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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXI,  No. 1, July 1847
Author: Various
Language: English
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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                Vol. XXXI.      July, 1847.      No. 1.


                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Slaver
          A Pic-Nic at White Lake
          Arthur Harrington
          General Zachary Taylor
          Sally Lyon’s First and Last Visit to the Ale-House
          The Islets of the Gulf (continued)
          The Love-Chase
          Review of New Books

                           Poetry and Music

          To Evelyn
          A Bacchic Ode
          A Valentine
          To ——, at Parting
          Sonnet from Petrarch, On the Death of Laura
          Sonnet. To a Young Invalid Abroad
          The Winged Watcher
          Carolan’s Prophecy
          Scenes That Are Brightest

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

                 *        *        *        *        *


                            AMERICAN MONTHLY


                         Of Literature and Art,

                            EMBELLISHED WITH



                       MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.
                        PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.

                       GEORGE R. GRAHAM, EDITOR.

                              VOLUME XXXI.


                              . . . . . .

                 *        *        *        *        *


                                 OF THE

                          THIRTY-FIRST VOLUME.

                     JUNE, 1847, TO JANUARY, 1848.

A Pic-Nic at White Lake. By Alfred B. Street,                         13
Arthur Harrington. By F. E. F.                                        19
A New Way to Collect an Old Debt. By T. S. Arthur,                    80
An Indian Legend. By M.                                              177
An Assiniboin Lodge, (Illustrated.)                                  328
Cora Neill. Or Love’s Obstacles. By Enna Duval,                       72
Evelyn Grahame. A Tale of Truth. By Ellen Marshall,                   97
Fort Mackenzie. (Illustrated.)                                       271
General Zachary Taylor, (Illustrated.)                                26
Game-Birds of America,                                               269
Ida Bernstorf’s Journal. By Enna Duval,                              233
Kitty Coleman. By Fanny Forester,                                    262
Lolah Lalande. A Package from My Old Writing-Desk. By                150
  Enna Duval,
Love’s Last Supper. Or the True Story of a Troubadour. A             277
  Provençal Biography. By Wm. Gilmore Simms,
Reality Versus Romance. Or the Young Wife. By Caroline               101
  H. Butler,
Reminiscences of Watering-Places. By F. J. Grund,                    217
Sally Lyon’s First and Last Visit to the Ale-House. By                33
  T. S. Arthur,
Stock-Jobbing in New York. By Peter Pencil,                          145
Sophy’s Flirtation. A Country Sketch. By Mrs. M. N.                  303
The Love-Chase. A True Story. By Mrs. Caroline H.                     49
The Slaver. A Tale of Our Own Times. By A Son of the          1, 61, 109
  late Dr. John D. Godman,
The Islets of the Gulf. Or Rose Budd. By J. Fenimore        37, 85, 133,
  Cooper,                                                  181, 241, 288
The Ring. Or Fibbers and Fibbing. By F. E. F.                        121
The Village Doctor. Translated from the French by               157, 223
  Leonard Myers,
The General Court and Jane Andrews’ Firkin of Butter. By             168
  Seba Smith,
The Stratagem. By Mrs. Alfred H. Reip,                               193
The Man with the Big Box. By G. G. Foster,                           204
The Sportsman. By Frank Forester,                                    208
The Last Adventure of a Coquette. By T. Mayne Reid,                  253
The Three Calls. By H. L. Jones,                                     257
The Silver Spoons. By the Author of “Key West and                    264
The Darkened Hearth. By Henry G. Lee,                                296
The Widow and the Deformed. By Mrs. Caroline H. Butler,              309
The Rash Oath. Translated from the French. By Mrs. Jane              324
  Tayloe Worthington,
Was She a Coquette? By Mrs. Lydia Jane Pierson,                      174


A Bacchic Ode. By J. Bayard Taylor,                                   18
A Valentine. By R. H. Bacon,                                          18
A Winter’s Night in the Wilderness. By T. Buchanan Read,             203
Brain Work and Hand Work. By Charles Street,                         167
Burial of a German Emigrant’s Child at Sea. By J. T. F.              214
Blind! By Mrs. Joseph C. Neal,                                       294
Carolan’s Prophecy. By William H. C. Hosmer,                          48
Death of the Gifted. By J. Wilford Overall,                          256
Elva. By Edward Pollock,                                             128
Echo. By John S. Moore,                                              180
Fair Wind. By J. T. Fields,                                          261
Flowers. By S. E. T.                                                 268
Hermione. (With an Engraving.)                                       214
Jacob’s Dream. (With an Engraving.)                                  149
Jenny Low. By C. M. Johnson,                                         176
Linolee. By J. Wilford Overall,                                       71
Lines for Music. By G. G. F.                                         179
Lucretia. By Henry B. Hirst,                                         239
Lines at Parting. By T. Trevor,                                      256
Miriam. By E. M. Sidney, (Illustrated.)                               36
Midnight, and Daybreak. By Mrs. J. C. Neal,                          207
My Loved—My Own. By W. H. C. Hosmer,                                 295
Ode to Time. By W. Gilmore Simms,                                    202
On a Sleeping Child. By S. E. T.                                     323
Pioneers of Western New York. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer,                   207
Rosabelle. By “Caro,”                                                 58
Rural Life. (Illustrated.)                                           268
Sonnet from Petrarch, on the Death of Laura. By Alice                 32
Sonnet. To a Young Invalid Abroad,                                    36
Sonnet to ——. By R. H. Bacon,                                        180
Sunset in Autumn. By Harriet M. Ward,                                240
Sonnet. By T. E. V. B.                                               286
Sonnet. By Miss Mary E. Lee,                                         302
Stanzas for Music,                                                   329
To Evelyn. By Kate Dashwood,                                          12
To ——, at Parting. By Caroline A. Briggs,                             32
The Winged Watcher. By Fanny Forester,                                55
The Stricken. By Robt. T. Conrad,                                     58
The Dreamer. By Alice G. Lee,                                         77
The Demon of the Mirror. By James Bayard Taylor,                      78
The Lifted Veil. By Miss H. E. Grannis,                               83
Thou Art Cold. By S.                                                 106
The Spanish Lovers, (Illustrated.)                                   106
To a Century Plant. By Mrs. Jane C. Campbell,                        120
The First Loss, (Illustrated.)                                       154
The Invalid Stranger. By Mary E. Lee,                                173
The Lay of the Wind. By Lilias,                                      180
The Mariner Returned. By Rev. E. C. Jones,                           214
The Deserted Road. By Thomas Buchanan Read,                          232
The Old Man’s Comfort. By Lieut. A. T. Lee, U. S. A.                 232
The Early Taken. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer,                                240
The Rustic Dance. By Elschen,                                        267
The Last Tilt. By Henry B. Hirst,                                    287
The Wayside Dream. By J. Bayard Taylor,                              302
Thou’rt Not Alone. By E. Curtiss Stine,                              308
The Autumn Wind. By Jane C. Campbell,                                329


Lives of the Early British Dramatists. By T. Campbell,                59
  Hunt, Darley and Gifford,
Washington and his Generals. By J. T. Headley,                        59
Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets. By               107
  William Howitt,
The Orators of France. By Viscount de Cormenin,                      108
History of the Conquest of Peru. By Wm. H. Prescott,                 155
Modern Painters. By a Graduate of Oxford,                            155
Conversations in Rome. By William Ellery Channing,                   155
Life and Religious Opinions and Experiences of Madame de             156
  la Mothe Guyon. By T. C. Upham,
The Autobiography of Goethe. Edited by Parke Godwin,                 156
Morceaux Choisis des Auteurs Modernes. By F. M. Rowan,               156
1776, or the War of Independence. By Benson J. Lossing,              156
Philosophy in Sport Made Science in Earnest. From the                156
  Sixth London Edition,
Men, Women and Books. By Leigh Hunt,                                 215
Louis the Fourteenth, and the Court of France in the                 215
  Seventeenth Century. By Miss Pardoe,
The Good Genius that Turned Every Thing into Gold, or                215
  the Queen Bee and the Magic Dress. By the Brothers
The Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man’s                      215
  Recreation. By Izack Walton,
Fresh Gleanings: or a New Sheaf from the Old Fields of               216
  Continental Europe. By Ik. Marvel,
The Months. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer,                                     216
O’Sullivan’s Love. By Wm. Carleton,                                  216
Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert                  274
  Southey. By Joseph Cottle,
The Public Men of the Revolution. By Hon. Wm. Sullivan,              275
  LL. D.,
Budget of Letters, or Things which I Saw Abroad,                     275
Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie. By Henry Wordsworth                    330
Washington and the Generals of the American Revolution,              332


Scenes that are Brightest. Popular Song from Maritana.                56
  Composed by W. V. Wallace.
When Eyes are Beaming. Written by Heber. Music by                    212
The Fisher Boy Jollily Lives. A Glee for Four Voices.                272
  Words by Eliza Cook. Composed and Arranged by W. R.


Portrait of Gen. Taylor, engraved by J. Sartain, Esq.
Tallulah Falls, engraved by Smillie.
Miriam, engraved by A. L. Dick.
The Spanish Lovers, engraved by A. B. Walter.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Victoria, Princess Royal, engraved by A. L. Dick.
Jacob’s Dream, engraved by A. L. Dick, Esq.
The First Loss, engraved by H. S. Wagner.
Hermione, engraved by Jackman.
The Sportsman, engraved by A. L. Dick.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Rural Life, engraved by J. Banister.
Fort Mackenzie, engraved by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
The Troubadour, engraved by Ellis.
An Assiniboin Lodge, engraved by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Drawn by T. Addison Richards. Graham’s Magazine,
  1845. Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie


                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          Vol. XXXI.     PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1847.     No. 1.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                              THE SLAVER.

                        A TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES.

                BY A SON OF THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

                               CHAPTER I.

              Come sit thee down, my bonnie, bonnie lass,
                Come sit thee down by me, love,
              And I will tell thee many a tale
                Of the dangers of the sea, love.

Many modern authors, of eminent ability, have employed their time and
talents in writing tales of the vast deep; and of those “who go down to
the great sea in ships;” but they nearly always take for the hero of
their story some horrible and bloody pirate, or daring and desperate
smuggler, of the sixteenth or seventeenth century; characters that the
increased number, strength and vigilance of armed cruisers, and the
energy of the excise officers, have long since driven from the face of
the ocean, in these capacities: and who now can only be found in that
lawless traffic, the Slave Trade.

Yet that in itself comprises all the wickedness and blood-thirstiness of
the pirate; the recklessness and determination of the smuggler; with the
coolness, skill, and knowledge of the merchant captain.

It is true, that by taking a distant era for the date of their themes,
they have a more widely extended field for the play of their
imaginations, and are less liable to severe criticisms on the score of
consistency; but, at the same time, they lose that hold on the feelings
of their readers, that a tale of the present will ever possess; for
instead of thinking of the characters, the incidents, and the scenes, as
things that were, or might have been, a century ago, our imaginations
are vividly impressed with the fact that they even now exist. And whilst
we are quietly perusing some thrilling tale, events equally startling,
deeds as dark and desperate, scenes as horrible, may be transpiring at
that instant, on the bosom, or the borders, of the same ocean, that
laves with its salt waters the shores of our own happy land.

But the present will be too far in the past, if we lengthen our
introduction: so e’en let us to our story.

It was a moonlight night, early in the year 1835, when two young girls
were reclining on a lounge, in the piazza of a beautiful and
luxurious-looking house, situated near the margin of one of the most
magnificent bays that indent the eastern extremity of the Island of

The prospect was enchanting; such a one as can only be found within the
tropics; the limpid waters of the bay, extending for fifteen miles,
appeared in the soft and mellow radiance of the full moon a field of
crisped silver; and the lovely islands with which it was dotted looked
like emeralds upon its bosom; the range of hills, blue in the distance,
charmingly relieved the brightness of the water, and the tall cocoa-nut
trees, with their bare trunks and single tuft of leaves at top, reminded
us of the genii of the night, overlooking these fair domains: a cool and
gentle breeze from the ocean made music as it murmured through the
foliage, and gathering sweet perfume from the flowers it kissed in its
passage, reinvigorated, as it fanned, the languid frames of those
overcome by the intense heat of the just spent day.

And in perfect accordance with the softness, the mildness, and the
beauty of the scene, were the two lovely beings on the piazza. In the
cold climate of the north, they would have been but children, so few
summers had they seen; but under the influence of their own burning sun,
they were just expanding into early, but most delicious womanhood.

La Señorita Clara, the eldest, had entered her sixteenth year; her
sister, La Señorita Francisca, was one year younger.

They were the only children of Don Manuel Velasquez, a Spaniard of
immense wealth, and of noble family, who in his youth had been sent from
Spain, in a government capacity of some importance, to Cuba. He became
deeply attached to, and married a beautiful Creole girl, and settled
upon the island, after the expiration of his official engagement, rather
than remove his loved Cubanean bride from the scenes of her childhood.

She, the idol of his youth and the treasure of his riper years, had
died, a short twelvemonth prior to the commencement of our tale; and Don
Manuel, who was a Spaniard of the old school, proud, stern, bigoted, and
of strong prejudices, a great stickler for etiquette and form, though
naturally kind-hearted and hospitable, gave sufficient evidence of his
sorrow, by his increased devotion to, and fondness for, the two sweet
pledges of his heart’s only affection, the legacy of his departed wife;
he seemed to live but to minister to their wants; their slightest wish
was his law; and every thing that wealth could command, or kind
solicitude imagine, was brought to increase their happiness.

Clara, the eldest, was rather above the medium height; with a graceful
figure, jet-black hair, dark eyes, perfectly formed features, and a
complexion such as is only found in the daughters of Spain, (and rarely
there,) as purely white as alabaster; and was surpassingly beautiful,
notwithstanding the haughty expression of her mouth and eye, and the air
of command that pervaded her motions.

Francisca was the opposite of her sister; rather too short than
otherwise; her features were not so regular as Clara’s; but the love and
kindness that shone forth in her brilliant eye, and the sweet smile that
played around her mouth, more than compensated for any want of symmetry.

Their dispositions were as different as their outward contour. Clara was
cold, proud and haughty; inheriting all the sterner traits of her
father’s character: she was calculated to figure in the gay world, or to
shine in a ball-room.

Francisca was all heart, with a gentle and affectionate disposition, yet
capable, when her feelings were interested, of the greatest exertions
and sacrifices; she was one born to love and be loved; and was made for
either unequaled happiness or misery.

But let us return to where we first discovered them, in the piazza of
their father’s house. They had been for some time quietly contemplating
the fairy scene, when the silence was broken by the soft musical voice
of Francisca.

“Hermanita cara, mi alma,[1] what troubles you? How, this lovely
evening, can you look so sad?”

“Have I not enough to distress me, Niña?[2] Who on earth, but you, could
be cheerful and contented cooped up in this dull out-of-the-way place?”

“Oh, Clara! how can you call this lovely spot dull? I wish so much that
father would let me stay here all the year, instead of spending half of
it in that nasty Havana, where one is bothered all the day with foppish
cavalleros, dressed to death, and thinking of nothing but their own
sweet selves; and all the evenings with parties or the theatre.”

“Well, Miss Rusticity, you can stay here, and flirt with boors, and look
at the water and flowers, as long as you please; but I intend to have
father take me to that “nasty Havana,” as you call it, next week.”

Her words Francisca found were true, for in a few days after this
conversation, an unusual bustle about the quiet mansion, the harnessing
of horses and mules, and the noise of servants, gave evidence of a
removal. The family were about starting for the capital of the island.
We will not, however, accompany them over their long and rough road, but
will join them in Havana, the day after their arrival at Don Manuel’s
splendid town-house.

Clara was all joy, gayety and animation at the thought of again being in
the city, where she shone the observed of all observers; but Francisca
was moved to tears whenever she contrasted the city with their beautiful
country-seat; and knowing that she was obliged to attend a large ball
that evening, given at the palazza, by the governor-general, she felt
more than usually dull. The evening came, and in a sea of light, a flood
of music, amidst the waving of plumes, the rustling of silks, and the
flashing of jewels, the sisters appeared, the most lovely of all the
galaxy of beauty that ever surrounds the vice-royal court in Cuba.

Clara was in her natural element in the light and graceful dance, or
attended by a circle of admirers, returning their compliments with
flashes of wit, or sallies of gay repartee, she wished for no greater

Francisca was soon fatigued and ennuied with the excitement, and retired
to the shelter of a large window, shaded by orange trees in blossom,
where she was comparatively alone; and sinking into one of those dreamy
reveries young ladies so much delight in, had nearly forgotten the ball,
when she was aroused by a rich and manly voice at her side, asking for
the honor of her hand in the next dance. There was something so
fascinating, so deep and tender in the tones of the speaker, that though
not inclined to grant his request, she paused ere she denied him; and
turning around, discovered in the person who addressed her a young
American gentleman, to whom she had been introduced in the early part of
the evening, and whose tall, graceful and well knit figure, sparkling
and intelligent eye, beautiful mouth, and commanding air, had
unconsciously made a deep impression upon her fancy, and whose image had
usurped a large share of her late meditations: her reluctance to join
the dance instantly vanished, and, for nearly the first time in her
life, she was willingly led on the floor.

Cotillion after Cotillion they were partners, and envy was excited in
the breast of many a fair Havanarean, at seeing one so young engrossing
the attention of the handsomest cavalier in the room.

But Francisca knew it not; the dulcet tones of her partner’s voice, his
entertaining conversation, as with a keen satirical tongue, and deep
knowledge of the world, he criticised the beaux and belles of the
ball-room; or with feeling and sentiment discoursed of music, poetry, or
love, his delicate flattery, and assiduous attentions, rendered her
insensible to aught beside, and riveted her every thought; and when her
sister sought her, at a late hour, to accompany her home, it was with
surprise that she discovered the rapid flight of time, and with feelings
unaccountable, new and strange, such as woman only experiences once, she
bid her attendant of the evening good-night, and stepped into the

Many a jest had Francisca to bear, after this evening, from her sister,
in consequence of a new taste that seized her, for constant rides on the
Paseo, and nightly visits to parties or the theatre, in her unsuccessful
endeavors to again meet with the gallant of the governor’s ball, who
never since had been absent from her mind.

But she was not soon destined to enjoy this pleasure, which was now the
great hope of her life. For with all the impetuosity and ardor of her
nature and climate, she had yielded to this acquaintance of a night, the
rich and inappreciable treasure of her fond heart’s first love.

My fair readers may charge Francisca with want of modesty, or proper
maiden delicacy, in thus yielding her young affections to the first
assault; but they will unfairly judge her, and do wrong to the devoted,
passionate, and enthusiastic daughters of the torrid zone, whose blood,
scorning the well-regulated, curbed, and restrained pulsations of their
more northern sisterhood, flows, flashes, bounds through their veins,
with the impetuosity of an Alpine torrent, but with the depth and
strength of a mighty river.

Their heart is in reality the seat of their life; all else, prudence,
judgment, selfishness, every thing, bows to its dictates; but in this
love they are constant, devoted, self-sacrificing, changing their
feelings but with life.


[1] Hermanita cara, mi alma—Dear sister, my soul.

[2] Niña—Child.

                              CHAPTER II.

                      I heed not the monarch,
                        I fear not the law;
                      I’ve a compass to steer by,
                        A dagger to draw.

In a secluded cove, formed by a bend in a small river, that empties its
waters into the sea a few miles from Havana, whose mouth, bare thirty
yards in width, would scarce be discovered by a stranger, or casual
observer, so rankly and luxuriously do the mangrove-bushes grow upon its
banks, and even in the water, that sailing within a hundred feet of the
shore, no break or indentation is visible in the line of vegetation, lay
at anchor one of the most beautiful and symmetrical top-sail schooners
that ever left the port of Baltimore.

The great tautness and beautiful proportion of her masts, the length of
her black fore-yards, the care displayed in the furl of her sails, and
the tautness and accuracy with which her rigging was set up, would have
convinced one at a distance that she was a man-of-war; this impression
would have been strengthened, upon a nearer approach, by the fresh coat
of jet-black paint upon her splendidly modeled hull, and the appearance
of seven pieces of bright brass ordnance; one a long eighteen, on a
pivot amidships, the others short carronades, three a side, ranged along
her spotless deck, holy-stoned until it was as white as chalk; the
ornamental awning stretched fore and aft, the neatness and care with
which the running gear was stopped and flemished down, and the bright
polish of all the metal work inboard, also indicated the authority and
discipline of the pennant.

But the absence of that customary appendage to a cruiser, the lack of an
ensign, and the total want of uniform, or uniformity, in the large crew
who were scattered over her deck, enjoying or amusing themselves, in the
shade, with a greater degree of license than is allowed in any regular
service; in groups between the guns, and on the fore-castle, some were
gambling, some spinning yarns, others sleeping, and nearly all smoking,
combined with their motley appearances, for almost every maritime nation
had contributed to form her compliment: Spaniards, Portuguese, Germans,
Swedes, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Americans, mulattoes and swarthy negroes,
were to be distinguished at a glance, and precluded the idea of her
being a regularly commissioned craft: whilst the suppressed tones of the
men’s voices, the air of subordination that pervaded their deportment,
and the apparent sanctity of the quarter-deck, evinced a greater degree
of rule and order than is to be found in a pirate.

She was neither man-of-war, bucaneer, nor honest merchantman, but the
celebrated slaver “La Maraposa;”[3] who, for three years, had been
setting at defiance the whole naval force on the African station; and
many were the tales, current in the squadron, of her unrivaled speed,
and the courage and address of her notorious captain.

Two persons were to be seen slowly pacing the schooner’s quarter-deck;
one, who seemed to be the captain, was tall, with a breadth of
shoulders, smallness of waist, and elasticity of motion, that promised
an uncommon degree of muscular strength, united with great agility. His
dress was simple; an embroidered shirt of fine linen the only upper
garment, sailor pants, of white drilling, kept in their place by a sash
of crimson silk around the waist; a black silk handkerchief, loosely
knotted around his finely formed neck, which, with white stockings and
pumps on his feet, and a broad Panama sombrero on his head, comprised
the whole of his attire, and, though scant, it accorded well with the
heat of the day, and showed to advantage the perfection of his form.

His face, when under the influence of pleasant emotions, or lit up by a
smile, was eminently handsome, and would at once have been recognized as
that of the American who had led captive the heart of Francisca at the
governor’s ball. But when excited, as he now seemed to be, by evil
passions, there was a fierceness and recklessness in his eye, and an
expression of coolness and determination about his mouth, that rendered
his countenance fascinatingly fearful.

The other was a Spaniard, who held the situation of first officer on
board the Maraposa, a stout, seaman-like personage, with nothing
remarkable in his appearance, except a look of daring and dogged
resolution in his deep-brown eye and square lower jaw.

They had been for some time quietly continuing their circumscribed walk,
when the silence was broken by the captain in a voice of suppressed
anger, addressing his mate with—

“It is both foolish and boyish, I know, Mateo, to let the remembrance of
that whippersnapping lubber’s words chafe me so; but to have heard him,
_he_, who never knew disappointment, unkindness, thwarted exertions, or
suspicion; and who, fresh from his lady mother’s drawing-room in London,
is as proud of his new ten-gun brig, and first command, as a child of
his plaything; to have heard _him_ criticising the character of ‘Charles
Willis,’ and branding him with the name of ‘outlaw!’ ‘heathen!’
‘villain!’ ‘brute!’ and boasting to the ladies at the ball that his
course would soon be run; for he, the silk-worm, intended, ere a month
was past, to capture his vessel, or blow her out of the water. Caraho!
he had better never cross my path—it was as much as I could do to keep
my knife out of his heart even then.”

“Caramba!” exclaimed Mateo, “he will be likely to meet with
disappointments enough, before he has the pleasure of capturing the
little Butterfly; and he will probably find our long Tom a match for his
ten barkers, even if he perfumes his balls. But, pesté, think no more of
the fool, señor capitan; and wishing him ‘buen vega a los infiernos,’[4]
is it not time for us to be getting under way?”

“Yes; pass the word for all hands up anchor and make sail.”

The shrill tone of the boatswain’s pipe, was soon heard, and the
celerity with which the anchor was got, catted and fished, and sail made
upon the schooner, proved her crew to be both active and efficient, if
they were of many colors; for in five minutes after the call was first
sounded she was under sail, moving down the river, and in twenty more
was standing away from the shore of Cuba, with a fresh breeze, at the
rate of eleven knots an hour, bound to the coast of Africa.

The Maraposa was seven days out, and it had just struck four bells in
the mid-watch; the night was clear and star-light; a fresh wind was
blowing from the southward and eastward, making it about three points
free for the schooner—her best trim for sailing; naught was to be heard
on her decks but the ripple of the water, as it curled up and divided
before her wedge-like bow; so deathly silent was every thing, that had
it not been for the figure of the man at the wheel, the mate leaning
against the weather bulwark, and the outline of the look-out on the
cat-head, giving evidence of human agency, she would have seemed some
ocean-spirit, cleaving its way through its native element; the rest of
the watch stowed away between the guns, sleeping, or, in sailor phrase,
“caulking,” were invisible, when the look-out on the fore-topsail yard
sang out, “Sail ho!”

This sound, so agreeable to the ears of a merchantman, has a very
different effect upon the tympanum of a slaver—for, expecting in every
sail to find an enemy, they desire no greetings on the ocean.

The mate, instantly aroused, called out in quick, short tones, “Where

“Dead astern, sir,” answered the look-out.

“Can you make her out?”

“No, sir, not yet; she’s square-rigged, but so far I can’t tell whether
brig or ship.”

“Very well; a stern chase is always a long one. Keep your eye on her,
and let me know when you can make her out.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

But it was not until after daybreak that they were able to make out the
character of the sail—for the vessel had never yet been met with that
could overhaul the Maraposa, going free in smooth water, and the
stranger had not gained a foot on her. She was now discovered to be a
large man-of-war brig, under a press of canvas, apparently in pursuit of
the slaver. The officer of the watch went below to report to the
captain, and was surprised by the eager voice with which he asked if he
had ever seen the brig before, and if he knew her build—for the
schooner had been chased so often, that her crew knew all the men-of-war
on the station; and having always escaped with impunity, they had the
most perfect reliance in the superior qualities of their own craft, so
much so, that a vessel astern was regarded with scarce more interest
than a floating log. With his curiosity, therefore, a good deal excited
to understand the unusual anxiety of his captain, the officer replied
that he thought the strange sail was an Englishman, and was sure she was
an entirely new vessel; and, returning on deck, took a long and close
survey of the brig, to see if he could find any thing about her more
alarming than in the hundred other vessels of the same class that had
pursued them; but all he could discover was, that she was a large
ten-gun brig, of English build, and seemingly new; and laying down the
glass, would have given himself no further trouble about the matter, had
not the captain, just coming on deck, picked up the telescope, and after
one steady look at the Englishman, called out, “Man the top-sail and
top-gallant clew-lines and buntlines; settle away the halyards; let go
the sheets; clew up; lower away the flying-jib;” and looking over the
bulwarks a moment, to note the decreasing speed of the schooner, ordered
the fore-sail to be lowered.

Thus leaving the vessel under only her main-sail, jib, and fore-topmast
stay-sail—orders so unusual in the face of an enemy, created some
surprise in the crew; but accustomed to obey, without stopping to argue,
his commands were quickly executed.

The loss of so much canvas was soon perceptible in the schooner’s
progress, for instead of going at the rate of eleven knots, as she had
been with her former sail, she now hardly made four—and the brig astern
was rapidly gaining upon them; this gave Willis no uneasiness, and he
walked the deck without even looking at her for some time. He then
called away the crew of the long gun, and ordered them to put a fresh
load in her.

The piece was soon loaded; and the crew were now eager to know what
would be the next move. One of the younger sailors stepped up to the
captain of the eighteen, who was also captain of the fore-castle—a
grim, weather-beaten old tar, whose face bronzed with the sun, and
seamed with several scars, gave evidence of many combats, both with man
and the elements—and asked if he thought the skipper was really going
to have a set-to with the brig—“for, blast me, she’s big enough to blow
us all to Davy Jones.”

The old salt, after emptying his mouth of a quantity of tobacco-juice,
to enable him to make a reply, hitched up his trowsers with his left
hand, slapped his right down on the breech of the gun, and turning his
eyes toward the interrogator with huge disdain, said, “Look ye,
youngster, if so be as how you’s so mighty uneasy about the captain’s
motions, you had better walk aft and ask him; and as you look so
uncommon old of your age, perhaps he might give you the trumpet;[5] but
as for me, shipmate, it’s now two years and nine months since I joined
this craft—and blast my eyes if the chap ever put his foot on a deck
that can handle her better, or knows better what he is about, than the
one on her quarter-deck; and, curse me, if he was to pass the word to
let go the anchor in the middle of the ocean, I would be sure the
mud-hook would bring up with twenty fathom, and good sandy bottom; and
if it is so we engages that are brig, we will give her h—l, big as she

The brig by this time was within three-quarters of a mile of the
Maraposa, astern, and a little to leeward; and with the intention, as it
appeared, of ascertaining the distance, fired one of her
bow-chasers—but the ball struck and richocheted over the water far in
the schooner’s wake. Captain Willis, with a scornful smile on his lip,
told the man at the wheel to put his helm up, and let the schooner’s
head pay off. “Watch her as she falls off, Davis,” he said to the old
captain of the long gun, “and fire when you get a sight.”

“Steady, so!” was Davis’s reply—and the loud boom of the cannon
resounded over the water. The watchful eye of Willis discerned splinters
flying from the fore-mast of the brig, and shortly after the top-mast,
top-gallant and royal-masts, with all their sails and gear, were seen to
totter for an instant, and then pitch over the lee side.

A loud shout from the crew of the slaver attested their gratification at
the success of their first shot; and a weather-broadside from the
crippled brig, whose head had fallen off from the wind, in consequence
of the drift of her wrecked masts, manifested their anger.

The schooner was now put about, and sailing round and round the brig,
out of the reach of her short guns, opened upon her a murderous fire
from the long eighteen, and had shot away all her spars but the stump of
the fore-mast, and was about boarding her; for the brig, with the
stubborn determination of a bull-dog, returned gun for gun, in defiance,
though her shot all fell short, and refused to surrender,
notwithstanding she was likely to be riddled and sunk—for every ball
from the schooner crashed through her bulwarks, or lodged in her hull.

So interested had the crew of the slaver been in watching the effect of
their fire, that the schooner’s head had been directed toward the brig,
and the boarders had been called away, before they discovered, not a
mile distant, a large ship dead to windward, bearing down upon them,
hand over hand, with studding-sails set alow and aloft on both sides.
Her character was not to be mistaken—she was a large first-class
sloop-of-war; and the Maraposa, thus compelled to leave her prey, just
as it was about to fall in her grasp, fired one more gun, by way of
salute, and running up to her main-truck a large white burgee, with
“Willis” on it, in conspicuous blue letters, to let her antagonist know
to whom she was indebted, crowded all sail and stood away on her former

Willis’s sole motive for having thus attacked a much larger vessel than
his own, and the capture of which would have been no profit to him, was
to be revenged on her captain, whom he knew to be the same officer that
had spoken of him in such disparaging terms at the ball, where, in the
character of a young American gentleman, visiting the island for
pleasure, he had been compelled inactively to listen to himself most
mercilessly berated.

This, to a mind like Willis’s, was a wrong never to be forgotten. Born
of a good family, though in straitened circumstances, well educated, and
of naturally fine feelings, he had in his youth become dissipated, and
the ardor of his temperament had for awhile forced him to great lengths
in vice; but soon seeing the folly of his course, he determined entirely
to reform his life and become a steady, industrious man; but when he
informed his relations and friends of his resolution, and asked their
countenance and assistance to reinstate him in his former position, he
was met with sneers of incredulity, and unkindly told that as he had
“sown to the wind, he might now reap the whirlwind.” Knowing himself to
be possessed of talents, energy, and perseverance, his pride and
self-love were keenly stung, and feeling perfectly disgusted with the
want of charity, thus displayed by those who professed to be the “salt
of the earth,” and believing them to be as wicked as himself, only
gifted with more hypocrisy, and chagrined with all the world, he gave
himself up entirely to the guidance of his passions.

But even now, associated as he was with the most desperate and
abandoned, he could not always suppress a desire to return to that
society he was born to adorn.


[3] La Maraposa—The Butterfly.

[4] Buen vega a los infiernos—a good voyage to the lower regions.

[5] On board of armed vessels the trumpet is always carried by the
officer in command of the deck.

                              CHAPTER III.

           _Gon._ Beseech you, sir, be merry: You have cause
           (So have we all) of joy; for our escape
           Is much beyond our loss.—Tempest.

The deck of the Scorpion, the brig that had suffered so much in the late
encounter, presented a scene of awful confusion; the masts and spars
dragging over her sides; the cut shrouds and rigging; the loose blocks
and splinters lumbering her deck, covered with blood, which, pouring
through the scupper-holes, was dyeing the water with its crimson tide;
the groans of the wounded; the bodies of the dead—fifty of her crew
having been killed and crippled—bore testimony to the dreadful effects
of the slaver’s fire.

Captain De Vere, the commander of the brig, whose inability to return
effectually the schooner’s fire had rendered him nearly frantic, was
excited to frenzy by the insulting bravado of Willis, when he hoisted
his burgee, and covered with blood from a splinter-wound in his
forehead, in a voice nearly inarticulate with passion, he was giving
orders to cut away the shrouds attached to his floating spars, and
urging his men to clear up the deck, as the sloop, crossing his bow,

“Brig, ahoy! What brig is that?”

“Her Britannic Majesty’s brig Scorpion. What ship is that?”

“Her Britannic Majesty’s sloop-of-war Vixen. How the deuce did you get
in such a pickle?”

Captain De Vere was, with all his conceit, foppishness, and effeminate
appearance, as brave as steel; and having publicly boasted of his
intentions in regard to Willis’s vessel, it was with the greatest
mortification, and breathing deep though inarticulate vows of vengeance
against him if they ever met again, he informed his superior officer
that he had been so cut up by the gun of the little schooner.

The Maraposa was still in sight; and De Vere desired the sloop to go in
pursuit of her, and leave him to look out for himself; but the commander
of the Vixen saw the brig stood so much in need of his assistance that
he rounded-to, and backing his maintop-sail, sent his boats, with men,
spars, and rigging, to assist in refitting the Scorpion.

By the strenuous exertions of both crews, the brig was all a-taunto by
night; and having removed her wounded on board the sloop, both vessels
made sail, under a press of canvas, in the direction the slaver had last
been seen.

The look-outs were stimulated to increased vigilance, by the offer of a
reward of five pounds to the one who should first discover the schooner;
but they made land a little to the northward of the Ambriz River,
without being able to see her. Determined to intercept the slaver as she
returned, the two vessels separated, the sloop sailing to the northward,
and the brig to the southward, intending to cruise up and down the coast
until the schooner sailed.

Willis, in the meantime, had safely completed his passage, and when his
pursuers made the land, was at anchor twenty miles up a river that makes
into the ocean, a degree to the south’ard of St. Felipe de Benguela,
busily engaged in taking aboard his cargo of four hundred negroes, that
had been waiting at the Factory for him.

It would have afforded much food for a reflective mind, that African
scene. At the first glance, all was beautiful; the bright and placid
river gently rippling through the mangrove-bushes and tree-limbs, that
overhung until they touched its surface; the tall and luxurious
forest-trees that lined its banks, with an under-growth of flowering
shrubs, and gay creeping vines, hanging from bough to bough in
fantastical festoons, the branches alive with chattering monkeys, and
lively, noisy parrots, and birds whose brilliant plumage, as they flew
from perch to perch in the strong light, resembled gold and jewels; the
graceful and fairy-like schooner, with the small boats going and
returning; and the long, low factory, with its palm roof, just seen
through the leaves on the summit of a hill, a little back from the
stream, was beautiful—very beautiful.

But on a closer examination, in that bright river were to be seen
myriads of hideous, greedy alligators. The luxurious trees afforded
refuge for legions of troublesome insects, and noxious reptiles; in the
flowering under-growth lurked deadly and venomous serpents; and most of
the gay creeping plants were poisonous; the fairy-looking schooner was
discovered to be a sink of moral infamy: the small boats were ladened
with miserable captives; and even the partly seen Factory was a den of
sin and suffering.

The natural and the artificial harmonized well—both charming, lovely,
enticing, but equally corrupt, dangerous, and unwholesome.

In eight days the slaver’s living freight was all received on board. The
day before, Willis had dispatched Mateo in a small boat to the mouth of
the river, for the purpose of seeing if the coast was clear, and that no
men-of-war were in sight; for nearly all the slavers that are captured,
are caught just as they make out from the rivers, and before they have
sea-room enough to enable them to use to advantage their superior
sailing qualities.

The mate, on his return, reporting all safe, the schooner got under
weigh, and after working down the river, put to sea with a fair wind,
and every inch of canvas set that would draw, and steered for the Isle
of Cuba—her cargo all being engaged to a negro trader at the eastern
end of the island.

The external appearance of the Maraposa was unaltered, still as
beautiful and attractive as when we saw her lying at anchor near Havana.
But inboard, a great change had taken place; then, the tidy look of
every thing, the quiet and careless expression visible on the
countenances of her unarmed crew, gave rise to thoughts of peace and
tranquillity; even the bright brass cannon seemed more for ornament than
for dealing deathly execution. But now, every sailor had thrust in a
belt encircling his waist, a brace of heavy pistols; keen cutlasses were
ranged in racks around the masts, ready to be grasped in an instant; the
long gun was pointed toward the tafferel, her gaping muzzle ready to be
trained on either gangway; in the hold, seen through the main-hatchway,
was a black, compact mass of human beings, crowded as close together as
it was possible to get them, the light striking upon their constantly
rolling eyes, made them appear spots of moving fire; groans, awful and
horrible, the sounds of retching, and the incessant clanking of fetters,
smote upon the ear. An odor the most nauseating and disgusting, (caused
by the confinement of so many in a space so small,) filled the air, and
would have overpowered the nerves of any but those accustomed to it; but
upon the hardened crew, it had no more effect than upon the schooner,
who, rushing through the water with the rapidity of a dolphin, sped on
toward her port.

The Maraposa had succeeded in making an offing of about two hundred
miles without seeing any thing, when the wind that had been steadily
freshening for some time, increased so much that she was obliged to take
in her lighter canvas; still increasing, she was compelled to furl all
but her fore and aft sails, and had just made every thing snug as they
discovered the Scorpion, with her yards braced up, and under
close-reefed topsails, about five miles distant, and standing across
their bows.

To keep the schooner on in the course she was running would bring her
still nearer the brig; and Willis, thinking he might pass without being
seen from the Englishman, put his helm a starboard, and brought his
vessel by the wind, heading to the south’ard. The sail he carried, going
free, was too much for the schooner close-hauled, and he was obliged to
close-reef his fore-sail, balance-reef his main-sail, and take the
bonnet off his jib, to keep the Maraposa from burying herself.

The look-outs on board the Scorpion were too alert, sharpened as their
sights had been by the promised reward, to let the schooner pass
unobserved, and in a few moments the brig was seen to ware ship, and
shake a reef out of her topsails, and setting whole courses, the brig
ploughing through the waves, now burying her bows in the huge billows,
as if she were going to dive to the bottom of the ocean, and then rising
on their summits until the bright copper was visible the whole length of
her keel, seemed to spurn their support altogether, laboring and rolling
heavily through the water, she breasted her way, and in consequence of
the greater amount of canvas she was enabled to carry, gained on the
Maraposa. Willis watched her for some time, hoping to see her courses,
that were distended to their utmost, carried away; but the duck, strong,
heavy, and new, did its part manfully, and finding his hope was
groundless, he endeavored to make more sail upon the schooner.

“Shake the reefs out of the fore-sail.”

“Hoist away the halyards.”

Commands that were executed as soon as uttered. But hardly had the
halyards been belayed ere, with a report like a cannon, the sail split,
and flying from the bolt-ropes, sailed to leeward like a wreath of
smoke. A new fore-sail was soon bent. The trifling delay gave the
Scorpion another advantage, but the sea was so rough that neither vessel
could make rapid headway, and it was not until an hour before sunset
that the brig was within gun-shot of the schooner.

She at once opened upon her with the weather-bow gun, and the ball
striking the slaver just forward the main-mast, crashed through her
deck, and caused heart-rending and appalling shrieks and yells to ascend
from the poor devils it wounded in her hold. Shot followed shot with
rapidity from the Scorpion’s bow-guns; and occasionally yawing, she
would let fly with her weather-broadside, losing distance, however,
every time she put her wheel up.

Willis refrained from firing, fearful of diminishing the distance by
broaching-too, and kept silently on his course until night, when he
could no longer distinguish the brig, and could only make out her
position by the flashes of her guns, he suddenly put up his helm, eased
off his sheets, and standing off directly before the wind for a few
moments, lowered away every thing, leaving nothing to be seen but the
schooner’s two tall masts, which were not visible one hundred yards in
the dusky light.

The schooner’s spars had luckily escaped all injury, though her deck and
bulwarks were a good deal shattered, and several of her men, and a
number of the negroes, who suffered from their compact position, had
been killed. Willis was so rejoiced to find his masts safe that he did
not mind the other damage, and waiting until the flash of a gun told him
the brig had passed by, and was still pursuing the course he had been
steering, without observing his dodge, he bore away before the wind with
all the sail he could carry, and arrived at his destination without
again seeing the Scorpion.

Captain De Vere stood on the same course all night, and was surprised in
the morning to see nothing of the slaver: cursing the carelessness of
his men, he catted all the look-outs, and stopped the grog of the whole
crew. And savage at having been thus baffled, he shaped his course
toward Havana; determined to capture Willis on his next voyage, if he
had to carry all the masts out of his brig.

                              CHAPTER IV.

                           Did fortune guide,
             Or rather destiny, our bark, to which
             We could appoint no port, to this best place?

Nearly the first visit Captain De Vere made, after his arrival at
Havana, was to the family of Don Velasquez. The old Don found in the
Englishman’s hauteur, fastidious notions of etiquette, and pride of
family, a disposition so nearly similar to his own, that he soon became
prepossessed in his favor.

Donna Clara, seeing nothing objectionable in the visiter, and knowing
him to be wealthy, and of good birth, with that coquetry and love of
conquest, so natural in the hearts of most of the fair sex, but all
powerful in the breasts of beauties, exerted her uncommon powers of
fascination with great success. In answer to an inquiry after Señorita
Francisca, he found that her health had been declining for a month past,
and her father had, at her earnest solicitation, permitted her to return
to his country-seat, accompanied by an old and faithful duenna that had
been with her since her infancy.

When Captain De Vere rose to depart, after spending a most agreeable
hour, he was pressed, with more warmth than Don Manuel usually used in
inviting guests to his house, to call often; this invitation he took
advantage of, and was soon a daily visiter. Being thus frequently in the
society of Clara, his thoughts were so usurped by her, that he nearly
forgot his animosity to the captain of the schooner that had used his
vessel so roughly, and then baulked him of his revenge.

Willis, after landing his negroes on the coast, where the agent of the
planter who had purchased the cargo was ready to receive them, made for
the nearest harbor, for the purpose of overhauling his vessel, and
repairing more effectually than he had been able to do at sea, the
damage occasioned by the Scorpion’s cannonade. It accidentally happened
that he was only a few miles to the eastward of the bay, upon the margin
of which Don Velasquez’s country-house was situated; and, standing-in,
he came to anchor nearly abreast of the dwelling: it being the only
residence visible, Willis determined to go on shore, and endeavor to
obtain from the owner, or overseer, some fresh provisions, of which he
stood in need.

Ordering the launch to follow, and bring off the things he expected to
get, he pulled ashore in his gig, and landing on the beach, a few
hundred yards from the house, he proceeded to the garden, which,
extending nearly to the water’s edge, was beautifully laid out, and full
of choice and exquisite flowers; he entered it, and walked up to the
piazza without seeing any person. He thought it something unusual not to
find any servants lounging about so fine a looking place; but just then
observing a large gang of slaves, in a neighboring field, running,
jumping, and moving about, as if they were amusing themselves, he
expected it was a holyday, and was just going to make a noise that would
attract the attention of the inmates, when a succession of sharp,
shrill, ear-piercing shrieks rang through the air, evidently uttered by
a female in deep distress.

Willis, gifted by nature with a heart keenly alive to the sufferings of
woman, and judging from the peculiar agony of the tones he had heard,
that some foul tragedy was in progress, rushed into the house, and
hurrying to the room from which the noise proceeded, discovered lying on
the floor, motionless, dead, or in a syncope, an elderly lady, dressed
in black; and struggling violently in the grasp of two huge, swarthy,
and half naked negroes, armed with machetas, or sugar-knives, a young
girl, in robes of white, whom he instantly recognized as Francisca, and
whose shrieks he had heard on the piazza.

The negroes were so engaged in trying to secure Francisca (for their aim
did not seem to be murder) that they had not observed the entrance of

He at one glance understood the scene; drew a pistol from his breast and
shot the nearest slave dead; catching his macheta from his hand as he
fell, he clove with it the head of the other negro to the chin, and
received Francisca fainting into his arms, but was compelled to lay her
on the floor, and spring to the door, to repel the entrance of a dozen
negroes, with large machetas, who, crowding the passage, were about to
occupy the room.

Willis succeeded in getting to the door first, and as it was narrow, he
for a short time was able to maintain his ground; the first four that
presented themselves he sent to their long home, but their fellows,
exasperated at the death of their comrades, and seeing it was but one
man that opposed them, rallied for a rush, that must necessarily have
proved fatal to Willis, with all his strength and courage, had not a
diversion been made in his favor by the opportune arrival of his boat’s
crew, who had heard the pistol shot, and hurried up to the house; seeing
the game going on, with a loud shout, they attacked the blacks in the
rear. For a moment the slaves gave back, but the gig’s crew, consisted
of only four men, and they were armed with nothing but stretchers,
boat-hooks, and their common short knives, and the negroes gaining a
fresh accession to their numbers, were again on the point of being
victorious, as the crew of the launch, which had been in sight when the
gigsmen left their boat, came driving into the passage; they were
sixteen of the most powerful men in the schooner’s complement, all armed
with cutlasses, (twenty being constantly kept in a locker in the stern
of the launch,) and falling on the negroes with the impetuosity of a
whirlwind, they bore them down like chaff; and in two moments more the
house was in possession of the whites.

As soon as Willis was free from the fray, he hastened back to the
apartment in which he left Francisca and the old lady. The duenna had
recovered her senses, and was anxiously employed in trying to reanimate
Francisca, whose pale face, as it lay upon the dark dress of her
attendant, was so corpse-like, that for a short time Willis was fearful
that her ethereal spirit had fled.

Stooping down he impressed a gentle kiss on her cold forehead, and the
vile slaver! the man who had been branded with the name of “brute!”
breathed a fervent prayer to Heaven for the happy repose of her pure
soul; to his great joy, however, he soon found that his fears were
premature. A low sigh escaped Francisca; her bosom heaved, and after
nervously twitching her eyelids a short time, she opened them, and gazed
vacantly around the room, until her sight resting upon Willis, she
recovered her faculties, and, with a blush suffusing her cheek, she
tried to thank him; but the effort was too great, and she again swooned
away. By the use of stimulants, she was perfectly restored in the course
of half an hour, and, had Willis permitted it, would have overwhelmed
him with expressions of gratitude.

But he did not think the danger was over yet; and, informing them of it,
invited them to accompany him on board the Maraposa, until he had been
able to land a party, and see that all was quiet. The duenna was
clamorous to go, and soon overpowered the weak objections of Francisca,
who was in reality desirous of going, but was uneasy lest Willis might
think it unmaidenly.

With all courtesy, and every soothing, gentlemanly attention, Willis
accompanied them on board the schooner; and leaving them in possession
of his cabin, and under the protection of Mateo, he armed a large part
of his crew, and went with them on shore, to inquire into the cause of
the insurrection, and make an effort to suppress it.

In the sugar-house he found the overseer of the plantation, bound hand
and foot, and gagged with his own whip. Freeing him from his painful
situation, Willis found that the insurrection had not been general, but
was confined, as yet, to the plantation of Don Manuel; whose negroes,
being all under the influence of an old Obeah man on the place, had by
him been excited to rise, to take revenge on the whites for a severe
whipping the overseer had been forced to give him a few days before; and
the overseer said the only reason they spared his life was because the
Obi man wanted to have a grand Feteesh that evening, and offer him up as
a sacrifice.

The active measures taken by Willis, who was accustomed to deal with
refractory negroes, soon restored order on the plantation; and leaving
every thing quiet, he returned to his vessel.

Reporting the state of affairs on shore, he told the ladies he was going
directly to Havana, and would be most happy to give them a passage, if
they felt any timidity in reoccupying their mansion. Francisca professed
to feel no uneasiness, as she now understood the cause of the outbreak;
and said that the negroes had been so severely punished for this
attempt, that they would be afraid to make another, particularly as the
ringleaders had been killed, and was for at once going back to the

But this arrangement met with violent opposition from the duenna, who
would not even listen to any such proposition. Ductile, and ready to be
guided by her slightest wish, Francisca had always found the old lady to
be heretofore, and in exact proportion was she now obstinate. Talking
was thrown away upon her. She said it would be actually tempting
Providence for them to return! That Don Manuel would never forgive her
if she let Francisca neglect this opportunity of returning to him, while
she was safe; and, finally, sullenly refused to leave the schooner until
Francisca would promise to go in it to Havana.

Francisca, truly, did not feel perfectly secure in remaining at the
house, and would have preferred going back to her father, had the vessel
been commanded by any one but Willis; but knowing well her ardent love
for him, now increased by gratitude for her recent delivery, she was
fearful that in the constant and close communion that would be
necessarily created by their being together, in a small vessel, for
several days, she would be unable entirely to suppress all evidences of
it; and as he had never yet given her any assurance that her affection
was reciprocated, her pride and delicacy revolted at the thought of his
discovering the state of her heart.

But she found that she had no choice; for the old lady’s fears had been
so vividly excited, by the events of the day, that persuasion had no
effect upon her; and Francisca, not wishing to remain at the plantation
alone, reluctantly consented to take passage in the Maraposa.

As soon as the promise had been extorted, the duenna was as anxious to
get ashore, for the purpose of preparing for their departure, as if she
had been getting ready for her wedding; and Willis sent them home,
accompanied by a number of his men, armed, and under the charge of his
mate, whom he ordered to remain at the house and keep a vigilant watch
until the ladies were ready to depart.

Francisca, wishing to defer the hour of departure as long as possible,
made no effort to hurry the operations of her attendant, whose fears
being relieved by the presence of the guard, found so many things she
wanted to arrange and take with them, that the third day arrived ere she
reported everything ready to start.

So inconsistent are the feelings of woman, that Francisca, who for
several months had thought of naught but Willis, and looked forward to
the time when she again might meet him as the dearest boon of her life,
now that an opportunity offered of being constantly with him for several
days, without over-stepping the bounds of propriety, hung back with
dread; yet in the bottom of her heart she was glad that no excuse
offered for her longer postponing the step.

Willis, who had called personally upon them but once since the day of
the insurrection, pleading his duties as the cause of his absence, when
he learned they were ready to start, came in his gig to take them off to
the schooner.

The Maraposa’s appearance had been much altered since she came into the
bay; advantage had been taken of the three days to repair all the damage
that had been caused by the Scorpion, and, in honor of the fair
passenger she was about to receive, instead of the coat of black with
which she had been covered, she was now painted pure white, with a
narrow ribbon of gold around her, and the Portuguese flag was flying
from her main-gaff.

So charmed was Francisca with the beautiful appearance of the vessel,
that it nearly overcame her repugnance to going on board; and the
behavior of Willis, who, though perfectly courteous and kind in his
manner, was reserved, dissipated the remainder of her scruples; and it
was with feelings of pleasure at being near him, and able to hear his
voice and see him, and with a presentiment that her love would not
always be unrequited, that she stepped upon the deck.

The distance from Havana was only about three hundred and fifty miles,
but a succession of light airs and calms prevailing, it was five days
before the schooner accomplished the passage.

During these five days, many and various were the emotions that agitated
the breast of Francisca; now she was all joy, from the pleasure afforded
her by Willis’s presence, then a sickening anxiety would overcome her
joy, for fear her love would never be returned, when some word, look, or
tone of Willis would make her imagine that he _did_ love her; and for a
little while she would be perfectly contented, until the thought of
their speedy separation, and the fear that Willis might not confess his
feelings, with the uncertainty of their again meeting, would cast a
heavy cloud over her spirits; and when they passed the Moro Castle, on
entering the harbor, she could not determine whether she had been very
happy or very miserable for the last few days.

Francisca had addressed Willis by the name of “Brewster,” the name by
which he had been introduced to her at the ball; and as he did not
inform her to the contrary, she had no reason to believe that it was not
his proper appellation. She had some curiosity to know why he was in
command of an armed vessel, but he did not mention the subject, and
delicacy prevented her asking him.

The duenna was restrained by no such scruples; and having become
intimate with Mateo, endeavored by all manner of inquiries to get at the
history of his captain, for she had some suspicion of the state of her
young charge’s feelings; the mate, however, was afflicted with a spell
of taciturnity whenever she commenced about the captain, though upon all
other subjects he was very communicative; and all the good dame was able
to learn from him was, that the schooner was a Portuguese man-of-war,
and that the captain was a young American, high in the confidence of the
government, who had been sent out to the West Indies on a special
mission of some kind, he did not know what!

This account would have been likely to excite the doubts of one
conversant with maritime affairs, but with Francisca and the duenna, it
passed current, without a suspicion of its falsity.

Willis’s mind, during this short passage, had been likewise subject to
many struggles; when he first saw Francisca, his knowledge of the sex
had enabled him to form a correct opinion of her character, though he
had sought her out at the governor’s, with no other intention than that
of passing an agreeable evening. The respect with which she had inspired
him, involuntarily compelled a softer tone in his voice, and more point
and feeling to his conversation than he had intended.

His course of life had, for several years, excluded him from any very
intimate intercourse with the refined and virtuous of the other sex; and
to be thus brought in close conjunction with one eminently lovely, and
whom he knew to be intelligent, gentle, and pure, gave a direction to
his thoughts, and cast a shade of happiness over his feelings, that had
been foreign to them for a long time; and knowing from the expression of
Francisca’s eye, and an indescribable something in her manner, that she
entertained partial feelings toward him, he could not help loving her,
and pictured to himself the happiness with which he could spend the
balance of his life with such a companion; with eagerness would he have
sought her affection, had he occupied that station in life he knew he
was entitled to.

But the dark thought of his present position obtruded itself. He was a
slaver—an outlaw! and in the estimation of many in the world, worse
than a pirate. His sense of honor revolted at the idea of taking
advantage of the ignorance and confidence of an inexperienced girl, and
inducing her to share his lot, even if he could have succeeded.

He therefore treated Francisca with scrupulous politeness during the
passage; and desirous of removing the temptation from him, while yet he
had strength to resist, landed the ladies as soon as permits were
received from the authorities, and accompanying them to Don Manuel’s
door, bid them farewell, without going in. Both Francisca and the duenna
were very urgent for him to enter, if only for a moment, that Don
Velasquez might have an opportunity of expressing his gratitude.

The sudden return of Francisca greatly surprised her father and sister,
who, after the first embrace, overwhelmed her with questions. She
related all the particulars of the insurrection—her danger, and the
great obligations she was under to the captain of the schooner in which
she had come home; and her father was nearly angry at her for not
compelling her preserver to come in with her, that he might have given
him some evidence of his appreciation of the deep obligation he had laid
him under; and he hurried off to find Willis, and tell him his feelings
of gratitude, and endeavor to find some means of requiting him.

He readily found the Maraposa, but Willis had not yet returned on board;
and Don Velasquez waited until dinner time without his making his
appearance. Disappointed, he returned home, leaving with the mate a
note, earnestly requesting “Captain Brewster” to call upon him.

After Willis had parted with Francisca, he found the loss of her society
a greater denial, and more difficult to bear than he had imagined; and
with his mind much troubled, he proceeded to a monte-room, to allay the
distress of his feelings by the excitement of play. He staked high, but
the luck was against him; and in a few hours all the drafts he had
received from the purchasers of his last cargo passed from his pocket to
the hands of the monte bank-keeper. This loss at any other time would
not have disturbed him, for he made money too easy to place much value
upon it; but now it caused him to feel as if every thing was against
him, and in a state of mind ready to quarrel with the world, and all
that was in it, he walked into the saloon attached to the monte-room,
which was the fashionable lounging place of the city.

Seating himself at one of the tables, he ordered some refreshments, and
was discussing them, when Captain De Vere, accompanied by two other
gentlemen, entered, and placing themselves at an adjoining table,
continued the conversation they had been engaged in before their entry.

Willis’s back being toward them, he would not have seen De Vere, had not
his attention been attracted by hearing the name of the Maraposa
mentioned; when turning around, he discovered the English Captain. His
first impulse was to get up, and by insulting De Vere, compel him to
give satisfaction for the contumely he had heaped upon his name the
night of the ball; but remembering his person was unknown to the
Englishman, he thought he would first learn the subject of their

“You only feel sore, De Vere, because the slaver dismasted you, and then
played you such a slippery trick when you thought you were sure of her.
By the Virgin! I would like to have seen you getting cut to pieces by a
little schooner, and you unable to return a shot. Faith, I don’t blame
you for hating the fellow so,” said one of De Vere’s friends.

“Hate him! yes, I would give a thousand pounds to have him on the beach
alone for half an hour. Every midshipman in port laughs at the Scorpion,
and says her sting was extracted by a musqueto; but, by heavens! if I
can’t get a fight out of the captain, I will have the schooner as soon
as she gets past the Moro.”[6]

Willis, who desired a personal encounter as much as De Vere, waited
until he had finished, and stepping up to the group, bowed to the
captain, and told him he had the honor of being Charles Willis, master
of the schooner Maraposa; and that he would be happy to accommodate him
with his company as soon as it would suit his convenience.

This sudden and unexpected movement startled De Vere and his friends;
but the Englishman soon recovered his composure, and struck by the
appearance of Willis, in whom, to his surprise, he discovered a
gentleman of refined manners, when he expected to meet a rough, rude
sailor, returned his salute, and said “That the next morning at sunrise
he would meet him on the sea-shore, six miles above the city,
accompanied by a friend; and if Mr. Willis had no objection, the weapons
should be pistols.”

Willis replied “that it was a matter of indifference to him, and if he
preferred pistols, he was perfectly satisfied;” and with a bow he wished
them good afternoon, and left the saloon.

After Willis’s departure, De Vere’s friends commenced joking him upon
his success, in having so soon been able to get an opportunity of
revenging himself upon the dismantler of his brig.

But on the eve of a deadly encounter with a determined antagonist, a
man, no matter how brave, does not feel like jesting; and after engaging
the services of one of the gentlemen for the morrow, looking at his
watch, De Vere suddenly remembered a pressing engagement, and bidding
his companions adieu, he went to Don Manuel’s to spend another evening,
perhaps his last, with Señorita Clara, to whom he was now engaged to be

Willis, after leaving the café, proceeded to the office of his agent,
where business matters detained him until nearly dark. Attracted by the
appearance of a splendid equipage that came driving from the other end
of the street as he was about starting for his vessel, he looked to see
if he knew the inmates, and discovered Francisca and her father sitting
on the back seat. He would have gone on without speaking, but the
recognition had been mutual; and the vehicle instantly stopping, Don
Manuel got out, and approaching Willis with dignity and great kindness
mingled in his manner, and deep feeling in his words, thanked him for
his assistance and gallantry to his daughter; and begged Willis to point
out some substantial method by which he could prove his gratitude, and
told him he had waited all the morning on board the schooner to see him.

The captain of the Maraposa replied, that the pleasure of being able to
do any thing to increase the safety or happiness of a lady, amply repaid
the trouble; and that he considered all the obligation on his side, for
he had by that means enjoyed for several days the society of his

“Your actions don’t tally with your words, señor capitan, or you would
have come in this morning, and not have kept me so long from thanking
you. But you must go with us now; no excuse will avail, for we will not
take any—will we Francisca?”

“No, no! but el señor will certainly not refuse.” The look that
accompanied her words had more influence on Willis than all the old
gentleman had said; and getting into the carriage, they drove to Don
Velasquez’s house.

Entering the drawing-room, they found Clara and Captain De Vere, to whom
Don Manuel introduced Willis as “Captain Brewster,” of the Portuguese
navy; the gentleman who had rendered such distinguished service to

Clara received him with much kindness; but De Vere’s inclination was as
cold and haughty as if he had been made of ice.

During the evening the family treated him with the greatest attention
and consideration, and seemed hurt at De Vere’s reserve. But Willis,
certain that his true character would soon be known, and feeling that he
was deceiving them, though he had been forced into his present situation
against his inclination, retired as soon after supper as politeness
would allow, and promised Don Manuel to make his house his home, with
the intention of never coming near it again.


[6] It is necessary for the condemnation of a slaver, to capture her
when she has either negroes on board, or slave-irons and extra
water-casks. These they always disembark before they come into port, and
do not take on board until they are ready to sail.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *

                               TO EVELYN.

                           BY KATE DASHWOOD.

              “I had a dream, and ’twas not all a dream.”

    Dear cousin mine, last eve I had a vision—
              Nay, do not start!
    There softly stole into the bright Elysian
              Of my young heart—
    A glowing dream, like white-winged spirit stealing
    Amid the shadows of my soul’s revealing.

    The sunset clouds were fading, and the light,
              Rosy and dim,
    Fell on the glorious page where wildly bright
              “The Switzer’s Hymn”
    Of exile, and of home, breathed forth its soul of song—
    Waking my heart’s hushed chords, erst slumbering long.

    Then that sad farewell-hymn seemed floating on,
              Like wild, sweet strain
    Of spirit-music o’er the waters borne—
              Bringing again
    Fond memories, and dreams of many a kindred heart,
    Dim cloistered in my bosom’s shrine apart.

    And then came visions of my own bright home—
              The happy band
    Far distant—who at eventide oft come,
              Linked hand in hand—
    When to my quickened fancy love hath lent
    Each thrilling tone, and each fond lineament.

    They come again—the young, the beautiful—
              The maiden mild,
    The matron meek—whose soft low prayer doth lull
              Her sleeping child;
    The proud and fearless youth, with soul of fire!
    Who guides his trembling steps—yon gray-haired sire.

    And then came thronging all earth’s gentle spirits—
              That minister
    Like angels to our hearts—thus they inherit
              From Heaven afar—
    Their blessed faith of Truth, and love for aye,
    Which scatters sunbeams on our darksome way.

    My vision changed—those messengers of light,
              To fays had turned,
    Then trooped they o’er our fairy-land, when night
              Her star-lamps burned;
    They peeped in buds and flowers, with much suspicion,
    For all deep-hidden sweets—for ’twas their mission.

    And then they scattered far and wide, and sought
              The thorny ways,
    And toilsome paths, to strew with garlands wrought—
              The cunning fays!—
    From all the brightest and the fairest flowers
    They culled by stealth from Flora’s glowing bowers.

    And some were thoughtful, and removed the thorns—
              Because, perchance,
    Some traveler, wandering ere the morning dawns,
              Might rashly dance
    Thereon with his worn sandals; others planted
    Bright flowers instead, at which they were enchanted.

    And some were roguish fays—right merry elves,
              Who loved a jest,
    And ofttimes stole away “all by themselves,”
              Within some rose’s breast,
    And there employed their most unwearied powers
    In throwing “incense on the winged hours.”

    What ho! the morning dawns! the orient beams
              With glory bright,
    Lo! flee the fairies with the first young gleams
              Of rosy light;
    But fadeth not that vision from my soul,
    Where its soft teachings e’er shall hold control.

    _And blest, like thine, is every gentle spirit_
              _That ministers_
    _Like angels to our hearts!_ such shall inherit,
              From Heaven afar,
    That pure and radiant light, whose holy rays
    E’er bathe in sunlight earth’s dark, toilsome ways.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                        A PIC-NIC AT WHITE LAKE.

                          BY ALFRED B. STREET.

“Contingent or executory remainders, whereby no present interest passes,
are, where the estate in remainder is limited to—(how warm it is)—to
take effect either to a dubious and—uncertain—person—or—upon—either
to a dubious and uncertain person, or (conscience, how sleepy I am) upon
a—a—dubious—and—uncertain—event—to take effect—either—estate in
remainder—is—contingent or executory remainders whereby—no—”
woods—birds—sunshine—moss—green leaves—crash—bless me, Sir William
Blackstone, Knt., one of his majesty’s Justices of Common Pleas, flat
upon his reverend face, (wig and all) shocking! Well, all I can do by
way of apology, will be to raise the learned knight from his unbecoming
posture, and—how tedious this law is! I really thought a moment ago I
was in the woods; but, alas! I was only dozing. My office to-day appears
very dull. That book-case, with its rows of Johnson’s, Cowen’s, and
Wendell’s Reports, Chitty on Bills, Comyn on Contracts, Barbour’s
Chancery Practice, et cetera—this desk piled with papers tied with red
tape—these three or four yellow chairs—that spectral broom in its dark
corner—and this spotted spider on my one window, industriously engaged
in weaving a large wheel-like web over two of its upper panes—really I
begin to be sick of them. I’ll see what is “going on” out of doors. What
a golden day. The sky is of a rich, tender blue, with here and there a
soft pearly cloud sleeping in its depths, like snow-flakes on a bed of
violets. And the sunshine, what a rich, deep blue it has. I think I’ll
take a walk. Those woods, out there beyond Fairchild’s pond, seem
beckoning to me; and the village offers as little variety as my office.
There are two or three idlers on Wiggins’ tavern stoop—a cow and three
geese are feeding quietly in the green lane that runs to “our barn,”
past my office—beside the barn stands my gig, clean and glittering,
from the just suspended efforts of “Black Jake”—a couple of
stage-drivers are tarring the wheels of one of the huge red coaches that
run regularly between Bloomingburgh and Monticello—the captain is on
his way to the “corner well,” for a pail of water—an old horse is
grazing on the “green” near the court-house—and a “team” or two are
standing by St. John’s store. Let me see—which way shall I go! up the
turnpike, or down to the “Big Rock.” But, hey-day! here comes Mayfield
in great haste.

“Well, Mayfield, what’s in the wind now?”

“I say, squire, how would you like a pic-nic at White Lake this

“A pic-nic! hurrah! just the thing. Will the girls go?”

“They are all crazy at the idea—that is, all that I’ve seen.”

“Then let us speak to Lavigne, and Hull, and Murray, and Williams, and
so on, and all bustle round and invite our ladies, and be off in an

Away we both go, and in a short time the boys are all notified, the
girls all invited, and the arrangements all made.

At three P. M. we start from “Hamilton’s stoop,” as usual. Williams,
with his wife, in his neat little wagon; myself and lady in the gig, and
the rest in a huge, lumbering two-horse conveyance, with a range of
seats, and clattering, when in motion, like a hail-storm. Up the broad
village street (to wit, turnpike) we merrily go—by the Episcopal
Church, surrounded with its mountain-ash trees (amidst which even now
stands our respected “Dominie,” gazing at them with the affection of a
parent—for he planted them there with his own hands)—through the
outskirts of the village—past the fence of pine-roots, wreathed in
every imaginable shape, like twining serpents—and in a short time we
are toiling up the steep winding pitch, called “Jones’ Hill.” The
sunshine is sweet, although somewhat warm, and there is now and then the
downy touch of a breeze upon our foreheads. We glance at the stretch of
wood and meadow, backed by a low, blue line of hills, which meets us at
the summit, and then bowl down the slope into the hollow. “Kinne’s Hill”
next taxes the endurance of our steeds; but we reach the top, and look
around us. How beautiful is the scene! What streaming black shadows are
cast by every object; what a soft gloss is on yon emerald meadow, and
how far the pointed shade of that solitary hay-barrack is cast upon its
rich surface. How the light gleams upon the fences—catches upon the
acclivities—bathes the tips of the scattered chimneys, and stripes half
the bosoms of the distant hills. How it touches in here, and streaks out
there, and settles in a broad space of deep yellow in another place;
for, be it known, that at four o’clock of a summer afternoon (just the
hour that we are upon “Kinne’s,”) commences the time for witnessing the
effects of the now slanting sunshine. But I must not stay here forever
admiring views and effects, particularly as my horse, “Old George,” is
dancing up and down as if his hoofs were encased in hot iron. So I ease
the reins, and down we dash toward the Mongaup, which we soon see
flowing, sweet and cool, in the shadow cast by the opposite hill.
Beautiful stream, I hail thee! How often have I “churned” thy pure, soft
current in pursuit of the golden-spotted trout; and in the mellow autumn
sunshine, when the rich haze of the “Indian Summer” shimmered in thy
forests, how long and patiently have I beat thy thickets, and stood upon
thy run-ways to “draw lead” upon the deer. However, this is no time for
the pathetic; so I keep a cautious rein upon “George,” as I pass through
the covered bridge spanning the stream, and then let him out past the
white-porticoed tavern upon the right. Up and down hill we then all move
and rattle, until gaining the summit of a long ascent, we see “Jordan’s
Inn,” and a little beyond, the broad, bright waters of our destined
goal, White Lake. Severally alighting at the door of the tavern, our
steeds are commended to the tender mercies of the landlord; and we all,
with our baskets of eatables and drinkables, pursue our way to the
borders of the lovely sheet. How beautifully it is slumbering beneath
this rich light and soft heaven. The pictures of the white clouds sail
across it like pure thoughts over a happy heart. Deliciously stream the
shadows from the projecting banks; and see, there comes a little breeze,
dotting the waters with its light footsteps, and then leaping up into
yonder maple, making it turn suddenly pale with its flutter. The
opposite shore looks green and cool; and there, in a beautiful recess or
hollow, is to be our pic-nic. I discovered that recess myself. I was out
fishing one day with Ike Davis, and waxing rather weary toward sundown,
we pulled along the western shore to enjoy the shadow. Pushing along
through the water-lilies, whose blossoms were strewed like golden balls
all around us, I chanced to spy this little hollow. So we drove our
skiff half its length on the silver strip of sand, and threw ourselves
upon the soft grass, enjoying the coolness and fragrance till the stars
came. I dreamed a great day-dream during those two hours; a dream
fleeting and unsubstantial as the gold and crimson cloud whose
reflection lay upon the smooth water before me. But to return.

There is the scow (not a very romantic craft, reader, I own) fastened by
its stone to the bank; and near it is the very skiff Davis and I used.
The skiff is light and fleet, but as for the scow, it goes every way but
the straight one. It will glide corner-wise, and make tolerable good way
even broadside; but as for going straight forward, it appears to be the
last thing in the world it intends doing. However, not more than four
can sit comfortably in the skiff, so the majority of us must trust
ourselves to the cork-screw propensities of the scow. Lavigne and
Murray, with their ladies, take possession of the former, and the rest
of us the latter. We all, then, embark upon the pure, glossy sheet for
the recess. Ha! ha! ha! this is too amusing. Whilst the skiff shoots
from us straight as a dart toward the goal, we go shuffling and
wriggling along, first one side and then the other, like a bumpkin in a
ball-room; and as the four who assumed the paddles relax their efforts
in despair, the old scow turns broadside, and as if in contempt, is
actually, I believe, making way backward.

“Paddle away, boys!” I exclaim, “or we’ll be at the bank again in a

“Paddle yourself,” growls Hull, who always entertained a decided
objection to much exertion, although in the enthusiasm of the moment he
had grasped one of the propellers. I seize the paddle he relinquishes,
and whilst he seats himself sluggishly on the side of the scow, I bend
myself to my task. The skiff is by this time half way over; and the
good-natured laugh of its party at our troubles, comes ringing over the
water. However, after a while we “get the hang” of the odd thing, and
the pleasant tap, tap, tap of the ripples at its front, tell that we are
moving merrily forward. Oh, isn’t the kiss of that wandering air-breath
delicious! Whew! what a fluttering and whizzing! A flock of wild ducks,
scared up from that long, grassy shallow to the right. How the sunshine
gleams upon their purple backs, and flashes from their rapid wings.
There they go toward the outlet at “the mills.” And the water, how
beautifully mottled are its depths; how clear and transparent! It seems
almost like another atmosphere. See the fishes swarming below. There
goes a shiner like a flash of silver; is that an ingot of gold shooting
past there, or a yellow perch? And, upon my word, if there wasn’t a
salmon-trout showing its long, dark wavy back beside that log at the
bottom, large enough for a six-pounder. I do wish we had our lines here.
However, we came for a pic-nic, not a “fish.”

Well, here we are at the recess, and the skiff has been here certainly
these fifteen minutes. It is a beautiful place, really. The bank recedes
in a half circle from the water, leaving a space of short, thick turf,
with an edge of pure white sand, on which the ripples cream up and melt
in the most delicate lace-work. The place is in cool shadow, cast by the
tall trees of the forest crowning the bank—and such fine trees, too.
There is the white birch, with its stem of silver-satin; the picturesque
grim hemlock, soaring into the heavens, with a naked top dripping with
gray moss; the beech, showing a bark spotted like a woodpecker; and the
maple, lifting upon a trunk fluted like a cathedral-column, a green dome
of foliage, as regular as if fashioned by an architect. Of all the
forest-trees the maple is my favorite, although it is somewhat difficult
to select where all are so beautiful. Besides the birch, hemlock, and
beech, above mentioned, there is the poplar or aspen, which, although
horribly nervous, is a very pretty tree. The stem is smooth and
polished, with white streaks over its green; the limbs stretch out
broadly, and the leaves are finely cut with a “white lining” underneath.
When the breezes are stirring, the changes of the tree are marvellous;
and its whispers in a still, sunny, noon, when the rest of the woodland
is motionless, are delightful, like the continuous and rapid drip, drip,
drip, of a little rill in the grass. Then there is the elm, bending over
its flexile summit in a perpetual bow to the trees around it, with
clusters of fringe over its branches in April, and flaunting its October
banner of rich yellow. There is the chestnut also, in June showing you
tassels of pale gold amidst long, deep-green leaves, and in the autumn
hanging its brown fruit over head, as if tempting you to climb. And
lastly, there is the bass-wood, displaying in the latter days of May its
creamy blossoms, so sweet, that you know you are approaching it, whilst
wandering in the forest, by the rich odor alone. Still the maple, the
beautiful maple, is “my passion.” It hails the blue-bird in spring, with
its crimson fringes, dropping them in a short time to lie like live
embers amidst the green velvet of the rising grass; in summer it clothes
itself in broad scalloped leaves that flicker to the most delicate wind
in the softest music, changing from green to white very gracefully, and
in the autumn—reader, you have witnessed a crimson cloud burning in the
mid-west, at sunset, after a shower! well, the color is not richer than
that of the maple in that magic season. It shows like a beacon in the
forest. I have stood in a deep dell, so deep, that I could discern a
white star or two in the sky above me, and seeing the autumnal maple,
have supposed it for the instant a spot of flame. How splendid! how
gorgeous it is in its “fall” garb! It blushes, as Percival says,

        “Like a banner bathed in slaughter.”

There are various flowers peeping out of the crevices of the bank—the
pink briar-rose, and the yellow wild sunflower. The mellow hum of the
bee swings now and then past us; and the cricket grates upon its tiny
bars (a fairy lute) from the dusky nooks about. It is just the place for
the occasion. There is a natural mound, too, in the middle of the place,
that will serve excellently well for a table. So let us open our baskets
and produce their contents. Ham, chicken, tongue, sandwiches, et cetera,
with pies, cake, and preserved fruit. Some half-dozen long-necked
bottles then make their appearance, with their brand upon them. What can
be within them! What is that which makes the cork pirouette with such a
“pop” in the air, and then swells to the rim of the glass in a rich,
glittering foam, and with a delicious hum, like the monotone of a
sea-shell? Don’t you know, reader? If you don’t, I shan’t tell you. It
isn’t water, however.

The cloth, in snowy whiteness, is spread over the mound, and garnished
with cup, saucer, plate, and dish. In an angle of the bank, faced with
rock, a fire in the meanwhile has been lighted, of pine-knots and dry
branches, for the manufacture of our tea and coffee. One of the party,
having gone a little into the woods in search of blackberries, now
returns, bearing a basket heaped up with the rich, glossy fruit, as
black as Kather—somebody’s eyes—(the somebody is now making our tea
and coffee at the fire yonder)—and they are as bright specimens of
ebony as any I know of. The golden butter, and the silver sugar—(I like
epithets—don’t you, Mr. Critic?)—are ranged in their places with the
other viands, and the whole so crowd the table-cloth as fairly to hide
its whiteness. We draw to, and fall to. What a clatter of knives and
forks, and what a sound of cheerful voices. Care is at a discount—mirth
is in the ascendant, and nature is in accordance with our mood. We are
in the height of fashion, too, out here in the woods, so far as respects
music, to grace our repast; not the clanging sounds of brass
instruments, and the head-ache poundings of the bass-drum, but the sweet
melodies of the forest. A cat-bird is spitting out a succession of short
notes like a bassoon; the brown thrasher is sounding her clear piccolo
flute; one of the large black woodpeckers of our forests, with a
top-knot like a ruby, is beating his drum on the hollow beech yonder; a
blue-jay every now and then makes an _entrée_ with his trumpet, and the
little wren flourishes her clarionet in such a frenzy of music as fairly
to put her out of breath. The scene itself is very bright and beautiful.
Sunset has now fallen upon us. A broad beam of mellow light slants
through the trees above us, making the leaves transparent, each one
looking as if of carved gold, and shooting through the midst of our
party so as to bathe sweetly the faces of some three or four of our
girls, and then making a bridge over the long nose of Hull, it stretches
across the lake to the opposite shore, where the windows of Jordan’s Inn
are in a blaze with it. At the edge of the lake, and a few feet from our
party, a great swarm of gnats is dancing in its light, now up, now down,
speckling the air in the shape of a wheel in motion. And the lake before
us—so pure, so breathless, so holy—it seems entranced in a mute sunset
prayer to its Maker. It has a tongue of praise sometimes—a tongue of
liquid and dashing music—but it is now holding “Quaker meeting,” and is
communing with God in sacred silence. And yet, after all, not wholly
silence, for these little ripples, clothed in silver, run up the sand,
and then fall prostrate, with a sound like the faint patterings of a
shower upon leaves.

With the exception of this pencil of light, our hollow is filled with a
cool, clare-obscure tint, like sunshine robbed of its glare—or like
sunshine and moonlight mingled together—or, on the whole, like the rich
harvest moonlight, with a dash of green in it. It is exquisitely soft,
soothing, and beautiful. It seems like a light reproduced by the forests
after they have all day been drinking the day-beams.

The jest—the story—the lively sally—the quick repartee, pass gayly
around the circle. The destruction amongst the good things of the table
becomes momentarily less, and finally ceases altogether. The solitary
sunbeam melts away, but the clouds overhead are becoming richer and
rosier; and the lake—it is a perfect Eden of beauty. Pure as innocence,
and smooth as the brow of childhood, it stretches away, decked in the
most glorious colors that eye ever beheld. Long lines of imperial
purple—the tenderest azure—broad spaces of gleaming gold, and bars of
richest crimson—all, all are blended upon the beautiful sheet, like the
tints that tremble upon “shot” silk, or those that chase each other
along the neck of the sheldrake. The sight fills the heart brim full of
loveliness, so as even to surcharge the eye with tears. The most
delicious emotions struggle for utterance, but the majesty of the beauty
represses all sound—it awes the soul to silence. Old memories throng
upon the heart—memories of early, happy days, and of the loved and
lost. The lost—ah, too soon did some die in their young beauty, whilst
others dropped, like ripe fruit, into the tomb. But they all went home,
receiving “the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” Happy in
their lot, ay, truly happy. And the youthful hopes and aspirations, they
have all, too, vanished. The indefinite brightness resting upon the
future—the soaring ambition—the romantic day-dream—the generous
feeling—the warm trustfulness and confidence in the goodness of our
race—all, all vanished.

Now right across that streak of crimson the loon pursues her way. Her
track seems made of diamonds and rubies, and the plumage of her wings is
touched with the magic brilliance that fills the breathless air. And now
she glides within yon purple shadow, and is seen no more. The tints grow
richlier, and then begin to fade; sweet rural sounds come softly over
the water; the low of cattle; the tinkling sheep-bell; the echoing bark
of the dog; and the ploughman’s shout to his homeward oxen.

And the twilight deepens. One by one the stars break out from the sky,
and on the earth the outlines of objects begin to intermingle. The trees
on the banks around us are blending, and the spaces beneath their
branches are becoming black. The farther waters glimmer dim and dusky;
and the tavern on the opposite shore is half shaded into the misty

But the wild, red globe of the harvest-moon slow heaves to view until it
rests upon the hill-top like the old Scotch beal-fire. How glorious will
the scene shortly be rejoicing in her pearly beauty; yet the indistinct
gray of the landscape, now showing like an India-ink drawing, is sweet
and tender, social, and full of kindness. It is emphatically the hour
for song; and so, recovering from the short silence that had fallen upon
us, a call is made upon our two singers for the exercise of their
abilities. Now both of them are of the masculine gender; for, strange to
say, not a girl of our party has any voice for the public, but one, and
she is painfully bashful; so our two thrushes are always in requisition.
They differ, however, in their accomplishment. Lavigne has a sweet,
flexible, tenor voice, whilst Murray’s is a rich sonorous bass. Our
first call is upon the latter, who, being a lieutenant in the
“Monticello Greys,” has a taste inclining to the warlike; and so,
clearing his voice with a loud effort, he sings—

        Banners all around us flying,
          Trumpets all around us ringing,
          Weapons gleaming, chargers springing
        Comrades, who’s afraid of dying!
          Forward march! on, on we go,
          Gladly, freely, breast to foe;
          Forward, comrades! on we go—
          Such the joys we soldiers know;
          Honor bright to fleeting breath,
          Give us victory or death!
          With our bosoms to the foe—
          Such the joys we soldiers know.

        When is past the conflict gory;
          When the veins have ceased their leaping,
          Then the watch-fire redly heaping,
        Round fly merry song and story.
          Care and grief behind we throw,
          As the gleaming glasses flow.
          Forward march! we bid them go—
          Such the joys we soldiers know.
          Ever ready for the field,
          Never fearing life to yield,
          Firm we stand before the foe,
          Such the joys we soldiers know.

As the deep tones die upon the ear, we all, after expressing the usual
thanks, turn to Lavigne to follow up the good example thus set him.
Descended from an old Huguenot family, his first thought is to the land
of his fathers, and with much animation in his looks, he breaks out into
the following strain:—

        Lovely France—la belle France!
          At thy name my bosom bounds,
        To my eye sweet visions dance,
          In my ear soft music sounds.
        Hail, thy purple vineyards glowing!
        Hail, thy flowery streamlets flowing!
          Of my life thou seem’st a part,
        Lovely France—la belle France!
        Glorious France, how dear thou art!

        Lovely France—la belle France!
          Famous are thy battle-fields;
        Where e’er points thy glittering lance,
          Victory there her trophies yields.
        Hail, thy high historic story!
        Hail, thy legends rife with glory!
          Shrine where bends my willing heart,
        Lovely France—la belle France!
        Glorious France, how dear thou art!

We are now all fairly embarked on the tide of song, and Murray is again
called upon. There is no affectation or false modesty in our circle, and
he instantly complies.

        Merrily row boys! merrily row boys!
          Merrily, cheerily, row along!
        And whilst our prow makes merry music,
          We’ll too raise the song;
        We’ll too raise the song, my boys,
          Swift as we row along,
        Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,
          Merrily, cheerily, row along;
        And whilst the waters ripple round us,
          We’ll too raise the song.

        Spreads the wave, boys, broad and clear, boys!
          Spreads the wave, boys, bright along;
        And whilst our oars make merry dashings,
          We’ll too raise the song;
        We’ll too raise the song, my boys,
          Swift as we row along,
        Each to his oar, boys—bend to the oar, boys,
          Merrily, cheerily, row along;
        And whilst our prow makes merry music,
          We’ll too raise the song.

“Now, Lavigne, your turn has come again,” say we all; and fixing his eye
upon pretty, modest little Mary Maitland, with whom he is, or fancies
himself to be, in love, he launches into the following tender ditty:—

        What thought makes my heart with most tenderness swell?
        ’Tis the thought of thy beauty, my sweet Gabrielle;
        To the light wind of summer the pine-top swings free,
        But lighter and freer thy footstep to me.

        Oh! the sunshine around thee casts brighter its glow;
        And the breeze sighs more blandly when kissing thy brow;
        The robin chaunts sweet its melodious glee,
        But the sound of thy voice is far sweeter to me.

        Thou hast linked thy bright chain, thou hast woven thy spell,
        For aye round my bosom, my sweet Gabrielle;
        The star of the evening is lovely to see;
        But the glance of thy eye is far brighter to me.

        In life my bright angel, when struggling in death,
        Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.
        Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,
        The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.

By the way, Lavigne, to his natural gallantry adds somewhat of poetical
ability; and it is shrewdly suspected that he is the author of the above
song. However that is, whilst he was in the midst of his pathetic
strain, with his hand on his heart, and his eye fixed expressively upon
Mary, a small manuscript fell from his pocket, which I took possession
of, for the purpose of restoring to him after he had finished his song;
but the superscription catching my eye, by the clear light of the now
risen moon, I concluded to keep it awhile for the purpose of teazing
him. I subsequently took a copy; and after hinting most provokingly
concerning it at several of our gatherings, in his presence and that of
Mary, restored it to him. Here it is—

                    TO MARY,


        This gem of vernal breezes bland,
          How bright its azure beauty shone,
        When first thy soft and fairy hand,
          Placed the slight stem within my own.

        So rich the fragrance round bequeathed
          By this fair flower—this modest shrine—
        I thought thou must have on it breathed,
          With those sweet crimson lips of thine.

        I placed the blossom next my heart,
          And fondly hoped its life to stay;
        But each hour saw its hue depart,
          Until it withered quite away.

        Oh! how unlike my love for thee,
          The blighting of this tiny flower!
        Time gives it but intensity,
          And years will but increase its power.

        For I have shrined thee in my heart,
          Thou all of Earth’s sweet flowers most sweet;
        And never thence canst thou depart,
          Until that heart shall cease to beat.

        By day thou art my constant thought,
          Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see;
        My dreams are of thy image wrought,
          And when I wake I think of thee.

        Loveliest of God’s created things!
          My soul to thee through life is given;
        And when that soul takes upward wings,
          I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.

Richly doth the moon now kindle up the scene with her pure silver glory.
How deliciously her delicate dreamy light rests upon the quiet fields,
the motionless forests, and the slumbering lake. How sweet the harmony
between heaven and earth. The sky is flooded with the rich radiance,
quenching the stars, save one or two that sparkle near the orbed source
of all this brightness. And on the lake is a broad path of splendor,
gorgeous as the angel-trodden ladder witnessed by the patriarch in his
dreams. Our little hollow is lit up with matchless brilliancy. It is
absolutely filled with the moon’s smile. Let us examine some of the
small effects of the light. There is a shifting, dazzling streak upon
each ripple as it dances up—the side of yon pine, this way, is covered
all over with bright tassels, whilst the other portion, except its dim
outline, is lost in gloom. There is an edging of pearl woven along the
outer fringes of this hemlock, gleaming from the jet-blackness
enveloping the stem. This great crouching laurel, which Ike Davis and I
saw looking like one giant bouquet of snowy blossoms, seems now, in each
individual leaf, to be sculptured from ivory, or as if the blossoms had
all been melted into a liquid mantle of light. The moss underneath that
bank seems covered with rich net-work; whilst beside it, on that little
glade, is a broad space of pure lustre, like a silver carpet spread
there by Titania for the dance of her sprites.

And there is another radiance, too, besides that of the moon—the
fire-flies. Every dark covert is alive with the gold-green sparklers,
winking and blinking very industriously, as if they had only a short
time to work in, and were determined to make the most of it.

There are multitudinous voices also all around us—on the ground, and in
the branches—crickets—tree-toads—now and then a wakeful
grasshopper—and the whet-saw, or cross-bill, tolling out its clear
metallic notes from the depth of the forest.

Ah! it is a witching hour—most sweet, most touching and beautiful.
However, we cannot stay here all night, even in the midst of moonlight
fragrance, and music. So we all quit our seats, unwillingly, however,
and move to the edge of the water. The scow receives us, with the
exception of our two singers, who, with their ladies, embark in the
skiff. We leave the whispering ripples—break through the net of lilies,
making the yellow globes all round palpitate up and down like living
objects trying to escape—and launch, straight as the sideways spasms of
our swinish craft will allow, into the moon-lit middle of the lake. The
skiff is performing numerous antics, as if in derision of our slow
progress, crossing and re-crossing the spangled pathway of light, with
an effect picturesque and spectre-like. The boat—each figure in its
most minute outline, hat, profile, limbs, and all—the oars—even the
row-locks—are drawn with a spider-web accuracy upon the rich, bright
back-ground in the passages across, seen, however, only for a
moment—quick—startling—as if lightning had flashed over, and then all
relapsing into the usual moonlight indistinctness. It is something,
also, like the opening and shutting of the fire-fly’s lamp, this
exhibition of the party, as it were, by flashes.

But, hark! subsiding into quiet, and keeping but a little distance now
from our slow, laboring bark, the skiff sends forth upon the night a
strain of richest harmony. Lavigne and Murray blend their voices primo
and secundo; and as we all glide slowly and sweetly toward the shore
whence leads the way to home, to the air of “Come rest in this bosom;”
this is the song they sing:—

        Oh! what are Earth’s pleasures and glories to me,
        Compared with the bliss that I know when with thee;
        I grieve when thou grievest—feel mirthful when gay,
        And happy when near thee, and sad when away.

        The sunshine is darkened when missing thy smile,
        There’s naught then my sorrow and care can beguile;
        My path seems deserted, Hope’s pinions are furled,
        For thou art my sunshine, my hope, and my world.

        I’ve gazed with delight on thy beautiful eyes,
        Till words were denied me—I breathed naught but sighs;
        I’ve watched thy sweet motions so graceful and light,
        Till my heart overflowed with pure joy at the sight.

        I would turn from the song of an angel to hear
        Thy voice of soft silver fall sweet on my ear;
        And, oh! in despair’s bitter anguish and gloom,
        I would turn e’en from life, for thy rest in the tomb.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                             A BACCHIC ODE.

                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

    Wine! bring wine!
    Let the crystal beaker flame and shine,
    Brimming o’er with the draught divine!

    The crimson glow
    Of the lifted cup on my forehead throw,
    Like the sunset’s flush on a field of snow!

    I burn to lave
    My eager lip in the purple wave!
    Freedom bringeth the wine so brave!

    The world is cold!
    Sorrow and Pain have gloomy hold,
    Chilling the bosom warm and bold!

    Doubts and fears
    Veil the shine of my morning years!
    My life’s lone rainbow springs from tears!

    But Eden-gleams
    Visit my soul in immortal dreams,
    When the wave of the goblet burns and beams!

    Not from the Rhine—
    Not from fields of Burgundian vine,
    Bring me the bright Olympian wine!

    Not with a ray,
    Born where the winds of Shiraz play—
    Or the fiery blood of the ripe Tokay!

    Not where the glee
    Of Falernian vintage echoes free—
    Or the gardens of Scio gem the sea!

    But wine! Bring wine!
    Flushing high with its growth divine,
    In the crystal depth of my soul to shine!

    Whose glow was caught
    From the warmth which Fancy’s summer brought
    To the vintage-fields in the Land of Thought!

    Rich and free
    To my thirsting soul will the goblet be,
    Poured by the Hebe, Poesy!

                 *        *        *        *        *

                              A VALENTINE.

                            BY R. H. BACON.

    Alas! sweet ——, how hard a task is mine
      Thy behest to fulfill. The poet’s heart
      Freezes with winter; and his lyric art,
    Torpid and dull, no coronals can twine,
    Even in honor of Saint Valentine!
      Yet must the saint be honored; so I lay
    A frozen dove upon his frozen shrine,
    And ice-twigs pile for sacrificial pyre,
      While driving snows obscure the short-lived day,
    Praying thine eyes for soft consuming fire!
      The thawing ice fit emblem then will be
      Of tears, that sickness laid its hand on thee:
    The flashing light, that shows the altar burning,
    Shall be my gladness at thy health’s returning;
    Health, Joy and Spring in one sweet band returning!

    _Cambridge, St. Valentine’s Day, 1847._

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           ARTHUR HARRINGTON.

                         OR A YOUTH OF PROMISE.


                               CHAPTER I.

                 I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
               And lo! what treasure of glorious things
               Giant Futurity sheds from his wings.
                                              M. Tupper.

“Mother, which shall I be—which would you rather have me be—an author
or statesman?” said Arthur Harrington, a handsome boy of some twelve
years of age, looking up from his Latin exercise to his mother, who sat
reading at the same table where her son was studying.

The mother laid down her book, and smiling as she looked in the glowing
face of her boy, answered,

“I hardly know, Arthur. The statesman who presides in his country’s
councils, and guides at the helm of state, has a proud, a noble
position. But the author, again, who influences a nation’s mind, and
stirs up the heart of a people, is one of the benefactors of his race. I
should wish, however, that you consult your own taste and genius in the
choice of your future career, my son.”

“There was Sir Walter Scott, mother—he surely stirred up the heart of a
people. To be read all over the world must be glorious! And yet to be
William Pitt—prime minister at one-and-twenty!—I think, mother, I’d
rather be William Pitt—”

“You had better study your lesson, Arthur,” said Frank Ashhurst, a youth
of about the same age, in a low tone, without raising his eyes from the
Greek page which lay open before him.

But Arthur, too intent upon the comparative merits of statesmen and
authors, Sir Walter Scott and William Pitt, took little heed of his
friend’s suggestion, but eagerly pursued the conversation with his
scarce less interested mother, who gazed in his sparkling eyes and
animated face, and thought every question the indication of aspiring
genius and the prompting of proud ambition.

Mrs. Harrington was a woman of some reading, and lively imagination,
and, full of theories, thought herself a genius; and so she delighted in
what she called “cultivating Arthur’s mind;” and thus they talked on of
heroes and authors and great men, while Arthur’s spirit soaring beyond
his Latin exercise, and expanding in the region of castle building,
(which his mother, not less than himself mistook for the land of
inspiration,) quite forgot the studies of the morrow.

Francis Ashhurst, meanwhile, never raised his eyes from the book he so
intently studied, while the silent but rapid movement of his lips, and
earnest expression of his dark eyes, showed he had no ears for the
discussion going on at his side. Presently drawing a long breath, he
closed his book and put it one side.

“Have you finished your Greek already, Frank?” asked Arthur.

“Yes,” he replied, opening his mathematics. “You had better be studying.
It is late.”

“We had better talk no more now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Harrington gently.
“You do not know all your lessons yet.”

Arthur sighed, and studied a little while, and then yawned, and
presently began again with,

“But, mother, do you think that literary fame is as great—as
glorious—as political or—military even—Wellington and Napoleon were

“Arthur,” said Frank, in a low, quiet tone, “you have your Greek yet,
and your problems—”

“Oh, I hate mathematics!” said the boy, impatient of his cousin’s sober
interruption. “A mathematician is never a man of genius. And I have no
genius for mathematics,” he added contemptuously, “though you have, I
believe, Francis.”

Francis made no reply. He was deep in a problem, and did not look up to
answer, or perhaps did not even hear his cousin’s taunt.

Mrs. Harrington had, however, the sense to follow Francis’s suggestion,
and remind her son of the lateness of the hour; and taking up her own
book, advised him to pursue his studies.

Silence reigned for half an hour perhaps in the little party, which was
at last broken by Arthur’s throwing his book on one side, saying,
“There—I’ve done with you. Frank, give me the Greek Lexicon.”

Francis complied with his request, saying with surprise, “Do you know

“Yes—well enough—I’ll look it over in the morning.” And in the same
way he skimmed through his remaining studies.

“Come, Frank,” said he, at last, “have you not almost done? How you do
stick at those problems!” he continued impatiently.

“Presently,” replied the other. “Don’t speak to me now.” And after some
minutes intense application, he raised his head with a bright, calm look
and said, “I’ve finished. What now, Arthur?”

“You are studying for the mathematical prize, I suppose, Frank?” said

“For the prize! No,” replied Francis, with surprise. “I never thought of
such a thing. Harry Forrester will carry that off, of course. You know
he is far ahead of me.”

“No—is he?” said Arthur. “I did not know it. What then makes you study
so, if you have no chance of the prize?”

“Why, Arthur,” said Frank, laughing, “if we only study to gain prizes,
most of us may as well close our books at once, for there are but half a
dozen prizes, and over a hundred boys. What is your number?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty low. If I can’t be head, I don’t care where I
am. Mathematics is not the bent of my genius,” replied Arthur.

“Nor mine, that I know of,” said Frank—“but, hang it, my genius has
_got_ to bend to it for all that.”

And there was a resolute tone, and a look of determination that showed
that Frank Ashhurst was one who did not look for “aid and comfort” to
his “genius” always, in difficulties.

Mrs. Harrington smiled as she listened to the conversation. She said
afterward to her husband—

“Frank is a boy of no ambition. But he is a steady, plodding lad, and a
very safe companion for Arthur. He’s a heavy boy—no genius—very
different from Arthur.”

And Arthur was a boy, in truth, that would have gratified the pride, and
flattered the vanity, of most mothers, for he was what most parents
like, a precocious, _showy_ boy. He was quick in abilities, handsome in
person, tall of his age, with bright hazel eyes, and a round, glowing
cheek; graceful, too, in his manners, and very fluent in
speech—altogether a striking boy—somewhat forward, perhaps—but his
good looks and cleverness made his peace with those who might have found
fault with his want of diffidence.

Now Frank was a lad no one ever noticed. Perhaps now and then some one
of unusual discernment might have said, “that youth has a fine
countenance;” but it was a remark that always elicited surprise when it
was made, for most persons would have said, with Mrs. Harrington, that
he was a “heavy boy.” He was shorter by a head nearly than Arthur, and
heavily moulded, and people generally are apt to take the body for the
soul, and judge the spirit by the flesh. And, then, though Frank had a
fine brow, and clear, well set, deep eye, there was nothing of what Mrs.
Harrington called the “flash of genius in his look up.” It was a calm,
earnest face, and when in study, there was an intensity of expression, a
concentration of attention, that is rare—otherwise he was not a
striking, and certainly not a handsome boy. He was rather shy, too, and
awkward when brought forward, and one of those who never made a figure
on “exhibition days.” In short, he was not one of the _show boys_, which
Arthur was. Heads of schools, and teachers generally, are very quick to
know the effect produced by such pupils as Arthur. They like to put them
forward. All they know _tells_, and what they don’t know is not seen.
Manner and appearance never go further than on such occasions. The human
heart naturally warms to beauty, and to youthful beauty it is
particularly indulgent; and when united to any thing like precocity of
talent, it is sure to take the greater part of parents.

Consequently Arthur carried off more than one prize at the examinations,
that, had he not been so highly endowed with external gifts, might not
have been so readily awarded him.

But this exhibition, to Mrs. Harrington’s surprise and mortification,
Arthur carried off none of the highest premiums. The boy himself was
loud in his complaints of injustice and ill-treatment, and Mrs.
Harrington lent a willing and indignant ear to all he said.

It never occurred to the loving mother that Arthur might not deserve the
prizes. She did not remember that his application had rather relaxed
than increased with the increasing difficulties of his studies, and that
much of the time that should have been devoted to work had been passed
in light reading, or quite as often, perhaps, in talking with herself.
She only felt that Arthur had been most unjustly treated, and tried to
soothe and console his wounded feelings, and talked of the “too frequent
fate of unrewarded merit.” But the more she talked, the keener grew his
sense of slighted talents. He grumbled and talked—and finally called
his teacher names, and then his mother yielded; for as she afterward
said to her husband—“When a boy loses his _respect_ for his teachers,
the moral influence that should work is destroyed.” And the good man
assented, without very clearly understanding what she meant. He only
comprehended that his wife was dissatisfied with Arthur’s school, and he
himself was indignant at the idea of his boy’s being treated with
injustice. He never inquired into Arthur’s studies, nor examined into
his progress. “He had not time.” He was a hard-working, money-making
man, and while he slaved body and soul to amass a fortune, he left the
education, mental, moral and physical, of his only son to his wife. A
not uncommon case, we are sorry to say; for the most intelligent and
cultivated of mothers have rarely the firmness, and never the knowledge
of men and the world, required in the education of boys. Not that we
would disparage woman or her acquirements, nor lessen the influence due
to mothers, but only suggest that she is not to be _both_ father and
mother, and hint that men have other duties beside the all-absorbing one
of making money. Mr. Harrington was steeped to the very lips in
commercial affairs. Business was his occupation—his pleasure—his
life—the breath of his nostrils—everything in short.

He went early to the counting-house and came home late, and generally
tired, and often perplexed, and did not want then to be worried with
domestic matters.

He loved his boy, and was proud of him; and his wife told him he was a
very uncommon boy, and he believed her. She talked a great deal of the
peculiarities of his mind, and the traits of his character, and told
many anecdotes indicative of his superiority, mental and spiritual, and
much that the husband would have thought “great nonsense,” if it had
been anybody but _his_ wife talking, and _his_ boy she was talking of.
But as it was, it was amusing to see the complacence with which he
listened. He paid the bills regularly, and left the rest to his wife;
satisfied that he had put his money out to good interest, and never
doubting that he had done his whole duty. So when at the present time
she told him she thought they had better withdraw Arthur, and place him
at a “select school, where only twenty boys were taken,” he assented,
and told her to do as she thought best.

“The Rector of the Grammar School,” she said, “is not a man of enlarged
mind. He does not enter sufficiently into the original capacities of
boys, but makes them all go through the same mill, no matter how
different their natural talents. Indeed, the school is so large, that it
would be out of the question for him to do justice to them all, even if
he were a man of more comprehensive and discriminating mind than he is.
There are upward of a hundred boys there, I believe.”

“Ah! there it is,” said Mr. Harrington, indignantly; “they will take in
such a crowd.” Quite forgetting that other men beside merchants may like
to make money in their professions, too. So it was pretty well settled
that Arthur was to go to this “select school,” of which Mrs. Harrington
had heard a great puff from Mrs. Osborn, for many mothers beside Mrs.
Harrington manage their sons’ education in this “work-day world” of
ours. There are a good many moral “half orphans” in our community. And
so Mrs. Harrington consulted some half-dozen of her friends, quite as
deep as herself in the work of education, before she decided, and spoke
at last to Mrs. Ashhurst, who replied—

“We have no idea of withdrawing Francis. His father is quite satisfied
with his progress.”

Mrs. Harrington was surprised at hearing a father cited as authority,
but she turned and applied herself to Mr. Ashhurst, for she was one of
those who rather liked to have others do as she did, and patronize a
school, or withdraw their children, according as she inclined, but Mr.
Ashhurst said—

“I am perfectly satisfied, my dear madam, where Frank is. He studies
hard, which is the great point, and I think the general system of the
establishment good. I am always unwilling to make a change in a child’s
school, without I see strong reasons for doing so, for much time I think
is lost in changing studies and teachers. New systems, new books, are
always introduced, and not often for the better, and as long as Frank
studies well, and has time for exercise, I am satisfied where he is.”

“The scholarship may be equal,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “in these great
schools, although even that I doubt, but what I chiefly object to for my
son, Mr. Ashhurst, is the contaminating influence of such a crowd of all
sorts of boys.” (Now Mrs. Harrington had a holy horror of “all sorts” of
people, at any time of life.) “Now the moral influence must be so much
purer, so much healthier, of a select number of boys, whose families you

“There, my dear madam, I differ from you,” said Mr. Ashhurst, smiling.
“I look upon the moral influence of a public school as decidedly—not
perhaps what you would call purer—but healthier than that of a ‘select
few.’ Indeed, if it were not for the languages, I had rather Frank went
to a district school than any other.”

“Oh, Mr. Ashhurst! A district school! You surely are not in earnest.
Pray, what advantage can they or any public school have over a private

“Just the one,” said Mr. Ashhurst, smiling, “that you seem so much to
dread—‘all sorts of boys.’ Manliness of character, that first point in
education, is only to be acquired by throwing a boy early on himself. Of
course it is a parent’s duty to watch over his child; and to cultivate
the higher moral feelings is the home part of the business. But to make
him _hardy_ and vigorous in mind as well as body is the great object of
out-door education.”

“But, my dear sir, you would not wish your son to acquire unrefined
habits and boorish manners, which he must, if you condemn him to mix
with his inferiors, by way of making him hardy, as you call it.”

“By no means,” replied Mr. Ashhurst. “But I am very far from thinking
that I condemn him to mix with his inferiors, when I let him find his
own footing among his equals, and perhaps superiors. And I look to the
influence of home for the refinement of his habits and manners.”

Mrs. Harrington had been a little annoyed at the turn the conversation
had taken—not that it altered her views and opinions in the least, what
conversation ever does—but that her husband happened to be present; and
as he occasionally indulged in some slap against the “white-kid gentry,”
she feared Mr. Ashhurst’s arguments might meet a more ready acquiescence
than she desired, so saying,

“Well, we must talk this over another time,” hastily turned the subject,
and there the matter dropped.

“Ashhurst is a sensible man,” observed Mr. Harrington to his wife as
they walked home.

“Yes,” she replied, well knowing the track her husband’s mind was on,
and shaping her answer to meet it. “Yes, he’s a sensible, though a
coarse man.”

Mr. Harrington’s countenance changed.

“I am sorry,” she continued, “that he is unwilling to give Francis the
best advantages; but I presume he cannot afford it very well. He has a
large family. And though he did not like to acknowledge it, the terms
are an object to him.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Harrington, in a tone of approbation that alarmed

“I am satisfied,” she continued, “that the ‘Institute’ is the best place
for Arthur. The Howards, and the Harpers, and the Astleys and Langdons
all speak of it in the highest manner, and their boys have been there
several years.”

Mr. Harrington could not withstand this. The names his wife had
mentioned, and purposely mentioned, were those of some of the wealthiest
men in the community. They were men after whose names he took pride in
placing his on a subscription list—or seeing them lovingly associated
in the papers as bank directors, or as trustees for life, fire, trust,
or any other monied institutions, and so, on the same principle, he
relaxed at once, and saw with complacency his Arthur placed among the
select few, the dimes fresh from the mint of “good society.”

Mrs. Harrington, satisfied of having gained her point, never stopped to
question herself as to the means. She never paused to inquire as to
whether she had done her part, as woman and wife, when she roused her
husband’s weakness to take advantage of the failing. She never asked
whether it was womanly or wise—if she could only “put her finger on
fortune’s pipe, and sound what stop she pleased,” she did not look much

And yet Mrs. Harrington was a woman of fine theories, exalted views,
rather a transcendentalist—till it came to action, and then what she
wanted she must have—if she could get it.

With some imagination, considerable enthusiasm, and a something mixed of
the two, that she called romance, she had yet married Mr. Harrington,
who was the opposite of every thing to her taste. And why? Because,
though she would have been glad to have united the ideal with the real
in her choice, she had yet no idea of sacrificing luxury to feeling. And
with all her poetry she had an intense appreciation of _well being_. She
found she could not gratify romance, ambition, and ease, too, and so
between the body and soul she preferred the body. But the love and
ambition she had sacrificed in her marriage she now centered in her son.
The wife was nothing, the mother all in all.

                              CHAPTER II.

              Ah! poor youth! in pitiful truth,
              Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth!
              What thou shalt be well have I seen—
              Thou shalt be only what others have been.
                .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
                .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
              The commonest drudge of men and things,
              Instead of your—conquering heroes and kings!
                                            Martin Tupper.

Arthur Harrington continued very much at the “Institute” what he had
been at the grammar school, a show boy, with now an incipient dash of
the dandy. From thence he was transferred to college, which he did not
enter as high as he and his mother expected. She took it for granted
that he must enter the Junior year, as Frank Ashhurst had done, though
most boys of his age commence with the Freshman. And here again, but for
the crying injustice that always followed Arthur, when he found himself
not rated higher than others, he would have taken the first honors. But,
somehow, though Arthur was universally reckoned a “promising youth,” he
never achieved any decided distinction when put to the test. At the
debating societies he was ready and fluent, though often incorrect as to
his facts, (but that made little impression on his auditors, who did not
expect exact information from so young an orator,) and there he was
quite conspicuous. He was a scribbler, too; wrote for magazines and
papers, and now and then had the triumph of having an article inserted
in one of the graver reviews. Altogether he had quite a reputation with
parents, though the boys did not rate him as much.

“He’s a conceited chap,” they would say, and their elders and betters
thought they were jealous. But give me a boy’s reputation with boys, and
I’ll give you the future man’s among men. However, let that pass. Arthur
graduated, and this time with an honor. It was not the highest, but he
did not care much for that. It gave him an opportunity of delivering an
oration; and fluent and easy, sparkling with well-turned phrases and
showy antithetical sentences, though containing little thought, and no
originality, it drew down frequent applause, and, in short, made quite a
hit. The graceful manner and handsome person of the youthful orator went
a great way—three-fourths certainly—for Francis Ashhurst, who took the
valedictory, really delivered an oration that showed the germ (and that
is all that can be looked for on such occasions) of real power. But then
the manner was so bad that few listened to the matter, and he hurried
through as fast as he could, and retired, much to his own relief and
that of the audience.

On quitting college, Mr. Harrington would have been glad to have had his
son enter the counting-house. But “Harrington & Son” did not shine as
proudly in the mother’s eyes as in her husband’s. And Arthur thought it
was the “old man’s” business to make money, not his, and negatived the
proposition decidedly, not to say haughtily. He was destined to be a
great man—the head of the bar—the leader of the Senate, possibly an
author, certainly an orator, perhaps an ambassador—the path was not
clearly defined—in fact, it was crossed with too many bright lights to
be very distinct—but it was to be something distinguished—that point
had been settled by his mother when he was in his cradle—and he himself
had entertained the same views ever since he had been out of petticoats.

The bar, of course, was the only stepping-stone to these future honors,
and it chanced that he and Francis Ashhurst entered the same office.

Francis had gone on quietly but steadily, the same boy and lad that he
now entered life as man, and set himself in earnest to his profession.

Arthur talked earnestly, nay enthusiastically of his profession, and
delighted in attending court when any great cause was being argued. But
for the reading Blackstone, Coke and Littleton he found heavy work, and
the dull routine of office business quite disgusting. He was fond of
general reading, and skimmed the surface of things with great rapidity.
He was quite a brilliant talker, too, for one so young, though more
remarkable for his fluency than facts, and always made an impression,
particularly on a first acquaintance. He had a decided reputation for
talents in general circles, though in the office Mr. Osgood never turned
to him when he wanted any thing of consequence done. He had soon found
that Ashhurst was the man for real work, and being a man of keen
perceptions, and but few words, he said nothing, but placed every thing
that required attention in his hands.

Arthur was unpopular with the young men of the office. They called him
“shallow and conceited.” The fact was, he assumed a superiority they
were unwilling to accord to him. He prided himself not only on his
talents, but his position, and thought they entitled him to a
consideration that he never dreamt of according to others.

He did not mean to give offence, nor was even aware of his haughty tone
of superiority, for it never occurred to him that his fellow-students
could put themselves on a footing of equality with himself. They did not
mix in the same circles—had neither fashion, nor wealth, nor
consequence of any kind. What claims had they to his civility? He looked
upon them merely as Mr. Osgood’s “clerks,” who did the underwork of the
office; and from a boy Arthur had only associated with lads as
delicately brought up as himself, and he now shrunk from the association
of others as an annoyance. He would rather they had not come between the
“wind and his nobility;” but since it was a “necessary evil,” he endured
it. Ashhurst was the only one of them with whom he was on any terms of
fellowship, and that was rather from early habit than from real feeling.
Besides Ashhurst’s family belonged to the same clique as his own, and
therefore was entitled to some respect, though Ashhurst himself seldom
frequented the gay circles of which Arthur formed quite a prominent
member. Mrs. Harrington delighted to see him conspicuous in society, and
looked anxiously around to select from the youthful belles of the day
the most distinguished for his wife. But Arthur showed no disposition to
lay his heart as yet on the shrine of any fair one. In fact he was too
much wrapped up in himself to find interest in others, and thereupon
grew fastidious, and gave himself airs. Perhaps this somewhat enhanced
his fashion, as he had the reputation of talent, and was decidedly good
looking; beside which, as the only son of a rich man, he was called a
“good match.” Ah! that _bon parti_—how much does it help and cover in
“good society.”

Much, therefore, was excused him that might not have been so kindly
received had circumstances been different. And so, what with reading a
little law, and a good deal of light literature, mixing much in society,
and doing none of the drudgery of the office, the three years of
Arthur’s preparatory studies glided by pleasantly enough, at the end of
which time he passed his examination, and supposed himself fairly
started for his future career. But there’s nothing brilliant in the life
of a _young_ lawyer, let his talents and application be what they may.
It’s hard work for the present with compensation in the future. Now
Arthur had never done work—real work—in his life. His quick abilities
had enabled him to skim the surface of subjects, and make a show with
whatever knowledge he had. But the law is not to be skated over so
rapidly; and Arthur had neither the taste, and, indeed, scarcely the
power now of the close application the dry study required; and not being
urged by necessity, he scorned the small business that might have fallen
in his way, and taught him something. He longed for a great cause—which
he could not have tried if he had got it; and being tired now of
society, panted for distinction, and became impatient and dissatisfied
with a profession which required labor, and brought in no immediate
returns of reputation. There was such a crowd, too, of young lawyers
that it was quite disgusting; and so he neglected his office rather
more, perhaps, than he had ever done Mr. Osgood’s, and began to turn his
weary, impatient spirit to politics, as the “only arena, after all,
worthy of a man of talent;” and “the lawyer rarely makes a great
statesman—the study contracts the mind; the most distinguished of them
seldom rises above a special pleader, when called upon in the more
elevated sphere of public business.”

Mr. Harrington died suddenly about this time—fell in the traces,
exhausted with the labors and anxieties of his arduous life; and it was
found to the surprise of most people, that his fortune was not the half
of what it had been estimated. No doubt it had been greater at different
times, but the variations of commercial affairs are known to all, and
Mr. Harrington had had his ups and downs as well as others. It happened
to be at one of these times of depression that he died, and the estate
he left was scarcely more than a comfortable provision for his wife and
son. Arthur was no longer looked upon as a young man of fortune; but
then he had what he had at command, and that satisfied him for the
present quite as well, and perhaps better, than fortune in perspective.
It enabled him to do as he chose just then, and gave him the immediate
consideration he wanted with a certain class of politicians. He attended
public meetings, and spoke frequently, and took sides hotly and
denounced men and measures that did not meet his views fiercely; and as
he threw himself with ardor in the opposition party, and spent
liberally, he was received with open arms and cheered heartily.

This was the excitement he had longed for. He now felt that he had
gained the open space he wanted, and his mother, flattered and
delighted, spoke of him as one of the leaders of the party. There’s no
telling the visions with which his brain now teemed; but as most
dreamers, whether waking or sleeping, are the principal figures in their
visions, so he himself always occupied the foreground in all his mental
pictures. Meantime his nights were passed chiefly in clubs, and halls,
and committee-rooms, where he condescended, in the hot conflict of
political feeling, to companionship he would once have stood aloof from
as from something quite contaminating. He made himself conspicuous at
the next election, expecting to be taken up after that as one of the
prominent men himself. But when the second term came round, Arthur saw
his means well nigh exhausted, and he no nearer the goal than when he
first started. His mortification and disappointment were extreme, when
he found he had no chance for any nomination whatever, either for
general, state, or even City Councils; for he would have been glad to
run for any thing rather than not run at all. But they would not even
take him up. In fact they found he was neither a useful nor a popular
man. Talents and information of a commanding order may dispense with the
minor morals of good manners; but Harrington’s conceit was not atoned
for by any such qualifications; and arrogance that is not backed by
decided talent and sound information meets with small favor from the
community at large.

And so he had had a few years of excitement, and spent his little
patrimony, and was now just where he had started—if that can be said of
any man, when years have passed over his head bringing neither added
reputation nor knowledge. He had lost time and gained nothing; and,
moreover, as we have said, had spent the little independence left him by
his father.

It was now necessary for him to do something, for though his mother
could give him a home, her fortune was not sufficient for them both.
There was his profession, which he hated. He could not go back and
drudge for dollars and cents. Beside it was too late—others that had
started with him had got before him. Those who had kept to the beaten
well-worn path, while he had been hunting for a short-cut, had reached
the goal before him. As for Ashhurst, he was not only doing a good
business, but beginning to be known. His name was mentioned with
respect, and he was often associated as junior counsel with the leaders
of the bar.

There, too, was his pen. But sketchy articles and slight productions,
which are kindly received as the efforts of a boy, elicit no applause
when coming from a man of mature years. And Harrington had not risen
with the public; he had been called a “youth of promise” when a lad, but
his manhood had not kept pace with the promise. He had made no friends
and some enemies in his state of political effervescence, when he had
dealt round accusations and epithets that scarcely even electioneering
excitement will excuse. So now what to do he knew not. He paused and
looked around, discomfited and mortified. He complained loudly, of
course, of the treatment that he had met with—for injustice, as we have
seen, had pursued Arthur from a boy, and now he was growing bitter—a
keen sense of ill-usage is sometimes a great comfort—and his mother
listened to his out-pourings with the deepest sympathy; for Arthur’s
ambition and conceit had been of her cultivation. She had planted the
seed, and now the tree over-shadowed her. She was deeply chagrined by
his failure in all he had undertaken, or rather, we should say,
commenced; for, like him, she did not comprehend that there is no
rail-road to fame. But still she did not give up. Matrimony, woman’s
great resource, was left him. She had always wanted him to marry; and
now an heiress seemed the readiest means of mending his broken fortunes.
Harrington himself saw no other; and so he entered society again with
other views beside amusement.

A new set of beaux and belles were occupying the places of those who had
been prominent when he first came forward; those who had been the gayest
of the dancers then, were now wives and mothers, and most of them
withdrawn from such assemblies. The men looked to him like boys, and the
“boys” returned the compliment, and called him an “old fellow.” The
beauties were most of them penniless; and it so happened that the few
girls of fortune in society just at that time, were any thing but
beauties; and Harrington wanted to suit his taste as well as his
necessities, and he hated to do any thing he did not like; and he
detested an ugly woman. He had always been very dainty of his feelings,
and he could now neither work nor marry, if it was not in exact
accordance with his taste. And, altogether, society did not seem to him
the same as it once had been. Somehow it had lost its zest and
freshness. He did not know where the change was, but he felt there was a
change that robbed it of all its charm.

The secret was, that he was no longer a person of consequence, and
excited no sensation among the young belles he saw around him. His first
glow of youth and beauty was gone; and he had acquired no reputation to
stand him in its stead in youthful eyes. He had no fortune either, and
mammas and daughters don’t court and flatter a _ci-devant jeune homme_,
who is no match. Nor was he called agreeable. He was bitter, and
cynical, and egotistical; and girls don’t want to talk to men who talk
always of themselves, particularly when there is nothing in their
attentions to flatter their vanity. Women expect either to be amused, or
to have their feelings interested, or their pride gratified. Now Arthur
Harrington did none of these things, and consequently he thought society
a “bore,” and society was beginning to return the compliment.

There was but one person who at all interested him, not that he thought
of her—for she had no fortune, and would not do—but still he admired
her. Sybil Effingham he could not look at nor listen to, without partly
forgetting himself. She was in truth a bright, spirited, beautiful
creature, high-toned, with a look of sensibility and
disinterestedness—a something to touch the imagination—altogether a
being that made him sigh as he thought of his altered fortunes; and
though he meant nothing, he could not help visiting at her father’s more
frequently than he thought quite prudent. To his surprise he
occasionally met Ashhurst there; and what surprised him more was the
consideration with which he was received when he did come. But Ashhurst
was now a marked man, distinguished for his age, and women always yield
a ready homage to talent, and delight in honoring those whom the world
honors. And, moreover, Ashhurst was a man to please, though Harrington
could not comprehend it; and, indeed, few men understand the female
taste in that respect. What is called a “lady’s man,” is not, as men
suppose, the most agreeable to women. Those are not the men who excite
enthusiastic and romantic attachments. A woman’s imagination must be
roused before her heart is deeply touched; and it is only a man of
superior mind and character that does that.

And Ashhurst’s was an earnest, vigorous spirit, and the beautiful Sybil
felt her soul awaken in his presence, and she listened to his words of
power and truth as she listened to no other man. But if Harrington was
surprised and vexed to see the reputation and ascendancy Ashhurst was
gaining, his feelings were as nothing to his mother’s on the subject. It
was really amusing to see the tenacity with which she clung to early
impressions, (and Mrs. Harrington was a woman who had great faith in her
own “impressions.”) She had pronounced him then a “heavy boy,” and
altogether thought him a very coarse piece of clay, compared to her son
of delicate porcelain; and how he had stood the fire and heat, and come
out so much truer tempered through the rough usage of the world, was a
matter she did not comprehend or patiently acquiesce in.

But to return to Arthur. He found it would not do to spend his time
dangling after Sybil Effingham; and, perhaps, the coolness with which
she received his attentions helped to awaken him to their folly; and
about this time, too, a really pretty, high-bred heiress made her
appearance on the horizon of fashion, and set all the gay world in a
commotion, and among the first and most assiduous of her admirers was
Arthur Harrington. But the young lady, like most heiresses and beauties,
knew her own claims quite as well as anybody, and expected as much for
her money as Arthur could for his name and talents; and so, to his great
wrath and amazement, he was coolly rejected.

Her fashion and beauty were now his misfortunes, as in making her
prominent in society, they also made her suitors conspicuous, and
consequently, Arthur’s rejection was immediately as well known to the
public as if it had been published in the papers; and he who one heiress
wont have, another is very apt to refuse, because he has already been
rejected—and one or two offers settles him as a fortune-hunter, and
then his business is done.

And so it was with our hero. And this mortification he and his mother
felt more keenly, perhaps, than all the rest—for there could be no
injustice or foul play in these cases; and angry though he might be, he
could not complain. He anathematized the whole sex in his heart, and
said to his mother,

“I’ve supported politics—let politics now support me.” The meaning of
which grand sentiment was, that he would turn office-seeker—a party
politician for private purposes—the meanest of all professions.

Meanwhile Ashhurst had won the beautiful Sybil; and not only that, but
was deemed a great match for her, for he had made an independence and a
name, and might justly look forward to the highest honors that are open
to genius and industry.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“That Harrington is a disagreeable man,” was one day remarked by some
one, “he abuses every body—only no one cares for his abuse.”

“He’s a disappointed man,” was the reply.

“Disappointed!” rejoined the first speaker, “I like that! And what right
has _he_ to be disappointed? What are his claims to any thing more than
he has?”

“Well, I hardly know,” replied the other, smiling, “now that you bring
me to the point. But, somehow, we all expected Harrington to make a
figure in the world; and why he has not done so I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said the first speaker; “because he’s a poor
creature—there’s no stamina in him. He has neither vigor of mind or
character. He’s been cursed with ambition without industry. He has not
the energy to act out his own dreams. He was just one of those promising
youths who never come to any thing.”

“Pity ’tis true; but there’s no reputation without labor; and he who
expects it, will turn out like Arthur Harrington, bitter and cynical. He
may give himself the airs of a disappointed man, but that does not alter
the fact of his being only a ‘poor creature.’”

And so Arthur Harrington sunk to a place-hunter; and, poor devil! “To
dig he was unable, and beg he was ashamed.”

                 *        *        *        *        *


[Illustration: Your ob^{t} Serv^{t}
 Z. Taylor


_Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1847 by Geo. R. Graham
in the Clerks’ office of the District Court for the Eastern District of

                 *        *        *        *        *

                        GENERAL ZACHARY TAYLOR.

A Memoir of Gen. Taylor’s life is, to one who writes it with no purpose
but to do justice to a bright particular star in the constellation of
our country’s patriots, a pleasant and easy task; for his career and
character present no inconsistencies to be reconciled, no acts that
crave vindication. His actions form his eulogy; and the severest
narrative of what he is, and what he has done, is the most appropriate
tribute to his modesty and merit, and to the gratitude and admiration of
his country.

Zachary Taylor is descended from one of the oldest and most
distinguished families of those who, two centuries since, settled in
Virginia; and is kindred to James Madison, John Taylor of Caroline,
Judge Pendleton, and others, the most ardent and spotless patriots of
their time. His father was one of the pioneers of Kentucky, one of those
who worshiped with their rifles beside them, and listened, in the pauses
of their labor, for the yell of the Indian. Of the heroes of the dark
and bloody ground he is said to have been the most daring. To that
wilderness of wo, for such it then was, he bore his family, including
Zachary, who was born in Orange county, Virginia, in the year 1790. It
was under these auspices that the young hero was educated. His way to
school was beset by savage foes, and in one instance, one of his mates
snatched from him by the Indians. There could be no better school to
form the mind and fix the character of the warrior, to teach caution and
thoughtfulness, and to inspire enterprise and a contempt of danger. This
education—the education of early Kentucky—has been admirably described
by Byron, in his verses on Boone—

        And tall and strong, and swift of foot were they,
          Beyond the dwarfing cities’ pale abortions,
        Because their thoughts had never been the prey
          Of care or gain; the green woods were their portions;
        No sinking spirits told them they grew gray,
          No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
        Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
        Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.

Derived from such a stock, and invigorated by such an education, he
grew, as might be expected, a man ardent but thoughtful, bold but
guarded—one likely to be successful in any sphere, and if after life
afforded the means of maturing his powers, certain to be eminent. His
early life abounds in anecdotes characteristic of generous and noble
qualities, which, though derived from the best authority, our limits
compel us to omit. From the first to the last, he has been regarded by
those who knew him as above the common stature of his fellow men. In his
retirement he was characterized as one whose genius and power were
adequate to any exigency, civil or military, and who lacked only an
opportunity to leave his name

        “A light and landmark on the cliff of fame.”

He has ever possessed those rare faculties which induce the trust of
others; to him has always been consigned the task which involved most of
peril and demanded most of the power which overcomes it; and it is
singular that every prominent action of his life has been a conflict
with an adverse superiority, in which he has always triumphed. The
greatest generals of the past have been applauded as fortunate; but
Taylor has triumphed, at every step, with fortune against him. He has
trusted nothing to luck; his achievements have been the result of a
genius fertile in resources, prompt in their application, resolute to
the exclusion of a doubt, and energetic to compel the result which had
been determined upon.

The outrages of England upon our commerce fired every generous spirit in
the west, and as early as 1808, about the time when the outrage upon the
Chesapeake thrilled through every nerve of the republic, young Taylor
determined to wed his fortunes with those of his country. The character
and the influence of his family readily secured him a commission as
lieutenant in the seventh infantry. He addressed himself with
characteristic ardor to his profession, and before the war broke out,
had arisen to the rank of captain. His first commission was granted by
Jefferson, his second and third by Madison, his fourth by Jackson, and
his subsequent commissions by Polk. He received the first reward of
valor, granted in the last war—a brevet majority; and his rise to his
present lofty position has been gained, not from the patient indolence
of rank, but from brevets for victories.

The most vulnerable point of our country, in the commencement of the
last war, was the sparsely settled West, encompassed as it was by
ferocious Indians in the pay of the British Government. This was
naturally the sphere of exertion for the young hero. In a war abounding
with almost daily and ever deadly skirmishes with the Indians, he was,
of course, exposed to a series of perilous adventures which escape the
attention of the historian. He was early appointed to the command of one
of the most important defences of the west, Fort Harrison. In this post
he won the first laurels, and the first brevet, of the late war—the
oldest brevet in the army.

Fort Harrison, a rude structure, was garrisoned by fifty men, though but
ten or fifteen were in health and effective; and it was crowded with the
sick, with women and children. Every precaution had been taken, though
it was impossible to raise a guard of more than six men and two
commissioned officers. It was known that the Indians, in great strength,
were in the vicinity; and at 11 o’clock on the night of September 3d,
1812, the attack was made. The odds were fearful; and the fort, though
it contained many souls, could boast few prepared to meet the exigency.
The night was dark, and the forests rang with the yells of hundreds of
Indians. The little band, forewarned of their danger, were at their
posts. But scarcely had the attack been made, before a broad glare of
light, rising in the gloom of midnight, informed the feeble garrison
that the block-house connected with the fort had been fired by the
Indians. Every being, save Taylor, within the fort, was panic-stricken
at this terrible intelligence. The alternative seemed a death in the
flames, or by the tomahawks of the Indians. The yells of the Indians,
the shrieks of the devoted women and children, heard above the reports
of the Indian rifles, which poured a death-shower upon the fort,
appalled the garrison, who, enveloped in smoke, and exposed by the glare
of the conflagration to the rifles of the foe, shrank and cowered. It
was the trial-hour that determined the character of the young hero. He
rose above the exigency; he rallied his few assistants, disconnected the
block-house from the fort, by throwing off the roof, subdued the fire,
fortified the gap made by the destruction of the block-house, and, after
a desperate encounter of seven hours, drove off the overwhelming force
that beleaguered him. The triumph was his alone; for all, save he, had
fettered under what seemed an inevitable doom. In his after career he
has encountered no darker danger; and this achievement, though small the
numbers under his command, forms a worthy opening to the daring and
lustrous actions which followed.

He held the fort until the population of the West gathering around him,
rendered the post secure. For this achievement he was brevetted by
Madison, and admired by the nation; but, although glowing with a desire
to distinguish himself in the fields that followed, his orders compelled
him to remain in the seat of dangers which he had proved himself so well
qualified to encounter. In active and perilous service in this section
of the country, he remained until the close of the war, and long after.
A soldier of the republic, he has never repined at any duty imposed upon
him, and never desired to gratify his ambition by abandoning an humble
post to win laurels in other and more favorable fields. He was, however,
distinguished in all the operations in the west; and in the expedition
of Major Gen. Hopkins, received, in the dispatches of that officer,
thanks “for a prompt and effectual support in every instance.”

In the war of 1832, against Black Hawk and his tribe, Col. Taylor was
actively engaged. He commanded the regulars, under Gen. Atkinson, in the
trying march through the wilderness, in pursuit of Black Hawk; and was
at their head in the destructive and decisive battle of the Wisconsin.
The result of that battle was the capture of Black Hawk and the Prophet,
who were surrendered to Col. Taylor. This sanguinary conflict closed the

Col. Taylor remained in the West, in command of different posts, until
the period of the Florida War. In this long interval of peace, his
attention was directed to study, and to the improvement of his private
fortune. He married a lady of Maryland, who blessed his fire-side with
one son and two daughters, one of whom married Col. Davis, of the
Mississippi regiment, severely wounded at Buena Vista. During this
period Col. Taylor, (for in 1832 he was advanced to that rank,)
established, throughout the entire west, a reputation for enlarged
intelligence, bold sagacity, and high moral character, which marked him
out as the hero of an exigency. Such an one arrived, and secured for him
the confidence and admiration of the government and the nation.

It is unnecessary to characterize the failures of the Florida War, or
the war itself. It is sufficient to say that our boldest and best sank
under its hardships, and were left to the wolf of the wilderness, while
no encounter won laurels, and no advantage promised success. Col. Taylor
was, in 1836, ordered to Florida, and soon became distinguished for his
energy, perseverance, and indomitable hardihood and resolution. His
determination was to bring the Seminoles to battle, and this was
effected by efforts of the most extraordinary character.

On the 19th of December, 1837, he received intelligence that all efforts
for conciliation had failed, and being then in command of the first
brigade, at Fort Gardiner, he struck into the wilderness. He bore but
twelve days’ rations, and had with him about one thousand men. He had
learned that the Seminoles and Mickasaukies, under their chiefs,
Alligator and Sam Jones, had selected a post deemed impregnable, and
that they challenged him to the encounter. Advancing with caution but
celerity, and overcoming every obstacle, he arrived on the 25th of
December at the point selected by the enemy, upon the lake of
Okeechobee. They were concealed in a thick hammock, which could only be
approached by a swamp three quarters of a mile in breadth, covered with
grass five feet high, and knee deep in mud and water. Our forces
advanced; the volunteers were received with a fire from the hammock, and
after a brief resistance, retired across the swamp. The regulars,
however, persisted in advancing, and drove the enemy back. The struggle
was terribly severe. The advantages were all against us. Our officers
signalized themselves by their valor, and many of them fell. The battle
lasted from half past twelve until three P. M. The immediate command of
Col. Taylor suffered most severely; and his own preservation,
conspicuous as he was, for he refused to dismount, was almost
miraculous. Our victory was complete. The enemy received a blow which,
more than any thing that occurred during the war, broke their spirits
and prepared them for submission. The loss of Col. Taylor was severe. To
use his own words, “besides the killed, there lay one hundred and twelve
wounded, officers and soldiers, who had accompanied me one hundred and
forty-five miles, most of the way through an unexplored wilderness,
without guides, who had so gallantly beaten the enemy, under my orders,
in his strongest position.” His humanity was, however, as conspicuous as
his valor; and though the wounded were conveyed back to their post with
incredible difficulty and labor, every thing was done which the most
delicate sensibility could have suggested in their behalf. The
detachment commanded by Col. Taylor in this desperate encounter numbered
about five hundred. The enemy were seven hundred strong, and from their
concealment, and the extraordinary advantages of their position,
confidently calculated upon a victory. The battle was the most
successful of the war; and the victory was only won by an extraordinary
effort of heroism—more than one-fourth of the whole number engaged
being killed or wounded.

The government appreciated, applauded, and rewarded the conduct and
heroism of Taylor in this bloody conflict, and immediately promoted him
to the brevet rank of brigadier general, and gave him the chief command
of the war. On taking this command he fixed his head-quarters at Tampa
Bay, and continued to prosecute what was termed “a war of movements,”
with a vigor and enterprise which no ordinary energy of mind and body
could have endured. The foe, after the lesson taught at Okeechobee,
afforded him no subsequent opportunity of meeting them in a general
battle; but in the prosecution of a contest peculiarly exhausting and
dangerous, he manifested the rarer qualities of patience, vigilance, and
unwearied promptitude and vigor which form so large a part in the
character of a great military leader.

In 1840 he was relieved from duty in Florida, and in the following year
was assigned to the command of the second department on the Arkansas, in
which station he continued, performing his duties with characteristic
diligence and success, until the difficulties with Mexico opened a new
and more glorious career for the development of those powers matured by
so long a career of arduous and devoted service.

In prospect of the annexation of Texas, Gen. Taylor received from the
Department an order, dated 17th September, ordering him to hold the
troops under his command in readiness to march into Texas, and repel any
hostile incursion of Indians. An “Army of Observation” upon the
south-western frontier having been determined upon, the Administration
selected Gen. Taylor for that command. The relations of our country
rendered it a post of great difficulty, requiring the highest qualities
of civil and military intellect; and the choice of Gen. T. in preference
to those of superior rank, was a distinguished evidence of the
confidence of the Government. He was commanded to take a position
between the Neuces and Rio Grande; and in August, 1845, established his
camp at Corpus Christi. The army remained in this position until March
11th, 1846.

Having received positive orders to take a position upon the eastern bank
of the Rio Grande, Gen. Taylor commenced his march. At the Rio Colorado
he was met with a stern resistance, and assured that an attempt to cross
would be followed by actual hostilities. It is scarcely necessary to add
that he crossed, notwithstanding. On the 24th, Gen. Taylor left the
advancing army, and, with a body of dragoons, repaired to Point Isabel,
which place he occupied, and received, from steamboats opportunely
arriving, supplies for the army. Gen. Taylor soon rejoined the army; a
position was occupied opposite Matamoras, and the army proceeded to
fortify their camp. On the 11th of April, Gen. Ampudia, in command at
Matamoras, summoned Gen. Taylor to break up his camp, and retire beyond
the Neuces within twenty-fours, adding that if he did not, arms alone
must decide the question. In reply, Gen. Taylor informed him that his
instructions would not permit him to retrograde from the position he

Col. Cross, of our army, having been murdered when absent, and alone,
some distance from the camp, a party was, on the 17th, sent to discover
and seize the murderers. They were set upon by a large party of
Mexicans, and some of them killed. On the 19th, Gen. Taylor blockaded
the Rio Grande, a measure which elicited an immediate protest from
Ampudia; and it was vindicated by Taylor as the necessary result of the
Mexican declaration of a determination to commence, and actually
commencing, hostilities. The character of the two letters is in singular
contrast, that of Gen. Taylor being high-toned and masterly, but
moderate and courteous. A collision had, from the first movement to
occupy the western bank of the Rio Grande, been inevitable; and every
day precipitated that result. Addresses, over the signature of the
Mexican general, were scattered throughout our camp, inviting desertion.
The communications between Fort Brown and Point Isabel were forcibly
interrupted by large bodies of the enemy. The war had begun. On the
first of May Gen. Taylor took up his line of march for Point Isabel,
leaving a small but sufficient force at Fort Brown. His departure was
the signal for a furious but ineffectual attack, which resulted in the
death of the gallant commander, Major Brown, and continued until the
glorious return of Gen. Taylor.

The course of Gen. Taylor in this trying emergency has elicited the
praise of the greatest surviving captain of the age—Wellington. The
exigency was a fearful one. Surrounded by an enemy greatly superior in
force, his supplies limited, and all communication cut off, he resolved,
not on retreat—for he left his flag flying in face of the enemy—but on
resuming his position. He reached Point Isabel, May the 3d, without
interruption; and the Mexicans exulted in the division of his army—one
portion at Fort Brown, and another at Point Isabel, and a superior force
between them. Intelligence was received at this latter place of the
successful resistance of Fort Brown, and the embodiment of vast masses
of Mexican troops to oppose the return of Gen. Taylor. He waited for no
reinforcements, although they were daily expected; he did not even take
with him the untrained soldiers at Point Isabel—for the conflict was to
be one in which the blenching of a single company might be ruin. On the
7th of May he moved forward, and the next day, about noon, at Palo Alto,
he found the enemy. His force consisted of less than 2300 men—the enemy
had in the field 6000 regular troops, the irregular force not known. He
encountered the flower of the Mexican army, fully equipped, provided
with ten pieces of artillery, and confident of victory.

Gen. Taylor paused a time, that his panting host might slake their
thirst in the water of Palo Alto, and then moved on to the conflict. The
enemy were drawn in line of battle, stretching a mile and a half across
the plain—their resplendent lancers in advance on the left, and their
overpowering masses of infantry, and batteries of artillery forming the
rest of the line. On our side, Col. Twiggs commanded, with the 3d, 4th,
and 5th infantry, and Ringgold’s artillery, on the right; Col. Belknap
on the left, with the 8th, and Duncan’s artillery; and Lieutenant
Churchill commanded the two eighteen pounders in the centre. The battle
was almost wholly one of artillery—and never did artillery such service
as ours that day. Ringgold opened with terrible effect; the gallant
cavalry of the enemy fell as if smitten by lightning; yet they
recovered, and making a sweep, threatened our rear, where they were met
and repelled by the infantry in square. While Ringgold mowed his fatal
harvest on the right, Duncan on the left poured volley upon volley into
the reeling columns of the foe; and in the centre, the two eighteen
pounders kept up a steady and staggering fire. Still the enemy,
notwithstanding the obvious superiority of our artillery, maintained
their fire with vigor, and urged the battle with determination. At
length, as if to swell the horror of the scene, the prairie took fire,
and for a time veiled the combatants from each other, and stayed the
contest. When suddenly dashing, like incarnate spirits, through the
flames, which rose ten feet high, Duncan and his men took position on
the flank of the enemy, and opened with terrific effect, rolling back
the ranks of the enemy, who recoiled in confusion. Assailed in front and
flank, they retired into the chapparal; and thus night found the
combatants—the victors encamping where they fought, amid the dying and
the dead, with the promise of a bitterer and bloodier conflict for the
morrow. That night the Mexicans retired to Resaca de la Palma. Their
loss was two hundred killed and four hundred wounded; and ours was four
men killed, three officers, and thirty-seven men wounded, several
mortally, and among the latter, Major Ringgold and Capt. Page.

Gen. Taylor’s bearing in this battle was marked by every trait that
ennobles a hero. But his victory had not relieved him from the danger
that over-shadowed his little host. He had won glory, but not safety.
Should he advance, it must be against an enemy overpowering in his
superiority of numbers, and with an advantage of position. A council was
held on the early morn of the next day. Its advice was against an
advance; Gen. Taylor closed its deliberations by declaring that, if
living, he would sleep that night in Fort Brown. The army advanced
against the foe.

The next morning disclosed the retreat of the Mexicans. Reinforced by
2000 men, they had selected a position of great strength, with a ravine
in front, guarded by a pond on one flank, and the chapparal on the
other, defending their position with eight pieces of artillery, and with
a vast superiority of force, they awaited the approach of the American
army. Their expectations were not baffled. The field is known, and will
be remembered as Resaca de la Palma.

The advance of our army was accompanied by every precaution, and at
length the presence of the enemy was ascertained. The artillery of
Lieut. Ridgely moved rapidly to the front and encountered that of the
enemy. The infantry, meanwhile, pressed upon those on the right, and
though met with resolution, succeeded in penetrating through the
chapparal, and gaining his flank; while on the left a murderous fire was
kept up by our advancing troops. But, in the centre, the enemy
maintained a steady and destructive fire, from which Gen. Taylor, when
entreated to do so, refused to retire. Lieut. Ridgely, unlimbering,
advanced, from time to time, toward the enemy, discharging his canister
at a distance of one hundred yards upon the foe. The Mexicans, however,
with a well-directed fire, continued to sweep our lines. At this crisis
Gen. Taylor ordered Capt. May to charge the battery with his dragoons.
His words were, “_Capt. May, you must take it_.” That gallant officer,
saying to his company, “Men, we must take it,” leapt to the charge. It
was successful. With those who survived the discharge with which they
were met, he swept through the enemy’s line, and was immediately
followed and sustained by a fierce onslaught from the infantry at the
point of the bayonet. The enemy’s centre was broken, and the fortune of
the day decided. The flight of the Mexicans became general, and was soon
hurried into panic by the ardor of the victors. Every thing was left to
the conqueror; and rushing on in one confused mass, the Mexicans
trampled down each other in the eagerness of fear. The victory was
complete as it was wonderful. Never, in any field, was the omnipotence
of heroism more signally displayed; and of those most calm, yet most
ardent—in every chasm made by the swoop of the artillery—in every
scene that demanded the cool, clear intellect, and the daring heart—the
foremost was Taylor.

This conflict was one to be remembered. Taylor brought into the action
but 1700 wearied men, against a force of at least 6000, well
disciplined, officered and conditioned. The enemy had every advantage of
position, and that position was not only strong, but was valiantly
maintained. The victory was the result of no sudden panic on the part of
the enemy; it was wrested from them by fair, open, hard fighting. Our
loss in this contest was about 110 killed and wounded. That of the enemy
was probably tenfold, though not ascertained, as many perished in the
river. The triumph was affluent in standards, artillery, prisoners and
other evidences of victory. To use the language of Gen. Taylor’s
dispatch—“Our victory has been decisive. A small force has overcome
immense odds of the best troops Mexico can furnish—veteran regiments,
perfectly equipped and appointed.”

Gen. Taylor’s promise was fulfilled, and Fort Brown was rescued. But it
was found impossible immediately to follow up the victory. Every
obstacle was, however, by untiring energy and perseverance overcome;
when, on the 17th of May, Arista offered an armistice. It was now too
late: the offer was declined. The next day Taylor, without resistance,
took possession of Matamoras.

His instructions required his advance into the interior, but for a long
period, a period filled up by the hero with impatient protests to the
War Department, and entreaties for further means of transportation, and
anxious efforts, on his own part, to supply them, he was compelled to
remain inactive. At length, however, the army was set in motion. Its
object was Monterey, a place strong by nature, amply fortified, and
maintained by an army of 7000 troops of the line, and 3000 irregulars.
Against this stronghold he marched with an army comprising 425 officers,
and 6220 men. Against the forty-two pieces of cannon of the Mexicans, he
arrayed but one 10 inch mortar, two 24 pounder howitzers, and four light
field batteries of four guns each—the mortar being the only piece
suitable to the operations of a siege. With these fearful odds against
him he advanced upon Monterey.

Gen. Taylor arrived before the city on the 19th, and established his
camp three miles from its defences. Reconnaissances were made, and it
was found possible to turn the position of the enemy, and gain the
heights in his rear. The gallant Worth was detached upon this duty, and
to carry the enemy’s works. From this moment the operations became
two-fold—the assailing party of Worth being independent of the command
of Taylor, and the object of the latter principally to divert the enemy
from Worth.

This order was given on the 19th; and the next day at 2 o’clock Worth
moved forward, and succeeded in reaching a position above the Bishop’s
Palace. The succeeding morning, that of the 21st, commenced the conflict
which determined the fate of Monterey. Worth pressing forward,
encountered the enemy in force, and overcame him; he gained the Saltillo
road, and cut off his communications; and he succeeded in carrying two
heights west of the Saltillo road, and turned a gun on one of them upon
the Bishop’s Palace. These triumphs were confident auguries of victory.
Meanwhile, a vigorous assault was made upon the city from below, by the
force under Gen. Taylor. It would be vain to attempt a description in
limits so brief as those allotted us, of this terrific and bloody
contest. Our loss was heavy, from the character of the enemy’s defences,
and the daring ardor of our troops; and where it was heaviest, Gen.
Taylor, seeming to bear a charmed life, was exposed unhurt. His object
was, however, attained; he diverted attention from the operations of
Gen. Worth, carried one of the enemy’s advanced works, and secured a
strong foothold in the town. Thus passed the third day of this desperate
conflict. The fourth saw Worth victorious at every point. The Bishop’s
Palace was taken at dawn, the palace itself at mid-day; while the force
under Taylor pressed upon the city, the lower part of which was
evacuated that night. On the fifth day, the 23d, the troops under Taylor
advanced from square to square, every inch of ground being desperately
disputed, until they reached within a square of the principal Plaza;
while Worth, with equal vigor, pressed onward, encountering and
overcoming difficulties insuperable, except to such energies as he
commanded. At length the period had arrived for a concerted storm of the
enemy’s position, which was determined upon for the ensuing day. The
morning, however, brought an offer of capitulation. The negotiation
resulted in the surrender of the city. This victory, though won at the
expense of about 500 hundred killed and wounded, secured the possession
of an immense territory, and a vast amount of military spoil.

Monterey now became Gen. Taylor’s head-quarters. Saltillo and Parras
were occupied; and the Mexicans fell back to San Luis Potosi. This
movement was, however, the precursor of a fresh and most formidable
effort against our army under Gen. Taylor. Santa Anna was recalled to
Mexico, and placed at the head of the government and army. He proceeded
immediately to raise and organize an army, and before December, had
20,000 men under his command. With this force he determined to encounter
and crush Taylor, and redeem the extensive provinces conquered by the
Americans. While he was thus engaged, our government, for the purposes
of an attack upon Vera Cruz, withdrew from Gen. Taylor the most
effective portion of his force, leaving him with an extended line of
territory to defend, a formidable foe in front, and a small force,
principally untried volunteers, with which to encounter the enemy. He
was advised by the Department to retire to Monterey, and there defend
himself; but such a policy would have opened the entire country, as far
as the Rio Grande, and probably the Neuces, to the enemy, and have given
a severe, if not fatal, blow to our arms. He therefore determined to
encounter the foe at an advanced position, and selected Buena Vista for
that purpose. This field was admirably chosen, and the hero and his
little band there awaited the shock of his powerful adversary. Santa
Anna brought 20,000 men into the field, and was encountered by a force
of 334 officers and 4425 men.

On the 22d of February, Santa Anna summoned Gen. Taylor to surrender,
vaunting his immense superiority, and the impossibility of successful
resistance. The hero’s reply was a brief and polite refusal. It was
followed by the attack of the Mexicans upon our extreme right, in an
effort to gain our flank, and the skirmishing was continued until night.
During the night the enemy threw a body of light troops on the mountain
side, with the purpose of out-flanking the left of our army; and at an
early hour the next morning the engagement here commenced. Our limits
will not permit us to give its details. On the part of the Mexicans it
was conducted with consummate skill, and maintained with courage and
obstinacy. Overpowering masses of troops were poured upon our weakest
points, and at several periods of the battle their success seemed almost
inevitable. But Gen. Taylor was found equal to every crisis of the
conflict. Calm, collected, and resolved, he rose superior to the danger
of his situation, and compelled a victory. It is admitted by all who
were present, that no man but Gen. Taylor could have won the victory of
Buena Vista. The battle raged with variable success for ten hours; and
the carnage on both sides was terrible. At length night put an end to
the conflict. The Americans slept upon the field of their heroic
achievements; and the foe, shattered and disheartened, retired, and the
next day were in full retreat to San Luis Potosi. Our loss in this
extraordinary conflict was 267 killed, and 456 wounded; that of the
enemy was from 1500 to 2000. A distinguished officer present, thus
describes the demeanor of Gen. Taylor during the battle:

“During the day an officer approached our lines with a flag of truce,
and requested to be shown to General Taylor. The brave old man was
sitting quietly on his white charger, with his leg over the pommel of
the saddle, watching the movements of the enemy, when the Mexican
officer was presented. In a very courteous and graceful manner the
officer stated that ‘he had been sent by his excellency General Santa
Anna to his excellency General Taylor, to inquire, in the most
respectful manner, what he (General Taylor) was waiting for?’ From the
silence of General Taylor’s batteries, and the quiet manner in which he
received Santa Anna’s terrific cannonading, the Mexican supposed he was
asking a very proper question; to which, however, old Rough and Ready
gave the very pertinent reply that ‘he was only waiting for General
Santa Anna to surrender.’ The Mexican returned hastily to his lines.
This message proved to be a _ruse_ to ascertain where General Taylor’s
position was, for after the return of the Mexican officer to his own
ranks, the whole Mexican battery seemed to open upon Gen. Taylor’s
position, and the balls flew over and about him like hail. Utterly
indifferent to the perils of his situation, there sat the old chief on
his conspicuous white horse, peering through his spy-glass at the long
lines of Mexican troops that could be seen at a great distance on the
march. The persuasion of his aids could not induce him to abandon his
favorite point of observation, nor to give up his old white horse. To
the suggestions of his staff that ‘old whitey’ was rather too
conspicuous a charger for the commander, he replied, that ‘the old
fellow had missed the fun at Monterey, on account of a sore foot, and he
was determined he should have his share this time.’”

The victory of Buena Vista closed the war in that quarter of Mexico.
Since that period Gen. Taylor has found no enemy willing or able to
encounter him.

The character of Gen. Taylor has been throughout his life, from the
commencement of his career of victory at Fort Harrison down to the
present moment, consistent and self-sustained. Its leading trait has
been a disinterested devotion to his country, and the dedication of his
life and energies to its service. In public and in private, he has
always been distinguished for the lofty and iron integrity of an
Aristides or Cincinnatus. Always independent and self reliant, he owes
nothing to the patronage of the great, or the partiality of the
powerful, but has fought his way up to the lofty eminence which he now
occupies in the minds and hearts of his countrymen. His triumphs have
been won by his own genius and virtues—his own counsels have directed,
his own energies sustained him. His vigor of character, his power of
will, and fertility of resources, have swept every obstacle from his
path; laborious and intense in his exertions, patient and perseverant in
the pursuit of his object, he has risen superior to the most perilous
exigencies, and made every trial a triumph. To these high qualities he
has added a sagacity which nothing could baffle or elude, and which, in
the course of his long career, has in no emergency been found in error.
Unerring and profound, it has been prompt to discover every advantage
and powerful to improve it. His dispatches, in answer to questions
propounded by the Department, in relation to the general policy,
disclose a grasp and comprehension of intellect, an extent of
information, and a depth of judgment that would distinguish any living
statesman; while the style of his correspondence, simple, but polished,
eloquent, but unostentatious, may be and has frequently been cited as a
model of that species of composition. Gen. Taylor’s disposition is
kindly and affectionate; his heart glows with benevolence, and his
manners are gentle and pleasing. To those under his command his demeanor
has ever been paternal and affectionate; and he has been rewarded in a
devotion on their part as zealous and ardent as any which soldiers ever
cherished for the hero that led them to victory. To his officers his
deportment has always been generous, affording them, as in the case of
Worth, every opportunity to win distinction, and eager to secure for
them the admiration and reward which they merited. Even the foe not only
learned to fear him as an enemy, but to revere him as a protector. His
refusal to sack Monterey and expose the helpless and innocent women and
children to the mercy of the flushed soldier, rough, and hard of heart,
will be remembered as one of the noblest incidents of the war. His
tenderness to the wounded of the foe, and his anxiety to secure
sepulture for their dead, approve him to be as humane as he is heroical.
Gen. Taylor is now fifty-seven years of age; he is about five feet ten
inches in height, well built, muscular and hardy in his appearance. Our
portrait may be relied upon as a correct and characteristic delineation
of the features of one who will hereafter live in the most cherished
affections of our people, and on the brightest page of our country’s

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           TO ——, AT PARTING.

                         BY CAROLINE A. BRIGGS.

    Thou sayest thou wilt ne’er forget;
      That I shall ever be
    A green spot on Life’s desert waste,
      A star of love to thee—
    A ray to cheer and warm—and yet,
    Believe it not; thou _wilt_ forget!

    A few short years perchance thou’lt keep
      My mem’ry fresh and green,
    Recalling e’en each look of mine,
      Without a mist between—
    And think ’twill _aye_ be so—and yet,
    Believe it not; _thou wilt forget_!

    I’ve met with friends who’ve vowed to me,
      To love through good and ill;
    To cherish me till life’s great pulse
      Within their hearts grew still—
    Forgetting me, oh, ne’er!—and yet,
    Alas! Alas! they _did_ forget.

    My name to them is now like some
      Dim mem’ry of a song
    They used to love to listen to—
      But that was long since—_long_—
    ’Tis charmless now—and yet, and yet,
    They _said_ they never would forget.

    A little time, and thou wilt write
      My name all names above,
    And then, perchance, thou too wilt find
      Some dearer one to love—
    Some fairer one whom thou hast met,
    And I, alas! thou WILT forget!

    Believe it not that I shall live
      Within thy heart for aye;
    Recall this weary parting hour,
      Some future, distant day—
    And thou wilt start to find that yet.
    With _all_ thy care, _thou_ DID’ST _forget_!

                 *        *        *        *        *


                       TRANSLATED BY ALICE GREY.

    Fallen is the lofty column, the laurel green;
      The refuge sweet of my o’er wearied thought.
      I have lost that, which may in vain be sought
    The stormy North and the sweet South between.
    My dearest treasure death’s cold arms enfold,
      The joy and glory of my every hour;
      And Earth cannot restore it; nor can power,
    Nor oriental gems, nor hoards of gold.
      Since fate such sorrow doth for me prepare,
    How can I choose but bear a bleeding heart,
    Eyes ever moist, and looks by grief inspired?
      Oh life! which seen afar appears so fair,
    How often in one morning doth depart,
    That which long years of suffering had acquired.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                              SALLY LYON’S


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR.

When Sally Lester gave her hand in marriage to Ralph Lyon, she was a
delicate, timid girl of eighteen, who had passed the spring-time of life
happily beneath her father’s roof. To her, care, anxiety, and trouble
were yet strangers. The first few years of her married life passed
happily—for Ralph was one of the kindest of husbands, and suffered his
wife to lean upon him so steadily, that the native strength of her own
character remained undeveloped.

Ralph Lyon was an industrious mechanic, who always had steady work and
good wages. Still, he did not seem to get ahead as some others did,
notwithstanding Sally was a frugal wife, and did all her own work,
instead of putting him to the expense of help in the family. Of course,
this being the case, it was evident that there was a leak somewhere, but
where it was neither Ralph nor his wife could tell.

“Thomas Jones has bought the piece of ground next to his cottage,” said
Ralph one day to Sally, “and says that next year he hopes to be able to
put up a small frame-house, big enough for them to live in. He paid
sixty dollars for the lot, and it is at least a quarter of an acre. He
is going to put it all in garden this spring, and says he will raise
enough to give him potatoes, and other vegetables for a year to come. It
puzzles me to know how he saves money. He doesn’t get any better wages
than I do, and his family is quite as large.”

“I am sure,” returned Sally, who felt that there was something like a
reflection upon her in what her husband said, “that Nancy Jones doesn’t
spend her husband’s earnings more frugally than I do mine. Every week
she has a woman to help her wash, and I do it all myself.”

“I am sure it isn’t your fault—at least I don’t think it is,” replied
Ralph; “but something is wrong somewhere. I don’t spend any thing at
all, except for a glass or two every day, and a little tobacco; and
this, of course, couldn’t make the difference.”

Sally said nothing. A few glasses a-day and tobacco, she knew, must cost
something, though, like her husband, she did not believe it would make
the difference of buying a quarter of an acre of ground, and building a
snug cottage in the course of a few years.

Let us see how this is. Perhaps we can find out the leak that wasted the
substance of Ralph Lyon. He never drank less than three glasses a-day,
and sometimes four; and his tobacco cost, for smoking and chewing, just
twelve and a half cents a week. Now, how much would all this amount to?
Why, to just sixty-five dollars a year, provided but three glasses a-day
were taken, and nothing was spent in treating a friend. But the limit
was not always observed, and the consequence was, that, take the year
through, at least eighty dollars were spent in drinking, smoking, and
chewing. Understanding this, the thing is very plain. In four years,
eighty dollars saved in each year would give the handsome sum of three
hundred and twenty dollars. Thomas Jones neither drank, smoked, nor
chewed, and, consequently, not only saved money enough in a few years to
build himself a snug little house, but could afford, during the time, to
let his wife have a washer-woman to help her every week, and to dress
much more comfortably than Sally Lyon had been able to do.

The difference in the condition of the two families sets Mrs. Lyon to
thinking very seriously about the matter, and thinking and calculating
soon made the cause quite plain to her. It was the drinking and the
smoking. But with a discovery of the evil did not come a cheering
consciousness of its easy removal. How could she ask Ralph to give up
his glass and his tobacco, to both of which he seemed so strongly
wedded? He worked hard for his money, and if he chose to enjoy it in
that way, she had no heart to interfere with him. But from the time that
Ralph discovered how well his neighbor Jones was getting along, while
he, like a horse in a mill, had been toiling and sweating for years, and
yet stood in the same place, he became dissatisfied, and often expressed
this dissatisfaction to Sally, at the same time declaring his inability
to tell where all the money he earned went to.

At length Sally ventured to hint at the truth. But Ralph met it with—

“Pooh! nonsense! Don’t tell me that a glass of liquor, now and then, and
a bit of tobacco, are going to make all that difference. It isn’t
reasonable. Besides, I work very hard, and I ought to have a little
comfort with it when I’m tired, a glass warms me up, and makes me bright
again; and I am sure I couldn’t do without my pipe.”

“I don’t ask you to do so, Ralph,” replied Sally. “I only said what I
did, that you might see why we couldn’t save money like our neighbor
Jones. I am sure I am very careful in our expenses, and I haven’t bought
myself a new gown for a long time, although I am very bare of clothes.”

The way in which Ralph replied to his wife’s suggestion of the cause of
the evil complained of, determined her to say no more; and as he felt
some convictions on the subject, which he was not willing to admit, he
was ever afterward silent about the unaccountable way in which his money

In about the same ratio that the external condition of Thomas Jones
improved, did that of Ralph Lyon grow worse and worse. From not being
able to save any thing, he gradually began to fall in debt. When
quarter-day came round, there was generally several dollars wanting to
make up the rent; and their landlord, with much grumbling on his part,
was compelled to wait for the balance some two or three weeks beyond the
due-day. At length the quarter-day found Ralph with nothing laid by for
his rent. Somehow or other, he was not able to earn as much, from
sickness, and days lost from other causes; and what he did earn appeared
to melt away like snow in the sunshine.

Poor Mrs. Lyon felt very miserable at the aspect of things; more
especially, as in addition to the money squandered at the ale-house by
her husband, he often came home intoxicated. The grief to her was more
severe, from the fact that she loved Ralph tenderly, notwithstanding his
errors. When he came home in liquor, she did not chide him, nor did she
say any thing to him about it when he was sober; for then he appeared so
ashamed and cut down, that she could not find it in her heart to utter a
single word.

One day she was alarmed by a message from Ralph that he had been
arrested, while at his work, for debt, by his landlord, who was going to
throw him in jail. They now owed him over twenty dollars. The idea of
her husband being thrown into a jail was terrible to poor Mrs. Lyon. She
asked a kind neighbor to take care of her children for her, and then
putting on her bonnet, she almost flew to the magistrate’s office. There
was Ralph, with an officer by his side ready to remove him to prison.

“You shan’t take my husband to jail,” she said, wildly, when she saw the
real aspect of things, clinging fast hold of Ralph. “Nobody shall take
him to jail.”

“I am sorry, my good woman,” said the magistrate, “to do so, but it
can’t be helped. The debt must be paid, or your husband will have to go
to jail. I have no discretion in the matter. Can you find means to pay
the debt? If not, perhaps you had better go and see your landlord; you
may prevail on him to wait a little longer for his money, and not send
your husband to jail.”

“Yes, Sally, do go and see him,” said Ralph; “I am sure he will relent
when he sees you.”

Mrs. Lyon let go the arm of her husband, and, darting from the office,
ran at full speed to the house of their landlord.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, “you cannot, you will not send my husband to

“I both can and will,” was the gruff reply. “A man who drinks up his
earnings as he does, and then, when quarter-day comes, can’t pay his
rent, deserves to go to jail.”

“But, sir, consider—”

“Don’t talk to me, woman! If you have the money for the rent, I will
take it, and let your husband go free; if not, the quicker you leave
here the better.”

It was vain, she saw, to strive with the hard-hearted man, whose face
was like iron. Hurriedly leaving his house, she hastened back to the
office, but her husband was not there. In her absence he had been
removed to prison. When Mrs. Lyon fully understood this, she made no
remark, but turned from the magistrate and walked home with a firm step.
The weakness of the woman was giving way to the quickening energies of
the wife, whose husband was in prison, and could not be released except
by her efforts. On entering her house, she went to her drawers, and took
therefrom a silk dress, but little worn, a mother’s present when she was
married; a good shawl, that she had bought from her own earnings when a
happy maiden; a few articles of jewelry, that had not been worn for
years, most of them presents from Ralph before they had stood at the
bridal altar, and sundry other things, that could best be dispensed
with. These she took to a pawn-broker’s, and obtained an advance of
fifteen dollars. She had two dollars in the house, which made seventeen;
the balance of the required sum she borrowed from two or three of her
neighbors, and then hurried off to obtain her husband’s release.

For a time, the rigid proceedings of the landlord proved a useful lesson
to Ralph Lyon. He worked more steadily, and was rather more careful of
his earnings. But this did not last a great while. Appetite, long
indulged, was strong; and he soon returned to his old habits.

The shock the imprisonment of her husband produced, awoke Mrs. Lyon to
the necessity of doing something to increase their income. All that he
brought home each week was scarcely sufficient to buy food; and it was
clear that there would be nothing with which to pay rent when next
quarter-day came round, unless it should be the product of her own
exertions. Plain sewing was obtained by Mrs. Lyon, and an additional
labor of three or four hours in the twenty-four added to her already
over-tasked body. Instead of feeling rebuked at this, the besotted
husband only perceived in it a license for him to use his own earnings
more freely, thus making his poor wife’s condition really worse than it
was before.

Things, instead of getting better, grew worse, year after year. The rent
Mrs. Lyon managed always to pay; for the fear of seeing her husband
carried off to jail was ever before her eyes, stimulating her to
constant exertion; but down, down, down they went steadily and surely,
and the light of hope faded daily, and grew dimmer and dimmer before the
eyes of the much-enduring wife and mother. Amid all, her patience was
wonderful. She never spoke angrily to Ralph, but strove, rather, always
to appear cheerful before him. If he was disposed to talk, she would
talk with him, and humor his mood of mind; if he was gloomy and silent,
she would intrude nothing upon him calculated to fret his temper; if he
complained, she tried to soothe him. But it availed nothing. The man was
in a charmed circle, and every impulse tended to throw him into the
centre where ruin awaited him.

At last even the few dollars she had received every week from her
husband’s earnings, ceased to come into her hands. The wretched man
worked little over half his time, and drank up all that he made. Even
the amount of food that the entire product of Mrs. Lyon’s labor would
procure, was barely sufficient to satisfy the hunger of her family. The
clothes of her children soon began to hang in tatters about them; her
own garments were faded, worn, and patched; and every thing about the
house that had not been sold to pay rent, was in a dilapidated
condition. Still, there had been no unkind word, not even a remonstrance
from the much-enduring wife.

Matters at last reached a climax. Poor Mrs. Lyon had not been able to
get any thing to do for a week, and all supplies of food, except a
little meal, were exhausted. An anxious day had closed, and at
night-fall the mother made some hasty-pudding for the children, which
was eaten with a little milk. This consumed her entire store. She had
four children, the two oldest she put to bed, but kept the two youngest,
one five years old, and the other three, up with her. She moved about
with a firmer step than usual, and her lips were tightly closed, as if
she had made up her mind to do something from which, under ordinary
circumstances, she would have shrunk.

After the older children had been put to bed, she made the two younger
ones draw near to the hearth, upon which a few brands were burning, and
warm themselves as well as the feeble heat emitted by the almost
exhausted fire would permit. Then she wrapped each around with a piece
of an old shawl, and after putting on her bonnet, took them by the hands
and left the house. It was a chilly night in winter. The wind swept
coldly along the streets, piercing through the thin garments of the
desperate mother, who was leading forth her tender little ones on some
strange, unnatural errand. But she shrunk not in the blast, but walked
rapidly along, almost dragging the children after her. At length she
stopped before the window of an ale-house, and standing on tip-toe,
looked over the red curtain that shaded half the window, and concealed
the inmates from the view of passers by. Within she saw her husband
sitting comfortably by a table, a glass by his side, and a pipe in his
mouth. Half a dozen pot-companions were sitting around, and all seemed
enjoying themselves well.

Mrs. Lyon remained without only a few moments; then taking hold of the
door she walked firmly in, and without appearing to notice her husband,
went up to the bar and called for three glasses of brandy. After doing
this, she seated herself at a table near by her husband. Great, of
course, was the surprise of Lyon at this apparition. He jumped from his
chair and stood before his wife, just as she had taken her seat at the
table, saying, in an undertone, as he did so—

“For Heaven’s sake, Sally! what brings you here?”

“It is very lonesome at home, Ralph,” she replied, in a calm but sad
voice. “Our wood is all gone, and it is cold there. I am your wife, and
there is no company for me like yours. I will go anywhere to be with
you. I am willing to come even here.”

“But, Sally, to think of your coming to such a place as this.”

“If it is pleasant to you, it shall be so to me. Any where that my
husband goes, surely I can go. God hath joined us together as one, and
nothing should divide us.”

By this time the three glasses of brandy that Mrs. Lyon had called for
were placed before her on the table.

“Bring another glass,” said Mrs. Lyon calmly, “my husband will drink
with us.”

“Sally, are you mad?” ejaculated Ralph.

“Mad, to go with my husband? Why should you say that, Ralph? Drink,
children,” she added, turning to her two little ones, and placing a
glass of unadulterated brandy before them. “It will do you good.” As
Sally said this, she lifted her own glass to her lips.

“Surely, you are not going to drink that?” said Ralph.

“Why not? You drink to forget sorrow; and if brandy have that effect, I
am sure no living creature needs it more than I do. Besides, I have
eaten nothing to-day, and need something to strengthen me.”

Saying this, she sipped the burning liquid, and smacking her lips,
looked up into her husband’s face and smiled.

“It warms to the very heart, Ralph!” she said. “I feel better already.”
Then turning to the children, whose glasses remained untouched before
them, she said to the astonished little ones,

“Drink, my children! It is very good.”

“Woman! are you mad? My children shall not touch it;” and he lifted the
glasses from the table and handed them to one of the company that had
crowded around to witness this strange scene.

“Why not?” said his wife, in the calm tone with which she had at first
spoken. “If it is good for you, it is good for your wife and children.
It will put these dear ones to sleep, and they will forget that they are
cold and hungry. To you it is fire and food and bed and clothing—all
these we need, and you will surely not withhold them from us.”

By this time Ralph was less under the influence of liquor than he had
been for weeks, although he had drank as freely as ever through the day.
Taking hold of his wife’s arm, he said, in a kind voice, for he began to
think that her mind was really wandering—

“Come, Sally, let us go home.”

“Why should we go, Ralph?” she replied, keeping her seat. “There is no
fire at home, but it is warm and comfortable here. There is no food
there, but here is plenty to eat and to drink. I don’t wonder that you
liked this place better than home, and I am sure I would rather stay

The drunken husband was confounded. He knew not what to do or to say.
The words of his wife smote him to the heart; for she uttered a stunning
rebuke that could not be gainsaid. He felt a choking sensation, and his
trembling knees bore heavily against each other.

“Sally,” he said, after a pause, in an altered and very earnest tone—“I
know it is more comfortable here than it is at home, but I am going
home, and I intend staying there. Wont you go with me, and try to make
it as comfortable as it used to be? The change is all my fault, I know;
but it shall be my fault no longer. Here, once and forever, I solemnly
pledge myself before God never again to drink the poison that has made
me more than half a brute, and beggared my poor family. Come, Sally! Let
us hurry away from here; the very air oppresses me. Come, in Heaven’s
name! come!”

Quickly, as if an electric shock had startled her, did Mrs. Lyon spring
from her seat, as her husband uttered the last word, and lay hold of his
arm with an eager grasp.

“The Lord in heaven be praised!” she said, solemnly, “for it is his
work. Yes, come! Let us go quickly. There will again be light, and fire
and food in our dwelling. Our last days may yet be our best days.”

Lifting each a child from the floor, the husband and wife left that den
of misery with as hasty steps as Christian’s when he fled from the City
of Destruction.

The hopeful declaration of Mrs. Lyon proved indeed true. There was soon
light, and fire, and food again in that cheerless dwelling; and the last
days of Ralph and his family have proved to be their best days. He has
never since tasted the tempting cup, and finds that it is a very easy
matter to save one or two dollars a week, and yet live very comfortably.

The scene in the ale-house is never alluded to by either the husband or
wife. They take no pleasure in looking back—preferring, rather, to look
forward with hope. When it is thought of by either, it is something as a
man who has endured a painful operation to save his life, thinks of the
intense sufferings he then endured.


[7] This story is founded upon a brief narrative which met the author’s
eye in an English newspaper.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                       TO A YOUNG INVALID ABROAD.

    Health unto thee! ’Twill come, though coy and slow:
      Thou canst not die, before I cease to live.
      Are we not one? Ay, brother, boughs that give
    Their verdure from one trunk, and cannot know
    A life-drop but from thence? The topmost bough
      Still withers first: whilst mine is green on high,
      I feel—and fear not—that thou canst not die!
    Would that my life’s blood, warm and healthful now,
      Were welling in thy veins—and I like thee!
        ’Twere joy to suffer for thee, could I hear
        Thy light laugh, as of old, ring in my ear:
      So thou wert happy what aught else to me?
      An angel-ward our mother’s prayers have set
    Around thee. Courage then! Thou’lt kiss her pale cheek yet!
    _Philadelphia, April 1847._

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _Painted by Fanny Corbourn_  _Engraved by A. L.


_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

                 *        *        *        *        *


                            BY E. M. SIDNEY.

    She opens her lattice,
      And looks on the lake;
    O’er its slumbering surface,
      No murmurs awake.
    Afar, o’er the mountain,
      The moon has long set:
    The morning breeze freshens,—
      Why tarries he yet?

    A sound in the distance,
      A low plashing oar:
    See! yonder a shadow;
      It touches the shore.
    ’Tis he—safe returning—
      Joy leaps to her eyes:
    And clasped to his bosom,
      “My husband!” she sighs.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                        THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

                             OR, ROSE BUDD.

           Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
           I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
           Travelers must be content.    As You Like It.

                       “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

    [Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
    J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court
    of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

                      (_Continued from page 360._)

                                PART IX.

         The night has been unruly: where we lay,
         Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say,
         Lamentings heard i’ the air; strange screams of death;
         And prophecying, with accents terrible,
         Of dire combustion, and confused events,
         New hatched to the woful time.

It is seldom that man is required to make an exertion as desperate and
appalling, in all its circumstances, as that on which Harry Mulford was
now bent. The night was starlight, it was true, and it was possible to
see objects near by with tolerable distinctness; still, it was midnight,
and the gloom of that hour rested on the face of the sea, lending its
solemn mystery and obscurity to the other trying features of the
undertaking. Then there was the uncertainty whether it was the boat at
all, of which he was in pursuit; and, if the boat, it might drift away
from him as fast as he could follow it. Nevertheless, the perfect
conviction that, without some early succor, the party on the wreck,
including Rose Budd, must inevitably perish, stimulated him to proceed,
and a passing feeling of doubt, touching the prudence of his course,
that came over the young mate, when he was a few yards from the wreck,
vanished under a vivid renewal of this last conviction. On he swam,
therefore, riveting his eye on the “thoughtful star” that guided his
course, and keeping his mind as tranquil as possible, in order that the
exertions of his body might be the easier.

Mulford was an excellent swimmer. The want of food was a serious
obstacle to his making one of his best efforts, but, as yet, he was not
very sensible of any great loss of strength. Understanding fully the
necessity of swimming easily, if he would swim long, he did not throw
out all his energy at first, but made the movements of his limbs as
regular, continued, and skillful as possible. No strength was thrown
away, and his progress was in proportion to the prudence of this manner
of proceeding. For some twenty minutes he held on his course, in this
way, when he began to experience a little of that weariness which is apt
to accompany an unremitted use of the same set of muscles, in a
monotonous and undeviating mode. Accustomed to all the resources of his
art, he turned on his back, for the double purpose of relieving his arms
for a minute, and of getting a glimpse of the wreck, if possible, in
order to ascertain the distance he had overcome. Swim long in this new
manner, however, he could not with prudence, as the star was necessary
in order to keep the direct line of his course. It may be necessary to
explain to some of our readers, that, though the surface of the ocean
may be like glass, as sometimes really happens, it is never absolutely
free from the long, undulating motion that is known by the name of a
“ground swell.” This swell, on the present occasion, was not very heavy,
but it was sufficient to place our young mate, at moments, between two
dark mounds of water, that limited his view in either direction to some
eighty or a hundred yards; then it raised him on the summit of a rounded
wave, that enabled him to see, far as his eye could reach under that
obscure light. Profiting by this advantage, Mulford now looked behind
him, in quest of the wreck, but uselessly. It might have been in the
trough, while he was thus on the summit of the waves, or it might be
that it floated so low as to be totally lost to the view of one whose
head was scarcely above the surface of the water. For a single instant,
the young man felt a chill at his heart, as he fancied that the wreck
had already sunk; but it passed away when he recalled the slow progress
by which the air escaped, and he saw the certainty that the catastrophe,
however inevitable, could not yet have really arrived. He waited for
another swell to lift him on its summit, when, by “treading water,” he
raised his head and shoulders fairly above the surface of the sea, and
strained his eyes in another vain effort to catch a glimpse of the
wreck. He could not see it. In point of fact, the mate had swum much
further than he had supposed, and was already so distant as to render
any such attempt hopeless. He was fully a third of a mile distant from
the point of his departure.

Disappointed, and in a slight degree disheartened, Mulford turned, and
swam in the direction of the sinking star. He now looked anxiously for
the boat. It was time that it came more plainly into view, and a new
source of anxiety beset him, as he could discover no signs of its
vicinity. Certain that he was on the course, after making a due
allowance for the direction of the wind, the stout-hearted young man
swam on. He next determined not to annoy himself by fruitless searches,
or vain regrets, but to swim steadily for a certain time, a period long
enough to carry him a material distance, ere he again looked for the
object of his search.

For twenty minutes longer did that courageous and active youth struggle
with the waste of waters, amid the obscurity and solitude of midnight.
He now believed himself near a mile from the wreck, and the star which
had so long served him for a beacon was getting near to the horizon. He
took a new observation of another of the heavenly bodies nigh it, to
serve him in its stead when it should disappear altogether, and then he
raised himself in the water, and looked about again for the boat. The
search was in vain. No boat was very near him, of a certainty, and the
dreadful apprehension began to possess his mind, of perishing uselessly
in that waste of gloomy waters. While thus gazing about him, turning his
eyes in every quarter, hoping intently to catch some glimpse of the
much-desired object in the gloom, he saw two dark, pointed objects, that
resembled small stakes, in the water within twenty feet of him. Mulford
knew them at a glance, and a cold shudder passed through his frame, as
he recognized them. They were, out of all question, the fins of an
enormous shark; an animal that could not measure less than eighteen or
twenty feet in length.

It is scarcely necessary to say, that when our young mate discovered the
proximity of this dangerous animal, situated as he was, he gave himself
up for lost. He possessed his knife, however, and had heard of the
manner in which even sharks were overcome, and that too in their own
element, by the skillful and resolute. At first, he was resolved to make
one desperate effort for life, before he submitted to a fate as horrible
as that which now menaced him; but the movements of his dangerous
neighbour induced him to wait. It did not approach any nearer, but
continued swimming back and fro, on the surface of the water, according
to the known habits of the fish, as if watching his own movements. There
being no time to be wasted, our young mate turned on his face, and began
again to swim in the direction of the setting star, though nearly
chilled by despair. For ten minutes longer did he struggle on, beginning
to feel exhaustion, however, and always accompanied by those two dark,
sharp and gliding fins. There was no difficulty in knowing the position
of the animal, and Mulford’s eyes were oftener on those fins than on the
beacon before him. Strange as it may appear, he actually became
accustomed to the vicinity of this formidable creature, and soon felt
his presence a sort of relief against the dreadful solitude of his
situation. He had been told by seamen of instances, and had once
witnessed a case himself, in which a shark had attended a swimming man
for a long distance, either forbearing to do him harm, from repletion,
or influenced by that awe which nature has instilled into all of the
inferior, for the highest animal of the creation. He began to think that
he was thus favored, and really regarded the shark as a friendly
neighbor, rather than as a voracious foe. In this manner did the two
proceed, nearly another third of a mile, the fins sometimes in sight
ahead, gliding hither and thither, and sometimes out of view behind the
swimmer, leaving him in dreadful doubts as to the movements of the fish,
when Mulford suddenly felt something hard hit his foot. Believing it to
be the shark, dipping for his prey, a slight exclamation escaped him. At
the next instant both feet hit the unknown substance again, and he stood
erect, the water no higher than his waist! Quick, and comprehending
every thing connected with the sea, the young man at once understood
that he was on a part of the reef where the water was so shallow as to
admit of his wading.

Mulford felt that he had been providentially rescued from death. His
strength had been about to fail him, when he was thus led, unknown to
himself, to a spot where his life might yet be possibly prolonged for a
few more hours, or days. He had leisure to look about him, and to
reflect on what was next to be done. Almost unwittingly, he turned in
quest of his terrible companion, in whose voracious mouth he had
actually believed himself about to be immolated, a few seconds before.
There the two horn-like fins still were, gliding about above the water,
and indicating the smallest movement of their formidable owner. The mate
observed that they went a short distance ahead of him, describing nearly
a semi-circle, and then returned, doing the same thing in his rear,
repeating the movements incessantly, keeping always on his right. This
convinced him that shoaler water existed on his left hand, and he waded
in that direction, until he reached a small spot of naked rock.

For a time, at least, he was safe! The fragment of coral on which the
mate now stood, was irregular in shape, but might have contained a
hundred feet square in superficial measurement, and was so little raised
above the level of the water as not to be visible, even by daylight, at
the distance of a hundred yards. Mulford found it was perfectly dry,
however, an important discovery to him, as by a close calculation he had
made of the tides, since quitting the Dry Tortugas, he knew it must be
near high water. Could he have even this small portion of bare rock
secure, it made him, for the moment, rich as the most extensive
landholder living. A considerable quantity of sea-weed had lodged on the
rock, and, as most of this was also quite dry, it convinced the young
sailor that the place was usually bare. But, though most of this
sea-weed was dry, there were portions of the more recent accessions
there that still lay in, or quite near to the water, which formed
exceptions. In handling these weeds, in order to ascertain the facts,
Mulford caught a small shell-fish, and finding it fresh and easy to
open, he swallowed it with the eagerness of a famishing man. Never had
food proved half so grateful to him as that single swallow of a very
palatable testaceous animal. By feeling further, he found several others
of the same family, and made quite as large a meal, as, under the
circumstances, was probably good for him. Then, grateful for his escape,
but overcome by fatigue, he hastily arranged a bed of sea-weed, drew a
portion of the plant over his body, to keep him warm, and fell into a
deep sleep that lasted for hours.

Mulford did not regain his consciousness until the rays of the rising
sun fell upon his eye-lids, and the genial warmth of the great luminary
shed its benign influence over his frame. At first his mind was
confused, and it required a few seconds to bring a perfect recollection
of the past, and a true understanding of his real situation. They came,
however, and the young man moved to the highest part of his little
domain, and cast an anxious, hurried look around in quest of the wreck.
A knowledge of the course in which he had swum, aided by the position of
the sun, told him on what part of the naked waste to look for the object
he sought. God had not yet forsaken them! There was the wreck; or, it
might be more exact to say, there were those whom the remaining buoyancy
of the wreck still upheld from sinking into the depths of the gulf. In
point of fact, but a very little of the bottom of the vessel actually
remained above water, some two or three yards square at most, and that
little was what seamen term nearly awash. Two or three hours must bury
that small portion of the still naked wood beneath the surface of the
sea, though sufficient buoyancy might possibly remain for the entire day
still to keep the living from death.

There the wreck was, however, yet floating; and, though not visible to
Mulford, with a small portion of it above water. He saw the four persons
only; and what was more, they saw him. This was evident by Jack Tier’s
waving his hat like a man cheering. When Mulford returned this signal,
the shawl of Rose was tossed into the air, in a way to leave no doubt
that he was seen and known. The explanation of this early recognition
and discovery of the young mate was very simple. Tier was not asleep
when Harry left the wreck, though, seeing the importance of the step the
other was taking, he had feigned to be so. When Rose awoke, missed her
lover, and was told what had happened, her heart was kept from sinking
by his encouraging tale and hopes. An hour of agony had succeeded,
nevertheless, when light returned and no Mulford was to be seen. The
despair that burst upon the heart of our heroine was followed by the joy
of discovering him on the rock.

It is scarcely necessary to say how much the parties were relieved on
ascertaining their respective positions. Faint as were the hopes of each
of eventual delivery, the two or three minutes that succeeded seemed to
be minutes of perfect happiness. After this rush of unlooked for joy,
Mulford continued his intelligent examination of surrounding objects.

The wreck was fully half a mile from the rock of the mate, but much
nearer to the reef than it had been the previous night. “Could it but
ground on the rocks,” thought the young man, “it would be a most blessed
event.” The thing was possible, though the first half hour of his
observations told him that its drift was in the direction of the open
passage so often named, rather than toward the nearest rocks. Still,
that drift brought Rose each minute nearer and nearer to himself again.
In looking round, however, the young man saw the boat. It was a quarter
of a mile distant, with open water between them, apparently grounded on
a rock, for it was more within the reef than he was himself. He must
have passed it in the dark, and the boat had been left to obey the wind
and currents, and to drift to the spot where it then lay.

Mulford shouted aloud when he saw the boat, and at once determined to
swim in quest of it, as soon as he had collected a little refreshment
from among the sea-weed. On taking a look at his rock by daylight, he
saw that its size was quadrupled to the eye by the falling of the tide,
and that water was lying in several of the cavities of its uneven
surface. At first he supposed this to be sea-water, left by the flood;
but, reflecting a moment, he remembered the rain, and hoped it might be
possible that one little cavity, containing two or three gallons of the
fluid, would turn out to be fresh. Kneeling beside it, he applied his
lips in feverish haste, and drank the sweetest draught that had ever
passed his lips. Slaking his thirst, which had begun again to be
painfully severe, he arose with a heart overflowing with
gratitude—could he only get Rose to that narrow and barren rock, it
would seem to be an earthly paradise. Mulford next made his scanty, but,
all things considered, sufficient meal, drank moderately afterward, and
then turned his attention and energies toward the boat, which, though
now aground and fast, might soon float on the rising tide, and drift
once more beyond his reach. It was his first intention to swim directly
for his object; but, just as about to enter the water, he saw with
horror the fins of at least a dozen sharks, who were prowling about in
the deeper water of the reef, and almost encircling his hold. To throw
himself in the midst of such enemies would be madness, and he stopped to
reflect, and again to look about him. For the first time that morning,
he took a survey of the entire horizon, to see if any thing were in
sight; for, hitherto, his thoughts had been too much occupied with Rose
and her companions, to remember any thing else. To the northward and
westward he distinctly saw the upper sails of a large ship, that was
standing on a wind to the northward and eastward. As there was no port
to which a vessel of that character would be likely to be bound in the
quarter of the Gulf to which such a course would lead, Mulford at once
inferred it was the sloop-of-war, which, after having examined the
islets, at the Dry Tortugas, and finding them deserted, was beating up,
either to go into Key West, or to pass to the southward of the reef
again, by the passage through which she had come as lately as the
previous day. This was highly encouraging; and could he only get to the
boat, and remove the party from the wreck before it sank, there was now
every prospect of a final escape.

To the southward, also, the mate fancied he saw a sail. It was probably
a much smaller vessel than the ship in the north-west, and at a greater
distance. It might, however, be the lofty sails of some large craft,
standing along the reef, going westward, bound to New Orleans, or to
that new and important port, Point Isabel; or it might be some wrecker,
or other craft, edging away into the passage. As it was, it appeared
only as a speck in the horizon, and was too far off to offer much
prospect of succor.

Thus acquainted with the state of things around him, Mulford gave his
attention seriously to his duties. He was chiefly afraid that the
returning tide might lift the boat from the rock on which it had
grounded, and that it would float beyond his reach. Then there was the
frightful and ever increasing peril of the wreck, and the dreadful fate
that so inevitably menaced those it held, were not relief prompt. This
thought goaded him nearly to desperation, and he felt at moments almost
ready to plunge into the midst of the sharks, and fight his way to his

But reflection showed him a less hazardous way of making an effort to
reach the boat. The sharks’ fins described a semi-circle only, as had
been the case of his single attendant during the night, and he thought
that the shoalness of the water prevented their going further than they
did, in a south-easterly direction, which was that of the boat. He well
knew that a shark required sufficient water to sink beneath its prey,
ere it made its swoop, and that it uniformly turned on its back, and
struck upward whenever it gave one of its voracious bites. This was
owing to the greater length of its upper than of its lower jaw, and
Mulford had heard it was a physical necessity of its formation. Right or
wrong, he determined to act on this theory, and began at once to wade
along the part of the reef that his enemies seemed unwilling to

Had our young mate a weapon of any sort larger than his knife, he would
have felt greater confidence in his success. As it was, however, he drew
that knife, and was prepared to sell his life dearly should a foe assail
him. No sooner was his step heard in the water, than the whole group of
sharks were set in violent motion, glancing past, and frequently quite
near him, as if aware their intended prey was about to escape. Had the
water deepened much, Harry would have returned at once, for a conflict
with such numbers would have been hopeless; but it did not; on the
contrary, it shoaled again, after a very short distance at which it had
been waist deep; and Mulford found himself wading over a long, broad
surface of rock, and that directly toward the boat, through water that
seldom rose above his knees, and which, occasionally, scarce covered his
feet. There was no absolutely naked rock near him, but there seemed to
be acres of that which might be almost said to be awash. Amid the greedy
throng that endeavored to accompany him, the mate even fancied he
recognised the enormous fins of his old companion, who sailed to and fro
in the crowd in a stately manner, as if merely a curious looker on of
his own movements. It was the smaller, and probably the younger sharks,
that betrayed the greatest hardihood and voracity. One or two of these
made fierce swoops toward Harry, as if bent on having him at every
hazard; but they invariably glided off when they found their customary
mode of attack resisted by the shoalness of the water.

Our young mate got ahead but slowly, being obliged to pay a cautious
attention to the movements of his escort. Sometimes he was compelled to
wade up to his arms in order to cross narrow places, that he might get
on portions of the rock that were nearly bare; and once he was actually
compelled to swim eight or ten yards. Nevertheless, he did get on, and
after an hour of this sort of work, he found himself within a hundred
yards of the boat, which lay grounded near a low piece of naked rock,
but separated from it by a channel of deep water, into which all the
sharks rushed in a body, as if expressly to cut off his escape. Mulford
now paused to take breath, and to consider what ought to be done. On the
spot where he stood he was quite safe, though ancle deep in the sea, the
shallow water extending to a considerable distance on all sides of him,
with the single exception of the channel in his front. He stood on the
very verge of that channel, and could see in the pellucid element before
him, that it was deep enough to float a vessel of some size.

To venture into the midst of twenty sharks required desperation, and
Harry was not yet reduced to that. He had been so busy in making his way
to the point where he stood as to have no leisure to look for the wreck;
but he now turned his eyes in quest of that all interesting object. He
saw the shawl fluttering in the breeze, and that was all he could see.
Tier had contrived to keep it flying as a signal where he was to be
found, but the hull of the schooner had sunk so low in the water that
they who were seated on its keel were not visible even at the short
distance which now separated them from Mulford. Encouraged by this
signal, and animated by the revived hope of still saving his companions,
Harry turned toward the channel, half inclined to face every danger
rather than to wait any longer. At that moment the fins were all gliding
along the channel from him, and in the same direction. Some object drew
the sharks away in a body, and the young mate let himself easily into
the water, and swam as noiselessly as he could toward the boat.

It was a fearful trial, but Mulford felt that every thing depended on
his success. Stimulated by his motive, and strengthened by the food and
water taken an hour before, never had he shown so much skill and power
in the water. In an incredibly short period he was half way across the
channel, still swimming strong and unharmed. A few strokes more sent him
so near the boat that hope took full possession of his soul, and he
shouted in exultation. That indiscreet but natural cry, uttered so near
the surface of the sea, turned every shark upon him, as the pack springs
at the fox in view. Mulford was conscious of the folly of his cry the
instant it escaped him, and involuntarily he turned his head to note the
effect on his enemies. Every fin was gliding toward him—a dark array of
swift and furious foes. Ten thousand bayonets, leveled in their line,
could not have been one-half as terrible, and the efforts of the young
man became nearly frantic. But strong as he was, and ready in the
element, what is the movement of a man in the water compared to that of
a vigorous and voracious fish? Mulford could see those fins coming on
like a tempest, and he had just given up all hope, and was feeling his
flesh creep with terror, when his foot hit the rock. Giving himself an
onward plunge, he threw his body upward toward the boat, and into so
much shoaler water, at least a dozen feet by that single effort.
Recovering his legs as soon as possible, he turned to look behind him.
The water seemed alive with fins, each pair gliding back and forth, as
the bull-dog bounds in front of the ox’s muzzle. Just then a
light-colored object glanced past the young man, so near as almost to
touch him. It was a shark that had actually turned on its back to seize
its prey, and was only prevented from succeeding by being driven from
the line of its course by hitting the slimy rock, over which it was
compelled to make its plunge. The momentum with which it came on, added
to the inclination of the rock, forced the head and half of the body of
this terrible assailant into the air, giving the intended victim an
opportunity of seeing from what a fate he had escaped. Mulford avoided
this fish without much trouble, however, and the next instant he threw
himself into the boat, on the bottom of which he lay panting with the
violence of his exertions, and unable to move under the reaction which
now came over his system.

The mate lay in the bottom of the boat, exhausted and unable to rise,
for several minutes; during that space he devoutly returned thanks to
God for his escape, and bethought him of the course he was next to
pursue, in order to effect the rescue of his companions. The boat was
larger than common. It was also well equipped—a mast and sail lying
along with the oars, on its thwarts. The rock placed Harry to windward
of the wreck, and by the time he felt sufficiently revived to rise and
look about him, his plan of proceeding was fully arranged in his own
mind. Among other things that he saw, as he still lay in the bottom of
the boat, was a breaker which he knew contained fresh water, and a
bread-bag. These were provisions that it was customary for the men to
make, when employed on boat duty; and the articles had been left where
he now saw them, in the hurry of the movements, as the brig quitted the

Harry rose the instant he felt his strength returning. Striking the
breaker with his foot, and feeling the basket with a hand, he
ascertained that the one held its water, and the other its bread. This
was immense relief for by this time the sufferings of the party on the
wreck must be returning with redoubled force. The mate then stepped the
mast, and fitted the sprit to the sail, knowing that the latter would be
seen fluttering in the wind by those on the wreck, and carry joy to
their hearts. After this considerate act, he began to examine into the
position of the boat. It was still aground, having been left by the
tide; but the water had already risen several inches, and by placing
himself on a gunwale, so as to bring the boat on its bilge, and pushing
with an oar, he soon got it into deep water. It only remained to haul
aft the sheet, and right the helm, to be standing through the channel,
at a rate that promised a speedy deliverance to his friends, and most of
all, to Rose.

Mulford glanced past the rocks and shoals, attended by the whole company
of the sharks. They moved before, behind, and on each side of him, as if
unwilling to abandon their prey, even after he had got beyond the limits
of their power to do him harm. It was not an easy thing to manage the
boat in that narrow and crooked channel, with no other guide for the
courses than the eye, and it required so much of the mate’s vigilance to
keep clear of the sharp angles of the rocks, that he could not once cast
his eyes aside, to look for the fluttering shawl, which now composed the
standing signal of the wreck. At length the boat shot through the last
passage of the reef, and issued into open water. Mulford knew that he
must come out half a mile at least to leeward of his object, and,
without even raising his head, he flattened in the sheet, put his helm
down, and luffed close to the wind. Then, and then only, did he venture
to look around him.

Our mate felt his heart leap toward his mouth, as he observed the
present state of the wreck. It was dead to windward of him, in the first
place, and it seemed to be entirely submerged. He saw the shawl
fluttering as before; for Tier had fastened one corner to a button-hole
of his own jacket, and another to the dress of Biddy, leaving the part
which might be called the fly, to rise at moments almost perpendicularly
in the air, in a way to render it visible at some distance. He saw also
the heads and the bodies of those on the schooner’s bottom, but to him
they appeared to be standing in, or on, the water. The distance may have
contributed a little to this appearance, but no doubt remained that so
much air had escaped from the hold of the vessel, as to permit it to
sink altogether beneath the surface of the sea. It was time, indeed, to
proceed to the relief of the sufferers.

Notwithstanding the boat sailed particularly fast, and worked
beautifully, it could not equal the impatience of Mulford to get on.
Passing away to the north-east a sufficient distance, as he thought, to
weather on the wreck, the young man tacked at last, and had the
happiness to see that every foot he proceeded was now in a direct line
toward Rose. It was only while tacking he perceived that all the fins
had disappeared. He felt no doubt that they had deserted him, in order
to push for the wreck, which offered a so much larger, and a so much
more attainable prey. This increased his feverish desire to get on, the
boat seeming to drag, in his eyes, at the very moment it was leaving a
wake full of eddies and little whirlpools. The wind was steady, but it
seemed to Mulford that the boat was set to leeward of her course by a
current, though this could hardly have been the case, as the wreck, the
sole mark of his progress, would have had at least as great a drift as
the boat. At length Mulford—to him it appeared to be an age; in truth
it was after a run of about twenty minutes—came near the goal he so
earnestly sought, and got an accurate view of the state of the wreck,
and of those on it. The hull of the schooner had, in truth, sunk
entirely beneath the surface of the sea; and the party it sustained
stood already knee deep in the water. This was sufficiently appalling;
but the presence of the sharks, who were crowding around the spot,
rendered the whole scene frightful. To the young mate it seemed as if he
must still be too late to save Rose from a fate more terrible than
drowning, for his boat fell so far to leeward as to compel him to tack
once more. As he swept past the wreck, he called out to encourage his
friends, begging them to be of good heart for five minutes longer, when
he should be able to reach them. Rose held out her arms entreatingly,
and the screams of Mrs. Budd and Biddy, which were extorted by the
closer and closer approach of the sharks, proclaimed the imminency of
the danger they ran, and the importance of not losing a moment of time.

Mulford took his distance with a seaman’s eye, and the boat went about
like a top. The latter fell off, and the sail filled on the other tack.
Then the young mariner saw, with a joy no description can portray, that
he looked to windward of the fluttering shawl, toward which his little
craft was already flying. He afterward believed that shawl alone
prevented the voracious party of fish from assailing those on the wreck,
for, though there might not yet be sufficient depth of water to allow of
their customary mode of attack, creatures of their voracity did not
always wait for such conveniences. But the boat was soon in the midst of
the fins, scattering them in all directions; and Mulford let go his
sheet, put his helm down, and sprang forward to catch the extended arms
of Rose.

It might have been accident, or it might have been the result of skill
and interest in our heroine, but certain it is, that the bows of the
boat came on the wreck precisely at the place where Rose stood, and her
hand was the first object that the young man touched.

“Take my aunt first,” cried Rose, resisting Mulford’s efforts to lift
her into the boat; “she is dreadfully alarmed, and can stand with

Although two of Rose’s activity and lightness might have been drawn into
the boat, while the process was going on in behalf of the widow, Mulford
lost no time in discussion, but did as he was desired. First directing
Tier to hold on to the painter, he applied his strength to the arms of
Mrs. Budd, and, assisted by Rose and Biddy, got her safely into the
boat, over its bows. Rose now wailed not for assistance, but followed
her aunt with a haste that proved fear lent her strength in despite her
long fast. Biddy came next; though clumsily, and not without trouble,
and Jack Tier followed the instant he was permitted so to do. Of course,
the boat, no longer held by its painter, drifted away from the spot, and
the hull of the schooner, relieved from the weight of four human beings,
rose so near the surface again as to bring a small line of its keel out
of water. No better evidence could have been given of the trifling power
which sustained it, and of the timely nature of the succor brought by
Mulford. Had the boat remained near the schooner, it would have been
found half an hour later that the hull had sunk slowly out of sight,
finding its way, doubtless, inch by inch, toward the bottom of the gulf.

By this time the sun was well up, and the warmth of the hour, season,
and latitude, was shed on the sufferers. There was an old sail in the
boat, and in this the party dried their limbs and feet, which were
getting to be numb by their long immersion. Then the mate produced the
bag and opened it, in quest of bread. A small portion was given to each,
and, on looking farther, the mate discovered a piece of boiled ship’s
beef had been secreted in this receptacle. Of this also he gave each a
moderate slice, taking a larger portion for himself, as requiring less
precaution. The suffering of the party from hunger was far less than
that they endured from thirst. Neither had been endured long enough
seriously to enfeeble them, or to render a full meal very dangerous, but
the thirst had been much the hardest to be borne. Of this fact Biddy
soon gave audible evidence.

“The mate is good,” she said, “and the bread tastes swate and
refreshing, but wather is a blessed thing. Can you no give us one dhrap
of the wather that falls from heaven, Mr. Mulford; for this wather of
the saa is of no use but to drown Christians in?”

In an instant the mate had opened a breaker, and filled the tin pot
which is almost always to be found in a boat. Biddy said no more, but
her eyes pleaded so eloquently, that Rose begged the faithful creature
might have the first drink. One eager swallow went down, and then a cry
of disappointment succeeded. The water was salt, and had been put in the
breaker for ballast. The other breaker was tried with the same success.

“It is terrible to be without one drop of water,” murmured Rose, “and
this food makes it more necessary than ever.”

“Patience, patience, dearest Rose—patience for ten minutes, and you
shall all drink,” answered the mate, filling the sail and keeping the
boat away while speaking. “There is water, God be praised, on the rock
to which I first swam, and we will secure it before another day’s sun
help to make it evaporate.”

This announcement quieted the longings of those who endured a thirst
which disappointment rendered doubly hard to bear; and away the boat
glided toward the rock. As he now flew over the distance, lessened more
than one-half by the drift of the wreck, Mulford recalled the scene
through which he had so painfully passed the previous night. As often
happens, he shuddered at the recollection of things which, at the
moment, a desperate resolution had enabled him to encounter with
firmness. Still, he thought nothing less than the ardent desire to save
Rose could have carried him through the trial with the success which
attended his struggles. The dear being at his side asked a few
explanations of what had passed; and she bowed her head and wept,
equally with pain and delight, as imagination pictured to her the
situation of her betrothed, amid that waste of water, with his fearful
companions, and all in the hours of deep night.

But that was over now. There was the rock—the blessed rock on which
Mulford had so accidentally struck, close before them—and presently
they were all on it. The mate took the pot and ran to the little
reservoir, returning with a sweet draught for each of the party.

“A blessed, blessed thing, is wather!” exclaimed Biddy, this time
finding the relief she sought, “and a thousand blessings on _you_, Mr.
Mulford, who have niver done us any thing but good.”

Rose looked a still higher eulogy on the young man, and even Mrs. Budd
had something commendatory and grateful to say. Jack Tier was silent,
but he had all his eyes about him, as he now proved.

“We’ve all on us been so much taken up with our own affairs,” remarked
the steward’s assistant, “that we’ve taken but little notice of the
neighborhood. If that isn’t the brig. Mr. Mulford, running through this
very passage, with stun’sails set, alow and aloft, I don’t know the
Molly Swash when I see her!”

“The brig!” exclaimed the mate, recollecting the vessels he had seen at
the break-of-day, for the first time in hours. “Can it be possible that
the craft I made out to the southward, is the brig?”

“Look, and judge for yourself, sir. There she comes, like a race-horse,
and if she holds her present course, she must pass somewhere within a
mile or so of us, if we stay where we are.”

Mulford did look, as did all with him. There was the Swash, sure enough,
coming down before the wind, and under a cloud of canvas. She might be
still a league, or a league and a half distant, but, at the rate at
which she was traveling, that distance would soon be past. She was
running through the passage, no doubt with a view to proceed to the Dry
Tortugas, to look after the schooner, Spike having the hope that he had
dodged his pursuers on the coast of Cuba. The mate now looked for the
ship, in the north-western board, believing, as he did, that she was the
sloop-of-war. That vessel had gone about, and was standing to the
southward, on a taut bowline. She was still a long way off, three or
four leagues at least, but the change she had made in her position,
since last seen, proved that she was a great sailer. Then she was more
than hull down, whereas, now, she was near enough to let the outline of
a long, straight fabric be discovered beneath her canvas.

“It is hardly possible that Spike should not see the vessel here in the
northern board,” Mulford observed to Tier, who had been examining the
ship with him. “The look-out is usually good on board the Swash, and,
just now, should certainly be as good as common. Spike is no dawdler
with serious business before him.”

“He’s a willian!” muttered Jack Tier.

The mate regarded his companion with some surprise. Jack was a very
insignificant-looking personage in common, and one would scarcely pause
to give him a second look, unless it might be to laugh at his rotundity
and little waddling legs. But, now, the mate fancied he was swelling
with feelings that actually imparted somewhat more than usual stature
and dignity to his appearance. His face was full of indignation, and
there was something about the eye, that to Mulford was inexplicable. As
Rose, however, had related to him the scene that took place on the
islet, at the moment when Spike was departing, the mate supposed that
Jack still felt a portion of the resentment that such a collision would
be apt to create. From the expression of Jack’s countenance at that
instant, it struck him Spike might not be exactly safe, should accident
put it in the power of the former to do him an injury.

It was now necessary to decide on the course that ought to be pursued.
The bag contained sufficient food to last the party several days, and a
gallon of water still remained in the cavity of the rock. This last was
collected and put in one of the breakers, which was emptied of the salt
water in order to receive it. As water, however, was the great necessity
in that latitude, Mulford did not deem it prudent to set sail with so
small a supply, and he accordingly commenced a search, on some of the
adjacent rocks, Jack Tier accompanying him. They succeeded in doubling
their stock of water, and found several shell-fish, that the females
found exceedingly grateful and refreshing. On the score of hunger and
thirst, indeed, no one was now suffering. By judiciously sipping a
little water at a time, and retaining it in the mouth before swallowing,
the latter painful feeling had been gotten rid of; and as for food,
there was even more than was actually needed, and that of a very good
quality. It is probable that standing in the water for hours, as Rose,
and her aunt, and Biddy had been obliged to do, had contributed to
lessen the pain endured from thirst, though they had all suffered a good
deal from that cause, especially while the sun shone.

Mulford and Tier were half an hour in obtaining the water. By the end of
that period, the brigantine was so near as to render her hull distinctly
visible. It was high time to decide on their future course. The sail had
been brailed when the boat reached the rock, and the boat itself lay on
the side of the latter opposite to the brig, and where no part of it
could be seen to those on board the Swash, with the exception of the
mast. Under the circumstances, therefore, Mulford thought it wisest to
remain where they were, and let the vessel pass, before they attempted
to proceed toward Key West, their intended place of refuge. In order to
do this, however, it was necessary to cause the whole party to lie down,
in such a way as to be hid by the inequalities in the rock, as it was
now very evident the brig would pass within half a mile of them.
Hitherto, it was not probable that they had been seen, and by using due
caution, the chances of Spike’s overlooking them altogether amounted
nearly to certainty.

The necessary arrangements were soon made, the boat’s masts unstepped,
the party placed behind their covers, and the females comfortably
bestowed in the spare sail, where they might get a little undisturbed
sleep, after the dreadful night, or morning, they had passed. Even Jack
Tier lay down to catch his nap, as the most useful manner of bestowing
himself for a couple of hours; the time Mulford had mentioned as the
period of their stay where they were.

As for the mate, vigilance was his portion, and he took his position,
hid like all the rest, where he could watch the movements of his old
craft. In about twenty minutes, the brig was quite near; so near that
Mulford not only saw the people on board her, who showed themselves in
the rigging, but fancied he could recognize their persons. As yet,
nothing had occurred in the way of change, but, just as the Swash got
abreast of the rock, she began to take in her studding-sails, and that
hurriedly, as is apt to occur on board a vessel in sudden emergencies.
Our young man was a little alarmed at first, believing that they might
have been discovered, but he was soon induced to think that the crew of
the brigantine had just then begun to suspect the character of the ship
to the northward. That vessel had been drawing near all this time, and
was now only some three leagues distant. Owing to the manner in which
she headed, or bows on, it was not a very easy matter to tell the
character of this stranger, though the symmetry and squareness of his
yards rendered it nearly certain he was a cruiser. Though Spike could
not expect to meet his old acquaintance here, after the chase he had so
lately led her, down on the opposite coast, he might and would have his
misgivings, and Mulford thought it was his intention to haul up close
round the northern angle of the reef, and maintain his advantage of the
wind, over the stranger. If this were actually done, it might expose the
boat to view, for the brig would pass within a quarter of a mile of it,
and on the side of the rock on which it lay. It was too late, however,
to attempt a change, since the appearance of human beings in such a
place, would be certain to draw the brig’s glasses on them, and the
glasses must at once let Spike know who they were. It remained,
therefore, only to await the result as patiently as possible.

A very few minutes removed all doubt. The brig hauled as close round the
reef as she dared to venture, and in a very short time the boat lay
exposed to view to all on board her. The vessel was now so near that
Mulford plainly saw the boatswain get upon the coach-house, or little
hurricane-house deck, where Spike stood examining the ship with his
glass, and point out the boat, where it lay at the side of the rock. In
an instant, the glass was leveled at the spot, and the movements on
board the brig immediately betrayed to Mulford that the boat was
recognized. Sail was shortened on board the Swash, and men were seen
preparing to lower her stern boat, while every thing indicated that the
vessel was about to be hove-to. There was no time now to be lost, but
the young man immediately gave the alarm.

No sooner did the party arise and show themselves, than the crew of the
Swash gave three cheers. By the aid of the glass, Spike doubtless
recognized their persons, and the fact was announced to the men, by way
of stimulating their exertions. This gave an additional spur to the
movements of those on the rock, who hastened into their own boat, and
made sail as soon as possible.

It was far easier to do all that has been described, than to determine
on the future course. Capture was certain if the fugitives ventured into
the open water, and their only hope was to remain on the reef. If
channels for the passage of the boat could be found, escape was highly
probable, as the schooner’s boat could sail much faster than the brig’s
boat could row, fast as Mulford knew the last to be. But the experience
of the morning had told the mate that the rock rose too near the
surface, in many places, for the boat, small as it was, to pass over it;
and he must trust a great deal to chance. Away he went, however,
standing along a narrow channel, through which the wind just permitted
him to lay, with the sail occasionally shaking.

By this time the Swash had her boat in the water, manned with four
powerful oars, Spike steering it in his own person. Our young mate
placed Tier in the bows, to point out the deepest water, and kept his
sail a rap full, in order to get ahead as fast as possible. Ahead he did
get, but it was on a course that soon brought him out in the open water
of the main passage through the reef, leaving Spike materially astern.
The latter now rose in his boat, and made a signal with his hat, which
the boatswain perfectly understood. The latter caused the brig to ware
short round on her heel, and boarded his fore-tack in chase, hauling up
into the passage as soon as he could again round the reef. Mulford soon
saw that it would never do for him to venture far from the rocks, the
brig going two feet to his one, though not looking quite as high as he
did in the boat. But the Swash had her guns, and it was probable they
would be used, rather than he should escape. When distant two hundred
yards from the reef, therefore, he tacked. The new course brought the
fugitives nearly at right angles to that steered by Spike, who stood
directly on, as if conscious that, sooner or later, such a rencounter
must occur. It would seem that the tide was setting through the passage,
for when the boat of Mulford again reached the reef, it was considerably
to windward of the channel out of which she had issued, and opposite to
another which offered very opportunely for her entrance. Into this new
channel, then, the mate somewhat blindly ran, feeling the necessity of
getting out of gun-shot of the brig at every hazard. She at least could
not follow him among the rocks, let Spike, in his boat, proceed as he

According to appearances, Spike was not likely to be very successful. He
was obliged to diverge from his course, in order to go into the main
passage at the very point where Mulford had just before done the same
thing, and pull along the reef to windward, in order to get into the new
channel, into which the boat he was pursuing had just entered. This
brought him not only astern again, but a long bit astern, inasmuch as he
was compelled to make the circuit described. On he went, however, as
eager in the chase as the hound with his game in view.

Mulford’s boat seemed to fly, and glided ahead at least three feet to
that of Spike’s two. The direction of the channel it was in, brought it
pretty close to the wind, but the water was quite smooth, and our mate
managed to keep the sail full, and his little craft at the same time
quite near the weatherly side of the rocks. In the course of ten minutes
the fugitives were fully a mile from the brig, which was unable to
follow them, but kept standing off and on, in the main passage, waiting
the result. At one time Mulford thought the channel would bring him out
into open water again, on the northern side of the reef, and more than a
mile to the eastward of the point where the ship-channel in which the
Swash was plying commenced; but an accidental circumstance prevented his
standing in far enough to ascertain the fact. That circumstance was as

In running a mile and a half over the reef, in the manner described,
Mulford had left the boat of Spike quite half a mile astern. He was now
out of gun-shot from the brig, or at least beyond the range of her
grape, the only missile he feared, and so far to windward that he kept
his eye on every opening to the southward, which he fancied might allow
of his making a stretch deeper into the mazes of the reef, among which
he believed it easiest for him to escape, and to weary the oarsmen of
his pursuers. Two or three of these openings offered as he glided along,
but it struck him that they all looked so high that the boat would not
lay through them—an opinion in which he was right. At length he came
abreast of one that seemed straight and clear of obstacles as far as he
could see, and through which he might run with a flowing sheet. Down
went his helm, and about went his boat, running away to the southward as
fast as ever.

Had Spike followed, doubled the same shoal, and kept away again in the
same channel as had been done by the boat he chased, all his hopes of
success must have vanished at once. This he did not attempt, therefore;
but, sheering into one of the openings which the mate had rejected, he
cut off quite half a mile in his distance. This was easy enough for him
to accomplish, as a row-boat would pull even easier, near to the wind,
than with the wind broad on its bow. In consequence of this short cut,
therefore, Spike was actually crossing out into Mulford’s new channel,
just as the latter had handsomely cleared the mouth of the opening
through which he effected his purpose.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the two boats must have been for a
few minutes quite near to each other; so near, indeed, did the fugitives
now pass to their pursuers, that it would have been easy for them to
have conversed, had they been so disposed. Not a word was spoken,
however, but Mulford went by, leaving Spike about a hundred yards
astern. This was a trying moment to the latter, and the devil tempted
him to seek his revenge. He had not come unarmed on his enterprise, but
three or four loaded muskets lay in the stern-sheets of his yawl. He
looked at his men, and saw that they could not hold out much longer to
pull as they had been pulling. Then he looked at Mulford’s boat, and saw
it gliding away from him at a rate that would shortly place it another
half mile in advance. He seized a musket, and raised it to his shoulder,
nay, was in the act of taking aim at his mate, when Rose, who watched
his movements, threw herself before Harry, and if she did not actually
save his life, at least prevented Spike’s attempt on it for that
occasion. In the course of the next ten minutes the fugitives had again
so far gained on their pursuers, that the latter began to see that their
efforts were useless. Spike muttered a few bitter curses, and told his
men to lay on their oars.

“It’s well for the runaway,” he added, “that the gal put herself between
us, else would his grog have been stopped forever. I’ve long suspected
this; but had I been sure of it, the Gulf Stream would have had the
keeping of his body, the first dark night we were in it together. Lay on
your oars, men, lay on your oars; I’m afeard the villain will get
through our fingers, a’ter all.”

The men obeyed, and then, for the first time, did they turn their heads,
to look at those they had been so vehemently pursuing. The other boat
was quite half a mile from them, and it had again tacked. This last
occurrence induced Spike to pull slowly ahead, in quest of another short
passage to cut the fugitives off; but no such opening offered.

“There he goes about again, by George!” exclaimed Spike. “Give way,
lads—give way; an easy stroke, for if he is embayed, he can’t escape

Sure enough, poor Mulford _was_ embayed, and could see no outlet by
which to pass ahead. He tacked his boat two or three times, and he wore
round as often; but on every side shoals or rocks, that actually rose
above the surface of the water, impeded his course. The fact was not to
be concealed; after all his efforts, and so many promises of success,
not only was his further progress ahead cut off, but equally so was
retreat. The passage was not wide enough to admit the hope of getting by
his pursuers, and the young man came to the conclusion that his better
course was to submit with dignity to his fate. For himself he had no
hope—he knew Spike’s character too well for that; but he did not
apprehend any great immediate danger to his companions. Spike had a
coarse, brutal admiration for Rose; but her expected fortune, which was
believed to be of more amount than was actually the case, was a sort of
pledge that he would not willingly put himself in a situation that would
prevent the possibility of enjoying it. Strange, hurried, and somewhat
confused thoughts passed through Harry Mulford’s mind, as he brailed his
sail, and waited for his captors to approach and take possession of his
boat and himself. This was done quietly, and with very few words on the
part of Spike.

Mulford would have liked the appearance of things better had his old
commander cursed him, and betrayed other signs of the fury that was
boiling in his very soul. On the contrary, never had Stephen Spike
seemed more calm, or under better self-command. He smiled, and saluted
Mrs. Budd, just as if nothing unpleasant had occurred, and alluded to
the sharpness of the chase with facetiousness and seeming good humor.
The females were deceived by this manner, and hoped, after all, that the
worst that would happen would be a return to their old position on board
the Swash. This was being so much better off than their horrible
situation on the wreck, that the change was not frightful to them.

“What has become of the schooner, Mr. Mulford?” asked Spike, as the
boats began to pass down the channel to return to the brig—two of the
Swash’s men taking their seats in that which had been captured, along
with their commander, while the other two got a tow from the use of the
sail. “I see you have the boat here that we used alongside of her, and
suppose you know something of the craft itself.”

“She capsized with us in a squall,” answered the mate, “and we only left
the wreck this morning.”

“Capsized!—hum—that was a hard fate, to be sure, and denotes bad
seamanship. Now I’ve sailed all sorts of craft these forty years, or
five-and-thirty at least, and never capsized any thing in my life. Stand
by there for’ard to hold on by that rock.”

A solitary cap of the coral rose above the water two or three feet,
close to the channel, and was the rock to which Spike alluded. It was
only some fifty feet in diameter, and of an oval form, rising quite
above the ordinary tides, as was apparent by its appearance. It is
scarcely necessary to say it had no other fresh water than that which
occasionally fell on its surface, which surface being quite smooth,
retained very little of the rain it received. The boat was soon
alongside of this rock, where it was held broadside-to by the two

“Mr. Mulford, do me the favor to step up here,” said Spike, leading the
way on to the rock himself. “I have a word to say to you before we get
on board the old Molly once more.”

Mulford silently complied, fully expecting that Spike intended to blow
his brains out, and willing the bloody deed should be done in a way to
be as little shocking to Rose as circumstances would allow. But Spike
manifested no such intention. A more refined cruelty was uppermost in
his mind; and his revenge was calculated, and took care to fortify
itself with some of the quibbles and artifices of the law. He might not
be exactly right in his legal reservations, but he did not the less rely
on their virtue.

“Hark’e, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, sharply, as soon as both were on the
rock, “you have run from my brig, thereby showing your distaste for her;
and I’ve no disposition to keep a man who wishes to quit me. Here you
are, sir, on _terrum firm_, as the scholars call it; and here you have
my full permission to remain. I wish you a good morning, sir; and will
not fail to report, when we get in, that you left the brig of your own

“You will not have the cruelty to abandon me on this naked rock, Captain
Spike, and that without a morsel of food, or a drop of water.”

“Wather is a blessed thing!” exclaimed Biddy. “Do not think of lavin’
the gentleman widout wather.”

“You left _me_, sir, without food or water, and you can fit out your own
rock—yes, d—e, sir, you left me _under fire_, and that is a thing no
true-hearted man would have thought of. Stand by to make sail, boys, and
if he offer to enter the boat, pitch him out with the boat-hooks.”

Spike was getting angry, and he entered the boat again, without
perceiving that Rose had left it. Light of foot, and resolute of spirit,
the beautiful girl, handsomer than ever perhaps, by her excited feelings
and disheveled hair, had sprung on the rock, as Spike stepped into the
boat forward, and when the latter turned round, after loosening the
sail, he found he was drifting away from the very being who was the
object of all his efforts. Mulford, believing that Rose was to be
abandoned as well as himself, received the noble girl in his arms,
though ready to implore Spike, on his knees, to return and at least take
her off. But Spike wanted no solicitation on that point. He returned of
his own accord, and had just reached the rock again when the report of a
gun drew all eyes toward the brig.

The Swash had again run out of the passage, and was beating up, close to
the reef as she dared to go, with a signal flying. All the seamen at
once understood the cause of this hint. The strange sail was getting too
near, and everybody could see that it was the sloop-of-war. Spike looked
at Rose, a moment, in doubt. But Mulford raised his beloved in his arms,
and carried her to the side of the rock, stepping on board the boat.

Spike watched the movements of the young man with jealous vigilance, and
no sooner was Rose placed on her seat, than he motioned significantly to
the mate to quit the boat.

“I cannot and will not voluntarily, Capt. Spike,” answered Harry,
calmly. “It would be committing a sort of suicide.”

A sign brought two of the men to the captain’s assistance. While the
latter held Rose in her place, the sailors shoved Harry on the rock
again. Had Mulford been disposed to resist, these two men could not very
easily have ejected him from the boat, if they could have done it at
all, but he knew there were others in reserve, and feared that blood
might be shed, in the irritated state of Spike, in the presence of Rose.
While, therefore, he would not be accessory to his own destruction, he
would not engage in what he knew would prove not only a most harassing,
but a bootless resistance. The consequence was that the boats proceeded,
leaving him alone on the rock.

It was perhaps fortunate for Rose that she fainted. Her condition
occupied her aunt and Biddy, and Spike was enabled to reach his brig
without any further interruption. Rose was taken on board still nearly
insensible, while her two female companions were so much confused and
distressed, that neither could have given a reasonably clear account of
what had just occurred. Not so with Jack Tier, however. That singular
being noted all that passed, seated in the eyes of the boat, away from
the confusion that prevailed in its stern-sheets, and apparently
undisturbed by it.

As the party was sailing back toward the brig, the light-house boat
towing the Swash’s yawl, Jack took as good an observation of the
channels of that part of the reef as his low position would allow. He
tried to form in his mind a sort of chart of the spot, for, from the
instant Mulford was thus deserted, the little fellow had formed a stern
resolution to attempt his rescue. How that was to be done, however, was
more than he yet knew; and when they reached the brig’s side, Tier may
be said to have been filled with good intentions, rather than with any
very available knowledge to enable him to put them in execution.

As respects the two vessels, the arrival of Spike on board his own was
not a moment too soon. The Poughkeepsie, for the stranger to the
northward was now ascertained to be that sloop-of-war, was within long
gun-shot by this time, and near enough to make certain, by means of her
glasses, of the character of the craft with which she was closing.
Luckily for the brig she lay in the channel so often mentioned, and
through which both she and her present pursuer had so lately come, on
their way to the northward. This brought her to windward, as the wind
then stood, with a clear passage before her. Not a moment was lost. No
sooner were the females sent below, than sail was made on the brig, and
she began to beat through the passage, making long legs and short ones.
She was chased, as a matter of course, and that hard, the difference in
sailing between the two crafts not being sufficiently great to render
the brigantine’s escape by any means certain, while absolutely within
the range of those terrible missiles that were used by the man-of-war’s

But Spike soon determined not to leave a point so delicate as that of
his own and his vessel’s security to be decided by a mere superiority in
the way of heels. The Florida Reef, with all its dangers, windings, and
rocks, was as well known to him as the entrances to the port of New
York. In addition to its larger channels, of which there are three or
four, through which ships of size can pass, it had many others that
would admit only vessels of a lighter draught of water. The brig was not
flying light, it is true, but she was merely in good ballast trim, and
passages would be available to her, into which the Poughkeepsie would
not dare to venture. One of these lesser channels was favorably placed
to further the escape of Spike, and he shoved the brig into it after the
struggle had lasted less than an hour. This passage offered a shorter
cut to the south side of the reef than the main channel, and the
sloop-of-war, doubtless perceiving the uselessness of pursuit, under
such circumstances, wore round on her heel, and came down through the
main channel again, just entering the open water, near the spot where
the schooner had sunk, as the sun was setting.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          CAROLAN’S PROPHECY.

                        BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

                   (INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ.)

    The castle hall is lighted—
      Its roof with music rings,
    For Carolan is sweeping
      The clairsheck’s quivering strings;
    And, catching inspiration
      From faces fair around,
    His voice is richer far than gush
      Of instrumental sound.

    Of Erin’s banner, green and bright,
      Of Tara’s mighty kings,
    Who never to invader knelt,
      Exultingly he sings;
    And on the glittering sands that edge
      The blue and bellowing main,
    Beneath the blade of Bryan falls
      The yellow-bearded Dane.

    The master touches other chords—
      His brow is overcast—
    And tears, from his old, withered orbs,
      Are falling warm and fast:
    In soul he looks on Athunrée,
      Disastrous field of gore!
    The glory of O’Conner’s house
      Expires to wake no more.

    As died, in mournful echoings,
      The wond’rous strain away,
    Approving smile and word requite
      The minstrel for his lay;
    And by the hand of high-born maid
      The golden cup was filled,
    Commotion in a heart to hush
      By grief too wildly thrilled.

    When tuned to lighter airs of love
      His harp of magic tone,
    Quoth Carolan—“What bard will not
      The sway of Beauty own?
    Kind hostess! I will now compose
      A planxty, promised long,
    In honor of thy daughter fair,
      Oh! matchless theme for song!”

    A few preluding notes he woke,
      So clear and passing sweet,
    That, timing to the melody,
      The heart of listener beat;
    But when the white-haired bard began
      His tributary lay,
    The Soul of Music from the strings
      Wild Discord drove away.

    Thrice, with the same result, his hand
      Upon the chords he laid—
    He turned the keys, but harsher sound
      The trembling clairsheck made:
    In honor of the mother, then,
      A planxty he composed,
    And perfect was the harmony
      Until the strain was closed.

    Then other ladies urged the bard
      To celebrate their charms,
    But he replied—“No rapture now
      My fainting spirit warms;
    By shadows from another world
      My soul is clouded o’er—
    Oh! would that I might never see
      The light of morning more!”

    “What gives a paleness to thy cheek,
      Meet only for the dead—
    What sorrow weighs upon thy heart?”
      His noble hostess said:
    The minstrel whispered in reply—
      “_The daughter of thy heart,_
    _Before the flowers of summer-time_
      _Are faded, will depart._”

    Ere morning dawned, old Carolan
      Went sadly on his way;
    To bid green Erin’s Flower farewell
      He could not, would not stay;
    But sought, ere vanished many days,
      That lordly hall again,
    And through its gateway, moving slow,
      Defiled a funeral train.


It is related of Carolan, Twalogh, the Irish Handel, that in his gayest
mood he could not compose a planxty on a Miss Brett, the daughter of a
noble house in the county of Sligo.

One day, after a vain attempt to compose something in honor of the young
lady, in a mixture of rage and grief he threw his clairsheck aside, and,
addressing her mother in Irish, whispered—“Madam, I have often, from my
great respect to your family, attempted a planxty to celebrate your
daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over
me, there is not a string in my discordant harp that does not vibrate a
melancholy sound—I fear she is not long for this world.” Tradition says
that the event verified the prediction. _See Sketch of Carolan in the
Edinburgh Encyclopedia._

                 *        *        *        *        *

                            THE LOVE-CHASE.

                             A TRUE STORY.

                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

                               CHAPTER I.

                    “Each ambushed Cupid I’ll defy—
                     In cheek, or chin, or brow!”

Exclaimed Auburn, at the same time casting an admiring glance upon his
easel, where a young and lovely face peeped forth from the canvas with
such a roguish, bewitching look, as seemed to laugh to scorn the bold
defiance of the young painter.

“No! painting shall be my mistress,” he continued, “my pallet and brush
my defence against the witcheries of the fair; for me there is no peril
in a lady’s eyes; my heart is an impregnable castle—no admittance
there, fair lady.”

“Most wisely and heroically said!” exclaimed a young girl, who had stood
for some moments at the elbow of the artist unobserved, now suddenly
bursting into a merry laugh, and placing herself before him. “Bravo,
Harry, you are, indeed, a hero!”

“Pshaw! Kate, who would have thought you so near!” cried Auburn,
reddening with vexation.

“Alas! coz, my heart already aches for those unhappy damsels who will be
sueing for admittance at that impregnable castle of yours,” continued
the young girl, with mock gravity.

“Have mercy, do—you have overheard my nonsense, now pray spare me; for,
after all, Kate, if I _should_ ever fall off from my allegiance, here is
the face would tempt me,” pointing as he spoke to the easel.

“Indeed! what a vain fellow you are, Harry. I suppose you think I should
make a humble courtesy for this concession in my favor. It is well you
leave the city to-morrow, or I should be tempted to set my cap at you,
and boldly revenge the sex. I don’t think,” she added, archly, “I should
find the castle invincible.”

“You are a dear girl, Kate, I know that,” answered Auburn; “but come,
take your seat at once—you have just the expression now I have so often
tried to catch, to make your picture perfect. There—don’t move—no more
raillery for at least five minutes—so shut your mouth.”

For five minutes, then, the work went rapidly on, when, springing
triumphantly from his chair, Auburn exclaimed,

“There, coz, it is done! not a feature but is perfect. Come, judge for
yourself, if it is not to the life.”

Kate admitted the correctness of her cousin’s pencil, and then added,

“You had best unsay that rash oath of yours, however; for I have come to
summon you to tea this evening, where you will meet one whose slightest
glance will subdue at once your boasted intrepidity.”

“I have no fears, Kate, yet must decline; as I have already several
engagements on hand for the evening.”

“Better own that, coward-like, you shun the encounter—and well you may;
for, ah, Harry, such a charming girl!”

“Who is she?—have I ever seen her?”

“_Seen_ her! and yet ask that question. Why you cool, self-satisfied
fellow! Think you, you could have asserted such heresy as just now fell
from your lips had you ever met my lovely friend?”

“But you have not yet told me the name of your paragon.”

“No—nor shall I, in revenge for your obstinacy. But here I sit chatting
with you when ma’ma is waiting for me at home. I suppose, my dainty
cousin, you will condescend to be my escort.”

“And esteem myself most fortunate, I assure you, to enjoy that

Arm in arm, therefore, they then proceeded to the street, and were soon
immerged with the gay, moving throng up Broadway.

Leaving Kate at the door of her father’s residence, in the upper part of
the city, Auburn turned and strolled leisurely down this great
thoroughfare of fashion. And no small ordeal is it for a bachelor, let
him be even as inexorable to all the fascinations of beauty as Auburn
has declared himself to be—no small thing is it to pass unscathed along
this _rendezvous_ of fair foes. It was really provoking, however, to see
with what an air of nonchalance he suffered many a graceful, lovely form
to flit by him; and sweet young faces, which ought to have set his heart
beating, and eyes which should have dazzled by their brilliancy; to see
their claims to admiration so stubbornly unrecognized would have tried
the patience of any reasonable man.

Absorbed in his own reflections, Auburn proceeded slowly _en route_ down
Broadway, until attracted by some gem of art displayed at the window of
Colman, he stopped for some moments to admire it, with several other
loungers like himself. Turning suddenly to pursue his walk, he found
himself very awkwardly _vis-à-vis_ two young ladies. He stepped quickly
on one side to allow of their passing—most provokingly, they did the
same, and in the same direction; with a half-uttered apology, and in
much confusion, Auburn again attempted to give them the _pave_; but now,
hemmed in by the crowd, egress either way seemed impossible; and thus
the three, so awkwardly drawn together, remained very foolishly, (I
speak only for the artist,) looking at each other. There was a spice of
mischief, too, mingling with the half-repressed smiles of the young
girls, which only added to his embarrassment. In a moment, however, the
multitude passed on, and with another glance at our plainly perplexed
hero, they did the same.

But not from the mind of Auburn did they thus easily glide away. Why
throbs his heart thus tumultuously? What sends the sudden thrill through
his frame? Those persons less charitable than ourselves, considerate
reader, might deem the impregnable fortress of the valiant artist
already undermined by Cupid’s random shot.

“Heavens, what divine eyes!” suddenly occurred to Auburn, as very slowly
he passed on his way.

“What a lovely mouth—how much expression!” and his step became still
slower and slower.

“Fancy never formed aught half so lovely!” Here he paused,
undeterminate; then exclaiming almost audibly, “I must see her again, I
must know who it is whose breathing charms so far excel even the
painter’s art.” He suddenly turned, and swiftly retraced his steps,
hoping to overtake the _one_ fair enslaver; for so decisive had been the
attraction of the taller of the two girls, that the other, had she been
fair as Venus, or even ugly as Hecate, the result would have been the

On, on rushes the busy throng—a ceaseless tide of human hopes and
worldly ambition, cares and disappointments; and on, on presses Auburn.
At length he catches a glimpse of that charming figure; not for an
instant does he doubt its identity—so on, on he presses, while nearer,
still nearer to his eager vision floats the white robe of the pursued.
Small respect has he for persons, as he elbows his way through the
crowd. Bravo! his aim is now accomplished, and close behind the
unconscious maidens he follows in their dainty footsteps. Trinity was
open, and into its holy aisles the young girls passed, nor did our hero
hesitate to follow. Choosing a seat which commanded a view of the pew
into which they had entered, he remained unobserved, gazing upon the
object of his sudden passion.

She was beautiful, at least in his eyes, and evidently young. Her dress,
more marked for its uniform simplicity than fashionable display, while
her manner, at once so earnest and sincere during the sacred rites,
might well rebuke the inappropriate thoughts of Auburn within that holy
pile, who, in short, during those few brief moments, quaffed deeply of
love’s soul-entrancing draught.

The services over, the two girls left the church, still followed by
Auburn. A thousand rash resolves floated through his dizzy brain. He
would address them; he would even boldly declare the interest awakened;
he would demand in return the name of the fair one. O, that some lucky
chance, or mischance, might call forth the offer of his services. Why
might they not be terrified by the cry of “mad dog,” or nearly run over
by some careless cab-man; any thing, in fact, short of absolute death,
so that _he_ might attract their notice. But, to his great chagrin,
nothing of this kind seemed likely to happen. Like two beautiful swans,
side by side, gracefully glided the fair ones along, until reaching the
corner of a fashionable street, they turned down. Auburn was about to do
the same, his heart leaping at the thought of discovering at least the
residence of his fair enslaver, when his arm was suddenly seized, and a
good-humored voice exclaimed,

“Ha! my dear fellow, I am glad to meet you! I have been looking all over
town for you; but whither so fast? Stop, I want to say a word to you.”

“Not just now, Evans—I—I—the fact is I am engaged—I—”

“Engaged!—how?—where?” continued his friend, holding on perseveringly
to his arm. “Come, I want you to go with me; but what are you looking
at—who do you see?” following the direction of Auburn’s eyes eagerly
straining down C—— street.

“No one,” answered Auburn, in a tone of vexation; for, alas! in that
very moment, when his attention had been unavoidably given to his
friend, the fair vision had disappeared, and, like a vision, “left not a
rack behind.”

                              CHAPTER II.

From the _pave_ we will now step into a spacious drawing-room.

A lively Italian air, exquisitely sung by a fair young girl, falls with
delightful cadence upon the ear, while touched by the fingers of one
scarcely less fair, the piano adds its pleasing accompaniment, filling
the lofty apartment with thrilling melody. Seated in a comfortable
lolling chair, is a gentleman of middle age—the only listener, by the
by, to the charming music of his niece and daughter, yet more than
compensating by his true love of the “art divine,” and the heartiness of
his approval, for the superficial plaudits of a fashionable assembly.
This is evidently the dwelling of a man of fortune and of taste.
Elegance without ostentation mark its adornments. A choice collection of
paintings from the old masters decorate the walls, and scattered around
are various specimens of rare artistic skill and beauty.

The song ended, a lively conversation ensued.

“So I find, Margaret, you have been gadding as usual this morning,” said
Mr. Belden, “and filling your cousin’s little head with more folly and
nonsense than her good mother can eradicate in a twelve-month.”

“O, no, papa, I have done nothing of the kind, I assure you; and yet I
should not like to be answerable for all the mischief done that little
head and heart, too, to-day,” answered Margaret, looking archly at her
cousin. “See how she blushes. Now confess, Emma, the image of a certain
person, who so awkwardly beset us this morning, still haunts your

“Well, Margaret, I do confess,” replied Emma, while a crimson glow
mantled her cheeks, “that I think he possessed one of the finest faces I
ever saw. He was not more awkward, certainly, than we were; and I much
doubt whether, in fact, we were not the most so of the three.”

“Speak for yourself, if you please,” was the reply; “for my part, I
never enjoyed any thing more. Such sideling and bowing; such blushing,
and such bobbing about; why a dancing-master might make a fortune out of
this new _pas de trois_. And as for you, Emma, you really looked like a
little simpleton.”

“What is all this, girls—what new adventure have you met with?”
inquired Mr. Belden.

“Only one of those awkward rencounters, papa, which happen every day,
except, perhaps, that one seldom sees a handsomer young man than the
poor fellow who came so near running us down. Tall and erect, eyes like
stars, brows black as night, and, but for his awkwardness, a very—but,
mercy, Emma, look, look—there he is—yes, it certainly is,” she
suddenly exclaimed; “do come here, quick. See, he is evidently looking
for some number. Now he is at 87; there, he stops at 91—no that is not
it; see how he gazes this way. As I live, the fellow is crossing over!
Why the audacious—he _bows_. Emma, Emma, he is coming up the steps!”
and even as she spoke there was a ring at the door. The girls quickly
disappeared, and the next moment Auburn was ushered into the presence of
the astonished Mr. Belden; doubtless no less astonished himself at his
position and daring errand.

Daring, indeed—but what will not love dare!

After so suddenly losing sight of his _inamorata_, without the shadow of
a hope that he might ever again behold her, Auburn turned, and gloomily
accompanied his friend Evans to his lodgings, wishing, nevertheless,
that he had been many fathoms deep, ere he had thus inopportunely
encountered him. His unusual taciturnity drew forth the raillery of his
friend. Auburn vainly endeavored to shake off this depression; but the
very effort only caused him to talk the more wildly, then plunged him
again into the same moody silence. Evans jested the more, until finally,
already in no very amiable frame of mind, he became provoked; high words
ensued, and the two friends parted in anger.

        “Alas! how light a cause may move
         Dissension between hearts that love.”

Auburn now took refuge in his studio, vainly striving to forget his
chagrin in his late all-engrossing pleasure—painting—the mistress to
whom but that morning he had sworn eternal fealty. At length throwing
down the brush in despair, he exclaimed,

“Heavens, how that face haunts me! And must I leave the city to-morrow,
and thus lose the only chance I may ever have of meeting her again. No,
I cannot do it! and yet what folly,” he added, “why should I allow such
a trifle to disturb me thus? Even should I discover who she is, what
good can result to me!” And now the poor artist paced the room
despairingly; again he soliloquized:

“Yes, I will postpone my journey. I will haunt Broadway, Trinity, the
Opera, theatres—I will neither eat nor sleep until I have found her.”

At this moment his eye rested upon the roguish face of his cousin Kate,
still upon his easel; and the conversation of the morning at once
flashed upon him.

“_Pshaw!_” he exclaimed, “it can’t be—I can’t be such a simpleton as to
have fallen in _love_! Pooh! no, no—it can’t be. _Love!_ ha! ha! ha!
ridiculous!—in _love_! No, Miss Kate, all right yet. Let me shake off
this idle mood. Love!—nonsense!” and seizing his pallet, he first,
somewhat spitefully, removed the provoking portrait from its position,
and then commenced copying a beautiful head of Titian. But in vain he
toiled. It was soon evident he had forgotten his subject; his head
drooped upon his breast; his brush motionless, and for many moments he
remained buried in deep thought. Suddenly starting up with such
vehemence as nearly to overturn the easel, he seized his hat and rushed
from the room, plunged down stairs, and into the street. Up Broadway he
once more pushed along, nor paused until C—— street was attained.
Here, for a moment, he halted, irresolute, then turning the corner,
commenced a deliberate survey of every house, and gazing most
pertinaciously at the windows in particular, careless of the attention
which his peculiar manner attracted. When, then, he really caught a
glimpse of the object of his search peeping through the rich hangings at
the window of Mr. Belden, it is no wonder his senses forsook him, and
that without a moment’s consideration, he impulsively rushed up the
steps, rang the bell, and found himself, as has already been shown, in
the presence of that gentleman.

One rapid glance around the room betrayed the fair object of his search
had disappeared. Then the awkwardness of his position dawned faintly
through the maze in which his wits were wandering. But it was too late
to retreat, so summoning courage to address Mr. Belden, he inquired,

“Can I have the pleasure of speaking with Miss—Miss—your daughter,

A frown gathered dark on the brow of Mr. Belden, as he replied,

“Who are you, sir?—and what is your business with Miss Belden, may I

“Here is my card,” answered Auburn. “I am aware my presence here may
appear somewhat singular, yet as I leave town early to-morrow, I must
urge a few moments conversation with that young lady.”

“Your boldness, sir, is unsurpassed. Miss Belden cannot have the honor
of seeing you.”

The reply of Auburn was interrupted by the sudden appearance of that
young lady, whom, we must frankly confess, had, with Emma, been playing
the part of eaves-dropper, and fearing her father would really drive the
rash youth away without an interview, which her love of mischief tempted
her to grant. She broke from the entreaties of her cousin, and stepped
quietly into the room.

“Ah, here is my daughter,” added Mr. Belden. “Now, sir, your
business—what have you to say?”

But poor Auburn had nothing to say. That Miss Belden was not the one he
sought, a glance sufficed to assure him; and Margaret, too, most
provokingly assumed a stately never-saw-you-before-sir air, which
rendered his embarrassment tenfold.

“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, Miss Belden,” said he at length,
“for which I can offer no excuse, except that I have been laboring under
a delusion,” and bowing, he was about to leave the apartment, when, by
chance, his eye fell upon a music-book, on which the name of “Emma
Willis” was inscribed. A drowning man will catch at a straw—so will a
desperate lover. Turning abruptly he now hazarded the inquiry,

“Is Miss Willis at home?”

“Miss Willis is at home,” coldly answered Mr. Belden.

Auburn’s heart throbbed tumultuously.

“Can I see her for a moment?” he eagerly demanded.

“_No, sir, you cannot!_” exclaimed Mr. Belden now rising, and angrily
confronting his visiter; “and by what right, sir, do you longer intrude
upon my family? Your conduct at least warrants suspicion. You first
inquire for Miss Belden—you equivocate—you acknowledge yourself
mistaken, and then demand an interview with my niece. Pray, what
authority have you for such proceedings—you are not acquainted with the
young lady, I believe?”

“No, sir, I am not,” replied Auburn, now fully restored to his senses,
“and until to-day I acknowledge I never saw either this lady (bowing to
Miss Belden,) or Miss Willis. Again I ask pardon for my intrusion. I
know appearances are much against me; but the interest awakened in my
bosom for your lovely niece, even in those few brief moments when it was
my happiness to see her, and the fact that I am forced to leave the city
to-morrow, is all I can urge in favor of my rashness; it was this alone
which inspired me with boldness to call here.”

“Boldness, indeed! If this is all you have to say in extenuation, I,
young sir, shall have the boldness to show you the door, and request a
speedy retreat therefrom,” cried Mr. Belden.

Forgetting in his anger that Mr. Belden had any grounds for such
uncourteous treatment, mortified, and disappointed, Auburn turned
indignantly upon his heel and left the house—a merry laugh from the
drawing-room ringing discordantly in his ear as he passed out.

                              CHAPTER III.

It was evening of the same eventful day in the history of our hero, that
a merry little circle of young girls were assembled at Kate Kennedy’s;
and to the amused group Miss Belden related the adventures of the
morning, giving to the whole scene an effect so truly ludicrous, as
elicited many a merry peal of laughter from her joyous listeners. Even
Emma Willis, though made to figure so largely in the story, could not
resist a smile at the ridiculous light in which she was shown up by her
provokingly mischievous cousin.

“And to think, after all,” cried Kate, “that this sudden conquest has
been achieved by a simple country girl—our own blushing Emma here, who
never before even lost sight of her lambs and chickens. Why, from your
grandiloquent description, Margaret, I should not wonder if he should
prove some foreign count.”

“Or a play-actor, from his tragic air,” said another.

“Or a poet,” cried a third.

“Or a fugitive from the Insane Hospital,” added a fourth.

“Or a writer of romances, stealing his characters from real life. I’ll
warrant his name to be Adolphus Gustavus Augustus Fitz—something or

“O, no,” interrupted Miss Belden, “his name is a thousand times prettier
than any of your _Sts._ and _Fitz._—it is Auburn—Henry C. Auburn.”

“_Henry C. Auburn!_” screamed Kate. “Say that again, Margaret! Henry C.
Auburn!—delightful!” and bursting into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter, the little gypsy clapped her hands, and danced about the room
apparently in an ecstasy of delight. The next moment she vanished from
the room, and hastily dispatched the following note to the lodgings of

     “Dear Cousin Harry—

    “One so imperturbable to all the blandishments of beauty; one
    who has sworn fealty to pencil and pallet, and jests at all the
    powers of Cupid, can surely fear no danger in coming hither this
    evening, even though to meet the charming friend of whom I told
    you this morning. I therefore once more entreat, nay, I command
    your presence, though at the eleventh hour. I will only hint
    that if you come you may not leave town to-morrow. In haste,


Auburn received the note, but, ingrate that he was to his pretty cousin,
and feeling in no amiable mood of mind, he returned this brief reply.

     “Dear Kate—

    “I cannot come—I told you so. Don’t annoy me any more about
    your ‘_charming friend_.’ I hate all women but you! Kate, I go


He remained that night until a late hour writing and arranging his
things for his departure. Then bidding the servant call him at an early
hour in the morning, he threw himself upon the bed—but not to sleep.

What the fair vision continually flitting through his brain and
repelling the powers of the drowsy god, needs not be told.

                              CHAPTER IV.

Summer has come with its fruits and flowers; and away from the dust and
turmoil of the city, our story takes us to a beautiful village
overlooking the bright waters of the Cayuga Lake.

It is evening. The laborers are returning from their daily toil, some
with their cradles and scythes thrown over their lusty shoulders,
others, sunk amid the fresh and fragrant new-mown hay, are driving their
teams homeward. From every branch the birds are gayly singing; cheerful
sounds greet the ear from the farm-yard, and sweet on the gentle evening
air floats the fragrance of the countless blossoms which adorn the neat
garden-plots, and climb around the windows of the villagers.

Seated in the piazza of the comfortable inn is a traveler, who but a
half hour since alighted from the stage, and made known his intention of
spending some weeks in the village; consequently, the best room in the
house is at his service, as also the best bows of Boniface and his

One glance will suffice us to recognize in the stranger our young
artist, yet at the second we shall wonder what can have wrought so great
a change in the outward man; why that happy, joyous air is exchanged for
one so grave and even gloomy; why that fresh and blooming countenance is
now so wan and haggard!

O, this love—this love!

Either absorbed in the beauty of the scene around him, or in his own
moody thoughts, most probably the latter, the moments passed unheeded
away, nor until aroused by his host with the announcement of supper, did
he once move from his half-recumbent position. After slightly partaking
of this repast, to the evident discomfiture of the good landlady, who
attributed the dainty appetite of her guest, to nothing less than a
dislike for her excellent fare, Auburn strolled forth from the inn, and
proceeded slowly along the now almost deserted street.

The moon had by this time risen, casting her mild radiance over the
peaceful village, and silvering the bosom of the placid lake below,
while many a gambol did the shadows play upon the dewy green-sward, and
upon the house-tops, as the leaves of the large elms flittered and
danced in the soft evening breeze.

Suddenly a strain of delicious music broke the stillness. It aroused
Auburn from his revery; he paused, and found himself near a small
cottage, standing at some little distance from the street, the peculiar
beauty of which at once attracted him. An avenue of horse-chestnuts and
other ornamental trees led up to the entrance, while for some distance
the road and enclosures were lined with the tall, silvery poplar.
Clusters of beautiful flowers nodded their fragrant heads in the
moonlight, while the soothing murmur of a brook winding through a grove
of willows, shadowing one end of the cottage, fell pleasantly upon the

Still the music floated around him—now pensive, now gay. Well known
airs brought back the memory of other scenes; one voice, too, was
strangely familiar—he could almost fancy he was listening, as of old,
to the sweet notes of his cousin, Kate Kennedy.

The music ceased, yet still Auburn lingered. Two ladies, accompanied by
a gentleman, now appear in the piazza which encircles the cottage. Arm
in arm they saunter down the walk, talking and laughing gayly. When near
the gate, they pause for a moment; an affectionate good-night is
interchanged—one lady returns slowly to the house, while the other two
persons continuing their walk are in a moment close to Auburn.


“Kate!” were simultaneous exclamations, and the next instant the cousins
affectionately embraced.

“My husband, Harry,” said Kate, disengaging herself; and to add to the
surprise of our hero, his friend Evans claimed that happy privilege—and
a warm, cordial greeting was exchanged.

“How singular we should have thus met! I must have had some prescience
there was pleasure in store for me!” exclaimed Auburn. “This half hour,
dear Kate, have I been listening to the songs you used to sing me, with
a strange conviction that it was your voice I heard.”

“But you surely must have known of my intended marriage, Harry?” said
Kate. “And that reminds me that you never even answered my letter
inviting you to the ceremony; and here is George, too, who also wrote,
requesting you to act upon the interesting occasion conjointly with my
dear friend—but I forget—you do not like to hear about _her_—the more
_your_ loss. Say, why did you not answer?”

“Simply because I never received your letter. The fact is, I have been a
rover since I left the city—to no place ‘constant ever.’ How long have
you been here?” continued Auburn—“I trust I have not arrived just as
you are about leaving?”

“Oh, no, we have been here but a few days, on a visit to George’s
parents. That same annoying friend of mine also dwells here, and
possibly we may remain to attend her wedding—but what brought _you_

“Partly pleasure—partly the hope of profit. You both know my ardent
desire to visit Italy, and the small means I possess to carry my wishes
into effect. Apart from my own desire to improve the superior facilities
which the old world affords, you are aware that in this country it is
rarely an artist arrives to eminence, or even a reputation above the
medium, unless he has first sunned himself beneath the vine-clad hills
of Italy—a _foreign_ stamp is needed ere he can pass current with the
multitude. To Italy, then, must I go, ere I can realize my ambitious
hopes. By leading a sort of strolling life, for a season, roaming from
village to village, in the exercise of my profession, I hope to raise a
sufficient sum for the undertaking.”

“I have no doubt of your success,” said Evans. “Indeed in this place
there are several wealthy families who would doubtless be glad of an
opportunity to transmit themselves to posterity through your fadeless

“I should not wonder, George,” said Kate, “if Emma—”

“_Emma!_” exclaimed Auburn.

“Yes, Emma—why, what is the matter with you—one would think I had
uttered some charm. I was going to say perhaps Emma might sit for her
portrait—her lover would like it, I dare say.”

At the word _lover_, the heart of Auburn, just now in his mouth, sunk
like lead—and yet he knew not why.

“Do you think,” added Kate, “you could portray

        ‘That loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
         Like the light upon Autumn’s soft shadowy days,
         Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
         From the lips to the cheek—from the cheek to the eyes;’

but excuse me again—I always forget myself when speaking of Emma

“_Emma Willis!_” cried Auburn. “Kate, who are you talking of—good
heavens, you don’t say that—”

“Say what!” interrupted Kate. “What ails the man? All I said was, that,
as I have told you a thousand times, Emma Willis is a charming girl; and
I hope to attend her wedding ere I leave the village—but here we are at
home—good-night, we shall see you to-morrow”—and breaking from Auburn,
who vainly endeavored to detain her, the mischievous girl ran into the
house, followed by Evans, who also seemed in an unaccountable hurry to
get away from his friend—and such a laugh as came wafted to poor
Harry’s ears and was too much for any Christian to bear.

                               CHAPTER V.

Did Auburn sleep that night? “To sleep—perchance to dream—ay, there’s
the rub”—for dream he did, when at length worn out with fatigue and a
mind ill at ease, he sought his pillow. None but lovers were ever
tormented with such fancies as that night haunted the half crazed brain
of the artist. At one moment he was again walking Broadway, and gliding
before him the sylph-like form of Emma—then within the holy walls of
Trinity he listens to the solemn rites of marriage, but, O distraction!
in the fair bride he discovers Emma—while beneath the reverend wig of
the officiating priest, the roguish, wicked face of Kate Kennedy peeps
out upon him—then the scene changes, and through the most beautiful
groves he is wandering with Emma by moonlight—when suddenly the enraged
Mr. Belden starts up before him and tears her from his arms! But Auburn
awakes and finds only his friend Evans standing by his bedside, and the
bright sunshine flickering through the sweet-briar at his window.

Up with the birds, and singing as gayly, too, was Kate, and long ere the
sun had parted the rosy curtains of the eastern sky, she was lightly
tripping o’er the dew-begemmed grass toward the cottage where dwelt her
friend. To enter the little gate, to spring with the lightness of a fawn
up the walk, scattering the bright tinkling drops from the overhanging
branches of the trees upon the flowers nestling below, to softly open
the door, and through the hall, and up the stairs to the little chamber
of Emma, arousing her from her gentle slumbers with a soft kiss upon her
rosy lips, was but the work of a moment.

“Why, Kate, what has brought you here thus early, sweet bird?” cried
Emma, raising herself from the pillow, and drawing down the sweet mouth
of Kate again toward her.

“Come, my lady fair, up, up, and don your robes quickly,” was the
reply—“We have a delightful plan in our heads—that is George and
I—and you are to breakfast with us, George says, as also another
person, so that no time may be lost—come, haste thee, haste.”

“But where are we going?” cried Emma, springing quickly from her couch,
and removing the little muslin cap which shaded her temples, letting
escape her luxuriant raven tresses, which swept almost to the floor.

“Oh, I have promised to be secret,” said Kate, laughing, “and what is
more for a _woman_—I mean to be so. Now let me play the tire-woman,”
and seizing the comb she began platting the beautiful hair of Emma,
rattling on in her usual lively strain as she did so.

“We are to have a sail on the lake, I presume—but who is the person you
spoke of as our companion?” said Emma.

“A painter and a poet—a sworn bachelor—a woman-hater—hating _you_ in

“Why, Kate, you are crazy—who do you mean?”

“_Nous verrons_, my dear—come, are you ready?” and throwing a light
scarf over the shoulders of her friend, away they lightly tripped.

The breakfast scene passes the powers of my pen. That Emma Willis at
once recognized in our hero the daring youth who had so pertinaciously
sought her, the vivid blush upon her cheek at once betrayed, and that
the recognition was not displeasing, the sequel will testify. As for
Auburn—no matter—suffice it to say that ere long Emma sat to him for
her portrait—not for her _lover_, as Kate once maliciously hinted, but
for her parents, ere they bestowed the dear original upon our happy

Kate _did_ attend her friend’s wedding before she left the village, and
Mr. and Mrs. Henry C. Auburn are now in Italy.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          THE WINGED WATCHER.

                  (WRITTEN OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.)

                           BY FANNY FORESTER.

               PART I.

    Morning arose, and from their dreams,
      Awoke the slumbering flowers;
    Red glowed the hill-tops in her beams,
    Her crest lay glittering on the streams,
    And on one cot her gayest gleams
      Broke in warm golden showers.

    A pair of eyes had oped that morn,
      Eyes soft and sweet and blue;
    A poor, weak, helpless thing forlorn,
    Beneath that humble roof was born,
    A folded bud from blossoming thorn,
      Save that a soul peeped through.

    And many a jocund laugh there rung,
      Up from that cottage low,
    And glad words sat on many a tongue,
    And bliss upon fond bosoms hung,
    For there a rill of life had sprung,
      Which would forever flow.

    One form unseen stood meekly nigh,
      Which drew the sunlight there,
    His radiance for a time flung by,
    He was an Angel from the sky,
    With loving pity in his eye,
      And brow new-wreathed with care.

    Down from the palace of the King,
      That morning had he hied;
    The song was stayed upon the string,
    The glory folded in the wing,
    For sad would be his wandering
      By that poor mortal’s side.

               PART II.

    Years passed; the boy a man had grown,
      And shadowy things of fear
    With many an ill his path had strown;
    Foes trooping came, and friends had flown,
    But one white wing, to him unknown,
      Kept ever hovering near.

    It was a lovely sight to see,
      By those who watched above,
    That Spirit glorious and free
    In such an humble ministry,
    Unfalteringly, unfalteringly,
      Pursue his work of love.

    When the worn youth lay down to rest,
      The Angel stood beside;
    And stole the burden from his breast,
    And soothed his wearied sense to rest,
    Fanned his hot brow, his cheek caressed,
      And blissful dreams supplied.

    Once on a mountain peak stood he,
      A high and rugged steep;
    Where many dangerous shapes there be,
    And many things most fair to see,
    While shouting crowds bent low the knee,
      And broke wild Echo’s sleep.

    Pride centered in his burning eye,
      Pride mantled on his brow;
    “Who ever stood the clouds so nigh?”
    Ah! he has climbed a step too high!
    For giddily, bewilderingly,
      His brain is whirling now.

    But ever that pure Watcher bright
      Pleads softly in his ear,
    “Think, mortal, of the coming night!
    Think of the mildew and the blight;
    Think of thy ransomed spirit’s light,
      Dimmed by thy dallying here!”

    He hears, and lo! his pulses wild
      Are hushed, and in his veins
    The riot ebbs; things which beguiled,
    Seem heaps of mist about him piled;
    He bends his knee, a little child,
      And tears efface his stains.

               PART III.

    The babe, the youth, was bent and gray,
      A feeble man and old;
    Death stood beside him as he lay;
    No mourner there his breath would stay,
    Or guide him on his untrod way,
      When lip and heart were cold.

    He loved, had served the God of heaven,
      But death’s a fearful thing:
    And when all earth-wrought ties are riven,
    When back to dust the dust is given,
    The soul which long with sin has striven,
      May shrink to meet the King.

    He trusted; but still shivering clung,
      Where long he’d been a guest;
    Meanwhile death-pangs his bosom wrung;
    The scared soul on the hushed lip hung,
    Then lay, soft wings about it flung,
      Upon the Angel’s breast.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                       SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHTEST.

                           POPULAR SONG FROM


                       COMPOSED BY W. V. WALLACE.


[Illustration: musical score]

        Scenes that are brightest
          May charm awhile;
        Hearts which are lightest,
          And eyes that smile;

[Illustration: musical score]

          o’er them, above us,
          Tho’ nature beam,
        With none to love us,
          How sad They seem,
        With none to love us,
          How sad they seem.

           Second Verse.

        Words cannot scatter
          The thoughts we fear;
        For though they flatter,
          They mock the ear.
        Hopes will still deceive us
          With tearful cost,
        ||:And when they leave us
          The heart is lost!:||

                 *        *        *        *        *

                             THE STRICKEN.

                          BY ROBT. T. CONRAD.

  Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and in
                            misery. Psalms.

          Heavy! Heavy! Oh, my heart
            Seems a cavern deep and drear,
          From whose dark recesses start,
              Flutteringly, like birds of night,
            Throes of passion, thoughts of fear,
              Screaming in their flight;
          Wildly o’er the gloom they sweep,
    Spreading a horror dim—a wo that cannot weep!

          Weary! Weary! What is life
            But a spectre-crowded tomb?
          Startled with unearthly strife—
              Spirits fierce in conflict met,
            In the lightning and the gloom,
              The agony and sweat;
          Passions wild and powers insane,
    And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain!

          Gloomy—gloomy is the day;
            Tortured, tempest-tost the night;
          Fevers that no founts allay—
              Wild and wildering unrest—
            Blessings festering into blight—
              A gored and gasping breast!
          From their lairs what terrors start,
    At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake of the heart!

          Hopeless! Hopeless! Every path
            Is with ruins thick bestrown;
          Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe
              All the greenness of my heart;
            And I now am Misery’s own—
              We never more shall part!
          My spirit’s deepest, darkest wave
    Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! Sleep! The grave! The grave!

                 *        *        *        *        *


                               BY “CARO.”

    A thing all life and sunshine,
      A glad and happy child,
    With spirits ever changing,
      Half earnest and half wild;
    As fleet a little fairy
      As ever graced a dell,
    Or frolicked in a blossom,
      Is our sweet Rosabelle.

    I wish that you could meet her;
      Her clear and happy eyes
    Would break upon your vision,
      Like light from Paradise!
    You’d know her in a moment—
      You couldn’t help it well—
    For there’s no other _like_ her—
      Our own, dear Rosabelle!

    Her brow is just as open,
      And sunny as the day;
    And curls are dancing o’er it,
      In their unfettered play.
    Ah! loveliness and beauty
      Have thrown their brightest spell,
    Around our darling blossom—
      Our witching Rosabelle!

    Her mouth is made for kisses,
      And when she lifts her face,
    She seems to ask the tribute,
      With her unconscious grace.
    Her lips are ripe and glowing,
      With just that pouting swell
    That painters like to copy—
      Our peerless Rosabelle!

    Her voice is soft and child-like,
      Yet gleeful as a bird’s;
    I love to list the cadence
      Of her half-warbled words.
    Her laugh is like the music
      Of some sweet, silver bell;
    I hear it in the passage,
      And know ’tis Rosabelle.

    A thing all life and sunshine,
      A glad and happy child,
    With spirits ever changing,
      Half earnest and half wild;
    As fleet a little fairy
      As ever graced a dell,
    Or frolicked in a blossom,
      Is our sweet Rosabelle!

                 *        *        *        *        *

                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

    _Lives of the Early British Dramatists. By Thomas Campbell,
    Leigh Hunt, George Darley and William Gifford. Philadelphia:
    Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains the biographies prefixed to Moxon’s library
editions of the elder dramatists. The Life of Shakspeare, by Campbell,
embodies all that is known of the poet, with some reasonable conjectures
in regard to what is unknown, together with a short criticism on each of
the plays. Though it has not that sustained excellence, either in
composition or criticism, we might expect from the pen of such a writer,
it still abounds in felicitous expressions and striking remarks, and,
with the exception of De Quincy’s Life of Shakspeare, published in the
Encyclopedia Britannica, is the most interesting biography of
Shakspeare, for the general reader, we can bring to mind. A few of the
criticisms are very lame, and all of them imperfect—but the last
objection is a natural consequence of the limited space in which the
life is compressed. The style glitters occasionally with those smart
impertinences which Campbell affected in his later compositions. Some of
these are exceedingly pleasant. Thus in speaking of Much Ado About
Nothing, he remarks that he once knew such a pair as Benedick and
Beatrice. “The lady was a perfect Beatrice; she railed hypocritically at
wedlock before her marriage, and with bitter sincerity after it. She and
her Benedick now live apart, but with entire reciprocity of sentiments,
each devoutly wishing that the other may soon pass into a better world.”
Again, in some slight observations on Coriolanus, which neither charity
nor flattery could call criticism, there occurs a good hit at a common
play-house profanation: “The enlightened public, in 1682, permitted
Nahum Tate, _the executioner of King David_, to correct the plays of
Shakspeare, and he laid his hangman hands on Coriolanus. . . . This mode
of rewriting Shakspeare, was, for the time being, called correcting the
saint of our stage. In like manner the Russians correct their patron
saint when they find him deaf to their prayers for more favorable
weather; they take him out in his wooden effigy and whip him soundly and
publicly. I suspect they borrowed this custom from our mode of
correcting Shakspeare.”

The best piece in the volume is Mr. Darley’s biography and criticism of
Beaumont & Fletcher. The style is a little too much elaborated, and the
opinions are not always free from prejudice, but the author writes like
a poet, and really paints his subjects to the intellect of the
reader—catching and conveying the spirit of the dramatists, as well as
subjecting it to a high and manly criticism.

In most essays of this kind it is impossible to gain any notion of the
author’s mind and individuality, amid all the words squandered on events
of his life and the detail of his writings. This is illustrated in the
biography of Ben Jonson, by Gifford. The “mountain belly and rocky face”
of old Ben are hidden behind the form of his reviewer. It is like
reading a snapping-turtle’s account of a whale, in which the said
snapping-turtle contrives to make it out that the whale is just his size
and conformation, and proves it by “undoubted facts.”

The account of Massinger and Ford is by Henry Nelson Coleridge, the son
of the poet. It is rather brilliantly written, and contains much
information relating to the time of James I. and Charles I. The lives of
Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar, are in Leigh Hunt’s most
characteristic style of thought and expression, and consequently sparkle
with many a bright fancy and jaunty impertinence. As his band of
dramatists were gentlemen of easy virtue, both in literature and life,
and violated all the decencies and moralities which keep society
together in the most brilliant way imaginable, they are very fortunate
in having a biographer who launches no thunderbolts of indignation, and
indulges in no yelps of rhetorical horror.

This volume of “lives” is almost indispensable to the lover of the old
dramatists, and gives on the whole, the best account of their moral and
intellectual character which can be obtained. The publishers have done
well in presenting them in such an elegant and available form.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Washington and his Generals. By J. T. Headley. New York: Baker
    & Scribner. Vol. I., 12mo._

Mr. Headley has already won a popularity by his work on Napoleon and his
Marshals, which his present volume will much increase. It doubtless has
many inaccuracies, and displays here and there too much of the
earthquake and thunderbolt in the style, but the object which the author
set before him to obtain he has brilliantly accomplished. This object we
take to be, the representation of the most glorious portions of American
history in such a style as to impress them vividly on the popular
imagination. In reading his book, the old passions burn anew in the
veins of the reader, and the old forms start up, as from the tomb, and
fight all their battles o’er again. The volume is as entertaining as the
most exciting novel, and will convey more real information than many
histories. All we have to regret is, that the author does not produce
his effects by simpler and subtler means, with a less convulsive strain
upon his rhetoric, and less carelessness of minor excellencies. As his
books will have a very large circulation, it becomes him to avoid faults
of diction, which must exert a bad influence upon public taste. His
fiery and picturesque manner would really be even more effective if
unaccompanied by his faults of taste; and these faults in so able a
writer, must be rather the result of haste than of design or natural
defect. We should advise him to look at Alison less, and at Robertson
more, and combine simplicity with vividness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Memoirs of the Queens of France. By Mrs. Forbes Bush. Phila.:
    Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo._

These elegant volumes should have a place on every lady’s table. The
authoress has treated those portions of her subject which most require
softening, with that cunning delicacy peculiar to a woman’s mind. Most
of these queens were associated in their empire over the hearts of their
lords, with certain queens, belonging to what Mrs. Slipsop might call
“the frail sect,” and the latter were more numerous than the former.
Both queens and mistresses had no small share in the government of
France, especially after it became an absolute monarchy. Frederick the
Great said that the “petticoat government of the 18th century was yet to
be written.” Mrs. Forbes has done much to supply this defect in the case
of France, for a number of centuries.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Hill-Side and Border Sketches: with Legends of the Cheviots and
    Lammermuir. By W. H. Maxwell. New York: D. Appleton & Co._

This is a very pleasant, readable book, evincing great animal spirits,
if not wit, and written in a vein of delightful recklessness. The
author, we believe, is a soldier, and a military air is around every
thing he writes. He fires into the ranks of his readers uncounted
quantities of small, hissing shot, peppers them now and then with an
epigram, and anon charges them with a troop of well-compacted, screaming
sentences. In every page there is implied a most edifying notion of his
own rhetorical prowess, and a cavalier carelessness of contrary
opinions. We wish his book success.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Holy Living and Dying. By the Rt. Rev. Jeremy Taylor, D. D.
    Boston: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a cheap and excellent edition of one of the most beautiful and
eloquent works in the whole compass of theological literature. Taylor
has been called “the Shakspeare of divines.” The extent of his learning,
the strength of his understanding, and the wonderful richness and
copiousness of his imagination, were all penetrated by a spirit of
holiness as remarkable for its sweetness as its intensity. Of all
divines he is the best expression of heavenly-mindedness; and his Holy
Living and Dying is the most perfect expression of his leading grace.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sermons of Consolation. By F. W. P. Greenwood, D. D., Minister
    of King’s Chapel, Boston. Third edition. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor
    & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the best volumes of sermons for family reading we ever
read; and its rapid passage to a third edition, shows how soon it has
taken hold of the public mind. Dr. Greenwood’s character had a
sweetness, sanctity, and gentleness, which especially fitted him to
carry light and consolation into the house of mourning. His sermons
breathe the very spirit of peace and holiness. The style is exquisite.
The volume cannot be read without having its tone of serious thought and
devout aspiration insinuated into the most worldly mind, by “a process
of smoothness and delight.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Prevention Better Than Cure: or the Moral Wants of the World We
    Live In. By Mrs. Ellis. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.

The object of this book is indicated by the title, and its mode of
treatment by the general character of the authoress. The volume is laden
with valuable suggestions, which, if carried out by those who have the
guardianship of the young, would save the world from a vast mass of its
social evils. One of the best indications of the age, is the interest
taken in all the influences which go to mould individual character, and
the severe scrutiny to which they are subjected. Mrs. Ellis’s book is a
good illustration of a general disposition, and we trust it will fall
into the right hands.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Tancred, or the New Crusade. A Novel. By B. D’Israeli, M. P.
    Phila.: Carey & Hart._

Of all the political and literary charlatans of the day, D’Israeli is
the ablest, most brilliant, and most impudent. If any of our readers
disagree with this opinion, we refer them to the work which has provoked
it. To attempt a sober answer to its leading opinions would make the
disputant as ridiculous as the author. The reader silently consigns them
to contempt, or passes them lightly over for the other portions of the
novel. The whole book is made up of foppery; but the foppery of
sentiment, satire, and description, is infinitely more readable than the
foppery of politics and religion.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Year of Consolation. By Fanny Kemble Butler. New York: Wiley
    & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most attractive volumes of the season. It is written
in Mrs. Butler’s most brilliant style, and is spiced with just enough
personality to make it piquant. That portion of her journal relating to
Italy is especially readable. The side allusions to this country are
very characteristic. Every page of the book bears the stamp of a strong,
proud, frank mind, heedless of what Mrs. Grundy will say, and fearlessly
expressing even its whims and caprices. There is a kind of impatient
daring even in the use of figurative language, and analogies are
sometimes brought violently together, as much from passion as fancy. A
reader goes through the book at rail-road speed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Cadet de Colobrières. Translated from the French of Madame
    Charles Reybaud. Phila.: Carey & Hart._

This is an excellent novel; interesting as a narrative; showing great
artistic skill in composition and grouping, and unblemished by the
faults and indecencies usually connected with the very idea of a French

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Captivity of Napoleon at St. Helena. By General Count
    Montholon, the Emperor’s Companion in Exile and Testamentary
    Executor. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8mo._

To those who take an interest in Napoleon, either as a general or
statesman, this work will be of absorbing interest. Napoleon, at St.
Helena, is even a greater man than Napoleon at Marengo or Austerlitz.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Voyage up the River Amazon, Including a Residence at Para. By
    William H. Edwards. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an exceedingly interesting account of a region which is but
little known, but which is truly what the author styles it, the “garden
of the world.” The book deserves an extensive circulation. It is sure to
amuse those who are indifferent to its value in other respects.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Progress of Ethnology, an Account of Recent Archæological,
    Philological and Geographical Researches in Various Parts of the
    Globe, Tending to Elucidate the Physical History of Man. By John
    Russell Bartlett. New York: Bartlett & Welford._

In this pamphlet of a hundred and fifty pages, Mr. Bartlett has
compressed the information of as many volumes. It evinces the most
extensive knowledge, and as fine judgment, and is altogether a work
which no scholar can be without.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and
punctuation 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.

page 54, ears was too ==> ears and was too

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 1, July 1847]

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