One morning, during the autumn of 1828, I strolled into the principal

store of the beautiful little village of ——, in Western Pennsylvania,

to exchange the latest paper from the American Athens, for another daily

sheet from the Commercial Emporium. An old friend, Mr. W——, of

Philadelphia, entered at about the same time, with a map of the

surrounding counties, to enquire the road to certain tracts of land but

recently conveyed to him. A tall man, who had seen some forty summers,

but whose keen dark eye, such as you can only find in the wilderness,

seemed to have gathered a smouldering fire, beneath the shadow of the

forest leaves, which few would wish to wake, stept forward to give the

required information. Rude shoes, unstockinged feet, coarse woolen

pantaloons, and a hunting shirt, composed his whole attire:—A rifle,

with a richly chased silver breeching, swinging athwart his back, raised

him above the ordinary hunter in the curious scale of conventional rank

that men acknowledge in obedience to their nature, even in the heart of

unfrequented woods; but the cart-whip in his right hand, and a basket of

eggs hanging upon the left arm seemed irrelevant to his other

accoutrements. A finely chiselled nose, verging on the Roman character,

and a strong habitual compression of the jaws, marked great decision,

firmness, and desperate daring—while his manly tread, in which the foot

seemed to cling for a moment to the surface and as instantly rose upon

the toe with a slow, but elastic and graceful motion, seemed better

fitted to follow the mountain-side, or the torrent’s track, than the

dull routine of the furrow. His traits and carriage, thus mingled and

contrasted, would have proved a puzzle to the keenest judges of human

nature,—the bar-keeper of a hotel, or the agent of a rail-road—but his

origin was still distinctly marked, notwithstanding his change of

residence and habits, in the somewhat sharpened expression of the face,

the narrowness of the external angle of the eye, the covert curl of the

lip, and the faintest perceptible elevation of the corresponding corner

of the mouth. He was the Connecticut farmer of our story, on whose

original stock of character four years of close communion with bears and

deer, had engrafted _a twig_ of that which graces the western hunter.

A few adroitly managed questions placed him immediately in possession of

the residence, the destination, views and purposes of my friend, the

merchant; and, in terms of courtesy, conveyed in phrase more polished

than one would anticipate from his attire, he tendered his services as a

guide, and the best his house afforded by the way, as host,—extending

the invitation most politely to myself.

Having long been anxious to observe what charm in domestic life upon the

borders, could so fascinate mankind as to impel such crowds of restless

adventurers annually to plunge into the gloomy forest, there to remain

socially buried for years, until the growth of settled population again

environs them; I immediately ordered horse, and mounting with my

Athenian friend, followed, or accompanied the light wagon of the

settler, as the road or path permitted.

We had made but ten miles of progress, when the farms by the way-side

began to appear few and far between. Around us, gathered, deep and more

deeply still, the shadows of tall trees, which interlocked their arms

above us, until mysterious twilight was substituted for the bright

sunshine that made its existence known at intervals through openings in

the foliage. These were met with only where some giant of the wilderness

had laid him down in his last repose, when the slowly gnawing tooth of

time had sapped his moss-grown trunk. Occasionally, the wagon jolted

heavily over fallen trees, where the lightning had riven or the gale

uprooted them. It seemed a sacrilege to disturb the dread repose of

nature with our idle voices; and for miles we rode in total

silence.—How startling, then, and how incongruous to our ears was the

lively voice of our guide, exclaiming, as we passed _a blaze_, “we shall

soon be _home_ now!” Home! and here!—I gazed around on every hand. Over

the tops of the low shrubbery the eye was carried along interminable

aisles of stately trees! Interminable arches rested on their summits! An

awful unity of gloom engulphed us!

“High mountains are with me a feeling,”

And no man has rioted more wildly in scenes of solitude and desolation.

My shoulder is familiar with the rifle, my feet with cliff and

precipice, and my arms with the torrent and breaker.—Nay! more than

this! I have stood alone in cities! The limitless current of life has

whirled and eddied by, and I have felt no fellowship!—have felt the

sternest check of all that linked me with my kind, and buried myself in

egoism! “There runs not a drop of the blood of Logan in the veins of any

living creature.”

But never yet came over me the thought of _home_ with such a thrilling

shudder as when the word was spoken in those close and soul-oppressing

woods! There was no resonance from the leafy ground—no echo from those

long drawn gothic passages! The sound fell flat upon the ear, and its

very cheerfulness of tone, deadened by the dark and inelastic leaves,

resembled the convulsive laugh of terror or of pain!

Man is moulded for the contest. There is rapture in the strife, be it

with physical or moral evils—a glory in the conquest, that repays the

suffering! If vanquished,—he may fly and bide his time! If crushed,—he

falls back upon his self-esteem, enfolds his robe around him, and dies,

like Cæsar—bravely! Abroad—in calm or storm, in sun-shine or in

tempest—man feels himself the ruler, and his pride supports him in the

worst of woes; but _at home_—he is dependent! There woman rules the

emotions!—Who ever knew a joy beside a gloomy hearth! Or when the

wearing cares of life, or the oppression of habitual solitude has

furrowed the fore-head, and fixed the features of the wife, what husband

ever smiled again as once he smiled!

But away! Our path is onward!—soon we passed along the margin of a

precipitate descent, and the day burst in upon us, presenting a

momentary view of a long range of hills, over which the fire had swept

in the preceding year. Brown furze and blackened masses of charcoal

covered the slope for miles, with here and there a waving line of

foliage climbing the ascent, wherever some highland rivulet had checked

the progress of the flames, and preserved the grass. I had thought that

Nature furnished no more spectral object than a girdled tree in a barren

clearing; but the tall gnarled trunks, with charred and stunted limbs,

that sentineled that ruined hill-side were more spectral still!

Descending the hill, the forest again closed around us: but presently we

entered the track of a tornado—a wind-fall. It had traversed a forest

of pines—and, for about two hundred yards in width, had made a passage

through the woods, as straight and regular as art could have rendered

it. On either hand—far as the eye could reach—arose the unbroken wall

of verdure, a hundred feet in height, while in the midst, the vision

stretched away over an almost level carpet of scrub-oak and

whortleberries, forming a vista of unparalleled beauty; one which would

have graced the palace-grounds of an emperor. Not a stump, a root, or

tree was visible in all the range of sight. “God made this clearing,” I

remarked. The charm of silence was broken by the comment, and the

conversation immediately became general.

We had ridden about three miles farther, when the road, if road it could

be called, forked suddenly; and, turning to the left, we found ourselves

in front of the cottage of our host. It deserved this title richly; for

never, in my many journeys beyond the margin of a regular American

forest, have I seen more neatness and propriety, than was here displayed

in all the accidents of a residence of logs. True! there were none of

those vines and graceful shrubs that beautify the grounds around a

thrifty cottage in New England; but, even here, a garden was attempted.

The building, two stories in height, stood near the summit of an

acclivity which formed a sort of irregular lawn, and was actually shaded

by two stately trees!—the only instance of such preservation I have

witnessed in the wilds of Pennsylvania.

On the right, at a decent distance from the house, were a stable with a

loft, and several stacks of hay; and on the left, a natural meadow, of

some ten or fifteen acres, had been cleared of brush and sedge, and

furnished ample pasturage for four handsome cows. This, with twelve

acres of upland, formed the extent of the clearing. Several sugar maples

were scattered about the lawn, and a few young fruit trees ornamented

the arable land behind the house.

Here, then, was comfort—almost the aristocracy of the woods! We drove

rapidly to the door, but the sound of wheels had already drawn the

family without the house. The wife, a pale and delicate woman, about

twenty-eight or thirty years of age, held in one hand, a bare-foot boy

of three; while a little girl, still younger, folded herself in the

skirt of her mother’s woollen frock—her snow-white head, and light-blue

eye peeping out fearfully from her concealment, as we dismounted. A

stout lad, employed by the farmer, took charge of our horses, and we

were presented to our hostess.

“We have but poor accommodations to offer the gentlemen, John! but they

are welcome to what we have, such as they are. You are the first

strangers from the old settlements I have seen since we came to this

clearing! Were you ever in Connecticut?” Anxiety and hope were most

plainly depicted in the care-worn face of the speaker. I could not bear

to reply in the negative, and evaded the question by noticing the

children as we entered the house. Here, my companion was surprised at

the progress that had been made in four short years by the labor of a

settler of such slender means. Six decent chairs and a cherry-wood table

ornamented the apartment—a well-made dough-trough, with a wide and

smoothly planed top, served the purpose of a side-board—a large

cup-board, with curious, home-made wooden locks and hinges, occupied one

corner, and a rude settee contained, beneath the seat, a tool-chest and

a receptacle for table-linen. The ample fire-place, with its wooden

chimney, was festooned with strings of venison, hung up to smoke in

pieces, and the roughly plastered wall was ornamented with two rude

engravings, in _domestic_ frames—Adam and Eve driven from Paradise, and

the victory of Lake Erie. To these was added a printed copy of the

Declaration of Independence. A Bible stood open upon the table when we

entered, and a prayer-book, Young’s Night Thoughts, The Lady of the

Lake, and a few torn old numbers of a monthly magazine, adorned a shelf

above the fire. We missed the usual utensils of the cuisine, but these

we afterwards discovered in a more fitting place. The universal ticking

of the wooden clock was heard; but whence it came, we knew not, until

the hour for retiring. It stood upon the stairway.

Hanging his rifle and powder-flask on the wooden hooks, depending,

according to custom, from a beam, our host remarked that we were dusty

with travel.

“Tin is scarce with us here, gentlemen! and crockery is brittle,” said

he; “so if you wish to wash your hands and faces, and will pardon our

wild ways, follow me to the cellar, and you shall be accommodated!”

Taking a coarse but clean towel from the chest in the settee, he opened

a door beneath the stairs, and descended; leading the way on this

singular excursion. A cellar is a luxury in the simple cabin; but here

we were provided with an apartment more complete, in its conveniencies,

than those of older countries, the floor being well levelled, and the

walls faced with stones of ample size. The settler had formed, in one

corner, a large cavity about three feet deep. This was lined with

mortar, and paved with smooth, round pebbles from the brook. A tunnel,

with a wooden trunk and sliding flood-gate, about four inches square,

led from the bottom of this basin, through the foundations of the wall,

to the bed of a rivulet at some distance on the lawn. The greater part

of the waters of a spring, which rose very near the house and fed this

runnel, being diverted from their original course, were conveyed through

hollow logs, cleaned out and smoothed by burning, through the wall of

the cellar, about four feet above the floor, and fell in a beautiful

cascade into the basin below. But our host was far too fertile in

resources to permit the whole of the current to take this direction. A

well made milk-trough, constructed of timbers, some of which betrayed

more intimate acquaintance with the axe than the plane, occupied nearly

the whole remaining portion of that side of the cellar which

corresponded with the earthen basin. It was supplied with water by means

of a small canal composed of pieces of bark suspended from the beams

above, and capable of being projected into the cascade, so as to receive

any desirable portion of the falling fluid. Another tunnel,

communicating with the first, carried off the surplus. As we viewed

these curious results of Yankee ingenuity and perseverance, several fine

speckled trout were seen disporting among pans or crocks of the richest

milk and cream, into which, we were informed, they sometimes leaped, to

the no small discomforture of the tidy house-wife, when in their

hide-and-whoop gambols, their daring over-acted their discretion. Here,

then, we found, combined by the most simple means, the luxury of the

washing-room, the drain, the bath, and the milk-house. Nor was this all!

The waters of a spring, when flowing _pleno rivo_, never freeze. They

carry with them, for a time, the heat which is the expression of the

mean temperature of the earth, and share it with surrounding objects.

The very stream, that thus contributed to his domestic comforts, and, as

we afterwards discovered, rendered, in its excess, services equally

important to his cattle in the farm-yard, preserved his stock of

necessaries from the effects of frost, and contributed to lessen the

exertions required to procure fuel for the long and dreary winter. These

arrangements rendered our host still more an object of curiosity and

interest—for seldom had we seen such striking evidences of

philosophical deduction in house-hold affairs:—and we could not avoid

the hope, that the permanent enjoyment and gradual increase of the

comforts created by his genius, might be his ultimate reward. But, alas!

the prevalent disposition of his tribe, when once removed from home,

is—roving! Never contented with the _status quo_—or satisfied with

possession; they leave the enjoyment of ease for the hope of wealth, and

are ever ready to sacrifice reality _for a dream_. Yet, it was not for

_us_ to censure our host severely, should he ultimately pursue the

course so admirably described in one short technicality of the American

woods-man—“_Flitting!_” Had we not both been _flitting_ ourselves!—the

one for honor, and the other for gold! My gown and my friend’s land were

of _equal value_, and both had been purchased at the expense of solid

sacrifices; but little does it concern us now, that the progress of

population has thrown the former over shoulders well clad in

broad-cloth, bought with the surplus of a decent salary, or that the

other is studded with profitable farms! In many parts of America, twelve

years form an age in human affairs, and, in western Pennsylvania, _we

are of the last_!

Our ablutions completed, we returned to the sitting-room. The tea-table

was spread with a tidy cloth, and a smoking pot of Liverpool ware made

its appearance, replete with a beverage, _by the name of tea_; though,

by the test of the olfactories, it might have been supposed some

compound discovered among the ruins of the last Piquot village, in the

days when the venerable Mr. Hooker first raised the standard of his

faith among the ancestors of her whose hand distilled it.—Peace be with

the spirit of the good old man! Long since our journey, I have gazed, as

a stranger on his venerable tomb-stone in the central church-yard of

Hartford, and felt at the moment,—it may be with some bitterness—that

the descendants of his flock had lost but little in frankness and

hospitality, by being transplanted to the Wilds of the west! But

_revennons ou nos moutons_.[3]

The table was soon amply furnished with preserves, in nameless variety,

formed from the wild fruits of the neighbouring woods, by the aid of

maple sugar. The unvarying hard-crusted pie, sweet, well-baked

corn-bread, and the constant attendant of the lighter meals in New

England, the fried potato, completed the repast. We were seated,

and—after a well-spoken grace—a service which the really respectable

exile of Connecticut rarely neglects in any of the changing scenes of

life—we did it ample justice.

Economy of light is a matter of serious importance in the log-cabin; and

after tea, we gathered round the blazing hearth, (for the autumnal

nights were beginning to be cool,) adding, occasionally, a pine knot

from a group collected in the corner of the fire-place, by way of

illuminating an idea or a face, whenever the subject-matter of the

discourse became peculiarly interesting.

Quick and puzzling were the questions with which our hostess plied us,

on all things relating to the “old settlements,” as she already styled

the sea-board;—for the language and habits of the “far west,” are still

strangely preserved in these mid-land wildernesses, over which the

genius of civilization has bounded, to wave his omnipotent wand over the

regions of the setting sun, like the last of the mammoths when he

disappeared from the banded hunters of the olden time.

For a while, something like the liveliness of earlier days, stole over

the features of the querist, which were fast settling into the habitual

gloom, that gives character to the physiognomy of the recluse and the

blind. But whatever direction might be given to the discourse, in a few

moments it was sure to centre in Connecticut; until, evasion proving

impracticable, we were compelled, reluctantly, to confess that our

travels had never extended northward or eastward of the Housatonic—the

American Tweed.—A deep sigh succeeded this announcement, and our

hostess drew back her chair within the shadow of—what shall I call

it?—_jams_, properly so styled, the fire-place had none! Its sides were

formed of short, projecting logs, about three feet in length, piled, one

above another, interlocking, by deep notches, with those which formed

the walls of the building, at one end, and at the other, secured by

short cross-sections of a smaller tree, similarly notched, set

thwartwise between their projecting extremities, and bolted with strong

wooden pips. This structure supported the ample chimney, which was

constructed in like manner, and shared with it the usual protection

against fire, a thick internal coat of clay, admixed with a very little

lime. These chimney sides formed deep recesses on either hand, in one of

which, the cup-board was accommodated, while the other was graced by the

dining-table.

Near to one of these shaded recesses, our hostess drew her chair, and

left the conversation, for a long time, to her husband.

He inquired, with an interest, seemingly as intense as a statesman, into

the politics of the East, with the tenor of which he had contrived to

keep pace astonishingly, when his isolated position is considered. I was

curious to know how he managed to obtain such accurate information as to

men and measures at the seat of government, in the midst of so many

obstacles and such untiring agricultural efforts as his rapid

improvements must have demanded. His reply furnished a melancholy proof

of the natural disputatiousness of our species, while it illustrated the

pertinacity with which a mind, once awakened to party feelings, will

cling to its old friendships and antipathies when all interests in the

result have ceased.

“Why,” said he, “for a while it was easy enough; for the Post rides

through here once a week, and leaves a New York paper to Squire

Tomkins—so the winter I first came to these clearings, I used to walk

over to read the paper every other Saturday afternoon, except when the

snow was too deep, and came back on Sunday after dinner—so I learned

what was going on pretty well. And sometimes one or other of the old

blacksmith’s boys—that’s his grand-children!—for his two sons have

gone off to Illinois—would come over of odd Saturdays, a

horse-back—for the old soldier kept a horse—he’s been many years in

these parts, and has cleared and sold three farms, before he fixed where

he is—and he’d take up Mary behind him, and ride over to the

squire’s—for one of us had to stay and tend the cow and feed the pigs;

so we could not both go together—and bring her back again the next

day.—And a great treat it was to Mary!—for sometimes she would see

something in the paper about Connecticut.—She used to teach school in

Connecticut for a while.—Poor Mary! she had a better education than I

had—though mine wasn’t a bad one, for a common school, the way the

world goes; and I used to be able _to say my say_ with any body; but

somehow these woods are so lonely, that I’m out of practice.

“Poor Mary! her heart’s in Connecticut still, though she never tells me

so,—_but she looks it sometimes_—except may-be about Thanks-giving

day,—and then she can’t help _saying it_ too! I’m sometimes a’most

sorry she ever married such a wild and wandering fellow as me.”

“Why, John!”—in a tone of the tenderest expostulation, sounded from the

corner. Almost unconsciously, I threw a pine knot on the fire, and the

sudden flame lighted up a countenance, which would have reassured the

most desponding husband. All traces of the inanity of solitude were

gone; and over the cloud of sorrow, in which early recollections had

veiled the features,—even while the tears of memory were starting from

the eye,—the moon-beam of unalterable love poured its silvery light,

and the pride of the wife spoke plainly in the curve of a lip already

raised and trembling with affectionate reproach. The moisture lingered

threateningly upon the lids, but did not fall!—It paused a moment, as

in doubt, what emotion called it there, and then retreated to its

source.

The husband’s face was wreathed in smiles; his voice became firmer; his

language lost its parenthetic confusion on the instant, and he resumed

his discourse.

“Well! well! It’s all my fault, if fault there be. _She_ never had a

fault! and she’s a blessing that would pay for twenty thousand faults of

mine! There, Mary! Put the little ones to bed in the loft, and hear them

say their prayers.” He dismissed them with a parting kiss, and when his

wife retired—continued his narrative.

“The squire and I were friends, all through the winter and spring. He

and his two sons, with the blacksmith’s boys, and three men from the

furnace ten miles down the stream, assisted me to build my house; and I

borrowed a horse from the smith and a wagon in town, to bring my lime

for the plastering; so, when my new house was finished, we turned the

old one, that I told you of as we came along, into a right good stable.

I had laid up a full supply of provisions in the old house, the fall

before,—bought me a plough and some tools,—felled a good deal of

valuable pine timber, and put the four acres of clearing into winter

grain. With the first spring-floods, I floated the pines, by the help of

the squire’s oxen, and carried enough down to the saw-mill, (it’s only

twelve miles,) to bring me a good round sum; and then I had money enough

to pay my first instalment, buy me another cow and a pair of oxen, and

pay my way till harvest, without draining all the savings I brought out

with me. In the winter, I had also got three acres girdled, and the

meadow half cleared; for it wanted but little attention; so, as my

potatoes turned out uncommon well, and every thing prospered—I bought

me a horse and wagon in the fall, and saved just enough to pay the

second instalment;—trusting to Providence _and the stores_ for the

little we should want to buy next season.

“But this is not what I was talking of—I had like to have forgot the

squire!—We got along very well till June or July—when we were mowing

the meadow.—Yes! it was in July.—And the squire was a churchman and a

democrat, but I was a federalist and a congregationalist—I did not much

mind his jokes about the pilgrim fathers, though he said the Piquots

were better men than those that planted the state; and laughed at them

for hanging the Quakers in Boston. For the squire was a well read man

before he came to the west—and he hated Connecticut, because he came

from Lancaster county, and his father was killed in a quarrel with the

settlers in Wyoming, long after the troubles were over. But when he said

that Jefferson was a better man than General Washington, I could not

stand it, and we quarrelled. I said what no Christian should say, and

what I wont repeat;—so the squire and I have never spoken since, except

when poor Mary was taken down! and then I had to speak; for there was no

other woman within ten miles, and no doctor but a quack, within

twenty-five. But Mrs. Tomkins is a nurse and a doctor both—God bless

her!

“I’m getting to be very comfortable now, for I’ve got every thing around

me that a man can desire in the woods, except money; and I’ve little use

for that except to pay the last instalment; but I can’t bear to keep

that woman so lonely and sad for want of company! The old soldier’s

daughter comes over to see us once a month; but that is little for one

who used to have a dozen young friends always around her in Connecticut,

even if she was poor. To tell the truth, though the woods are full of

venison and wild turkies, and quails and squirrels to be had for the

shooting, and though Tom can catch a mess of trout in the milk trough at

any time,—for he lets his line run into the tunnel and there seems to

be no end to them—yet I can’t help thinking that if I had laid out my

three hundred dollars of hers and my savings in old Connecticut—if I

had worked half as hard there as I have done here, and she had gone on

teaching school, we should both have been happier and richer than we are

now. So I think I shall soon pull up stakes, sell out, and go to the

prairies, where God makes the clearings, as you said, on the road—and

it’s real hard work for a man, I can tell you!”

This last remark threw me into a revery of no pleasing nature; and I, in

turn, retreated into the shade, as the light of the pine-knot subsided

and the wife reëntered. I was dreaming of the future, when, the buoyancy

of early manhood being over, stubborn habit would _compel_ our really

worthy host after all rational motive for change should have

flown!—“Thou art one of a genus,” I mentally ejaculated. “The mark of

the wanderer is on thy brow—

“For thus I read thy destiny,

And cannot be mistaken.”

There was much conversation afterwards; and at intervals I gleaned the

strong points of his history, and that of her whose fate he now

controlled. But I was busy with my dream! Peering into the far off

future, I saw him in the last of his _flittings_!—deserted by those who

should be the props of his age, but whose youthful fire would not permit

them to remain inactive in the wilderness, after pictures of eastern

wealth and luxury, clad in all the glorious hues of memory, had been

rendered familiar as nursery tales by their suicidal parents. I saw him

in the evening of his days—and where?—seated by his feeble and

exhausted, though still affectionate partner, at the door of an

ill-provided cabin, far in the north-west—Far beyond the present range

of the pioneer! The gloom of night was slowly dropping its curtain

around them, though the phosphorescent snow gave dim illumination to the

broad and trackless expanse of the prairie—trackless then, even by the

exterminated Buffalo. _There_ were none even of the few conveniences of

his present wood-land home; for the genius and the skill which had once

enabled him to bend the stubborn gifts of nature to his will, were

chilled by the frosts of age.

I could even hear the voices of future years stealing on the autumnal

night breeze, as it moaned through the rough and ill-joined casement

where we sat.

“Why, John, this is Thanks-giving night! Where can our oldest boy be

wandering now? He was just thirty yesterday, and we have not heard from

him these six years!—Not since you made your last flitting, John! He

was always a good boy, and I’m sure he has written to us! John! you may

depend upon it, there must be a letter in the office at St. Louis—St.

Louis, was it? or was it Chicago? My memory begins to fail me so! He

sent us fifty dollars the last time, when we lived in Wisconsin, away

down in the States. It must have been in Chicago; for it was there he

wrote before!”

“Ah! Mary! Mary! boys forget their mothers and their fathers too, when

they are old and feeble! He is getting rich somewhere far over yonder,

and little he thinks of us! But there’s little Mary, where can she be?

Her husband was just gone to New Orleans with a load of furs when the

hunters went down to the bluffs in the fall, and they sent our letter

after them—but may-be she never got it!”

“Yes, it’s Thanks-giving night, Mary! and if I had loved the graves of

my parents as I ought, we should not be here, where our children that

are away will never find our own. Well, well! I’m too old to hunt, and

if the trapping turns out no better than it did last year, we’ll have

our next Thanks-giving, Mary, where there will be no end to it! and sure

you have earned the _right_ to be at rest, by your faithfulness, however

it may go with me!”

While this picture was floating through my mind, I had learned from

occasional sentences, that our host was the son of parents of

respectability; but his father had foolishly left the agricultural life,

which he understood and was pursuing prosperously, for cities and

merchandize, for which he had no talent. He died a bankrupt, leaving one

son at the age of eight years and a daughter of eighteen. The latter had

been affianced, during her father’s prosperity, to the son of a man of

wealth; but that wealth had been the result of the closest selfishness

in early life. As usual, the native vulgarity of feeling and

heartlessness of character which had caused his unwonted and undeserved

pecuniary success, remained unchanged in the days of his spurious social

elevation. He forbade the further visits of his son the moment the

disaster of the parent of his intended wife was known. He forbade it

suddenly and without a warning. The consequences were such as are almost

too frequent to attract attention. A lovely woman pined a few years over

the ill-requited needle, and died “in a decline.”

“A young man about town” looked sad for a few months, and then married

an heiress to extend the curse of hereditary meanness.

In the little village where our host was reared, by a near relative in

the original occupation of his father, he formed his attachment to his

present companion: She was then a teacher, starving upon the _liberal_

salary that rewards the principal of a female common school in “the

State where education is universal.” To marry at home would have

required sacrifices of conventional rank on the part of his intended, to

which his pride would not suffer him to reduce her; for how could he ask

her to share the fortunes of a laborer in the field? To wait until their

united efforts would enable them to secure a farm, was more than his

impatience could endure. In evil hour a bright dream of the west had

thrown him into the wilderness, and rendered him dependent upon the

accidents of sun and rain for protection against the tender mercies of a

Land Company—which calculated upon the profits of indiscretion and

extended credit willingly, while accepting actual payment with regret.

His energies might probably bear him through his trials, could he be

contented to avoid expansion until the flood-tide of civilization might

have time to reach his retreat, but already he was restless, and his

eyes were directed to the fatal west—and it appeared painfully probable

that a few short years would find him again dependent on his axe, or a

prey to larger speculations in a deeper wilderness.

We soon retired to our comfortable cat-tail beds, by the light of a

domestic candle, regretting that our kind entertainers refused us the

extempore lodging on the floor to which, in true woodland courtesy, they

condemned themselves.

It was long before sleep relieved the unpleasant thoughts awakened by

the conversation of the evening. My mind wandered over many a tale of

the woods, in which blighted hopes and ruined prospects constituted the

prominent features. True, I had seen much of happiness in similar

situations,—for Providence has constructed some one of the human family

peculiarly fitted to occupy each niche in the great temple of

society,—but how frequently the abuse of the inestimable privilege of

_free will_ renders it a curse instead of a blessing. I sometimes think

that the exceptions constitute the rule, and that a small minority only

ever accomplish the destiny for which they were created. Jarring,

confusion, and disorder mark every page of nature,—every paragraph of

history! Here was a man of spirit, enterprise, energy, and talent, who

had fled from the only field where happiness was proffered at a slight

expense of pride, to waste his powers upon a wilderness for the benefit,

in all probability, of certain merchants and capitalists in Holland. He

dragged down with him an amiable being who was fitted by her moral

excellencies, and even by her education, humble as it may have been, for

a far wider sphere of usefulness; and why? Because he could not bear to

ask a fond and loving woman to descend to a station which she would have

gloried to share with him!

How little men know of the true character of the self-sacrificing sex,

until the frosts of old age begin to crown their venerable fronts, and

they find their knowledge useless!

It is said that there is but one step from the sublime to the

ridiculous; but, although legend upon legend crowded on my memory, the

pathetic had still the ascendancy, and I entertained my companion with

stories, not all of which were colored in rain-bow hues, until the

moon-light deserted the casement, and the fatigue of nearly forty miles

of travel enabled us to sink into repose. As one of these recollections

is pertinent to the occasion, and illustrative of life in the woods, it

may not be amiss to offer it to the reader. It furnishes an instance of

indiscretion which, could the effect have been foreseen, would be

esteemed an act of cruelty worthy of the worst days of the inquisition.

And yet it was perpetrated by a female—by one who should have known the

peculiarities of her sex!

“Our highly intelligent friend, Mc——,” said I, “has resided for some

years in the town of ——, and has become familiar with the independent

life of a western village. She owns a considerable tract of wild land on

the New York border, and, as her husband’s eccentricities (for he is an

American Old Mortality) are equal with his fame and classical

acquirements, she thought it best to proceed by herself, on horse-back,

to visit the property and examine its resources. After journeying for

several days by every stages and frequented routes, she took an

appropriate path and plunged into the forest.”

After much difficulty and fatigue, she arrived at the cabin of a

squatter, which she knew to have been _located_ for many years on or

near her line. The visit of the owner was not unsafe, for the man was a

bee-hunter, trapper, and timber thief of the most gentle manners, and

utterly despised all efforts at clearing beyond the acre. His pigs—his

only stock—ran wild in the woods, and he cared nothing for real estate

so long as there were trees left for a deer-cover, timber to be stolen,

bees to be limed, and a bounty for wolves. He looked upon a new

settlement as only another market and prowling ground, incommoding him

in nothing, and likely to increase the dainties of his larder by an

occasional chicken and eggs. He lived for the _present_—dreamed neither

of the _past_ nor the _future_—and nothing but habitual laziness

prevented him from being perpetually peripatetic. He was absent from

home when Mrs. —— arrived, and she was received with back-woods

hospitality by his wife;—for even this creature, whose only beverage

was “Le vin ordinaire de ce pays ci—un liqueur abominable qu’on appelle

_Ouiskey_!” actually had a wife, and an affectionate one, who had

resided on or near the spot since the days of Jefferson! After a

comfortable night of repose upon a bundle of dried leaves, in her riding

suit, Mrs. —— arose, and made preparations _for viewing the property_.

No lady neglects the toilet, even in the most distressing circumstances.

I have several times heard death preferred to the loss of a fine head of

hair, in the wards of a hospital, and it is not to be supposed that Mrs.

R. was unprovided with a looking-glass. She proceeded to withdraw the

several appurtenances of the dressing-room from her well-stored

portmanteau, narrowly and wonderingly watched by her kind hostess. But

the instant the mirror appeared, the lonely denizen of the wilds

exclaimed, with startling energy—

“Oh! dear Mrs. R.! That’s a looking-glass! Do let me look in it! I have

not seen my face plainly for thirty years! I go down to the spring

sometimes and try to see myself; but the water is so rough that it don’t

look at all like me! Do let me look at it! Do now!”

The glass was handed to the delighted woman. She cast but one glance

upon it. The mirror fell in fragments on the floor, the unfortunate

creature fainted and fell back on the rude bench behind her, and Mrs. R.

visited her ample domain, that day, with a head half combed.

The very early breakfast the next morning was a cheerful one. When it

was completed, we rode over by the squire’s, with our host for a guide,

and after proceeding about three miles into the woods, tied our horses

at the termination of all signs of road, and advanced on foot. We soon

separated, the merchant and the farmer to estimate the chances of

water-power, iron beds, timber, and lime-quarries, and I, with my host’s

rifle, a paper of pins, a botanical box, and a pocket insect net, to my

favorite pursuits. We agreed to rendezvous at the place of parting when

the hour of three arrived; and, being all familiar with the art of

navigating the forest, there was no danger of a failure in meeting the

engagement. When we returned from our excursions, and I observed the

disappointed look of my Athenian friend, I felt myself the richer,

notwithstanding he styled himself possessor of five thousand acres, and

I bore upon my shield the footless birds of a younger son; for my hat

was serried with glittering insects, impaled upon its crown and sides;

my box was stored with rarities, and, on a hickory pole across my

shoulder, hung a great horned owl, a hawk, twelve headless black

squirrels, and a Canada porcupine!

We stopped at the squire’s for a dinner; and, strange to say, succeeded

in inducing our host to bear us company, despite his political

aversions; so that we have reason to believe that our visit was

successful in settling a feud which had seriously curtailed the comforts

of both parties for nearly three long years. As we were rambling over

the ground, while our meal was in preparation, our attention was called

to a tamed marmot or ground hog, that had been a favorite of the family

during several years. He had just commenced burrowing a residence for

his long months of hybernation—for the coolness of the nights

forewarned him that the period of activity was nearly over. By the

orchard fence, upon a little mound commanding a broad view of the

squire’s improvements, he sat upright on the grass, by the side of the

yellow circle of dust which his labors already rendered sufficiently

conspicuous. The sun obliquely shed a milder and more contemplative

light over a scene softened by the autumnal haze. The foliage wore the

serious depth of green which precedes the change of the leaf, and, on

the higher ground, small patches of yellow, red and brown began to vary

the uniformity of the forest. He sat with his fore-paws gently crossed

upon his bosom, like an old man reposing at evening by the door of his

cottage, calmly and peacefully reflecting that the labors of life were

drawing to a close. The autumn wind soughed by, with a premonitory moan,

and our philosophic friend threw up one ear to drink the ominous sound,

shook his head, as it died away, with an obvious shudder, as though some

chilly dream of winter disturbed his repose, and turning slowly round,

commenced digging deliberately at his burrow. In a few minutes he

reappeared and seemed again buried in contemplating the beauty of the

scenery. Ere long another and a stronger blast swept through the trees,

with a more threatening voice—bearing upon its wings a few withered

leaves.

One of these fell close to the person of the marmot. The intimation was

not to be mistaken. He gently descended to the horizontal attitude,

crawled towards the unwelcome courier of decay, applied his nose to it

for a moment, then, wheeling rapidly round, plunged suddenly into his

hole and sent the dirt flying into the air by the rapid action of his

fore-paws. I turned to the Exile of Connecticut, who had also watched

this interesting scene, and remarked: “You propose to go to the

prairies! It is summer with you yet, but I see that the leaves are

beginning to turn: there are a few grey hairs gathering about your brow.

Is it not time to choose your last resting place? to dig your last

burrow?”

He felt the force of the query, and remained in thought for several

minutes.

“If it were not for the next instalment, I think I should stay where I

am till the neighborhood could grow up around us, and Mary could go to

church and little John to school. But—I don’t know!—I think I shall

have to sell out and _flit_ in the spring, if I could find a purchaser!

I’m young yet; and that little beast did not throw the dirt so high in

the spring.”

Poor fellow! I hear that the ground reverted to the company two years

afterwards; but whether he sold out and _flitted_ with a full purse, or

started on foot with his Mary and the children, and an axe on his

shoulder, I have never heard.

-----

[3] It were ungrateful in the writer, not to acknowledge the marked

courtesy and kindness received from several friends during a short

residence at Hartford, and if tempted to speak a little severely of the

manners of the place, there is much more pleasure in the thought, that a

town, honored by the residence of Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Wordsworth, the

liberal patron of the _fine arts_, and the model of _fine feeling_, and

Rev. Mr. Gualladet, the devoted philanthropist, can endure some censure

upon its general hospitality. On a more suitable occasion, I should be

most happy to extend this list, partly, because it would be no more than

just to do so,

“And partly that bright names will hallow song!”

* * * * *

SONNET.

Still he is absent though the buds of Spring

Bursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,

And all its brightest flowers have waked to birth

The perfume in their petals slumbering;—

The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishing

Have blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirth

Is hushed into an echo, and his wing

Chill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—

And yet the loved one is not with us, yet

He lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,

While we the lonely, we in vain regret

The distant rapture of the greeting hour,

Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,

Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.

E. J. P.

* * * * *

THE FALSE LADYE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC.

There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles—at that

time the abode of France’s Royalty!—Music and merriment, even from the

break of day! That was a singular age—an age of great transitions. The

splendid spirit-stirring soul of chivalry was alive yet among the

nations—_yet_! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its

death blow in the spear thrust that hurled the noble Henry, last victim

of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and from throne!—In every

art, in every usage, new science had effected even then mighty changes;

yet it was the old world still! Gunpowder, and the use of musquetry and

ordnance, had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their

barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel—and tilts

and tournaments still mustered all the knightly and the noble; and

banquets at high noon, and balls in the broad day-light, assembled to

the board or to the dance, the young, the beautiful, and happy.

There were merriment and music in the court—the hall—the

stair-case—the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful, and

bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered to the presence of

their King.—And there were many there, well known and honored in those

olden days; well known and honored ever after!—The first, in person as

in place, was the great King!—the proud and chivalrous and

princely!—becoming his high station at all times and in every

place—wearing his state right gracefully and freely—the second

Henry!—and at his side young Francis, the King-Dauphin; with her, the

cynosure of every heart, the star of that fair company—Scotland’s

unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up with those

soft, dove-like eyes, fraught with unutterable soul, into her husband’s

face—into her husband’s spirit.—Brissac was there, and Joyeuse, and

Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned for skill in fence, and Vielleville;

and the Cardinal Lorraine, and all the glorious Guises,—and

Montmorenci, soon to be famous as the slayer of his King, and every peer

of France, and every peerless lady.

Loud pealed the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen

minstrelsy—and as the gorgeous sun-beams rushed in a flood of tinted

lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall windows, glancing

on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that might out-dazzle their own

radiance, arrayed in all the pomp and pride of that magnificent and

stately period—a more resplendent scene could scarcely be imagined.

That was a day of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors

thought it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of

goldsmith’s work about their necks, and jewels in their ears, and on

their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and sword-hilts; and if such were

the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more solid sex, what must have

been the ornature of the court ladies, under the gentle sway of such a

being as Diane de Poitiers, the lovely mistress of the monarch, and

arbitress of the soft follies of the Court?

The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety, some in the

pomp of blazoned tapestries with banners rustling from the cornices

above the jocund dancers, some filled with fresh green branches, wrought

into silver arbors, sweet garlands perfuming the air, and the light half

excluded or tempered into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense

foliage of the rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro,

clad in the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry,

the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest cates, in

every interval of the resounding dance.—It would be tedious to dwell

longer on the scene; to multiply more instances of the strange mixture,

which might be witnessed everywhere, of artificial luxury with

semibarbarous rudeness—to specify the graces of the company, the beauty

of the demoiselles and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles,

as they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated

measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some old chronicler, with

style as curious and as quaint as the manners he portrays in living

colors.—Enough for us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the grand

pageantry! to sketch with a dashy pencil the groups which he would

designate with absolute and accurate minuteness!

But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must not be passed over

with so slight a regard, since she attracted on that festive day, as

much of wondering admiration for her unequalled beauties as she excited

grief, and sympathy, and fear, in after days, for her sad fortunes,—but

there was now no cloud upon her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of

approaching tears in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy

thought upon one glorious feature—Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress

of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that rank and

fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure high brow, her

dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect symmetry of her whole

shape and person! Her hair, of the darkest auburn shade, fell in a

thousand ringlets, glittering out like threads of virgin gold when a

stray sunbeam touched them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely

shoulders and so much of a soft heaving bosom—veined by unnumbered

azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously—as was

displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet boddice—her

eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light, almost defied description,

possessing at one time the depth and brilliance of the black, melting

into the softer languor of the blue—yet they were of the latter hue,

and suited truly to the whole style and character of her voluptuous

beauty. Her form, as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every

movement, every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied grace.—In

sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere mortality—and so

thought many an one who gazed upon her, half drunk with that divine

delirium which steeps the souls of men who dwell too steadfastly upon

such wondrous charms, as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance,

lighter and springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the

exciting toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle! and

many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an exterior so

divine should be the tenement of a harsh worldly spirit—that a demeanor

and an air so frank, so cordial, and so warm, should be but the

deceptive veil that hid a selfish, cold, bad heart. Aye! many asked

themselves that question on that day, but not one answered his own

question candidly or truly—no! not one man!—for in her presence he had

been more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence unmoved

by the attractions of her outward seeming.

For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months before

affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè—the bravest and

best of Henry’s youthful nobles. It had been a love treaty—no matter of

shrewd bartering of hearts—no cold and worldly convenance—but the

outpouring, as it seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of

the other!—and men had envied him, and ladies had held her more

fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her riches, or her

beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate, or to sneer, in

admiration of the young glorious pair, that seemed so fitly mated. Three

little months had passed—three more, and they had been made one!—but,

in the interval, Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his King’s behest, had

buckled on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian

wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought, yet handsomer

than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand de Laguy, his own

orphaned cousin, bred like a brother on his father’s hearth; and, as

Charles well believed, a brother in affection. Three little months had

passed, and in a temporary truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone,

leading the relics of his cousin’s force, and laden with the doleful

tidings of that cousin’s fall upon the field of honor. None else had

seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile ranks;

but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble kinsman, and failing in

the desperate attempt, had borne off his reward in many a perilous

wound. Another month, and it was whispered far and near, that Marguerite

had dried her tears already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his

cousin’s death, succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to

the winning of that dead cousin’s bride.—It had been whispered far and

near—and now the whisper was proved true. For, on this festive day,

young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting wounds, and

languid from loss of the blood, appeared in public for the first time,

not in the sable weeds of decent and accustomed wo, but in the gayest

garb of a successful bridegroom—his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet

strewn thickly with seed pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of

rich white silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured

arm suspended in a rare scarf of the lady’s colors, and, above all, the

air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and that lovely

girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that for once, at least,

the tongue of rumor had told truth.

Therefore men gazed in wonder—and marvelled as they gazed, and half

condemned!—yet they who had been loudest in their censure when the

first whisper reached their ears of so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted

an inconstancy, now found themselves devising many an excuse within

their secret hearts for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry

himself had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed,

radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles—but the stern

brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself into a softer aspect,

and the rebuff which he had determined—but a second’s space before—to

give to the untimely lovers, was frittered down into a jest before it

left the lips of the repentant speaker.

The day was well-nigh spent—the evening banquet had been spread, and

had been honored, duly—and now the lamps were lit in hall, and

corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed the mirth, and faster wheeled the

dance. The company were scattered to and fro, some wandering in the

royal gardens, which overspread at that day, most of the Isle de Paris;

some played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the halls;

some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some whispered love in

ladies’ ears in dark sequestered bowers—and of these last were

Marguerite and Armand—a long alcove of thick green boughs, with orange

trees between, flowering in marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand

odorous trees mingling their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely

bower—and there alone in the dim star-light—alone indeed! for they

might now be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the

frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor’s right—while his left arm,

unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender waist; her head

reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich redundancy of ringlets

floating about his neck and bosom, and her eyes, languid and suffused,

fondly turned up to meet his passionate glances. “And can it be”—he

said, in the thick broken tones that tell of vehement passion—“And can

it be that you indeed love Armand?—I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that

I, like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed—for

him thou didst love dearly—while on me never didst thou waste thought

or word.”

“Him—never, Armand, never!—by the bright stars above us—by the great

gods that hear us—I never—never _did_ love Charles de La-Hirè—never

did love man, save thee, my noble Armand.—False girlish vanity and

pique led me to toy with him at first; now to my sorrow I confess

it—and when thou didst look coldly upon me, and seem’dst to woo dark

Adeline de Courcy, a woman’s vengeance stirred up my very soul, and

therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh yielded up

myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed indeed and honored—but

never thought of for one moment with affection—wilt thou believe me,

Armand?”

“Sweet Angel, Marguerite!” and he clasped her to his hot heaving breast,

and her white arms were flung about his neck, and their lips met in a

long fiery kiss.

Just in that point of time—in that soft melting moment—a heavy hand

was laid quietly on Armand’s shoulder—he started, as the fiend sprang

up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel’s angel weapon—he started

like a guilty thing from that forbidden kiss.

A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in a dark

riding cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat on the stately

head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive features. The high

broad forehead as pale as sculptured marble, with the dark chestnut

curls falling off parted evenly upon the crown—the full, fixed, steady

eye, which he could no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the

meridian sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and

wo—were all! all those of his good cousin.

For a moment’s space the three stood there in silence!—Charles de

La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable consternation of

the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent almost to the earth with shame and

conscious terror! and Marguerite half dead with fear, and scarcely

certain if indeed he who stood before her were the man in his living

presence, whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the

visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark grave to

thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest.

“I am in time”—he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering, as

his whole air was cold and tranquil—“in time to break off this

monstrous union!—Thy perjuries have been in vain, weak man; thy lies

are open to the day.—He whom thou didst betray to the Italian’s

dungeon—to the Italian’s dagger—as thou didst then believe and

hope—stands bodily before thee.”

A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite, as the

dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened ears—the man whom she

_had_ loved—_first_ loved!—for all her previous words were false and

fickle—stood at her side in all his power and glory—and she affianced

to a liar, a base traitor—a foul murderer in his heart!—a scorn and

by-word to her own sex—an object of contempt and hatred to every noble

spirit!

But at that instant Armand de Laguy’s pride awoke—for he _was_ proud,

and brave, and daring!—and he gave back the lie, and hurled defiance in

his accuser’s teeth.

“Death to thy soul!” he cried—“’tis thou that lieth!—Charles!—did I

not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not sink beside thee,

hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving to preserve thee?—and

when my vassals found me, wert thou not beside me—with thy face

scarred, indeed, and mangled beyond recognition, but with the surcoat

and the arms upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold

hand?—’Tis thou that liest, man!—’tis thou that, for some base end,

didst conceal thy life; and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me—but

’twill not do—fair cousin.—The King shall judge between us!—Come

lady”—and he would have taken her by the hand, but she sprang back as

though a viper would have stung her.

“Back traitor!—” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing.—“I

hate thee, spit on thee! defy thee!—Base have I been myself, and frail,

and fickle—but, as I live, Charles de La-Hirè—but as I live _now_, and

_will_ die right shortly—I knew not of this villany! I did believe thee

dead, as that false murtherer swore—and—God be good to me!—I did

betray thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand de

Laguy, dog! traitor! villain! knave!—dare not to look upon me any more;

dare not address me with one accent of thy serpent tongue! for

Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although she be, and lost for ever, is

not so all abandoned as, knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with

thee one second longer—no! not though that second could redeem all the

past—and wipe out all the sin!—”

“Fine words! Fine words, fair mistress!—but on with me thou shalt!” and

he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with a perfect majesty,

Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped him by the wrist, and held him

for a moment there, gazing into his eye as though he would have read his

soul; then threw him off with force, that made him stagger back ten

paces before he could regain his footing!—then! then! with all the fury

of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed his

rapier and made a full lunge, bounding forwards as he did so, right at

his cousin’s heart! but he was foiled again, for with a single, and, as

it seemed, slight motion of the sheathed broadsword, which he held under

his cloak, Charles de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling

through the air to twenty paces distance.

Just then there came a shout “the King! the King!”—and, with the words,

a glare of many torches, and, with his courtiers and his guard about

him, the Monarch stood forth in offended majesty.

“Ha!—what means this insolent broil?—What men be these who dare draw

swords within the palace precincts?”

“_My_ sword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling before the

King and laying the good weapon at his feet—“nor has been ever drawn,

save at your highness’ bidding, against your highness’ foes!—But I

beseech you, sire, as you love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and

treason, grant me your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy, recreant,

base, and traitorous, a liar and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand,

in the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law of

arms and honor!”

“Something of this we have heard already”—replied the King, “Baron de

La-Hirè!—But say out now, of what accuse you Armand de Laguy?—shew but

good cause, and thy request is granted; for I have not forgot your good

deeds in my cause against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen—of

what accuse you Armand de Laguy?”

“That he betrayed me wounded into the hands of the Duke of Parma! that

he dealt with Italian bravoes to compass my assassination! that by foul

lies and treacherous devices, he has trained from me my affianced bride:

and last, not least, deprived her of fair name and honor.—This will I

prove upon his body, so help me God and my good sword.”

“Stand forth and answer to his charge De Laguy—speak out! what sayest

thou?”

“I say,” answered Armand boldly—“I say that he lies!—that he did feign

his own death for some evil ends!—and did deceive me, who would have

died to succor him!—That I, believing him dead, have won from him the

love of this fair lady, I admit.—But I assert that I did win it fairly,

and of good right!—And for the rest, I say he lies doubly, when he

asserts that she has lost fair name, or honor—this is _my_ answer,

sire; and I beseech you grant _his_ prayer, and let us prove our words,

as gentlemen of France and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!”

“Amen!” replied the King—“the third day hence at noon, in the tilt

yard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat—and this fair lady be

the prize of the victor!—”

“No! sire,” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling—but before he

had the time to add a second word, Marguerite de Vaudreuil, who had

stood all the while with her hands clasped and her eyes rivetted upon

the ground, sprung forth with a great cry—

“No! no! for God-sake! no! no! sire—great King—good gentleman—brave

knight! doom me not to a fate so dreadful.—Charles de La-Hirè is all

that man can be, of good, or great, or noble! but I betrayed him, whom I

deemed dead; and he can never trust me living!—Moreover, if he would

take me to his arms, base as I am and most false hearted, he should

not—for God forbid that _my_ dishonor should blight _his_ noble

fame.—As for the slave De Laguy—the traitor and low liar, doom me,

great monarch, to the convent or the block—but curse me not with such

contamination!—For, by the heavens I swear! and by the God that rules

them! that I will die by my own hand, before I wed that serpent!”

“Be it so, fair one,” answered the King very coldly—“be it so! we

permit thy choice—a convent or the victor’s bridal bed shall be thy

doom, at thine own option!—Meanwhile your swords, sirs; until the hour

of battle ye are both under our arrest. Jarnac be thou Godfather to

Charles de La-Hirè!—Nevers, do thou like office for de Laguy.”

“By God! not I, sire;” answered the proud duke. “I hold this man’s

offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my conscience! I think

your royal hangman were his best Godfather!”

“Nevertheless, De Nevers—it shall be, as I say!—this bold protest of

thine is all sufficient for thine honor—and it is but a form!—no

words, duke! it must be as I have said!—Joyeuse, escort this lady to

thy duchess—pray her accept of her as the King’s guest, until this

matter be decided. The third day hence at noon, on foot, with sword and

dagger—with no arms of defence or vantage—the principals to fight

alone, until one die or yield—and so God shield the right!”

* * * * *

SONNETS.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

EVENING.

In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;

The Earth in slumber closes her great eye

Like to a dying god’s; from hills, that lie

Like altars kindled by the sunset ray,

The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;

From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;

Those veils of day, the shadows, floating high

Around the tree-tops, fall upon the gay

And gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the West

Its burnished gold throws back in softened lines

Upon the East, and, as it sweetly shines

On lapsing river and reposing dell,

Tinges with rosy light the hovering breast

Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.

HEREAFTER.

Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;

Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,

And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,

He rises, kindling, into boundless space.

Then backward to the Earth, his native place,

The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,

And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all

That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,

Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.

Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawn

Hills of the future world he sees afar

In morning rays that beam not here below.

Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snow

Through his long night perceive the distant dawn.

* * * * *

HARRY CAVENDISH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

ETC.

“And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

I wantoned with thy breakers.”

Childe Harold.

INTRODUCTORY.

I was sitting the other afternoon before my library fire, listening to

the fitful breeze without that swayed the trees to and fro before the

house and moaned down in the neighbouring woods, when I suddenly

recollected that the last sheets of “The Reefer” had gone to press a

fortnight before, and that, consequently, my career of authorship was

closed. The idea, I confess, gave me pleasure, for I am by nature an

indolent man, and would at any time rather dream by a cheery fire, with

my slippered feet reposing on my tiger-skin rug, than tie myself down to

a writing-table, even though it be to record my own or my friends’

adventures, and “go about the world from hand to hand.” I am not

ambitious. I prefer ease to reputation, quiet to turmoil, the epicurean

to all other philosophy. To read my favorite authors; to indulge in

reveries at the twilight hour; to gaze on fine pictures, choice statues,

and tasteful rooms; to listen to the melting airs of Burns, or the

glorious hallelujahs of Handel; to sport on my own grounds on a clear,

bracing morning; to gallop over the wild hills and through the romantic

valleys which surround my residence;—these are the enjoyments in which

I delight, and which I prefer to all the reputation either the pen or

the sword can give. Others may choose a more bustling life; but I have

had my share of that! Give me a quiet, happy home, for there only is

true happiness to be found.

Musing thus, I was unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, until I

heard a slight cough beside me, and looking up, I saw my faithful

servant John standing over my chair. He laid on my lap, at the instant,

a copy of Graham’s Magazine for December. As John did so, he heaved a

sigh, and then, as if something was on his mind, busied himself in

arranging various articles in the room. I knew by these tokens that he

was desirous of attracting my attention. The woe-begone expression which

he wore during all this time, amused me, for I fancied I could guess

what was passing through his mind. As I quietly cut the pages of the

book, I indulged him by opening the conversation.

“Well, John,” I said, “it is finished. ‘The Reefer’ has followed my own

adventures, and you will have no more trouble in acting as proof-reader

for me. Our days,” and here, at the use of the plural, the old fellow

grinned from ear to ear, “our days of authorship are over. I think we

had better retire while our laurels are green. Are you not glad?”

“Glad! What for Massa Danforth think that? No, no,” and he shook his

grey head mournfully, “John _not_ glad.”

“And why not, John? We shall have more time to ourselves. I’m afraid,” I

said, looking towards the window, and endeavoring to peer through the

twilight without, “I am afraid our planting is sadly behind hand—the

clump of trees out yonder wants thinning—and then the water-fall is

getting out of order—and Mrs. Danforth has been pleading for an

addition to her garden—all this requires overseeing—and besides these,

there are a thousand other things which will require our attention.”

I could see that the old fellow had, with difficulty, restrained himself

until I had finished; for he kept moving his body unceasingly, and once

or twice had opened his mouth to speak. He now broke out—

“Nebber do, Massa Danforth, nebber do to give up authorship, take old

John word for dat. You now great man—talk of in all de papers—it Massa

Danforth here and Massa Danforth dare—ebbery few month you get extra

puff in de prospective of de Magazine—and think you discontinue if you

give ober writing? Gor amighty nebber! Ebbery body can do

planting,—dere Massa Jones, Massa Tyson, Massa Smit, and de oder

blockheads in de county—but you be only one hereabout been to sea, or

can drive a pen ober paper like a four-in-hand, polishing skrimanges for

a hundred thousand readers—for dat many Massa Graham say thumb his book

ebbery month. It plain text, plain sermon. Who so big as Massa Danforth

de author?—who so little, beg pardon for say it, as Massa Danforth de

farmer? De public like our sleepy boy Joe in de kitchen, he nebber know

any one alive, unless dey keep bawling, bawling in his ear all de time.”

“But what am I to do?” said I, smiling at his earnestness, and peculiar

style of illustration. “Even if I wished to continue an author, I could

not. My own adventures are published; so are those of the Reefer,—if I

go on, I must—to say nothing of the trouble—draw on my fancy, and

that, you know, wouldn’t do. I always bear in mind what honest Sancho

Panza says—‘Let every one take heed how they talk or write of people,

and not set down at random the first thing that comes into their

imagination.’”

“Massa Sanka Pancer had better keep his advice to himself, dat my

mind—I nebber saw him here, or read his name in de papers, and he

derefore no great shakes—but I no see dat dere be an accessory for any

fiction about it. Ah! I hab him—I hab him. I think of a new feature.”

“A new feature! Well—let’s hear it.”

“But first, dere be accessory for a story. Once Massa know I be a poor

scoundrel in newspaper office—hard life dat, where kicks plenty and

dinners scarce—and ebbery now and den when editor pushed to de wall for

cash, he say in his paper dat de next day he come out wid a new feature.

Well, ebbery body, besure, be on tip-toe. Office run down next mornin

for paper. Massa editor fill his pockets for once anyhow—no trouble,

little cost, all wit do it. How? He put in new head to his paper, and

call dat ‘new feature.’ Now, suppose Massa Danforth get a new head to

‘Cruising in de Last War,’ and so be author, and dat widout trouble, for

anoder year. Ah! ha! dat grand stroke.”

I laughed heartily at the proposal, but replied—

“That would never do, John—but I must tell Graham of your idea.”

“Eh! what?—put old John in print. Gor amighty dat make him grand as de

minister—not dat he care much for it—he not vain—but, but, what Massa

gwine to say?”

“You’ll know in good time—but at present see who knocks at the library

door.”

“Package forgot at post-office,” said John, returning from his errand,

and giving me a huge bundle of manuscript.

“Ah! what have we here? A letter from Graham, I declare. What says

he?—‘a valuable private history of the revolutionary times,’—‘only

wants a little pruning’—‘thrilling adventures’—‘a run unsurpassed for

years’—‘unequalled’—‘edit it as a great favor’—and so forth. Well,

let us see what it is.”

“Eh! yes—see what he is. Massa Graham one _obi_ man, he know de

quandary we in, and send dis to settle de argument. No escape now, Massa

Danforth—it little trouble—thank God! you be great man still—and de

people still say as we drive out togedder, ‘dare go de celebrated Massa

Danforth, and his man John!’”

And now, reader, having acquainted you with the manner in which the

following history came into my hands, and given you a hint as to the

reasons which have induced me to appear again in print, I will take

leave of you without further parley, and let the autobiographer speak

for himself.

THE WRECK.

The parting word had been said, the last look had been taken, and my

traps had all been snugly stowed away in the narrow room which, for some

years, was to be my home. I stood by the starboard railing gazing back

on the dear city I was leaving, and, despite the stoicism I had affected

when bidding farewell to my friends, I could not now prevent a starting

tear. Nor did my mess-mates seem in a more sportive mood; for they could

be seen, some in the rigging and some leaning over the ship’s side,

looking back on the well known landmarks of the town with a seriousness

in the aspect which betokened the thoughts passing through the heart.

Yes! we were about leaving the scenes of our boyhood, to enter on a new

and untried life—and who knew if any of us would ever return again to

our homes? The chances of war are at all times dreadful, but in our case

they were terribly increased by the flag under which we sailed. Who

could tell whether the officers of the revolted colonies might not be

considered as traitors as well as rebels? Who knew but that the very

first enemy we should meet would either sink us or hang us at the yard

arm? And yet, firm in the righteousness of our cause, and confiding in

the God of battles, there was not one of our number who, having put his

hand to the plough, wished to turn back. Sink or swim—live or die—we

were resigned to either destiny.

Evening was closing fast around the scene, and, even as I gazed, the

town melted into gloom, Copp’s Hill alone standing up in solemn majesty

over the shadowy city. The distant hum of the town died fainter and

fainter on the darkness, the evening breeze came up fresher across the

waters, the song of the fisherman and the dip of passing oars ceased,

and, one by one, the white sails of the ships around us faded away, at

first seeming like faint clouds, but finally losing themselves

altogether in the darkness. All around was still. The low monotonous

ground swell heaving under our counter, and rippling faintly as it went,

alone broke the witching silence. Not a breath of air was stirring. The

boatswain’s whistle was hushed, the whisper had died away, no footfall

rose upon the stillness, but over shore and sea, earth and sky, man and

inanimate creation, the same deep silence hung.

Gradually, however, the scene changed. Lights began to flash along the

town and from the ships in port, and, in a few moments, the harbor was

alive with a long line of effulgence. A half subdued halo now hung over

the city. The effect produced was like that of magic. Here a ship lay

almost buried in gloom—there one was thrown out in bold relief by the

lights—now a tall warehouse rose shadowy into the sky, and now one

might be seen almost as distinctly as at noon day. The lights streaming

from the cabin windows and dancing along the bay, the swell tinged on

its crest with silver, but dark as night below, and the far off sails

gleaming like shadowy spectres, through the uncertain light, added

double effect to the picture. And when the stars came out, one by one,

blinking high up in the firmament, and the wind began to sigh across the

bay and wail sadly through our rigging, the weird-like character of the

prospect grew beyond description. Hour after hour passed away and we

still continued gazing on the scene as if under the influence of some

magician’s spell; but, at length, exhausted nature gave way, and one

after another went below, leaving only those on deck whose duty required

their presence. For myself, though I sought my hammock, a succession of

wild indistinct dreams haunted me throughout the livelong night.

A pleasant breeze was singing through the rigging as I mounted the

gangway at dawn, and the tide having already made, I knew no time would

be lost in getting under weigh. Directly the captain made his

appearance, and, after a few whispered words, the pilot issued his

orders. In an instant all was bustle. The boatswain’s whistle, calling

all hands to their duty, was heard shrieking through the ship, and then

came the quick hurried tread of many feet, as the men swarmed to their

stations. The anchor was soon hove short; the sails were loosed; the

topsails, top-gallant sails and royals were sheeted home and

hoisted,—the head yards were braced aback and the after yards filled

away; a sheer was made with the helm; the anchor was tripped; the gib

was hoisted; and as she paid beautifully off, the foretop sail was

filled merrily away, and the spanker hauled out. Then the yards were

trimmed, the anchor catted, and with a light breeze urging us on, we

stood gallantly down the bay. As we increased our distance from the

town, the wind gradually freshened. One after another of the green

islands around us faded astern; the heights of Nahant opened ahead,

glanced by and frowned in our wake; and before the sun had been many

hours on his course, we were rolling our yard arms in a stiff breeze,

leagues to sea. Before sun-down the distant coast had vanished from

sight.

My mess mates had already gathered around the table in the long narrow

room which was appropriated to the midshipmen, when I dove down the

hatchway after the watch had been set. They were as jovial a set as I

had ever seen, and, although our acquaintance was but of twenty-four

hours standing, we all felt perfectly at home with each other; and as

the salt beef was pushed from hand to hand, and the jug passed merrily

around, the mutual laugh and jest bore token of our “right good

fellowship.”

“A pretty craft, my lads,” said a tall fine-looking fellow, obviously

the senior of the group, and whom I had been introduced to as a Mr.

O’Hara; “a pretty craft and a bold captain we have, or I’m no judge.

I’ve been at sea before, but never in as gallant a ship as this. Here’s

success to The Arrow—no heel-taps.”

The toast was drunk with a huzza, and O’Hara continued the conversation,

as if, under the circumstances, he felt that he was the only proper

person to play the host.

“You’re most of you green-horns, my boys—excuse the word, but ‘tell the

truth,’ you know—and will not be good for much if this swell continues.

One or two of you are getting pale already, and, if I’m not mistaken,

Cavendish and I are the only two of the set that have smelt salt water

before. Now, take a word of advice. Cut into the beef like the deuce,

never mind if it does make you worse, cut away still, and bye and bye,

when you get all your long shore swash out of you, you’ll find that you

feel better than ever. We’re for a long voyage, and many a hard rub

you’ll get before it’s over, but never flinch from duty or danger—even

if Davy Jones himself stares you in the face. Kick care to the wall, and

be merry while you may. But always have an eye to what is due to your

superiors. The captain’s a gentleman. God bless him! The first

lieutenant, I’ve a notion, is a sour sinner—never let him catch you

tripping,—but you needn’t mind him further, for he looks as if he ought

to be tarred and feathered as the Boston boys served the exciseman. And

now, lads, here’s to a prosperous voyage, and let’s turn in, one and

all, for I’ve got the morning watch, and I’ve a notion this breeze will

have settled down into a regular hurricane, and be blowing great guns

and marlin-spikes before then.”

The air of easy good-humor with which O’Hara spoke, attracted me to him

at once. He was evidently my senior, and had seen some service; but it

was equally as evident that he affected no superiority which was not his

of right. I determined to know him better.

It was still dark when I was aroused from sleep by the calling of the

watch, and, hastily springing up, I soon stood upon the deck. The first

glance around me proved that O’Hara’s anticipations were fulfilled, for

the tempest was thundering through the rigging with an almost stunning

voice, driving the fine spray wildly along, and blowing with an

intensity that threatened to sweep one overboard. The men, bent before

the blast, and wrapped in their thick overcoats, stood like statues half

seen through the mist. The night was bitterly cold—the fine spray cut

to the marrow. As far as the eye could see, on every hand around us, the

sea, flattened until it was nearly as level as a table, was a mass of

driving foam. The binnacle lamp burned faint and dim, with a sickly

halo, through the fog. Above, however, all was clear, except a few white

fleecy clouds, driven wildly across the frosty stars that twinkled in

the heavens. As I ran my eye along the tall taper masts, now bending

like rushes in the hurricane, I saw that nearly all the canvass had been

taken in, and that we were scudding before the tempest with nothing

spread but a close-reefed maintopsail, a reefed fore-course, and the

foretopmast staysail,—and even these, as they strained in the gale,

threatened momently to blow out into ribbons before the resistless fury

of the wind. Under this comparative press of canvass, The Arrow was

skimming along, seeming to outvie even the spray in velocity. And well

was it that she sped onward with such hot haste!—for, on looking

astern, I saw the billows howling after us, urging on their white crests

in fearful proximity, and threatening at every surge to roll in over our

taffrail. Wilder and wilder, more and even more fiercely they raced each

other in the pursuit, like a pack of famished wolves pitching and

yelling after their prey.

“Keep her so,” said the first lieutenant, as he left the deck in charge

of his successor, “for you see it is neck and neck with those yelling

monsters astern. If the sails are blown from the bolt ropes they must

go—but as the canvass is new I think they will stand.”

“Ship ahoy!” shouted a look-out at this moment, startling us as though a

thunderbolt had fallen at our feet, “a sail athwart hawse.”

“Where, where?” exclaimed both the officers incredulously.

“Close under our fore-foot—a brig, sir.”

“My God, we shall run her down,” was the exclamation of the second

lieutenant.

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction of the approaching

danger, and there, sure enough, directly athwart our hawse, a small

trim-looking brig was seen lying-to—the wild hurricane of flying spray,

which covered the surface of the deck in places with an almost

impervious fog, having hitherto concealed her from our sight. It was

evident that the inmates of the brig had but just discovered us, for her

helm was rapidly shifted and a few hurried orders, whose import we could

not make out, were given on board of her. All, indeed, seemed confusion

on the decks of the unhappy craft. Her crew were hurrying to and fro;

the officer of the vessel was shouting in his hoarsest tone; two or

three forms, as if those of passengers, rushed up the companion way; and

to crown all, the sheets were let fly, and with a wild lurch she rolled

over, and lay the next moment wallowing in the sea broadside on. I could

almost have jumped on her decks. All this had passed with the rapidity

of thought. Never shall I forget the shriek of horror which burst

simultaneously from both vessels at this fearful crisis. Already were we

close on to the brig, driving with the speed of a sea-gull with the

gale, and we knew that before another moment should elapse, aye! almost

before another breath could be drawn, the collision must lake place. But

the lightning is not quicker than was the officer of the deck.

“Port—a-port—ha-a-rd, _hard_,” he thundered, grinding the words

between his teeth in his excitement, and waving his hands to larboard,

and the helmsman, taking his cue more from the gesture than from the

words—for in the uproar of the tempest he could not hear a dozen yards

to windward—whirled around the wheel, and our gallant craft, obedient

to the impulse like a steed beneath the spur, swept around to starboard.

For a second the ill-fated brig could be seen dancing under our stem,

and then, rolling heavily around, she seemed as if she would escape,

though narrowly, from her frightful position. A cry of joy was already

rising to my lips; but, at that instant, I heard a crash, followed by a

dull grinding noise, and simultaneously I beheld the brig come into

collision with us just abaft the cathead, and, while all our timbers

quivered with the shock, she whirled away astern, rolling and rubbing

frightfully, and half buried in the brine. A shriek rent the air, on the

instant, whose thrilling tones haunted me for days and nights, and seems

even now to ring in my ears.

“God of my fathers!” I exclaimed, “every soul will be lost!”

“Heave her to,” thundered the officer of the deck. “For life or death,

my lads! Up with the foresail—down with your helm—brace up the after

yards—set the mizzen stay sail there.”

It is a libel on sailors to say they never feel. No men are more ready

to aid the unfortunate. On the present occasion the crew seemed inspired

with an energy equal to that of their officer, and springing to their

duty performed the rapid orders of the lieutenant in an almost

incredible space of time. Happily a momentary lull aided the manœuvre,

and our proud craft obeying her helm came gallantly to.

“Meet her there, quarter-master,” continued the officer of the deck;

“set the main stay-sail—brace up the fore-yards—merrily,

merrily—there she has it—” and, as these concluding words left his

mouth, the manœuvre was finished, and we rode against the wind, rising

and falling on the swell, and flinging the spray to our fore-yard arm as

we thumped against the seas.

My first thought was of the brig. As soon, therefore, as our craft had

been hove-to, I cast a hurried glance over the starboard bow to search

for the unfortunate vessel. I detected her at once lying a short

distance on our weather bow,—and it was evident that the injury she had

sustained was of the most serious character, for even through the mist

we fancied we could see that she was settling deeper in the water. Her

officers were endeavoring to heave her to again; while rising over their

orders, and swelling above all the uproar of the hurricane, we could

hear the despairing wail of her passengers. At length she lay-to a few

fathoms on our starboard bow, drifting, however, at every surge bodily

to leeward. Confusion still reigned on her decks. We could see that the

crew were at the pumps; but they appeared to work moodily and with

little heart; and we caught now and then the sound of voices as if of

the officers in expostulation with the men. A group of female figures

also was discernible on the quarter-deck, and a manly form was visible

in the midst, as if exhorting them to courage. At the sight a thrill of

anguish ran through our breasts. We would have laid down our lives to

save them from what appeared to be their inevitable doom, and yet what

could we do in the face of such a tempest, and when any attempt to

rescue them would only entail ruin on the adventurers, without aiding

those we would preserve? As I thought of the impossibility of rendering

succor to those shrinking females, as I dwelt on the lingering agonies

they would have to endure, as I pictured to myself the brig sinking

before our eyes, and we all powerless to prevent it, a thrill of horror

shivered through every nerve of my system, my blood ran cold, my brain

reeled around, and I could with difficulty prevent myself from falling,

so great was my emotion. But rallying my spirits, I tried to persuade

myself it was all a dream. I strained my eyes through the mist to see

whether I might not be mistaken—to discover if possible some hope for

the forlorn beings on board the brig. But, alas! it was in vain. There

were the white dresses blowing about in the gale as the two females

knelt on the deck and clung to the knees of their protector—there was

the crew mustered at the pumps, while jets of brine were pouring from

the scuppers—and there were the crushed and splintered bulwarks

betokening that the efforts of the men were dictated by no idle fears. I

groaned again in agony. Had it been my own fate to perish thus, I could

have borne my doom without a murmur; but to see fellow creatures

perishing before my sight, without my having the power to succor them,

was more than I could endure. I closed my eyes on the dreadful scene.

Nor were my emotions confined to myself. Not a heart of our vast crew

that did not beat with sympathy for our unhappy victims. Old and young,

officers and men, hardy veterans and eager volunteers, all alike owned

the impulses of humanity, and stood gazing, silent, spell-bound and

horror-struck, on the ill-fated brig and her despairing passengers. At

this instant a gray-haired man, whom we knew at once to be her skipper,

sprung into the main-rigging of the wreck, and placing his hands to his

mouth, while his long silvery locks blew out dishevelled on the gale,

shouted,

“We—are—sink-ing!” and, as he ceased, a shiver ran through our crew.

“God help us,” said the captain, for that officer had now reached the

deck, “we can do nothing for them. And to see them sink before our eyes!

But yet I will not despair,” and raising his voice, he shouted, “can’t

you hold on until morning, or until the gale subsides a little?”

The skipper of the brig saw by our captain’s gestures, that he had

hailed, but the old man could not hear the words in the uproar of the

gale, and he shook his head despondingly.

“We are sinking!” he shouted again; “there is a foot of water in the

hold, and the sea is pouring in like a cataract. We have been stove.”

Never shall I forget that moment, for, to our excited imaginations, it

seemed as if the brig was visibly going down as the skipper ceased

speaking. His words sounded in our ears like the knell of hope. A pause

of several seconds ensued—a deep, solemn, awe-inspiring pause—during

which every eye was fixed on the battered vessel. Each man held his

breath, and looked in the direction of the brig, as she rose and fell on

the surges, fearful lest the next billow would submerge her forever. We

all saw that it was useless to attempt holding any communication with

her, for no human voice, even though speaking in a voice of thunder,

could be heard against the gale. The two vessels were, moreover, rapidly

increasing the space betwixt them,—and, although objects on the deck of

the brig had been at first clearly perceptible in the starlight, they

had gradually grown dimmer as she receded from us until now, they could

scarcely be seen. There was no alternative, therefore, but to abandon

her to her fate. The skipper of the brig seemed to have become sensible

of this, for, after having remained in the main rigging watching us for

several moments longer, he finally descended to the deck, waving his

hand mournfully in adieu.

Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. When I first

came on deck, the stars, I have said, were out bright on high, with only

a few scud clouds now and then chasing each other over the firmament.

Even then, however, I had noticed a small black cloud extending across

the western horizon, and giving an ominous aspect to the whole of that

quarter of the sky. But during the last half hour my attention had been

so engrossed by the events I have just related that I lost all

consciousness of this circumstance. Now, however, the increasing

darkness recalled it to my mind. I looked up. Already dark and ragged

clouds, precursors of the vast body of vapors following behind, were

dimming the stars overhead, now wrapping the decks in almost total

darkness, and now flitting by and leaving us once more in a dim and

shadowy light, through which the men loomed out like gigantic spectres.

The wind had perceptibly decreased, while the sea had risen in

proportion. The spray no longer flew by in showers, but the white caps

of the billows, as they rolled up in the uncertain light, had a

ghastliness that thrilled the heart with a strange emotion, almost

amounting to superstitious dread. The ship strained and creaked as she

rose heavily on the billows, or sunk wallowing far down in the abyss;

while ever and anon the sea would strike on her bows like a

forge-hammer, breaking in showers of spray high over the forecastle, and

often sending its foam as far back as the main hatchway.

The huge mass of vapors meanwhile had attained the zenith, and was

rolling darkly onward towards the opposite horizon. Directly the wind

died nearly altogether away, while a total darkness shrouded us in its

folds. Even then, however, a few stars could be seen low in the eastern

seaboard, twinkling sharp and serene, just under the edge of that

ominous cloud, but casting only a faint and dreamy radiance around them,

and in vain attempting to penetrate the gloom higher up in the sky. The

brig was last seen to the north-west, where the darkness had become most

intense. She was still doubtless in that quarter, but no trace of her

could be discerned.

“It’s as black up yonder as the eye of death,” said the captain, “and I

can see nothing there but a dense, impenetrable shadow—your sight is

better, Mr. Duval,” he continued, addressing the first lieutenant, “can

you make out any thing?” The officer shook his head. “Well, we will

hail, at any rate. I would not have run afoul of them for my

commission!”

The hail rung out startlingly on the night, and every ear listened for

the response. No answer came.

“Again!” said the captain.

“A-ho-o-y!—Hil-lo-o-o-o!”

A second of breathless suspense followed, and then another, when we were

about giving up all hope; but at that instant a faint cry,—it might

have been a wail or it might not, God knows!—came floating across the

waste of waters. It fell on our listening ears like a lamentation for

the dead.

“Heaven preserve us!” solemnly said the captain, “I’m afraid all is over

with them.”

“Amen!” ejaculated the lieutenant, and for an instant there was a

breathless silence, as if each was too awe-struck to speak. Suddenly the

huge sails flapped against the mast, bellied out again, and then whipped

backward with a noise like thunder. The effect was electric. The captain

started and spoke.

“The wind is shifting,” he ejaculated, holding up his hand, after having

first wet it slightly; “ha! the breeze is coming from the north. It will

strike by the mainmast. Let her stretch away at first, but we’ll

heave-to as soon as possible. I wouldn’t for the world desert this

neighborhood: God grant we may find some vestige of the brig when

morning dawns!”

The hurried orders of the officer of the deck to prepare for the coming

hurricane had scarcely been given and executed, before it seemed to us

as if we could see, even amid the blackness of darkness to the north,

the whirling motion of gigantic clouds, and, almost simultaneously, with

a roar as of ten thousand batteries, this new tempest was upon us. Its

first fury was beyond description—surpassing imagination—defying

belief. It howled, shrieked, and bellowed through the rigging in such

awful and varied tones, that the oldest hearts were chilled with fear.

It was as if the last convulsive throe of a world was at hand. It was as

if the whole fury of the elements had been collected for one last

effort—as if tortured nature, made frantic by agony, had broke loose

from her tormentors—as if the mighty deep itself, in horror-struck

penitence, was thundering its awful “_de profundis_” on the eve of final

dissolution. I could scarcely breathe, much less stand. I could only

grasp a rope, fling myself almost prostrate, and await either the

subsidence of the storm, or the foundering of our ship,—for, during

several minutes, it appeared to me as if every second was to be our

last. Torrents of water, meanwhile, swept in sheets from the crests of

the billows, were whirling like smoke-wreathes along the decks,—while

the ravening surges, faintly seen like shadows through the gloom, chased

each other in wild and rapid succession along our sides. All was

darkness, doubt and terror.

But happily the duration of the squall was proportioned to its

intensity, and, in less than five minutes, the hurricane began to

decrease in violence. After the lapse of a short period more the gale

rapidly subsided, although its power was still considerable. Before half

an hour, however, we were lying-to as near to our old position as we

could attain,—having suffered no loss except that of our maintopsail,

which was blown from the bolt ropes in the first moment of the squall,

but with a noise which was lost in the louder uproar of the wind.

“They have never survived this,” said the captain in a melancholy tone,

when we were once more snugly hove-to: “how many souls are in eternity

the All-Seeing Eye only knows! Keep her here,” he added after a pause,

turning to descend to his cabin, and addressing the officer of the deck,

“and with the first streak of light, if the gale shall have abated, as I

suspect it will, cruize up to our old position, maintaining a sharp

look-out in every direction. But I shall be on deck myself by that

time,” and with the words, taking a last but fruitless look towards the

west, he went below. In half an hour the crowded decks were deserted by

all except the silent watch; and no sound broke the whistle of the

winds, except the tread of the men, or the cry of “all’s well” passing

from look-out to look-out along the decks.

With the first appearance of morning I was on deck. The gale had nearly

gone down; the clouds had broken away; and the stars were out again,

clear and bright, in the firmament. Yet the waves still rolled mountain

high around us, now heaving their snowy crests above us in the sky, and

now rolling their dark bosoms far away under our stern. Morning slowly

dawned. Gradually, one by one, the stars paled on high, and a faint

shadowy streak of light began to spread along the eastern seaboard. Over

the boundless expanse of waters around us no living object met the eye,

so that, in that dim mysterious light, the sense of loneliness was

overpowering. But I had no thought then for aught except the ill-fated

brig. I felt an unaccountable interest in her. It seemed as if some

unknown sympathy existed betwixt me and those on board of her, as if my

destiny in some mysterious manner was connected with theirs. I could not

rest on deck, but ascending to the cross-trees I took my station there,

and gazed out anxiously over the waste of waters. Our ship had, by this

time, been put about, and we were now, as near as I could judge, in the

vicinity of the spot where the collision occurred. The moment came which

was either to realize or confirm my fears. A strange emotion took

possession of me. My heart beat nervously, my breath came heavily, I

trembled in every fibre of my system. I strained my eyes in every

direction around, and, once or twice, as a billow rolled its white crest

upwards, I fancied I saw a sail,—but, alas! my agitation had deceived

me, and all was a blank watery waste around. For more than an hour we

cruized to and fro, but in vain. As time passed and hope died away, the

officers and men, one by one, left the rigging, until finally even the

captain gave up the search, and issued a reluctant order to put the ship

away on her course. At that instant I saw, far down on the seaboard,

what seemed to me a tiny sail; but as we sank in the trough of the sea

the object faded from my sight. With eager eyes, I watched for it as we

rose on the swell, and—God of my fathers!—it was the long looked for

boat.

“A sail!” I shouted almost in a phrenzy—“they are in sight!”

“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck, while every eye swept

the horizon in eager curiosity.

“On the lee-beam!”

“What do you make it out?”

“A ship’s launch—crowded with human beings!”

“God be praised!—it is the brig’s crew,” ejaculated the captain. “Up

with your helm, quarter-master—around with her all—there she dances,”

and as he spoke the gallant ship wheeled around and in a few minutes the

brig’s launch was rocking under our bows.

The discipline of a man-of-war could scarcely suppress the loudest

demonstrations of emotion on the part of the crew, when the freight of

that tempest-tost launch reached our decks. The sailors of the brig were

instantly seized by our tars, and borne forward in triumph,—while our

superior grasped the hand of the rescued skipper with visible emotion.

But when the two females, with their protector, an elderly, gentlemanly

looking man, were safely landed on the quarter-deck, every eye was at

once attracted to the interesting group. Both the females were young and

beautiful, but one was surpassingly lovely. As I gazed on her, it seemed

as if some long forgotten dream had come back to me; but in vain were my

attempts to give it reality. At this instant their protector spoke in

reply to a question from the captain.

“It is indeed a miracle that we are saved. The brig went down in that

fearful squall, and though we had taken to the launch, as a last hope,

we did not believe we should live a minute in such a hurricane. But an

Omnipotent Power preserved us for some wise ends. All night long we were

tossed at the mercy of the waves. We saw you long before you saw us, and

thought that you had given up the search, when suddenly your head was

brought around in our direction—and here we stand on your decks. To

whom are we indebted for our discovery? We owe him our eternal

gratitude.”

All eyes were instantly turned towards me, and the captain taking me by

the hand, said,

“Mr. Cavendish has that enviable honor,” at the same time presenting me.

“Cavendish!” exclaimed a silvery female voice in delighted surprise.

At the mention of that name I looked up with eager curiosity, and saw

the eyes of the lovely speaker fixed upon me, as if in recognition. She

crimsoned to the brow at my eager glance, and as she did so, the crowd

of dim recollections in my mind assumed a definite shape, and I

recognized in that sweet smile, in that delicately tinted cheek, in

those now tearful eyes, in that lustrous brow, the features of my old

playmate Annette!

“Cavendish—what, little Henry Cavendish?” exclaimed the gentleman,

eagerly seizing my hand, “yes! it is even so, although the years that

have passed since you used to visit Pomfret Hall have almost eradicated

your features from my memory. God bless you, my gallant young friend! We

owe you our lives—our all.”