Well, the day of trial came. Public excitement was at its highest pitch.

The jailor, accompanied by sheriffs and tipstaves, proceeded to the cell

of the prisoner, to escort him to the tribunal of justice. But lo! the

apartment was tenantless. The criminal had escaped. A brief survey of

his cell revealed the means of his egress. The heavy stones forming the

sides of his grated window, were displaced. Large tools lay scattered

about—files, chisels, and other articles, plainly indicating a bold

confederacy. And such was indeed the case:—for the officers belonging

to the same regiment with Derode had contrived his escape.

Words cannot depict Anson’s feelings of mingled rage and disappointment

when he learned that his victim had fled. At his own expense, he

instituted a search that pervaded the three kingdoms. He himself flew to

the continent, and offered a thousand guineas for the capture of the

murderer. His efforts were fruitless. The men who liberated Derode did

not withdraw their protection until they had placed him in safety.

For more than a year Anson wandered about Europe, in hopes to light upon

the fugitive. Weary at length with the vain pursuit, and thinking that

the fire in his heart was consuming his life, he returned home, as he

thought, to die. He remained in Philadelphia a few months, during which

time he conveyed a great part of the remainder of his property to some

of our public charities, and then retired from the haunts of men to live

and die alone. With a strong tinge of romance, he selected a wild,

mountainous country, in the interior of our state, never leaving the

precincts of the hovel where he dwelt, except to purchase a stock of the

homeliest food.

He had been living thus more than eight years without any thing

occurring to disturb the monotony of his life, when one blustering

night, a cry from a creature in distress reached his ear, as he sat in

his mountain hut, poring over a black-letter folio. Surprised that any

one should invade his dangerous premises, and on such a night, he

ignited a fragment of resinous wood, and sallied forth. As he descended

the path that left his door, and struck into that which wound round a

precipitous ledge, the voice came nearer on the blast. Anson shouted

loudly to the stranger not to approach, until he reached him, as another

step in the dark might be certain destruction. Proceeding hastily

onward, he found the traveller standing on the outermost edge of the

fearful precipice. The torrent was heard boiling and dashing far below,

and the wind swept in eddying blasts round the dizzy cliff. Anson

extended his hand to the wanderer, and the blaze of the torch flashed

brightly in the faces of both men. Anson riveted his eyes on the

features of the stranger, and with a yell of demoniac joy fastened on

his throat. It was the miserable Derode, who, in the last stage of

poverty, was wandering from the far west, to the sea-board, on foot. In

the darkness, he had mistaken the mountain path for a bye-road, which

had been described to him as greatly shortening the distance to the

village. He quailed beneath the iron grasp of Anson, and struggled to

say:—“dreaded man! are you not surfeited with revenge? My ruined

daughter!—my murdered son!”

“No!” shouted the infuriated recluse, “my ruined—murdered wife! I see

her pale face there—down in the black abyss! she demands the sacrifice!

down!”

He hurled the trembling seducer over the precipice, and laughed aloud as

the wretch dashed from rock to rock in his descent. A heavy plunge! and

the surging torrent closed over the hapless Derode forever!

* * * * *

Anson dwelt on in his gloomy solitude, until his hair became blanched,

and the memory of passion and crime had furrowed deep channels in his

face. In the summer of 1828, we one day followed a trout stream far up

into the mountain, and encountered the old man. Giving him the fruits of

our morning sport, and seating ourselves in his hut, we learned from

himself the leading incidents of this melancholy story. His eye lighted

up with unnatural fire, as he pointed with unsteady finger to the

fearful cliff, and said, “there, sir, ’twas from yon projection, I

dashed my destroyer into the chasm. The law would call it murder, and I

live in daily expectation that the bloodhounds will drag me hence. Well,

let them come when they will; from my youth, life has been to me one

deep, enduring curse.” We saw him at least once in the summer for many

years, and in our last interview with him, we said cheerfully,—“you

look quite hale yet, Mr. Anson.” He regarded us steadily for a moment,

and said, in a voice that reminded us of Shelley’s Ahasuerus, “I cannot

die.” * *

* * * * *

THE EMPRESS.

“Adieu, my lord—

I never wished to see you sorry; now,

I trust, I shall.”

_Winter’s Tale._

It was evening. The mass had been concluded in the royal chapel, and the

Empress Josephine was returning to her apartments through the gallery

that led thereto. As she was proceeding along, she felt a touch upon her

arm, and, upon looking round, discovered the form of a man beside her.

He made his obeisance, and she immediately recognised the Counsellor

Fouché.

“What would Monsieur Fouché?” she demanded.

“A few moments private converse with you, if it please your majesty,” he

replied, and, at the same time, pointing to the embrasure of a window

near by.

Josephine understood the motion, and made a sign that she would follow.

He led the way; and when they arrived, she again demanded what he

wanted.

“I crave your majesty’s pardon for the liberty I have taken,” said the

minister of police respectfully, yet boldly, “but I wish to make a

communication, which, though it may not be of the most pleasing nature,

yet, demands your majesty’s most serious attention.”

“And what may it be? speak,” said the empress.

“You are aware,” began the minister, “that I am much with the emperor,

and have ample opportunity for learning his secret wishes and desires. I

have become acquainted with one recently, which, of late, has much

occupied his mind, and which he would fain gratify but for the love he

bears your majesty. It is this: he wishes for an heir to inherit his

title and power. Every man, you know, feels an inherent pride in

transmitting his name to posterity; and it is but natural that the

emperor should feel such a desire. I would, therefore, suggest to your

majesty the necessity of a sacrifice, which will add to the interest of

France, make his majesty happy, and which would be as equally sublime as

it will be inevitable. Beg him to obtain a divorce.”

During this disclosure, the empress betrayed excessive emotion. Her mild

eyes were suffused with tears—her lips swelled—her bosom heaved—her

face became deadly pale—and the tremor that took possession of her

frame, told how deeply her feelings were agitated. But it was as the

momentary cloud that obscures the noonday sun; in a moment it was past,

and with a slightly tremulous voice, she asked—

“And what authority has the duke of Otranto for holding such language?”

“None,” he replied, “it is only from a conviction of what must most

certainly come to pass, and a desire to turn your attention to what so

nearly concerns your majesty’s glory and happiness, that I have dared to

speak upon the subject. Nevertheless, if I have offended, I beg your

majesty’s forgiveness. Permit me now to depart.”

He stood silent for a few minutes, as if waiting for her assent. She

waved her hand, and the boldest political intriguer of his time

departed, conscious of having done that which none other in France would

have presumed.

Josephine turned away with a beating heart. She reached her apartments,

and throwing herself on a sofa, gave vent to her over-burthened soul in

a flood of tears. It was not long before dinner was announced; but she

refused to appear at the table, on a plea of indisposition, and retired

to her chamber.

It was a short time afterward that the door of the chamber opened, and

the emperor entered. He approached Josephine. Her eyes were red with

weeping, and the tears yet moistened those bright orbs, in defiance of

her efforts to appear calm. He seated himself beside her, and put his

arm around her waist.

“Josephine,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “what is the cause of

this emotion?”

“Nothing,” she answered, in a faltering voice, and scarcely audible.

“Something has occurred to bring forth those tears. Tell me, what is

it?” and he looked tenderly in her face.

“I cannot,” she said, bitterly, whilst she leaned her head upon his

shoulder, and gave vent to another flood of tears. “No, I cannot speak

those fearful words.”

“What words, Josephine? speak; what words?”

She hesitated, and then faltered out,

“That—that you—you do not love me as you used to.”

“’Tis false!” he exclaimed.

“Then why wish to be separated? why wish for a divorce? Oh! Napoleon, is

it my fault that we have no children to bless our union? God has so

willed it,” and her bosom heaved convulsively.

He started as she pronounced the two first sentences, and compressed his

lips as if to suppress the pang of conviction that shot through his

heart.

“Josephine,” said the emperor, tenderly, “some one has been poisoning

your mind with idle tales. Who has it been?”

She then related to him her interview with Fouché, and asked him to

dismiss that minister as a penalty for his audacity in playing with her

feelings. He strenuously denied the communication; but refused to

dismiss him.

“No,” said he, “circumstances compel me to retain him, though he well

deserves my displeasure. But why give credit to such silly assertions,

Josephine? Have I ever treated you but with affection? Have you

discovered aught in my behaviour to warrant suspicion? No; believe me

you are still dear to me. Banish those foolish fears from your breast

then, and weep no more.” So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips,

and left the chamber to attend to the affairs of state.

It was touching to hear such expressions of tenderness issue from the

greatest monarch of his time, and to witness that act of devotion—to

see that proud spirit unbent; but it was those tears of anguish, and the

whisperings of that “still small voice” of conscience, that had humbled

him, to whom kings and monarchs humbled themselves, and whose mighty

mind aspired to the conquest of the world.

The setting sun threw its parting rays over the earth, and pierced the

windows of the imperial palace. The golden flood, softened by the

crimson curtains, fell upon the charming features of the empress

Josephine, as she sat in thoughtful attitude, with her head resting upon

her hand, on a sofa of royal purple, near the centre of her chamber. A

page, in waiting, stood near the door, carelessly humming a light ditty;

his heart as sunny as his own native France. What a contrast with that

which beat within the bosom of the empress! Care weighed heavily upon

her breast. Long before her interview with Fouché she had, from the very

cause hinted at by the minister, dreaded a withdrawal of her husband’s

affections; but since that event her anxieties had doubly increased, and

suspicion would take possession of her mind, amounting, at times, even

to jealousy. Not that she apprehended his proceeding to that extreme at

which the wily minister had hinted; no!—no person on earth could have

persuaded her that he, whose joys and woes she had cheerfully shared,

wished for a separation: but that some Syren would ensnare him with her

charms, and usurp that place in his heart which she only should hold.

All the powers she possessed were exerted by Josephine, in order to

retain his love, and sometimes she fancied she had succeeded; for of

late, in proportion as the sense of injustice he was about to do her,

presented itself to his mind, he became more than usually kind and

tender; but there were moments when a gloomy melancholy would settle

upon her—an indefinable something that seemed to warn of approaching

affliction.

It was in one of those fits of abstraction, so foreign to her naturally

cheerful nature, that she sat, as we have said, seemingly unconscious of

all around, when the door opened, and Napoleon entered. He seemed

disturbed, and trouble was vividly depicted in his expressive

countenance. He motioned for the page to retire, and seated himself

beside her.

“Josephine!” he said.

She started from her reverie, as he pronounced her name—for buried in

thought, she had not observed his entrance—and bent upon him such a

look, full of sweetness and affection, that it disarmed him; he could

not proceed. He arose. He folded his arms upon his breast and paced to

and fro; his brow was contracted,—his lips compressed; and the unquiet

restlessness of his piercing eye, betokened the agitation he could

scarce control. He thus continued for some moments. At length he stopped

before her, as if his resolution was taken, and then again turned away,

continuing to walk up and down the apartment with rapid and hasty

strides. After a short time he stopped again.

“It must be done,” he muttered, “I will acquaint her with it at once;

delay but makes it still more difficult.”

He made an effort to suppress his emotion, and seated himself beside

her. But again his voice failed him, and he could only articulate,—

“Josephine, prepare yourself for sad news.”

Ever on the alarm, the purport of his words seemed anticipated by her,

though not to their full extent, and she burst into a flood of tears,

scarce knowing why.

Dinner was now announced, and their majesties proceeded to the table.

Silence prevailed throughout the meal, and the dishes were scarcely

touched. They arose from their seats, and as they did so, the page on

duty presented the emperor with his accustomed cup of coffee. He took

it, but handed it back scarcely touched. He then proceeded to his

chamber; the empress followed.

They seated themselves when they had entered, and remained for some time

silent. The emperor at length spoke.

“There is no use in deferring the truth, Josephine,” said he, in a

tremulous voice, “it must sooner or later be made known to you, and

suspense is more cruel than certainty. The interests of France demand

that we separate.”

“What!” she exclaimed, placing both hands on his shoulders, and gazing

with an eager and inquiring look in his face, “what? separate!”

“Yes,” he answered, “France demands the sacrifice.”

Her hands dropped heavily—her bosom heaved—and hot, burning tears,

such only as flow from a surcharged heart, gushed forth in torrents from

her eyes.

“And I—oh! God!” she exclaimed, “I who have shared your joys and

sorrows—who have been your companion for years—who loved you through

weal and woe—who—but I will not upbraid you, Napoleon. Yet she who

supplants me, Maria Louise, the daughter of the Emperor Francis, can

never love you as I have done,—oh! no!”

She buried her face in her hands; the emperor remained silent.

“But,” she continued, starting suddenly, and throwing her arms around

his neck, “you do not mean it. Oh! no! say you do not! speak,—you

cannot mean it. Tell me, quick—say it is not so—that it cannot, must

not be. Speak, Napoleon, and the blessing of God rest upon you!”

“Alas! it is too true,” he said, his eyes suffused with tears. Oh! how

keen was the pang of conscience that shot through his guilty heart.

“True!” she exclaimed, “and you confirm it? Then Fouché was right. But I

will never survive it—no! I will never survive it. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!”

She uttered a piercing scream, and reeled backward, for she had risen

from her seat in her excitement. Napoleon caught her in his arms, and

laid her gently upon the carpet. Her agony was too deep for words, and

she could only weep and groan in bitterness of spirit. He stepped to the

door and called de Bausset. They raised her in their arms, and bore her

to her chamber. Her women were immediately summoned, and she was

resigned to their care. Napoleon retired, greatly agitated. De Bausset

followed; tears were also in his eyes; for Josephine, by her goodness,

won all hearts. Napoleon stopped a moment outside to listen to her groan

of anguish. He related what had occurred.

“The interests of France:” he continued, addressing De Bausset, “and as

my dynasty does violence to my heart, the divorce has become a rigorous

duty. I am more afflicted by what has happened to Josephine, because,

three days ago, she must have learned it from Hortensia. The unhappy

obligation which condemns me to separate myself from her, I deplore with

all my heart, but I thought she possessed more strength of character,

and I was not prepared for these bursts of grief.”

They hurried away. Conscience, ever-faithful conscience, was already

performing its duty; he felt its just upbraidings. He essayed to stifle

it. It was this that led him to utter such language to De Bausset—to

assert that he thought she possessed strength of character enough to

receive the announcement without those bursts of grief. What virtuous

and affectionate woman could receive with calmness a sentence of

repudiation; and that, too, by the tongue of a beloved husband? Her

heart must have become as stone.

On the sixteenth of December, 1809, the law, authorising the divorce,

was enacted by the conservative senate. In the following March the

nuptials between Napoleon and Marie Louise, were performed in Vienna;

and on the first day of April, a little more than four months after the

scene above described, they were joined in wedlock in the city of Paris,

by his uncle, Cardinal Fesch.

Thus was consummated that act which cast a stain upon the character of

“the great Napoleon,” which time cannot efface. A blot, deep and

indelible, that will remain whilst his name lives among men. It was an

act contrary to the laws of God and of humanity.

One wrong action will often tarnish a whole life. We may admire his

bravery, and courage, his vast conception of mind, his gigantic

intellect, his unparalleled energy, his perseverance, and his

determination of character, but when we turn to this dark page in his

history, admiration vanishes, and contempt and disgust usurp its place.

It was indeed an act unworthy of the man, and one that admits of no

palliation. It was not to France the sacrifice, as he termed it, was

made; it was to ambition. And may we not surmise that the lowering

fortunes which ever after were his, and the dark fate which closed his

days in a lonely island, afar off on the bosom of the ocean, were, in

some measure, acts of divine retribution, which this act of his called

forth.

Long years after the occurrence of the foregoing events, and when

Napoleon was no more master of Europe,—when Louis XVIII. was seated on

the throne of France, and “Le Grand Monarque,” was a prisoner, confined

for life on the island of St. Helena—the lovely and accomplished

Josephine,—the injured wife,—ended a virtuous life at the villa of

Malmaison, near St. Germain, whither she had retired after the divorce.

Her death was attributed to disease of the body; but it is likely it was

not altogether that, or at least a secret sorrow had so weakened and

enfeebled her mortal frame that the least rude touch of disease

overthrew the structure. Differently died the repudiator and the

repudiated.

Sketcher.

Philadelphia, 1841.

* * * * *

LAKE GEORGE.

There is a clear and bright blue lake

Embosom’d in the rocky north;

No murmurs e’er its silence break,

As on its waves we sally forth;

The mountain bird floats high aloft,

Above his wild and craggy nest,

And gazes from his towering throne,

Upon the torrent’s sparkling breast;

While far beneath, in light and shade,

The bright green valleys frown and smile,

And in the bed sweet nature made,

The lake sleeps soft and sweet the while.

O’er many a green and lovely wild,

The golden sun-beams gaily smile;

But ’mid them all he doth not break,

As on his race he sallies forth,

On fairer scene, or sweeter lake,

Than that within the rocky north.

M. T.

Lake George, Feb., 1841.

* * * * *

THE REEFER OF ’76.

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

PAUL JONES.

“Steady, there, steady!” thundered the master of the merchantman, his

voice seeming, however, in the fierce uproar of the gale, to die away

into a whisper.

I looked ahead. A giant wave, towering as high as the yard arm, its

angry crest hissing above us, and its dark green bosom seeming to open

to engulph our fated bark, was rolling down toward us, shutting out half

the horizon from sight, and striking terror into the stoutest heart. It

was a fearful spectacle. Involuntarily I glanced around the horizon. All

was dark, lowering, and ominous. On every hand the mountain waves were

heaving to the sky, while the roar of the hurricane was awfully sublime.

Now we rose to the heavens: now sunk into a yawning abyss. But I had

little time to gaze upon the fearful scene. Already the angry billow was

rushing down upon our bows, when the master again sang out, as if with

the voice of a giant.

“_Hold on all!_” and as he spoke, the huge volume of waters came

tumbling in upon us, sweeping our decks like a whirlwind, hissing,

roaring, and foaming along, and making the merchantman quiver in every

timber from bulwark to kelson. Not a moveable thing was left. The long

boat was swept from the decks like chaff before a hurricane. For an

instant the merchantman lay powerless beneath the blow, as if a

thunderbolt had stunned her; but gradually recovering from the shock,

she shook the waters gallantly from her bows, emerged from the deluge,

and rolling her tall masts heavily to starboard, once more breasted the

storm.

We had been a week at sea without meeting a single sail. During that

time we had enjoyed a succession of favorable breezes, until within the

last few days, when the gale, which now raged, had overtaken us, and

driven us out into the Atlantic, somewhere, as near as we could guess,

between the Bermudas and our port of destination. Within the last few

hours we had been lying-to, under a close-reefed foresail; but every

succeeding wave had seemed to become more dangerous than the last, until

it was now evident that our craft could not much longer endure the

continued surges which breaking over her bows, threatened momentarily to

engulph us. The master stood by my side, holding on to a rope, his

weather-beaten countenance drenched with spray, but his keen, anxious

eye changing continually from the bow of his craft, to the wild scene

around him.

“She can’t stand it much longer, Mr. Parker,” said the old man, “many a

gale have I weathered in her, but none like this. God help us!”

“Meet it with the helm—hold on all,” came faintly from the forecastle,

and before the words had whizzed past upon the gale, another mountain

wave was hurled in upon us, and I felt myself, the next instant, borne

away, as in the arms of a giant, upon its bosom. The rope by which I

held had parted. There was a hissing in my ears—a rapid shooting like

an arrow—a desperate effort to stay my progress by catching at a rope,

I missed—and then I felt myself whirled away astern of the merchantman,

my eyes blinded with the spray, my ears ringing with a strange, wild

sound, and a feeling of sudden, utter hopelessness at my heart, such as

they only can know who have experienced a fate as terrible as mine, at

that moment, threatened to be.

“A man overboard!” came faintly from the fast-receding ship.

“Ahoy!” I shouted.

“Hillo—hil—lo—o,” was answered back.

“Ahoy—a—a—hoy!”

“Throw over that spar.”

“Toll the bell that he may know where we are.”

“Hillo—hi—il—lo!”

“Who is it?”

“Bring a lantern here.”

“Hil—l—o—o—o—o!”

“Can you see him?”

“It’s as dark as death.”

“God have mercy then upon his soul.”

I could hear every word of the conversation, as the excited tones of the

speakers came borne to leeward upon the gale, but although I shouted

back with desperate strength, I felt that my cries were unheard by my

shipmates to windward. The distance between myself and the merchantman

was meanwhile rapidly increasing, and every moment her dark figure

became more and more shadowy. With that presence of mind which is soon

acquired in a life of peril, I had begun to tread water the instant I

had gone overboard; but I felt that my strength would soon fail me, and

that I must sink, unaided, into the watery abyss. Oh! who can tell my

feelings as I saw the figure of the merchantman gradually becoming more

dim in the distance, and heard the voices of my friends, at first loud

and distinct, dying away into indistinct murmurs. Alone on the ocean! My

breath came quick; my heart beat wildly; I felt the blood rushing in

torrents to my brain. The scene meanwhile grew darker around me. The

faint hope I had entertained that the ship would be put about, gradually

died away; and even while I looked, she suddenly vanished from my

vision. I strained my eyes to catch a sight of her as I rose upon a

billow. Alas! she was not to be seen. Was there then no hope? Young;

full of life; in the heyday of love—oh! God it was too much to endure!

I felt that my last hour had come. Already the waters seemed roaring

through my ears, and strange, fantastic figures to dance before my eyes.

In that hour every event of my life whirled through my memory! I thought

of my childhood; of my mother in her weeds; of her prayers over her only

child; and of the cold wintry day when they laid her in her grave, and

told me that I was an orphan. I thought too of my boyhood; of my college

life; of my early days at sea; of the eventful months which had just

passed; of my hopes of a bright career or a glorious death, thus to be

quenched forever; and of Beatrice, my own Beatrice, whom I was to see no

more. Wild with the agony of that thought, I tossed my arms aloft, and

invoked a dying blessing on her head. At that instant something came

shooting past me, borne on the bosom of a towering wave. It was a

lumbering chest, doubtless one of those thrown overboard from the

merchantman. I grasped it with a desperate effort: I clambered up upon

it; and as I felt its frail planks beneath me, a revulsion came over my

bosom. The fisherman by his fireside, when the tempest howls around his

dwelling, could not have felt more confident of safety than I now did,

with nothing but this simple chest between me and the yawning abyss.

Quick, gushing emotions swept through my bosom; I burst into tears; and

lifting up my voice, there, alone, on the wide ocean, I poured forth my

thanksgivings to God.

It was with no little difficulty I maintained my position on the chest,

during the long hours which elapsed before the morning dawned. Now borne

to the heavens, now hurried into the abyss below; now drenched with the

surge, now whirled wildly onward, on the bosom of some wave, I passed

the weary moments, in alternate efforts to maintain my hold, and ardent

longings for the morning’s light. The gale, meantime, gradually

diminished. At length the long looked-for dawn appeared, creeping slowly

and ominously over the horizon, and revealing to my eager sight nothing

but the white surges, the agitated deep, and the leaden colored sky on

every hand. My heart sank within me. All through the weary watches of

that seemingly interminable night, I had cheered my drooping hopes with

the certainty of seeing the merchantman in the morning, and now, as I

scanned the frowning horizon; and saw only that stormy waste on every

hand, my heart once more died within me, and I almost despaired.

Suddenly, however, I thought I perceived something flashing on the

weather seaboard like the wing of a water-fowl, and straining my eyes in

that direction, whenever I rose upon a wave, I beheld at length, to my

joy, that the object was a sail. Oh! the overpowering emotions of that

moment. The vessel was evidently one of considerable size, and coming

down right toward me. As she approached I made her out to be a sloop of

war, driving under close-reefed courses before the gale. Her hull of

glossy black; her snowy canvass; and her trim jaunty finish were in

remarkable contrast with the usual slovenly appearance of a mere

merchantman. No jack was at her mast-head; no ensign fluttered at her

gaff. But I cared not to what nation she belonged, in that moment of

hope and fear. To me she was a messenger of mercy. I had watched her

eagerly until she had approached within almost a pistol-shot of me,

trembling momentarily lest she should alter her course. I now shouted

with all my strength. No one, however, seemed to hear me. Onward she

came, swinging with the surges, and driving a cataract of foam along

before her bows. A look-out was idly leaning on the bowsprit. As the

huge fabric surged down toward me another danger arose. I might be run

down. Nerved to supernatural strength by the immanency of the peril, I

raised myself half up upon my chest, and placing my hand to my mouth,

shouted with desperate energy,

“Ahoy! a—a—hoy!”

“Hillo!” said the look-out, turning sharply in the direction of my

voice.

“Ahoy! ship _a—ho—o—y_!”

“Starboard your helm,” thundered the seaman, discovering me upon my

little raft, “heave a rope here—easy—easy—God bless you, shipmate,”

and with the rapidity with which events are transacted in a dream, I was

hoisted on board, and clasped in the arms of the warm-hearted old

fellow, before he saw, by my uniform, that I was an officer. When he

perceived this, however, he started back, and hastily touching his hat,

said, with humorous perplexity,

“Beg pardon, sir—didn’t see you belonged aft——”

“An American officer in this extremity,” said a deep voice at my elbow,

with startling suddenness, and as the speaker advanced, the group of

curious seamen fell away from around me, as if by magic; while I felt,

at once, that I was in the presence of the commanding officer of the

ship.

“You are among friends,” said the speaker, in a voice slightly tinged

with the Scotch accent, “we bear the flag of the Congress—but walk

aft—you are drenched, exhausted—you need rest—I must delay my

inquiries until you have been provided for—send the doctor to my

cabin—and steward mix us a rummer of hot grog.”

During these rapid remarks the speaker, taking me by the arm, had

conducted, or rather led me to a neat cabin aft, and closing the door

with his last remarks, he opened a locker, and producing a suit of dry

clothes, bid me array myself in them, and then vanished from the

apartment.

In a few minutes, however, he re-appeared, followed by the steward,

bearing a huge tumbler of hot brandy, which he made me drink off,

nothing loth, at a draught.

From the first instant of his appearance, I had felt a strange, but

unaccountable awe in the presence of the commanding officer, and I now

sought to account for it by a rigid, but hasty scrutiny of his person,

as he stood before me.

He was a short, thick-set, muscular man, apparently about thirty years

of age, drest in a blue, tight-fitting naval frock coat, with an

epaulette upon one shoulder, and a sword hanging by his side. But his

face was the most striking part of him. Such a countenance I never saw.

It had a fire in the eye, a compression about the lips, a distention of

the nostrils, and a sternness in its whole appearance, which betokened a

man, not only of strong passions, but of inflexible decision of

character. That brow, bold, massy, and threatening, might have shaped

the destinies of a nation. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. He

appeared to read my thoughts, for smiling faintly, he courteously signed

to the steward to take my glass, and when the door had closed upon him,

said,

“But to what brother officer am I indebted for this honor?”

I mentioned my name, and the schooner in which I had sailed from New

York.

“The Fire-Fly!” he said, with some surprise, “ah! I have heard of your

gallantry in that brush with the pirates—” and then, half

unconsciously, as if musing, he continued, “and so your name is Parker.”

“And yours?” I asked, with a nod of assent.

“Paul Jones!”

For a moment we stood silently gazing on each other—he seeming to wish

to pierce my very soul with his small, grey eye, and I regarding with a

feeling akin to fascination, the wonderful man whose after career was

even then foreshadowed in my mind.

“I see you are of the right stuff,” exclaimed this singular being,

breaking the silence, “we shall yet make those haughty English weep in

blood for their tyranny.”

I know not how it was; but from that moment I felt certain my companion

would make his name a terror to his enemies, and a wonder to the world.

For some days we continued our course, with but little deviation; and

every day I became more and more interested in the commander of the

man-of-war. Although my situation as his guest brought me into closer

contact with him than any one except his lieutenant, yet, after the

first few hours of our intercourse, he became reserved and silent,

though without any diminution of courtesy. His former career was little

known even in the ward-room. He had been brought up, it was said, by the

earl of Selkirk, but had left his patron’s house at the age of fifteen,

and embarked in a seafaring life. Dark hints were whispered about as to

the causes of his sudden departure, and it was said that the dishonor of

one of his family had driven him forth from the roof of his patron. Upon

these subjects, however, I made no ungenerous enquiries; but learned

that he had subsequently been engaged in the West India trade as master,

and that he had, on the breaking out of the war, come to America, and

offered himself to Congress for a commission in our navy. Some deep,

but, as yet unknown, cause of hatred toward the English, was said to

have prompted him to this act.

As time passed on, however, I enjoyed many opportunities of studying his

singular character, which, had I not felt my curiosity aroused, might

have passed by unused. Often would I, in our slight conversations,

endeavor to pierce into his bosom, and read there the history of all

those dark emotions which slumbered there. But he seemed generally to

suspect my purpose—at least he appeared always on his guard. He was

ever the same courteous but unfathomable being.

We had run down as far south as the Bermudas, when, one day the look-out

made five sail; and in an instant every eye was directed toward the

quarter where the strangers appeared, to see if there was any chance of

a prize.

“How bear they?” asked Paul Jones quickly, to the look-out at the

mast-head.

“I can’t make out but one, and she seems a large merchantman, on a taut

bowline.”

“Watch her sharp.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

For some time, every eye was fastened upon the approaching sail, which,

apparently unconscious of an enemy so near, kept blindly approaching us.

At length her royals began to lift, her topsails followed rapidly, and

directly the heads of her courses loomed up on the horizon. Every eye

sparkled with the certainty of a rich prize.

“She’s a fat Indiaman, by St. George,” said our lieutenant, who had not

yet so far forgot the country of his ancestors, as to swear by any saint

but her patron one.

“I guess we’d better not be too sure,” said a cautious old

quarter-master from Cape Cod, as he levelled a much worn spy-glass, and

prepared to take a long squint at the stranger.

“By St. Pathrick,” said an Irish midshipman, in a whisper to one of his

comrades, “but wont she make a beautiful prize—with the rale Jamaica,

my boys, by the hogshead in her, and we nothing to do afther the

capture, but to drink it up, to be shure.”

“The strange sail is a frigate,” said the look-out at the mast head,

with startling earnestness.

“Too true, by G—d,” muttered the lieutenant, shutting his glass with a

jerk; and as he spoke, the hull of the stranger loomed up above the

horizon, presenting a row of yawning teeth that boded us little good,

for we knew that our own little navy boasted no vessel with so large an

armament.

“That fellow is an English frigate,” calmly said Paul Jones, closing his

telescope leisurely, “we shall have to try our heels.”

Every thing that could draw was soon set, and we went off upon a wind,

hoping to distance our pursuer by superior sailing. But though, for a

while, we deluded ourselves with this hope, it soon became apparent that

the enemy was rapidly gaining upon us, and with a heavy cross sea to

contend against, we found ourselves, in less than four hours, within

musket shot of the frigate, upon her weather bow. During all this time

the Englishman had been firing her chase guns after us, but not one of

them, as yet, had touched us. The game, however, was now apparently

over. Every one gave themselves up as lost, to die, perhaps, the death

of rebels. Resistance would only inflame our captors. How astonished

then, were we all to hear the captain exclaim,—

“Beat to quarters!”

The high discipline of the crew brought every man to his post at the

first tap of the drum, though not a countenance but exhibited amazement

at the order.

“Open the magazine!” said Paul Jones in the same stern, collected tone.

The order was obeyed, and then all was silent again. It was a moment of

exciting interest. As I looked along the deck at the dark groups

gathered at the guns, and then at the calm, but iron-like countenance of

the daring commander, I felt strange doubts as to whether it might not

be his intention to sink beneath the broadside of the frigate, or,

grappling with the foe, blow himself and the Englishman up. My reverie,

however, was soon cut short by a shot from the frigate whizzing

harmlessly past us, overhead. The eye of the singular being standing

beside me, flashed lightning, as he thundered,—

“Show him the bunting. Let drive at him, gunner,” and at the same

instant our flag shot up to the gaff, unrolled, and then whipt in the

wind; while a shot from one of our four pounders, cut through and

through the fore-course of the enemy.

“Keep her away a point or two, quarter-master,” said the captain, again

breaking in upon the ominous silence, now interrupted only by the report

of the cannon, or the fierce dashing of the waves against the sloop’s

bows.

“Does he mean to have us all strung up at the yard arm?” whispered the

lieutenant to me, as he beheld this perilous bravado, yet felt himself

restrained as much by the awe in which he held his superior, as by his

own rigid notions of discipline, from remonstrating against the

manœuvre.

Meantime, the frigate was slowly gaining upon us, and had her batteries

been better served, would have soon riddled us to pieces; but the want

of skill in her crew, as well as the violence of the cross sea,

prevented her shot from taking effect. The distance between us, however,

gradually lessened. We saw no hope of escape. Every resort had been

tried, but in vain. Already the frigate was dashing on to us in

dangerous proximity, and we could see the eager countenances of her

officers apparently exulting over their prize. Our crew, meanwhile,

began to murmur. Despair was in many faces: despondency in all. Only our

commander maintained the same inflexible demeanor which had

characterised him throughout the chase. He had kept his eye steadily

fixed upon the frigate for the last ten minutes in silence, only

speaking now and then to order the sloop to be kept away another point

or two. By this means the relative positions of the two vessels had been

changed so as to bring us upon the lee-bow of the enemy. Suddenly his

eye kindled, and turning quickly around to his lieutenant, he said,—

“Order all hands to be ready to make sail,” and as soon as the men had

sprung to their stations, he shouted—

“Up with your helm; hard,—harder. Man the clew garnets—board

tacks—topsails, royals—and flying jib,—merrily all, my men.”

And as sheet after sheet of canvass was distended to the wind, we came

gallantly around, and catching the breeze over our taffrail, went off

dead before the wind, passing, however, within pistol shot of the enemy.

“Have you any message for Newport?” said Paul Jones, springing into the

mizzen-rigging, and hailing the infuriated English captain, as we shot

past him.

“Give it to him with the grape—all hands make sail—fire!” came

hoarsely down from the frigate, in harsh and angry tones.

“Good day, and many thanks for your present,” said our imperturbable

commander, as the discharge swept harmlessly by; and then leaping upon

the deck, he ran his eye aloft.

“Run aft with that sheet—send out the kites aloft there, more

merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows,” shouted the

elated captain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the

men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manœuvre, worked with a

redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the

enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her

advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise,

she could neither throw out her light sails sufficiently quick, nor

direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck

us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail.

We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an

hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot.

* * * * *

THE DEPARTED.

Her parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear,

Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear?—

The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stem,

The casket is broken, and scattered the gem.

Pale Death! the grim archer, hath bended his bow,

The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low;

Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed,

And well might the spoiler exult in his deed.

* * * * *

THE MAJOR’S WEDDING.

A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.

“Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a

furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or

drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in

the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the

man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim,

low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room

corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour

until he growled back your salutation?”

“Who? Jeremy—that was a poet.”

“A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married?”

“No—he swears he’ll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know

they’re a scarce article in the market.”

“Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man

writing poetry? Flummery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—away

with your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular beefsteak,

with a spice of wit to make it palatable, boy. Now there’s Oliver

Oldfellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grinder before he got

married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love you!—he

hasn’t written a line these twenty years.”

“You’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to

be a law against poets marrying.”

“And what’s the use of law, to stop what one can’t help? No man—let me

tell you—ever got married in his senses. No, no, my boy, they are

crazy, bewitched, ‘_non compos mentis_.’ Did you ever meet a girl that

didn’t say she’d never get married, and why then should she do it if she

didn’t get possessed? But the poor victims are to be pitied more than

blamed. It’s not their fault. It’s destiny, sir, destiny. When a thief’s

hour comes he’s got to be hung—and when a man’s time is up he’s got to

suffer matrimony. There’s no escape. Let him double like a hare, turn to

the right or left, dive like a duck, or pretend to be dead like a

dormouse, he’ll be sure to be found out at every trick, and made a

Benedict of—even if it’s done by spirits—before he’s aware of it. Let

me tell you a story to prove my position.

“Major Compton was a hale, hearty old fellow when I knew him in the last

war, though I believe gout and morning drams have long since driven the

nails in his coffin. He had been a gay chap when young—a soldier, a

beau, a bit of a fop, and then—egad, sir—a poet of no little fashion.

He could knock you off a sonnet on a lady’s charms sooner than old Tom

the blacksmith could knock off a horse-shoe. But after a while he fell

in love, and—to cut short my story—was married. Ah! many and many a

time have I heard him tell me how he felt it coming on him as if he was

bewitched; how he struggled against the malady but could not prevail;

and how he shuddered when he found himself writing poetry, because, like

the sight of water in the hydrophobia, he knew then that it was all over

with him. But this happened years before we met. When I knew him he was

a jolly, red-faced widower, and had a horror of all poets, women, and

cold water—the last of which he used to say made men effeminate, in

proof of which he said all savages who used nothing else, like the

Tahitians, were cowards. Betwixt you and I, he must have married a

Tartar.

“Well—he’d been out one night at a supper, and the bottle had passed

around so frequently that every soul of the company, except the major,

got under the table,—so, after amusing himself by blacking their faces

with burnt cork, and moralising, as a gentleman ought to, over their

deplorable condition, he set out to find his way home to his quarters.

As he emerged into the cool air he felt his head getting light as if it

were going up, balloon-like, with himself for a parachute; but holding

his hat down with both hands, as he remembered to have seen them keep

down an inflated balloon, he managed to get along pretty well, though he

couldn’t keep his head from swinging about with the wind, which made

him, he said, walk as crooked as if he had been drunk, though he was

never soberer in his life.

“It was a wild, gusty night, and the clouds were drifting like

snow-flakes overhead, when the major sallied out into the street, and

began his journey to his lodgings. The wind roared around the corners,

or whistled down the chimneys of the old houses around, whose tall,

dark, chilly figures rose up against the November sky, until they

seemed, to the major’s vision, fairly to shiver with cold. The stars,

high up, were winking through the drift, except now and then a sturdy

old fellow who stared right into the major’s face. One of these seemed

determined to abash him whether or no. Go where he would it followed

him, so that if he looked up he would be sure to see it staring full

upon him with its dull yellow eye. It made him think, he said, of his

spouse of blessed memory, when she would stick her arms a-kimbo, and

make faces at him. Now the major was a good-humored soul, but there are

some things, even Job couldn’t endure. The major bore it, however, until

he reached a wild common, when taking a seat upon a heap of stones, he

planted his elbows on his knees, buried his chin in his hands, and

looking right at the saucy star, said,

“‘Hillo! up there—now take a good look, and let’s see who’ll give over

first.’

“‘Hillo!’ said a voice close behind him.

“‘Hillo it is, you old mocking curmudgeon, say that again and I’ll pound

your face into a jelly,’ said the major, turning wrathfully around; but,

though he looked every where, not a bit of a man could he see even as

big as the fabled Tom Thumb. It was, as I have said, a wide, open

common, with not a tree or a house upon it, and if any living thing had

been moving across its surface he would have been sure to have detected

it. What could it have been? He thought of all the stories of goblins he

had ever read, and his hair almost stood on end as he remembered them.

But rallying himself, he began to whistle aloud, and stare again at the

saucy star overhead. The sky, however, had grown darker during the

interruption; and in a few moments the clouds obscured the provoking

star. For a moment he closed his eyes, and feeling sleepy, dozed; but

his head suddenly pitching forward, aroused him, and he once more looked

up. What a sight was there! Dark, frowning masses of vapor swept wildly

across the firmament; while the wind now wailed out in unearthly tones,

and then went shrieking across the common like the laughter of a troop

of malignant fiends. A wood, some distance off, skirting the common,

tossed its gray, leafless branches wantonly in the winds; and anon a

loud, shrill whistle, as of an army of hunters, rung out, down in the

very heart of the forest. The major almost started from his feet, and

rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from his drowsiness. The clouds were

once more drifting swiftly across the sky, now rolling together into

huge, dark masses, and now separating, and then weaving together again

into a thousand fantastic shapes. Just at that instant the provoking

star gleamed once more through the drift, and this time it stared at him

more like his spouse than ever. The major could stand it no longer.

Forgetting the fearful things around him, he shook his clenched fist at

it, and said,

“‘Hillo! you old, wry-faced vixen, how dare you squint at

me—Ma—a—a—jor—Com—Compt—Compton—how dare you, I say? Do you want

to remind me that I was once fool enough to get married?—I’d like to

see the woman I’d have now: all the powers above or below couldn’t force

me to get married again—no, no, you old crab-apple!—I—I—say—’

“They couldn’t—couldn’t they?” quietly said a voice at his elbow.

“And who the deuce are you?” said the major, turning sharply around.

“‘Who do you think?’ said one of the oddest looking beings the major

ever beheld—a short, mis-shapen man, with great goggle eyes, a roguish

leer on his face, legs that were doubled up under him like a

pocket-rule, and long, bony fingers, one of which was stuck knowingly

aside his nose, while his eyes alternately were winking at the

astonished major; for the little fellow seemed to be in high glee at the

wonder he occasioned.

“For some minutes they stood looking at each other without a word—the

major’s eyes growing larger and larger with astonishment; while the odd

little fellow kept winking away, with his finger at his nose, to his own

apparent glee. At length he said,

“‘Well—what d’ y’e think, old carbuncle?’

“Now the major was a valiant man, and had any mortal thing called him by

such a nick name, he would have first run him through and then almost

eaten him alive; but he has told me a hundred times that his heart went

like a forge-hammer to be addressed by a being of another world. So he

only stammered,

“‘I—I—don’t know—’

“‘Speak up, man, speak up—why your voice is as thin and weak as if

you’d been doctored for the quinzy a month.’

“‘Lord bless you, sir, I never had it in my life,’ said the major, with

sudden boldness.

“‘Uh—uh—uh,’ interrupted the little fellow, menacingly, ‘none of

that—none of that. No strange names if you please.’

“The major’s heart again went like a fulling mill, and his throat felt

as if he was about to choke; for he had no doubt it was the devil

himself who stood before him.

“‘I—I—beg pardon—your majesty—I—I.’

“‘What! Strange names again,’ sternly interposed the goggle-eyed little

fellow, and then, seeing how he had frightened his companion, he said,

to re-assure him, ‘come, come, Major, this will never do. Let’s proceed

to business.’

“The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose

with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the

ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over

wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted at the door of a

lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed

open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a

large company, apparently assembled to witness a marriage, for the

bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the

company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirking as they

always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and

when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that

he delayed his coming to the last moment. She was an old, withered

beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, with a yellow skin, a hook

nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered

on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her

ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids,

who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major

entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The parson stepped

forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers.

“‘You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, turning to the major.

“‘Late!—my love!’ said he, starting back, and turning with

astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride.

“‘I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little

fellow composedly, with a tantalising grin, ‘didn’t I hear you say, on

the common, “that you’d like to see the woman you’d marry,” didn’t I?’

and he grinned again.

“‘Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘and

I’ve been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain

you. _Why_ were you so long?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the

major’s arm.

“‘Hands off,’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning

bewildered from one to another of his tormenters.

“‘Come, come, now, major,’ said his conductor, with a malicious grin,

‘it’s no use to resist, for _that_,’ said he with emphasis, pointing to

the old hag, ‘is your bride. It is fate; and what is written, is written

you know. I’ve no doubt,’ and here he gave another malicious grin, ‘that

your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity.

Come,—don’t you see the parson’s waiting?’

“‘Yes, dear,’ said the bride, distorting her withered jaws into what was

meant for a smile, ‘and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and

here she tried to sob, ‘that your fatigues have thrown you into a fever

and delirium.’

“Cold drops of sweat were on the major’s brow, as he looked around the

room, and saw every eye bent upon him, some with amazement, some with

contempt, but most with indignation. There was a menacing air on the

brow of his conductor, which made him shake as if he had an ague chill.

The major, moreover, was unarmed. But he made a desperate effort, and

said piteously—

“‘Marry! I didn’t want to get married—’

“‘Not want to get married, when it’s your destiny!’ broke in his

conductor, with a voice of thunder, striding up to the major, whose very

teeth chattered with fright at his peril.

“‘Why—why—y—I’ve no particular objection—that is to say,’ exclaimed

the major with another desperate effort, ‘if I must get married, I’d

sooner take one of these pretty, blue-eyed bridemaids here.’

“‘You would—would you!’ said his conductor with a threatening look,

‘dare but to think of it, and I’ll make you rue it to the last day of

your existence,’ and again he scowled upon the major with a brow blacker

than midnight, and which had a fearful indentation—the major used to

say—as of a gigantic spear head, right in the centre.

“The major always said that he resisted stoutly for a long time, even

after his tormentor had fairly prostrated him with only a tap of his

finger, and until strange figures, of unearthly shape, uttering terrible

cries of anger, and attended by a strong smell of brimstone, came

rushing into the room, without any apparent way of ingress, and

surrounding him in a body, awaited the signal of his conductor to bear

him off, he knew not whither, and inflict on him unheard of

torments;—but as I knew the major was sometimes given to vaporing in

his cups, I always set the better part of it down for exaggeration.

However, at length he gave in, even according to his own account, and

signified his willingness, though not without some qualms as he looked

at the bride, to have the ceremony performed.

“‘I knew it, major—a brave man never should struggle against fate,’

said the little fellow with goggle eyes.

“‘Needs must, when the—’

“‘Sir,’ said the little fellow, turning fiercely around.

“‘I beg pardon,’ said the major meekly.

“But to wind up my story—for, egad, I believe you’re asleep—the major

was married, had kissed the bride, and was actually performing the same

duty on the bridemaids, when the little fellow with the goggle-eyes,

perceiving what he was at, seized him angrily by the arm, whisked him up

the chimney, bore him swiftly through the air, and with a roar of

malicious laughter, that might have been heard a mile, exclaiming,—

“‘There—wait, and your wife will pop in on you when you least expect

it,’—let him drop to the earth, on the very common, and aside of the

very pile of stones, where he had been sitting when he first saw the

little, old fellow. But meantime the night had passed, and it was broad

morning. The birds were singing in the neigboring woods,—the sound of

the village clock striking the hour, boomed clear upon the air,—and a

few cattle, with the monotonous tinkle of their bells, were leisurely

crossing the commons, under the charge of a herd boy. For some minutes

the major could not persuade himself but what it had all been a dream;

but the damp sweat was still upon his brow, and every limb ached with

the fall. So he couldn’t comfort himself with that assurance, but set

himself down, on the contrary, as one of the most luckless men alive.

“From that hour, sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and used

to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in constant

fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his

commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better

security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he

had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it

he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his

story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old

curmudgeon—who’ll say marriages ain’t fixed by fate?”

“But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of

credulity.”

“Credulity! Ghost story! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance,

and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in _diablerie_?

Ah! my good fellow if I didn’t know that the major was generally

credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I’d endorse his

story just because it proves my assertion. Answer that, if you can!”

J. S.

February, 1841.

* * * * *

THE FATHER’S BLESSING.

BY MRS. S. A. WHELPLEY.

The wind moaned in low and fitful gusts around the mansion, sounding at

times, as if the wailings of departed spirits were borne upon the blast,

when Mary Levingston sat alone in the solitude of her chamber. Her lamp

was hid in a recess at a distance, and casting its pale and feeble beams

across the darkened room, scarcely disclosed her drooping figure, or the

tears upon her cheek. It was not that the fearful tumult without had

affected her imagination, nor the thought that her only brother might be

exposed to all the dangers of the coast. Something that more deeply

touched her happiness awoke her grief. Wild, tumultuous thoughts

agitated her bosom, and mocked the storm that shook her casement, and

roared in all its fury around her.

The substantial mansion of Mr. Levingston was situated in a delightful

town in New Jersey. Here he had trained up an interesting and lovely

family. Four of his daughters were married; three of them were settled

in the same town with their father; the other resided in the city of New

York. His only son, possessing many virtues, but a wild and roving

disposition had, in opposition to his father’s advice, gone to sea, and

had not been seen by any of his family for four years. Mary Levingston

was the sole remaining daughter at home. She was the sun that lit up her

father’s dwelling. Swift and light as the fawn had been her footstep

till of late; when a cloud had passed over her gentle bosom, and

obscured its brightness. A blast had swept over the flower and it was

changed; but neither the cloud had been seen, nor the blast heard. Then

wherefore this change?

It was well known to Mr. Levingston’s family, that a strong and bitter

alienation of feeling existed between himself and Mr. James, an early,

and once dear friend, who, at the time of which we speak, resided in New

York. So exasperated had Mr. L. become by a series of ungrateful acts on

the part of this early friend, that on pain of his everlasting

displeasure, he had forbidden his children ever associating with the

family. Unfortunately for Mary, during a visit to the city, she had met

with a son of Mr. James, and it was not until her affections were

unchangeably fixed, that she had discovered his relationship to the most

bitter enemy of her father. Admiring Mary at first sight, and conscious

of the enmity between the families, her lover had sought an introduction

to her under a false name, and it was long before she discovered the

truth.

When she did so, however, her determination was soon made. Obedience had

been the law of her life, and she resolved at once to sacrifice her own

feelings, in preference to that of her kind father’s wishes. She felt

pained, moreover, that her lover should have deceived her even to win

her affections. She fled from the scene of danger; but she could not fly

from herself. In her own bosom she carried the image she had so fondly

cherished, and which had been the object of her waking and sleeping

dreams. It was after a long struggle, in which she had almost conquered,

that she received a letter—which had caused her present grief—written

by her sister, and informing her that her lover was about to sail for

Europe, and asked for a last interview, if only to beg her forgiveness,

and bid her farewell forever.

“I will see him,” said Mary, “and convince him there is no hope, and

then I will return and confess all to my beloved father, and throw

myself upon his mercy. He will not cast me off when he finds I did not

err knowingly.”

She rose from her chair, as she thus spoke, arranged her dress, and

descended to the parlor, with a countenance from which, except to a

suspicious eye, every trace of grief had vanished.

“You must not leave us so long again, my daughter,” said her venerable

father, as she entered the room. “My home appears almost cheerless,

unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.”

“What shall I sing, dear father? Shall it be your favorite, Grace

Darling?”

“Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells of

shipwreck and death.”

“Well, I will sing my own favorite,” said Mary, seating herself at the

piano, “it shall be

‘My heart’s in the Highlands,

My heart is not here.’”

The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter

struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their

own Mary.

“Dear papa!” said she at length, suddenly stopping, and turning around,

“I want to ask a favor of _you_,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me

go to New York next week. There now, I knew you would,—you are always

such a kind and indulgent papa,” and throwing her arms around his neck,

she kissed him tenderly.

“Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear

Mary, don’t come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last

visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon,

play me another song.”

Mary felt the blood rush to her very brow at this chance remark of her

father; but turning around to her piano, she struck into a march, to

hide her emotion.

In a few days she set forth to New York, with a heart, vacillating

between duty and love,—determined, however, to permit only one

interview, and then to bid her lover adieu forever.

“You will have a strong advocate in my wife,” said Mr. M—— to Mr.

James, who sat on the sofa by Mary Levingston the evening of her

arrival. “She is resolved, she says, to return home with her sister

hoping she may be enabled to soften the feelings of Mr. Levingston

toward your father.”

“I hope she may prove a successful pleader,” said the lover, “and

prepare the way for my casting myself at his feet when I return. Since I

have obtained my sweet Mary’s forgiveness, I feel that I can now with

courage brave the hardships of the deep. The thought that she loves me,

will be the sun that will light my path in a distant clime. The thought

that she is my advocate with her father fills me with the conviction

that the ancient enmity will be buried in oblivion and that all will

soon be well.”

“You are far more sanguine, as to the result, dear Edward, than I am,”

said Mary: “I have little hope myself of succeeding with my father. I

know his feelings so well on this point, that I tremble lest I have

sinned beyond forgiveness. One thing, here, in the presence of those

that are so dear, I solemnly declare, though my heart may be crushed,

never to unite my destiny to one his judgment disapproves. I should feel

a solitary outcast, even with him I so tenderly love, without a father’s

blessing.”

“We shall have it, dear Mary, we shall have your father’s blessing,”

exclaimed Edward, pressing her to his bosom, “for God will reward so

filial and dutiful a daughter. I should feel myself to be a wretch were

I to corrupt such purity, or wish you, for my sake, to sacrifice his

peace.”

We pass over the last two or three hours the lovers passed together. The

clock had told the departure of midnight before they separated. Who

could blame them for lengthening out an interview that was to be their

last for months and perhaps forever?

“I leave you, dear Mary,” said Edward, at length rising to go, “in

obedience to the commands of my father. If God prospers me I shall soon

again be with you. Cheer up my love, and remember my motto is ‘Brighter

days will come.’”

When Edward arrived in London, he hastened to fulfil the object of his

voyage and put his business in a train for speedy adjustment. Days

seemed to him weeks, and Mary could not have doubted his love had she

known there was none in that great metropolis who could eclipse her

beauty in the eyes of him she so fondly loved. In about three weeks the

business which took him to London was settled, Mr. James was preparing

to return home, when one night, at a late hour, the cry of “_fire_”

resounded through the long halls of the Hotel in which he lodged. In an

instant all was alarm and confusion. He enquired what part of the

building was on fire, and was told that the eastern wing was all in

flames. He hastened to the scene of danger, which appeared to be

entirely forsaken. Nearly suffocated with smoke, he turned to retrace

his steps, when a wild scream arrested his attention, and the next

instant he beheld a young and beautiful female in her night dress

rushing through the flames.

“Save, oh! save him, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, “save my sick

husband, he is perishing! who, who will rescue him?”

“I will,” said Mr. James, “but do not on your peril attempt to follow

me.”

In an instant he was lost to sight, but directly reappeared, bearing in

a blanket the body of the helpless being he had been the means of

snatching from an untimely death. He hastened to his own room and

deposited his burden on the bed, and was administering restoratives,

when his servant informed him that the firemen had succeeded in pulling

down the eastern wing and were rapidly extinguishing the flames.

“We have nothing now to fear,” said Mr. James, addressing the young

female, who had partly shrunk behind the curtains to conceal her thinly

clad person—“but you are cold,” said he, as he threw his own cloak

around her, “pardon my neglect.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, bursting into tears: “talk not of neglect. You have

been every thing to us. You have saved the life of my beloved husband,

and an age of gratitude is ours.”

Edward now left the room to seek for rest in another apartment. To sleep

was impossible. The excitement of the past hour had been so great, that

his nervous system was completely unstrung, and he passed the night in

listening for some alarm. After breakfast, he hastened to the room of

the invalid, to enquire for his health. Most joyfully was he greeted by

both husband and wife, who now appeared to have recovered from the alarm

of the past night. In the course of conversation, Mr. James mentioned

that he was on the eve of starting for America.

“When does the vessel sail?” inquired the lady anxiously.

“This afternoon, at four o’clock,” replied Mr. J——, “and I should like

before I say adieu, to become acquainted with the name of those I feel

so deep an interest in.”

“Our name is Levingston,” said the gentleman. “And yours, sir?”

“James.”

“Well, this is remarkable. A Levingston and a James to meet under

circumstances that have bound them together by cords that death alone

can sever!”

Long and interesting was the communion of that morning. All was told.

The gentleman he had rescued was the long absent brother of his own

Mary. The tale of love was revealed, and Edward persuaded to wait one

week longer, that they might return together to their native land.

“I shall send despatches to my father by the vessel in which you

expected to sail, this afternoon,” said Mr. Levingston, “and if he has

any love for his only son, he must receive us as brothers.”

We now hasten back to Mary Levingston. After the departure of Edward,

New York had lost its attractions for her. Mr. M—— returned home with

Mary. She indulged strong hopes of influencing her father in favor of

Mr. James, and inducing him to consent to his union with her sister. But

she was destined to be disappointed. Mr. Levingston would not even

listen to her. Ringing the bell, he ordered Mary to be summoned to his

presence.

When Mary entered the room, her eye fell instantly beneath the steady

gaze of her father.

“I have sent for you,” said he, “to express my deep displeasure at your

conduct, and my utter abhorrence for the man who could impose upon such

a child as you. Your sister says you love the son of one that has

insulted and abused me. Can it be so, Mary, my child?” said he, bursting

into tears.

In a moment Mary was on her knees before him. “Forgive me, dear father,

I have sinned ignorantly. Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “for I here

promise to renounce him forever.”

“If this is your determination,” said Mr. Levingston, “rise and receive

your father’s blessing. May you long enjoy the consolation of knowing

you rendered the last days of your father peaceful and happy.”

From that hour, Mary Levingston was calm and happy. Innocence and an

approving conscience supported her.

“Never,” said Mary, to her sister, Mrs. M——, on the morning of her

departure, “mention in your letters the name of Mr. James, who in future

must be as one dead to me. Tell him, when he returns, that my

determination is unalterable, and bid him seek some more congenial

alliance.”

Weeks rolled round and found the calm quiet of the Levingston’s

unbroken. The rose was still blooming on the cheek of Mary. No change

had taken place in any except Mr. Levingston. It was very evident to all

his friends that he rapidly failed. Every step of the hill he was

descending seemed to fatigue him, and the only cordial that revived his

fainting spirit, was the presence of his youngest child. Was not Mary

Levingston, as she gazed on his pale face and feeble frame, rejoiced at

the sacrifice she had made to secure his peace? Yes, the happiness she

now felt was of a calm, enduring nature. She could lie down and rise up

without listening to the upbraidings of a guilty conscience, without

having to reflect that it was her rebellion which had dimmed the eye and

paralyzed the step of her father. Every night before she retired, she

received his embrace, and heard him say, “God bless you Mary, you have

been a dutiful child.”

Late one evening, in the latter part of October, a servant entered the

parlor where the family was sitting with a package of letters. He

delivered them to Mr. Levingston, and retired. The hand trembled that

broke the seal.

“This is from our dear son,” said he, turning to his wife, and holding

up a letter, “and here is one for each of his sisters. Let me see, two

of them are directed to Mary, here they are, take them.”

He now commenced reading the letter aloud, which told of the prosperity

and marriage of his son, and his intention of leaving England for home

the following week. Then came the description of the fire. The

peril—the rescue; the name of him who had exposed his own life to

snatch a stranger from the flames. At this part of the letter Mr.

Levingston suddenly stopped and left the room. In his study he finished

its perusal.

“What does this mean?” he exclaimed, rapidly walking the floor, “It

seems as though the hand of God was in this thing. I would that some

other one had saved him. He asks me to receive his deliverer as my son.

Bold request—and yet I will do it. I will receive him as a son, for he

has saved the life of my Walter at the risk of his own. For so generous,

so noble an act, I here bury my enmity forever.”

Mr. Levingston, with a lighter heart than he had felt for months,

returned to the parlor. Mary met him at the door.

“This letter, dear papa,” said she, “I return to you. I have not read

it, neither do I desire to. It is written by one I have renounced

forever.”

“Keep it, Mary,” said Mr. Levingston, “and cherish the memory of the

writer. I have buried my resentment forever toward that family. From

this hour shall we not bless the deliverer of our son?”

Mary was astonished. She could scarcely persuade herself that all was

not a dream. Still holding the letter toward her father, and gazing

immoveably in his face, she seemed rather a statue than a human being.

“Do you think I am trifling?” said he, as he pressed her to his bosom.

“No, Mary, I love you too well for that. From this moment you have my

consent to become the wife of him, who, although so tenderly loved, you

felt willing to sacrifice to the peace of your aged father.”

The intervening days, preceding the arrival of Walter, rapidly glided

away in busy preparation. Suddenly, however, Mr. Levingston was taken

dangerously ill at midnight. His symptoms were so alarming that a

council of physicians was called before morning, when an express was

sent to New York for his children.

Calm and collected, Mary Levingston might be seen noiselessly moving

about her father’s chamber. No hand but hers could administer his

medicine, or smooth his pillow. The thought of death—the death of her

father—had not once crossed her mind. His life seemed so necessary to

his family, that such an event appeared impossible.

“Has he come, Mary?”

“Who, dear father?” she gently asked, stooping and kissing his brow.

“Walter, my son, has he come?”

“It is too soon yet to expect him.”

“Too soon,” said he, faintly, “I fear then I shall never see him. The

hand of death is on me, my child, I feel its chill.”

“You will kill me, dear father, if you talk so. You will soon be better.

I thought this was to be the happiest week of my life,” said she,

bursting into tears.

“Mary,” observed Mr. Levingston, “I wish you to be calm and listen to

me. If I should not live to see my son, tell him he was his father’s

idol. Tell him to transmit the name of Levingston, unsullied, to

posterity, and to be the comfort and support of his widowed mother. One

more message and I am done,” said he, wiping the cold sweat from off his

brow. “Hark!” he exclaimed, hearing a noise, “perhaps that is Walter.”

Finding himself disappointed, he proceeded—“request Edward James to

tell his father that I die in peace with all men, and joyfully entrust

the happiness of my daughter to his son. I had hoped to have given away

the treasure with my own hand, but that is all over. Leave me now for a

few moments, I wish to see your mother.”

That interview over there was a solemn silence for a few moments, when

he exclaimed, “Did you say he had come? Oh my son, receive my blessing.”

“You were dreaming, dear father,” said Mary, “Walter is not here.”

“Well, well, it is all right,” he replied. He never spoke more: in a few

hours his spirit took its final flight.

It was late in the evening when the mournful intelligence of Mr.

Levingston’s illness reached his children in New York. They instantly

set forth to gain, if possible, his dying couch in time to obtain his

blessing.

“Where is my father?” exclaimed Walter on his arrival at the mansion,

rushing by his mother and sisters who had hastened to the door to meet

them. “Lead me to my father,” said he, catching hold of Mary.

As she went toward the room, he rushed by her; and entered, closed, and

locked the door. Mary stood without listening to his wild outbursts of

grief.

In anguish he called upon him once more to speak to him. It was the

lamentation of the prodigal yearning in vain to hear his father’s voice.

It was the pleading of the wanderer who had returned with the hope of

cheering his last days.

“Mary,” said a gentle, well known voice, “My beloved Mary, we meet with

your father’s blessing resting upon us.”

In an instant she was in the arms of Edward James, and weeping upon his

bosom. Walter Levingston at this moment entered the apartment.

“Did my father ask for me, Mary?” said he.

“Oh yes,” she replied, “often. Almost his last words were, ‘My son

receive my blessing.’ And he told me to request you, Edward, to say to

your father, ‘I die in peace with all men, and willingly entrust the

happiness of my daughter to your son.’”

“Forever blessed be his memory,” said Edward. “Never shall his

confidence be misplaced, or that daughter have reason to doubt my

trust.”

The door now opened, and Mrs. Levingston, leaning on the arm of one of

her daughters, entered. “Beloved mother,” said Walter, embracing her,

“from this hour it shall be my first care and study to promote your

comfort. Here by the corpse of my father, I resolve to do all in my

power to fill his place, and render your last days peaceful and happy.”

Some months from this period, a party was seen to alight from a carriage

early one morning in front of Saint Paul’s Church. The blessings of many

were heard in low murmurs from the crowd that filled the vestibule. “She

was the pride of her father,” said an aged female who stood leaning

against the wall, “and I know she will be a blessing to her husband.”

Early as was the hour, the Church was crowded with spectators. Many had

risen to get a more perfect view of the fine manly form of him that was

about to bear away the sweet Mary Levingston from her maiden home. The

silence was intense as the impressive marriage ceremony of the Episcopal

Church was read; and fervent were the responses of those who promised

through weal and wo to be faithful to each other. As the party turned to

leave the Church, a hearty “God bless them,” resounded from many. Mrs.

James was greatly affected as she cast a farewell glance on these

familiar faces. Her husband hurried her to the carriage.

“The blessing of many has rested on you, dear Mary, to-day,” said he, as

they were borne to their new home.

“Yes,” said she, “and I thought as I stood before the bridal altar, I

heard the voice of my departed father saying, ‘God bless you.’”

* * * * *

I AM YOUR PRISONER.

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D.

Lady! I bow before thee

A captive to thy will,

A spell of thine is o’er me,

But joy is with me still.

I yield me, not to beauty,

Though thou, indeed art fair;

I yield me—not to lightness,

Though thou art light as air.

I yield me, not to wisdom,

Thou wisest of thy kind,

But, rescue, or no rescue,

To thy purity of mind.

* * * * *

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY J. TOMLIN.

The subject of the present sketch has had in time, the most sincere

friendship of the writer. One act, and one alone, has made them

enemies—irreconcilably, forever. It is to be regretted that it is so,

yet it cannot be otherwise, and the honor of both be preserved. There is

in any and every one, that aspires to greatness, a tameless absurdity,

when suffering a reprehensible action of an associate to pass away like

the morning mist on the flower, without noticing it, or giving the

admonitory reproof, that often corrects and finally subdues the evil. We

are not such isolated creatures on the surface of a world passing away,

as to require a more powerful impulse in the correction of an evil, than

the blessings it gives to our fellow beings.

Gordon De Severn was my senior by some several years;—but in all of his

actions, there was a freshness and youthfulness, so akin to what I did,

and what I felt myself, that I could not keep away from him. He was a

scholar, but not of the schools, therefore none ever complained of his

dullness. His Aristotelian capacity grasped almost intuitively, what

others could scarcely get by the most diligent researches; and with the

perception of a Byron, he disclosed every beautiful thought that ever

swept along the labyrinth of mind. He was a mighty genius, free, bold,

and daring! He liked to see the bubbles of time vanish, and others

coming in their places, but did not recollect, that soon, very soon, the

vapour that supported his adolescent spirits, would dissolve, and be no

more forever! He was an observer on the world—a spy on the tumultuous

feelings that agitate, and corrupt the heart;—and he boasted that he

was of the world, but a being removed beyond its temptations.

Six summers ago, Eliza Wharton was young, happy, and full of innocence.

How altered now is this creature, from what she was when I first knew

her. Time often makes worse havoc with the reputation, than with the

body. A little while ago, Eliza Wharton was not more fair than she was

innocent; but now at the heart the canker-worm preys voraciously, as is

evidenced by the deep lines that mark the cheek. Retired beyond the

precincts of the bustle of the multitude; lost to friends that once

loved her,—she lives a solitary creature, ruined in reputation by the

very being she once loved;—penitent in seclusion, she has wept her sins

forgiven, and will win her way to heaven, in spite of a cold—cold

world.

Being in affluent circumstances, she moved in the first circles of

society in the little town that gave her birth. She was intellectual and

beautiful, which made her an object of envy to the many. Women envy the

beauty they see in every one of their sex, and man, the rich endowment

of mind, that makes his fellow being more distinguished than himself.

How apt are we to despise any noble capacity that we see in others, when

we possess it not ourself—and the good qualities that show themselves

most splendidly in our neighbor, are a bright mark, at which we level in

bitterness, the wrath of our envy. Those that have but the most common

endowments of our nature, are generally the most happy, and almost

always move in a path, that leads to a peaceful destiny. Had Eliza

Wharton been one of the common, ordinary creatures that move in humble

life, in her fall, she would have had the sympathies of the world. But

being of a superior mould both in body and mind,—her fall was

unregretted, unwept.

In an evil hour there came along a being in the shape of man, like

herself of towering intellect, but unlike her in goodness of heart and

benevolence of feeling. She loved him! She thought that she saw in him

something superior to any thing that she had ever seen before in others.

Nobleness of mien he certainly had—and the ways of the world he was

familiar with, for he had travelled much. He had studied, but not from

books. The volume of nature as it lay spread out before him, in gorgeous

robes of mixed colors, dyed with the richest tints the every avenue to

the soul, and he became a poet in feeling. His was the philosophy of

feeling and not of reason—therefore he erred. Every emotion of the

heart, he mistook for inspiration of the soul—and he fed the keen

appetites of his nature from every stream that rippled his path. What to

him was good, he never considered might be poison to others. His was the

mighty ocean of mind, not cramped by _this_ usage, or _that_ custom—but

free, bold and daring! He visited fountains that could not be reached by

every one, and drank of waters that inspired different sensations from

what were felt by the world in which he lived.

I do well recollect the time when these two beings first met. It was on

the eighteenth anniversary of Eliza’s birth—and at a _fête_, given by

her father, in honor of the occasion. It was in May, the month of

flowers; and though a moonless night, yet the bright stars looked down

in myriads on the happy earth. Eliza was all joy and animation. Before

her lay the rich fields of pleasure, and she seized on every moment as

one of gladness, and of happiness. She did not know that in her path,

there lay a serpent that would soon destroy her. Gordon De Severn, like

some fiery comet, attracted every eye, and spell-bound the poor maiden

that happened to come within the hearing of his magic words. Exclusively

on that night, did he appropriate Eliza to himself. She listened,

enraptured at every word he spoke, and fell at last a victim, to the

snare he then laid. He played his part so well on that night, that he

fairly captured the fair one’s heart—and for the first time in her

life, she retired, to a sleepless pillow, bedewed with tears. De Severn

admired her, but he was not in love.

For several months after their first interview, he was almost a daily

visitor at her house. He courted her—and he won her. She believed him,

when he told her, that he would be her friend. She believed him when he

said, that he loved her. She trusted, when he deceived. She fell because

she loved one too much, that proved himself a villain, and not because

she was base. She departed from virtue, not because she was in love with

vice, but to oblige one that she loved much. She fell—and this vile

seducer is now sporting in the sunshine of wealth—and has friends, and

is received into the houses of the honorable, and is caressed, and is

smiled upon; while the poor injured one—Eliza Wharton, is abandoned by

the world, and by her relations, to pine in some sequestered spot, and

die of a broken heart.

How often does it happen in this world of ours, that the betrayer

receives honor from the hands of the people, and the betrayed is scoffed

at and reviled, for being so credulous as to believe even a tale

of—Love.

Jackson, Tenn.

* * * * *

THE INVITATION.

BY E. G. MALLERY.

Come, altho’ fair is thy southern clime,

Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek,

And the stars come forth at the vesper chime,

With a beauty no tongue may speak;

Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy brow

As it slumbered in hours of yore;

And the night bird’s song has the same tone now

In thy life’s bright spring that it bore;

Come, tho’ from streamlet, from hill, and from plain,

Rush a thousand fond memories forth,

And cluster around thy light step to detain—

Oh! come to our home in the North!

They tell you how bleak is our northern sky

When the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings;

How his shout is heard from the mountain high,

How in glee thro’ the valley it rings:

How his strong hand bows the proud old oak,

And in sport uprooteth the pine;

How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak,

And the groves with his brilliants shine:

How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide,

And bids the chaf’d torrent be still,

Then dashes away in his might and his pride,

And laughs that they heeded his will!

They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath,

When the flow’rs droop over their tomb,

Are off to the land where they meet no death,

And the orange-trees ever more bloom.

Tell them we ask not affection so slight

That at fortune’s first frown it is o’er,

And we’re certain again when our skies become bright

They’ll flutter around us once more,

And tell them there grows on our mountain crest

A plant which no winter can fade—

And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast,

Blooms ever in sunshine and shade!

Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled,

And the rich robe of Autumn withdrawn,

To welcome old Winter, whose hoary head

Is bow’d ’neath his sparkling crown;

For soon as his whistle is heard from afar

Commanding the winds round his throne,

And echoes in distance the roll of his car,

We encircle the joyous hearth-stone;

And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,—

The voice of the song gushes forth,

And ceaseless and light is each heart’s happy flow—

Oh! come to our home in the North!

Wyoming, 1841.

* * * * *

YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE.—BALLAD.

Written by T. Haynes Bayly, Esq.—The Music composed by C. M. Sola.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co., No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

You praise each youthful form you see,

And love is still your theme;

And when you win no praise from me,

You say how cold I seem:

You know not what it is to pine

With

[Illustration: musical score continued]

ceaseless vain regret;

You never felt a love like mine,

You never knew Annette,

You never felt a love like mine,

You never, never knew Annette.

For ever changing, still you rove,

As I in boyhood roved;

But when you tell me this is love,

It proves you never loved!

To many idols you have knelt,

And therefore soon forget;

But what I feel you never felt,

You never knew Annette.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

When the shooter has been long accustomed to a dog, he can tell by the

dog’s proceeding, whether game is near or not when pointed, or whether

the birds are running before the dog. If he suspect them to be running,

he must walk up quickly before his dog, for if he stop or appear to look

about him, the birds instantly rise. Whenever it is practicable, unless

the birds be very tame and his dogs young ones, the shooter should place

himself so that the birds may be between him and the dogs. They will

then lie well. The moment a dog points, the first thing to be done is to

cast a glance round to ascertain in which direction the covers and

corn-fields lie; the next is to learn the point of the wind; the shooter

will then use his endeavor to gain the wind of the birds, and to place

himself between them and the covers, or otherwise avail himself of other

local circumstances.

* * * * *

PARTRIDGE SHOOTING.

[Illustration: partridge]

We commence our notice of feathered game with the partridge, as shooting

that bird is generally the young sportsman’s first lesson, although in

the order of the season grouse shooting takes precedence.

The partridge may be termed a home bird, for the shooter who resides in

the country, finds it almost at his door, while it is requisite to

undertake a journey, perchance a very long one, before he arrives at the

grounds frequented by grouse. As it requires neither woods, nor marshes,

nor heaths to afford them shelter, they are found more widely scattered

than the pheasant, the woodcock, or the grouse, and hence the pursuit of

them is one of the chief sources of recreation to the shooter. Though

not so highly prized by the sportsman as the birds last mentioned, the

abundance in which partridges are found, wherever they are preserved,

renders the sport sufficiently attractive. At the commencement of the

season, when they have not been much disturbed by persons breaking dogs,

they are as tame as could be wished by the most inexpert sportsman, and

at that time afford capital diversion to the young shooter, and to those

rheumatic and gouty old gentlemen who—too fond of their ease to brush

the covers or range the mountains—in the lowland valleys, “shoulder

their crutch, and show how fields were won.” Partridges are most

plentiful in those countries where much grain, buckwheat, and white

crops are grown. While the corn is standing, it is very rare that many

shots can be obtained, for the coveys, on being disturbed, wing their

way to the nearest cornfield, where it is forbidden the shooter to

follow them, or to send his dogs in after them.

The habits of the partridge should be studied by the shooter. In the

early part of the season, partridges will be found, just before sunrise,

running to a brook, a spring, or marsh, to drink; from which place they

almost immediately fly to some field where they can find abundance of

insects, or else to the nearest corn-field or stubble field, where they

will remain, according to the state of the weather, or other

circumstances, until nine or ten o’clock, when they go to bask. The

basking-place is commonly on a sandy bank-side facing the sun, where the

whole covey sits huddled together for several hours. About four or five

o’clock they return to the stubbles to feed, and about six or seven they

go to their jucking-place, a place of rest for the night, which is

mostly an aftermath, or in a rough pasture field, where they remain

huddled together until morning. Such are their habits during the early

part of the season; but their time of feeding and basking varies much

with the length of the days. While the corn is standing, unless the

weather be very fine or very wet, partridges will often remain in it all

day; when fine, they bask on the out-skirts; when wet, they run to some

bare place in a sheltered situation, where they will be found crowded

together as if basking, for they seldom remain long in corn or grass

when it is wet. Birds lie best on a hot day. They are wildest on a damp

or boisterous day.

The usual way of proceeding in search of partridges in September is to

try the stubbles first. It not unfrequently happens that potatoes or

turnips are grown on a headland in a corn-field; in that case the

headland will be a favorite resort of birds.

After the middle of October, it is ever uncertain where birds will be

found; the stubbles having been pretty well gleaned, birds do not remain

in them so long as in the early part of the season. When disturbed at

this time, they will sometimes take shelter in woods, where they are

flushed one by one. The best shots that can be obtained at partridges,

in winter, are when the birds are driven into woods.

When a covey separates, the shooter will generally be able to kill many

birds, but late in the season it is seldom that the covey can be broken.

In November and December the shooter must not expect to have his birds

pointed, but must remain content with firing at long distances. In the

early part of the season, when the shooter _breaks_ a covey, he should

proceed without loss of time in search of the dispersed birds, for the

parent birds begin to call almost immediately on their alighting, the

young ones answer, and in less than half an hour, if not prevented by

the presence of the shooter and his dogs, the whole covey will be

re-assembled, probably in security in some snug corner, where the

shooter least thinks of looking for them. As the season advances, birds

are longer in re-assembling after being dispersed. It is necessary to

beat very closely for dispersed birds, as they do not stir for some time

after alighting, on which account dogs cannot wind them until nearly

upon them, especially as they resort to the roughest places when

dispersed. Birds dispersed afford the primest sport. The pointing is

often beautiful, the bird being generally in a patch of rushes, or tuft

of grass or fern, and close to the dog. When a bird has been running

about some time, dogs easily come upon the scent of it; but when it has

not stirred since alighting, and has perhaps crept into a drain, or run

into a hedge-bottom, or the sedgy side of a ditch, no dog can wind it

until close upon it, and the very best dogs will sometimes flush a

single bird. In the month of October, and afterward, the shooter will

find it difficult to approach within gun-shot of a covey, nor can he

disperse them, except by firing at them when he chances to come close

upon them. Should he then be so fortunate as to disperse a covey, he may

follow them leisurely, for they will then lie several hours in their

lurking-place, which is chosen with much tact, as a patch of rushes, a

gorse bush, a holly bush, the bottom of a double bank fence, or a

coppice of wood. The length of time that will transpire before a

dispersed covey will re-assemble, depends too on the time of the day,

and state of the weather. In hot weather, they will lie still for

several hours. A covey dispersed early in the morning, or late at night,

will soon re-assemble. A covey dispersed between the hours of ten and

two, will be some time in re-assembling. A covey found in the morning in

a stubble-field, and dispersed, will next assemble near the

basking-place. A covey dispersed after two o’clock, will next assemble

in the stubble-field at feeding time. A covey disturbed and dispersed

late in the afternoon, or evening, will next re-assemble near the

jucking-place. A covey being disturbed on or near to their

jucking-place, will seek a fresh one, perhaps about two fields distant;

and if often disturbed at night on their jucking-place, they will seek

another stubble-field to feed in, and change their quarters altogether.

The most certain method of driving partridges from a farm, is to disturb

them night after night at their jucking-place, which is usually in a

meadow, where the aftermath is suffered to grow, or in a field rough

with rushes, fern, thistles, or heather, adjoining to a corn-field. When

a covey is dispersed on a dry hot day, it is necessary to search much

longer, and beat closer, for the dispersed birds, than when the day is

cool and the ground moist. A dog should be only slightly rated for

running up a bird on a hot day.

The shooter, on entering a field, should make it a general rule,

provided the wind or nature of the ground do not lead him to decide on a

contrary course, to beat that side which is nearest the covers; or, if

there be no neighboring covers, he should beat round the field, leaving

the centre of the field to the last. In hot weather birds frequent bare

places, sunny hill-sides, or sandy banks, at the root of a tree, or

hedge-bottom, where there is plenty of loose loam or sand which they can

scratch up. In cold weather they will be found in sheltered places. In

cold windy weather those fields only which lie under the wind should be

beaten. The warm valleys, the briary cloughs, and glens not over-wooded,

but abounding in fern, underwood, and holly trees, and also those steep

hill-sides which lie under the wind, are then places of resort. Heights

and flats must be avoided, except where there are small enclosures well

protected by double hedges, under the shelter of which birds will

remain. The shooter who beats the south or west side of a hedge, will

generally obtain more shots than he who beats the north or east side.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“The Tower of London.” A Historical Romance. By W. H.

Ainsworth. Author of Jack Sheppard. 1 vol. Lea & Blanchard:

Philada. 1841._

The authorship of this work does a little, and but a little more credit

to Mr. Ainsworth than that of Jack Sheppard. It is in no spirit of

cavilling that we say, that it is rarely our lot to review a work more

utterly destitute of every ingredient requisite to a good romance.

We would premise, however, in the outset of our remarks, that the

popularity of this work in London is no proof of its merits. Its

success, in fact, reminds us how nearly akin its author, in his

treatment of the public, is to Dr. Sangrado. Blood-letting, and warm

water was the making of the latter—and bombast and clap-trap is the

Alpha and Omega of the former. In the present volume we have it

plentifully administered in descriptions of the Tower of London, and the

plots of the bloody Mary’s reign. It is this local interest which has

given Mr. Ainsworth’s romance such a run in London, just as a family

picture, in which a dozen ugly urchins, and sundry as ugly angels in the

clouds, is the delight of the parents, and the envy of all aunts.

The Tower of London is, at once, forced and uninteresting. It is such a

novel as sets one involuntarily to nodding. With plenty of incident,

considerable historical truth, and a series of characters, such as an

author can rarely command, it is yet, excepting a chapter here and

there, “flat, stale, and unprofitable.” The incidents want piquancy; the

characters too often are destitute of truth. The misfortunes of Lady

Jane are comparatively dull to any one who remembers Mr. Millar’s late

romance; and Simon Reynard is under another name, the same dark,

remorseless villain as Jonathan Wild. The introduction of the giants

would grate harshly on the reader’s feelings, if the author had not

failed to touch them by his mock-heroics. Were it not for the tragic

interest attached to Lady Jane Grey, and the pride that every Englishman

feels in the oldest surviving palace of his kings, this novel would have

fallen stillborn from the press in London, as completely it has ruined

the author’s reputation in America.

We once, in reviewing Jack Sheppard, expressed our admiration of the

author’s talents, although we condemned their perversion in the novel

then before us. This duplicate of that worthless romance, and

scandalously demoralising novel, proves either that the author is

incorrigible, or that the public taste is vitiated. We rather think the

former. We almost recant our eulogy on Mr. Ainsworth’s talents. If he

means to earn a name, one whit loftier than that of a mere book-maker,

let him at once betake himself to a better school of romance. Such

libels on humanity; such provocatives to crime; such worthless, inane,

disgraceful romances as Jack Sheppard and its successors, are a blot on

our literature, and a curse to our land.

* * * * *

_“Visits to Remarkable Places, Battle-Fields, Cathedrals,

Castles, &c.” By W. Howitt. 2 vols. Carey & Hart, Philada._

_“The Rural Life of England.” By W. Howitt. 1 vol. Carey & Hart,

Philada._

Next after Professor Wilson comes Howitt. The same genial spirit, the

same soul-breathing poetry, the same intense love for what is beautiful

in nature, and often the same involution of style, and the same

excursive ideas, characterise the editor of Blackwood, and the brother

of the Quaker poet.

The latter of the productions above, is, as its name imports, a

description of the rural life of England, whether found under the

gipsey’s hedge, in the peasant’s cottage, or amid the wide parks and

lordly castles of the aristocracy. It is a picture of which England may

be proud. The author has omitted nothing which could make his subject

interesting, and in presenting it suitably to his reader he has

surpassed himself, and almost equalled North. The old, but now decaying

customs of “merrie England;” the winter and summer life of peasant and

noble in the country; the sports of every kind, and every class, from

milling to horse-racing; and the forest and landscape scenery of every

portion of Great Britain are described with a graphic pen, and a fervor

of language, which cannot fail to make “The Rural Life of England”

popular every where.

Among the most interesting chapters of this work are those on the

Gipsies, and that respecting Mayday, and Christmas. The description of

Grouse-Shooting, both in the north of England, and the Highlands is

highly graphic; while the visits to Newstead and Annesley Hall are

narrated with much vivacity.

It was the popularity of these two last chapters which suggested the

preceding volumes above, entitled “Visits to Remarkable Places.” Nothing

can be simpler than the design of this latter work. With a taste for

antiquarian research, and a soul all-glowing with poetry, the author has

gone forth into the quiet dells, and amid the time-worn cities of

England, and visiting every old castle, or battle-field, known in

history, and peopling them with the heroic actors of the past, he has

produced a work of unrivalled interest. We wish we had room for a

chapter from the second of these two volumes, entitled “A Day-Dream at

Tintangel.” It is one of the most poetical pieces of prose we have ever

met with. The old castle of King Arthur seems once more to lift its

massy battlements, above the thundering surf below, and from its portals

go forth the heroes of the Round Table, with hound and hawk, and many a

fair demoiselle.

Next, certainly, to a visit to any remarkable place, is a graphic

description of its appearance. This, in every instance, where the author

has attempted it, is presented in the “Visits to Remarkable Places.”

Stratford on the Avon; Anne Hathaway’s cottage; the ancestral home of

the Sidneys; Culloden battlefield; the old regal town of Winchester,

formerly the abode of the Saxon kings, and where their monuments still

remain; Flodden-field; Hampton Court; and in short, most of the

remarkable places in England, are brought vividly before the reader’s

mind. Indeed, many a traveller, who has seen these celebrated places,

might be put to the blush by one who had attentively perused this work,

and who yet had never crossed the Atlantic.

* * * * *

_“The Kinsmen, or the Black Riders of the Congaree.” A Romance.

By the author of Guy Rivers, &c. 2 vols.—Lea & Blanchard,

Philada. 1841._

A good novel is always welcome; and a good one from an American pen is

doubly so. Since the publication of the Pathfinder, we have seen nothing

equal to the Kinsmen.

The story is laid at the period of the Revolution, and Clarence Conway,

the hero, is a prominent actor in the partizan war, which then raged in

the Carolinas. Many of the characters are well drawn, and the interest

is kept up throughout. Flora Middleton is an exquisite creation of the

novelist’s pen. She deserves to be placed alongside of James’s finest

female characters.

We have room for only a short extract. In it, however, the interest is

worked up to a pitch of the most intense excitement. The hero, be it

remembered, having fallen into the hands of the Black Riders, has

irritated their ruffian leader. To the outlaw’s threats he replies:

“I am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your

worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. I

defy and spit upon you.”

The face of the outlaw blackened:—Clarence rose to his feet.

“Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway, Frink, Gasson!—you

three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last horse.

Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling,

and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work,

villains—away!”

The hands of more than one of the ruffians were already on the

shoulders of the partizan. Though shocked at the seeming

certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe

they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless

aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the

language of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked for no

delay—he simply denounced against them the vengeance of his

command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery energy

of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. His language

tended still farther to exasperate the person who acted in the

capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the

subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed to him to

linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with his own

hands, and proceeded to drag him forward. There was evidently no

faltering in his fearful purpose. Every thing was serious. He

was too familiar with such deeds to make him at all heedful of

consequences; and the proud bearing of the youth; the

unmitigated scorn in his look and language; the hateful words

which he had used, and the threats which he had denounced; while

they exasperated all around, almost maddened the ruffian in

command, to whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking

of life was a circumstance equally familiar and unimportant.

“_Three_ minutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!” he

cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates to drag the

destined victim toward the door. He himself was not suffered

_one_. The speech was scarcely spoken, when he fell prostrate on

his face, stricken in the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered

through an aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains

bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, whom his falling body

also bore to the floor of the apartment. A wild shout from

without followed the shot, and rose, strong and piercing, above

all the clamor within. In that shout Clarence could not doubt

that he heard the manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister,

and the deed spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a

friend only.

* * * * *

_“The Hour and the Man.” A novel. By Harriet Martineau. 2 vols.

Harper & Brothers, New York, 1841._

We do not belong to the admirers of Miss Martineau, though barring her

ear-trumpet, and a few foolish notions, she is a very respectable and

inoffensive old lady. Her present work is founded on the career of the

celebrated negro chieftain, whom Napoleon had conveyed to France, and

who there died. The good old spinster has taken up the Orthodox English

account of this transaction, and as Napoleon was always a monster in the

eyes of the Cockneys, Touissant, according to their story and Miss

Martineau’s, was murdered. Nothing can be more ridiculous. Bonaparte

never committed a crime where it could be avoided, and having once

secured Touissant in a state prison in France, what farther had the

first consul to fear from the negro chieftain?

The story is, in some parts, well told. It has been apparently prepared

with much care. But it fails, totally fails, in its main object; and

though as men, we sympathise with a persecuted man, we cannot, as

critics, overlook the glaring faults of the novel, or, as partizans of

truth, forgive the historical inaccuracies of the narrative.

* * * * *

_“The History of England from the Earliest Period to 1839.” By

Thomas Keightley. 5 vols. Harper & Brothers, New York._

This is an edition, containing the same matter, with the two large

octavo volumes lately published under the same title. We have it now

presented in this cheap and portable form, as a portion of the

celebrated Family Library. A copious index has been added, which is not

found in the larger edition. The history is a work of merit; but to both

the American editions we object, in the name of all justice. The

alterations made from the London edition are scandalous. It is not, in

its present shape, the author’s production. Good or bad, give us _his_

work, and not that of an American editor, however talented, or an

American publisher, however discerning.

* * * * *

_“Applications of the Science of Mechanics to Practical

Purposes.” By J. Renwick, L.L.D. 1 vol. 18 mo. Harper &

Brothers, New York._

The present is a practical age. Literature, science, learning, even the

fine arts are popular, only as they can be rendered useful. Every

department of knowledge is ransacked to advance the interests, and

elevate the character of the age.

Enfield’s Natural Philosophy, and the present work illustrate this

remark. The former belongs to the past age; to the days of theory; to

the men of profound philosophy: the latter is adapted more to the

present time; to a practical generation; to men of excursive rather than

deep, and available rather than profound science. Not a principle is

stated which is not applied to some mechanical contrivance of the day.

The action of the screw, the wedge, the lever, the spring, are described

as they are adapted to mining, navigation, rail-roads, and the various

species of manufactures. But, on the other hand, the knowledge imparted

is not profound. Sufficient, as it is, however, for all practical

purposes, the student leaves the work with a more thorough understanding

of the principles of his study, than more elaborate, but less skilful

treatises could afford.

* * * * *

_“Hope on, Hope Ever.” 1 vol. 16 mo. “Strive and Thrive.” 1 vol.

16 mo. “Sowing and Reaping.” 1 vol. 16 mo. By Mary Howitt. J.

Munro & Co. Boston._

These are three excellent tales from the pen of one of the most

delightful of female writers. A chaste style; a love for the oppressed;

a practical moral in her writings render them at once beautiful,

popular, and useful.

* * * * *

_“History of the United States.” By Selma Hale. 2 vols. Harper &

Brothers, New York._

A compendious manual. It brings our history down to the end of Madison’s

administration.

* * * * *

_“Life of John Wickliffe, D.D.” By Margaret Coxe. Columbus.

Isaac N. Whiting._

This is an interesting, though scanty biography of the first of the

Reformers. It does not pretend to give a philosophic account of his

times, but simply to present a chronicle of the principal events of his

life.

* * * * *

FASHIONS FOR MARCH, 1841.

EVENING DRESS.

Fig. 1.—Of plaid _Mous de Laine_. The head dress of buff crape, trimmed

with roses.

FULL DRESS.

Fig. 2.—Crimson velvet robe, a low _corsage_, it is trimmed with a row

of _dentille d’or_ in the heart style. Short sleeves, composed of two

_bouffants_, with _manchettes_ of _dentille d’or_, looped by gold and

jewelled ornaments, corresponding with that in the centre of the

_corsage_. The _tablier_ and flounce that encircles the skirt are also

of _dentille d’or_ of the most superb kind. The head-dress is a _toquet_

of white satin, embroidered in gold, and trimmed with a profusion of

white ostrich feathers.

DINNER DRESS.

Fig. 3.—Of plain white; the apron slightly ornamented. This is the

prevailing style for the month.

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR MARCH 1841. FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook. A cover was created for this ebook and is

placed in the public domain.

page 100, Calm, Heré-eyed Callirhöe?, ==> Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?,

page 121, reminded us of Shelly’s ==> reminded us of Shelley’s

page 144, The _tabiier_ and flounce ==> The _tablier_ and flounce

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 3, March 1841_, George R.

Graham, Editor]