one fact of itself doubled his distrust of the character of Spike’s

proceedings. There was no sufficient apparent reason why a mere smuggler

should care about the presence of an individual more or less in a

foreign port. Every thing that had occurred looked like pre-concert

between the brig and the schooner; and the mate was just beginning to

entertain the strongest distrust that their vessel was holding

treasonable communication with the enemy, when an accident removed all

doubt on the subject, from his own mind at least. Spike had, once or

twice, given his opinion that the weather was treacherous, and urged the

people of both crafts to extraordinary exertions, in order that the

vessels might get clear of each other as soon as possible. This appeal

had set various expedients in motion to second the more regular work of

the purchases. Among other things, planks had been laid from one vessel

to the other, and barrels were rolled along them with very little

attention to the speed or the direction. Several had fallen on the

schooner’s deck with rude shocks, but no damage was done, until one, of

which the hoops had not been properly secured, met with a fall, and

burst nearly at Mulford’s feet. It was at the precise moment when the

mate was returning, from taking his glance into the cabin, toward the

side of the Swash. A white cloud arose, and half a dozen of the

schooner’s people sprang for buckets, kids, or dishes in order to secure

enough of the contents of the broken barrel to furnish them with a meal.

At first nothing was visible but the white cloud that succeeded the

fall, and the scrambling sailors in its midst. No sooner, however, had

the air got to be a little clear, than Mulford saw an object lying in

the centre of the wreck, that he at once recognized for a keg of

gunpowder! The captain of the schooner seized this keg, gave a knowing

look at Mulford, and disappeared in the hold of his own vessel, carrying

with him, what was out of all question, a most material part of the true

cargo of the Swash.

At the moment when the flour-barrel burst, Spike was below, in close

conference with his Spanish, or Mexican guest; and the wreck being so

soon cleared away, it is probable that he never heard of the accident.

As for the two crews, they laughed a little among themselves at the

revelation which had been made, as well as at the manner; but to old

sea-dogs like them, it was a matter of very little moment, whether the

cargo was, in reality, flour or gunpowder. In a few minutes the affair

seemed to be forgotten. In the course of another hour the Swash was

light, having nothing in her but some pig lead, which she used for

ballast, while the schooner was loaded to her hatches, and full. Spike

now sent a boat, with orders to drop a kedge about a hundred yards from

the place where his own brig lay. The schooner warped up to this kedge,

and dropped an anchor of her own, leaving a very short range of cable

out, it being a flat calm. Ordinarily, the trades prevail at the Dry

Tortugas, and all along the Florida Reef. Sometimes, indeed, this breeze

sweeps across the whole width of the Gulf of Mexico, blowing home, as it

is called—reaching even to the coast of Texas. It is subject, however,

to occasional interruptions everywhere, varying many points in its

direction, and occasionally ceasing entirely. The latter was the

condition of the weather about noon on this day, or when the schooner

hauled off from the brig, and was secured at her own anchor.

“Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, “I do not like the state of the atmosphere.

D’ye see that fiery streak along the western horizon—well, sir, as the

sun gets nearer to that streak, there’ll be trouble, or I’m no judge of

weather.”

“You surely do not imagine, Capt. Spike, that the sun will be any nearer

to that fiery streak, as you call it, when he is about to set, than he

is at this moment?” answered the mate, smiling.

“I’m sure of one thing, young man, and that is, that old heads are

better than young ones. What a man has once seen, he may expect to see

again, if the same leading signs offer. Man the boat, sir, and carry out

the kedge, which is still in it, and lay it off here, about three p’ints

on our larboard bow.”

Mulford had a profound respect for Spike’s seamanship, whatever he might

think of his principles. The order was consequently obeyed. The mate was

then directed to send down various articles out of the top, and to get

the top-gallant and royal yards on deck. Spike carried his precautions

so far, as to have the mainsail lowered, it ordinarily brailing at that

season of the year, with a standing gaff. With this disposition

completed, the captain seemed more at his ease, and went below to join

Señor Montefalderon in a _siesta_. The Mexican, for such, in truth, was

the national character of the owner of the schooner, had preceded him in

this indulgence: and most of the people of the brig having laid

themselves down to sleep under the heat of the hour, Mulford soon

enjoyed another favorable opportunity for a private conference with

Rose.

“Harry,” commenced the latter, as soon as they were alone; “I have much

to tell you. While you have been absent I have overheard a conversation

between this Spanish gentleman and Spike, that shows the last is in

treaty with the other for the sale of the brig. Spike extolled his

vessel to the skies, while Don Wan, as he calls him, complains that the

brig is old, and cannot last long; to which Spike answered ‘to be sure

she is old, Señor Montefalderon, but she will last as long as _your

war_, and under a bold captain might be made to return her cost, a

hundred fold!’ What war can he mean, and to what does such a discourse

tend?”

“The war alludes to the war now existing between America and Mexico, and

the money to be made is to be plundered at sea, from our own merchant

vessels. If Don Juan Montefalderon is really in treaty for the purchase

of the brig, it is to convert her into a Mexican cruiser, either public

or private.”

“But this would be treason on the part of Spike!”

“Not more so than supplying the enemy with gunpowder, as he has just

been doing. I have ascertained the reason he was so unwilling to be

overhauled by the revenue steamer, as well as the reason why the revenue

steamer wished so earnestly to overhaul us. Each barrel of flour

contains another of gunpowder, and that has been sold to this Señor

Montefalderon, who is doubtless an officer of the Mexican government,

and no smuggler.”

“He has been at New York, this very summer, I know,” continued Rose,

“for he spoke of his visit, and made such other remarks, as leaves no

doubt that Spike expected to find him here, on this very day of the

month. He also paid Spike a large sum of money in doubloons, and took

back the bag to his schooner, when he had done so, after showing the

captain enough was left to pay for the brig, could they only agree on

the terms of their bargain.”

“Ay, ay; it is all plain enough now, Spike has determined on a desperate

push for fortune, and foreseeing it might not soon be in his power to

return to New York, in safety, he has included his designs on you and

your fortune, in the plot.”

“My fortune! the trifle I possess can scarcely be called a fortune,

Harry!”

“It would be a fortune to Spike, Rose, and I shall be honest enough to

own it would be a fortune to me. I say this frankly, for I do believe

you think too well of me to suppose that I seek you for any other reason

than the ardent love I bear your person and character; but a fact is not

to be denied because it may lead certain persons to distrust our

motives. Spike is poor, like myself; and the brig is not only getting to

be very old, but she has been losing money for the last twelve months.”

Mulford and Rose now conversed long and confidentially, on their

situation and prospects. The mate neither magnified nor concealed the

dangers of both; but freely pointed out the risk to himself, in being on

board a vessel that was aiding and comforting the enemy. It was

determined between them that both would quit the brig the moment an

opportunity offered, and the mate even went so far as to propose an

attempt to escape in one of the boats, although he might incur the

hazards of a double accusation, those of mutiny and larceny, for making

the experiment. Unfortunately, neither Rose, nor her aunt, nor Biddy,

nor Jack Tier had seen the barrel of powder, and neither could testify

as to the true character of Spike’s connection with the schooner. It was

manifestly necessary, therefore, independently of the risks that might

be run by “bearding the lion in his den,” to proceed with great

intelligence and caution.

This dialogue between Harry and Rose, occurred just after the turn in

the day, and it lasted fully an hour. Each had been too much interested

to observe the heavens, but, as they were on the point of separating,

Rose pointed out to her companion the unusual and most menacing aspect

of the sky in the western horizon. It appeared as if a fiery heat was

glowing there, behind a curtain of black vapor; and what rendered it

more remarkable, was the circumstance that an extraordinary degree of

placidity prevailed in all other parts of the heavens. Mulford scarce

knew what to make of it; his experience not going so far as to enable

him to explain the novel and alarming appearance. He stepped on a gun,

and gazed around him for a moment. There lay the schooner, without a

being visible on board of her, and there stood the light-house, gloomy

in its desertion and solitude. The birds alone seemed to be alive and

conscious of what was approaching. They were all on the wing, wheeling

wildly in the air, and screaming discordantly, as belonged to their

habits. The young man leaped off the gun, gave a loud call to Spike, at

the companion-way, and sprang forward to call all hands.

One minute only was lost, when every seaman on board the Swash, from the

captain to Jack Tier, was on deck. Mulford met Spike at the cabin door,

and pointed toward the fiery column that was booming down upon the

anchorage, with a velocity and direction that would now admit of no

misinterpretation. For one instant that sturdy old seaman stood aghast;

gazing at the enemy as one conscious of his impotency might have been

supposed to quail before an assault that he foresaw must prove

irresistable. Then his native spirit, and most of all the effects of

training, began to show themselves in him, and he became at once, not

only the man again, but the resolute, practiced and ready commander.

“Come aft to the spring, men—” he shouted—“clap on the spring, Mr.

Mulford, and bring the brig head to wind.”

This order was obeyed as seamen best obey, in cases of sudden and

extreme emergency; or with intelligence, aptitude and power. The brig

had swung nearly round, in the desired direction, when the tornado

struck her. It will be difficult, we do not know but it is impossible,

to give a clear and accurate account of what followed. As most of our

readers have doubtless felt how great is the power of the wind,

whiffling and pressing different ways, in sudden and passing gusts, they

have only to imagine this power increased many, many fold, and the

baffling of the currents made furious, as it might be, by meeting with

resistance, to form some notion of the appalling strength and frightful

inconstancy with which it blew for about a minute.

Notwithstanding the circumstance of Spike’s precaution had greatly

lessened the danger, every man on the deck of the Swash believed the

brig was gone when the gust struck her. Over she went, in fact, until

the water came pouring in above her half-ports, like so many little

cascades, and spouting up through her scupper-holes, resembling the

blowing of young whales. It was the whiffling energy of the tornado,

that alone saved her. As if disappointed in not destroying its intended

victim at one swoop, the tornado “let up” in its pressure, like a

dexterous wrestler, making a fresh and desperate effort to overturn the

vessel, by a slight variation in its course. That change saved the

Swash. She righted, and even rolled in the other direction, or what

might be called to windward, with her decks full of water. For a minute

longer, these baffling, changing gusts continued, each causing the brig

to bow like a reed to their power, one lifting as another pressed her

down, and then the weight, or the more dangerous part of the tornado was

passed, though it continued to blow heavily, always in whiffling blasts,

several minutes longer.

During the weight of the gust, no one had leisure, or indeed inclination

to look to aught beyond its effect on the brig. Had one been otherwise

disposed, the attempt would have been useless, for the wind had filled

the air with spray, and near the islets even with sand. The lurid but

fiery tinge, too, interposed a veil that no human eye could penetrate.

As the tornado passed onward, however, and the winds lulled, the air

again became clear, and in five minutes after the moment when the Swash

lay nearly on her side, with her lower yard-arm actually within a few

feet of the water, all was still and placid around her, as one is

accustomed to see the ocean in a calm, of a summer’s afternoon. Then it

was that those who had been in such extreme jeopardy could breathe

freely and look about them. On board the Swash, all was well—not a

rope-yarn had parted, or an eye-bolt drawn. The timely precautions of

Spike had saved his brig, and great was his joy thereat.

In the midst of the infernal din of the tornado, screams had ascended

from the cabin, and the instant he could quit the deck with propriety,

Mulford sprang below, in order to ascertain their cause. He apprehended

that some of the females had been driven to leeward when the brig went

over, and that some of the luggage or furniture had fallen on them. In

the main cabin, the mate found Señor Montefalderon just quitting his

berth, composed, gentleman-like, and collected. Josh was braced in a

corner nearly gray with fear, while Jack Tier still lay on the cabin

floor, at the last point to which he had rolled. One word sufficed to

let Don Juan know that the gust had passed, and the brig was safe, when

Mulford tapped at the door of the inner cabin. Rose appeared, pale, but

calm and unhurt.

“Is any one injured?” asked the young man, his mind relieved at once, as

soon as he saw that she who most occupied his thoughts was safe; “we

heard screams from this cabin.”

“My aunt and Biddy have been frightened,” answered Rose, “but neither

has been hurt. Oh, Harry, what terrible thing has happened to us? I

heard the roaring of—”

“’Twas a tornado,” interrupted Mulford eagerly—“but ’tis over. ’Twas

one of those sudden and tremendous gusts that sometimes occur within the

tropics, in which the danger is usually in the first shock. If no one is

injured in this cabin, no one is injured at all.”

“Oh, Mr. Mulford—dear Mr. Mulford!” exclaimed the relict from the

corner into which she had been followed and jammed by Biddy, “Oh, Mr.

Mulford, are we foundered, or not?”

“Heaven be praised, not, my dear ma’am, though we came nearer to it than

I ever was before.”

“Are we cap-asided?”

“Nor that, Mrs. Budd; the brig is as upright as a church.”

“Upright!” repeated Biddy, in her customary accent—“is it as a church?

Sure, then, Mr. Mate, ’tis a Presbyterian church that you mane, and that

is always totterin’.”

“Catholic, or Dutch—no church in York is more completely up and down,

than the brig at this moment.”

“Get off of me—get off of me, Biddy, and let me rise,” said the widow,

with dignity. “The danger is over I see, and, as we return our thanks

for it, we have the consolation of knowing that we have done our duty.

It is incumbent on all, at such moments, to be at their posts, and to

set examples of decision and prudence.”

As Mulford saw all was well in the cabin, he hastened on deck, followed

by Señor Montefalderon. Just as they emerged from the companion-way,

Spike was hailing the forecastle.

“Forecastle, there,” he cried, standing on the trunk himself as he did

so, and moving from side to side, as if to catch a glimpse of some

object ahead.

“Sir,” came back from an old salt, who was coiling up rigging in that

seat of seamanship.

“Where away is the schooner? She ought to be dead ahead of us, as we

tend now—but blast me if I can see as much as her mast-heads.”

At this suggestion, a dozen men sprang upon guns or other objects, to

look for the vessel in question. The old salt forward, however, had much

the best chance, for he stepped on the heel of the bowsprit, and walked

as far out as the knight-heads, to command the whole view ahead of the

brig. There he stood half a minute, looking first on one side of the

head-gear, then the other, when he gave his trousers a hitch, put a

fresh quid in his mouth, and called out in a voice almost as hoarse as

the tempest, that had just gone by,

“The schooner has gone down at her anchor, sir. There’s her buoy

watching still, as if nothing had happened; but as for the craft itself,

there’s not so much as a bloody yard-arm, or mast-head of her to be

seen!”

This news produced a sensation in the brig at once, as may be supposed.

Even Señor Montefalderon, a quiet, gentleman-like person, altogether

superior in deportment to the bustle and fuss that usually marks the

manners of persons in trade, was disturbed; for to him the blow was

heavy indeed. Whether he were acting for himself, or was an agent of the

Mexican government, the loss was much the same.

“Tom is right enough,” put in Spike, rather coolly for the

circumstances—“that there schooner of yourn has foundered, Don Wan, as

any one can see. She must have capsized and filled, for I obsarved they

had left the hatches off, meaning, no doubt, to make an end of the

storage as soon as they had done sleeping.”

“And what has become of all her men, Don Esteban?” for so the Mexican

politely called his companion. “Have all my poor countrymen perished in

this disaster?”

“I fear they have, Don Wan; for I see no head, as of any one swimming.

The vessel lay so near that island next to it, that a poor swimmer would

have no difficulty in reaching the place; but there is no living thing

to be seen. But man the boat, men; we will go to the spot, Señor, and

examine for ourselves.”

There were two boats in the water, and alongside of the brig. One was

the Swash’s yawl, a small but convenient craft, while the other was much

larger, fitted with a sail, and had all the appearance of having been

built to withstand breezes and seas. Mulford felt perfectly satisfied,

the moment he saw this boat, which had come into the haven in tow of the

schooner, that it had been originally in the service of the light-house

keeper. As there was a very general desire among those on the

quarterdeck to go to the assistance of the schooner, Spike ordered both

boats manned, jumping into the yawl himself, accompanied by Don Juan

Montefalderon, and telling Mulford to follow with the larger craft,

bringing with him as many of the females as might choose to accompany

him. As Mrs. Budd thought it incumbent on her to be active in such a

scene, all did go, including Biddy, though with great reluctance on the

part of Rose.

With the buoy for a guide, Spike had no difficulty in finding the spot

where the schooner lay. She had scarcely shifted her berth in the least,

there having been no time for her even to swing to the gust, but she had

probably capsized at the first blast, filled, and gone down instantly.

The water was nearly as clear as the calm, mild atmosphere of the

tropics; and it was almost as easy to discern the vessel, and all her

hamper, as if she lay on a beach. She had gone down as she filled, or on

her side, and still continued in that position. As the water was little

more than three fathoms deep, the upper side was submerged but a few

inches, and her yard-arms would have been out of the water, but for the

circumstance that the yards had canted under the pressure.

At first, no sign was seen of any of those who had been on board this

ill-fated schooner when she went down. It was known that twenty-one

souls were in her, including the man and the boy who had belonged to the

light-house. As the boat moved slowly over this sad ruin, however, a

horrible and startling spectacle came in view. Two bodies were seen,

within a few feet of the surface of the water, one grasped in the arms

of the other, in the gripe of despair. The man held in the grasp, was

kept beneath the water solely by the death-lock of his companion, who

was himself held where he floated, by the circumstance that one of his

feet was entangled in a rope. The struggle could not have been long

over, for the two bodies were slowly settling toward the bottom when

first seen. It is probable that both these men had more than once risen

to the surface in their dreadful struggle. Spike seized a boat-hook, and

made an effort to catch the clothes of the nearest body, but

ineffectually, both sinking to the sands beneath, lifeless, and without

motion. There being no sharks in sight, Mulford volunteered to dive and

fasten a line to one of these unfortunate men, whom Don Juan declared at

once was the schooner’s captain. Some little time was lost in procuring

a lead-line from the brig, when the lead was dropped alongside of the

drowned. Provided with another piece of the same sort of line, which had

a small running bowline around that which was fastened to the lead, the

mate made his plunge, and went down with great vigor of arm. It required

resolution and steadiness to descend so far into salt water; but Harry

succeeded, and rose with the bodies, which came up with the slightest

impulse. All were immediately got into the boat, and away the latter

went toward the light-house, which was nearer and more easy of access

than the brig.

It is probable that one of these unfortunate men might have been revived

under judicious treatment; but he was not fated to receive it. Spike,

who knew nothing of such matters, undertook to direct every thing, and,

instead of having recourse to warmth and gentle treatment, he ordered

the bodies to be rolled on a cask, suspended them by the heels, and

resorted to a sort of practice that might have destroyed well men,

instead of resuscitating those in whom the vital spark was dormant, if

not actually extinct.

Two hours later, Rose, seated in her own cabin, unavoidably overheard

the following dialogue, which passed in English, a language that Señor

Montefalderon spoke perfectly well, as has been said.

“Well Señor,” said Spike, “I hope this little accident will not prevent

our final trade. You will want the brig now, to take the schooner’s

place.”

“And how am I to pay you for the brig, Señor Spike, even if I buy her?”

“I’ll ventur’ to guess there is plenty of money in Mexico. Though they

do say the government is so backward about paying, I have always found

you punctual, and am not afraid to put faith in you ag’in.”

“But I have no longer any money to pay you half in hand, as I did for

the powder, when last in New York.”

“The bag was pretty well lined with doubloons when I saw it last,

Señor.”

“And do you know where that bag is; and where there is another that

holds the same sum?”

Spike started, and he mused in silence some little time, ere he again

spoke.

“I had forgotten,” he at length answered. “The gold must have all gone

down in the schooner, along with the powder!”

“And the poor men!”

“Why, as for the men, Señor, more may be had for the asking; but powder

and doubloons will be hard to find, when most wanted. Then the men were

_poor_ men, accordin’ to my idees of what an able seaman should be, or

they never would have let their schooner turn turtle with them as she

did.”

“We will talk of the money, Don Esteban, if you please,” said the

Mexican, with reserve.

“With all my heart, Don Wan—nothing is more agreeable to me than money.

How many of them doubloons shall fall to my share if I raise the

schooner, and put you in possession of your craft again?”

“Can that be done, Señor?” demanded Don Juan earnestly.

“A seaman can do almost any thing, in that way, Don Wan, if you will

give him time and means. For one half the doubloons I can find in the

wrack, the job shall be done.”

“You can have them,” answered Don Juan, quietly, a good deal surprised

that Spike should deem it necessary to offer him any part of the sum he

might find. “As for the powder, I suppose that is lost to my country.”

“Not at all, Don Wan. The flour is well packed around it, and I don’t

expect it would take any harm in a month. I shall not only turn over the

flour to you, just as if nothing had happened, but I shall put four

first rate hands aboard your schooner, who will take her into port for

you, with a good deal more sartainty than forty of the men you had. My

mate is a prime navigator.”

This concluded the bargain, every word of which was heard by Rose, and

every word of which she did not fail to communicate to Mulford, the

moment there was an opportunity. The young man heard it with great

interest, telling Rose that he should do all he could to assist in

raising the schooner, in the hope that something might turn up to enable

him to escape in her, taking off Rose and her aunt. As for his carrying

her into a Mexican port, let them trust him for that! Agreeably to the

arrangement, orders were given that afternoon to commence the necessary

preparations for the work, and considerable progress was made in them by

the time the Swash’s people were ordered to knock off work for the

night.

After the sun had set the reaction in the currents again commenced, and

it blew for a few hours heavily, during the night. Toward morning,

however, it moderated, and when the sun re-appeared it scarcely ever

diffused its rays over a more peaceful or quiet day. Spike caused all

hands to be called, and immediately set about the important business he

had before him.

In order that the vessel might be as free as possible, Jack Tier was

directed to skull the females ashore, in the brig’s yawl; Señor

Montefalderon, a man of polished manners, as we maintain is very apt to

be the case with Mexican gentlemen, whatever may be the opinion of this

good republic on the subject, just at this moment, asked permission to

be of the party. Mulford found an opportunity to beg Rose, if they

landed at the light, to reconnoitre the place well, with a view to

ascertain what facilities it could afford in an attempt to escape. They

did land at the light, and glad enough were Mrs. Budd, Rose and Biddy to

place their feet on _terrâ firmâ_ after so long a confinement to the

narrow limits of a vessel.

“Well,” said Jack Tier, as they walked up to the spot where the

buildings stood, “this is a rum place for a light’us, Miss Rose, and I

don’t wonder the keeper and his messmates has cleared out.”

“I am very sorry to say,” observed Señor Montefalderon, whose

countenance expressed the concern he really felt, “that the keeper and

his only companion, a boy, were on board the schooner, and have perished

in her, in common with so many of my poor countrymen. There are the

graves of two whom we buried here last evening, after vain efforts to

restore them to life!”

“What a dreadful catastrophe it has been, Señor,” said Rose, whose sweet

countenance eloquently expressed the horror and regret she so naturally

felt—“Twenty fellow beings hurried into eternity without even an

instant for prayer!”

“You feel for them, Señorita—it is natural _you_ should, and it is

natural that I, their countryman and leader, should feel for them, also.

I do not know what God has in reserve for my unfortunate country! We may

have cruel and unscrupulous men among us, Señorita, but we have

thousands who are just, and brave, and honorable.”

“So Mr. Mulford tells me, Señor, and he has been much in your ports, on

the west coast.”

“I like that young man, and wonder not a little at his and your

situation in this brig—” rejoined the Mexican, dropping his voice so as

not to be heard by their companions, as they walked a little ahead of

Mrs. Budd and Biddy. “The Señor Spike is scarcely worthy to be _his_

commander or _your_ guardian.”

“Yet you find him worthy of your intercourse and trust, Don Juan?”

The Mexican shrugged his shoulders, and smiled equivocally; still, in a

melancholy manner. It would seem he did not deem it wise to push this

branch of the subject further, since he turned to another.

“I like the Señor Mulford,” he resumed, “for his general deportment and

principles, so far as I can judge of him on so short an acquaintance.”

“Excuse me, Señor,” interrupted Rose, hurriedly “—but you never saw

_him_ until you met him here.”

“Never—I understand you, Señorita, and can do full justice to the young

man’s character. I am willing to think he did not know the errand of his

vessel, or I should not have seen him now. But what I most like him for,

is this: Last night, during the gale, he and I walked the deck together,

for an hour. We talked of Mexico, and of this war, so unfortunate for my

country already, and which may become still more so, when he uttered

this noble sentiment—‘My country is more powerful than yours, Señor

Montefalderon,’ he said, ‘and in this it has been more favored by God.

You have suffered from ambitious rulers, and from military rule, while

we have been advancing under the arts of peace, favored by a most

beneficent Providence. As for this war, I know but little about it,

though I dare say the Mexican government may have been wrong in some

things that it might have controlled and some that it might not—but let

right be where it will, I am sorry to see a nation that has taken so

firm a stand in favor of popular government, pressed upon so hard by

another that is supposed to be the great support of such principles.

America and Mexico are neighbors, and ought to be friends, and while I

do not, cannot blame my own country for pursuing the war with vigor,

nothing would please me more than to hear peace proclaimed.’”

“That is just like Harry Mulford,” said Rose, thoughtfully, as soon as

her companion ceased to speak. “I do wish, Señor, that there could be no

use for this powder, that is now buried in the sea.”

Don Juan Montefalderon smiled, and seemed a little surprised that the

fair, young thing at his side should have known of the treacherous

contents of the flour-barrels. No doubt he found it inexplicable, that

persons like Rose and Mulford should, seemingly, be united with one like

Spike; but he was too well bred, and, indeed, too effectually mystified,

to push the subject further than might be discreet.

By this time they were near the entrance of the light-house, into which

the whole party entered, in a sort of mute awe at its silence and

solitude. At Señor Montefalderon’s invitation, they ascended to the

lantern, whence they could command a wide and fair view of the

surrounding waters. The reef was much more apparent from that elevation

than from below; and Rose could see that numbers of its rocks were bare,

while on other parts of it there was the appearance of many feet of

water. Rose gazed at it, with longing eyes, for, from a few remarks that

had fallen from Mulford, she suspected he had hopes of escaping among

its channels and coral.

As they descended and walked through the buildings, Rose also took good

heed of the supplies the place afforded. There were flour, and beef, and

pork; and many other of the common articles of food, as well as water in

a cistern, that caught it as it flowed from the roof of the dwelling.

Water was also to be found in casks—nothing like a spring or a well

existing among those islets. All these things Rose noted, putting them

aside in her memory for ready reference hereafter.

In the meantime the mariners were not idle. Spike moved his brig, and

moored her, head and stern, alongside of the wreck, before the people

got their breakfasts. As soon as that meal was ended, both captain and

mate set about their duty in earnest. Mulford carried out an anchor on

the off side of the Swash, and dropped it, at a distance of about eighty

fathoms from the vessel’s beam. Purchases were brought from both

mast-heads of the brig to the chain of this anchor, and were hove upon

until the vessel was given a heel of more than a streak, and the cable

was tolerably taut. Other purchases were got up opposite, and overhauled

down, in readiness to take hold of the schooner’s masts. The anchor of

the schooner was weighed by its buoy-rope, and the chain, after being

rove through the upper or opposite hawse-hole, brought in on board the

Swash. Another chain was dropped astern, in such a way, that when the

schooner came upright, it would be sure to pass beneath her keel, some

six or eight feet from the rudder. Slings were then sunk over the

mast-heads, and the purchases were hooked on. Hours were consumed in

these preliminary labors, and the people went to dinner as soon as they

were completed.

When the men had dined, Spike brought one of his purchases to the

windlass, and the other to the capstan, though not until each was bowsed

taut by hand; a few minutes having brought the strain so far on every

thing, as to enable a seaman, like Spike, to form some judgment of the

likelihood that his preventers and purchases would stand. Some changes

were found necessary to equalize the strain, but, on the whole, the

captain was satisfied with his work, and the crew were soon ordered to

“heave-away; the windlass best.”

In the course of half an hour the hull of the vessel, which lay on its

bilge, began to turn on its keel, and the heads of the spars to rise

above the water. This was the easiest part of the process, all that was

required of the purchases being to turn over a mass which rested on the

sands of the bay. Aided by the long levers afforded by the spars, the

work advanced so rapidly that, in just one hour’s time after his people

had begun to heave, Spike had the pleasure to see the schooner standing

upright, alongside of his own brig, though still sunk to the bottom. The

wreck was secured in this position, by means of guys and preventers, in

order that it might not again cant, when the order was issued to hook on

the slings that were to raise it to the surface. These slings were the

chains of the schooner, one of which went under her keel, while for the

other the captain trusted to the strength of the two hawse-holes, having

passed the cable out of one and in at the other, in a way to serve his

purposes, as has just been stated.

When all was ready, Spike mustered his crew, and made a speech. He told

the men that he was about a job that was out of the usual line of their

duty, and that he knew they had a right to expect extra pay for such

extra work. The schooner contained money, and his object was to get at

it. If he succeeded, their reward would be a doubloon a man, which would

be earning more than a month’s wages by twenty-four hours’ work. This

was enough. The men wanted to hear no more; but they cheered their

commander, and set about their task in the happiest disposition

possible.