Act V. Scene I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XIX. November, 1841. No. 5.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

The Ghost of Chew’s Wall

The Rowsevillers.—No. II

The Reefer of ’76

The Interesting Stranger

Shakspeare.—No. III

Wiccónsat

The Moonlight Flitting

A Chapter on Autography

The King’s Bride

Indian Traditions.—No. II

Sports and Pastimes.—The Fowling-Piece

Review of New Books

Poetry, Music and Fashion

The Pet Lamb

Flight of the Birds

Il Serenado di Venice

Ephemera

With Thee

Sonnets

I Never Have Been False to Thee

Merry England

Marriage

Never Shall My Heart Forget Thee!

Latest Fashions, November 1841

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

* * * * *

[Illustration: Eng. by H. S. Sadd, N.Y., _The Pet Lamb_ _Engraved

expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

[Illustration]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: NOVEMBER, 1841. No. 5.

* * * * *

THE PET LAMB.

BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE.

I saw her in her artlessness

All innocent and free,

And playfully a favored lamb

She fondled on her knee—

She seemed a vision of a dream,

A glory passing bright,

A being clothed in loveliness

As angels are in light!

Her tresses sported round about

Her snowy brow divine,

As flowers of the daffodil

Embrace a virgin shrine,—

Such purity was nestled there,

A Sybil’s it might be,

Forever beaming placidly

As starlight down at sea!

Her smile it had a witchery

To mortal ones unknown,

A language in its mirthfulness

Beyond a seraph’s tone:

It was as if the soul had come

From out its deep recess

And chose a dwelling in her eyes,

So pure their loveliness!

And softly on her pearly cheek

The dewy lashes lay;

Her lips were parted temptingly

To woo the breeze to stay;

Her snowy neck all droopingly

Defied the lily’s grace;

Her dimpled mouth—I dreamt of heav’n

In gazing on that face!

She fondled artlessly her pet;

She raised his tiny feet;

And toyed the garland on his neck;

And soothed him, when he bleat,

So sweetly that I might not hear

Unmoved that silver tone,

But longed to leave my hiding place

And woo her for my own.

A shot re-echoed through the wood,

I saw the smoky wreath—

The lamb was bleeding in her lap

The glancing ball beneath—

I sprang and raised the sufferer

And staunched the ebbing tide,

And carefully I bound the wound,

And sat me by her side.

I quieted her quick alarm,

I gently soothed her fears,

And o’er the dying favorite

We mingled tears with tears:

I shared her grief, and calmed her woe,

And blamed the sportsman rude—

She raised her swimming eyes to mine

And smiled her gratitude.

She faintly smiled and dropped her gaze,

Her passive hand I took,

No word was spoke, we only heard

The murmur of the brook;

Her gaze was on the murdered lamb,

Her heart was strangely moved—

She sighed, and oh! the loss she felt,

The void where once she loved.

Again I soothed her maiden grief,

And sighed whene’er she sighed,

And with such winning sympathy

Her starting tears I dried,—

And when she ceased I sighed myself,

And she besought to know

All artlessly and innocent

The secret of my woe.

I told her it was all herself,

That I had paused to gaze,

And that her witching loveliness

Would sadden all my days;

And then I sighed, and looked away,

And told her how I grieved,

Not for myself, but for the pang

Her gentle heart received.

I asked her but to pity me,

And told my grief to part—

Her fingers trembled, and I heard

The beating of her heart,

And all dissolved in sympathy

She yielded to my side—

Was ever virgin love as thine?

My Rosalie, my bride!

* * * * *

THE GHOST OF CHEW’S WALL;

A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN.

BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.

When a man becomes so far lost to a sense of self-importance, as not

only to tell, but actually to _write stories_,—thus recording his

turpitude in black and white—it is not to be presumed that slight

consequences will deter him from his purpose. Indeed, it is rather to be

supposed that he has made up his mind to despise public opinion, and to

brave all indignation. His hand is sure to follow as his pen may lead,

and whatever he may _resolve_, when the story is written, it is, somehow

or other, sure to find its way into print. The best motives of a writer

may therefore be mistaken, or his strongest resolves puffed to the winds

by a single breath, so that it may well be supposed in what a

predicament we were, when we found our best intentions frustrated, and

had to encounter the wrath and tobacco smoke of our German neighbors,

and were obliged to write this apologetic introduction, and all through

a villanous blunder of our greedy devil.

The facts are these. We sat down, a few evenings since, after enjoying a

comfortable cup of pure Java,—which we still continue to enjoy,

notwithstanding the anathemas of a fellow with a villanous name, of

“bran bread” repute,—to commit to paper a few notes of a conversation

which we had with a relative long since. Having unluckily fallen into a

doze, our devil, who had been going about for more than an hour roaring

for copy, took a peep into the sanctum, and, seeing how matters stood,

slipt off the following article, “in the crack o’ a thumb,” by way of

filling up an odd form, which, in an unlucky fit of liberality, we had

resolved to squeeze into the present number. It may well be supposed

that, before we had fairly rubbed our eyes open, the _matter_ was blown

to the world, and a whole avalanche of country cousins, who hail from

Germantown, were down upon us. Of course we said at once that the

article was not ours, as no man can be expected to acknowledge his guilt

until it is proved upon him. This, however, did not satisfy them,

although they professed to have no difficulty in believing it, for they

continued to smoke their pipes with such fury, and swore so stoutly in

real jaw-breaking Dutch—for every mother’s son is German, even to the

cut of his pantaloons—that we were glad to get off upon the condition

of making a handsome apology, which we think we have now fully done.

Among the many delightful villages in Pennsylvania, which owe their

origin to German settlers, and maintain, amid surrounding improvements,

the unchanged marks of ancestry, there is none more prominent than

Germantown. It is but half an hour’s drive from Philadelphia, extending

along the main road for more than two miles, with, for the most part,

old-fashioned stone houses, which date prior to the revolution,

sprinkled plenteously on both sides of the road, forming a village of

most unconscionable length, but—like the pockets of most dandies of the

present day—with no depth or body to support its extensive pretensions.

It is famous in history, as being the ground of a battle during the

struggle for independence, in which victory, though for a time doubtful,

declared for the enemy, in consequence of the incompetency of an

American officer. The present inhabitants are mostly the descendants of

German families—true sprigs of the old branches, imitating most of the

virtues of their forefathers, indulging in no luxuries, pursuing a rigid

economy, and clinging with an unyielding regard to the money bequeathed

them. Nor is this regard in any degree weakened by the devices of those

who have recently settled in the village, and who vainly hope by

improving their houses, fitting up their grounds, and clipping and

beautifying their shrubbery, to induce an imitation of their example.

The old-roof tree stands, as it stood half a century ago, and the very

stones of the building, from between which the mortar has in many cases

long since dropped, grin defiance on the passer by, who dares to harbor

a thought of improvement or repair. The owner is content to _live_ as

his ancestors lived, but would like to _die_ a little richer. The

patrimony, amassed by the hand of unceasing toil, is religiously

bequeathed from sire to son, together with the peculiar habits of

thought and the superstitious sentiments of an age gone by. In many

cases no education has been suffered to weaken or invade, and in others

has been so slight as only to harmonize the mind with the general

character of the place, which at best seems to belong more to a past

generation than to the present. From these causes, things which better

tutored minds scout with scorn, in the one case, are held as true as

matters of religious belief, and in the other are only doubted, not

disbelieved. In fact so thoroughly does superstition, and the gross

follies which an intercourse with the world and education always dispel,

prevail, that many of the inhabitants can tell you to a nicety when

there will be a change of weather, by the belligerent attitude in which

the moon turns up her horns when she grows restive, and that there will

be company when the cat licks her paws, when a fork sticks up in the

floor, or when the old cock brushes up his feathers and crows in the

door-way. There are others who go still deeper into mysteries of this

sort, and can predict to you a birth, a marriage, or a death, by the

kinks in a cow’s tail; but as they are entirely beyond our depth, and

seem to have this knowledge all to themselves, it may be well not to

disturb them in their profound wisdom. Nevertheless, let no young man,

who values the affections of any fair Dutch damsel in Germantown,

venture to present her with a pair of scissors, unless he wishes to

_cut_ the sentimental cord that binds her to him. Thus much we feel in

duty bound to record as a warning to young gentlemen, as many a man has

lost the confidence and affections of his lady love in consequence of

less matters than a pair of scissors.

It might be expected that a village so contiguous to a great city, would

soon lose these distinctive marks of character, and that the

extravagance, follies and vices of the metropolis would be generally

imitated. Not so, however. With very little exception, the place is as

entirely distinct as if it were miles in the interior. The moral mantle

of Germanism seems to hang like a cloud over the place, and, blended

with the superstition of the portion of inhabitants spoken of, there is

a high-toned morality so imbedded in the hearts of the people, that

honesty and a strict regard to truth, next to making money and keeping

it, may be considered the great texts by which they live.

It will easily be understood that among a people thus constituted, a

_ghost_ has but to be _seen_ by one of their number, and his appearance

announced, to be generally dreaded. If he has been _seen_, there is an

end of all doubting, and the only thing thereafter to be done, is to

keep out of his way. There will be no use, in such a case, to multiply

arguments about him, but every man must take care of himself. And, what

may seem a little singular, a good sound-minded, rational apparition

will, in all cases, most delight to visit a people who pay him so much

deference; taking especial care to show himself off frequently, and in

all manner of ways, that there may be no doubt that he does exist in one

shape or another, and having established the matter to his own

satisfaction, that it is better to range the upper world, where he can

be _seen_, than to dwell below in the dark, damp ground of the tomb,

where he cannot be seen, where his very existence may be doubted, and

where, at the best, the quarters are most uncomfortably chilly,—we say

a sane ghost, under such circumstances, would naturally grow

familiar—or rather _attempt_ to—and having sought out and established

himself in comfortable quarters, and having enjoyed an oblivious nap

during the day, would seek to regale himself in the evening, after his

own will and pleasure, by little trips by moonlight, over the fields,

around the old barns, and especially on the tops of the _stone

fences_—if any there be—of the neighborhood. A ghost certainly has the

right, if any _body_ has, of doing pretty much as he pleases, and of

keeping out of the dust and gravel of a country side-walk, and of

cutting up his antics, by way of recreation, on the top of a stone wall.

At least these were the sentiments entertained by the ghost in question,

and he took the liberty—unlike most politicians—of acting them out

without regard to consequences.

One morning, early in November, 18—, the inhabitants of the goodly

village of Germantown were thrown into great consternation and dismay,

by the important intelligence that a ghost had been seen the previous

evening, perched upon Chew’s wall, dressed in white, and rattling a

heavy chain, which some maintained he had been hung in, in consequence

of some great crime. Some said that it was only a log-chain, which he

intended to use, after his own fashion, on the first man he got in his

clutches, while others, with a great show of reason, maintained that the

chain was fastened around _his own ankle_, and that he was no less a

_personage_ than the ghost of the dead soldier who had deserted from the

British during the revolution, and was accidentally shot during the

battle of Germantown, while a prisoner in a baggage-wagon, _as had been

said_, but who, it was very likely, had been murdered during the heat of

the fray, by some enemy in his own ranks—a rival in love, perhaps, or

an heir to some estate, who wished him out of the way. Be all this as it

may, the ghost had been _seen_ upon the wall, and he had a chain about

him in some way, and some unheard of atrocity might confidently be

looked for. The greatest mystery of the affair was that as soon as the

rumor got on the wind, the man who had seen him was no where to be

found, nor could any body tell who he was. Somebody _had_ seen him,

however, and that was enough, and any inhabitant of Germantown would as

soon have doubted the existence of sour-krout—a belief of which

substantial proof was given daily—as to have felt the least incredulity

in regard to the ghost.

Of course all the inhabitants put on the gravest looks possible, and

kept a sharp look-out, but still nearly a week passed and no tidings of

a renewal of the visit of his ghostship occurred. Sunday morning came,

and the matter was duly canvassed before the church door, prior to the

arrival of the minister. A great many solemn shakes of the head and

knowing winks were given on the subject. It was formally resolved that

fires had better be kept burning in all the ovens for a fortnight,

though it was pretty generally agreed that the ghost had been taken

unawares, and that, whatever his business to that place might be, by

keeping off the wall for a week, it was a pretty good sign that he did

not want to show himself, and therefore he would be more cautious in

future.

The ghost, notwithstanding all these sage conclusions, resolved to have

his own way in the matter, and accordingly made his appearance _that

very evening_—not in white, nor in the form of a man, but in _black_,

and running on all fours, like a hyena, on the top of the wall, and even

proceeded so far as to throttle a very inoffensive person, and one who

never could have had any thing to do with the murder—if indeed the

apparition was the ghost of the murdered soldier. The facts of this

encounter are these.

Christopher Burger (such was the name of the person throttled) or

“_Stoffel_ Burger,” as his German friends delighted to dub him in

abbreviation, was a stout, square-built young fellow, of about

twenty-two, who could do his day’s work, and dance the whole night

through in the bargain, without thinking of fatigue. He had fallen in

love, at a quilting party, with Miss Susan Hanz, a blooming Dutch damsel

of seventeen summers; and, like a straight-forward business-like German,

as he was, he resolved to make her his wife. She was, in fact, just the

girl to inspire Christopher with the sentimental. Short, thick, and as

elegantly shaped as a churn, with a full, round, saucy face, lighted up

with a pair of brilliant black eyes, and with a foot, which, if it was

_not_ one of the smallest, could go through “a straight four,” or, for

that matter, if occasion required it, a regular “hoe down,” with a grace

that actually made Christopher’s heart leap, as if it was going to jump

out of his mouth. Nor were these her only claims to regard. The fair

Susan was an only child, and her father had the reputation of possessing

more than one stocking full of _the real currency_, carefully stowed

away in the large walnut chest under the bed. Two or three broad farms

also claimed ’Squire Hanz as owner, and spread themselves out very

temptingly before the eager eyes of “Stoffel.” And then, what a hand at

baking hot cakes!—his mouth actually watered at the thought. Added to

all this, he well knew that if he succeeded in winning the heart of the

fair Susan, no obstacle would be placed in the way of his happiness by

the ’Squire. In this matter the ’Squire was exceedingly liberal; he

imposed but one condition upon his daughter in relation to the man of

her choice, and that was, that “he must be of a good German family.” To

“_Stoffel_” there could be no objection on this score. His very name

carried the recommendation with it. Moreover, the ’Squire had never had

brother or sister, and therefore there were no rascally cousins to be

mining the fortress in his absence. Had there been any, with stout

purses in their fists, the matter would not have been quite so positive;

for, as an _arrangement of convenience_, and to _keep the money_ from

the hands of _grasping strangers_, every man in the village of which we

write made it a point to marry his cousin—_if he could get her_—and,

if the truth must be told, the strong voice of parental command was

seldom wanting to strengthen his suit.

Let it not be supposed, however, that a lady with such substantial

claims had never been besieged with lovers. Such _had been_ the case.

But “Stoffel” having so far outstripped his rivals as to attain the

honor of _smoking a pipe alone_ with the ’Squire a few Sunday evenings

previous to the time of which we write, the business was looked on as

settled, and the whole bevy of Dutch beaux were off in the twinkling of

an eye, like a flock of partridges when they have been shot at.

Christopher, thus having “a fair field and _all_ the favor,” was not the

man to neglect the advantage; so that, on the Sunday night in question,

if an inquisitive eye had been placed at the key-hole of the ’Squire’s

parlor door, he might have been _seen_, or _heard_, actually (we hope

the ladies will skip this passage)—we say he might have been _seen_

kissing Susan _in the dark_. Atrocious as this conduct was, however, on

the part of “Stoffel,” we are bound, in recording a true narrative, to

say that the lady was not to be frightened at trifles; so, instead of

screaming out, and thus rousing the ’Squire and his blunderbuss, she

took the matter coolly, and, resolving not to be outdone in civilities,

gave him as good as he sent, and, throwing her arms around his neck,

_kissed him_!! These, of course, are little attentions, on the part of

lovers, which should not be wantonly, and without purpose, revealed to

“the cold and heartless world,” and we only mention them to show that

Christopher was a fellow with a pretty stout heart, and thus prepare our

readers for the horrible outrage upon a brave man we are about to

record. And considering, too, that all our lady readers have skipped the

last passage, and are waiting breathlessly, we proceed.

It was now past twelve o’clock—we are ashamed to record it—for

Christopher, whatever wrong he committed in _going_ to the ’Squire’s

every Sunday evening, when he _returned_, his conscience, on that score,

was generally clear enough, as it was Sabbath no longer. We say it was

past twelve, and Christopher set out for home. He had feasted on the

best the ’Squire’s cellar afforded, and had made way with more than one

mug of his best cider. The parting scene, on the part of Christopher,

had been unusually tender. He was naturally an ardent lover, and the

cider by no means decreased the strength of his attachment. He had used

every argument to bring Susan to the point of acceptance—still she was

coy. Yet Christopher was a man of discernment, and thought that a lady

who would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him in the dark,

(bless us! what will the ladies say to this?) could have no serious

objection to him at bottom, and so, on the whole, he was in a very

pleasant mood with himself, and with all _mankind_ and _womankind_ in

the bargain, as gentlemen usually are when the lady has been kind, and

the parting kiss has been freely given. He felt unusually _happy_, and

could not restrain the kind feelings which bubbled up to his very lips

and found vent in snatches of songs. He was rapidly approaching the

wall—still he thought nothing of ghosts or hob-goblins, but was

ruminating very intently upon the charms of the _substantial_ little

Dutch beauty, and was going over in his mind, very pleasantly, her

qualifications to make him a happy man. He might be said to be in that

state, when a man is walking yet dreaming. He was picturing a neat stone

house, with every _useful_ article of furniture bought and paid for, and

with a horse and cow that he could call his own. Milk punch, too,

naturally enough popped into his head, and then out again, to make room

for thoughts of hot cakes swimming in butter. His song, however, still

went on, as the music was not so difficult of execution as to require

much thought in its performance—when the conclusion of a stanza seemed

suddenly to have been frozen on his lips, and he started back with the

ejaculation—

“Mine Got! vat ish dat? der spooke—der divel!”

The cause of his alarm the reader will understand, and so did “Stoffel.”

He had heard it rumored that a ghost in white had been seen airing

himself upon Chew’s wall, and he was not the man to scoff at rumor, and,

even if he had been, there was the identical thing before him, slightly

changed in appearance, it is true, not in white, nor sitting erect, but

in black, running along the wall towards him, like a hyena or a bear;

and, sure enough, as if to establish his character beyond the

possibility of a doubt, _rattling his chain_ with a clangor truly

appalling.

In any other situation Christopher, perhaps, would have run, but in the

present instance his limbs refused to do their work, his knees knocked

together, his teeth set to chattering, and he seemed rooted to the spot.

Nor can it be supposed that he was a coward, as we think the contrary

has been clearly demonstrated in his valiant exploits in courting. The

ghost, however, as if to settle the difficulty, to clear all doubt in

the mind of Christopher, and to prevent any more profane exclamations,

coolly descended from the wall, and before he knew where he was, knocked

him down “with one blow of his _tail_,” as was afterwards affirmed.

“So,” said the ghost, “your time has come to die!”

“Mine Got, nay—I be’s—so young—and pin—tink—to git—marry,”

chattered the horror-stricken Dutchman.

“You are going to get married; ha! who do you think will have you?”

“’Squire—Hanz—Sus, me tinks.”

“When you marry her you will be a dead man,” said the ghost in a hollow,

sepulchral voice, “and unless you stay away from ’Squire Hanz’s two

months from this time, remember I have warned you! you are a dead man!

Beware!” and having released his throat from a loving squeeze, vanished,

as Christopher asserted, “in de ground.”

When he arose, his brain whirled, and his memory was confused; the sun

was just peeping over the hills, and a group of astonished neighbours

were around him. Christopher told his story, and related the adventure

exactly as it had occurred, excepting what related to Susan, that he

kept close in his own bosom—why? we cannot say. Some believed him, but

others, of the most knowing, shook their heads—guessed he had drank too

freely of the ’Squire’s cider, and wondered how he knew “the ghost

vanished in the ground when he was lying on his face in the dirt.”

Christopher asserted, and swore Dutch to substantiate it, that he “had

been _choked on the back of his neck_ until he saw stars,” and that

after _that_ the ghost disappeared, and he knew nothing more of the

matter until he found the mob around him.

This was conclusive! And as the contagion spread, it was ascertained

that the ghost had been exceedingly obliging, and had appeared in a

variety of forms and costumes “to suit customers.” A stout troop of good

wives roundly asserted that he had crossed the road in the form of a

white calf, as they were proceeding to meeting, and that when they

screamed out he disappeared. One had seen him in the habit of an old

woman, dangling a great bunch of keys at her girdle, but it was plain he

was no old woman at all from the whisker on one side of his face, which

proved him to be the dead soldier. Moreover, he kept rattling the keys

with tremendous fury, and held up his forefinger significantly; as much

as to say “if you disturb me I’ll knock you down.”

Another averred that as she was walking along, she heard a terrible

flapping of wings, and looking up she saw, what at first appeared to be

a flock of wild-geese, but they quickly changed into boys, and in an

instant all vanished but one, and he was a man with a long white flowing

robe, with which he took good care to cover his head, so that she could

not see whether he had whiskers or no, and therefore could not say

whether it was the dead soldier or not. In short, nearly all the _old_

women had seen him, or had a ghost story to _tell_, which answered the

same purpose, so that the good Dutchmen shook their heads to no purpose,

for the more they shook them the more confused they became.

The consequence was, that after the existence of the ghost was thus

substantiated, he resolved to confirm the testimony by taking up his

quarters for the winter at once. This he did by establishing himself in

a neat two story brick house, which was formerly located at the place

now called “The Seven Oaks.” Thus having made himself perfectly at home,

and we presume feeling himself so, for no body pretended to disturb him

in his selected quarters, he took his recreations in various ways.

Sometimes he would appear with a winding sheet around him, and a flame

of fire coming out of his mouth, then he would walk inhabited like a

bear, or he might be seen in the form of a dragon with a huge tail. To

vary the entertainments, he would appear with horrible horns on his

head, and a tail like a fish, and would go sweeping over the ground as

if he were gliding in water. He appeared, too, at various places, though

his favorite resort was the top of the stone wall, which he would often

bestride, as if it were a full-blooded charger, and would go whistling

down the wind,—stone wall and all. What rendered this last feat the

more surprising was, that when morning came the wall looked as unmoved

as if nothing had happened, but the ghost was nowhere to be found.

It could not be supposed that things should continue in this state

forever. Accordingly a number of the more aged inhabitants having put

their heads together, it was thought advisable to devise some energetic

measures to relieve themselves of his ghostship. Whereupon every man

stuck his pipe in his mouth, and set to smoking and thinking with great

energy and decision. After due reflection, various measures were

proposed, but none so feasible as that proposed by ’Squire Hany, who

having a pipe about a foot longer than any of the others, came to the

sagest conclusion.

His proposal was in substance, that a meeting be called on the next

evening, and that a committee should be appointed to watch the ghost,

and if possible, to shoot through him with silver bullets; when, it was

affirmed, he would dissolve into thin air at once. And lest the ghost

should be aroused to commit some deed of dire interest, as soon as the

news of these hostile proceedings reached his ears, it was thought

advisable that all the inhabitants should close their doors at sundown,

nail horse shoes over them, and, to save candles if not their necks,

they should go to bed at dark.

A large meeting of the indignant inhabitants, in accordance with this

decision, assembled at “The Green Tree,” when, after calling “Stoffel

Burger” to the chair, the following resolutions, which had been drawn up

with great care and precision for the occasion, were unanimously

adopted:—

[1]“_Resolved_, That a committee of eight be appointed _to shoot the

ghost_.”

“_Resolved_, That Stoffel Burger be chairman of the committee to point

him out, so that the silver bullets be not thrown away, and also, to

save powder, that _nobody shall shoot the ghost till they see him_.”

To the first branch of this resolution Stoffel felt inclined to demur,

and said that as he had already been choked by the ghost, he would

rather not get in his clutches again. The meeting, however, had made up

their minds—as most town meetings generally do—before hand, and would

hear of no excuse. It was therefore further

“_Resolved_, That the meeting defray the expenses of the committee,

provided they follow instructions, and that all the inhabitants be

commanded to nail horse shoes over their doors, so that the ghost may be

shot down without mercy.”

We said the resolutions were unanimously adopted, but there was one

young gentleman who, in the outset, stoutly opposed them, but who,

nevertheless, afterwards gave them his hearty support. He was a good

looking fellow, about five feet ten in height, with a piercing black

eye, a most intelligent face, and a whisker trimmed with such exquisite

taste that every girl of the village would take a peep out of the corner

of her eye and admire them while passing. His tongue, too, was as

slippery as an eel, and he could say the softest and most honied words

in a way that actually put the stout Dutch phrases completely out of

tune. Nevertheless, he spoke German like a book, and no man could exceed

him in driving a bargain, so that, having come from a German settlement

in the east, he went by the name of “The Dutch Yankee.” He never

obtruded his advice in any case, and only suggested in this, “whether

these hostile proceedings might not inflame the anger of the ghost, and

lead to hot work.”

The valor of the meeting, however, was too highly inflamed to listen for

a moment to prudential hints, when they had the iron argument of horse

shoes ready in case of danger, so that after selecting the committee and

charging them to “be true to their country in this sudden and trying

emergency, and to meet promptly the next evening and perform their

duty,” the meeting adjourned.

On the following evening the committee accordingly met at “The Green

Tree,” armed to the teeth, each man having, in addition to his musket

charged with the fatal bullet, a long butcher knife to be ready for

extremities. The host of “The Green Tree” was in excellent spirits, and

the committee resolved at once to be so too if it could be done by dint

of good liquor. So in order to be prepared for the fierce encounter, and

to strengthen his nerves, each man knocked off his half-pint at the

outset. And as the generous inhabitants had agreed to pay expenses,

there could be no harm, so thought both the committee and the host, in

drinking another, and as each felt braver the more he drank, the

experiment was repeated in homœopathic doses until the hour of twelve,

when, we will venture to assert, a stouter hearted set of men never set

out on a perilous expedition.

It is strange, however, how soon the cold wind of a winter night will

unstring the nerves and set the teeth to chattering, for no sooner were

the valiant committee within sight of Chew’s wall, and had been a little

chilled through with the night breeze, than each man was seized with a

tremendous shivering of cold, and each feeling weaker than the other, it

was with great difficulty that they could get on, for want of a leader.

It was stoutly maintained that “Stoffel” should go before, as he was

commissioned by the meeting to point out the ghost. To this Stoffel

agreed, but maintained that he could not show him to the committee,

unless they were with him. It was finally settled that no man should

have the _honor of going alone_, but that they should all march up

abreast, and at the signal given fire a platoon into him. So they set up

at once a terrible yelling, in order that the ghost might see that they

were in earnest and prepare for the consequences.

Whether it was that the ghost heartily despised their bullying mode of

procedure, and determined to show that there was no flinching on his

part, by meeting them more than half way, or that the heads of the

committee were rather giddy with having been confined in the close air

of a bar-room for so many hours, and had thus caused them to

miscalculate distances; certain it was, that before they were aware of

their position, Stoffel espied the ghost and pointed him out at not more

than thirty yards distance. Every man instantly cocked his musket, and

affirmed that it was _moving_, and that owing to the dreadful proximity

of the ghost, every thing else was dancing around them. Accordingly they

instantly poured a dreadful volley into the offender and took to their

heels.

Whether the ghost was hit or not, it was clearly ascertained the next

morning that the committee had succeeded in putting two silver balls

into a great, ugly old post, which had long been a serious annoyance,

and had split the rails of a contiguous fence most shockingly. There

were not wanting those who were severe and uncharitable enough to say

that the committee had got a little drunk, and had fired _at_ the post.

This, however, was deemed a gross slander, and it was unanimously agreed

that if the ghost had stood where the post was, he would have had a ball

through him to a certainty.

As for “Stoffel,” having done this daring deed, nobody caught him

passing the wall for some weeks after, and he gave people pretty clearly

to understand that he did not intend to for some weeks to come. What

tended to confirm the inhabitants in the opinion that the vigilant

committee had extirpated the dreaded visitant, and that there was

nothing like silver bullets and horse shoes to quiet ghosts, whether in

doors or out was, he did not appear on the wall—when, unluckily for our

friend “Stoffel” and his milk punch and hot cakes, “The Dutch Yankee,”

who possessed the true blood, succeeded in winning the heart of the fair

Susan, and actually eloped with the bouncing little Dutch beauty, much

to the amazement of the ’Squire, and the horror of the astounded

“Stoffel,” and actually carried the enormity so far, as to write

“Stoffel” an invitation to the “home-bringing,” a month or so afterward;

coupling the request with a promise that the ghost should not be allowed

to disturb him either in passing or repassing Chew’s wall without due

revenge. “Stoffel” did not like the tone of the invitation, or

considered that his valor in courting and shooting ghosts was

established, so he declined.

That the ghost still held his quarters privately somewhere in the

neighborhood, and enjoyed many a pleasant little trip by moonlight for

his own private gratification after that, was not doubted by the good

people of the village, although he only condescended to show himself to

particular favorites, by _occasional glimpses_ when passing the wall.

Lately, however, he has been more chary of his visits, and it is

supposed that the rail road rather interfered with his calculations, and

that the eternal whizzing of steam and the ringing of bells, rendered

his quarters uncomfortable—particularly since his house has rudely been

pulled down over his head, and a new one erected on the same site,

without regard to his convenience.

There were not wanting people who pretended to laugh at the whole affair

after the elopement and marriage of the fair Susan, and it was

maintained that the Yankee was often seen to twist his face and laugh to

himself, when he was ploughing up the old ’Squire’s ground. Yet nobody

in Germantown, _who had heard the clanking of the chain_, ever ventured

to doubt the existence of the ghost, and if any of our readers are

inclined to disbelieve the story, the horse shoes can yet be seen nailed

over some of the doors, and the bullet _holes_ can yet be shown in the

posts by the road side,—some of the inhabitants having dug the bullets

out with the characteristic reflection, “that it was a pity that good

silver should be thrown away, _even after ghosts_.”

G.

-----

[1] Note. This, of course, all occurred before the Germantown Telegraph

was started, or we should refer to the files of that valuable paper for

a full report of the proceedings, and thus save ourselves a vast deal of

trouble in copying a vile, old, dusty, Dutch manuscript.

* * * * *

FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home,

Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam!

The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze—

Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees,

And swift as your flight, is the march of Time—

Away, away, to a milder clime!

Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food,

’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood;

And here will ye carol your songs no more,

Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er;

Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on,

And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne.

But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers

Of the genial South, through these winter hours,

Where your golden wings may unfettered rove

Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove;

Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams,

Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams.

Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night;

He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight:

We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair!

And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air;

But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam,

Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home.

But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief—

From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf;

From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath,

The ransomed _spirit_ may flee at death,

To a clime where perpetual Summer reigns

O’er the fadeless flowers of celestial plains.

* * * * *

THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. II.

THE CAPTAIN’S COURTSHIP.

The cloth had just been removed, at my second dinner with the club, when

the President called on a Mr. Rowley for a story. He tossed off a

tumbler of Port—to clear the cobwebs, as he said, from his throat—and

began.

“You all know I am a lawyer, and that men who would be witty have a way

of quizzing our profession by saying that we cannot tell a story without

dragging in our craft. I have no objection to the notion of these smart

gentlemen, and shall not even trouble myself to refute them, but go on

with my story.

“When I was a student, just after the close of the late war, I used to

pay occasional visits to Mount Holly, which was even then a passable

county town, and remarkable for its pretty girls, its gay winters, and

the quantity of wine drunk by its bar. There wasn’t a lawyer in the

place who couldn’t carry his two bottles, and as for wit, these

barristers were famed for it from Cape May to Hackensack. But it is not

so much with the Mount Holly bar as with Captain Slashbey, one of the

clients of the wittiest member there, that my story has to do.

“I first met the gallant captain on a hunting excursion into the pines.

He was a portly little gentleman, with a rubicund face, a constant flow

of humor, and an opinion of his own good looks rather singular, I must

say, at forty-five. He had very short legs and a very round person, and

altogether reminded you of a fat pigeon walking upright. He had been in

the service during the war, and at the reduction of the army, finding

himself pretty well in debt, and without a _sous_ in his pockets, had

settled at Squankum, a place in the very heart of the cedar swamps. And

very convenient it was for Slashbey, for, like Galway, in Ireland, a

sheriff’s writ hadn’t been seen there in the memory of man. It was once

attempted to execute a capias there, but the forgemen and squatters rose

in a mass, and though the light horse were ordered out, the arrest had

to be given up. Now the captain was a popular man in Squankum, and

therefore was as safe as in a sanctuary. He thirsted now and then, it is

true, for the good things of civilized life afar off, and would often

make a dash into Mount Holly, like a guerilla, taking care, however, to

retreat before his creditors had wind of his approach. But at length he

grew tired of this life,—I’ll thank you for the bottle—and determined

to extricate himself from it by marrying an heiress; for the captain was

a gallant man, you must know, and, like Will Honeycombe, had a high

notion of his own powers.

“There was a merry little vixen at the county town—a gay witty

black-eyed rogue as ever lived—who was, in the captain’s opinion, the

very pattern for a wife. She would have made an anchorite forswear his

creed, and was besides an heiress to a very pretty fortune. Undaunted by

the crowds of suitors for her hand, Slashbey determined to enter the

lists, nothing doubting, on the faith of certain smiles with which she

always welcomed him, that he would carry off the prize. He began his

preparations like a Napoleon. He bought a new pair of buff cassimeres,

endued a shining blue coat with metal buttons, and ordered a wig from

the most fashionable _perruquier_ in Philadelphia, for unluckily the

captain was as bald as a cannon ball. Thus accoutred, he laid regular

siege to his charmer, dancing her and sleighing her whenever he could

venture out of his cedar swamps without being chased by a bailiff. The

heiress smiled on the captain, her suitors cursed the lucky rival, and

Slashbey spent his time betwixt studying his glass and singing ‘none but

the brave deserve the fair.’

“It was just when he thought he was on the point of success that a grand

ball was given at ——, and the captain, determining to carry his

charmer by assault, forgot his usual prudence and escorted the heiress

in his gig. Never did the little fellow look more gallant. I was at the

ball, and faith! could scarcely keep my eyes off him. His wig was curled

irresistibly, his new coat shone with resplendent lustre, his cassimeres

fit him as a mould does a bullet, and he sported his new buff gloves

with more vanity than a rider does his colors at a race. But, alas! his

glory was destined soon to wane. One of his rivals, whose nose the

captain had valorously pulled, determining on revenge, had informed the

sheriff of Slashbey’s whereabouts, and just as he was leading his

charmer triumphantly to the dance, the myrmidons of justice pounced on

him, and after a desperate struggle he was secured, on the charge of an

assault and battery. But this was not the worst. Before the court opened

the next day, a dozen writs in civil suits had been lodged against his

body. The captain was beside himself. He trembled at the _exposé_ of his

affairs—he trembled for his heiress.

“‘We could laugh this battery out of court,’ he said; ‘but what the

devil can I do with these creditors? I’m a ruined man. And to come just

now, the infernal rascals! Oh, Anna Matilda!’ he exclaimed with a

love-lorn look of his crow-feet eyes, ‘it’s all up with you and your

fortune now. What would the fellows of the tenth say if they heard of

it?’

“‘Cheer up,’ said his attorney laughingly; ‘your case will come up among

the first, and we may yet find a way to get you off. It’s all the result

of envy. These young boys can’t endure that Mars and Apollo should meet

together in your person,’ and the barrister winked wickedly to me, as

Slashbey, marshalled by the sheriff, preceded us into the hall of

justice.

“It was with a rueful countenance that he took his seat in the court.

The room was densely filled with the usual motley assemblage at a county

sessions. Loafers half in rags, and shopmen in the latest cut, portly

farmers with huge mud-stained boots, and drovers carrying heavy loaded

whips, here a sober Quaker with a broad-rimmed beaver, and there a gay

young lawyer with more wit than briefs, long men and short men, fat ones

and lean ones, some with merry round faces, and others with countenances

as sour as crab-apples, officers and loungers, attorneys and clients,

filled up every vacant space outside the bar, whiling away the time

until the appearance of the judge, by speculating on the prospects of a

crop, or discussing the points of a case set down for trial at the term.

At length his honor made his appearance, and, bustling and bowing

through the crowd, assumed the bench, wiped the perspiration from his

rubicund face, coughed with judicial gravity, and ordered the crier to

open the court. That high functionary accordingly started to his feet,

and in a nasal twang mumbled over a formula which no one could hear

distinctly, but which appeared to be a recapitulation of the iniquities

of those in authority generally, and of his honor in particular, as it

ended with a hope that God would save the commonwealth and the honorable

court. After the crier sat down, a very lean man, with a very sharp

nose, and a very squeaking voice, called out ‘John Smith,’ whereupon a

little fat man jumped up and said ‘here;’ but the clerk, without seeming

to notice him, went on and called Joseph Thomson, Zerubabel Thomson,

Joab Johnson, and the Lord knows how many more Thomsons and Johnsons,

all of whom severally jumped up and said ‘here.’ Then, the jury being

empannelled, the case came on, and the attorneys got into towering

passions, and seemed as if they could have eaten each other up, while

the jury smiled and nodded, and their foreman—the little fat

man—stroked his chin and looked extremely wise. After this was gone

through with, there was a general buzz through the room, when suddenly

the judge cried ‘order,’ and then the sheriff cried ‘order,’ and the

sleepy constables and tipstaves opened their eyes and echoed ‘order’

more lustily than either; whereupon his honor turned over one or two big

books bound in white calf,—ah! this is prime Port—consulted his notes

for a moment, and then proceeded to sum up the evidence and charge the

jury.

“The next case was that of Slashbey—and the same formality was gone

through with until about half of the jury had been sworn, when the

attorney-general rose to acquaint the court that the panel was exhausted

and that therefore he prayed a _tales_ from the lookers on. These few

and simple words of the attorney-general acted on the spectators like

the upsetting of a crowded bee-hive. Instantly there was a great rush

towards the door. Drovers and farmers, shopmen and gentlemen, staid

Quakers and burly topers, all started in the race at once, tumbling and

scrambling over each other in their haste to reach the entrance, while

the tipstaves shouted ‘order’ until they were hoarse, and the sheriff

and his deputies sprang to the door in order to close it before the

egress of their prey. It was a moment of general confusion, and Slashbey

was forgotten in the _mêlée_. Even the judge had eyes only for the

scrambling fugitives.

“‘Now,’ said I, nudging Slashbey, who sat by me not far from the

casement; ‘now’s your time—clear the window at a leap—my horse

Thunderer is fastened not twenty yards off—ride like the devil, and

don’t draw rein till you get to Squankum.’

“Slashbey understood my plan as readily and rapidly as I had conceived

it, and, just waiting to see that the coast was clear, he placed his

hands on the sill, and, portly as he was, shot through the open window

like a bomb, unseen by all except his honor, who caught sight of the

fugitive’s coat tails as they disappeared outside.

“‘An escape!’ shouted the judge, starting to his feet; ‘sheriff, your

prisoner. The captain’s off.’

“On the instant the talesmen were forgotten, and sheriff, deputies,

tipstaves and freeholders turned around, with open mouths and curious

eyes. It was a minute or more before the matter could be explained, and

by that time I saw that Slashbey had got mounted. I shouted ‘stop thief’

at this, and sprang out of the window, as if in pursuit, followed by the

sheriff and his constables, tumbling helter-skelter over each other

after me. The officers no sooner caught sight of the fugitive than they

roared lustily to stop him, while the sheriff bawled for the ‘_posse

comitatus_’ like a bull of Bashan. It was no time to respect property,

so I followed the example of the officers, and sprang on the first steed

I came across, eager to see the fun.

“The court house stood nearly at the opposite end of the village, from

that out of which led the road to Squankum, and when I mounted my horse,

Slashbey was scouring down the main street some hundred yards ahead.

Before a minute, however, the sheriff and his pack were in full cry at

the fugitive’s heels, while as many of the spectators as could find

horses and vehicles started off, a few to aid the law, but most to enjoy

the sport. And, by my faith! what a sight it was! Foremost in the chase

gallopped the sheriff, his hat off and his queue flying behind, bawling

himself red in the face by cries of ‘stop thief,’ ‘head him off,’

‘maintain the laws,’ amid the laughter of some and the shouts of others

of the crowd. At every few leaps Slashbey would turn his face ruefully

around to see whether his pursuers gained on him or not—reminding one

of Tam O’Shanter, of blissful memory, when he saw the witches yelling

after him. The captain would never have won the prize at Astley’s for

horsemanship, and now, what betwixt his hurry and affright, he rode like

a frightened monkey at a circus. Gilpin did not create more excitement

in his famous race. The shopmen left their counters, the blacksmith

hurried from his forge, the school children followed the pedagogue to

the window, and the very chanticleers, unwilling to let the hubbub go by

without they partook in it, flapped their wings on the garden fences and

crowed lustily. But with your leave, I’ll pause to fill my glass, for a

man telling a story is like a steam-engine—he can’t get on without he

keeps the fire blazing.

“The race was now at its height. The uproar was tremendous. Up flew the

windows, and out popped the heads. The women shrieked, the pigs

squealed, the men laughed, the boys cheered, and a dozen curs hurried

yelping and snapping at Thunderer’s heels, who, alarmed at the hue and

cry around him, pricked up his ears, snorted, and fairly taking the bit

in his teeth, went off at a frantic pace. You would have died with

laughter had you seen Slashbey then. Holding on to the rein with one

hand, he grasped the mane desperately with the other, and, sticking his

feet up to the heels in the stirrup, he leaned forward until he lay

almost prostrate on the horse’s neck, while the tails of his coat flying

up behind disclosed the fair rotundity beneath, over which his shining

new buff cassimeres were stretched as tight as a drum-head. At every

leap he bounced three feet from the saddle. The shouts of the _posse_ in

his rear increased, while the captain’s rueful looks behind became more

frequent. Some cried ‘murder,’ others bawled ‘stop thief.’ The

perspiration poured down the captain’s cheeks. He gasped for breath.

And, to crown all, as he got opposite his charmer’s dwelling, a puff of

wind swept off his wig—for his hat had been left in the court house in

his hurry—and the envied locks sailing away to the rear amid convulsive

shouts of laughter on the part of the crowd, betrayed the bald pate of

Slashbey glistening like burnished silver in the sun.

“‘Go it, fat ’un, and never mind the scratch,’ roared a ragged

spectator, who was fairly dancing with delight.

“‘Hip—ho—heave ahead there,’ shouted another, shieing a missile at the

fugitive.

“‘Whow—whow—whoa,’ halloed others, running out in front of Thunderer

and waving their arms and hats before his eyes, but scampering hither

and thither as soon as the frightened steed drew near.

[Illustration]

“The captain felt his heart sink within him at this accumulation of

disasters, and he could scarcely summon courage to look up, but he made

a desperate effort, and—oh! shades of the gallant tenth—there was his

mistress at the window pointing to his glossy pate, and laughing until

the tears ran out of her eyes.

“The captain felt that his last hope was gone, and in a moment of

despair would have reined in his horse, but Thunderer took the matter in

his own hands and kept on at a thrashing pace, amid the shouts and

pelting of the crowd. He dashed down the cross-street, clattered over

the bridge, and in a few minutes crossed the brow of the neighboring

hill in a cloud of dust. The motley group in pursuit kept on, but when

Thunderer’s mettle was up there wasn’t his match in the whole county, so

that before long, one after another of the _posse_ drew in, leaving only

the sheriff and his deputies in pursuit. These, too, gave out before

they reached the vicinity of the enchanted land, in other words, the

cedar swamps this side of Squankum.

“The joke clove to the captain’s name closer than a brother. The little

vixen of an heiress had all along been coquetting with “the gallant

warrior,” and now she was the loudest among the laughers at her wigless

beau. She filled up Slashbey’s cup of sorrow by marrying, shortly after,

the gallant whose nose the captain had pulled.

“What branch of the service,” asked a spooney lieutenant from the bottom

of the table, after the laughter had somewhat subsided, “did you say

your friend belonged to?”

“I didn’t particularize,” coolly said the narrator, “but I believe it

was the _flying_ artillery.”

* * * * *

THE REEFER OF ’76.

BY THE “AUTHOR OF CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”

THE SHIPWRECK.

The arrival of our battered fleet in the Texal, was the signal for a

diplomatic war betwixt the ministers of England, Holland and France. The

result of this encounter of wits, was the secret transfer of the

captured ships to the latter power, and an order from the Prince of

Orange to quit his dominions. Accordingly, Paul Jones, having superseded

Landais in command of the Alliance, put to sea on the 27th of December,

1779, and, after running the gauntlet of the channel fleet, and

approaching near enough to the Downs to examine its force, reached the

roads of Groix on the 10th of February, 1780, in safety. As these things

are matters of history, I briefly pass them over, the more readily

because I did not myself accompany the commodore; for having found a

letter from my captain, lying for me at Holland, requiring my return to

Paris, I seized the first opportunity and started for France within a

fortnight after the capture of the Serapis.

Our run through the straits was pleasant, and we had every prospect of a

speedy voyage until our second day out, when the wind freshened into a

gale, and before night it was blowing, as the old tars had it, “great

guns and marlinspikes.” Every thing, however, was made fast and clean,

and toward midnight I sought my hammock, and in a few moments, with a

sailor’s carelessness, had forgotten our danger in sleep. How long I

slept I cannot tell, but I was suddenly aroused from my slumbers by the

heeling of the ship, and as I started up in my berth, I heard the salt

water dashing through the cabin, and roaring in the hold as if the

bulk-heads were giving way. The lights were out, and I could see

nothing, but I knew by the sound that the water was pouring in a

cataract down the companion way, and that all escape therefore by that

path was cut off. Could the ship be sinking?—had she broached

to?—where were the crew? were the questions that rushed through my mind

at that awful moment. I listened a second to hear, if I could, any sign

of my fellow passengers in the cabin; but the place appeared to be

deserted. Knowing that no time was to be lost, I sprang to the window in

the stern, but—Good God! the dead lights were in, and all escape by

that way was closed on me. Louder and louder roared the waters into the

cabin, already they were dashing their cold spray around me, and in a

few seconds they would submerge my berth. Death stared me in the

face—death, too, in its most horrid guise. My brain whirled, my knees

shook, my skin felt cold as the grave, and my usually buoyant heart sank

within me. But these feelings triumphed only for a moment. My native

resolution came speedily to my aid, and I determined to die, since die I

must, like the old philosopher who wrapped his garments around him and

lay down as if to a pleasant sleep. At this instant I suddenly

remembered that the cabin had an outlet overhead, and groping my way

along, half buried in water the while, I caught hold of the frame work

of the binnacle, and dashing the glass out with my hand, raised myself

up, and, the next minute, crawled on deck. For an instant—so terrific

was the violence of the gale which swept past me—I could neither see,

hear, nor stand. The rain and hail beating fiercely against me, pinned

me down to the spot which I had first gained, while the thunder of the

hurricane that went whistling and roaring by, seemed to forebode the

approach of the final day itself. Oceans of water deluged the deck,

hissing past me like the scornful laughter of fiends. At length I

managed to raise my head and cast a glance at the scene around me. The

darkness was almost impenetrable, but sufficient light existed to

convince me that the decks were deserted, and that the ship was lying on

her beam-ends, with cataracts of water rolling momently over her

windward side. Oh! God, what a ruin! Officer and man, passengers and

crew, all, all had been swept away by the devouring surge, and I alone

was left, preserved almost by a miracle. I gazed to leeward, but only a

waste of driving foam met my eye—I looked astern, nothing but the green

monsters of the deep, rolling mountain high, were seen. At this instant

another deluge of foam whistled past, blinding my eyes with spray, and

jerking me with a giant’s power from my hold. Buried in brine, bruised,

despairing, and almost stunned, I thought my hour had come, and

breathing a momentary prayer to heaven for mercy, I resigned myself to

death. Suddenly my hand struck against something, which, with an

instinctive love for life, I grasped. My progress was instantaneously

checked, and, although the resistance almost snapped my arms from their

sockets, I still clung to the object I had caught. When the billow had

whirled past, and the spray had ceased to blind my eyes, I saw that I

had seized one of the posts of the bulwarks. Taking advantage of a

momentary lull, I crept to a place of greater security, and sat down to

ponder over my chances of escape.

All through that awful night I clung to my frail support, expecting

momently to be swept from it into eternity. Language cannot describe my

feelings. No pen can paint the horrors of those long and dreary hours.

The air grew intensely cold: the rain became hail. The sky, if possible,

lowered more gloomily, and the billows rolled higher and higher around

me, while the deep tones of the tempest mingled with the chafing of the

surges, rose up over all like the wild choral symphony which we dream of

as forever rising from the world of ruin and despair. Borne aloft on the

waves, or hurried down into the abyss, drenched, bruised, and

bewildered, I saw no gleam of hope. Beneath me was the boiling

deep—above me the sky seemed settling bodily down. Now the gale

whistled shrilly past, or now wailed moaningly away to leeward. Darkness

and terror were all around me.

At length the morning dawned, but slowly and despairingly. The gale

somewhat subsided, too; but its violence was still terrific. In the

eastern firmament there was a dull, misty light, hanging like a belt

along the seaboard, but the sun itself was completely obscured. By the

faint glimmer thus thrown around the scene, I hoped to distinguish some

approaching sail. It was in vain. Nothing met my vision, save the wild

waste tossing to and fro in agony. Again and again I looked,—but again

and again in vain. At length I caught sight of what would have seemed to

a landsman to be the foam on the crest of a far off wave, but which I

knew to be a sail. How my heart throbbed as I watched the course of the

approaching craft! I soon made her out to be a ship driving before the

gale under a close reefed main-course, and as she approached nearer, I

saw that she was an English man-of-war. Captivity was better than death,

and I did not, therefore, hesitate. I shouted aloud. But I might as well

have lifted up my voice against the thunder. I waved my arm aloft. It

was in vain. I clambered up on the weather-quarter, and once more waving

my arm, shouted with superhuman strength. The head of the frigate came

gallantly around, and with a cry of joy, I saw the man-of-war make

towards me. Big tears of gratitude rushed into my eyes, and my throat

parched with emotion. On came the noble stranger, swinging her tall

masts gracefully, and in a few minutes she was close on to me. I could

see the look-outs gazing towards me. In a little space I should be

rescued. At this moment a billow broke over me again, but, undaunted by

the drenching, when I rose to the surface, I turned gaily in the

direction of the frigate. God of my fathers!—she was not to be seen! I

gazed with a throbbing heart to windward, and there was the man-of-war,

edging away from me as if unconscious of my presence. I gazed

speechlessly on her. The truth broke agonizingly on me. The frigate had

approached the wreck, and not seeing me, had thought all on board lost,

and resumed her course. In vain I shouted, and in vain I waved my arm

frantically on high. I felt from the first there was no hope, and at

length, giving over every effort, I crouched down once more in that

state of complete exhaustion, both mentally and physically, which

ensues, when the excitement of hope is followed by the certainty of

despair.

The day wore on. The tempest slowly abated. Yet no welcome sail met my

vision, unless a few far off crafts which crossed the seaboard, hull

down, and which brought no hope, could be called welcome. As hour after

hour wore away, my hold on life grew weaker and weaker. My physical

powers, I felt, could not much longer endure this exposure to tempest

and cold. Already the blood seemed at a stand in my extremities, and I

fancied I felt the cold chill shuddering up to my heart. A drowsiness

came over me. But rallying myself, I beat my hands and stamped my feet

to invigorate, if possible, the vital current. At length I paused from

pure exhaustion. Still no aid appeared. My spirits at length flagged. I

felt that utter prostration which, by taking away the spring of hope,

deprives us of all motive for exertion, and is the sure forerunner of a

death of despair. I lost all longing for life. The sensation of cold

subsided. I felt no pain. A dreamy bliss crept soothingly over my

soul—the sea, the sky, the air, the wreck swam around before

me—visions such as no mortal eye hath seen or imagined, thronged on my

brain—an exstacy I cannot describe, but which makes my hand even now

tremble with rapture, possessed me,—and then all is blank.

Again, and I dreamed. I seemed to be in the centre of a vast void, a

universe of darkness and obscurity. Yet all was not gloom. For amid the

shadowy firmament appeared a fair bright face beaming upon me like an

angel’s from the clouds—a face whose features were written on my inmost

heart, so soft and seraphic was their expression! I knew it—it was that

of Beatrice. The mild blue eye, the hair of wavy gold, the brow that

rivalled a Madonna’s, and more than all, the smile which now appeared

all glorified, told me that face was hers. And it gazed on me with pity

and love. And then I heard a voice—like and yet unlike hers, for the

tone was that of Beatrice, but even sweeter, and, oh! how heavenly! The

very air seemed music. Was she, indeed, a beatified spirit sent to waft

me onward to a brighter world?

But once more all was dark—a voiceless void! I had but one feeling, and

that was of being. I knew not, heard not, saw not. I could not think.

But my soul was, as it were, agony itself.

At length a light broke in on that void. My brain swam and I faintly

opened my eyes. Was I yet an inhabitant of earth? The bed, the curtains,

the room beyond convinced me at length that I lived. I feebly raised

myself up and gazed around. A footstep approached. Overcome with

faintness I sank down. A hand put aside the curtains, a cry of joy broke

from the intruder, a hot tear-drop fell on my face. I looked up, and

there was Beatrice!

“My own—” I faintly articulated.

“Hush!—not a word yet,” she said archly, placing her fingers to her

lips with a smile.

* * * * *

THE INTERESTING STRANGER.

OR, DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

On a hot sultry afternoon, in the August of 18—, a tall, pale,

melancholy-looking gentleman alighted from the stage-coach at the door

of the Eagle Tavern, in Buffalo, and, after a few minutes’ conversation

with the bar-keeper, was ushered into a handsome private parlor, while

his baggage was carried to one of the finest bed-rooms in the house.

Perhaps, had the stranger mingled carelessly with the loungers on the

piazza, after his arrival, he would have attracted little more attention

than the companions of his wearisome journey, for, excepting a slight

moustache on his upper lip, there was nothing to distinguish him in

external appearance. But his quiet, grave deportment, and the desire for

seclusion which he exhibited, excited the curiosity of the news-mongers,

and a thousand conjectures concerning him were immediately set afloat.

The stranger, however, seemed little disposed to satisfy the spirit of

inquiry which prevails so extensively in American hotels; for, after

taking possession of his apartments, he appeared no more that evening,

and the waiter, who carried to him his supper, could only say that “he

was a _real_ gentleman, for he had given him a hard dollar—that he wore

a flowered silk dressing-gown and embroidered slippers, and that he was

going to stay in Buffalo a month.” The next morning the interest which

he had excited extended itself to the no less curious gossips of the

gentler sex; and, when the bell rang for dinner, many an eye was turned

to the closed door of Room No. 2, in the hope of seeing its inmate

emerge from his retirement. They were not doomed to disappointment.

After all were seated at table, the stranger glided quietly into the

dining-hall, and took his seat at the foot of the well-filled board,

apparently unconscious of the piercing glances which were directed

towards him. Notwithstanding the profusion of dainties which were

officiously offered him by the waiter, whose heart had been won by the

“hard dollar” on the previous night, he merely tasted a single dish, and

refusing all the luxuries of the dessert, finished his frugal meal with

a bit of dry bread and a glass of iced water. His abstemiousness and

abstraction of manner excited the attention of every one, and when he

silently rose to leave the table, many a glance followed his

slowly-receding form. The ladies had not failed to observe his stately

figure, his fine aquiline nose, the melancholy softness of his dark

eyes, and the beauty of his hands, which were small, white and tapering,

as, according to Napoleon and Byron, all aristocratic hands should be.

They at once decided that he was a person of some distinction; perhaps

an English nobleman incognito, or at least a rich and well-born

Southerner. But a week had elapsed before he chose to give any other

idea of his rank and station than might be derived from the register of

the hotel, where he had inscribed, in a very elegant hand, the name of

“Charles Stuart Montague, New Orleans.” Polite, courteous and

gentlemanly to every one whom he chanced to encounter, particularly to

females, he soon won the suffrages of all by his civilities, while he

excited general sympathy by his uniform sadness of deportment.

Among the inmates of the house was the Hon. Mr. Windlespin, an extensive

land-holder and an ex-member of Congress, who, with his two daughters,

had recently returned from a visit to France, and now occupied

elegantly-furnished apartments in the hotel. The saloon appropriated to

this family was directly opposite to that occupied by Mr. Montague, and

the ladies were dying with curiosity to learn something about their

handsome neighbor. The heat of the weather compelled both to leave open

the doors of their respective apartments, and the many furtive looks

which the two Misses Windlespin cast into the tempting room had enabled

them to catch a glimpse of a richly-enchased writing-case upon the

centre table, and a guitar leaning against the chimney-piece, while they

had several times enjoyed the opportunity of watching the solemn step of

the melancholy stranger, as, attired in the said silk dressing-gown, he

paced the limits of his apartment. They reflected much upon the singular

mystery which seemed to involve him. What could make him so unhappy? He

was evidently rich, handsome, and, as they were willing to believe,

accomplished—for the mournful strains of a flute were sometimes heard

at the dim twilight, and occasionally a few chords on the guitar, struck

as if with a trembling hand, resounded through his lonely room. What

could be the cause of such deep despondency?

But Mr. Montague had not been quite insensible to the vicinity of the

elegant Misses Windlespin. A graceful bow had frequently marked his

consciousness of their presence as he passed the open door of the

parlor; and, more than once, he had paused at the entrance of the

dining-hall, while they swept by to take their places at table,

acknowledging his politeness by a profound courtesy _à la mode de

Paris_. In the course of the changes which daily occur at a public

table, Mr. Montague had gradually moved up, until, as one of the oldest

boarders in the house, he occupied a seat next to the Windlespin family.

A fine opportunity was now offered for those civilities which cost so

little and are often productive of so many pleasant results. By degrees

the abstraction of the melancholy gentleman was beguiled by the charms

of his fair neighbors, and the ladies noticed, with no small degree of

satisfaction, that they could induce him, not only to prolong his stay

at table, but also to exchange his frugal fare for the dainties which

they so much enjoyed. In short, an acquaintance between them had fairly

commenced, and they mutually congratulated each other when the

“_interesting stranger_” actually accepted an invitation to pass an

evening with them.

Miss Grace Windlespin was a sentimentalist, while her sister Catharine

affected vivacity and brilliancy. The elder was all poetry—the younger

all fun and frolic. Grace spoke in a gentle voice, and raised her blue

eyes sweetly and languidly to the face of those whom she addressed;

while Kate (for so, in imitation of Shakspeare’s heroine, she affected

to be styled) turned the full light of her bold laughing glances on

every one worth looking at. The one delighted in the soft pleasures of

sensibility—the other in the ready repartee and saucy jest. In short,

the sisters were alike in nothing except their excessive affectation.

Neither of them exhibited her natural character; all was assumed for

effect, and each had studied the part best suited to her style of

beauty. The slightly-bending figure, pale complexion and long chestnut

ringlets of Grace were admirably suited to her very _poetic_ manner;

while the blonde hair, rosy cheeks and somewhat dumpy person of her

merry sister were equally well suited to the devil-may-care character

which she chose to assume.

Their father was one of those kind of persons who are constantly engaged

in visionary schemes of wealth. Nobody better understood how to puff up

a bubble—nobody was better skilled in “mapping out” landed

estates—nobody possessed in such perfection the gift of

“_fortune-telling_” as the Hon. Mr. Windlespin. Originally a country

shop-keeper in Jersey, his first start in life had been rather an odd

one. Taking advantage of the mania for “real estate speculations,” which

pervaded the whole country, he, in company with several others,

projected a new city, to be located upon their extensive and somewhat

barren farms. Accordingly a large hotel was built, a meeting-house

erected, a school-house raised, and some half dozen dwelling-houses were

ranged along what was meant to be the main street. In an incredibly

short time all was completed, and every thing was ready except the

people who were required to occupy the infant city. These were still to

be found, and the company began to discover that it would be exceedingly

inconvenient to pay “_interest monies_” without some assistance. At this

juncture the genius of Mr. Windlespin devised an expedient for bringing

their new settlement into notice. He advertised in all the papers that a

purse of fifty dollars would be “_danced for_” by twelve _Communipaw

negroes_—the dancers to be selected from as many as chose to try their

skill previous to the grand effort. The scene of these new _Athletæ_ was

to be the extensive plain which fronted the hotel at

“_Scipio-Africanus_”—for such was the sounding title which Mr.

Windlespin, after a careful search into an old copy of Lemprière’s

dictionary, had chosen for the incipient city. The idle, the dissolute,

and the shiftless—the people who are most easily led to change their

habitations, like wandering Arabs, are the very men who were most likely

to be attracted by such a queer and novel amusement. Accordingly Mr.

Windlespin’s plan succeeded admirably. On the day appointed for the

selection of the sable candidates for _saltatory honors_, several

hundred people were assembled in and about the hotel, while a still

greater number of the dark race were gathered to exhibit their skill.

Certain rules were laid down for the governance of the assembly—a place

was cleared for the exhibition—the negroes came forward by tens, and he

who could tire down all his companions was set aside as worthy to

compete for the prize. The first day was consumed in this important

investigation; _thirty_ first-rate professors of the double-shuffle and

heel-and-toe exercise had been chosen, and the following day was to be

devoted to the selection of the appointed _twelve_, from this reduced

number of candidates. The hotel was filled to overflowing—the dwelling

houses were no longer empty shells; but, furnished with camp beds,

offered shelter and repose to the wearied spectators, and even the

meeting-house was appropriated to their accommodation. The second day

was similarly spent, except that the concourse of visiters had

increased, and the excitement of the scene had produced sundry brawls

and broken heads. The third and last day was appropriated to the

performance of the selected twelve, and the final adjudication of the

purse. Never had there been such gyrations, such circumflexions, such

saltations as were then witnessed. Never had a victory been purchased at

such a sudoriferous expense. One after another, the dancers withdrew

exhausted, until only three were left, who seemed to bid defiance to

fatigue. Hour after hour they continued their exertions, until they

seemed to be converted into mere machines, and with staring eyes,

stiffened limbs, and shining faces, appeared like monstrous images,

moved by some mechanical force. At last the spectators became completely

tired with this exhibition of perpetual motion. They insisted that the

prize should be equally divided between the three indefatigable dancers,

and thus the singular entertainment closed.

But Windlespin had not been idle during those three days. His brandy was

very excellent—he made “glorious” rum punch—his cigars were real

“Habanas,” and his customers had fully enjoyed the manifold creature

comforts which he offered them. When they prepared to return home, most

of them carried in their pockets the deed of a building-lot in the town

of Scipio-Africanus, for which they had paid ten per cent. of the

purchase-money, and given a bond and mortgage for the remainder; while a

few, being persuaded that the neighborhood of such a hotel was a most

desirable addition to the comforts of a family, concluded to take

immediate possession of the houses already erected. Thus did the

incipient city receive its earliest inhabitants, and though it has never

yet been obliged to enlarge its borders in consequence of

_over-populousness_, it still drags on a sickly existence, having,

however, exchanged its original euphonious title for the more simple but

no less expressive one of “_Niggertown_.”

Mr. Windlespin’s grand stroke of policy remained yet to be shown. As

treasurer of the company, as well as officiating master of the hotel,

all monies derived from the custom at the bar, as well as from the sale

of building-lots, had passed through his hands. After the affair was

over, he called a meeting of the company, exhibited a statement of

expenses and receipts, and after deducting the former, paid over the

latter to the various members, reserving to himself a handsome

commission for his trouble. He did not think it necessary to inform his

confederates of the fact that every thing had been purchased on credit,

and that, so far from paying the expenses, he had, by using their names,

rendered them liable for the debt which had been incurred, but quietly

pocketing the lion’s share of the spoils, he bade adieu to the limits of

“Niggertown,” in order to try his luck in a new field.

Such was Mr. Windlespin’s first essay in fortune-hunting, and several

affairs of a similar nature had so increased his means, that he found

himself quite a respected resident in one of our northern cities, almost

before he was aware of his elevated position in society. He was finally

chosen a member of congress for the district, and though, owing to some

dubious transaction, his seat was disputed, and he magnanimously

resigned what he knew he could not keep, yet he never relinquished the

prefix of Honorable, to which the choice of his constituents entitled

him. Shortly before the appearance of Mr. Charles Stuart Montague upon

the scene, Mr. Windlespin had taken his daughters to Paris, where they

received the benefit of foreign polish for six weeks, and then returned

as highly accomplished as a modern boarding-school, a journey in a

French diligence and a taste of French cookery could make them. They

meant to marry, and to marry rich, and therefore each had chosen a part

which, while it offered a wide field, was likely, as they supposed, to

occasion no rivalry.

Mr. Windlespin was too wily to be long in doubt as to Mr. Montague’s

circumstances. He managed to discover that he was a widower, sorrowing

over the recent loss of a beloved wife, and that he had come to the

north with the double motive of dissipating his grief, and purchasing a

certain description of merchandise, which he designed to send to the

city of Galveston, where a branch of his widely-extended commercial

house was established. This news was of course communicated to the young

ladies, and while Grace became doubly sentimental, Kate, the amiable

romp, determined to wile him from his vain regrets by the charms of

gayety. Leaving his daughters to pursue their matrimonial plans, Mr.

Windlespin determined to make the most of his present opportunities,

and, if possible, to gain some percentage on account of the interesting

stranger. He accordingly sounded a friend, a careful old Scotchman, who

dealt largely in the kind of goods required by Mr. Montague, and

endeavored to secure a handsome commission from him, in case he brought

him so profitable a customer. But the crafty old fellow was not to be

caught with fair promises; he required proof of Mr. Montague’s ability

to become a cash customer, and accepted an invitation to meet him at Mr.

Windlespin’s apartments. But the scene which met his eyes when he

entered the parlor at early twilight, was not calculated to give him a

very exalted opinion of his anticipated dealer. The elegant Mr.

Montague, attired in pantaloons of spotless white, with gaiters of the

same snowy hue, extending within an inch of the toe of his shining

boot—a blue silk fancy jacket, fastened to his waist by a sash of

crimson net—an embroidered collar, turned back from his throat, and

embroidered ruffles dangling over his delicate hands, seemed to the

rough old borderer like the very personification of effeminacy and

folly. But when he only half rose from his graceful attitude, and

extended the tip of his finger to the visiter, while he directly turned

from him to continue his flirtation with the sisters, Mr. MacDonald lost

all patience with himself for having been foolish enough to expect any

benefit from such a “popinjay.” But even Mr. MacDonald could not read

the character of the “interesting stranger.” Early on the following

morning, he had scarcely reached the counting-room, when he was

surprised by a visit from Mr. Montague, and the old man could scarcely

identify the hero of the past evening’s manœuvres in the keen and

practised man of business who now addressed him.

“I never talk on business in the presence of ladies, sir,” said the

elegant gentleman, “and this, I hope, will account for my silence on the

subject last evening; if I am rightly informed, however, you are the

very person to whom I was advised to apply by my friend Mr. Tickler, of

New Orleans.”

“Ah, Mr. Tickler, cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, you mean; an old friend

of mine,” answered Mr. MacDonald, “did he give you letters to me?”

“No, sir,” answered Mr. Montague; “when I left New Orleans, I was not

certain whether I should visit Buffalo, or limit my journey to New York,

and therefore I brought no letters to any one in this city. However, you

probably know your friend’s hand-writing, and, if so, these papers will

answer our purpose better than a mere empty introduction.” With these

words he drew from his pocket-book sundry certificates of deposit in the

Sugarcane Bank, which bore the signature of the cashier.

“That is his hand, sure enough, and a crabbed fist he writes too,” said

Mr. MacDonald, after a close scrutiny of the proffered papers. While

examining the signatures, the careful old man had not forgotten to

glance at the amounts, and he thus learned that the sum of _thirty

thousand dollars_ was at that moment lying in the Sugarcane Bank to the

credit of Mr. Charles Stuart Montague.

“I am desirous of purchasing some twenty or thirty thousand dollars

worth of goods,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “and if I can get them

sufficiently cheap here to pay the cost of transportation to New York, I

would rather buy in Buffalo than hunt among the Pearl street jobbers in

that Babel of a city. I mean to pay cash, and shall ship the goods

immediately to Galveston.”

“What an immense business those southern merchants must do,” mentally

exclaimed Mr. MacDonald; “he speaks of dollars as if they were pebbles.”

Mr. Montague continued: “If you are disposed to let me have the

specified articles at fair prices, with a liberal discount for cash, I

will immediately make arrangements to have them sent on. However,” he

added, noticing the cautious Scotchman’s hesitation, “perhaps you had

better take till to-morrow to think about it, and, in the mean time, I

will look round the market, and may possibly be able to find better

bargains than you can afford me.”

“Hang the fellow’s boldness,” thought Mr. MacDonald; “if he were a rogue

he would not be so indifferent about the matter.” He determined,

however, to consult Mr. Windlespin before he made his decision, and

therefore fixed upon the following day to settle the affair. Mr.

Windlespin took the opportunity offered by Mr. Montague’s daily visit to

his daughters, and in the course of a private interview with the

merchant, entered into a negotiation with him by which he, Mr.

Windlespin, bound himself to take half the risk, on condition of

receiving half the profits of the sales made to Mr. Montague. Mr.

MacDonald preferred this method to the original proposition of a certain

percentage, as it gave him the opportunity of gaining an advantage over

both the parties. Accordingly Mr. Montague was waited upon by Mr.

MacDonald, and a close and hair-splitting negotiation was carried on for

some time, which resulted in the purchase of goods to the value of

twenty thousand dollars, which were to be delivered to Mr. Montague’s

agent in New York free of all expenses. In return, Mr. Montague handed

to Mr. MacDonald certificates of deposit to the amount of twenty-five

thousand dollars, which were easily negotiable in New York at three per

cent. discount; and as some time would be required to complete the

transaction, the stranger agreed to prolong his stay in Buffalo until

the delivery of the goods in New York.

In the meanwhile, the elegant widower was managing equally well in his

love affairs. He listened to Kate’s wild sallies with a languid smile,

and patted her round cheek or clasped her luxuriant waist in a most

brother-like or rather _cousin-like_ fashion. To Grace he was all

courtliness and gentleness; if he took her hand it was with an air of

timid respect, which would have done honour to a “_Paladin

chivalresque_,” and if he ventured to hang over her, as she sat in one

of her sentimental attitudes, it was with a look of tender melancholy

which melted her very heart. Each believed herself the favorite. Kate

could draw him from his trance of grief, and Grace was allowed to

sympathise with him. He talked to one of the gayeties of New Orleans—to

the other, of the domestic happiness he had enjoyed there; and when, at

length, he was induced to exercise his musical talents in their behalf,

he played fandangos on the guitar for the lovely Kate, while he poured

forth the mournful voice of the wailing flute for her sentimental

sister. But, notwithstanding all her exquisite sensibility, Grace

Windlespin beheld with secret satisfaction the returning cheerfulness of

the bereaved widower. He talked less of departed joys, and seemed less

despairing of future peace. The miniature of his lost wife was no longer

pressed to his lips with all the fondness of passionate love whenever

his feelings were overpowered by tender recollections, and, though he

still wore it about his neck, it was suspended upon a _hair chain_, the

gift of the gentle Grace, and _presumed_ to be a tress from her own

chestnut locks, though in reality derived from the store of a

fashionable barber in the neighborhood. His watch-guard was braided by

the hands of the lovely hoyden who had laughingly promised him her

garter for the purpose; and, in short, each had reason to suppose

herself the true magnet of attraction.

But matters were now drawing to a crisis. The goods were now sent on to

New York, and Mr. Montague received tidings that they had been duly

received by his agent. The certificates of deposit were negotiated by

two of the Wall street brokers, and Mr. MacDonald, after paying himself,

handed to the young southerner the balance. It became necessary,

therefore, for Mr. Montague to repair to New York, in order to

superintend the shipment of his merchandise, and he felt himself obliged

to settle his “_affaire du cœur_” before his departure.

“How happy could I be with either,

Were t’other dear charmer away,”

sung the “interesting stranger,” as he reflected upon his position

between the rival beauties. But he managed with his usual adroitness.

The gentle Grace contrived to secure an uninterrupted interview with

him, and received a proffer of his heart and hand, both of which gifts

she lovingly accepted, together with a delicate locket, containing some

of her adorer’s raven hair, set in a circlet of aqua-marine

gems—“emblems,” as he said, “of her transparent guilelessness of

character.” A merry game of romps with Kate afforded him a chance of

whispering a declaration in her ear also, and an elegant diamond ring,

“only less brilliant than her own bright eyes”—to use his elegant

phrase—was received by her as a pledge of betrothment to Mr. Charles

Stuart Montague. Having arranged these little matters to his

satisfaction, he departed, leaving his flute, his guitar, and his

writing-case, in charge of the ladies until his return. Meanwhile the

sisters—each imagining she had outwitted the other—kept their own

secret, and patiently awaited the moment when the lover should return to

claim his bride.

Scarcely a month had elapsed, however, when intelligence of a most

startling nature was received. The certificates of deposit, which had

been forwarded by the New York brokers to their agents in New Orleans,

when presented to the bank for payment, were pronounced to be

_forgeries_! An inquiry was immediately instituted respecting Mr.

Charles Stuart Montague, and the result of the investigation was, that

no such person was known to the cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, and that

the signatures to the certificates, though admirably well executed, were

only _excellent imitations_ of the rugged characters in which Mr.

Tickler usually traced his name. But the length of time which was

required to ascertain that fact, had afforded the gentleman full time to

complete his plans. The goods which he had purchased in Buffalo, had

been sold at auction by his confederate, as soon as they reached New

York. Mr. Montague arrived there in time to divide the spoils; and,

instead of shipping the merchandise, they concluded to ship _themselves_

for Texas; while Mr. Windlespin and Mr. MacDonald, who had endorsed the

certificates, were left to reimburse the brokers, and to pocket their

own loss.

The ladies were filled with amazement and grief, and, in the first

overwhelming burst of anguish, revealed to each other the alarming fact

that Mr. Montague was actually _engaged to marry both_! His writing-case

was opened, and found to contain some rose-tinted note paper—a stick of

pink sealing-wax, and an agate seal, with the impressive motto,

“_toujours fidèle_.” But, upon further examination, a private drawer was

discovered, containing the following letters:

“Dear Jack,

“Why the deuce don’t you get on faster with your Buffalo scheme?

It will cost as much as it is worth if you stay much longer. I

believe you like the trade of gentleman, for whenever you take

it up you let every thing else hang by the eyelids till you get

into some scrape which drives you ahead. What do you expect to

gain by courting those two girls when you can’t marry either of

them if they were as rich as Jews? For my part I don’t see the

use of playing the devil when there is nothing to be gained by

it. By the way, I promised to send the enclosed letter as the

only means of preventing Mistress Molly from advertising you, as

she does not know where you are. I hope you will be duly

grateful to

“Your friend,

“T. M.”

The enclosure was still more curious:

“U are a big Scamp and a Blackhearted villin. If u hav no

Kumpashum fur me u mite Hav sum for ure own Flesh and

blude—here I am a Washin and goin out to dase work to Feed ure

seven starvin childer wile u are a travellin About jist like a

jintleman—u ought to Bee ashamed so u ought and if u dont cum

home and luke after us I will Advertis u in all The papers. Any

Boddy would no u by ure discrepshun u most insinivatin man—oh

wen I think Of ure butiful Long hare and ure Hansume face I

culde forgiv u every thing only cum back and i will forgiv u and

i will werk fur u agin jist Like i alwase did so as to Save ure

Little wite Hands so no more at present from ure

“afecshunate Mary Mugson.”

About two years after the events just recorded, Miss Grace Windlespin

(who had long since discovered that her aqua-marine locket, like her

sister’s diamond, was as false as the lover’s heart) was led to the

hymeneal altar, as the phrase is, by a very respectable _tailor_; while

Miss Kate had tamed down her wild spirit so far as to marry a country

school-master—an elderly widower, with several children. The truth was

that Mr. Windlespin’s land speculations had ended in total ruin, and the

ladies had no time to pick and choose among their admirers, when they

daily feared the exposure of their actual circumstances. They were

married with great parade, however, and immediately after the ceremony

the happy couples set off on a bridal tour—the two husbands having no

doubt that the father’s wedding gift would pay all such little extra

expenses. Among the places of note which they visited was the famous

Auburn prison. The time chosen was the hour when the inmates are usually

led out to dinner, and the ladies stood quietly regarding the gangs of

men, who, with folded arms and locked step, moved forward, as if with a

single impulse, like some complicated machine. Suddenly Grace uttered a

loud shriek, and threw herself tenderly on her husband’s bosom. One of

the prisoners had dared to look at her as he passed, and, unobserved by

his keeper, had even given her a knowing _wink_. Kate kept her own

counsel about it, and did not appear to notice the insolent look of the

handsome felon; but, notwithstanding his shaven head and prison garb,

she, as well as Grace, had recognised the features of “the interesting

stranger”—the elegant Mr. Charles Stuart Montague—alias—Jack Mugson,

the swindler!

Brooklyn, L. I.

* * * * *

IL SERENADO DI VENICE.

The sunlight has faded away from the sky,

Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;

Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

The moon is uprising in glorious light,

Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;

Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,

All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;

Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,

With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowers

Ere the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renew

The songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.

Valeria.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.—No. III.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

LADY MACBETH.

Shakspeare should be read at least once a year. This is to the mind what

an excursion in the country is to the body—a strengthening,

health-producing process. Each perusal will not be a repetition of the

preceding. On the contrary, no two perusals will ever be alike. Read him

as _a boy_, you will be dazzled and delighted: read him year by year

after, and you will, with each year, behold beauties, sealed to you

before, from your own comparative narrowness of mind and want of

experience. Each event of your life will render you fitter to study him.

Each new acquaintance you form—each history you read—each science you

study—each country you travel into—each step you advance in life—each

friend you lose by treachery or death, will prepare you still further.

Could you go on adding to your experience much more than has ever

(except in Shakspeare’s own case) been added to that of mortal man, each

new progress would still enlarge your capacity for appreciating him. All

men comprehend him differently. The king reads him as he would listen to

the princely counsels of a royal father. The beggar may find in him

something applicable to himself, and something likely to make him

happier and wiser, which he himself had before never thought of—or of

which he had only formed a vague idea. The statesman—the general—the

prince royal—the husband—the father—the wife—the lover—the

unfortunate—the happy—may all come here, and carry away, from the

boundless reservoir, something apparently intended for themselves. He

seems to have described or alluded _to every thing_. He seems to have

taken in the whole range of human nature.

Poor _old general Montholon_, who was with Napoleon at St. Helena—one

of the most faithful of the friends who have adhered to the fallen

family—is the companion of the Prince Louis Napoleon, in his late

_invasion_ of France. Nearly all were very young men. This white-headed

old soldier appeared among them strangely. Had they succeeded, it was

doubtless their hope to give respectability to their cause by his

presence.

The same thing is proposed in Julius Cæsar, by the conspirators,

respecting Cicero.

“_Cassius._ But what of Cicero? shall we send him?

I think he will stand very strong with us.

_Casca._ Let us not have him out.

_Cinna._ No, by no means.

_Metellus._ O, let us have him; for his silver hairs

Will purchase us a good opinion,

And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:

It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands;

Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,

But all be buried in his gravity.”

I am not going to reprint the beauties of Shakspeare. Instances like the

above—_a case_—an event—a feature of human nature—are so common that

they need not be pointed out. Thousands of years hence, as the

numberless crowd of unexpected events come on, it will be found that

this poet has already described them.

These thoughts occurred to me the other evening after taking up casually

a volume of Macbeth—perhaps one of the most tremendous portraitures of

human nature that ever came from the pen of man. The play opened by

chance to the scene where the remorse-haunted queen walks in her sleep.

Surely no human writer ever set down, in the same number of words, a

more terrific picture. It has upon me almost the effect ascribed to

Medusa’s head. It nearly turns me to stone. We know that but few of the

great Greek tragedies have descended to the modern reader, but neither

in them, nor in any of the ancient or modern writers, is there a scene

more highly conceived, more perfectly executed, or acting with more

power upon the heart and the imagination. I have not read any comments

or commentators, German or English, respecting it, and therefore very

probably may omit some of its peculiarities. I think it _the_ scene of

Macbeth, the climax and moral of the tragedy, and perhaps the finest and

most extraordinary piece of writing in the whole of the author’s works.

No where in the range of literature is there to be seen such a frightful

fragment of human nature. I can never read it without feeling the blood

grow cold in my veins, and receiving a most painful heart-sick

impression of the evils which hang over the mortal state, when not

protected by moral and religious principle; and I can perfectly

understand an anecdote related of Mrs. Siddons, who, on attempting to

study the part alone in her room at night, became so frightened that she

called her maid as a companion. Perhaps the Shaksperian theorist, who

has discovered that the purpose of our poet’s works was to make an

illustration of the truth of Christianity, by putting within every

man’s, every boy’s reach the whole compass of experience to be derived

from a hundred eventful lives, had an eye upon this scene among others.

It certainly has to me a profound metaphysical and religious meaning,

and is best explained by supposing it, like Othello, a gigantic enigma,

of which Christianity is the solution. To represent human nature thus,

without offering any remedial or softening consideration, was not

characteristic of the sweet, gentle and sunshiny imagination of the

poet. His whole works, taken together, do not leave any such shadow on

the imagination. He is no misanthrope—no infidel. He points with his

wand to human nature as she is, unguided, unsustained, unprotected by

the Supreme Power. He draws the blood-stained yet heart-crushed queen,

not to appal us with a danger to which we are subject, but to point out

one which we can avoid.

The scene is very short, and I will give it, that the reader may the

more readily understand me.

Act V. Scene I.

_Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a Waiting Gentlewoman._

_Doct._ I have two nights watch’d with you, but can perceive no

truth in your report. When was it she last walk’d?

_Gent._ Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her

rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her

closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it,

afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while

in a most fast sleep.

_Doct._ A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the

benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this

slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual

performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

_Gent._ That, sir, which I will not report after her.

_Doct._ You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you should.

_Gent._ Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to

confirm my speech.

_Enter_ Lady Macbeth, _with a Taper_.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my

life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

_Doct._ How came she by that light?

_Gent._ Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually;

’tis her command.

_Doct._ You see, her eyes are open.

_Gent._ Ay, but their sense is shut.

_Doct._ What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

_Gent._ It is an accustom’d action with her, to seem thus

washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter

of an hour.

_Lady._ Yet here’s a spot.

_Doct._ Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her,

to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

_Lady._ Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; two; why, then ’tis

time to do ’t; Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and

afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our

power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to

have had so much blood in him?

_Doct._ Do you mark that?

_Lady._ The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What,

will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’ that, my lord, no

more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

_Doct._ Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

_Gent._ She has spoke, what she should not, I am sure of that:

heaven knows what she has known.

_Lady._ Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of

Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

_Doct._ What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d!

_Gent._ I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the

dignity of the whole body.

_Doct._ Well, well, well,—

_Gent._ Pray God, it be, sir.

_Doct._ This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known

those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in

their beds.

_Lady._ Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so

pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out

of his grave.

_Doct._ Even so?

_Lady._ To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come,

come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be

undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (_Exit Lady._

_Doct._ Will she go now to bed?

_Gent._ Directly.

_Doct._ Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.

More needs she the divine, than the physician.—

God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;

Remove from her the means of all annoyance,

And still keep eyes upon her:—So, good-night:

My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight:

I think, but dare not speak.

_Gent._ Good-night, good doctor. (_Exeunt._

There is not _a single word_ of this scene which can be spared—not one

which is not impregnated with blood and horror. You feel the very

silence of the sick, midnight apartment. Ye see the pale ashy

countenance of the terror-stricken gentlewoman, and sympathize with her

in having her lot cast in such an abode of guilt and danger. You see

that she has called up all her energy and presence of mind, as in a

great crisis, to enable her to conduct herself wisely, and to escape

with safety from this den of royal murderers. You can see her cautious

step—as if she started even at the creaking of her own shoe—the

rustling of her own robe, or the sighing of the wind around the distant

turrets of the castle. You have here a most admirable character, and,

except that she is but so short a time on the stage, almost as worthy

the genius of Mrs. Siddons as that of Lady Macbeth herself. Were I a

young actress, desirous of making my appearance before the public, I

should choose to study thoroughly and represent well this character

first,—a very great effect might be given to it.

The doctor is also done to the life. He is, in all respects, not only

the medical man, but the medical man of coolness and experience. The few

words he utters are full of curiosity, but not of the unbridled horror

of his companion. He has doubtless, before, witnessed scenes enough of

pain and anguish, and he is at first disposed to consider the

gentlewoman as an exaggerator of the mysteries she professes to have

beheld, and to treat the whole thing physically as a disease, till the

truth becomes too apparent, and even his cool mind is convinced.

Lady Macbeth herself is the very _ne plus ultra_ of the tragic. She has

more terror in her step and eye, than a mere mortal ever had before.

Waking remorse would not have been, by any means, so appalling. The fact

of her being asleep is a great accessory. That pale face—those fixed,

staring, dead eyes—the countenance emaciated by disease, and the long

consuming fire of conscience—the step, solemn, slow, measured and

unearthly—and the dark, dim and shifting imagery of the past, which

floats to and fro through her imagination, form altogether a spectacle

shocking and almost insupportable.

Let us take this extraordinary scene to pieces, and examine a little

into its mechanism. One of the wonders of it is that there is no resort

to _style_—no description—no bursts of eloquence—no lava-like

eruption of passions. There are indeed but very few words said at all.

The sick lady has, at first, no terrors for the doctor, and the

gentlewoman has often beheld the same thing before. There is no stage

effect—no management—no melo-dramatic cunning. The doctor even shows

his coolness and incredulity, and makes a careless general remark. The

transcendant genius of the poet felt, intuitively, that the situation of

his characters here was so complete as to absorb the reader, and render

unnecessary any but the simplest language. The whole scene is quiet,

hushed and professional. Even the blank verse of the rest of the tragedy

is laid aside, and the characters speak in common-place perfectly

natural prose. Let us see what this almost supernatural terror consists

in.

The doctor first says, we may suppose with a certain half unintentional

degree of disappointment, that he has been already watching two nights

to see something which the waiting-woman has reported to him respecting

the queen, and yet he has seen nothing.

“I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth

in your report.”

A little impatient, a little incredulous, perhaps, he adds:

“When was it she last walked?”

This is a stroke of nature and probability at the very outset. It takes

from the scene the air of a fiction. It sends the mind of the spectator

back to the two past long nights, when the doctor, tolerably tired out,

has been watching in vain. This is just as things happen in life. We

have to watch and watch for every thing—even for the most true—before

it appears. We feel also, even with the first apparently unimportant

word spoken, a certain tremor at the intimation given of the domestic

gloom which must reign in the royal household—an attack immediately

expected from a powerful and inexorable foe—the queen sick—mysterious

things, we know not what, hinted with pale face and trembling lips—and

the guilty being, who had sold her eternal soul for her present

position,—we see her _in_ that position, all the promised triumphs and

pleasures neutralized by disease and remorse, and she herself _watched_

by her servants, night after night, when she little dreams herself the

subject of such a combined inquisition.

The gentlewoman relates more particularly what she has seen, though with

a guarded care, which not every gentlewoman in real life, under such

exciting circumstances, would have the prudence to observe; but

Shakspeare’s people are not only living but very sensible persons. To

the question:

“When was it she last walked?”

she replies:

“Since his majesty went into the field.”

Here at once is another stroke. It tells the _occupation_ of the king;

called to a fearful contest and absorbed in it, the deadly secret is

transpiring unopposed, undreamed of by him, behind his back, in the

centre of his household, and from the lips of the very being who has so

often taunted his weakness, and urged him with haughty scorn onward in

his guilty and blood-tracked career. So little power has man over

destiny! Thus is guilt beset. These are the nameless, unimaginable

dangers it runs, when, bold and self-confident, it thinks itself equal

to a contest with the Deity, who, seated in the clouds, strikes it with

its own arm, and baffles its plans with the toils it has woven for

others.

“Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise

from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet,

take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards

seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most

fast sleep.”

There is nothing more appalling to me than a person walking in his

sleep. It is such an image of death aroused from the grave—such a type

of the spiritual world—such a contrast to the same being when awake,

that I could never look upon my most intimate friend in such a state

without a thrill of fear, as if I were gazing upon his spectre—without

perfectly comprehending Hamlet’s account of his own feelings in looking

upon a ghost.

——“and we fools of nature

So horribly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls.”

This statement of the waiting-woman, so simple, natural and true, is

enough to arouse in a moment the curiosity of the most indifferent

stranger, and to inspire him with an inexpressible anxiety to know what

it means, and to what it will lead.

The doctor, however, is a man of the world, and is not so easily worked

on. He replies with a mere generality:

“A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit

of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry

agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances,

what at any time have you heard her say?”

Here there is a peeping out of curiosity on the part of the honest

physician, who is eager to learn all that may be acquired of what has

the appearance of an interesting secret. But his companion does not mean

to go further than prudence and self-security require. She replies at

once in a way which, while it balks curiosity, sharpens its appetite.

“That, sir, which I will not report after her.”

What would any doctor say in such a case?

“You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.”

He is aroused. He wishes—he is determined to know this mystery, and

therefore pleads the privilege and necessity, as well as the prudence of

his profession. “You may tell _any_ thing to _me_. Of course I shall

never reveal. I am the depositary of a thousand family secrets. Besides,

if I am to treat the patient, I _must_ know what is the matter with

her.”

But the waiting-woman is not going to be driven from her determination.

She has obviously received _a deep-seated fright_. Her whole

self-possession is called up for her defence and guidance. She is a

single woman, in a lonely castle, and in a really awful position,

accidentally the holder of a secret involving the reputation, if not the

life and death of those in power, and the fate perhaps of nations. Were

she to hint her suspicion that her royal mistress was a murderess—that

the fierce king, now desperate with the danger impending over his

kingdom, had gained the throne by a foul assassination—how can she be

sure that the doctor will not go to the king and betray her, to

ingratiate himself into the favor of his royal master? Courts are not

the places for too light confidences—particularly of such secrets. In

such case the truth or falsehood of the statement would be little

inquired into, and she would be probably hurled from the battlements or

immured to starve in some dark dungeon. She is—you feel she is, quite

in earnest, and quite right to reply:

“Neither to _you_ nor _any one_; having no _witness_ to _confirm

my speech_.”

* * * * *

EPHEMERA.

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

Well might weep the sentimental Persian,

Looking o’er his host of armed men,

When on Greece he made his wild incursion,

Whence so few might e’er return again.

Well might he weep o’er those countless millions,

Dreaming of the future and the past,

As he gazed, amid the gold pavilions

Round his throne, upon that crowd so vast.

Musing, with subdued and solemn feelings,

On the awful thoughts that filled his soul—

One of those most terrible revealings

That will sometimes o’er the spirit roll.

Thoughts, that of that multitude before him

Panting high for fame—athirst to strive—

Ere old Time had sped a century o’er him,

Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.

That those hearts, now bounding in the glory

Of existence, would be hushed and cold;

Not their very names preserved in story,

Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.

All to earth, their proper home, departed;

Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;

And, in their vacant room, a new race started,

Careless of the millions past away.

Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,

Make our offering at sorrow’s call—

When we ponder how our days are creeping,

Like the shadow on the wall.

When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,

Will depart, and leave it all in shade—

And our very friends will be forgetting

That the daylight o’er it ever played.

Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,

O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;

All our days are but a lengthened dying—

One dark hour before the eternal dawn.

Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—

All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;

Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?

What delight can these afford the dead?

Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—

Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;

When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,

It will vanish from thy grasp again.

Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—

Thou art but a shadow—so are they;

Let the things of Heaven deserve thy darings,

They alone will never pass away.

* * * * *

WITH THEE.

BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.

With thee, at dewy morn where e’er I wander,

Are my fond thoughts—still close to thee they cling;

O’er each departed hour they love to ponder,

That, pass’d with thee, seem’d like the hours of spring.

Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasure

Glean’d from the mighty casket of the past,

Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,

When its soft spell around our souls is cast.

With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealing

Thro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,

On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,

With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.

What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance faileth

In its deep search to hail thy welcome form?

What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth,

And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm?

Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre,

No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine;

Around no heart do richer feelings cluster,

Than swell in that which is so wholly thine.

Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever?

Vain may they strive our spirits to divide,

For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever?

E’en as thou art forever at my side.

* * * * *

WICCÓNSAT.

A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S.

BY MRS. MARY M. FORD.

On the eastern bank of a small river, which enters the Potomac a few

miles above its confluence with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, are

still to be seen vestiges of the earliest settlement in Maryland; once

the village of Youcómaco, but quietly yielded by the natives to the

white colonists, who there built a town, calling it St. Mary’s.

Subsequent events led to its desertion for a more advantageous location,

and the ravages of time have left little to tell of its former state. It

has faded away, unnoticed and unsung, yet its name is still seen on the

older maps of our country. The river, which once bore the appellation of

St. George’s, is now called St. Mary’s, but whether in memory of the

deserted town, or not, is uncertain.

Ruins are happily so scarce in our young and thriving republic, that the

simple legend which gives a name to my story, may awaken some interest

among those, to whose imaginations the solitary remains of the past seem

to speak in the breathings of the winds that sweep over their ruins. The

circumstances which led to its narration, by one who had heard it in the

mother country, and in whose family its memory had been handed down,

were as follows:—

Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky,

giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom

of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its

tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had

just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is

established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding

officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his

boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine

countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised

a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who

were loosening the boat—

“It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!”

“Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern

craft, sure.”

The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm,

while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.

The visitors approached the vessel’s side almost unperceived; and when

the young officer ascended to its deck, he found the captain anxiously

absorbed in examining an old map, which was spread out before him. The

expression of his weather-beaten face, as he raised it to return the

salutation of his visitor, showed evident signs of being puzzled.

“Where are you from?” inquired the landsman.

“From Plymouth.”

“What cargo?”

“Why, a good many notions, of which you will know presently.”

“And whither bound?”

“Why that’s what I’m looking for on this old map, for I see nothing like

it on shore; aye, here it is, St. Mary’s, the town of St. Mary’s,

sir.”[2]

“There is no such town in the state, sir,” replied the youth, “this

river and the county bear that name; there is some mistake.”

“Massa captain clear out for de county,” said Basil, grinning.

“De boss lose his reckoning dis time,” rejoined Luke.

“Be more respectful, and return to the boat,” said the young officer,

checking their glee; then turning to the captain, he continued, “This

map is an old one; there was formerly a town named St. Mary on this

river—it was the first settlement in the state, and built in the time

of the Calverts, but it has passed away and been forgotten for a

century.”

The disappointed face of the mariner was not the only one agitated by

the news. The sailors belonging to the vessel had joined the group, and

their rough appearance was strongly contrasted with the tall and elegant

figure of a passenger, who had been drawn by the conversation from the

cabin, and now stood leaning against the companion way.

The young Marylander, who had not before perceived the stranger,

thought, as he returned his salutation, that he had seldom looked on a

countenance so interesting. It was youthful, but there was a shade of

melancholy on the fine features, which, however, served only to confine,

not hide the flashes of an enthusiastic spirit, which glanced from his

full dark eye.

“We are out of soundings, Mr. Egerton,” said the captain, “I might as

well have cleared out for a port in the moon.”

“The fault was mine, sir,” replied the person called Egerton, “and I

regret having thus led you astray;” then, turning to the young American,

he continued, “The disappointment is also great to me, sir, for the

haven we sought was the home of my forefathers. I am a stranger in this

country, having lately arrived from England. On landing at Plymouth I

found this schooner loading for a southern port—and, wishing to visit

Maryland immediately, I induced this worthy but too obliging man to

bring the cargo hither. The silence of history has left the annals of

Maryland so much in the shadow, that a foreigner feels doubtful whether

a literal construction should be put on the desertion of a town,

particularly when your port of entry also bears the name of St. Mary’s.”

“Well,” interrupted the captain, smiling, “don’t feel uneasy about me,

for the cargo is of that accommodating nature which will suit another

town as well.”

The customary business was soon despatched, and the officer was leaving

the vessel, but his eye lingered on the interesting stranger. There was

something in his appearance that won his heart, and, after a moment’s

hesitation he thus spoke.

“This seems to have been your place of destination, Mr. Egerton. Will

you excuse the blunt freedom of an American, if I ask you to accompany

me to the shore? My uncle’s dwelling is in sight. I act as his deputy in

official business, but with much more pleasure I use another privilege,

and tender you the hospitalities of his roof. Although the town, the

principal object of your visit, is no more, yet if you can content

yourself a few days with us, you can explore the ruins. Oakford is the

name of my uncle. I bear the same, with the simple addition of Frank.”

The stranger caught his offered hand.

“I feel grateful for your kindness,—the ruins! did you say? It would

indeed be a gratification to view them—I will, with pleasure, avail

myself of your polite invitation; the ruins! are they extensive?”

“Oh, no,” replied young Oakford, smiling, “there are but few relics left

by time and weather—some remains of walls and foundations—but the most

interesting are the ruins of an ancient church—among whose dilapidated

pews a respectable audience of weeds have accumulated.”

“Weeds, growing in the holy temple of my fathers! what a sublime yet sad

subject for reflection! I must see them!”

The young American again smiled at his companion’s enthusiasm; and, as

the shadows of evening were fast closing around them, he hurried his new

friend in his preparations to leave the vessel. The good-natured captain

declined an invitation to accompany them, as he had made arrangements to

continue his voyage farther—and, cordially shaking the hand of his

departing passenger, refused to receive any extra compensation for the

trouble occasioned. The rough, but kind-hearted sailors also refused,

but the generous feelings of the young man were not to be checked thus,

and he forced into their unwilling hands the expression of his thanks,

as he took a kind leave of them.

Darkness had veiled the landscape when the boat reached the shore, and

the warm-hearted Marylander, drawing the arm of the young stranger

within his, hurried him up the long avenue leading to the mansion,

assuring him that his uncle would be as much gratified as himself by

this acquisition to their society. “So, feel perfectly at ease, for we

southerners use very little ceremony.”

The event proved it so, for Col. Oakford, a fine looking man, just past

the meridian of life, received him with that easy politeness and frank

cordiality of manner which relieved him from all embarrassment. He soon

discovered that his guest possessed high literary attainments—and,

enjoying those advantages himself, the conversation became interesting,

and they parted at the hour of rest, mutually pleased with each other.

The next morning arose in clouds and rain. “No _ruins_ to-day,” said the

young Briton, as they met in the breakfast room. But, although the

weather prevented any outward excursion, a well filled library offered a

pleasing substitute.

Young hearts soon assimilate, and friendships in early life are quickly

formed—hence, when the sun at last broke through the clouds, on the

evening of the third day, the two youths felt on terms of intimacy and

attachment. On the fourth morning, the lively Frank aroused his friend

before sunrise, to view, what he imagined must be to him, a novel and

imposing sight. They descended to the open piazza, and young Egerton

looked around in vain to discover the woods, the hill, the river; all

was enveloped in a thick fog, and had the appearance of a surrounding

lake. At this moment the sun rose, and the vapor broke on the bosom of

the stream.

“See,” said Frank, “the river is throwing off his night robes—observe

how gracefully he rolls and folds them.”

Huge white sheets of vapor were indeed majestically receding down the

current; others floated like snow wreaths on the hills of the opposite

shore—the green sides of which, were at intervals visible through the

breaking mist, and seemed struggling beneath its might. In gradual

succession the forests and dwellings of men appeared, and in a few

minutes this atmospheric envelope was lost in the increasing warmth of

the sun’s beams.

“How singular and beautiful,” said the stranger. “Is it often thus?”

“Very frequently; at some seasons each morning renews the scene; but you

are not very robust, and must be content to view it seldom, for this

recreation is far from healthy. The poets of your native isle may sing

of ‘walks at early dawn, through dewy meads,’ but such strolls would

make a short life here.”

On entering the parlor they met the Colonel.

“What think you of the night bath which these lowlands take?” said he,

smiling.

“That the morning effect is beautiful,” replied Egerton, “but the whole

must be injurious to health.”

“You are right, it is ever so to strangers, but we, who are sons of the

mist, fear no harm from our native atmosphere. Yet do not think this

characteristic of our general climate. On the contrary, the northern

states, with their rock-bound sea coasts, have a clear bracing

atmosphere; the middle states, also, with their varied surface of

mountain and valley, and most parts of the southern, are equally

healthy. Our own upper counties, and the neighboring inlands, or forest

places, as we term them, are not sickly. It is only where the land is

low, and as bountifully supplied with bays, inlets and streams as here,

that this effect takes place; but see, ‘aunt Nora’ waits with the

breakfast.”

The aged colored housekeeper, called by this familiar appellation, had

been the faithful nurse of the Colonel’s infancy, and, in return, was

treated by him with great kindness. She was busied at a little table, in

a corner of the room, from which she despatched, by the younger hands of

her grandson, Luke, to a larger table in the centre of the apartment,

the fine coffee, and more solid comforts of a Maryland breakfast, of

which the young friends hastily partook, and then made arrangements for

their visit to the _ruins_.

The boat was soon in readiness, and they set out, accompanied by Basil

and Luke. As the light bark glided along the shore, Frank pointed out

several places endeared by the recollections of his childhood. Through

an opening in the trees peeped the unobtrusive walls dedicated to

country learning, with its play ground, so often the scene of his boyish

gambols, and its clear spring under the shade of a sycamore near the

river, where a solitary cow was now stooping to drink.

“See, Frank,” cried his friend, “she is profaning your Helicon fount!”

“Nay, let her drink, Egerton,” he replied, “for, as she is not likely to

draw more romantic inspiration than _I_ did from its waters, the spring

will lose none of its power from her draught.”

“But you have gained what is worth more, sentiments pure and

disinterested, with a mind happy and free. ’Tis true, you seldom make

reminiscences—but, if you were like me, an orphan, and a native of a

clime where, at every step, you meet some relic of the past, you would

feel differently. Your country has but a short path to retrace, and is

too young to boast of olden days.”

“And yet,” replied Frank, archly smiling, “there were times to which we

might refer, as equal to any that shed glory on ancient chivalry.”

“Granted, and the treasure they left you may well render you careless of

other relics.”

“Many thanks for your liberality, my dear friend,” said Frank, “and now

for the _ruins_.” As he spoke, the direction of the boat was changed,

and they swiftly crossed the river. Egerton sprang first on land, and

was soon deeply engaged in examination, but found Frank’s words too

true. Time and weather had indeed been ruthless ravagers; besides, it

appeared that many materials had been removed, perhaps to repair the

cottages of the neighboring poor. But some remains of what seemed to

have been the walls of a large store house, part of an embankment where

once had stood a fort, pits filled with rubbish, which had been cellars,

and crumbled walls, with here and there a fallen chimney, gave

melancholy testimony to the change. Nor had the church met a better

fate. The broken in roof still clung to the shattered wall on one side

only, and hung like a dark banner, half suspended over the desolation

below; the decayed floor had descended into the mournful cemetery

beneath, leaving some of the baseless seats clinging to the side wall.

Weeds, too, were there, whose flowers seemed to bloom in mockery. In the

sad home of the buried dead all was confusion, broken tombs, and heaps

of rubbish. The young Briton sat down on a fragment of the ruined wall,

and Frank shared in the melancholy of his friend, as they viewed the

desolate scene. Egerton at length broke silence. “You have, no doubt,

wondered at the deep interest I feel with regard to these ruins. Many

circumstances have led to it, particularly a little tale related to me

by a maiden aunt, to which I listened with great delight in childhood;

and when, in after years, I was deprived of my beloved parents, I would

sometimes beguile my sorrows by a recurrence to its sad remembrance.

Thus it became more interesting to me, and I soon felt a desire to visit

the location of scenes so connected with my family, and with the fate of

an Indian chief of the Youcómaco tribe, called Wiccónsat, the principal

subject of the legend. If it will give you any pleasure, I will relate

it while we rest on these sad ruins.”

“Really, my dear friend,” replied Frank, “I feel almost as sentimental

as yourself.”

“Then I will take advantage of your serious mood and commence my simple

tale.”

“Among the early settlers at St. Mary’s, were the parents of Rosalie

Egerton. She was an only daughter and beautiful. An accomplished mother

had taught her many things of which few other females of the colony

could boast. She accompanied her harp with the songs of distant lands,

and with her needle embroidered scenes from the old world. Yet she loved

to wander amidst the wild grandeur of her native forests, accompanied

only by her little brother, for the neighboring Indians were harmless

and friendly.

“Wiccónsat was the son of an aged chief of the Youcómacoes. He was tall

and elegantly formed, and straight as an arrow from his quiver. Mild and

contemplative, he became a favorite among the settlers, from whom he

learned not only to read and write, but many of their useful arts. But

he had listened to the breathings of Rosalie’s harp, as he lingered near

her dwelling, and had gazed after her fair form, as she wandered in the

forest, until the Indian’s life had lost all charms for him. The smile

of happy youth had fled, and when he sought his father’s wigwam, his eye

was sad and restless. The old chief saw with sorrow the change.

“‘A spell hath come o’er thee, Wiccónsat,’ he kindly said; ‘my son is no

longer the same. When in childhood I first saw thy little hands bend the

bow, I fondly thought thou would’st rival the hunting fame of thy

father, and, when age had weakened my strength, should danger threaten

our tribe, thou would’st head the chiefs in combat. The locks of

Orrouiska are now gray, and his hand feeble. The supplies of his wigwam

are scanty, for his son lingers among the better habitations of

strangers. But I know thy secret. Thy hopeless love is placed on the

fairest of the white fawns, one as far above thy reach as was the

rainbow of yesterday. For though the son of a once powerful chief, the

poorest of the pale faces would reject thy alliance. Then arouse thee,

Wiccónsat, and despise their pride. The Great Spirit made us all equal,

and the brightest of our Indian maidens would be proud of thy love. If

thou dost prefer the plough of the white man to the bow of the hunter,

’tis well, but turn the furrow in thy own fields.’

“The youth answered not, but with a deep sigh, taking his quiver full of

arrows, went out to the chase. He wandered on through the forest,

forgetful of his first intention, until he found himself near the

river’s bank, and by the dwelling of Rosalie, and soon beheld the

maiden, with her little brother, in a small boat, which they had

contrived to move out a few yards into the deep water. As she arose to

reach some blossoms from the overhanging trees, her balance was lost,

and she fell into the stream. In a moment the young Indian had plunged

in to her relief, and bore her in safety to the bank. The cries of her

brother had alarmed the family, who hurried to the river, and Wiccónsat,

yielding his lovely burthen to her parents’ arms, hastened to escape

from their grateful acknowledgments, to enjoy in solitude the delightful

feelings that crowded his heart. It seemed a new era in his existence,

and fairy dreams floated in his imagination. With buoyant and unwearied

footsteps he pursued the chase, and returned to his father’s cabin

loaded with the choicest game, the reward of his toil.

“‘Come, dear Oskwena,’ said he to his young sister, who ran to welcome

him, ‘prepare a feast for our father, while I dress these skins, to make

a softer couch for his aged limbs.’

“‘Gladly, brother,’ she replied, ‘but hast thou brought me any beads or

ornaments from the colony?’

“‘No, thou art too good and comely to need these trifles. Thy lover will

prize thee more without them.’

“‘Thou art mistaken, brother, for Potawissa loves to see my dark hair

braided with beads, and their bright strings encircling my neck. Thy

talk will do for the white fawns, with their cheeks like the wild rose

and foreheads like the mountain snow; but the darker hue of Indian maids

wants other ornaments.’

“‘Thou hast well described the white fawns, sister,’ answered the young

chief, ‘and shalt indeed have a gay necklace; but thou hast never heard

the song of her who is brightest among them. Why the blest sounds on the

air, which are said to call our fathers to the spirit-land on high, are

not sweeter.’

“‘Hush, hush,’ cried Oskwena, ‘how canst thou talk thus? I would not

hear her strain, for it hath sadly altered thee.’

“The bright visions of Wiccónsat were soon dispelled, for, with the next

vessel from England, arrived a young relative of Rosalie’s family, who

brought news of their having succeeded to an estate in their native

country, to take possession of which they now made preparations to leave

America. The charms of the maiden made an immediate impression on the

heart of the young and accomplished Briton. His amiable qualities soon

won her love, and, with the approval of her parents, it was arranged

that their marriage should take place on their arrival in England.

“The sad intelligence soon reached Wiccónsat, to whom the grateful

family had shown many marks of attachment, little suspecting the sorrows

they were preparing for the youthful chief. They knew not the secret

homage of his heart, for its trembling hopes had never been breathed to

the beautiful object of his love. In the innocence of grateful

friendship, she presented him with an embroidered belt worked by her own

hands, and assured him that she would never forget her generous

preserver.—But when the day of their departure had arrived, and

sorrowful friends crowded the vessel’s deck to take their last farewell,

Wiccónsat was not there. Rosalie and her parents shed tears of regret,

as the sails were spreading to waft them from their happy American home,

and as their eyes sought its peaceful roof, they discovered near it, on

a point of the river’s shore, the solitary figure of the young chief. It

was at this spot he had rescued the maiden from a watery grave. She

eagerly waved her white handkerchief in token of farewell, and the next

moment saw the belt she had given him, floating on the air in a

returning adieu. In a few minutes the vessel parted from the shore.

“Many years after this, an interesting youth, accompanied by his tutor,

arrived at St. Mary’s, from England. I know not in what state they found

the town, but the youth’s first inquiries were for an Indian chief,

called Wiccónsat, who had in early years saved the life of his mother.

He was shown a lonely wigwam, on a point near the river. James Egerton,

for it was my great grandfather, took an early opportunity of visiting

it, but first inquired into the present character of its inmate. ‘He is

mild and peaceful,’ said his informant, ‘and is sometimes called the

Indian Hermit, for he seldom appears abroad except when hunting or

fishing. He has lived thus for many years, is always melancholy, and

dislikes the visits of the curious: ’Tis thought some misfortune in his

youth has led him to prefer solitude.’—Thus informed, the young James

proceeded to the river’s side. From description, he knew where had stood

the home of his mother’s children, but sighed to perceive it in ruins,

and leaning on a fragment of the broken wall, plucked a leaf from the

vine that still clung to it, then, with lingering footsteps, sought the

point. Seated on a rustic bench at the door of the cabin was a figure

which he knew must be the chief, for he raised his tall, majestic form,

and advanced to meet him, but paused suddenly, and gazed earnestly and

inquiringly on his face.

“The youth felt abashed, but with some effort addressed him: ‘Excuse

this intrusion, good chief; I am the son of her, whose life you once

saved.’

“The recluse caught his offered hand.

“‘And art thou indeed her child? oh! yes, that eye, that smile had awoke

my memory before you spoke. Welcome art thou to the desolate Wiccónsat.’

After some conversation, the youth drew from his bosom two small books,

richly bound, and presented them as tokens of remembrance from his

mother. The chief pressed them to his lips. ‘These will beguile many

lonely hours, but, oh! hadst thou but brought me one lock of her hair.

It was the colour of thine,’ he added, as he passed his hand over the

rich brown curls of the son of Rosalie. ‘Alas! good chief,’ he replied,

‘sorrow, rather than time, has robbed those locks of their beauty. Death

has bereaved my beloved mother of her parents and of several children. I

alone survive.’ ‘And can sorrow reach one so good? Then why should I

repine?—From this point, dear boy, I saw thy mother and her parents

depart, and here I raised my lonely habitation. For years, I indulged

the vain hope of their return, and whenever I saw a large vessel enter

the river, I silently mingled with the crowd on the shore. But wearied

hope has long since fled, memory alone remains.’

“‘And yet you may again behold my parents, for it is their intention to

visit Maryland in a short time.’ Surprise and joy beamed in the

countenance of the Indian, and from that hour he continued cheerful, but

his greatest present enjoyment arose from the frequent visits of his

young friend, to whom he daily became more attached. ’Tis true, the

tutor of James disapproved of his spending so much time with one whom he

considered an untutored savage, but the warm-hearted boy knew his Indian

favorite to be possessed of pure and lofty principles, with noble and

generous feelings.

“Wiccónsat now mingled once more with the white inhabitants, and pointed

out to the inquiring youth whatever was interesting. The remains of the

Indian village were still visible, and the few chiefs that visited the

town still fondly called it Youcómico. But their tribe had removed to a

greater distance, and there was now little communication between them

and the colonists.

“Several months elapsed and the time drew near when the young Briton

expected once more to embrace his parents. They had informed him, by

letter, of their intention to embark on board the Huntress, which would

sail in two weeks, and nearly a month had passed since the reception of

this letter. It was probable then, that they were near the American

coast.”

Here the narrator paused.

“Why do you not proceed?” asked Frank.

“Because I think it will be better to finish the story as we return. It

grows late, and I wish to gather some little remembrance.”

From various parts of the ruins he now selected something to carry with

him, and was loading Basil and Luke with similar trophies, who appeared

to place little value on them, as they dropped some at every step. At

length they returned to the boat, in which they deposited the cumbrous

relics, and left the shore. But a new object excited the curiosity of

Egerton, and, with a look of entreaty, he turned to his friend.

“You have been very patient and kind, dear Frank, and now we are in the

boat, let us go a little further up the river! That point above must be

the spot on which stood the wigwam of Wiccónsat.”

“You will find it a difficult matter to prove that,” returned Frank,

“however, we will go.”

“It’s a good place for fishing,” said Basil, “and we have a line.”

The first object that struck their view on landing at the point, was a

collection of half decayed boards.

“See here! conviction strong!” cried the delighted Egerton.

“Nonsense,” said Frank, “they are the remains of some old fishing hut or

flat boat. Indian wigwams are not made of boards.”

“How incredulous you are,” returned his friend. “Surely the melancholy

chief had been long enough among white men to adopt their materials.”

“Very well, shall we load the boat with them as relics?”

“You are jesting; but I should really like to rebuild it, if we had

time. Where are Basil and Luke?”

“More profitably employed—fishing; but we will return in a day or two,

and try whether a wigwam can be made of it.” The young Briton had seated

himself on one of the boards, and seemed lost in contemplation, while

Frank quietly withdrew to see the luck of the fishers—who, in the

meantime, had not forgotten the two youths, but, in their simple phrase,

were discussing the point at issue:

“Why, Old Nora could tell him plenty about the Ingens,” said Basil, “for

her grandmother told her, and she saw a power of ’em in her time—but he

only seems to care about one—and I can’t say I ever heard Nora go over

such a strange name as that.”

“They were smart, them chiefs, in their time,” observed Luke, “for they

say our folks learned to make the canoes from ’em, and I’d put ’em

against any boat that swims.”

“But they won’t hold much of a crew, Luke, let alone passengers, and as

there’s four of us, and a heavy load of Massa Egerton’s nelics, as he

calls them; besides, it’s lucky we’ve got something bigger to float home

in.”

Their angling had not been very successful in the short time they had

engaged in it, and at Frank’s request, the boat was again put in

readiness for their departure.

Once more on the water, Frank reminded his friend of the promised

conclusion of his story.

“I thought you had forgotten it,” replied Egerton, smiling, “but I will

with pleasure gratify you. I believe we left my ancestor expecting the

early arrival of his parents at St. Mary’s, and I will now proceed to

give you the other portion of the legend.

“One evening, after his usual visit to the wigwam, James was slowly

returning to his lodgings. Lost in thought, he did not at first perceive

that heavy clouds were gathering in the sky, but the sudden darkness

made him quicken his pace.

“‘You are late this evening, Master James,’ said his tutor, as he met

him at the door, ‘you waste a great deal of time with that wild Indian,

and I am glad your parents are coming to take charge of you.’ ‘I am glad

too,’ thought his pupil, but he did not say so, and soon after retired

to rest.

“The sleep of innocent youth is ever sound, and a severe storm which

arose had been raging some time before it broke his deep slumber.

“He started from his pillow, and his first thoughts were fears for his

parents’ safety. The wind roared fearfully, and the rain beat in

torrents against his chamber window. He looked out on the thick darkness

that obscured every object, and his heart sunk within him at the dreary

view. Overcome with the distress of his feelings, he leaned against the

casement, and gave vent to the friendly tears that often relieve the

sadness of boyhood. Suddenly a faint and distant flash of light broke

through the gloom. It was gone, but a sound followed which, even amid

the howling of the storm, could not be mistaken. It struck on the ear of

the weeping boy, with startling certainty.

“‘It is, oh! yes, it is a signal gun of distress, oh! my mother! my

father!’ and sinking on his knees, he breathed an agonized prayer for

their safety, then starting to his feet, he hastily threw on his

clothes, and hurried down stairs without knowing his object. The house

stood near the river, and on opening the door he saw some person moving

along the bank. He approached; it was the chief. ‘Is it you, Wiccónsat?

oh! what a night!’ The Indian pressed his hand in gloomy silence, and

stood in a listening attitude, with his face turned towards that part of

the horizon from whence the flash had appeared. Another gleamed across

the dismal night, and the sullen peal that followed, fell, like the bolt

of death, on their hearts.

“‘It is a call for aid,’ exclaimed the chief, ‘and perhaps thy mother’s

life is in danger.’ ‘And my father’s too,’ added the shuddering boy.

‘Alas! Wiccónsat, what can we do?’ ‘I follow that light,’ he answered,

as the flash of another minute gun shone.

“‘Oh! take me then with you, good chief, leave me not here in suspense!’

“‘Alas! my boy, this stormy night ill suits thy tender frame. Wait thou

till morning breaks, then thou canst follow with some of the townsmen.

The light seems near the mouth of the Potomac.’

“‘Who speaks below,’ said the tutor’s voice from the window; ‘surely,

Master James, you are not out on such a night?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ replied

the youth, ‘there is a vessel in distress, it may be the Huntress, in

which my parents are expected; surely I cannot sleep now.’

“‘Well, well, if that’s the case, it’s bad enough, but I think it’s not

probable; however, I’ll be down directly.’ By this time several of the

neighbours had joined them, and they determined to proceed in the

supposed direction of the vessel. By the first dawn of light they found

themselves on the shore of the Potomac river, near its entrance into the

Chesapeake Bay. The rain had ceased, and daylight, as it broke from the

clouded east, shewed to their anxious gaze, a dismasted vessel, which

appeared in a wrecked and sinking state. Two boats, crowded with the

crew and passengers, were seen contending with the raging waves,

endeavouring to reach the land. Some water casks which had been washed

on shore, were eagerly examined by the distressed James, to discover the

name of the vessel. It met his eye, and with a cry of terror he threw

himself into the arms of the Indian.

“‘It is the Huntress! oh! Wiccónsat! my parents will be lost!’

“‘Hast thou no confidence in the Great Being thy mother worships?’ he

softly said, as he pressed him to his breast, but his eye was fairly

fixed on one of the boats, in which he thought he could distinguish the

garments of a female. The foaming waters seemed to threaten instant

destruction to the frail barques, as they tost from wave to wave,

sometimes half hid in the surf that broke over them. At this moment a

mingled cry reached the shore, and but one boat was seen, the other was

’whelmed beneath the waters. Wiccónsat broke from the clinging arms of

the youth, and plunged into the waves. For some time he was lost to

their view, but his strong and sinewy arms forced a passage to the scene

of distress, and in a short time he was seen returning, supporting, with

one arm, the form of a female. The young James, who had been forcibly

withheld from following, now rushed to meet him, and Rosalie (for it was

she) opened her eyes to be clasped to the bosom of her son. She lived,

she breathed, and the first word that trembled on her lips was the name

of her husband. Scarcely had she spoken, ere the generous chief had

again thrown himself into the waves. But his strength was exhausted by

previous exertion, and when, with difficulty, he had nearly reached the

overturned boat to which the husband of Rosalie, with others, now clung,

a floating piece of the ship’s mast struck him on the temple. In the

mean time, the other boat had safely landed its crew, and was despatched

to the aid of the sufferers, who were all, with the exception of two,

saved.

“Rosalie had been conveyed to the nearest house, and restoratives were

applied, which soon brought her to a state of recollection. She

recognized with joy, the form of her husband, as he knelt by the side of

her couch, and pressed, with a mother’s fondness, the hand of her

affectionate son. But her eyes wandered around the room as if in search

of another object. ‘It was a dream then,’ she murmured, ‘it was not his,

but thy dear arm that drew thy mother from the waves.’

“‘Alas! no, it was he, the generous and the good,’ replied her son.

“‘Wiccónsat! brave chief! but why those looks of anguish; is this, my

son, a time for sorrow, when Heaven has been so kind? And my preserver,

where lingers he?’

“‘Where his bright virtues will be best rewarded,’ replied her husband,

solemnly.

“‘What mean you? Surely he is safe.’

“‘He perished in an attempt to save my life.’ She heard no more, for she

had fainted in the arms of her son, and it was long ere she revived, to

mingle with theirs her tears of unavailing regret.

“In the afternoon the body of the generous Indian was washed on shore.

With every mark of respect it was conveyed to the town, and preparations

made for its interment on the following day at the point, in a spot once

pointed out, by the chief, to young Egerton. The grief of this

affectionate boy burst without restraint, as he leaned over the body of

his departed friend, and his tears flowed afresh, when he was shown a

folded paper, which had been found in his bosom. It was wet through, and

contained the faded belt, the treasured gift of Rosalie.

“Intelligence of the sad event was conveyed to the sister of the chief,

and the next day, accompanied by her husband and sons, and several

warriors of the Youcómaco tribe, Oskwena arrived, just as the funeral

procession was moving to the grave. Time had altered this once beautiful

daughter of the forest; there was a mildness in her look of grief, as

she left the canoe, and led by her two sons, approached the open grave,

where, seating herself by its side, she silently awaited the mournful

train that bore her brother to his last home. She uttered a faint cry as

her eye rested on the coffin, and her whole frame shook with agitation,

when it was lowered from her sight.

“The chiefs arranged themselves in gloomy silence around the grave of

him, who, in early youth, had been the boast of their tribe, and heard,

rather than listened, to the funeral service. It was scarcely ended,

when the hitherto restrained grief of Oskwena burst forth. She tore from

her dishevelled locks the rude ornaments of her tribe, scattering them

on the ground, but a necklace of beads she retained in her hand, and

wept bitterly as she looked on it.

“‘It was thy gift, Wiccónsat,’ said the mourner, ‘thy face glowed with

youth and hope on the happy day thou gavest it. Our aged father blessed

his children, for he had not then passed to the spirit-land above. The

beads are bright yet, but thou art faded and gone. I can gaze on them no

more, they shall be hid with thee,’ and she dropped them into the grave.

The spectators looked on her with pity and disturbed her not, as in a

low voice she chaunted a wild funeral melody. When she ceased, several

young maidens of St. Mary’s, arrayed in white, approached, and scattered

flowers around the grave. The oldest son of Oskwena stood, with his

father, among the chiefs. To him the beauty of the white maidens was

new, for he had never before been allowed to visit the town.

“‘Who are they?’ he asked, eagerly leaning forward, but then the stern

Potawissa drew him back, as he replied in a low voice, ‘It matters not,

it is enough that they cannot be aught to thee. Look not on their fatal

beauty, but let that lonely grave warn thee of danger. It was hopeless

love for a pale face like theirs, that induced thy mother’s brother to

forsake the tribe that idolized him; to lead a life of solitude, and at

last to perish for her sake. And now he sleeps not with the bones of his

fathers, and the talk of the white man is heard by his grave, instead of

the bold death song of our chiefs. Nay, thou art gazing still; turn from

them boy,’ and suddenly drawing him round, he held him firmly until the

fair group had retired. A faint shriek from Oskwena drew his attention.

He saw the attendants were filling up the grave, and hastened to remove

her sinking form. In a few minutes the crowd had dispersed, the chiefs

again entered their boats, and young Egerton, with his father, alone

remained on the silent shore.

“The family remained but a short time in Maryland, for the health of

Rosalie had sustained a shock from which it never recovered. She faded

before the agonized view of her husband and son, and died shortly after

their return to England. As one of their descendants, I have long wished

to visit the scene of their sorrows, and in doing so, I have formed a

friendship which, believe me, dear Frank, will always be cherished in my

heart. The kind hospitality of your good uncle made me forget I was a

stranger, and though we must part in a few days, time or distance will

never erase the remembrance of my American friends.”

-----

[2] A fact.

* * * * *

SONNETS.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

GERTRUDE.

There is a sweet expression in thy face,

My gentle one! leading the thoughts away

From earthliness, and this vile orb of clay,—

Bidding my spirit in its yearnings trace

Something immortal in the beauties there!

I do not worship loveliness—but look

On woman’s face, as on a speaking book,

Where God hath stamped his image clear and fair!

And thine is one so radiant of him,

So calm and pure, one cannot fail to see

Such purity of soul portrayed in thee,

That other faces by thy side grow dim,

And, bowing down unto thy brighter worth,

I deem thee one too fair and chaste for earth!

IANTHE.

High thoughts are chiseled on that lofty brow!

Proud consciousness of virtue in thy smile!

Thy cheeks, the blush of, speaks thee free from guile;

Thine eyes have in their spiritual flow,

A dignity and grandeur, and a glow

Which lift the gazer’s spirit up on high,

As soars the eagle to the sun-lit sky!

Thou art a thing to worship! and I throw

My soaring spirit conquered at thy feet,—

But not to beauty, tho’ ’tis unsurpassed,

But to the wealth of intellect ’tis cast;

Deeming the earth beneath the proudest seat,

Where I would sit, and on perfection gaze,

Sunning my soul beneath thine eyes’ soft rays!

* * * * *

THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING;

OR, THE MISTAKE.

BY ELIZA VAN HORN ELLIS.