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[Illustration: GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE
1847.
 Engraved by W.E. Tucker, Esq.]

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXX.      January, 1847.      No. 1.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Oath of Marion. A Story of the Revolution.
          The Night Watch
          Sense and Sympathy
          One of the “Upper Ten Thousand,” and One of the
            People
          Musa; or The Pilgrim of Truth
          Three Eras of Destiny in the Life of the Painter
            Angelica Kauffmann
          Sly Love
          Game-Birds of America.—No. III.
          The Islets of the Gulf
          Review of New Books

                           Poetry and Fashion

          Miriam
          To the Husband
          “Oh Mother of a Mighty Race.”
          Caius Marius
          Love
          Solitude
          The Past
          Hawking
          Le Follet

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                GRAHAM’S

                            AMERICAN MONTHLY

                                MAGAZINE

                         Of Literature and Art,

                            EMBELLISHED WITH

              MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING,
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, JOSEPH C. NEAL, J. R. LOWELL.

 MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD,
    MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY,
                       MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.
                        PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.

                       GEORGE R. GRAHAM, EDITOR.


                              VOLUME XXX.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
              GEORGE R. GRAHAM & CO. 129 CHESTNUT STREET.


                              . . . . . .
                                 1847.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                CONTENTS

                                 OF THE

                           THIRTIETH VOLUME.

                     JANUARY, 1847, TO JUNE, 1847.

Alexandre Dumas’ Hamlet. By F. J. GRUND,                             142
Abroad and at Home. By F. E. F.                                      250
A Coquette Conquered. By J. S. WALLACE,                              254
A Dream. By FANNY FORESTER,                                          314
A Chapter on Eating. By FRANCIS J. GRUND,                            332
“Boots;” or the Misfortunes of Peter Faber. By JOSEPH C.             325
  NEAL,
Frank Beverly. By MARY SPENCER PEASE,                                296
Game-Birds of America. No. III.                                       47
Glimpses of a Soul. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD,                             90
Game-Birds of America. No. IV.                                       118
Game-Birds of America. No. V.                                        162
Game Birds of America. No. VI.                                       320
Law and Love. Or Gaining a Case. By ICHABOD JONES,                   153
Life in New York. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD,                              177
Musa; Or the Pilgrim of Truth. By JAMES K. PAULDING,                  28
My Aunt Fabbins’s Old Garret. By C. P. CRANCH,                       157
Mrs. Bell’s Ball. By L. L.                                           214
Mr. Kerr Mudgeon. Or “You Wont, Wont You?” By JOSEPH C.              246
  NEAL,
Margaret’s Well. A Tale of the Great Civil War. By HENRY             282
  WILLIAM HERBERT,
Old Maids. Or Kate Wilson’s Morning Visit. By ENNA                   193
  DUVAL,
One of the “Upper Ten Thousand,” and One of the People.               21
  By Mrs. J. C. CAMPBELL,
Sense and Sympathy. By F. E. F.                                       13
Sly Love. Or Cousin Frank. By Mrs. CAROLINE H. BUTLER,                38
Starting Wrong. By F. E. F.                                          133
Singleton Snippe. Who Married for a Living. By JOSEPH C.             165
  NEAL,
Spectral and Supernatural Appearances. By R. BALMANNO,               361
The Oath of Marion. A Story of the Revolution. By             1, 92, 169
  CHARLES J. PETERSON,
The Night Watch. A Tale.                                              10
Three Eras of Destiny in the Life of the Painter                      33
  Angelica Kauffmann. By Miss H. B. MACDONALD,
The Islets of the Gulf. Or Rose Budd. By J. FENIMORE       49, 121, 181,
  COOPER,                                                  217, 301, 349
Tribulation Trepid. By JOSEPH C. NEAL,                                85
The Executioner. By A NEW CONTRIBUTOR,                               101
The Young Painter. A Tale. By Mrs. JANE L. SWIFT,                    111
Thomas Carlyle and His Works. By HENRY D. THOREAU,              145, 238
The Fields of Stillwater and Saratoga. By N. C. BROOKS,              205
  A. M.,
The Loyalist’s Daughter. A Tale of the American                 265, 337
  Revolution. By P. HAMILTON MYERS,
The Irish Match-Maker. A Story of Clare. By J. GERACHTY              274
  M’TEAGUE,
The Strawberry-Woman. By T. S. ARTHUR,                               345
The Musician. By HENRY COOD WATSON,                                  372


                                POETRY.

Ægeus. By WM. H. C. HOSMER,                                          100
A Prayer. By J. B.                                                   161
Autumn. By JESSE E. DOW,                                             229
April.                                                               245
Are They Not All Ministering Spirits. By S. DRYDEN                   319
  PHELPS,
A Prayer. By Mrs. C. E. DA PONTE,                                    336
Caius Marius. By Mrs. E. J. EAMES,                                    20
Fanny. By Mrs. MARY SUMNER,                                          179
Fanny’s First Smile. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD,                           262
Hawking. By E. M. SIDNEY,                                             81
Heart Struggles. By Mrs. J. C. CAMPBELL,                             176
Love. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR,                                            27
Lady Jane Grey. By Mrs. E. J. EAMES,                                 110
Lines. By L. J. CIST,                                                180
Love Unrequited. By ALICE G. LEE,                                    228
Lines to a Jews-Harp. By L. B. M.,                                   262
Lines on Visiting Broad Street Hotel. By W. H. C.                    344
  HOSMER,
Miriam. By KATE DASHWOOD,                                              9
Midnight Masses. By ARTHUR ALLYN,                                    132
Morning Invitation. By THE PRIVATE SCHOLAR,                          336
Night. By ALICE GREY,                                                292
“Oh Mother of a Mighty Race.” By WM. C. BRYANT,                       20
“Oh! that a Little Cot were Mine!” By ROBERT F. GREELY,              120
Pittsburgh. By E. M. SIDNEY,                                         249
Picture of Tasso. By Mrs. E. J. EAMES,                               371
Solitude. By ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH,                                   27
Sonnets on Receiving a Crown of Ivy from John Keats. By              117
  LEIGH HUNT,
Song. By WM. C. BRYANT,                                              152
Stanzas. By THOMAS FITZGERALD,                                       237
Sonnet.                                                              279
Settlement of the Genesee. By WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER,                  293
Sea-Side Musings. By ADALIZA CUTTER,                                 313
Sonnet from Petrarch, on the Death of Laura. Translated              331
  by ALICE GREY,
To the Husband. By ELLA,                                              12
The Past. By E. J. E.,                                                37
The Maid of Linden Lane. By T. BUCHANAN READ,                         99
The Gleaner. By E. M. SIDNEY,                                        143
The Midshipman’s Farewell. By Mrs. CORNELIA DA PONTE,                152
The Love Dial. By G. W. PATTON,                                      192
The Brickmaker. By T. BUCHANAN READ,                                 200
To Mrs. A. T. By Dr. JNO. C. M’CABE,                                 201
The Oriole’s Return. By Miss C. MITCHELL,                            213
The Skater’s Song. By H. B. T.                                       216
The Portrait. By KATE DASHWOOD,                                      237
The Statue in the Snow. By J. B. TAYLOR,                             253
The Stolen Child. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ,                           280
To Mrs. P——, of Chestnut Street.                                     313
The Idiot Boy. By E. P.                                              330
The Soul’s Search. By T. BUCHANAN READ,                              348
To Lizzie. By Mrs. M. N. M’DONALD,                                   348
To Ianthe. By GEO. W. HOBSON,                                        360
Youthful Love. By ALICE G. LEE,                                      331


                                REVIEWS.

History of the Thirty Years’ War. By Rev. A. J.                       82
  Morrison,
The History of Civilization from the Fall of the Roman                82
  Empire to the French Revolution. By F. Guizot.
  Translated by Wm. Hazlitt,
Stories from the Italian Poets. By Leigh Hunt,                        82
The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore,                                   83
The French Revolution. By Thomas Carlyle,                             83
The Life and Correspondence of John Foster. Edited by J.              83
  E. Ryland,
The New Timon. A Romance of London,                                   83
Memoirs of the Life of Addison. By Miss Aiken,                        83
Christine, and Other Poems. By T. B. Read,                           144
Dealings with the Firm of Domby & Son. By Charles                    144
  Dickens,
Lives of Donne, Wotton, Hooker, Herbert and Sanders. By              144
  Izaak Walton,
Poems. By Ralph Waldo Emerson,                                       202
The Modern Standard Drama. Edited by Epes Sargent,                   202
The Poems of Thomas Campbell,                                        203
Views A-Foot: or Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff. By             204
  J. Bayard Taylor,
Alderbrook. By Miss Emily Chubbuck,                                  204
The Prose Writers of America. By Rufus Wilmot Griswold,              263
Songs of the Sea, and other Poems. By Epes Sargent,                  263
The Battle of Life. By Charles Dickens,                              264
The Countess of Rudolstadt. By George Sand,                          264
Cyclopedia of English Literature. Edited by Robert                   264
  Chambers,
Travels in Peru. By Dr. J. J. Von Tschudi,                           264
Ballads and other Poems. By Mary Howitt,                             264
The Dog. By William Youatt,                                          264
The Life of Napoleon Bonaparte. By William Hazlitt,                  322
American Comedies. By James K. Paulding and William                  322
  Irving Paulding,
History of the Roman Republic. By J. Michelet.                       322
  Translated by Wm. Hazlitt,
Spaniards and their Country. By R. Ford,                             323
Hyperion. By H. W. Longfellow,                                       323
Froissart Ballads. By P. Pendleton Cook,                             323
Past and Present. By Thomas Carlyle,                                 379
The Constitutional History of England from the Accession             379
  of Henry VII. to the Death of George II. By Henry
  Hallam,


                                 MUSIC.

I’ve Been upon the Briny Deep. A New Song. Composed by               140
  Charles E. Cathrall,

General Taylor’s Gallop. Composed and respectfully                   260
  dedicated to the Ladies of Miss Carpenter’s Dancing
  Assembly. By A. J. R. Conner


                              ENGRAVINGS.

The Departure, engraved by J. Sartain, Esq.
Title Page for 1847, designed and engraved by E. Tucker,
  Esq.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet,
Josh Educating a Pig.
The Gleaner, engraved by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch.
Herds of Bisons and Elks, engraved by Rawdon, Wright &
  Hatch.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Saukie and Fox Indians, engraved by Rawdon, Wright &
  Hatch.
Falls of the Towalaga, engraved by Smillie.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Saratoga and Stillwater Battle-Ground, engraved by
  Smillie.
Pittsburg, engraved by A. W. Graham.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Mandan Women, engraved by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch.
Lover’s Leap, engraved by Smillie.
Colored Flower, executed by E. Quarré.
The Home-Bird, engraved by A. L. Dick.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _PAINTED BY HORACE VERNET._   ENGRAVED BY JOHN
  SARTAIN._
DEPARTING FOR THE CHASE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXX.     PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1847.     NO. 1.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE OATH OF MARION.


                       A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.


                        BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.


[PRIZE STORY—for which the Premium of $200 was awarded by the Committee.]


                               CHAPTER I.

            Every man knows best how to buckle his own belt.
                                                   FALSTAFF.

“Did you get the pass, Macdonald?” said a young man, looking up, as his
servant entered the room of a lodging-house in Charleston, in the latter
part of the year 1780.

“Yes, sir, and the baggage and horses are ready,” was the reply of a
stalwart youth, whose dress betokened a condition removed from that of
an ordinary menial, and partaking rather of that of a familiar, though
humble companion. “I think we can give them the slip, sir—Lord! how I
wish for a crack at these fellows! and once with Marion, we’ll not long
want an opportunity.”

“Be in waiting for me at midnight, then,” said the first speaker; and,
as Macdonald retired, he threw himself back again in his chair, and
fixing his eyes on the floor, resigned himself to the abstraction out of
which he had been roused.

Howard Preston, the hero of our story, had just returned from Europe,
where he had been fulfilling the injunctions of his father’s will, by a
course of study and travel until his twenty-fourth year. The first great
sorrow of his life had been his parting, at sixteen, with the only child
of his guardian, Kate Mowbray, then a lovely little girl, who for years
had been his pet and playmate. Many were the tears she also shed at the
separation, and faithfully did she promise not to forget her boy lover.
Such childish preferences usually end with youth; but it was not so in
the present instance. With every letter from abroad came a gift for
Kate, which she requited with some trifle worked by her own hands. But
as years elapsed, and Kate approached womanhood, these presents were no
longer returned, and Preston, piqued at what he thought neglect,
gradually came to confine himself, in his letters home, to a cold
inquiry after her health, instead of devoting, as heretofore, two-thirds
of the epistle to her. Yet he never thought of America without also
thinking of Kate; and when he landed at Charleston, a month before our
tale begins, he was wondering into what kind of a woman she had grown
up.

Still his old feeling of pique was uppermost when shown into her
father’s magnificent parlor; and this, combined with his astonishment at
seeing a graceful and high bred woman announced as his old playmate,
lent an air of coldness and embarrassment to his greetings. Whether it
was this or some other cause, Kate, who was advancing eagerly, suddenly
checked herself, colored, and put on all her dignity. The interview, so
inauspiciously begun, was short and formal, and to Preston, at least,
unsatisfactory. He had expected, in spite of their tacit
misunderstanding, that Kate would meet him as rapturously as of old,
forgetting that the child had now become a woman. He overlooked, also,
the effect his own restraint might have produced. Thus he returned to
his lodgings, dissatisfied and angry, half disposed to dislike, yet half
compelled to admire, the beautiful and dazzling creature from whom he
had just parted. The truth was, Preston, though hitherto ignorant of it,
had loved his old playmate from boyhood. This had made him feel her
neglect so acutely, and this had led him secretly to hope that her
welcome on his return would heal the past. No wonder he went home angry,
yet quite as much in love as ever!

Preston and Kate often met after this, but they seemed destined to
misunderstand each other. Kate was really ignorant of the mischief she
had done. She had come down to meet him with a heart full of the
memories of other days, and, if truth must be told, a little nervous and
anxious how he, of whom she had so often thought in secret, would
receive her. His proud demeanor had chilled her. Nor on subsequent
occasions were their interviews more satisfactory. Indeed Kate was
puzzled and vexed at Preston’s manner. No one could, at times, be more
interesting; yet no one was so often haughty and disagreeable. Kate
sighed to think how changed he had become; then she was angry at herself
for sighing.

Kate was accordingly as wayward as Preston—and who, indeed, had greater
excuse? Rich and well born, beautiful and high-spirited, she was
positively the reigning belle in Charleston during the whole of that gay
winter. To a complexion delicately fair, and a person of the most
exquisite proportions, she united those graces of mind and manner,
which, in that courtly day, were considered the unerring accompaniments
of high breeding. Report awarded to her numbers of unsuccessful suitors;
but all had tacitly resigned their claims in favor of Major Lindsay, an
English officer of noble blood, between whom and an earldom there was
only a single life. Gay and splendid in person and equipage, the Major
no sooner laid siege to the heart of the heiress, than her less favored
suitors gave over in despair; and what between lounging most of his
mornings away in her parlor, and attending her abroad on all occasions,
he speedily came to have the field nearly altogether to himself.

The arrival of the major anticipated that of Preston about a month, and
when our hero returned, he found his rival almost domesticated at Mr.
Mowbray’s house. Jealousy soon revealed to Preston the secret of his own
long hidden love; but it made him heartily hate the major. The two
gentlemen seemed perfectly to understand each other. But the Englishman
knew better than his rival how to suppress his feelings, and accordingly
possessed every advantage over him in superior ease and self-command.
Had Kate wished otherwise, she could not but have given the larger share
of her attention to the graceful, brilliant and composed man of fashion,
rather than to his more irritable and wayward rival, whom a fancied
slight, in word or look, was sufficient to make dumb for a whole
evening. Depend on it, the worst possible use to which a lover can put
himself is to be sulky.

Perhaps it was the enmity he nourished against his more successful
rival; perhaps it was the natural indignation of a frank and noble heart
against oppression; perhaps, which is more natural, it was both
combined, but Preston had not been long at home before he formed the
resolution to take part with his countrymen in the war then going on;
and the sudden appearance of General Marion on the Santee, where he
began a partisan conflict with the invaders, opened to him a favorable
way for carrying out his design, which he only postponed until he could
part from Kate on better terms. He flattered himself that she herself
was secretly on the side of the colonists, for her father had once held
a commission under the provisional government, although since the fall
of Charleston and the apparent conquest of the colony, he, like many
others, had been induced to take a royal protection, and ground his arms
as a neutral.

One morning Preston found Kate alone in her little parlor. It was rare
that she was without visiters, for Major Lindsay, at least, was usually
at her side. Kate wore a pretty morning-dress, and was sewing, her
little tiny foot, that rested on a cushioned stool, peeping provokingly
out beneath the snowy muslin. A woman one admires never looks lovelier
than when occupied in this truly feminine employment; and as Kate made
room for Preston beside her, with her sweetest smile, he thought she had
never seemed half so charming. Lovers can imagine how happy Preston soon
was. He and Kate talked of old times, she busily plying her needle, but
every now and then looking up with animation into his face. His heart
beat quicker, and he longed to tell her how he loved her; it would, I
fear, have set your head or mine, reader, topsy-turvy at once. A dozen
long forgotten incidents were called to mind: how Preston had once
rescued Kate from the river, how they both wept when her old nurse died,
and a score of other things. The color of both heightened, and Preston
felt every instant as if he could snatch the dear girl to his arms. In
the eagerness of conversation, all at once Kate placed her hand
familiarly on his.

“And do you remember,” she said, gazing up with sparkling eyes into his
face, “do you remember when the pony ran away with you? Oh! I was half
dead with fright, and screamed lustily. Those were happy days—I wonder
if we are ever as happy as in childhood. I sometimes wish we were back
again on that old lawn.” And she sighed.

“Do you, indeed?” said Preston, his whole face lighting up, and he took
her hand by an impulse he could no longer resist.

At that moment the words which would have decided his fate were rising
to Preston’s lips, and Kate, as if secretly forewarned, began to tremble
and be confused, when the door was flung open and the servant in a loud
voice announced Major Lindsay.

If any of my readers has ever been interrupted when about to declare
himself, and had to come plump down from rapture to foolishness, he can
imagine Preston’s chagrin at the entrance of the visiter. However, he
had tact enough to think of Kate’s embarrassment, and as he rose to make
his bow, adroitly placed himself so as to conceal her for a moment, and
allow her time to recover from her confusion. The major gave both
parties, on the instant, a suspicious glance, but his softest smile
immediately succeeded, and with easy assurance taking the seat Preston
had vacated, he glided into a strain of brilliant small talk, such as
would have done honor to any gallant of the day, incomparable at
compliments and snuff-boxes. Preston was angry at this unceremonious
supplanting, but even more angry to see how quickly Kate recovered
herself, and dashed out into the strife of repartee, with a spirit and
ease superior even to the major’s. Preston chafed, and thought she might
have been a little less interested. At first he was silent and reserved,
then he began to be uneasy, and once or twice he yielded to his
irritability in words. He cursed his folly for imagining, as he did five
minutes before, that she thought more of him than she did of others. He
fixed his eyes half frowningly, half contemptuously on Kate. She colored
immediately, he thought with conscious guilt. The next instant she
turned haughtily away and addressed the major. Now, for the first time,
Preston became convinced of the existence of the engagement respecting
which he had heard so much. Burning with mortification, after sitting a
few seconds, during which Kate did not once address him, he arose and
abruptly took his leave.

“She loves him,” he exclaimed bitterly. “Dazzled by the glitter of a
coronet, she casts aside her old and tried friend like a worn-out
trinket. Oh! God, was it for this I hastened home? was it for this I
treasured her memory through long years?”

For hours he remained alone, now pacing his chamber with rapid strides,
now burying his face moodily in his hands. He recalled all his various
interviews with Kate, and strove to remember her every word and look:
the result was to curse himself for his egregious folly in fancying for
a moment that she loved him. But after awhile his feelings grew less
exasperated. He reflected on Kate’s manner that morning, before the
arrival of Major Lindsay, and hope once more dawned in his bosom.

“I will lose no time,” he said, “in learning my fate decisively. I shall
see Kate at her aunt’s ball, and her manner there will determine my
suspense. If she is cold and haughty I will understand that she wishes
to rebuke my presumption this morning. In that case, I will trifle here
no longer, but at once join Gen. Marion. Macdonald, my foster-brother,
loves me too well to desert me, but he has been crazy to be gone this
fortnight past. I will order him to get a pass and have every thing
ready in case of the worst, which my heart forebodes.”

It was after arriving at this determination, and receiving Macdonald’s
message, that Preston gave himself up to his melancholy, nor did he rise
from his desponding position until it was time to dress for Mrs.
Blakeley’s ball.

The sound of gay music, the flashing of diamonds and the twinkling of
light forms met his sight as he entered the ball-room; but he had eyes
only for one object: and he soon sought out Kate amid her crowd of
admirers. Never had she looked so transcendently lovely. It is thought a
mark of taste and fashion now-a-days to laugh at the enormous hoops and
powdered hair of our grandmothers: but let us tell you, good reader,
that a belle of the present age, with her deformed tournure and Dutch
amplitude of skirt, though she may create a sort of matter-of-fact
sensation, very suitable perhaps for this money-making generation, never
awakens that deep sentiment of adoration, that respectful, awe-struck,
Sir Charles Grandison feeling, bestowed on the beauty of the last
century, august in silver tissue and high-heeled shoes. The veriest
stickler for modern ease would have given up the point at sight of Kate.
She wore, as was then the custom, a petticoat of rich brocade, a single
yard of which cost more than the twenty ells of lute-string flaunted by
a beauty now. Over this was a robe of white satin, made high on the
shoulders, but opening in front so as partially to reveal the swelling
bust, and expose the richly-gemmed stomacher and glittering petticoat.
The edge of this robe from the neck down was trimmed with a quilling of
blue ribbon, which was also continued around the bottom. The tight
sleeve, with bands like the trimming of the robe, reached to the elbow:
and the deep ruffle of Valenciennes lace which nearly hid the round
white arm, heightened with rare art the beauties it affected to conceal.
Her hair was gathered back from the forehead, richly powdered, and
trimmed coquettishly with blue ribbon. Now, if there be any heretical
repudiator of the past, denying the brilliancy that powder gave a fair
complexion, we wish he would go and look at one of Copley’s portraits,
or—what is better!—could have seen Kate then! We trow his mouth would
have watered. We doubt if justice is done to those good old times. Ah!
those were the days of courtly dames and high-bred cavaliers—when the
stately minuet still held sway—when gentlemen bowed reverently over the
hand they scarcely dared to kiss—and when it was the crowning felicity
of a whole evening’s devotion to hand a partner to the table by the tips
of the fingers. Now-a-days people bounce through frisky quadrilles,
while gallants tuck the arm of a mistress under their own as cozily as
an old codger does his umbrella.

Preston was advancing toward Kate, when a buzz of admiration announced
that Major Lindsay was about to lead her forth to the minuet. He won
accordingly only a hasty curtsey in reply to his bow. He was meanwhile
subjected to the mortification of hearing from a dozen bystanders the
rumor of Kate’s engagement to the major; and one or two officiously
applied to him to confirm the rumor, knowing his intimacy with the
family. When the dance was concluded, which attracted general
admiration, Major Lindsay still remained at Kate’s side. Never before
had Preston noticed such meaning and delicate assiduity in his
attentions. Between the incidents of the morning and those of the
evening, no wonder Preston’s anger continued unabated. Still he made
several attempts to obtain a moment’s _tête-à-tête_ with Kate: but the
crowd of her admirers frustrated this. At length, toward the close of
the ball, he approached her.

“I come to bid you farewell,” he said abruptly; “to-morrow I leave
Charleston.”

“Leave Charleston!” repeated a dozen voices in dismay. “What shall we do
without you?” Kate alone betrayed neither surprise nor emotion. “Ah!
indeed,” was her unconcerned reply.

Preston turned pale with suppressed mortification at this indifference;
mere friendship, he said to himself, demanded some expression of regret
at least. His feelings were not allayed by what followed.

“You’re not going to join Marion, are you?” said Major Lindsay, in a
tone of triumphant banter, little imagining how near he was to the
truth. “Has he frightened you by the great oath he has sworn to revenge
his nephew, who was shot for a rebel? I hear he threatens some mighty
deed. Only think of his doing any thing with that brigade of invincible
tatterdemalions—Falstaff’s ragged regiment over again!”

“Take care that you are not one of those to pay the penalty of Marion’s
oath,” retorted Preston, stung by the insolence of his successful rival,
and reckless what he said. “It was a foul deed, and will be terribly
revenged.”

Major Lindsay flushed to the brow, and his hand mechanically sought his
sword hilt; but he controlled himself immediately, and said with a
sneer—

“That might be called sedition, only we know you are a man of peace, Mr.
Preston. But he is certainly Marion-bit, is he not?” and he turned to
Kate.

Now Kate felt piqued at this unceremonious leave of her lover, as well
as at his haughty conduct in the morning. She fancied herself trifled
with, and answered cuttingly,

“Never fear Mr. Preston’s joining Marion. Our American gentlemen, on
both sides, are but carpet knights of late. They resemble Sancho Panza,
who, good soul, would not stir a step till a rich island was promised
for his share.”

Preston tingled in every vein at this speech, which he regarded as aimed
at himself. He bowed sarcastically to Kate, and glanced angrily at Major
Lindsay, as he replied,

“One might almost be tempted to join Marion after this, in order to
raise the reputation of American courage, since just now British bravery
has it dead hollow.”

“Oh! pray,” said Kate, laughingly, “play the Atlas for the patriots
then. That’s a good man: Be the St. George to destroy this British
dragon.”

Major Lindsay looked for a moment as if he thought there was more in
this than met the ear; but he contented himself with retorting on
Preston.

“Do, by all means,” he said, “and, if you take Bobadil’s plan, you may
defeat a whole army yourself. You know he proposed to challenge a single
enemy and slay him by duello: then challenge a second, and slay him:
then a third, and dispose of him also: and so on until the whole army
was annihilated.”

Kate, as well as the rest, laughed at this sally. Preston needed but
this to complete his anger and disgust. The field, he saw, was his
rival’s, and he was glad when other persons approached and broke up the
colloquy, which, to tell the truth, was growing too personal. But Kate
was piqued and Preston enraged: and as for the major, seeing there was a
quarrel between his rival and mistress, he had striven to widen the
breach.

Preston hurried from the ball-room, and taking time only to change his
dress, repaired to the rendezvous where Macdonald awaited him. Without a
word he flung himself into the saddle, and his companion imitating his
example, they were soon without the city. They had passed the outposts
for some time, when Macdonald, pushing his horse close to Preston’s,
opened the conversation.

“We’re clear of that confounded town at last, thank Heaven!” he said,
“and I, for one, aint sorry. Them Englishmen are as saucy as princes,
and think nobody has any courage but themselves. But I know one stout
fellow that can snuff a candle with his rifle at two hundred yards, and
before a week we’ll have a rap at ’em, for I s’pose you go direct, sir,
to Marion’s camp?”

Preston nodded a gloomy assent, for buried in his own thoughts he cared
not to be disturbed. Macdonald saw this, and, defeated in his attempt to
open a conversation, dropped back, but when out of hearing muttered,

“I see how it is. Them women’s always getting a man into trouble. For my
part I’ll be a bachelor. Marrying’s like getting tipsy, very pleasant
except for the after repentance.”


                              CHAPTER II.

                  Grave men there are by broad Santee,
                    Grave men with hoary hairs,
                  Their hearts are all with Marion,
                    With Marion are their prayers.
                                               BRYANT.

The period of which we write was one that will ever be memorable in the
annals of our country. Never had the fortunes of the patriots been at so
low an ebb in the south, as between the defeat of Gates, at Camden, and
the inroad of Cornwallis into North Carolina. After the fall of
Charleston no time had been lost in overrunning the colony. All
organized resistance being at an end, a proclamation was published,
inviting the citizens to return to his majesty’s government, and
stipulating for little more on their part than neutrality. Large
numbers, even of the Whigs, accepted these terms: and had Cornwallis
adhered to his promises, then indeed might liberty have been despaired
of. But the royal leader soon threw off the mask, and required all who
had accepted the protection, as it was called, to declare themselves
openly on the royal side, in the further prosecution of the war. Finding
themselves thus basely deceived, many flew to arms; but such, whenever
captured, were executed as rebels. The fate of Col. Hayne, who was put
to death at Charleston under these circumstances, was but a type of that
of hundreds of lesser note, who perished often without a trial.

The war, meanwhile, was carried on with savage ferocity against the
Whigs. Their plantations were laid waste, their negroes carried off,
their houses given to the flames. The seven vials of wrath were
literally poured out on South Carolina. Instances of cruelty without
number are left on record. One may suffice. An innocent Quaker who took
care of a sentry’s musket for a few minutes, while the soldier went on
an errand, was seized for this pretended crime and thrown into prison.
His wife hurried to the jail to see him. She was told to wait a few
minutes and she should be conducted to him. With this brutal jest on
their lips, the royal myrmidons hurried to the man’s cell, dragged him
forth and hung him at the jail window: then, returning to his wife, they
led her into the yard, and showed her husband to her quivering in the
agonies of death. But God at last raised up an avenger for these and
other atrocities. Suddenly, in the very heart of the oppressed district,
there arose a defender, bitter, sleepless, unforgiving—seemingly
endowed with miraculous powers of intelligence—whose motions were quick
as lightning—who dealt blows now here, now there, at points least
expected—and who, by a series of rapid and brilliant successes, soon
made his name a terror to the British. Volunteers flocked in crowds to
his standard. His boldness and gallantry filled the colony with
astonishment and rejoicing. Wherever a surprise took place—wherever a
convoy was cut off—wherever a gallant deed was unexpectedly done, men
said that Marion had been there.

Preston had succeeded in raising a troop, for his name was an
influential one in his neighborhood, and he was soon one of Marion’s
most trusted adherents. A man who is willing to throw his life away on
every occasion, speedily acquires the reputation of daring and bravery.
The country around the Santee, which was the chief scene of his
exploits, rung with the name of our hero. Nor was his foster-brother,
now a serjeant in Preston’s troop, and one of Marion’s acutest scouts,
without his share of renown.

Meantime the gay society of Charleston had suffered considerable
diminutions. Many of the royal officers were absent with their commands,
and a large portion of the gentry had retired to their estates. Among
these was Mr. Mowbray, who secretly meditated joining the continental
side again. Kate, too, was absent with her aunt, at the estate of the
latter.

To this place the course of our story now carries us. Mrs. Blakeley’s
mansion had heretofore escaped the visitation of war, but within a few
days a detachment under Col. Watson had halted there on its march to
Camden. With him came Major Lindsay, still an eager suitor for Kate. But
scarcely had Col. Watson encamped on the plantation, when a body of
Marion’s men, conspicuous among whom was Capt. Preston, made their
appearance, and daily harassed the British officer, by cutting off his
communications, assailing his pickets, and sometimes even beating up his
camp.

One evening Kate was sitting sewing with her aunt in the parlor,
conversing with Col. Watson, and several of his officers, who were their
guests, when the servant came in to light the candles. Old Jacob, as he
was called, filled the office of butler in the family, and was quite a
character. He was a Whig at heart, and cordially disliked his mistress’s
compulsory visiters. Having been his deceased master’s personal servant,
he had thus acquired a footing of familiarity which allowed him to have
his joke even at the table where he waited. He piqued himself moreover
on what he thought his breeding and fine diction. He was a source of
constant amusement to the British officers, who, however, found him
sometimes their overmatch in repartee.

“Well, Jacob, what news?” said Major Lindsay. “Any more rebels
captured?”

Old Jacob turned, bowed his head profoundly, and showing his teeth in a
broad grin, said—

“Dare is no news yet, sar, dat I know on; but ’spose dare will be some
afore mornin’; for, sartain, Capt. Preston will beat up your quarters as
usual: and den, how de red-coats run!”

Kate looked up archly, yet colored when she caught the major’s eye. That
personage bit his lip, and remarked—

“Never mind Capt. Preston, Jacob: he’ll be our prisoner very soon. Has
the flag of truce come back?”

“Oh! yes, sar,” said old Jacob, his face radiant with delight. “Habn’t
you heard? Dat great news, sar. ’Spose you know Sargent Macdonald?”

“What of him?” said the major, beginning to suspect he was making a
ridiculous figure. “He’s a savage. Why he shot Lieut. Torriano yesterday
three hundred yards off.”

“Dat he did,” said the old butler, waxing grandiloquent, “he hit de
leftenant judgematically, I insure you. But dat is not de news. You
knows Sargent Macdonald sent in word, toder day, dat if his baggage,
took in de sally, was not recorded immediately to him again, he would
kill eight of your men. You know dat? To-day de baggage was sent back,
for dat sargent be de berry debbil, and now he send word dat, since his
baggage be recorded punctiliousy, he will only kill four of your men!”
And the speaker, though too well-bred to laugh at what he considered so
good a joke, grinned from ear to ear.

“The cannibal!” said Lindsay, shrugging his shoulders, “but what can be
expected of the men when their leaders countenance the firing on
pickets.”

“Yet you hang them for rebels,” said Kate, with spirit.

“They shoot down officers,” continued Lindsay, not thinking it advisable
to reply to her palpable hit, “as if this Mr. Marion paid for them at so
much a head. I never saw such unchristian fighting. They are a set of
boors; and cowards at heart, all of them, I’ll be sworn.”

“Cowards they are not,” said Kate, her eyes flashing to hear her
countrymen thus stigmatized. “At least you did not seem to think them
such when Capt. Preston, at the head of his troop, dashed up to your
lines, and challenged you to fight singly, or otherwise. I heard myself
the alarm with which the soldiers cried, ‘Here comes Preston again!’”

“He well knew no one would accept his challenge: so his bravado cost him
nothing.”

“Go meet him when he comes again, and see whether he meant it for
bravado!” retorted Kate; then, all at once remembering the enthusiasm
into which she had been hurried, she colored, and resumed her work in
some embarrassment.

Major Lindsay stifled a muttered execration on his American rival, for
he began to fear, from the spirit which Kate had shown, that the
chivalric exploits of Capt. Preston were making a decided impression on
her heart. The desperate daring which the rebel officer had shown within
the last few days, Major Lindsay had attributed, in his own mind, to a
desire on the part of Preston to dazzle his mistress; but Kate’s
behavior toward himself had been so flattering, in comparison to that
bestowed on others, that, until this moment, he had consoled himself
that these exploits had been thrown away. He sat, therefore, silent and
moody; and the conversation ceased.

Gradually, one by one, the visiters thinned off and returned to their
quarters, until only Col. Watson and himself were left. The Colonel and
Mrs. Blakeley had sat down to a game of cards in a distant corner of the
apartment. Here was an opportunity to decide his fate. It might be the
last time he would find Kate alone, for the camp was expected to move in
a few days. The occasion was not to be neglected, and, doubtful as he
felt of the issue, he arose, and leaning over her, said, in a low voice,

“I fear, my dear Miss Mowbray, that I offended you by what I said of
Capt. Preston. I forgot, for a moment, that he was an old playmate of
yours. You cannot tell how pained I am that any thing I said should
displease you.”

“It matters little—I am not at all displeased,” said Kate, keeping her
eyes on her work, her heart beating violently. “Capt. Preston needs no
defender in me, nor asks one. I but spoke generally in behalf of my
countrymen.”

Major Lindsay saw her embarrassment, and, misinterpreting the cause,
drew a favorable omen from it.

“You relieve my heart from a load,” he said. “I could bear any thing
rather than your displeasure. Indeed you must long have seen how I loved
you. Nay, do not rise from the table. I worship the very ground you
tread on—my life itself is bound up in your smiles—all I have, heart,
fortune, reputation, I lay at your feet—”

He would have continued in the same impassioned strain, but Kate,
summoning up all her self-command, rose with dignity.

“It pains me to hear this, Major Lindsay,” she said. “I will be frank.
That you sought my society, I saw, but that you loved me I never
believed.”

The face of Major Lindsay flushed, but he controlled his features, and
detained her as she would have moved away.

“Do not bid me despair,” he said. “In time I may be allowed to hope. Let
me fancy that my devotion may at last win me this fair hand.”

“No time can alter my sentiments,” said Kate, coldly.

“I will serve for you as for a second Rachel,” and the major still
detained her.

“Nay! I can listen to this no more. You forget yourself!” said Kate,
severely.

At this instant, and before Major Lindsay could reply, Kate saw that her
aunt had finished the game of cards, and was coming toward her. The
major with chagrin turned away. He would have given worlds if the
_tête-à-tête_ could have been protracted, for then he would have
endeavored to discover if Kate really loved Preston, or was indifferent
to all.

“Rejected, by George!” he muttered. “But I must have her, however,” he
soliloquized. “She is too lovely, too charming altogether, to be
sacrificed on a provincial—what a sensation she would create at court!
Then she is heiress to one of the best properties in this colony, and
since my cousin has married again, there is no telling how many new
lives may come in between impoverished me and the earldom. By Jove! I
wish this Preston had remained abroad a little longer, or that he would
get knocked over in some skirmish. I wouldn’t hesitate to give him his
_coup de grâce_ myself, if I had a chance. But he shan’t foil me. I’ll
have Kate in spite of him. What a delicious creature she is! What
eyes!—what an arm!”

Major Lindsay met Kate the ensuing day with an unruffled brow and
without embarrassment. If there was any change in his demeanor, it was
perceptible only in the assumption of greater deference toward her than
before. Not Lord Orville himself, the _preux chevalier_ of Evelina,
could have shown more tact and delicacy in bestowing those thousand
little attentions which go so far toward winning the female heart. Kate
was annoyed. She saw that Major Lindsay, in spite of her decided
language, still cherished the hope of winning her favor; but his conduct
was so guarded as to forbid maiden modesty again alluding to the
subject. She could only, therefore, endeavor, by a cold though polite
behavior, to show that her sentiments were unchanged, hoping that in
time he would tire of the pursuit. She little knew the pertinacity and
unscrupulousness of the man with whom she had to deal.

Kate dared not, meanwhile, too closely to examine her own heart. She
could not forget the exquisite pleasure which attended her last
_tête-à-tête_ with Preston, and her bosom thrilled whenever she thought
of what might have been his words if Major Lindsay had not come in. The
subsequent coldness and suspicion of Preston had piqued her, and she had
resolved to punish him for his want of confidence and jealousy, by a
little innocent coquetry with Major Lindsay in the evening. Fatal error!
When she heard of his speedy departure from his own lips, she regretted
for a moment her revenge; but her second feeling was that of anger at
his conduct, and hence her assumed indifference. And yet, after the
lapse of months, she felt herself the aggrieved party. Preston ought not
to have been so jealous. He had no right to be offended at the show of
only ordinary courtesy to a visiter. If he chose to be suspicious and
proud, he ought to be taught better by neglect. He had trifled with her,
else he would have called again, and sought an explanation. But perhaps
he did not love her, perhaps he had meant nothing by his words. She
usually ended her reveries at this point with a sigh, and a haughty
resolution to discard him from her heart. She would love no one who did
not love her.

In a few days Col. Watson left his encampment for Georgetown, where he
arrived, harassed by constant attacks, Major Lindsay accompanying him.


                              CHAPTER III.

                   And there was arming in hot haste.
                                               BYRON.

The war meanwhile went on with increased ferocity. The tide of battle,
which at first ran in Marion’s favor, had now turned, and his enemies
were everywhere in the ascendant. The army of Greene was in North
Carolina, occupied in watching Cornwallis. Lord Rawdon held Camden with
a strong force. All the other important posts were in the hands of the
British. Marion, for the first time disheartened, talked of retiring
behind the mountains. Armed bodies of Tories, in the mean time,
traversed the country, plundering at will, and hanging, without even the
form of a trial, those of their unfortunate prisoners they had found in
arms.

Mr. Mowbray had long contemplated rising in favor of his country again,
and no time seemed to him so proper as the present, when all others were
becoming disheartened. His daughter he knew to be in safety with her
aunt, who had always maintained a strict neutrality: so there was
nothing to withhold him longer from his purpose. He had accordingly
secretly exerted himself to raise a troop among the young men of his
neighborhood, and his recruiting had been attended with such success,
that their rising only waited the removal of a large body of armed
Tories who had lately infested the vicinity. On the first signal from
Mr. Mowbray, they were to rendezvous at the Hall.

Mowbray Hall was one of those fine old mansions a few of which linger in
South Carolina, fast fading monuments of the departing splendors of her
old provincial nobility. The building stood at the head of a long avenue
of trees, and was a large double house, with an immense hall in the
centre. The outhouses had suffered considerably since the war began, and
many of the fields lay bare and uncultivated; but the mansion itself was
still in a remarkably fine state of preservation, and the architectural
boast of the county.

It was a fine, clear morning when Mr. Mowbray stood on the steps of his
house, to welcome the recruits who, in obedience to his long expected
signal, were on that day to repair to the rendezvous. His feelings, as
one stout yeoman after another rode up, were those of exultation, dashed
a little perhaps with regret for having ever despaired of his country.

“How fortunate that Capt. Ball, with his Tories, has moved up the
river,” said his lieutenant, who stood beside him. “We shall have time
to discipline our men, and rally a greater number to our ranks. Our
twenty tall fellows, though brave enough, could scarcely make head
against his hundred troopers. We have a good week before us.”

“Very true; and we have assurances of nearly thirty more, provided we
display our banner. Three days of quiet is all I ask. Then, I hope, we
shall be able to give a good account of ourselves even if Ball’s Tories
return,” said Mr. Mowbray.

“If we are gone when he comes back, my dear sir, he will wreak his
vengeance, I fear, on our homes,” said the other, with something of a
sigh.

“I hope you do not think of drawing back,” replied Mr. Mowbray. “In this
cause a man must be willing to sacrifice father and mother, house and
land, good repute, and all else he holds dear in the world. God help
us!”

“I am with you till death,” said the lieutenant, thinking at that moment
how much more his superior had to lose than himself: and affected by
such heroic and self-sacrificing patriotism.

At this instant a horseman was seen galloping furiously down the avenue,
and as he came onward, he waved his cap as if desirous to call their
attention to something in the road which he had left. Mr. Mowbray looked
in that direction, but a clump of woodland shut out the highway from
sight; however, after a moment’s delay, the voice of one of the recruits
called his attention to what seemed a cloud of dust rising above the
tree tops. Almost at the same instant a number of troopers appeared at
the head of the avenue. The approaching horseman now had reached the
lawn.

“We are betrayed,” he cried, almost exhausted. “Ball’s Tories are
behind, and have chased me for two miles. To arms—to arms!”

The time was too short to allow of barricading the house; but the great
hall was speedily turned into a fortification. The doors at either end
were closed, barred, and further defended by chairs and tables piled
against them; while the entrances into the parlors were closed
effectually in the same way. The great window at the head of the
staircase, and the one at the other extremity of the upper hall were
guarded by a proper force. These dispositions had scarcely been
completed when the Tories galloped up to the lawn, on which they
dismounted with loud shouts, and began instant preparations for the
attack.

When Mr. Mowbray’s scanty troop was mustered, it was found to contain
but ten exclusive of himself, for nearly half of the expected recruits
had not yet had time to arrive. It was evident there had been treachery
somewhere among them; for none but those who had enlisted knew of this
rendezvous; and the sudden disappearance of the enemy two days before,
it was now apparent, had been a feint. However, nothing remained but to
sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Mr. Mowbray walked around among his men, and himself saw that every
thing was ready. He exhorted them, in a few words, to do their duty
manfully. His short harangue was brought to a speedy conclusion by a
loud cheer on the part of the assailants, and by a shower of bullets
aimed at the hall window, as they advanced to the attack.

“Fire coolly—and waste no shot!” he said, sternly, himself handling a
musket.

Four men fell at that first discharge; and, mad with rage and shame, the
assailants strove to climb up the pilasters of the hall door; but they
were beaten thence by the butts of the defenders’ muskets. The men,
however, who achieved this were severely wounded by the rifles of the
Tories, who, keeping watch, aimed wherever a head appeared. An effort
was now made to break in the hall door. An axe was brought, and, after
several blows, one of the heavy panels gave way. But the moment the wood
fell crashing in, a volley poured through the aperture drove back the
assailants, who, thus foiled at every point, retreated to the cover of
the outhouses, as if to hold a consultation.

The little garrison was now mustered. One of its members had been shot
dead at the great hall window, and several were wounded. The hurts were
bandaged as well as possible, and the stock of ammunition was
distributed more equally. Their slight successes had inspirited the men;
they began now to talk of foiling the enemy; and when notice was again
given of his approach they repaired to their posts with alacrity and
exultation.

The Tories now seemed to have resolved trying a combined attack on all
parts of the house. One party advanced toward the hall door in
front—another made the circuit of the mansion to assail the one in the
rear—and a third remained at one angle, as if contemplating an assault
on the side when the rest should be fully engaged. Mr. Mowbray’s heart
forewarned him of the result when he saw these preparations.

“They are breaking into the parlors,” exclaimed one of the men, rushing
up the staircase, at the very instant that a new volley was discharged
on the house from the assailants.

Mr. Mowbray listened and heard the dull crash of an axe, followed by the
breaking of glass. The parlor shutters had merely been barred, and the
parlors once gained it was only necessary to break down the doors
leading to the entry, which were comparatively weak, and slightly
barricaded. To desert the hall up stairs would be to seduce the Tories
in front and rear from their cover, and throw open an entrance to them
by the way they had first essayed. It became necessary, therefore, to
divide his already small force, and, leaving a few to maintain the old
positions, defend the threatened door with two or three trusty arms.

“We must sell our lives dearly,” he said, as he took his station behind
the door, posting a man on each side.

The enemy was now heard leaping into the parlor, and simultaneously a
general attack began on all sides. The bullets rattled against the wall;
shouts and cries of encouragement rose on both sides. From the quick
firing overhead Mr. Mowbray knew that his men in that quarter were
actively engaged. The axe was now heard against the parlor door before
him, and the frail wood quivered under every blow. Another stroke and
the panel gave way. Instantly the musket of Mr. Mowbray was aimed
through the aperture at the man who wielded the axe, who fell dead at
the explosion. But another promptly seized the instrument, and, posting
himself with more caution at the side of the opening, dealt such
vigorous strokes that the door speedily fell in. As the planks crashed
to the floor there was a general rush on the part of the Tories in the
parlor, toward the aperture.

“Meet them bravely!” shouted Mr. Mowbray. “Strike home, and we drive
them back.”

He fired a pistol as he spoke at the foremost assailant; but the Tory
knocked up the weapon, and the ball lodged in the ceiling.

“Hurrah! we have them now,” shouted this man, who was their leader.
“Revenge your comrades!”

“Stand fast!” cried Mr. Mowbray, the lion of his nature aroused.

For a few seconds the melee was terrific. Now that the foe had effected
an entrance, the defence of the other posts was no longer necessary, and
the followers of Mr. Mowbray crowded to his assistance. On the other
hand the Tories poured into the parlor, and thence struggled to make
their way into the hall. Inch by inch they fought their road with
overpowering numbers; and inch by inch, with desperate but unavailing
courage, the Whigs gave ground. The clash of swords, the explosion of
pistols, the shouts of either party were mingled in wild disorder with
the oaths and shrieks of the wounded and dying. Swaying to and fro, now
one party, now the other giving ground, the combat raged with increasing
fury. But numbers at last prevailed. When most of his followers had
fallen, Mr. Mowbray, however, still remained, wounded yet erect,
struggling like a noble stag at bay.

“Surrender, and we give quarter!” shouted the Tory leader, who,
throughout the conflict, had seemed desirous rather of taking him
prisoner than slaying him.

Mr. Mowbray thought of his child and faltered: but remembering that the
enemy never showed clemency he said, striking at his adversary,

“Never, so help me God!”

But that moment of indecision sealed his fate. The Tory leader made a
sign to his followers, two of whom rushed in on the old man; and, as he
spoke, his sword was knocked from his hand, and himself overthrown and
bound.

Two days after he was led in triumph into the streets of Georgetown, nor
was it concealed from him that his life had been spared only that he
might expiate his rebellion on the scaffold.

His captor immediately repaired to Major Lindsay’s quarters, where he
remained for nearly an hour. When left alone, Major Lindsay exclaimed,
“My information was true, then; he has been caught with arms in his
hands. So far all goes well. That proud beauty is now mine, for she will
marry me to save her father’s life.”

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                MIRIAM.


                           BY KATE DASHWOOD.


    Oh Harp of Judah! long thy thrilling strain
      Hath slumbered ’mid the gloom of centuries—
    Save when some master-spirit woke again
      Thy silent chords of thousand symphonies.
    Not thine, his swelling anthems loudly ringing—
      Oh Maid of Judah! with thy prophet-song,
    And sounding timbrel’s voice, all proudly flinging
      Thy warrior-notes Judea’s hills among!
    Oh voiceless harp! fain would my soul-wrapt ear
      Catch some faint echo from thy silent strings.
    And, as these trembling fingers half in fear
      Sweep o’er thy slumbering chords—lo! there up-springs
    Strange spirit-music, tremulous and low
      As half-breathed sigh—to fitful silence hushing
    Those thrilling strains my unskilled fingers know
      Not to control. But hush! again their gushing
      Swells like loud battle-peal on fierce blasts rushing.

    Night! o’er thy mountains, oh Gilboa! where
      The mighty spear of Saul was rent in twain.
    And haughty Israel’s curse was branded there—
      The blood of her first king—dark as the curse of Cain!
    Night—on Mount Moriah! o’er his solemn brow
      Those sentinels that guard the halls of Heaven
    As brightly keep their wakeful vigils now
      As when He knelt ’neath their pure beams at even,
      And prayed in agony that we might be forgiven.

    Moonlight o’er Galilee! the sparkling wave
      That bounded as the sunbeams kissed its breast,
    Are now all motionless and silent, save
      Their low, hushed murmurs where the soft winds rest.
    Night o’er lone Samaria! thy dark hill’s crest
      Fades proudly into gloom. Still linger there
    Thy maidens at “The Well” His feet have prest;
      Still floats their broken music on the air
      At eve, blent with the wave’s low murmured prayer.

    Thy moon rides slowly o’er thy hills, oh Galilee!
      Proud Queen of Heaven! bound to her far-off throne
    Behind the Syrian mountains—and thy sea,
      Oh lone Tiberias! where of late she shone,
    Mirrors the stars upon thy bosom—stars of voiceless Night.
      The dark Chaldean, from his cloud-hung tower,
    Keeps his lone vigils by thy waning light,
      For Israel keepeth Feast of solemn power,[1]
      When thy bright beams shall fade at morning hour.

    The stern Chaldean turns him from his lore
      Where he hath writ the mighty destiny
    Those stars revealed. Now seeks he thy dim shore,
      Tiberias! the spirit-minstrelsy
    Of unborn Ages breathes upon his lyre
      In soul-wrapt flame. But hush! the far-off notes
    Of timbrel-echoes ’mong the hills expire,
      As ’twere some seraph’s song o’er earth that floats
    And fades away in air—when lo! proud Miriam stands
    Before him and his prophecy commands.

-----

[1] The “Feast of Tabernacles,” which lasted seven days.


           THE CHALDEAN’S PROPHECY.

        “Daughter of Judah! on thy brow
          Thy kingly line is proudly blent
        With Israel’s faith, and woman’s vow—
          Now love, now pride—each lineament.
        Thine is the faith thy fathers bore—
          A heritage despised, contemned—
        The fearful curse still lingers o’er
          Israel’s outcast tribes condemned.
        Thine is their faith—but dost thou deem
          _Thy soul is with the Nazarene_?”

       “False Prophet! had Ben Ezra’s ear
          But heard thy lying prophecy,
        Thou stand’st not, Heaven-daring here,
          To mock our Faith thus impiously!
        For Israel’s Lord is still our God!
          And Israel’s outcast tribes shall turn
        Back to these hills our fathers trod,
          And fallen Judah cease to mourn.
        False Seer! thy words I heed them not—
          Those stars are dim thine eyes have sought.”

         .     .     .     .     .     .

    Darkness o’er the Eternal City!—gloom
      O’er her thousand palaces! and Night,
    Deep, solemn Night! broods ever o’er the tomb
      Of her vast temples, fallen in their might.
    Still to their broken shrines worn pilgrims come—
      And ’neath their mighty columns, sunken low,
    The fierce Bedouin seeks his midnight home,
      And treacherous lurks where footsteps chance to go.
    Proud Rome! thy thousand hills are silent now—
    Where waved the “Imperial Eagle” o’er their brow.[2]

    Yet o’er her mighty temples’ fallen shrines
      Still sleeps the sunshine ’mid the shadows there;
    There many a wearied pilgrim-wanderer finds
      A peaceful rest from Life’s dark toil and care.
    And there awaiteth many a scattered one
      Of Israel’s people—till the joyful day
    Shall see the long “lost tribe of Judah” come
      Once more to thy blest land, oh Palestine! for aye,
    And here, ’mid fallen Rome, Ben Ezra bides—
    _Miriam is not_—earth hath no joy besides.

         .     .     .     .     .     .

    America the blest! all proudly to thy shore
      Fled Rome’s _imperial eagle_! thy fair land
    Sleeps e’er ’mid bloom and sunshine; evermore
      Thy Freedom’s holy cause shall firmly stand.
    Our noble sires! their true hearts’ incense rose
      Here upon God’s free altars; _let us keep_
    _Their memories holy!_ Room at our shrines for those
      Who seek, like them, a rest from bondage deep.
    And Miriam! was that prophecy a dream?
    _Thy soul—thy faith is with the Nazarene._

-----

[2] The emblem banner of Rome.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE NIGHT WATCH.


                                A TALE.


                             News, fitted to the night.
               Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible.
                                              KING JOHN.

On a cold December night, in the winter of 183-, four persons were
assembled in an upper chamber of an old out-house in one of the crooked
streets at the “North End” of Boston. This was in former times the most
fashionable part, the court end, as it were, of the town, and the house
of which I speak had been the residence of one of the old colonial
governors, and bore traces of its former magnificence, now almost
effaced by the ravages of time and neglect.

It was a dark and tempestuous night. The wind howled mournfully through
the narrow streets and around the tall houses of the “North End,” and
the few passengers who were abroad wrapped their garments tighter about
them, and hurried to seek shelter from the cutting blast. Within doors
the aspect of things was more cheerful. An old-fashioned wood fire
burned brightly on the hearth; the heavy folds of the crimson curtains
excluded every breath of cold air, and the usual conveniences of comfort
and luxury were distributed through the apartment. The company,
consisting of myself and three female friends, were drawn closely up to
the cheerful blaze, apparently as comfortable as possible. The cause of
our meeting here was this. A neighbor, one Mr. Helger, had died very
suddenly the day before. He had formerly been engaged largely in trade,
but meeting with reverses which soured his disposition, and cast a shade
of gloom over his character, he had withdrawn entirely from the world,
and lived all alone by himself in this large house. We, being neighbors,
had offered our services to watch with the corpse, as was the custom.
The room in which we were had been the apartment of the deceased, and
was fitted up with much taste, and even luxury, but all the rest of the
house was bare and unfurnished, and was said by the neighbors to be
haunted. The corpse was placed in a room just across the entry, so that
we could hear a noise or disturbance if there should be any.
Refreshments had been provided, and we had nothing to do but to make
ourselves comfortable, and amuse ourselves until morning should release
us from our duty.

The time flew by very quickly in pleasant chat, and when, during a lull
of the storm, we heard the neighboring clock on the steeple of the North
church strike the hour of twelve, we were all surprised at the lateness
of the hour.

        “’Tis now the very witching time of night,
         When church-yards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
         Contagion to the world,”

said I; “can’t some of you ladies tell a genuine, old-fashioned,
terrific ghost-story for our edification? Surely, Mrs. Johnstone, you
must know one; you always have plenty of interesting stories.”

The lady addressed thought a moment in silence, and then replied, “I can
tell you a ghost-story, and what is more, vouch for its reality, for the
incident happened to myself. It was a good many years ago, but it is as
distinctly imprinted on my memory as if it took place yesterday.” A
ghost-story, told by one of the actors in it, could not fail to be
interesting; so we drew our chairs nearer the fire, assumed a listening
attitude, and the lady began.

“You must know, in the first place, that I was married at a very early
age, and a year or two after, left my native place, and went with my
husband to live in the interior of Vermont. The country was little
settled at that time, being mostly covered with unbroken forests. I felt
the change of situation very strongly. I had lived all my life in the
midst of a large city, surrounded by a numerous family of brothers and
sisters. We had gone into society a good deal, and had been in the habit
of seeing many people, and engaging in all the amusements of the day. My
present residence was in the midst of dense forests, the next neighbor
lived two miles off, and the nearest town was on the Connecticut, more
than ten miles from our farm. The house stood on one corner of the
clearing, not more than a hundred yards from the woods, through which,
on stormy nights, the winds howled in mournful and sad tones. In winter
the deep snows cut off all communication with the other parts of the
country, and sometimes we did not see a stranger for months. To this
lonely spot I had removed, after having always been accustomed to the
noise and bustle of a city, and it was not strange that it should seem
gloomy to me.

“One day in autumn, in the month of November I think it was, my husband
told me that he was going to take his men and go over to the next town
for some necessary articles, and he was afraid that he should not be
able to get home that night. So away he went, and left me alone in the
house, with the exception of my infant child. I had brought a black
woman with me from home, but the change of situation did not agree with
her. She had been taken ill, and had died about a fortnight before the
time of which I speak. On account of the difficulty of procuring
servants, I had not been able to get another woman to supply her place,
so I was entirely alone.

“After supper I sat by the kitchen fire some time, till at last I
dropped asleep in my chair. I was awakened by the shrill sound of the
tall, old-fashioned clock, striking the hour of ten. The candle had
burned low in its socket, and the expiring embers diffused a faint glow
through the room. I jumped up, rubbed my eyes, and prepared to go to
bed. I took the light and was leaving the room, when somebody knocked at
the outside door of the house. I was a little startled that any one
should knock at the door at that time of night, but presently I thought
that my husband had changed his mind and returned home after all. I went
and opened the door, but nobody was there. I shut the door, rather
surprised, and sat down by the fire.

“To understand my story clearly, you must know the arrangement of the
room in which I was. On one side was the door leading into the open air,
on the opposite side, the doors leading to the parlors, etc. On the
third side of the room was the fireplace, and on the fourth, the door of
a bed-room in which black Charlotte had slept, and where, as I have
said, she died a fortnight before. This door was a little way open. I
went and shut it, and had hardly done so, when the knocking was repeated
with startling distinctness, and a moment after I saw the door of the
bed-room slowly open, and remain ajar. I went again to the door and
looked out, but, as before, I could see no one. I then shut the door of
the bed-room and latched it fast. I began to feel frightened, for I
could find no one who could have knocked at the door, nor could I
account for the mysterious opening of the bed-room door. All the stories
of ghosts and witches that I had ever heard came into my head, and
hundreds of imaginary horrors beside. I made up my mind, however, that
if I should hear the knocking again, I would go into the bed-room and
see if any thing was there. I listened. All was quiet, and I could hear
nothing but the beating of my own heart. A third time the knocking was
repeated, slowly and distinctly, and a third time the haunted door
slowly opened. I seized the candle and rushed in. I looked every where,
but nothing was to be seen. I came out, shut the door behind me, and
then went out into the open air. No one was in sight. There was a storm
coming up, and the wind howled mournfully through the branches of the
tall trees. To my excited fancy every thing looked strangely and
differently from its usual appearance. By the dim light of the waning
moon, which was half obscured by the driving clouds that shrouded her
disk, I fancied I saw something moving in the deep shadow of the trees.
I shuddered and closed the door. I went up stairs and looked at my
child. He lay calmly sleeping in his cradle, and his deep breathing was
the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the house. I felt more
assured after looking at the innocent face of the little boy. I felt
that even if God should permit an evil spirit to work its will for a
time, he would never allow it to harm a thing so holy and innocent as
that little child. I endeavored to calm my mind by the reflection that I
had always treated the dead woman with kindness, and if it was really
her ghost that was haunting the house, it would have no reason to injure
me. But my heart grew sick within me when I heard again—‘Knock! knock!
knock!’ and saw the door of the haunted room slowly open as before.”

Here Mrs. Johnstone stopped talking, and listened intently, as if she
was trying to catch some distant sound.

“I certainly heard it,” at length she said. “I hear it now—I certainly
hear a noise as of some one moving in the death-chamber. Let us go in
and see if any thing is there.”

So saying she arose, took a candle in her hand, and went across the
entry to the neighboring apartment. Presently she shrieked and ran back
into the room where we were, with her face as pale as death, and said,
in a very excited tone—

“Oh! such a sight as I have seen! The corpse sat upright in his coffin,
and seemed as if trying to speak to me.”

“You want to frighten us, Mrs. Johnstone,” said I. “First you tell an
awful story about a mysterious knocking, and then, to increase the
effect, you come in and tell us this. I am sorry to say that I don’t
believe a word of it.”

“It is no time for jesting now, young man,” rejoined she. “God forbid
that I should sport with such an awful thing as death. But as true as I
hope for salvation I saw Mr. Helger sitting erect in his coffin, and
such a look as he gave me—it will haunt me till my dying day. But, if
you don’t believe me, go and look for yourself.”

I hastily seized a candle, and went to the room where the corpse was
laid. The rest of the company followed at a little distance. Just as I
approached the door I thought I heard a step in the inside of the room,
as of one coming to meet me. I said nothing, however, and took hold of
the door-handle to open the door—but to my horror it was grasped on the
inside and violently turned. I seized the door and held it to with all
my strength, while it was pulled strongly against me by whatever
infernal shape was in the room. The women screamed dreadfully and
dropped the lights, which went out, leaving us only the dim light from
the fire in the opposite room. The storm without howled round the old
house with redoubled fury. It was a fearful scene. I felt faint and
sick—my strength gave way—I let go the door. Mr. Helger, in his
grave-clothes, stood in the door-way, deathly pale, his face streaming
with blood, and his features distorted by a ghastly grin. We turned and
ran frantically down stairs, tumbling over each other in our haste.

Just as we were running out of the house we heard Mr. Helger behind us.
We ran up the street all the faster, the women screaming at the top of
their voices. The noise and hubbub at last woke up a watchman, who had
been peaceably slumbering in a sheltered corner. That functionary,
wrathful at being disturbed from his nap, arrested our farther progress
with his hook.

“An’ what the divil wud yees be doin’ wid yerselves here, the night?”
inquired he, in a decided brogue.

This pertinent question brought me to my senses. I pulled some money
from my pocket, and told the son of Erin to come back with us and he
should be well paid for his services. We went back toward the house, and
there, near the door, we found Mr. Helger, lying exhausted and fainting
on the ground.

We raised him up and carried him back into the house, and put him into
bed; and then I despatched Pat for a physician. He soon returned,
bringing one whom he had roused from his slumbers. The physician took
out his lancet and bled the patient, and, having administered the usual
remedies, I had the satisfaction of hearing him say that he thought it
probable in a few days Mr. Helger would recover, and be as well as ever.
He advised us to remain with him, however, that night, and give him hot
drinks from time to time. I paid the physician and the watchman for
their trouble and dismissed them.

It was understood that Mr. Helger’s death had been very sudden, and it
turned out that instead of really dying, he had only fallen into a deep
trance, and on arousing from it had frightened us so dreadfully. We were
all put in excellent spirits by this happy termination of our
adventure—this restoration of the dead to life.

“Supposing you let us hear the rest of your ghost story now, Mrs.
Johnstone,” said one of the ladies—“if that awful interruption hasn’t
taken away all your desire to finish it.”

“Oh, no,” replied Mrs. Johnstone, “I will tell you the rest with much
pleasure—perhaps it may turn out as well as our present adventure has.

“I believe I left off where the knocking was again repeated at the door.
Well—the mysterious door again opened, but nobody was there. I felt
desperate. I felt that my reason would give way if I should remain quiet
any longer without doing something, and I determined that, if the
knocking was repeated, I would take my child in my arms and run round
the house, and see if any thing was there which could have produced
these unaccountable sounds. I waited patiently till the knocking was
repeated, and then went out of doors and ran round the house. The
mystery was solved.

“The sheep had come down from the woods, through fear of bears, and were
collected in a crowd behind the house. I stood looking at them, and
presently one raised his fore-leg and knocked against the house. It is
done with the bent joint of the fore-leg, and those who are acquainted
with the habits of sheep know that it produces a sound exactly like the
knocking of a human being at a door. I went back into the house, and in
a few moments I heard the sheep knock, and saw the door open a moment
afterward. The house, built in a hurry, as is usual in a newly settled
country, had not been clap-boarded, so that the jarring of the knock was
easily communicated to the bed-room door, and the latch being worn, it
opened a little way by its own weight, and then remained fixed.

“Thus was the mystery cleared up, and you may conceive what a load was
taken off of my heart. I went to bed and slept soundly till morning,
when the glorious sun with his cheerful beams effectually dispelled all
the phantoms and terrors of the preceding night.

“Next day my husband returned home, and I related to him all the
circumstances of my fright. He praised me for the courage I had shown in
going out to investigate the cause of the sounds, and said that he
thought that few men would have been as brave as I was. And sure enough,
on the very next night, my husband and I were sitting in the parlor,
when suddenly the man-servant, a great strapping fellow, came running
in, as white as a sheet, and cried out,

“‘Oh, Lord! we’re haunted! we’re haunted! Charlotte’s ghost has come to
haunt us!’

“‘What do you mean, you foolish fellow?’ said my husband, ‘go back into
the kitchen, and don’t let me hear any more such nonsense.’

“He went back again, somewhat abashed, but soon returned, almost
frightened to death.

“‘I wouldn’t go back into that room again if you’d give me fifty
dollars,’ said he; ‘it’s haunted. There was a dreadful knocking, but
nobody was at the door, and then I saw Charlotte’s ghost open the door
of the bed-room. Oh, Lord! what will become of us! what will become of
us!’

“My husband took pity on him, seeing that he was so much alarmed, and
showed him the cause of the phenomena. He was very much ashamed of his
fright, and we heard no more of Charlotte’s ghost after that.”

Here Mrs. Johnstone finished her story, which we all declared was an
excellent one, and praised not a little the courage she had shown. By
this time the morning had dawned;

                                “Aurora’s harbinger,
        At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,
        Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,
        That in cross-ways and floods have burial,
        Already to their wormy beds are gone.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            TO THE HUSBAND.


    Speak kindly to her, little dost thou know
    What utter wretchedness, what hopeless wo
    Hang on those bitter words—that stern reply—
    The cold demeanor and reproving eye;
    The death-steel pierces not with keener dart
    Than _unkind words_ in woman’s _trusting_ heart.
                  The frailer being by thy side
    Is of a finer mould—keener her sense
    Of pain—of wrong—greater her love of
    Tenderness. How delicately tuned her heart!
    Each ruder breath upon its strings complains
    In lowest notes of sadness, not _heard_ but
    _Felt_. It wears away her life like a deep
    Under current, while the fair mirror of
    The changeless surface gives not _one sign_
    _Of wo_.
                                         ELLA.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          SENSE AND SYMPATHY.


                              BY F. E. F.


                               CHAPTER I.

    Use every man after his desert, and who shall escape whipping.
        HAMLET.

“Did you ever hear a man talk so like a fool as Mr. Barton did
yesterday, Sarah?” said Mary Minturn to Miss Gorham. “I declare, I
pitied his wife—did not you?”

“No, certainly not,” replied her friend. “Why should I? Mr. Barton does
not talk more like a fool now than he did before his marriage. Fanny
chose him with her eyes or rather ears open, and if she could put up
with his folly then, she may now.”

“True enough,” answered Mary. “And how she came to fall in love with him
passes my comprehension. I would not have believed it had it not
actually happened.”

“Really, Mary,” said Sarah laughing, “your sympathies and compassions
often pass my comprehension. Here you are pitying Fanny for having
married a man, who, by your own account, she is in love with.”

“No, Sarah,” replied Mary, “I am not pitying her for marrying the man
she is in love with, but for being ashamed of the man she loves.”

“Ashamed of the man she loves!” repeated Miss Gorham with infinite
contempt. “Now, really, Mary, you had better reserve your compassion for
a more deserving object. If Fanny has married a man she is ashamed of,
she should be ashamed of herself.”

“Did you see how painfully she colored as she caught the glance you gave
me, when he was attempting an account of Dr. H’s lecture? I could not
help feeling for her.”

“I did not remark it,” replied Miss Gorham, “and I have no sympathy for
a woman who has so little feeling or principle, I care not which, as to
marry a man she despises. She probably does not feel for herself, and I
do not know why we should put ourselves to the pain of feeling for her.
I remember the time when Fanny Jones used to laugh at Tom Barton as much
as either you or I.”

“So do I,” replied Mary. “She little thought then she would ever have
him.”

“But finding she could get nobody better, she has thought it as well to
marry him, and that is what you call falling in love, Mary.”

“Not at all,” rejoined her friend warmly. “But remember it is three
years since Mr. Barton first addressed Fanny, and although she ridiculed
him then, she has become attached to him since. His devotion and
constancy have really won her.”

“If then she is in love with him,” said Sarah, “she should be satisfied
with him; and if she is not she should not have married him; so arrange
it any way you will, Mary, I do not see that she is deserving of much
pity. If she fancies he has grown wiser during the last three years, so
much the better for her; and if she knows he has not, so much the worse.
Either way I have no sympathy to bestow upon her, Mary.”

“Well, I have,” replied Mary. “I always pity a sensible person who does
a silly thing. It is laying up themselves such a store of suffering for
the future.”

“’Pon my word, Mary, you amuse me,” said Sarah, laughing. “Now I might
possibly feel for a fool who was committing a folly, as I would for a
blind man who walked into the fire, but as to wasting my compassion on
those who do such things with their eyes open, is really more than I can
undertake. But then,” she continued, half contemptuously, “I have not
your stock of sensibilities to go upon, and consequently, perhaps, do
well to economize mine, or I certainly should exhaust them before they
were called upon for a really deserving object.”

“I consider all suffering as deserving pity,” replied Mary quietly.

“That is more than I do,” returned Sarah with spirit. “Sin and suffering
may go together, but I do not consider them equally deserving of
compassion, or I should go to the jails and work-houses to bestow my
sympathies.”

“And if you did,” replied Mary, “I believe you would go to the places of
all others where they would be most called forth. I never pass the city
prison without thinking of the many unwritten tragedies it contains.
Could we but know the true history of every heart, and the real anguish
of every crime that have peopled its walls, I believe we should feel
more sorrow than indignation for its unhappy inmates.”

“Then,” replied Sarah, almost angrily, “I think it is well we do not. If
in your fine sensibilities we are to lose all sense of right and wrong,
I think your ‘unwritten tragedies’ had better remain ‘unwritten’ and
unread. They would do infinitely more harm than good. ‘Sorrowing for the
unhappy inmates of prisons and work-houses!’ Who would imagine you were
talking of jail-birds and vagrants! This is the sickly sentimentality of
the day, and I am sorry to see you falling into it, Mary. Let sin meet
with its due punishment, and crime call forth the righteous indignation
it merits, and then we may hope to see them somewhat diminished.”

“That sin meets with its punishment, even in this world, there can be no
doubt, Sarah,” said Mary.

“Does it?” said Sarah, with some bitterness. “And roguery is never
successful, nor dishonesty prosperous, I suppose. I think some of our
broken institutions and flourishing directors might tell a different
story! However, that it will be punished in the next,” she added, in a
tone that implied she would be much disappointed if it were otherwise,
“is certain, but in this sin and impudence decidedly carry the day. You
have only to look around you to see the truth of what I say.”

The discussion, which was growing rather warm, was here fortunately
interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Eldon, a married sister of Sarah’s,
who as usual had much to hear and to say when she had not seen Sarah for
several days, as happened to be the case on the present occasion. A
lively and somewhat satirical description of the dinner at Mrs. Barton’s
formed the chief topic of conversation for some time, which highly
amused Mrs. Eldon, and even Mary could not help joining in the laugh,
although she could not always agree with her quick-witted and rather
merciless friend. In fact they seldom did agree, for two more opposite
characters than Mary and Sarah could scarcely be met; and what the bond
of attraction could be that rendered them so intimate, would have
puzzled most people to determine. Sarah was endowed with more than an
ordinary share of sense, but it was that kind of good clear _hard_ sense
that seldom attracts, although it often amuses. Her chief virtue was her
justice, on which she prided herself, and she valued principle, while
she placed little faith on feeling. Sensibility and imagination she
utterly despised.

Mary, on the contrary, was full of quick sympathies and bright theories,
and though often wrong in her premises, was always amiable in her
conclusions.

Notwithstanding that they seldom thought alike on any subject, Sarah
loved Mary, and, moreover, loved to put her down, which, being easily
done, was perhaps a charm in itself; and then she could take liberties
with Mary’s good temper, which she could not do with every body’s. And
Mary respected Sarah’s mind and relied upon her integrity, although she
was somewhat afraid of the severity of her judgments. And besides, they
had grown up together, and had got _used_ to each other, which, after
all, explains more attachments than any theory of sympathies and
associations we have yet met with.

Mrs. Eldon was often amused with the opposite accounts the young friends
gave of the same occurrence, and would frequently say, as she laughed,

“One would really suppose, girls, you had been at different places.”

Sarah boasted that she told things just as she saw them, and was very
fond of what she called “the plain English of the case;” while Mary
perhaps arrived quite as nearly at the truth in making some allowance
for human weakness, and in having some compassion for its
inconsistencies.

“Why did you not come to tea last evening, Charlotte?” said Sarah,
addressing Mrs. Eldon. “I kept the table waiting almost an hour for
you.”

“My dear child, I was in such a fright and agitation at that time, that
I forgot all about you and your tea-table. Master Georgey escaped from
his nurse, and we could not find him for hours. I was almost wild with
anxiety and alarm.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her sister, with much interest; “and where did you
find him?”

“Nearly a mile and a half from home. I don’t know how he managed to
wander so far, for you know he is not quite two years old yet.”

“And what did you do to him when you found him?” inquired Miss Gorham.

“Do to him? poor little soul; why I gave him his supper and put him to
bed,” replied Mrs. Eldon. “The child was exhausted with crying, besides
being half dead with fright and fatigue.”

“You don’t mean to say that you did not punish him for his excursion?”
exclaimed Sarah, almost incredulously.

“Punish him! No, certainly not,” replied her sister; “but I did what was
much wiser. I had a padlock put upon the gate through which the little
dog made his escape; so it cannot happen again, and that, you know, is
all that is wanted.”

But upon that point Sarah did not at all agree with her sister. She
wanted a little summary justice besides, and she said,

“Well, if that is not spoiling children, I do not know what is. And this
is the way you let Georgey disobey with impunity, is it?”

“I am sure even you would have been satisfied if you had seen the state
the poor little fellow was in when he was brought home,” replied Mrs.
Eldon. “You would have thought him quite punished enough. She will not
be so hard-hearted by and by, Mary, when she has children of her own,”
continued Mrs. Eldon, smiling.

But Sarah was far from satisfied, and was disposed to contend the point,
when her sister, rising, said,

“It is time for me to be going home. Is there any thing you want, or
that I can do for you?”

“Nothing,” replied Sarah.

“Without,” said Mary, laughing, “you will give Georgey a whipping as
soon as you get home. Now acknowledge, Sarah, that you would feel better
if Mrs. Eldon would promise to act upon the suggestion.”

“I think Georgey would be the better, if I am not,” replied Sarah. “It
is of great importance that he learns early that no misdemeanor will be
overlooked.”

“When I can prevent the recurrence of a fault, I am satisfied,” replied
Mrs. Eldon.

But Sarah was not. She was always for punishing the past, whether it had
reference to the future or not.

Her sister bade her good morning, and Sarah remarking that “Charlotte
would ruin her children if she persisted in her present system,” the
subject dropped, and the friends soon after parted.

“Do you think Sarah will ever marry, Mrs. Eldon?” Mary asked one day; to
which she replied,

“No, Mary, I fear she never will. Sarah, from having been placed so
young, I suppose, at the head of my father’s house, has acquired an
independence both of manner and temper, that, I think, will prevent her
marrying. With her quick insight into character, and satirical turn of
mind, too, she is not easily interested,” and, Mrs. Eldon might have
added, was not interesting; for Sarah was now two-and-twenty, and never
had had a lover, nor any thing that approached to one.

She was not handsome, and had no charm of manner that supplied the
attraction of beauty. It is true she had more mind and information than
usually falls to the lot of women, but though she often amused, she
never won. She was upright, true, sincere, but there was a hardness in
her uprightness, a brusquerie in her truths, and a downrightness in her
sincerity, that rendered them any thing but attractive; and, in fact,
she was not popular, and never had been admired. The few young men who
from time to time visited at her father’s house she ridiculed without
mercy, and Mrs. Eldon soon gave up all hope of ever seeing her married.
She consoled herself for the fact by saying that Sarah was one of the
few women to whose happiness it was not necessary, and that though with
her strong mind and active habits she would have made an admirable head
of a family, yet, as it was, she would probably become what is termed a
“society woman,” and as such be a most useful member of the community.
And, in fact, she seemed gradually falling into the course her sister
had in her own mind marked out for her. There was so much good sense in
all her views, and so much efficiency in carrying them out, that when
once she fell into the class just indicated, she was found too useful to
be readily relinquished. Nor was the occupation distasteful to her. Her
high sense of duty forbade her living for her own pursuits alone, and
watching over the poor, and correcting the idle, and directing and
dictating generally, suited not less with her tastes than her
principles. It was wonderful how much good she did, and how little
gratitude she got for it. No one detected an impostor as quickly as she
did, and all doubtful and difficult cases were turned over to her
management, and every department that fell to her share was directed
with vigilance and understanding, but at the same time many of her poor
feared, and some of them hated her. She relieved their necessities while
she scolded their recklessness, and most of them, as she turned away,
said with bitterness, “that she was a _hard_ lady,” while they blessed
Mary’s bonny face when she accompanied her, and never failed to call her
“a sweet spoken young lady,” for though she seldom went among them, and
gave little, she listened kindly, and felt for their trials and
distresses. The difference was, that Sarah’s charity was that of
principle, Mary’s of feeling, and to the latter the poor and ignorant
always respond, while they shrink from the former.

“Sarah,” said Mary one day, with some embarrassment, “I have a secret to
tell you.”

“A secret,” said Sarah, “well, what is it?”

Mary colored as she answered, “Perhaps it may surprise you, and yet it
seems to me you must half suspect it.”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” replied Sarah, “but if it is a
long story give me that flannel petticoat I was making. There,” said
she, threading her needle, “begin, I am ready.”

But it did not seem so easy to begin as Sarah supposed, for Mary cleared
her throat and then said with an effort,

“I am going to be married.”

“You!” exclaimed Sarah, with extreme surprise. “Why, who to?”

“Oh, Sarah!” said Mary with some disappointment, “how can you ask? To
Frank Ludlow, to be sure.”

“To Frank Ludlow!” repeated Sarah.

“Yes; you suspected it before, did you not?”

“Not I, indeed,” replied Sarah, so decidedly that Mary saw the surprise
was perfect. “I have noticed that he was attentive to you, but I never
dreamt of your liking him.”

“And why not?” asked Mary, not without a little mortification.

“Oh! I don’t know,” answered Sarah carelessly. Her manner seemed to
imply that she saw nothing in Frank Ludlow to like particularly.

“You are not pleased,” said Mary presently, in a low voice. “I hope you
don’t dislike Frank, Sarah?”

“Who! I dislike him?” said Sarah, looking up from her sewing with
surprise. “Not at all. I don’t care about him either one way or the
other. But that is not the point in question. If you are in love with
him, that is enough, provided,” she added with a smile, “you do not
require all your friends to be the same.”

Mary smiled faintly as she said, “Oh no!” for there was something in
Sarah’s manner that disappointed and chilled her. She made an effort to
say something about her long knowledge of his character and principles,
to which Sarah replied,

“I dare say he is a very nice young man, Mary,” while she inwardly
wondered what Mary could see in him, to think him worth all the
sacrifices she must make if she married him.

Mary could say no more. There was something so slighting in the phrase
“nice young man,” and it was so evident that Sarah did not think much of
him, that her spirits sunk, and she soon after left her friend, more
dejected than she had been since her engagement had taken place.

Mary soon after married, and Sarah was left more to herself and her
independent ways than ever, and what with her societies and
Sunday-schools, and the many occupations she contrived to make for
herself, time rolled quietly on, and Sarah continued very much
fulfilling the destiny her sister had long since predicted would be her
fate.

“Charlotte,” said Mr. Eldon to his wife one day about this time, “what
is Allen doing forever at your father’s? It seems to me that I never go
there that I do not meet him.”

“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Eldon carelessly. “Yet, now that you speak
of it, I remember that he is there a good deal. He is such a quiet,
silent person that one sees him without thinking of him. I wonder what
does take him there. I suppose it is a habit he has fallen into. You
know young men will sometimes visit at a house without any particular
object.”

“That may be,” replied her husband, “but I do not think it is so in the
present instance. I think Allen admires Sarah.”

“Do you?” said his wife with surprise, for the idea of Sarah’s exciting
particular admiration was new to her. “I should be sorry for him if it
were so,” she added.

“Why so?” inquired Mr. Eldon.

“Because,” she replied, “he seems an amiable young man, and I should be
sorry for his disappointment.”

“But I am not so sure he will be disappointed,” pursued Mr. Eldon.

“My dear husband!” exclaimed Mrs. Eldon almost indignantly, “you surely
do not suppose that Sarah would have a man so inferior to herself as
Allen—he is a gentlemanly, amiable person, but decidedly weak.”

“Sarah would not be the first clever woman who has married a fool,”
continued Mr. Eldon.

“But he must be younger than herself,” pursued Mrs. Eldon.

“About the same age, I imagine,” said her husband. “However, if the idea
has not occurred to you before, look to it now. If I am not much
mistaken, Sarah is interested in him. It would not be a bad match for
her, though certainly not one we would have expected her to make.”

And, strange as it may seem, Mr. Eldon’s observations had not deceived
him. Weak men generally admire clever women. Not having the capacity to
entertain themselves, they like somebody who can do it for them. Sarah
was now upon the point of doing what she had ridiculed others for all
her life, viz., falling in love with one who was not her equal. She had
often wondered before where the charm, where even the flattery could be,
of the admiration of an inferior. But Sarah had reached her
twenty-seventh year without even exciting that admiration, and
consequently did not understand the charm, and it is wonderful what a
difference the thing’s being personal makes in these matters. We often
refuse with the utmost sincerity for our friends somebody who, perhaps,
would be accepted for ourselves. So it proved with Sarah. She would not
have hesitated had Mr. Allen proposed for Mary, but the case was changed
when she found herself the object of his humble and devoted attentions,
her sayings admired, her opinions adopted, her looks watched, as they
had never been admired, adopted, or watched before. Flattery is
certainly bewitching, and few can withstand genuine admiration. But when
they come with the freshness of novelty, and the charm of
unexpectedness, the head must be very sound, or the heart very cold that
can altogether repel them. Sarah had abandoned herself to their
influence before she was aware of it. She did not yield gracefully,
however, nor without a struggle; and she had been engaged several weeks
before she could summon courage to communicate the intelligence to Mrs.
Eldon. It was in vain she repeated to herself that she “had only her own
happiness to consult,” and that “she cared not what others said.” Her
usual independence almost deserted her, and for the first time in her
life she dreaded a smile, and shrank from hearing “plain English.”

“Dear, dear Sarah!” exclaimed Mrs. Ludlow, as she embraced her friend
most affectionately, “how could you keep me so long in the dark? But I
am come to congratulate, and not scold you. And now tell me all about
it;” and the how, and the when, and the where, followed in quick
succession, and was listened to with such animated interest and cordial
sympathy, and all that Mary knew or thought, or had ever heard, that was
favorable to Mr. Allen, was poured forth so kindly, that Sarah’s spirits
rose, and, as she parted with her friend, she felt an elasticity and
joyousness of heart that she had not experienced since her engagement.

“Heaven bless her kind nature!” said Sarah, with a degree of enthusiasm
that was unusual to her; “I always feel better after I have been with
her.”

Had the same observation ever been made on parting with Sarah? We doubt
it.


                              CHAPTER II.

    It made me laugh to hear Jock skirl in the chimney. “Now,” said
    I, “you know what hanging is good for.”     HEART OF MID
    LOTHIAN.

“Mr. Allen looks feeble, Sarah,” said Mrs. Eldon to her sister, some
time after her marriage—“Is he well?”

“Yes, perfectly,” replied Sarah. “Pray don’t put it into his head that
he is not, or you will make him more indolent than ever. He wants
exercise, that is all. I wish him to ride on horseback before
breakfast.”

“At what hour do you breakfast?” inquired Mrs. Eldon.

“At six,” replied her sister.

“At six at this season!” exclaimed Mrs. Eldon. “Why it can scarcely be
light. Does Mr. Allen like such early hours?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Allen, laughing, “he would greatly prefer nine, I
believe. But such indolent habits destroy all order and regularity in a
household.”

“Now, Mrs. Eldon, I appeal to you,” said her brother-in-law,
good-humoredly, “if there is any use in being up at candle-light. I tell
Sarah we have the twenty-four hours before us. I do not see the use of
hurrying so. It appears to me I hardly get asleep before the bell rings
for breakfast.”

“The use of early rising,” replied Sarah, “is that we need never hurry.
There is time for every thing, and unless the master and mistress are
up, every thing stands still. And, after all, it only depends upon habit
whether we dislike it or not;” and there was something in her tone and
manner that implied it was a habit her husband must acquire.

Now in fact Mr. Allen was not strong; but Sarah, who had never been ill
for an hour, and scarcely knew what it was to be fatigued, had no more
comprehension of the languor of a feeble frame, than she had mercy for a
weak mind, and, consequently, the breakfast bell rang as pitilessly at
break of day, as if Mr. Allen had been endowed with her own “steel and
whalebone constitution.” Strong health makes one sometimes unfeeling,
and so it was with Sarah. She thought a good walk or long ride a panacea
for all the ills flesh is heir to, and that if sickness was not sin, it
was what she considered next to it—laziness.

“And now, Sarah,” said Mrs. Eldon, “I want a favor of you. I want you to
ask young Brandon and his wife to your party next week.”

“Which one?” inquired Mrs. Allen. “I did not know Frank was married, for
I don’t suppose you mean the other.”

“Yes I do,” replied her sister.

“Not the one who was implicated in that affair some years since?”
pursued Mrs. Allen.

“The same,” continued Mrs. Eldon. “He was almost a boy when that
happened, and he has quite redeemed himself since. And now that he is
married, his friends wish to make an effort to bring him forward again;
and I promised to ask you to invite him. It will be of service to him to
be seen here.”

“Never!” said Sarah, with decision; “I never will countenance any one
who could be guilty of such conduct. I am astonished you could ask it.”

“My dear Sarah, remember what a lad he was at the time,” urged Mrs.
Eldon.

“He was old enough to know better,” replied Mrs. Allen.

“Undoubtedly,” resumed her sister—“but, Sarah, if you had a family of
boys growing up around you, as I have, you would learn to look with more
leniency upon their errors.”

“If I countenance such young men as Brandon,” replied Sarah, “I don’t
know what right I should have to look for better things in my own sons.
When society overlooks such acts, we may as well abandon all principle
and order at once.”

“As a general rule, I agree with you,” returned Mrs. Eldon; “but
situated as we are with regard to the Brandon family, I should wish here
to make an exception. They were my mother’s earliest friends, and we are
under many obligations to them.”

“Any thing that I could do for them but this, I would do cheerfully,”
replied Sarah.

“But there is nothing else you can do, Sarah,” persisted Mrs. Eldon.
“They want nothing else; and it seems to me that friendship is but a
name, if we are not willing to make a sacrifice for our friends.”

“Any but that of principle I am willing to make for them,” replied Mrs.
Allen, resolutely.

When Sarah took it up as a matter of principle, her sister desisted at
once, as she knew the business to be hopeless. She only sighed, and
hoped Sarah might never know some of the trials of a mother’s heart, to
teach her mercy and compassion.

Sarah continued, as a married woman, to be very much what she had been
as a girl, for marriage does not modify the character as much as people
think it does. Her active and energetic nature, which had formerly been
expended on societies and paupers, was now devoted to her household,
husband and children, and all were managed with the same upright
principle and relentless decision which she had ever shown in all her
undertakings.

The attachment between herself and husband was strong, although the
perfect harmony did not always exist between them that might have been
expected, from the sense on her side and the good temper on his.

Mr. Allen, like most weak men, was obstinate, and when he wanted to do a
thing, generally did it, and only showed his consciousness of Sarah’s
disapprobation by not telling her of what he had done; and many a time
was she bitterly provoked to find that projects which she had opposed,
and supposed abandoned, had long since been quietly effected. Her heart
was often in a “lime kiln,” though perhaps about trifles. Yet upon the
whole she enjoyed as much of happiness, probably, as her nature was
capable of. Her children were pattern children, orderly, correct and
obedient. No act of rebellion had ever been known in the little circle,
but one, and that was in her eldest boy, which had been so severely
punished that it had become a matter of fearful tradition with the rest.
In fact, Sarah was a stern mother, more feared than loved by her
children, yet they were generally looked upon as a “remarkably well
brought up family,” and Mrs. Allen received no small praise for her
admirable management of her young flock.

“Who do you think was suspended to-day?” said Charles Eldon, as he threw
down his books on his return from college.

“Who? who?” exclaimed his young brothers and sisters.

“Tom Allen!”

“What, Tommy good-shoes!” exclaimed the children, with shouts of
merriment. “Oh, that is too good! Mamma, only think, Tom Allen is
suspended!”

“Hush, hush, my dear!” said Mrs. Eldon, gravely, “I am sorry to hear
it.”

“That is more than I am,” said Fanny, in a low voice. “It is the best
news I have heard this many a day. Aunt Sarah made such a fuss when
Lewis got into that scrape, and it was not much after all.”

“What has been the matter, my son?” inquired Mrs. Eldon.

“Nothing of much consequence—only Tom has lagged behind the class
almost ever since he has been in it, so now the Puts have suspended him,
and he must take a tutor, and try and pull up.”

“To think of one of those pattern children being suspended!” said Frank,
laughing. “It is the best joke I ever heard.”

And in spite of all their mother’s proper admonitions and grave looks,
the news was matter of perfect jubilee with the young Eldons. Not that
they had positively unkind feelings toward their young cousins, but they
disliked their aunt heartily, and, in short, pattern children always
incur a certain share of unpopularity among juveniles of their own
standing. Free and spirited natures will not brook the superiority which
is often accorded by their elders to the tame and correct inferiority of
such children. Then, too, the sins of the parents are often visited
heavily on their offspring under similar circumstances; and “Aunt
Sarah’s lectures,” and “the fuss Aunt Sarah made on such and such an
occasion,” “and now Aunt Sarah need not make big eyes at Charley any
more,” and “let Aunt Allen shut up about Lewis now,” and many more such
reminiscences and ejaculations of the kind, broke forth on all sides. In
fact, if the whole truth were known, Mrs. Eldon herself, in spite of her
efforts to maintain the proprieties, did not feel, at the bottom of her
heart, the sorrow for her sister’s mortification she assumed. “It will
do her good,” she said to herself. “Sarah is too hard upon other
people’s children. The thing is not a matter of importance in itself,
but it is enough to show her that her boys are like other boys.”

“I thought your sister was wrong when she insisted upon that boy’s
taking a collegiate education,” remarked Mr. Eldon. “He resembles his
father in mind: that is to say, he has none, and besides, is naturally
indolent. He showed a disposition to enter the counting-house, and he
would have done better there.”

“Sarah thinks it great weakness in parents to yield to what she calls
the whims of young people.”

“Undoubtedly; but, at the same time, not to study and make allowances
for their natural capacities and dispositions, is equally unwise. Nature
is to be guided, but not controlled.”

“You would find it difficult to persuade Sarah that she could not
control all events falling within the sphere of her domestic circle,”
replied Mrs. Eldon.

“Then probably she has a bitter lesson yet to learn,” replied Mr.
Eldon—and so the conversation dropped.

The summer coming on, Mrs. Eldon left the city early with her family,
and consequently did not see Mrs. Allen for several months. When she
did, she was much struck with the change in her appearance.

“Are you well, Sarah?” she asked.

“No, I am not,” replied Mrs. Allen. “I have heard people talk of being
weak and miserable, but I never knew what they meant before. I saw they
were not really ill, and I thought it was only imagination or indolence.
I now feel that I was wrong. For the first time in my life, I know what
it is to be oppressed with languor. Every thing is a burden to me; and
when I try to rouse myself and shake it off, my limbs refuse to obey my
will.”

“My dear sister,” said Mrs. Eldon, “don’t attempt that. You need
repose—If you overtask yourself now, you may feel the ill effects all
your life.”

“That is what my dear, kind husband says,” replied Mrs. Allen. “And oh,”
she continued, with much emotion, “you don’t know, Charlotte, how my
conscience reproaches me for my former want of consideration—for my
unkindness, in fact, to him. You always told me he was not strong, but I
thought it was only one of your notions, and I laughed at his dislike of
early rising, and had, in short, no sympathy for much that I now am
convinced was bodily indisposition. Formerly, I could not comprehend
what possible good it could do him, _even_ supposing, according to you,
that he was not well, to rise an hour later in the morning. The idea
seemed to me absolutely absurd. And now when I wake so languid, I feel
that an hour’s rest is of such infinite importance, and I ask myself,
‘Where is the use in getting up?—what matters it whether the household
commences its daily routine an hour earlier or later?’ Charlotte, I
sometimes feel that this breaking down of my health is sent as a
punishment, and a lesson to teach me sympathy and mercy for those of a
naturally different constitution from my own.”

When Mrs. Eldon repeated this observation of Mrs. Allen’s to her
husband, he dryly remarked that, “it was a pity the lesson had not come
earlier.”

Pecuniary losses, too, fell heavily upon the Allens about this time. A
public institution failed, in which Mr. Allen had invested much of his
wife’s property. It had never been an institution in which she had much
confidence, and when he had consulted her on the subject, she decidedly
objected to the changing certain for what she considered uncertain
property. But Mr. Allen, as we have said, was a weak man, who, when he
had once got a notion in his head, never rested until he had executed
it. He was just sufficiently under his wife’s influence to make him
conceal the fact when it was done. If circumstances discovered it, he
would only reply to her remonstrances, which were not always of the
gentlest, “Well, well, it is done now, and there is no use in talking
about it.” Sarah was not often to be pacified in that way, and if any
thing could have provoked her more than the facts themselves, it would
have been the quiet, meek, yet obstinate air withal, with which he
listened to her lectures on the subject.

Either Sarah was not the woman she once had been, or the magnitude of
the present offence seemed to stun her into silence, for she bore with
dignity and fortitude what she felt to be a serious misfortune.

What was grief to her, was matter of gossip, however, to the circle of
her immediate acquaintance, and that, too, not always in the most
sympathizing and good-natured spirit.

“Are you not sorry for the Allens?” inquired one of her set. “It is said
they have lost the greater part of their fortune in this company that
has just failed.”

The lady thus addressed was one who prided herself on her frankness, and
she answered, with a spirit and promptness that caused the other to
laugh,

“No, I can’t say I am. Mrs. Allen has hitherto thought that every body
else’s misfortunes were their faults. Let her now bring the matter
home.”

The other seemed to enjoy the remark, although hardly daring to say as
much herself, and she only replied, with an affectation of amiability
that her gratified looks denied—

“But it is a hard lesson to learn.”

“My dear Mrs. Binney,” replied her friend, “we have all of us hard
lessons to learn in our experience through life. But I have no sympathy
for those who _need_ them before they can feel for others.”

“She certainly has been rather hard upon those who fell into
misfortune,” gently resumed Mrs. Binney.

“_Rather_ hard!” ejaculated the other—“I never shall forget when my
brother failed—” and then came a stored up host of bitter remembrances
and old offences against Mrs. Allen, speeches long forgotten, that had
rankled deep, to rise up in judgment when her turn came to call for
public sympathy and general discussion.

Mr. Allen seemed to escape without either sympathy or animadversion. If
alluded to, he was called “a poor, weak fool,” by the men, and “oh, he
is nobody,” was all the consideration deigned him by the women. But Mrs.
Allen was canvassed and talked over according to the feelings of the
speakers, as if she were both master and mistress of the establishment.
Mrs. Ludlow, her early friend, was still her friend, and sympathized,
from the bottom of her heart, in all her trials.

Prosperity often seems to mark certain families for its own for
years—but when the tide changes, misfortune frequently clings as
obstinately to those who have hitherto seemed the favorites of fortune.
To most of us, life is as an April day, checkered by clouds and
sunshine; but there are others whose brilliant morning and calm noonday
suddenly darken into clouds and storm. A certain portion of sorrow is
the lot of all, whether it comes drifting through life, or is compassed
within any particular period of existence. Come, however, it must to
all.

Sarah’s life had hitherto been blessed above that of most women. But
youth, health and wealth had now passed from her, and her proud, stern
spirit had yet to undergo trials she had never dreamed within the scope
of possibility as falling to her lot. Her eldest boy, the “Tommy
good-shoes” of former days, was now the source of an anguish a mother’s
heart alone can know. Forced upon a course of education for which he had
no taste and scarcely any capacity, the four years allotted to
collegiate studies were to him four years of unbroken idleness. The same
easy, docile nature that had made him the “Tommy good-child” of early
years, rendered him still pliant to the influences about him. These,
unhappily, as is generally the case in idleness, were not good. College
suspensions and remonstrances were the commencement of a course of which
little bills soon followed in the wake. When these fell into his
father’s hands, they were often paid without a word, for he had learned
to dread, scarce less than the boy, the bitterness of his wife’s
indignation when they reached her knowledge.

To his mother’s keen reproaches, Tom listened in silence, the same kind
of frightened, meek, obstinate silence with which his father had endured
many a harangue before him. But they did not mend his ways.

Mrs. Eldon had heard from time to time rumors that “Tom Allen was very
wild,” but she had thought that “boys will be boys,” and her husband
said “young men will be young men,” and thus they had both attributed
the rumors they had heard to the indiscretions of a youthful spirit. But
here they were mistaken. Tom’s were not the errors of a youthful but of
a weak nature. The influence abroad was bad, and the conduct at home
injudicious. If Mr. Allen’s children did not exactly say with the world,
“Oh! he is nobody,” they yet felt the fact; while their mother was to
them “the everybody” they feared and looked up to. Consequently, if Tom
got into a scrape there was nothing he so much dreaded as his mother’s
hearing of it. There was scarcely any public opprobrium he would not
rather have endured than her anger. In fact, the sort of Coventry in
which he was put, the sad, severe looks that were bestowed upon him at
home were slight inducements to a weak and timid spirit to reveal
difficulties, pour forth confession and implore relief, and thus what
had begun in weakness ended in disgrace.

A debt which, though not large in itself, yet of considerable magnitude
in the eyes of a youth, had been contracted almost unconsciously, and
which he had not courage to avow at home. Harassed, tormented,
terrified, he made use of funds which were not his own, and which his
situation in a counting-house, where he had at last been placed, put
within his reach. Weak, timid and reserved, he neither revealed his
situation, nor asked for aid from either his young companions or natural
friends—but when he found detection could no longer be warded
off—fled.

Public disgrace was the consequence; and the insignificance of the sum
and the magnitude of the offence were alike the theme of general
discussion. Mingled commiseration and blame were bestowed upon the
unhappy parents. People generally love to think that a faulty education
is the root of the evil. Some, therefore, censured the system that had
restricted him in means; others thought a too ample allowance had been
the origin of the sin.

The affair was canvassed in every possible spirit, and though
commiseration could not be refused to the heart-stricken parents, yet
the tone of it was often qualified by the personal sentiments of the
speakers, for it is wondrous how unpopularity will cling to those who
have incurred it, even under calamities which one would suppose were
enough to bury all old griefs.

“I cannot but feel sorry for any mother under such circumstances,” had
been said, “but I feel as little for Mrs. Allen as I could feel for any
one so situated. She meets with more sympathy now than she ever would
have given to another.”

“Had it been any one else’s son but Sarah Allen’s,” exclaimed another,
“I should have been sorry indeed. But hers is a hard temper. Now,
however, she knows what trials are.”

“I am sorry for any one so situated, but if such things will happen, I
had rather it had fallen on Mrs. Allen than on any one else I know.”

The Brandons breathed a deeper but silent comment upon the blow that had
fallen on the haughty and unfeeling woman whose early slight they never
had forgiven.

“My early, only friend,” cried Mrs. Allen, as she threw herself into
Mary Ludlow’s arms, who, ever true to her in sorrow as in joy, was with
her now in her hour of bitterest anguish, “you, you alone feel for one
who did not feel for others. The heart that was hardened by prosperity
deserved to be broken by sorrow.” And then the full tide of anguish, and
repentance, and confession, gushed forth with a freedom and humility
that wells up alone from a broken and a contrite heart.

The stern lesson had been taught, and received in a spirit that shows
that where there is Sense, experience must teach Sympathy. The rock had
been smitten, and the waters that gushed forth were pure and
regenerating.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     “OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE.”


                       BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.


    Oh mother of a mighty race,
    Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
    The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
    Admire and hate thy blooming years.
            With words of shame
    And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

    For on thy cheek the glow is spread
    That tints thy morning hills with red;
    Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feet
    Within thy woods are not more fleet;
            Thy hopeful eye
    Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

    Aye, let them rail—those haughty ones—
    While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
    They do not know how loved thou art,
    How many a fond and fearless heart
            Would rise to throw
    Its life between thee and the foe.

    They know not, in their hate and pride,
    What virtues with thy children bide;
    How true, how good, thy graceful maids
    Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades;
            What generous men
    Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen.

    What cordial welcomes greet the guest
    By thy lone rivers of the west;
    How faith is kept and truth revered,
    And man is loved and God is feared
            In woodland homes,
    And where the solemn ocean foams.

    There’s freedom at thy gates, and rest,
    For earth’s down-trodden and opprest,
    A shelter for the hunted head,
    For the starved laborer toil and bread—
            Power, at thy bounds,
    Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds.

    Oh fair young mother! on thy brow
    Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
    Deep in the brightness of thy skies
    The thronging years in glory rise,
            And, as they fleet,
    Drop strength and riches at thy feet.

    Thine eye, with every coming hour,
    Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower,
    And when thy sisters, elder born,
    Would brand thy name with words of scorn,
            Before thine eye
    Upon their lips the taunt shall die.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             CAIUS MARIUS.


                          BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.


                  “Man—darest thou slay Caius Marius?”

    Semblance of him who at three-score-and-ten,
      Bleeding and stark, chained in a dungeon lay—
    Yet all untamed—whose eye flashed fire as when
    The stormy fight he led in war array;
    Well might the Cimbrian slave in awe start back,
      Oh! fearful Roman, when he met thine eye!
    Well might the Gaul, though bold, the courage lack
      To consummate thy purposed destiny.
    For through the dim and solemn twilight burnt
      That eye—in stern and awful grandeur flashing
    Its warning light on one who ne’er had learnt
      Pale fear till then. Well might his sword fall clashing
    At that dread voice—“Man, darest thou slay _me_?”
      So didst thou look, and speak, and wert made free!

                 *        *        *        *        *




        ONE OF THE “UPPER TEN THOUSAND,” AND ONE OF THE PEOPLE.


                        BY MRS. J. C. CAMPBELL.


                               CHAPTER I.

At the annual commencement of one of our colleges, the youth who
delivered the valedictory had, by the vigor and beauty of thought
displayed in his address, and by his polished and graceful elocution,
drawn down the applause of the large audience assembled on that
occasion. Not a few eyes were moistened as he bade farewell to the
venerable men under whose care and tuition he had gained the highest
honors, and to the schoolmates with whom he had passed so many happy
hours, and who now, like barques again put forth to sea that had long
been safely moored in one quiet haven, were each to stem alone on life’s
great deep.

“He! he! he! that’s Bobby Dunning, his father keeps a grocery-store,”
said a foppish-looking stripling who wore the academic gown, as he
pointed with his finger to the speaker on the platform, and at the same
time seated himself beside a young lady in the gallery.

“He! he!” echoed his companion, “I dare say he has weighed many a pound
of sugar in his time. A grocery-store! What queer associates you have at
college, Gus.”

“Associates! No indeed, Sophy, when Bob first entered I thought him a
fine, generous fellow, and was just about to ask him to our house, when
I found out who his father was. A lucky escape, by Jupiter! I soon cut
his acquaintance, and made him feel by my cool, contemptuous manner that
the son of a grocer was no fit associate for the son of a gentleman.”

Again the young lady tittered, “That’s just like you, Gus, you are
always so high spirited.”

“So my father says; he often calls me his ‘gallant Hotspur,’ and laughs
heartily when he hears of my waggish pranks.”

Many honors were that day borne away by the ambitious youths who had
late and early sought to win them, but none had been awarded to Gus, or
as he liked best to write himself, Gustavus Adolphus Tremaine.

“Why, Gus, you’re a lazy dog,” said his father on their return home;
“come, you must do better next time. And so Bob Dunning, the grocer’s
son, graduated to-day, and carried away more honors than any of the
other students; rather strange that!”

“There was nothing strange about it, father. Bobby knew he had to get
his living somehow or other, and as Latin and Greek smacked more of
gentility than brown paper and pack-thread, he abandoned the latter, and
took to the former with such avidity, that he has grown thin and pale as
a shadow. A capital village pedagogue Bob will make, to be sure! But
something more manly than poring over musty old books, or flogging
ragged little boys, must be my occupation through life. I say, father,
when does that race come off between Lady Helen and Bluebeard?”

“Next week,” answered Mr. Tremaine, who was a member of a jockey
club—“next week. Well remembered, Gus.—I dine with the club to-day,
and this devilish college concern had nearly driven the engagement out
of my head. We are to have splendid arrangements on the race ground for
the accommodation of the ladies—a fine stand erected, covered with an
awning—wines, ices, patés, and I don’t know what all. Sarah,” turning
to his wife, “I expect you to be there; mind, none of your vapors—and,
Gus, do you bring Sophy Warren; she is a spirited creature, and would
make a capital jockey herself.” And with this equivocal compliment to
Miss Sophia Warren, the elder Tremaine left the house.

A tyrant at home, a capital fellow abroad, was Oscar Tremaine. Over his
wife, a mild, gentle creature, he had exercised his authority until she
had become a perfect cipher in her own house; and, unnatural as it may
appear, he had encouraged their son to flout his mother’s opinions and
scorn her advice. It was not strange, then, that Mrs. Tremaine had
remained silent while her husband and son were speaking, but now,
looking on the boy with tenderness, she said,

“I regret, my dear Gustavus, that you have not been more successful in
your studies; how happy and how _proud_ I should have been had you
brought home some token of reward, some prize, on which I might have
looked, and said, ‘My child has won it!’”

“Fudge! this is all nonsense, mother. What do you know about such
matters? Father has more money than I can ever spend, and why should I
be compelled to mope away my lifetime over the _midnight oil_, as they
call it? I’d rather have a canter on Fancy in the afternoon, and then to
the theatre or opera at night—that is the life for me;” and, humming a
fashionable air, he turned from the room.

His mother gazed after him sorrowfully. “God help thee, my child!—alas!
I fear the worst; God help thee!” she repeated in anguish, and, feeling
how “sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,”
she bowed her head on her hands, and wept bitterly.

In less than a month after the commencement, Robert Dunning began the
study of the law, and Gustavus Adolphus Tremaine was expelled from
college.


                              CHAPTER II.

“Confound the fellow! I can’t take up a newspaper without having his
name staring me in the face. Eminent lawyer, superior
talents—_superior_—nonsense; I don’t believe a word of it. I always
hated him;” and the speaker flung the offending paper on the floor,
apparently unconscious that that very hatred made him blind to the
merits of the man whom he so berated.

“What’s the matter now, Gus?—angry again? Was there ever such a man!”
exclaimed an ultra-fashionable lady, who swept into the apartment “with
all her bravery on.” “Come, I want you to go with me this morning, to
select a new jewel-case. I saw a superb one the other day for a few
hundred dollars; but it is no matter what it may cost.”

“It is a matter, and a serious one, too, Sophia. I told you, six months
ago, we should be ruined by your extravagance, and, by heaven! you must
put a stop to it.”

“And I told _you, twelve_ months ago, Mr. Tremaine, that if you did not
quit betting at the race ground and the gambling table, we should
_certainly_ be ruined. You spend thousands, for no earthly good
whatever, while I only make use of hundreds, to purchase things
absolutely necessary for one holding my position in society. Once for
all, let me tell you, Mr. Tremaine, I will have whatever I want;” and,
turning to the piano, the amiable lady ran her fingers over the keys,
with the most provoking indifference.

“Mrs. Tremaine, you are enough to drive a man mad. Do you think I’m a
fool, that I will bear to be treated thus?”

“Oh no, Gussy dear, I should be sorry to suppose such a thing; but you
know the lesson by which I profited was learned in your home. There I
saw how well your father could enact the tyrant, and how your gentle
mother was treated like a slave; and I silently resolved, that from the
hour we were married, I would be mistress in my own house.”

“Where is the use of repeating that nonsense continually? I have heard
the same story a dozen times before.”

“And shall hear it a dozen times again, or at least as often as I hear
the word _must_ from your lips, Mr. Tremaine. But come, you have not yet
told me why you were so angry when I came in. Let me see,” she
continued, taking up the newspaper, “let me see whether this will not
solve the mystery. Ah, now I have it—Robert Dunning, Esq.!”

“Yes, now you have it—that upstart, whom I so hate—to see his name
paraded in this manner before the public, is enough to drive me mad.”

“No wonder you hate him, Gus. Only to think of his being retained as
counsel for the heirs of old Latrobe, and gaining the suit by which you
lost one hundred thousand dollars! Now this reminds me of what I heard
yesterday, that Dunning was about to be married to Fanny Austin.”

“Nonsense, Sophia, the Austins move in the first circles.”

“So they do, my dear, but Fanny has strange ideas, and there is no
knowing what freak she may perform. However, I shall drive there today,
and ask her about it. I ordered the carriage at one—ah! there it
is—will you assist me with my cloak, Mr. Tremaine, or shall I ring for
my maid? Thank you—thank you—I don’t know when I shall return.”

“And I don’t care,” muttered her husband as she drove from the door. For
a few moments he stood under the heavy crimson curtains at the window,
looking listlessly in the direction in which the carriage had gone, and
then taking his hat and cane left the house.

Just one little year had passed since Gustavus Tremaine and Sophia
Warren were wedded—but one little year since he had promised to love
and cherish her as his wife, and she had vowed to love and obey him as
her husband, and yet such scenes as the one above related were daily
occurring. The mother of young Tremaine had long since sunk
broken-hearted to her grave, and his father had died in consequence of
injuries received by falling from a staging erected on a race-course.

Shortly before the death of the elder Tremaine, the law-suit had
terminated, by which he lost one hundred thousand dollars, and on the
settlement of his affairs it was found that but a comparatively small
fortune would be possessed by his heir. Sophia Warren, “the capital
jockey,” prided herself on her marriage, with being wife to one of the
richest men (that was to be) in the city, and it was a bitter
disappointment when she found her husband’s income would not be
one-third of what she had anticipated.

As the union had not been one of affection—where heart and soul unite
in uttering the solemn and holy vows—where “for richer for poorer” is
uttered in all sincerity—as it had not been such a union, but one of
eligibility—a question of mere worldly advantage, no wonder the peevish
word, and the angry retort, were daily widening the breach between a
spendthrift husband and an arrogant wife—no wonder each sought refuge
in the world, from the _ennui_ and the strife that awaited them at
home—no wonder that the wife was recklessly whirling through the giddy
maze of fashion, while the husband was risking health, honor, reputation
on the hazard of a die.

When Mrs. Tremaine reached Mr. Austin’s, young Dunning was just leaving
the house, so here was a fine opportunity for bantering Fanny Austin.
“Ah! I’ve caught you, my dear, and Madam Rumor is likely to speak truth
at last—ha! blushing! well this is confirmation strong—and it is
really true that Mr. Dunning and Miss Austin are engaged.”

Too honest-hearted to prevaricate, too delicate-minded not to feel hurt
at the familiar manner in which Mrs. Tremaine alluded to her engagement,
Fanny remained silent, her cheek glowing, and her bright eye proudly
averted from the face of her visiter.

A woman of more delicate feeling than Mrs. Tremaine would have hesitated
on witnessing the embarrassment caused by her remarks, but she had no
such scruples, and continued,

“I contradicted the statement; for it was impossible to believe any
thing so absurd.”

Fanny Austin looked up inquiringly, and the glow on her cheek deepened
to crimson as she said,

“Absurd! may I ask your meaning, Mrs. Tremaine?”

“Why, I mean that you would not render yourself so ridiculous in the
eyes of society. _You_ marry Bob Dunning—the son of a grocer—_you_,
who belong to the first families, and who ought to make a most
advantageous match! Why, Fanny dear, no wonder I contradicted it.”

“I regret that you took the trouble.”

“Oh! it was none at all, and our families had been so long on friendly
terms, that I thought it but right to say you would not throw yourself
away.”

“Allow me to ask why you speak in this manner,” said Miss Austin, now
fully roused, and recovering her self-possession, “if I should marry Mr.
Dunning, how could I be thought to throw myself away?”

“What a question! Why the man has neither family nor fortune to boast
of, while you have both.”

“As far as money is concerned, I grant you I have the advantage; but as
for family, few of us republicans can boast on that score. My
grandmother, and yours too, Mrs. Tremaine, superintended their own
dairies, made butter and cheese with their own hands, and sent them to
market to be sold, nor did I ever hear that the good ladies were ashamed
of their domestic employments. Your father and mine commenced life with
naught save probity and perseverance; they were first clerks, then
junior partners, and at last great capitalists, and we their children
have thus been placed at the head of society.”

“I know nothing at all of this nonsensical grandmother story about
butter and cheese. I never heard of such a thing in our family.”

“No, I suppose you did not. You have been taught to look on praiseworthy
industry as derogatory to your ideas of gentility; but my father has
always delighted in recurring to those days of boyhood, and he venerates
the memory of his mother, whom he regarded while living as a pattern of
domestic virtue.”

“Oh, it is all nonsense talking in this way, Fanny. I wonder what Baron
d’Haut-ton will say when he hears that the lady he wooed so
unsuccessfully has been won by the heir of a man in the ‘sugar line?’”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Tremaine, if I say you are forgetting yourself, or at
least that you are presuming too far on your long acquaintance. My
parents have no such ideas as yours, about fortune and family, and with
their approval my heart is proud of its choice—proud, too, that it has
been the chosen of the gifted, the noble-minded Dunning.”

“Well, Fanny,” persisted Mrs. Tremaine, nothing abashed by the gentle
rebuke which had been given—“well, Fanny, depend upon it you will place
yourself in a false position. The friends who are now eager to court the
society of Miss Austin, will stand aloof when invited to the house of
Mrs. Dunning.”

“Friends! did you ever know a true friend do aught that would depreciate
the husband in the eyes of his wife, or lessen the wife in the esteem of
her husband? For such of my so-called friends as would not honor the man
I had chosen, when he was well worthy of their highest regard, I can but
say the sooner we part company the better. It is not the long array of
names upon my visiting list of which I am proud, but the worth of those
who proffer me their friendship.”

“Two o’clock!” said Mrs. Tremaine, glancing at the _pendule_ on the
chimney-piece—“two o’clock! Good morning, Miss Austin. How surprised
Tremaine will be to hear that you are really going to marry Bob
Dunning.”

And Robert Dunning and Fanny Austin were married—and never was there a
happier home than theirs. The wife watched for her husband’s step as the
maiden watches for that of her lover. Daily she met him with smiles,
while her heart throbbed with a love as warm and as pure as that she had
vowed at the altar. And Robert Dunning idolized his wife, and his fine
endowments drew around him a host of admirers and friends, until Fanny’s
former acquaintances, including Mrs. Tremaine, contended for the honor
of an invitation to the gifted circle, which weekly met at the house of
Mrs. Dunning.


                              CHAPTER III.

“So it has come at last—ruin, final, irretrievable ruin—every thing
gone—the very house I’m in mortgaged. Confusion! But I’ll not give up
yet—no, not yet! I’ll see Browne to-night—what if we should fail? But
that is impossible. Browne has been too long engaged in getting his
living from the dear public to let it scrutinize very closely the
process by which the needful is obtained. If I thought I could win any
thing at play—but I have had such an infernal run of ill luck lately
that there is no chance in that quarter. Well—well! There appears to be
no alternative—and when it is once done, then ho! for England!”

Thus soliloquized Gustavus Tremaine, as he sat at a late hour in the
morning sipping his coffee in his room, for his wife and he had long
ceased to take their meals together. Separate rooms and separate tables
had served to complete the estrangement which caprice and ill temper had
begun, and they now exhibited that pitiable spectacle of a house divided
against itself. And what is more pitiable than to see those who should
mutually encourage and support each other, who should bear one another’s
burdens, and in the spirit of blessed charity endure all things, and
hope all things—what is more pitiable than to see them unkind,
self-willed, bandying bitter sarcasms and rude reproaches?

Oh, that the duties, the responsibilities, the self-sacrifices of wedded
life were better understood, their sacred character more fully
appreciated, how would each home become a temple of love, each fireside
an altar, on which was daily laid an offering of all the amenities, all
the sweet charities of social life. How would the child who, in his
early home, had heard none save kind words, had seen none other than
heart-warm deeds, who had been trained to habits of submission, and
taught to yield the gratification of his own wishes for the good or the
pleasure of others, taught to do this even as a child may be taught, in
the meek spirit of the gospel—how would such an one grow up a crown of
glory to the hoary hairs of his parents, and a blessing to society. But,
alas! the spirit of insubordination is rife in the world. The child
spurns the yoke of domestic discipline, sets at naught the counsels of
his father, and hearkens not to the voice of his mother—and the man
disregards the voice of conscience, sets the laws of his country at
defiance, and becomes an outcast and a felon!

It was a cold winter evening, and the heavy clouds were looming up in
broad masses over the troubled sky, while the wind howled through every
cranny, and sent the snow-mist, which began rapidly to descend, into the
faces of the stray pedestrians who were either hardy enough to venture
abroad in search of pleasure, or wretched enough to be obliged from dire
necessity to leave their homes. Mr. Tremaine was among the few who were
braving the fury of the storm. He had left his elegant but cheerless
mansion in the upper part of the city, and sped onward, regardless alike
of wind and snow, to the place of his destination.

It was the haunt of vice, but in no dark alley nor out-of-the-way nook
did it seek to hide itself from public contempt. No—it reared its front
unblushingly in the public thoroughfare—within sound of the
church-going bell—it was fitted up with every luxury; silver and gold,
polished marble, and costly hangings, in lavish profusion, adorned the
place which fostered every malignant and evil passion, and made human
beings, endowed with immortal souls, ripe for deeds of desperation. The
man who robbed his employer, the defaulter, the forger, the destroyer of
female virtue, the murderer, the suicide, each and all of these had been
within its walls—each and all of these had taken their first lessons in
iniquity in that place, so truly and emphatically called a _hell_. And
it was to this place of pollution that Tremaine was hastening. Here he
had staked, and lost, and cursed his ill luck; yet, with the desperate
infatuation of a confirmed gamester, he had staked again and again,
until all was gone. On entering he looked round with a furtive and eager
glance, and, evidently disappointed, sauntered toward a roulette table
round which a crowd was standing.

“Do you play to-night?” The speaker was a tall, slender young man,
scarcely past his minority, but with a wan, sickly countenance, and the
premature stoop of old age. “Do you play to-night?” he repeated.

“I—I believe not,” answered Tremaine, again glancing round the room.

“You are a foolish fellow; the fickle goddess may even now be turning
the wheel in your favor. Come,” he continued, laughing, “if you have not
been at your banker’s to-day, I have, and can accommodate you with a few
hundreds;” and he took a roll of bills from his pocket, and handed them
to Tremaine.

“But when shall I return this, Gladsden?”

“Oh, a fortnight hence will be time enough.”

Tremaine turned to the table and staked the money—he won; staked the
whole amount—won again; the third time. “You had better stop now,”
whispered a voice in his ear. He turned, and saw the person for whom, a
short time before, he had been looking so eagerly; but he was elated
with success, and paid no heed to the speaker. The fourth—the fifth
time, he won. Such a run of luck was most extraordinary; he trembled
with excitement, and now determined that he would try but once more,
and, if successful, he might yet retrieve the past.

“Are you mad, Tremaine?—you surely will not risk all?” again whispered
the voice.

“All or nothing. I am fortune’s chief favorite to-night. All or
nothing,” repeated the gamester, as if communing with himself, “all or
nothing!”

The bystanders looked on earnestly; for a few moments there was a dead
silence—then Tremaine’s face became livid, his brow contracted, and his
lips compressed. He had risked all; he had gained—nothing!

“What a fool you have made of yourself!” once more whispered the ominous
voice.

“Not a word, Browne; perhaps it needed this to make me wholly yours,”
replied Tremaine, as he walked through the crowd, which opened to let
him and his companion pass. When in the street, the two walked on for a
time in moody silence, which was first broken by Browne.

“Well, Tremaine, that last was a bad stake of yours, and may cost one of
us the halter.”

“Why, I thought you told me there would be no blood spilt?”

“Well, blood _is_ rather ugly looking, I must confess; but if the man
should wake?”

“Did you not say you would have him well drugged?”

“I did, but by the slightest possible chance, I find it cannot be done!”

“How so?”

“You know it was expected that he would sail in the packet from this
port, but I find he has determined on going by the steamer, and will
start to-morrow morning by the Long Island railroad; so that we must do
it now or never.”

“Now or never be it, then. I am a ruined man, and ripe for mischief.”

Again the two walked on in silence, until they reached a fine looking
house in the vicinity of the Battery. Here Browne applied his key to the
night latch, and in a few moments he and Tremaine had entered one of the
upper rooms and locked the door.

“Where does he sleep?” abruptly inquired Tremaine.

“In the opposite room.”

“And you are sure that you can effect an entrance without arousing any
of the boarders?”

“_Sure!_ I wish I was as sure that he would not wake,” and Browne smiled
contemptuously. “But you are not growing faint-hearted, eh, Tremaine?
Come, here is something will give you courage, man;” and, taking a
bottle from a side closet, he placed it on the table before them, and
continued—“fifty thousand dollars! I saw him count it over this
afternoon. What fools some men are! Because I flattered him, and
pretended to take an interest in his love affair, he opened his whole
heart, and, what was of far more value, his purse, and displayed its
contents before me. But it grows late, and we must to business.
Remember, when I have secured the money, you are to take it and make
your escape out of the house, while I shall return quietly to bed to
lull suspicion, and to-morrow evening will meet you where we met
to-night. Now do you hold this dark lantern while I open the lock. That
will do—put it in my room again—so—all right; come in a little
farther,” continued he, in a low whisper, “we must be cautious—the
money is under his pillow.”

Stealthily approaching the bed of the unconscious sleeper, Browne put
his hand softly under the pillow and drew forth a wallet. Thus far they
were successful, but in groping their way out of the room, Browne
stumbled and fell; the noise awoke the sleeping man, and the cries of
“Help!—robbers!—help!” rang through the house. In one moment Browne
was on his feet, in another in his room, where the money was given to
Tremaine, and in the noise and confusion of hastily opening and shutting
doors, the latter escaped.

It is unnecessary to detail the causes which led to the suspicion and
arrest of Browne, and the implication of Tremaine. Suffice it that on
the following evening, when entering the place in which he had appointed
to meet his accomplice and divide the booty, Tremaine was taken into
custody, and the money found in his possession.

Sophia was dressing for the opera. It was the first night on which she
had laid aside the mourning worn for the loss of her parents, and,
determined on appearing in a style of almost regal magnificence, she had
placed a circlet of jewels on her brow, and a diamond bracelet was seen
flashing on her arm amid the rich lace of a demi-sleeve as she reached
out her hand to receive a note brought in by the servant. On opening it
her agitation was extreme, and, hastily dismissing her attendants, she
read over word by word the news of her husband’s crime, and subsequent
imprisonment.

And now was she tortured by conflicting emotions. She had never believed
that her husband’s affairs were in the ruinous state in which he had
represented them to be—but she could no longer doubt. Crime had been
committed—disgrace had fallen upon them—and then came the thought,
“Have not I helped to goad him on to ruin?” and pity for him brought a
momentary forgetfulness of self—the woman was not wholly dead within
her!

The next day the hateful news was bruited abroad that Tremaine, the
dashing Tremaine, was imprisoned for robbery! His fashionable friends
wisely shook their heads, and raised their hands, and uttered sundry
exclamations. But they stood aloof—not one offered to go forward as
bail for the unfortunate man. Not one of Mrs. Tremaine’s gay lady
visiters went to speak a word to the humbled woman as she sat writhing
under her disgrace. But we forget—there was _one_! Fanny Dunning, like
a ministering angel, strove to soothe and comfort her, promised that her
husband would do his utmost to aid Mr. Tremaine, and, when the mortgage
on the house was foreclosed, took the weeping Sophia to her own home and
was to her as a sister.


                              CHAPTER IV.

It was not in human nature to forget the repeated slights and insults
with which Tremaine had sought to wound the feelings of his old
school-mate; but it was in human nature to imitate the divine exemplar,
to forgive injuries, and to return good for evil, and Robert Dunning
promised Sophia that he would do all in his power to effect the
liberation of her husband. For this purpose it became necessary that he
should visit Tremaine in prison. But the culprit obstinately refused to
see him, until at length, finding the time draw near when he would be
publicly arraigned at the bar, he consented to his admittance. Dunning
gave him to understand that he must know the facts of the case, at the
same time assuring him that he would plead his cause with pleasure, and
that there was no doubt of his acquittal.

“The thing can be easily managed,” said Tremaine, doggedly—“I intend to
plead an alibi.”

Dunning started.

“Is this necessary, Mr. Tremaine? I thought the charge could not be
proven against you?”

“Nor can it, if you are the expert lawyer you are said to be.”

“Mr. Tremaine, let us understand each other. Is it important that you
should plead an alibi?”

“It is.”

“Then I regret that I cannot undertake your cause. I was still under the
impression that you were innocent.”

“And who dares say I am not? Did you, sir, come here to entrap me in my
words? Who will dare say I am not innocent, when the most famous lawyer
in town shall have proven that I was far from here on the night of the
robbery?”

The last words were said in a sneering and almost contemptuous manner.

“I must repeat my regret that I cannot undertake your cause, while at
the same time I assure you that I shall be silent as to what has
transpired between us.”

“Puppy!” exclaimed Tremaine, thoroughly enraged. “Who asked you to
undertake it? Who asked you to come and thrust yourself upon me?
Puppy—plebeian! did I seek advice or assistance from you?”

“Mr. Tremaine,” replied Dunning, with a calm and gentlemanly
dignity—“Mr. Tremaine, it is vain talking in this manner. I came to you
in the spirit of kindness—but my errand has been a fruitless one.”

Before Tremaine had time to reply the door was opened by the keeper, and
Dunning passed out of the cell.

It was with a heavy heart Fanny heard from her husband that he could not
undertake to plead for the accused, and, gently as she could, she broke
the sad news to Sophia. Browne and Tremaine were tried, convicted and
sentenced to the State prison. And now the hand which had sinfully
lavished thousands—the hand that had been kept so daintily white and
soft—the hand of the “son of a gentleman” was roughly manacled, and
linked to the brown, hard, weather-beaten hand of a fellow convict. He
who had been the pampered heir of luxury was now to be the partaker of
coarse fare—the daily companion of all that was base and vile—and the
nightly dweller in the lone dark cell of a prison. He, the once
flattered, courted and caressed, was to pass shamefully from the haunts
of his fellow-man, and, after a few exclamations of wonder and reproach,
was finally to be forgotten.

But there was one secretly at work, one who had been spurned, one whose
noble hand had been flung aside with contempt—and that one was now
busily employed in writing petitions, in traveling to and fro, and doing
all in his power to obtain the liberation of the man who had ever
treated him with insult and scorn. At length he was successful, and
Tremaine was pardoned on condition of his leaving the State. But for
Browne, who had been recognized as an old offender, there were no
attempts made to procure his release.

It was with mingled feelings of shame and defiance that Tremaine
ungraciously received the assurance of his freedom from the mouth of
Dunning; for, the better to avoid observation, the latter went himself
for the prisoner, brought him from his convict cell, and conveyed him to
the warm hospitalities of a happy home, where he was received by Mrs.
Dunning with that refined delicacy and unobtrusive kindness which soon
placed him comparatively at ease in their society.

A strange and embarrassed meeting was that of Tremaine and his wife.
Sophia’s first impulse was to break out into invective against him who
had thus brought disgrace and ruin, not only upon himself, but upon her.
Better feelings, however, prevailed, for she had learned many a lesson
of late, and had already begun to catch the kind and forgiving spirit of
those with whom she dwelt; so, after a few moments’ hesitation, a few
moments’ struggle between pride, anger and womanly tenderness, she drew
near to her husband, laid her head upon his bosom, and sobbed in very
grief and sorrow of heart. “Sophia!” “Tremaine!” were the only words
uttered during that first outburst of anguish. But soon the fountain of
thought was unsealed, when, instead of taunts and mutual upbraidings,
the bitter lessons learned in the school of adversity made them
self-accusing, and willing to excuse each other.

But little time was given to make arrangements for the departure of
Tremaine, who had determined not only on leaving the State, but the
country. Mr. and Mrs. Dunning wished Sophia to remain with them, at
least until her husband had procured some situation which might afford
him a competent support. But Sophia would not listen to this—she would
go with him—“she could do many things,” she said, “to aid him.” Fanny
Dunning smiled, but she knew that Sophia was right in thus fulfilling
her wifely duties, and both herself and her husband prepared every thing
necessary for the comfort of the voyagers.

It was a bright morning in May, when these true and tried friends
accompanied Tremaine and his wife in the noble ship which bore them down
the bay, and with many a warm tear and repeated blessing wished them a
prosperous voyage to England, and returned to the city.

And now we cannot better conclude their story than by giving an extract
from a letter, written some time after the occurrence of the events
already related, by Mr. Tremaine to his friend _Judge_ Dunning.

“I must congratulate you, my dear Dunning, on your elevation to the
bench; but I must not allow myself to utter all the praises that are
swelling at my heart, nor does it require words to convey to you my
respect, my esteem, my gratitude, and my love—ay, my love—for I do
love you as a brother.

“Sophy bids me haste and tell you our good fortune—softly, dear wife, I
will do so in a moment or two. You may perhaps recollect, my dear
friend, that I wrote you how difficult it was for me to procure
employment on my first arrival in Liverpool, and that this was mainly
owing to my total ignorance of any kind of business. Indeed, had it not
been for the few valuables belonging to my wife, which she cheerfully
parted with, and had it not been for her kind and encouraging words, I
should have yielded to despair. You know, too, my dear Dunning, that,
glad to do any thing in honesty, I at last obtained a situation as clerk
in a grocery store.

“How often has my cheek burned with shame, at the recollection of my
silly contempt for trades-people, when I was worse than idling away my
time at college? How often has my heart smote me when I thought of my
conduct toward you, my noble-minded, my best earthly friend? But why
repeat all this? You have long since forgiven me, and yet I never can
forgive myself. And now for my good fortune. My employer has enlarged
his business and taken me into partnership, so that I am in a fair way
of being once more a rich man, (and may I not add a wiser one?) and your
little namesake here, Robert Dunning, who is standing at my knee, is in
an equally fair way of remaining what he now is—_the son of a grocer_.
Heaven grant that he may in every thing resemble the man to whom his
father once used the words as a term of reproach. This is now my highest
earthly ambition for my boy, and I pray that my own lessons in the
school of adversity may enable me to teach him to place a juster
estimate on the empty distinctions of society, and to learn how true are
the words of the poet—

        “Honor and shame from no condition rise;
         Act well thy part, there all the honor lies.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LOVE.


                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


            A fading, fleeting dream!
    That blinds awhile with bright and dazzling ray,
      Until the heart is wildered by its beam,
    And wanders from its lofty path away,
      While meteors wild like holy planets gleam,
            To tempt our steps astray!

            A creature of the brain!
    Whom poets painted with a hue divine—
      That, bright embodied in their thrilling strain,
    Makes the soul drunken, as with mental wine,
      While the heart bows in longing and in pain
            Before its mystic shrine!

            The shadow of a bliss!
    That flies the spirit hastening to enjoy—
      That seems to come from fairer climes than this,
    To throw its spells around the dreaming boy,
      But steals his quiet with its siren-kiss,
            And robs his soul of joy!

            Is this that power unknown
    That rules the world with curbless, boundless sway,
      Binding the lowest cot and loftiest throne
    In golden fetters, which resist decay,
      And breathing o’er each cold and rugged zone
            The balminess of May?

            No! By the soul’s high trust
    On Him whose mandate bade the planets move!
      Who, kind and merciful, though sternly just,
    Gave unto man that loftiest boon of love,
      To bless the spirit till his form is dust,
            Then soar with it above!

            ’Tis no delusive spell,
    Binding the fond heart in its shadowy hall;
      But ’neath its power the purer feelings swell,
    Till man forgets his thraldom and his fall,
      And bliss, that slumbers in the spirit’s cell,
            Wakes at its magic call.

            Where’er its light has been,
    But for a moment, twilight will remain;
      Before whose ray, the night-born thoughts of sin
    Cease from their torture of the maddened brain.
      The spirit, deepest fallen, it can win
            To better thoughts again!

            ’Tis for the young a star,
    Beckoning the spirit to the future on—
      Shining with pure and steady ray afar,
    The herald of a yet unbroken dawn,
      Where every fetter that has power to bar
            In its warm glow is gone!

            Who ne’er hath oped his heart
    To that dove-messenger on life’s dark sea,
      Binds down his soul, in cold, mistaken art,
    When vainly hoping he has made it free!
      In earth’s great family he takes no part—
            He has not learned _to be_!

            Who longs to feel its glow,
    And nurtures every spark unto him given,
      Has instincts of the rapture he shall know
    When from its thralling dust the soul is riven.
      He breathes, so long it blesses him below,
            The native air of Heaven!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               SOLITUDE.


                       BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.


    Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!
      A solitude of deep and holy thought—
    Alone with that Ideal good and great,
      Which never yet companionship hath sought;
    E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars,
      Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind—
    Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,
      And the reft pinion flutters in the wind—
    Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,
      And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud—
    And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep,
      Despite the tempest raging long and loud;
    Alone, to God bear up its earthly weight
      Of human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     MUSA; OR THE PILGRIM OF TRUTH.


    BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC.


In the famous city of Bagdad there lived a rich merchant, named
Abdallah, of whose numerous offspring the youngest alone survived in the
person of Musa, an ingenuous and sprightly youth, in whom all the hopes
and affections of the father were centered. He often pondered on the
course of life to which he should direct the attention of his beloved
son, and at length consulted the sage dervise Motalleb, celebrated for
his learning, wisdom and virtue above all the inhabitants of that
renowned city, where the Kaliph Haroun Al Raschid once reigned amid the
splendors of oriental magnificence. Motalleb answered in few words,
after the manner of wise men, “Thy son will be rich without the labor of
acquiring wealth. Make him good, and, for that purpose, let him be
taught to distinguish what is true from what is false; for I say unto
thee, O Abdallah! that the knowledge and the love of Truth is the
foundation of all virtue.”

At the earnest solicitation of Abdallah, the dervise consented to
superintend the education of his son, and Musa was accordingly committed
to his care. His first lesson was never to depart from the truth,
whatever might be the danger or temptation. This was continually
repeated, until one day Musa, with all the simplicity of youth, asked,
“What is Truth?”

“Truth,” replied the dervise, “is that which is confirmed by the
evidence of the senses, or sanctioned by the assent of the
understanding. What thou seest, hearest, and feelest, thou mayst be
certain is true; and what is sustained by thy reason, or understanding,
though it may not be true, thou mayest assert, and believe, without
being guilty of falsehood.”

Musa pondered on these definitions until his young and tender intellect
became involved in a maze of mystery; and the next time Motalleb
repeated his daily injunction, he again asked, “What is truth?” “Have I
not already told thee?” replied Motalleb. “True,” answered the other,
“but I confess I cannot comprehend what I heard. I may believe what is
not true, and if I assert it to be the truth, surely I speak falsely?”
“But,” replied the dervise, “thou wouldst not commit a crime, since it
is the wilful violation of Truth that constitutes the guilt.”

Just at that moment a great crowd passed, with loud shouting and tumult,
outside the garden where Musa received his instructions, and, with the
curiosity natural to youth, he climbed up the wall to see what caused
the uproar. “What seest thou, my son?” asked the dervise. “I see a man
with his hands tied behind him, followed by an enraged multitude,
pulling his beard, spitting in his face, and beating him with staves and
stones, while he is staggering toward the river. What means all this, O
wise Motalleb?” “Allah be praised!” cried Motalleb, who had been tempted
by these details to look over the wall, “Allah be praised! it is the
recreant Mussulman, who, incited by the spirit of darkness, the other
day renounced the Koran and the true Prophet, for the Bible and the
false prophets of the Christian dogs. He is going to suffer the penalty
of his crime by being impaled alive.”

Musa fell into a profound reverie, from whence suddenly rousing himself,
he asked, “If the follower of Mahomet is convinced by the evidence of
his senses, or the dictates of his reason, that the religion of the
Christian dogs is the true faith, is he guilty of a crime in forsaking
that which he believes to be false?” “But,” rejoined Motalleb, “he is
deceived by the angel of darkness, or more probably only affects to
believe in his accursed creed.” “Methinks, then,” said Musa, with
perfect simplicity, “that he must be a great fool either to suffer
himself to be deceived, or to sacrifice his life for that in which he
does not believe.” “But if his belief in the creed of the Christian dogs
should be serious, what then, my son?” asked Motalleb. “Then,” replied
Musa, “he ought not to die, for you have often told me, that what is
sanctioned by our reason may be adopted without being guilty of
falsehood or committing a crime.”

Motalleb hereupon fell into a long dissertation, involving various nice
distinctions between wilful and involuntary errors of opinion, owing, in
a great measure, sometimes to the influence of early education, habits
and example; sometimes to the seduction of the passions, and at others
to the weakness or perverseness of the understanding. When he thought he
had made the subject quite clear to the comprehension of his pupil, the
latter, after reflecting a few moments, asked him how he could
distinguish those opinions which were adopted through the influence of
education, passion, habit and example, from those derived from the
convictions of pure impartial reason. “That is impossible,” said
Motalleb; “Allah alone can see into the human heart, and detect the
secret springs by which it is directed.” “It seems to me, then,” said
the youth, doubtingly, “that to Allah alone should be left the
punishment of errors of opinion, since none other can know whether they
are wilful or involuntary. But,” continued he, after another pause of
deep reflection, “surely there must be some standard of truth, equally
invariable and universal, to which mankind may appeal, instead of
sacrificing each other, as this poor man is about to be, for a
difference of opinion.” “Thou art right, my son, there is such a
standard. Thou shalt study the Koran, for that is the fountain of truth,
the only exposition of the wisdom of Allah himself.”

Motalleb placed the Koran in the hands of his pupil, who studied it with
equal ardor and intelligence, the dervise having, by his repeated
exhortations, inspired him with a fervent admiration of truth, as well
as a longing desire to obtain its possession. But there were many
portions of the book which neither corresponded with the evidence of his
senses nor the dictates of his reason. When he read that the Prophet
had, according to his own assertions, ascended to the seventh heaven in
company with the angel Gabriel, on the back of a white camel, and
advanced alone so near the throne of the Almighty as to be touched on
the shoulder by his hand; and that he had, in less than the tenth part
of a single night, thus performed a journey of at least a thousand
years—these and other miraculous tales confounded his understanding,
and contradicted not only the lessons of past experience, but the
evidences of his senses. He tried to believe, but found it impossible;
and when his preceptor, after allowing him sufficient time to study the
great work of the Prophet, asked him whether he had not at length drank
at the pure fountain of truth, he frankly expressed his doubts as to the
miraculous journey. The dervise stroked his long beard, and frowned
indignantly. “What!” cried he, “dost thou disbelieve the revelations of
the Prophet himself?”

“I am compelled to do so,” replied Musa, “since they neither accord with
the evidence of my senses nor are confirmed by the assent of my reason.”

Motalleb grew angry, and cried out with a loud voice, “What hath the
evidence of the senses or the assent of reason to do with that which is
beyond the reach of the senses or the comprehension of reason? Know,
foolish youth, that these things are miracles, and that neither the
understanding nor the reason of mortals can comprehend them. Dost thou
doubt the testimony of him who communed with angels, and was inspired by
Allah himself?”

“I am neither learned nor wise as thou art, O! Motalleb,” answered Musa,
bowing his head, and touching his forehead reverently, “but it seemeth
to me that thy words do not exactly accord with the definition of truth
which was one of my earliest lessons, and which thou hast repeated to me
every day. Thou didst tell me that truth was the evidence of the senses,
confirmed by the assent of the understanding. Now thou sayest otherwise,
and I am to believe what neither my reason can comprehend, nor my senses
realize as possible, because it contradicts all my experience.”

“Thy reason! thy experience!” answered Motalleb, contemptuously. “Thy
beard is not yet grown; thou hast as yet read little and seen nothing.
When thou hast mastered all the learning of Arabia, and traversed the
distant regions of the earth, thou mayest then found thy belief on the
evidence of thy senses, the dictates of reason, and the results of
experience. Go thy ways, my son. Thou art already too wise for me, since
thou doubtest the miracles of the Prophet.” Saying this, he dismissed
his pupil, who bent his way homeward, thoughtful and depressed.

Abdallah received him with his usual affection, and being told of the
dismissal of Musa by his preceptor, straightway went forth and purchased
great store of costly manuscripts, containing all the learning, science
and philosophy of the East, together with many translations from the
Grecian sages and poets. To these Musa applied himself with such zeal
and perseverance for several years, that he at length possessed himself
of all the wisdom they contained. Every step, however, that he proceeded
in his search after truth, only seemed to render its existence more
doubtful. Scarcely any two of those illustrious wise men agreed in their
religious, moral or political opinions, and he counted among the
philosophers upwards of three hundred different definitions of the
_summum bonum_—that is, the great constituent of human happiness.
“Strange,” thought Musa; “surely that which leads to happiness can be
only the truth; and yet, in this most important of all concerns, these
sages almost invariably dissent from each other. I will henceforth see
with my own eyes, instead of those of others. Surely truth must exist
somewhere in this world. I will traverse the earth, according to the
advice of Motalleb, until I find it, or perish in the search.”

At this moment he heard a loud cry at the door which opened toward the
street, and going hastily forth, encountered four slaves bringing in the
body of his father, who had been suddenly smitten by the angel of death,
while drinking from a cool fountain in one of the public gardens of the
city. Musa fell on the body and wept, and mourned a long while with all
the depth and sincerity of filial love. But when time had assuaged his
sorrows, he recalled to mind the anxious wishes of his parent, that he
should seek and find out the truth; and being now rich, and his own
master, he resolved to set out on his pilgrimage without delay. Placing
the management of his affairs in the hands of a discreet friend of his
father, he one morning, just at the dawning of day, mounted his Arabian
steed, and turned his back on the once splendid capital of the Kaliphs.

In the course of twenty years, Musa visited a great portion of the
habitable globe, with the exception of the new world, which was not then
discovered. He sojourned among the Persians, whom he found almost
equally divided between the worshippers of fire and the followers of the
sect of Ali, abhorred by all the faithful. Each believed in the truth of
their faith, and were ready to die in its defence. He then joined a
caravan of merchants, and bent his way toward Hindostan, where, having
safely arrived, he quitted his companions, and pursued his journey
alone. The first thing that attracted his attention was a party of young
people of both sexes bathing promiscuously together, who seemed to be
utterly unconscious of any impropriety, and laughed and gamboled with
all the hilarity of innocence. To a disciple of Mahomet, accustomed to
the jealous seclusion of females, the spectacle was revolting in the
extreme, and he turned away in bitter disgust, exclaiming against such a
violation not only of decency, but the law of the Prophet.

Proceeding onward, he observed several persons with a piece of fine
muslin or gauze before the mouth, and others walking slowly, with
brooms, carefully brushing away the dust before they ventured to take a
step forward. On inquiring the reason, he was told that the former
method was adopted lest they might accidentally swallow some insect, and
the latter to prevent their treading on some living thing, and thus
depriving it of life—a crime which subjected them to severe penance and
mortification, as being against one of the fundamental principles of
their faith. On hearing this, Musa pursued his way laughing, though a
grave Mussulman; and, having crossed a river, encountered a person
uttering the most horrid execrations against an evil spirit, who, it
seems, had, in the shape of a dragon or serpent, raised a great thunder
storm, which laid waste his fields and destroyed his crop of rice.

“Head of Mahomet!” said Musa, “what a set of ignorant barbarians are
these! There is no use in seeking for truth among them. I will visit
their wise men, and hear what they have got to say for themselves.”

Learning, on inquiry, that the sect or caste of the Brahmins were
considered the most wise and enlightened of all the people of Hindostan,
he sought and obtained the society of some of the chief bonzes, under
the character of a traveler in search of the truth. From these he
learned, with no little surprise, that their religion was a perfect
mystery, confined altogether to the priests, and that so far from
wishing to make proselytes of strangers, none could be admitted among
them but by hereditary succession. “Strange,” thought Musa, “that people
should be so selfish. If they believe their faith the only true one, it
is cruel to keep it from the knowledge of others.”

Passing away from these exclusives, he came to a temple, where he beheld
a number of persons undergoing a variety of the most extraordinary
tortures, to which they were voluntarily submitting. Some of these had
held up one arm in the same position till it became fixed and
inflexible, and so remained during the rest of their lives. Others had
clenched their fists with such force, and kept them thus so long, that
the nails had grown through the palms, and projected from the back of
the hand. Others had turned their faces over one shoulder, until they
were irrevocably fixed in that direction. Others were suspended, by iron
hooks fixed in the shoulder-blade, to a beam which turned round with
great velocity on a pivot at the top of a long pole, while the penitent
sometimes sung a song, or blew a trumpet, as he whirled around, to the
great admiration of the spectators. On inquiring the meaning of all
this, he was told that they were celebrating their religious rites, and
exemplifying the sincerity of their devotion.

Musa turned away from this exhibition with mingled feelings of pity and
contempt, and pursued his way pondering on the strange diversities of
human opinion, most especially on subjects involving not only the
temporal but eternal welfare of mankind.

“All cannot be true,” exclaimed he, “and yet one must be the truth. I
will not be discouraged, but continue my pilgrimage until I find the
fountain of truth, or become involved in endless, inextricable doubt,
and believe nothing.”

Continuing his journey, he entered the great empire of China, where he
found three hundred millions of people, divided into the followers of
Loo Tsee, Fokè, and Confucius, or Confutsee, each equally convinced of
the truth of their creed, and each equally despising the others. Thence
he proceeded to Japan, where he arrived at the period of celebrating a
great religious festival, and saw them trampling the cross under foot,
and sacrificing human beings to a great idol, which resembled neither
beast, bird, fish, nor man, but exhibited a monstrous combination of the
deformities of almost every species of animal.

It would be tedious to follow him throughout his various peregrinations
through Asia and Africa. Suffice it to say, that he everywhere
encountered the strangest diversities of manners, habits, opinions and
modes of faith, and every day became more hopeless of gaining the object
of his weary pilgrimage. The course of his wanderings at length brought
him to Cairo in Egypt, where he accidentally fell into the company of a
learned European traveler, who had visited the country to unravel the
mystery of the pyramids, and decipher hieroglyphics. On learning from
Musa the object of his journeyings, he turned up his nose somewhat
scornfully and exclaimed—

“Pooh! what is the use of seeking for Truth among the barbarians of the
East? You should visit enlightened Europe, the seat of learning,
philosophy and true religion. I have completed the purposes which
brought me hither, and am about to return home, where, I flatter myself,
I shall prove to the satisfaction of all reasonable people that the
whole tribe of travelers who preceded me are no better than a parcel of
ignorant blockheads. You shall accompany me to Europe, where alone is to
be found true religion and true philosophy.”

Musa caught at the proposal. They embarked together in a vessel destined
for Marseilles, where in good time they arrived without accident. On the
night of his first sojourn in that city he was suddenly roused from a
sweet sleep by a series of heart-rending shrieks and groans, mingled
with loud imprecations and shouts of triumph, that seemed to come from
all quarters of the city. Starting from his bed, he ran to the window,
where he beheld bodies of armed ruffians raging through the streets,
massacring men, women and children without mercy, breaking open the
houses, tearing forth their wretched inmates, whom they slaughtered with
every species of barbarous ingenuity, and committing their bodies to the
flames of their consuming habitations. While shivering at this
exhibition of barbarity, and meditating an escape from its horrors, he
was interrupted by his friend, and addressed him in a voice trembling
with apprehension,

“In the name of the Prophet!” cried he, “what does all this mean? Is the
city become a prey to banditti or hostile barbarians, who spare neither
sex nor age, and riot in blood and fire?”

“It is nothing,” answered the other, coolly. “They are only punishing
the heretics for not believing in the Pope.”

“And is that the name of your God?” asked Musa, with perfect simplicity.

“No—he is only his vicar on earth.”

“But do not these poor people believe in your Bible, which you have told
me is the great volume of Truth, and in that Supreme Being who you say
is the only true God?”

“Yes—but they deny the supremacy of the Pope, and deserve to be
punished with fire and sword.”

“Then the Pope must be greater than your God,” said Musa.

His friend turned away with a gesture of impatient contempt, and
muttered something of which he could only distinguish the
words—“Ignorant barbarians!”

At dawn of day he left the city in disgust, but wherever he came he
found the country smoking with the blood of helpless innocence and
unresisting weakness, and was told by the priests in tones of triumph
that in one night all the heretics of the kingdom had been exterminated.
He asked then what these poor people had done, whether they were thieves
and robbers, traitors or rebels, that they should be cut down in one
single night without discrimination and without mercy. But all the
answer he received was—

“They deny the supremacy of the Pope!”

“Strange!” thought Musa. “But I am among true believers and enlightened
philosophers, and no doubt shall find the Truth at last.”

He, however, determined to leave the country as soon as possible, and
bending his course to the seaside, embarked in a vessel destined for
England, but which was driven by stress of weather into a port of
Ireland. Here he found every thing in confusion. People were setting
fire to the churches, pulling down stately abbeys and convents, and
driving their inmates before them with every species of violence and of
opprobrium.

“Who are these people?” asked he—“and what have they done—most
especially those poor women and children, whom I see fleeing from their
pursuers, pale with affright, and crying out in despair?”

“They are heretics and believe in the Pope,” was the cool reply.

“That is very strange,” said Musa—“I am just from a land where they
were massacring men, women and children because they did not believe in
the Pope. How is this?”

“We are only retaliating their persecutions. When they had the upper
hand they oppressed us, and it is but just that they should suffer in
turn.”

“But does not your religion inculcate forgiveness of enemies?”

Before Musa could receive a reply, an aged, bald-headed friar ran
tottering past, with a nun holding by his hand, and pursued by several
people who seemed half mad with hate and eagerness, and assailed them
with missiles of every kind. His companion joined the throng, and left
him without an answer. He inquired of another what the old man, and
especially the poor woman, had done to merit such unworthy treatment,
and was told that one was a friar of the Order of Mercy, and the other a
Sister of Charity.

“And what are their occupations?” inquired Musa.

“One is employed in the redemption of captives among the infidels—the
other passes her life attending the bedside of the sick, relieving their
wants, administering to their comfort, without fee or reward, and
devoting herself to charity and devotion. But they both believe in the
Pope, and that is the great original sin.”

“Head of the Prophet!” exclaimed Musa—“and yet you persecute these
people! Surely that cannot be the true religion which deals thus with
the votaries of mercy and charity.”

The man, instead of answering, stooped down and seizing a stone, threw
it at Musa with such good aim that it grazed his turban, and began
crying out—“A Papist!—A Papist!” whereupon Musa made the best of his
way to the ship, where he sought shelter from an angry crowd that was
shouting and shrieking in his rear. He continued his journey through
England, Spain, Holland, Germany, Switzerland and Italy, and wherever he
went perceived such strange diversities and contrasts in the standard of
morals and religion, that in despair he at length resolved to return
home, having come to the conclusion that there was no such thing as
truth in this world. With this intention he arrived at Rome, on his way
to Venice, whence it was his purpose to embark for Smyrna, and thence to
proceed by land through Asia Minor to Constantinople, on his way to
Bagdad. At Rome he saw the Pope, a feeble, decrepit old man, who had, in
order to give more imposing dignity to the ceremony, consented to
preside at the burning of a heretic, who was convicted before the
Inquisition of having pulled off his hat and made a bow to the statue of
Hercules and the Centaurs. The poor victim, who was an ignorant peasant,
solemnly declared that he mistook Hercules for a saint; but all would
not do. He perished at the stake, after which Te Deum was sung, and high
mass celebrated throughout the ancient capital of the world.

Sickened and disgusted with Europe, he embarked for Smyrna, and crossing
Mount Sipylus on his way to Constantinople, was benighted and lost his
way. He wandered about amid the deep recesses, until at length he
descried a light at a distance, which, on approaching, was found to
proceed from a cave, where Musa beheld an aged man, with a long white
beard, reading by the light of a lamp. So deeply was he engaged, that
the lost traveler entered the cave and stood beside him ere he was aware
of his presence. He was not, however, in the least startled when he
perceived the stranger, but courteously requesting him to be seated,
closed the manuscript volume in which he had been reading, and kindly
inquired into his wants and desires.

Musa related to the old man how he had lost his way in returning
homeward, after an absence of twenty years, and requested his
hospitality. The old man assured him he was welcome, and having provided
a frugal repast of milk, dates and bread, they sat and conversed
together, making mutual inquiries of each other. The aged hermit
informed his guest that he was of the sect of the Maronites, and had
many years ago sought refuge from the persecutions of his fellow
Christians in this spot, where he could alone enjoy liberty of
conscience. “But thou,” continued he, “hast just informed me that thou
art returning home after twenty years of travel. Thou must have gathered
vast stores of wisdom and many truths during thy long pilgrimage.”

“I did indeed set forth in search of the truth,” replied Musa, “but am
returning only more in doubt than before. I have sought for some
standard of manners, morals and religion, by which all mankind might
regulate their opinions and conduct, for such a standard can be only the
truth.”

“And didst thou find it?” asked the hermit, smiling.

“Alas! no, venerable father,” replied Musa. “I found no two nations
agreeing in one or the other. A river, a mountain, or even an imaginary
line of separation, not only produced a contrast in all these, but a
bitter feeling of hostility, the parent of broils and bloodshed, seeming
to proceed from mere differences in opinion, of which a great portion
knew neither the grounds of their belief nor the source of their
convictions. Even in matters involving their eternal welfare, I found no
standard of truth, for millions differ with millions on the subject, and
shed each other’s blood for a diversity in creeds which are alike
derived from the great book in which they all believe.”

“And to what conclusion has all this travel, study and experience
brought thee at last?” asked the hermit.

“I scarcely dare tell thee, O! venerable father. But if I have formed a
decided opinion on any one thing, it is that there is no such virtue as
truth on earth, and no Supreme Being in Heaven, since there are so many
different opinions with regard to one, and so many modes of worshiping
the other. Surely where such diversities exist, it is the height of
presumption for men to persecute each other for not believing alike.

“But,” asked the hermit, “amid these endless varieties of faith, didst
thou ever encounter, in all thy pilgrimage, a people who believed not in
a Supreme Being, either by himself or his ministers, presiding over the
government of the universe?”

Musa reflected awhile, and then answered, “No; however different might
be their faith, in their modes of manifesting it, I do not recollect
ever to have found a people, civilized or barbarous, where I could not
distinctly perceive, even among the darkest clouds of ignorance, a
recognition, more or less distinct, of a Supreme Intelligence, in some
shape or other. Even where they worshiped beasts or idols, I thought I
could always trace their devotion, step by step, to a Supreme Being.”

“Then,” said the old man, “thou mightest have found in thy long search,
hadst thou made a wise use of thine experience, at least one great
truth, of more importance to the welfare of mankind than all the
conclusions of learning and philosophy. Instead of drawing, from the
various modes in which religion manifests itself, the conclusion that
there is no God, thou shouldst have gathered, from the universal belief
of all mankind, that there is assuredly such a Being, since neither the
most wise nor the most ignorant deny his existence.

“This is one great truth thou mightest have learned in thy twenty years
of travel. A second, scarcely less important, at least to the temporal
happiness of mankind, is, that since almost all nations and communities
differ in a greater or lesser degree in their modes of worship, and
there is no earthly standard to which all are willing to submit, it
becomes us short-sighted, erring beings, instead of persecuting each
other by fire, sword and defamation, to be tolerant of that which we
call error of opinion in morals or religion. However we may differ in
the modes by which these are manifested, we may be assured that though
we may be mistaken in abstract points of faith or morality, still there
is one great universal truth which all may comprehend, namely—that
charity for human errors must be the bounden duty of all, since without
such charity on the part of the Most High, the gates of Heaven would be
forever closed against his sinful creatures.”

Musa remained several days in the cave of the hermit, during which time
the old man often repeated the lesson he had given, and then bent his
way toward Bagdad, which he reached without any adventure. Here he
passed the remainder of his life in practising the precepts of the wise
hermit of Mount Sipylus. He became the friend of the ignorant, the
benefactor of the needy; nor did he ever inquire, ere he relieved them,
to what sect they belonged, or pamper the pride of superior wisdom by
despising their inferiority. And when, after many years of happy repose
and wide-spread benevolence, he was smitten by the angel of death, he
died in the full conviction that he had found the truth, and that it
consisted in reverence for the Creator of the world, and charity toward
all his creatures—charity not only for their wants, but their errors
and opinions.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THREE ERAS OF DESTINY


             IN THE LIFE OF THE PAINTER ANGELICA KAUFFMANN.


                        BY MISS H. B. MACDONALD.


                                PART I.

There is perhaps no scenery in the world so ravishingly beautiful as
that offered by those vast plains of northern Italy situated at the base
of the Rhætian Alps. A champaign elaborately tilled, and laid out into
those regular divisions of meadow, corn-field, and vineyard, which make
so much of the beauty of cultivated landscape; groves and belts of trees
so disposed as to be productive of the highest effect; classic looking
villas, villages and towns, with their surrounding orchards and
pleasure-grounds; bright rivers winding their way through all this
beauty till they lose themselves in those magic lakes, which, with their
green banks kissed by the waters, and bordered on every winding
promontory and inlet by belts of overshadowing trees, reflect the sunset
splendors of the Alps, and seem, in every rainbow grotto and crystal
palace mirrored in their lucid depths, meet homes for those genii of the
waters with which a graceful superstition peoples their enchanted
caverns. All these, with the back ground of gigantic mountains, pile on
pile, that seem to raise a barrier from earth to heaven between this
Paradise and a ruder world beyond, fill us with the idea of wandering
amid some remnant of the scenery of the Golden Age, where of old, as the
fables tell, the primeval deities used to dwell with a purer humanity,
and in a younger and lovelier earth.

From a village situated at a considerable elevation on the surface of
the slopes into which these smiling plains incline themselves as they
approach the mountains, one bright spring evening, a troop of young
girls might have been seen issuing, apparently as if broken loose from
school, so joyous were their gestures, so wild their mirth, as with the
vivacious grace belonging to the children of the South they bounded over
the grass, some gliding in imitation of the motions of a dance, some
skipping, some chasing others with the speed of the wind, till at a call
from one, “to the water—to the water!” echoed by a dozen voices, they
descended a hollow leading to the bed of the bright Ticino, and in a few
moments were plunging and gliding in the stream.

One of them, apparently between fourteen and fifteen years of age,
instead of following the example of her companions, had, in the
excitement attending this operation, slipped away unperceived, and
wandering listlessly along the windings of the river soon found herself
out of hearing and sight. Proceeding on her way, and picking up a pebble
or a flower just as it suited her, and stopping to observe every
effective point of view in the landscape, with a narrowness of
observation and sense of its beauty uncommon in one so young, she came
to a ravine leading up from the side of the stream, which she ascended,
till arriving on a high point that overlooked the channel of the river,
she witnessed one of the most superb sunsets that ever gladdened an
enthusiast’s eye. Amidst an array of purple clouds, fringed with silver,
the sun was descending, gold colored, behind a peak of Mount Rosa, and
suffusing the surrounding Alpine masses with a dim violet vapor. At her
feet, and flowing in a direction opposite to the eye, was the river, now
transformed into a stream of rich ruddy amber, with its sloping and
picturesque banks and wooded islands, that diversified its brilliance
with emerald shadows, taking its way in a hundred windings, whose
succession she could trace, curve beyond curve, as it clove its course
through the opening hills—far away, till, in the termination of the
vista, gleamed the shining roofs of the Pania, with the white spire of
its cathedral seeming to lose itself in the gold of the evening sky. To
the left, immediately at the foot of the eminence where she stood, was
the little white village, with its orchards and trim vineyards, and,
beyond, those vast slopes on which the mountains lose themselves in the
Italian plains. To the right, arose perpendicularly from the river a
wall of sparkling granite rocks, now of the deepest vermilion in the
alchemy of evening; and behind, towered grandly into the sky those white
wildernesses of Julian Alps, receiving from their brethren, the
Rhætians, the reflections of the opposite sunset in a thousand tints of
lingering rose.

A singular effect was produced on the girl by the contemplation of this
scene. Her bosom heaved, her cheeks flushed, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh! for the voice of a poet,” said she, speaking to herself, “to
celebrate these splendors in some immortal song! Or the hand of a
painter, to retain them in undying hues, for a joy to the worshipers of
beauty forever. Alas! they are fading—they shall soon be lost to the
universe; and there is none here who, with the power of inhaling them
into his spirit as I, hath the happier gift of reproducing them in some
diviner form. Alas! I am weak, with no power but to _feel_; as when
gazing on some noble statue—some magic scene—some surpassing human
form—an irrepressible emotion seizes me, which, when I would invest
with expression, my heart dies away in utter impotence!”

Ah! innocent soul, thou didst not then know that the first power of an
artist is to _feel_; that in his susceptibility for emotion lie his
strength and the spirit of his calling; and that the achievement of the
painter, the poet, or the sculptor, is but the expression of that
emotion which our common language is too weak to supply, and only
acquired, like any other language, through practice and experience. The
girl who mused thus was very beautiful, now rendered more so by the
freshness and vivacity of her extreme youth. Long tresses of chestnut
hair, braided across her temples and slightly twisted up behind, were
then suffered to fall in ringlets over her neck. Her complexion was
brilliantly fair, with that rather deep carmine tinge on cheek and lip
common to the Teutonic race, on the confines of whose clime she was
born; while her slender figure and regular features betrayed the
vicinage of classic Italy. But the most remarkable feature were the
eyes; they were large and of the deepest black, in whose serious,
melting, intellectual expression we could read all the soul of Angelica
Kauffmann.

Throwing herself on the grass, she gave way to a delicious reverie on
the enchantments of the scene, which the twilight, the fading colors and
the silence soon deepened into a sort of dream. She thought herself in
the midst of a vast temple, whose dome expanded into the skyey concave
above her head, lamp-lighted with its thousand stars. Its area, whose
termination on any side she could not descry, seemed to extend into an
interminable space, lost amid a wilderness of surrounding columns. By
degrees she became aware of the presence of groups of majestic statues,
that seemed, by some enchantment, one after another to strike her view,
like the scenery of a diorama. Watching them attentively, she saw that
though raised on pedestals, in the attitudes and repose of statuary,
they were endowed with all the features of animated life, but a life
more than human—it seemed immortal, divine; and she recognized in these
forms the presence of that gifted and glorious company enshrined in the
temple of the immortal heart of man. Amidst the group in whose immediate
vicinity she found herself, stood “Rafaelle the Divine,” with that
countenance of his so expressive of the spirit of the sainted religion
whose attributes he has embodied in glorious painting, and his
melancholy eyes filled with the presentiment of his early death. Angelo,
grand and majestic like his own Moses, and a brow worthy of the
conception of that great St. Peter’s—the temple of the Christian world.
Murillo, glorifying in his aspect the stolid simplicity of that humble
life whence he drew his origin, and the delineation of which he made
peculiarly the subject of his design. Carracci, with that forsaken look
when the child of genius, like, alas! too many of his calling, lay down
to die of a broken heart. Titian, beautiful as his own Apollos—and many
more. But among these her attention was directed in surprise to a
conspicuous pedestal, deficient of its statue, whereon was engraven in
large letters, on the granite of its base, the name of “Angelica
Kauffmann.” Looking up at the same moment to the vast sky-blue dome
above her head, she saw blazing directly over the vacant pedestal a
large, bright, solitary star, that lighted the whole temple with its
radiance. After a long riveted gaze toward it, she became slowly
sensible of looking on the true sky, from which the sunset and the
twilight had now quite faded, abandoning it to the deep cobalt blue of
the approaching darkness. The statues had vanished; the pillars had
resolved themselves into the surrounding trees of the landscape; and,
instead of the temple, were the familiar features of the scenery, though
now almost lost in the darkness, she had gazed upon before falling into
slumber. Every thing had vanished except that bright, solitary star,
which, though now restored to complete consciousness, she continued to
gaze upon with eyes riveted by wonder and delight. Familiar with the
geography of the heavenly world, she was wholly unable to account to
herself for the appearance of this particular star, which differed in
position and lustre from any of the heavenly bodies she had hitherto
been familiar with. It was evidently some new comer, and the girl
thought to herself of those presiding stars that were of old said to
arise over the destinies of the great ones of the earth, and
dreamed—who can tell in that hour—wild dreams to herself of future
glory and renown.[3]

-----

[3] This seemingly supernatural orb was probably one of those since
classed under the catalogue of “Variable Stars,” which disappear for
stated periods, and then become visible again, to blaze for a short time
with extraordinary lustre.


                                PART II.

There were preparations for a festival in the halls of the “Royal
Academy” of London. A distinguished foreign member of the profession was
expected to be present, and the first individual not a native on whom
the fellowship of the Academy had hitherto been conferred. The king and
royal family had promised the honor of their attendance, and the prize
medals of the exhibition were to be presented, of which the eminent
foreign artist alluded to had carried off the first. The saloons were
gorgeously lighted. All the pictures of the exhibition had been removed
from the walls, except those few favored masterpieces obtaining the
award of the prizes—and one surpassing work of art that hung by itself
at the head of the principal saloon, with a delicate wreath of laurel
suspended above it, betokening it the first in honor as in place. It
consisted of two figures, of which the most conspicuous was that of a
shrinking, prostrate female, expressing the highest ideal of loveliness
and grace, joined to utter abandonment, contrition and shame; appearing
as if the whole soul had imbued itself through every muscle and
lineament of the frame, for the delineation of these emotions, that none
could mistake that model of penitential sorrow, afterward so celebrated
as “The Weeping Magdalene.” The face was completely buried in her hands,
but so far from the absence of this most essential tablet of female
beauty being felt as a defect, it was rather an adjunct to the effect,
inasmuch as it left to the imagination’s heightening conception the
modeling of a countenance meet for such a form, and such magic tones of
color—burning with blushes—we know it from the roseate tint that
almost seemed reflected from it along the pearly edges of the
enshrouding hands—and drowned in tears, that fell like liquid diamonds
over the snow of the Redeemer’s feet. The accompanying figure was
somewhat inferior, yet it expressed that union of majesty and sweetness
joined to godlike compassion, in as great a degree as human art has ever
been able to embody in its ideas of the Divine man. On the side of the
hall opposite the picture was erected a pavilion, emblazoned with the
royal arms of England, and surmounted by a crown, under which George the
Third had just seated himself, habited in his usual dress of a marshal’s
uniform, with the rather vulgar, squat figure of his queen, the German
Charlotte, surrounded by their _suite_, who gazed, with curious though
certainly not very connoisseur like eyes, occasionally through their
opera glasses at the divine picture suspended in front of them on the
opposite wall.

The Academicians had severally arrived in their badges; there were
gentlemen in the splendid Windsor uniform—officers glittering in
epaulettes and gold lace—collars and grand crosses of
knighthood—ladies in coronets and plumes. The music played, and the
festival was begun. The _élite_ of England’s ennobled by birth and
ennobled by mind were there, and mingled in conversation—some in
animated groups round the pictures and statuary—some promenading the
halls, when suddenly the buzz of conversation ceased, and an expression
of eagerness pervaded the assembly, greater than that which had greeted
the entrance of royalty itself, and there entered through the yielding
crowds, conducted by a gentlemanly looking person in the badge of the
Academy, a young slender girl—a child indeed no more, but still
retaining the chestnut ringlets and glorious black eyes of Angelica
Kauffmann. Conducting the young Academician, and the first woman ever
invested with such a distinction, toward the pavilion, Sir Joshua
Reynolds presented her to their majesties; when the peasant girl of the
Alps, as she knelt before them, told that high-born and high-bred throng
of a grace derived from the sense of the beautiful in the soul, and
which the atmosphere of a court could neither add to nor bestow. Raising
her hastily, George the Third, after a few words addressed to her, and
graciously made in German by his queen, conducted her, leaning on his
arm, through the saloons, rendering her the envied of all the envious.

“Such amiable condescension! But his majesty has such a passion for
foreigners—beside his patronage of the Fine Arts—quite indeed
auspicious of their restoration to the age.”

“It is whispered,” said another, “that she has been commanded to paint
the royal family.”

“By no means,” interposed a gentleman in plain clothes. “My information
came from an individual who had it from a high quarter, that such a
report is incorrect. I understood that this honor was in contemplation
for the signora, but no positive orders have been yet issued on the
subject.”

It is to be doubted whether the object of these remarks was so highly
sensible of these distinctions as a refined education would have taught
her; and we have even a suspicion that she might have gone so far as to
wish to escape from the gracious condescension of the conversation with
which George honored her, as promenading round the hall she found
herself obliged to stand _answer_ to the abrupt and sometimes ridiculous
questions originating in the royal mind, after the catechumenical method
of conversation then in vogue in intercourse with majesty.

But higher honors awaited the young artist. Sir Joshua Reynolds, then
President of the Academy, having mounted the chair, proceeded to descant
upon the excellencies of the several productions distinguished by the
Society’s prizes—but there was one, he said, which he could not pass
over without some more especial notice.

“Need I direct attention,” said he, “to that noble work at the head of
the hall, whose magic beauties, as they shine from the canvas, have
enchained the admiration of the most distinguished connoisseurs, and
evidence stronger reasons for the decision we have come to in its favor
than any words of mine could adduce. Although the age and sex of the
artist invested the work with an interest in our eyes it would not
otherwise perhaps so strongly possess, we would not for a moment have it
supposed that they exercised the smallest influence upon our suffrages.
We adore beauty, womanhood and youth, but we adore Art more, and have
too high a sense of its dignity to permit any extrinsic consideration,
however fascinating to the imagination, to divert us from our undivided
homage toward it. It is to the solid excellence of the work itself—the
new principles which it involves—principles, for the acquirement of
which, I am not ashamed to say that I myself, as well as many others
grown old in honors as in years, are not unwilling to descend into the
character of pupilage—and not the less that we sit at the feet of a
genius and a woman. While awarding in this direction the highest
distinction, we can speak for our brethren of Art that have come forward
in competition for the honors of this day, that they will feel satisfied
in withdrawing into an inferior place before her who, from a distant
land, chose to throw her merits upon our judgment, and her talents into
the service of the British nation. Therefore I bestow the First Prize of
the Institution upon the ‘Weeping Magdalene,’ property of the Academy,
and executed by the Signora Angelica Kauffman, of the Grisons, whom I
have great pleasure in investing with the medal.”

So saying, the President descended, and presented to Angelica, who stood
up to receive him, a massive gold medal and chain. There was neither
bashfulness nor awkwardness in her demeanor as she stood up amid that
vast assembly, whose shouts and plaudits now shook the building to its
foundation—only a vivid blush passed over her face as she gazed round
the assembly for a moment with an almost bewildered look; but it seemed
of some higher emotion than vanity—as if the consciousness and the
exultation of genius—the satisfaction of having achieved something for
Art—the experienced realization of the hopes and the labors of
years—and the knowledge of having won for herself a place among the
Immortals, and in the sympathies of her race, which is, perhaps, the
principal ingredient in a woman’s passion for fame—were all crowded
into the emotion which gave it birth. The simplicity of her appearance
contrasted strangely with the splendor of her reputation—young looking
for her years, which then amounted to no more than twenty-two, her
dress, too, plain and unadorned, and as much after the modest form of
the antique as conformity with modern usage would allow without the
charge of being particular or fantastic—no less added to this effect,
contrasted, as it was, with the gauds and superfluity of hoop and
head-dress then in vogue; her arms were bare nearly to the shoulder—and
her hair, confined by a bandeau of pearls made to imitate a pointed
coronet, was braided over her temples, and twisted up into a loose knot
behind, as in times long ago, from which a few rich tresses escaping,
fell over a neck possessing the contour and graceful set of an antique
statue.

Fatigued and excited, she was glad to escape from the glare of the rooms
into an adjoining balcony, to cool her eyes in the dim gleam of the
stars—in all moments of excitement or passion, still the same bright,
unchanging stars, ever ready to tranquilize us with thoughts of that
world where passion and excitement cannot enter. A young man, who had
watched her unceasingly all the evening with a deeper interest in his
glance than mere curiosity, followed her hastily and in a moment was by
her side. She did not attempt to conceal her pleasure at his appearance.
“Where have you been, Alexander?” she said; “I often looked for you, but
could not recognize yours among the bewildering crowd of faces that
swarm in these busy halls.”

“And you thought of me, amid honors and applause, and the caresses of
the enlightened, and the smiles of a king!—but oh! Angelica, they may
give you praise, they may give you wealth; they may elevate you to a
lofty place in the world’s view, where thy beauty and thy worth being
recognized, may command the homage of the great and good; they may
appoint you to a high rank among the hierarchy of genius that minister
in the temple of fame—but I, only I, love thee! Poor in circumstances,
poor in dignity, with no other advantage to offer you but a heart rich
in affection, I have chosen this moment to lay it at your feet, in
homage to a nobleness which, if my thought mistakes not, knows how to
esteem such above all other gifts the world else can bestow.” And with
many more impassioned words and adoring glances did he woo her, she
responding in tones and looks as endearing as his own. Just then, in the
midst of her triumphs of art, honors, and of love, she looked up toward
the heavens, and saw shining above her that bright, still, solitary
star—the same that had risen above the fantasies of her childhood, when
she dreamed amid the sunny hills of Italy, far away! Many a strange
experience, many a scene had passed before her since it first met her
gaze; and now they all seemed to be crowded, as bestirred from her
memory, into one moment of review. Her progress from the child to the
woman—the strange intervening changes—the same, as she felt herself,
yet not the same;—the vistas of fame opened to her with the first
appearance of that star—her early struggles, and the space between, to
the exulting consciousness of the pinnacle where she now stood, loftier
than even her visions had conceived.

“The star triumphs!” thought she; “I am not superstitious,” she
continued, aloud, “but, Alexander, I have seen that orb _once_ before,
and feel as if I should see it but _once_ again. With every hour of joy
does there not mingle a pang?—that telling of the dark reverse, which,
in this unstable scene, must sooner or later await the most fortunate.”

“Hush! dear Angelica,” said her lover, laying his finger on her lips;
“to-night let us only think of being happy.”

“You are right,” replied she, and, seizing his arm, they were soon
mingling and jesting with the crowds of the saloon.


                               PART III.

It had been a day of clouds and heavy rain, and now the night was
closing over a dreary and scantily furnished apartment in one of those
ruined palaces of Florence, which, like so many objects in Italy, are
invested with the romantic prestige of grandeur passed away. A single
rushlight threw into view the dilapidated marble walls, on which were
the tattered remains of what might once have been gorgeous tapestry, and
a large oriel window, in whose immediate vicinity stood a mean
uncurtained bed, where lay a woman apparently dying. A single female,
sitting near her to administer such assistance as she needed, and a
cold, indifferent looking man, who had his chair drawn up in an opposite
corner of the room, and evidently stationed there more from duty or
necessity than any feeling of interest, were the sole occupants beside.
Low murmuring sounds broke from the lips of the dying woman. She was
talking incessantly, as in that thronging of indistinct, though perhaps
not undelightful images that often flit across the brain of the
departing, her thoughts seemed to be wandering over many varied scenes,
and her consciousness of existence to be quickened as it was about to be
closed forever. Her speech was of flowers and of sunshine, and of every
thing fullest of life. Distant, happy years seemed to be restored to
her, for her imagination transported her back to the era of her
childhood, and she talked of wandering in old familiar places with her
companions, many of them dead and gone—for by some subtle process of
association, those of them mainly seemed present to her visions—and of
“bounding,” as she said, “fast, fast” after something she could not
detain. “Let me rest!” she would murmur, “I am breathless with
running—let me rest!” The passionless placidity of the countenance was
in strange contrast with this—and the helplessness of the limbs, which,
cold and nearly motionless, began to assume the semblance of that clay
to which they were fast returning. Suddenly she opened her eyes,
restored to the full consciousness of her situation. The eyes—those
mirrors of the soul which neither time nor sorrow can rob of their
magic, as long as they are the reflection of that which is
immortal—were all that told of Angelica Kauffmann—and the long
chestnut hair, which, though now hard and icy to the touch, still clung
round her temples with some of the old luxuriance of those days when she
dreamed inspired visions by the Alpine streams, or shone, the star of
genius, in metropolitan saloons. For the rest, her features were faded
and pale, their classic outline vanished in the hollows of time and the
sharpness of death—haggard, too, but bearing that pathetic expression
which told it might be the result more of suffering than years. And that
cold, almost repulsive looking man!—can he be the same who knelt beside
her beneath the stars and talked of unperishing love? Yes, such is life!
In those worldly reverses which are too often the doom of the mentally
gifted, poverty and neglect arrived—years of indifference followed, the
character of the lover soon merging into that of the selfish and
somewhat exacting husband—and now it had come to this. Calling him
toward her, he took her proffered hand with a look of cold compassion.
“I have been dreaming strangely to-night, Alexander,” said she, “and
have the strangest sensations, as if all past life were passing in
review before me, and its experiences crowded into a few fleeting
hours—circumstances which I had believed long since forgotten, and
feelings which I had thought to have outlived or crushed into oblivion.
Yet there is none that return to me with a more vivid consciousness than
my old feeling for you; and even now I seem to leap back over long,
weary years of coldness, indifference, and estrangement, and the sad
imprints with which they have dimmed your features, and to see you stand
before me, ardent and beautiful as when I dreamed that Heaven had no
brighter reflection than the fondness of your eyes. You will pardon
this,” said she, on perceiving that such sympathies moved him not; “I
have no wish to recall you to the past, nor too late to revive an
extinguished affection, which can so seldom be brought into review
without pain—far less with a thought of reproach for any, except for
myself. It is but to testify to you in parting, that with the life I
have led, happy as it was before I knew you—spent amid dreams of
beauty, and the caresses of a family that sympathized with the delights
of my calling, and were proud of my fame, honored as it afterward became
when my achievements as an artist, extolled in every country in Europe,
drew me forth from my retreat to receive that brief and brilliant
homage, less intoxicating to me on the score of my individual self, than
as a tribute to the success of that art to which I had consecrated the
energies of my existence—yet there is no part of it I would willingly
live over again but the early, too brief moments spent near you—no part
of it than this I more fervently hold to my heart, as the true gold
hoarded from what else appears, in this hour whose solemnity dispels all
illusions, the dross and scum of existence. Does not this prove that
love is immortal? And now a thought has struck me, that that sweet,
bright blossoming which, alas! for us yielded so little fruit, may yet
offer a harvest to be reaped in some other world. Will you think of
this, Alexander?—let us part forgiving each other—our next meeting
will be happier—and brighter!”

She turned her eyes toward the window, which had been thrown open to
admit the cool air of the evening, for the wind had died away, and the
heavens were clear—and there, conspicuous amongst its fiery brethren,
shone that bright, still, solitary star—still fair and tranquil, when
life with all its excitements and hopes was passing away, as when
shining above the passion of her young life. It spoke to her of the
glory of other worlds contrasted with the vapidity of this, which she
had weighed in the balance and found wanting—a high and unchangeable
emblem of that _which is above us_ amid all the storms, treacherous
calms, and exulting yet bewildering spring-tides of life—the star of
her destiny, indeed, if it pointed to Heaven as the haven where her
hopes should at last find rest! Her soul passed away in that gaze; they
could not tell the exact moment when, but by the dull fixture of the
eye, and the dead weight of the hand which lay in his, Alexander knew
that he gazed upon the dead.

That oracle spoke truth, which told there is nothing stable in the
universe but Heaven and Love!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE PAST.


    In her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth
      The faded jewels of an earlier time;
    An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth—
      The purple of her robe is past its prime.
    Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth
      The flower-wreath woven by pale mem’ry’s fingers.
    Her heart is withered—yet it strangely shineth
      In its lone urn, a light that fitful lingers.
    With her low, muffled voice of mystery,
      She reads old legends from Time’s mouldering pages;
    She telleth the present the recorded hist’ry,
      And change perpetual of by-gone ages.
    Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod
    Once ours, but _now_ by naught but memory’s footsteps trod.
                                                       E. J. E.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               SLY LOVE.


                            OR COUSIN FRANK.


                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.


                               CHAPTER I.

                           HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Back and forth, up and down—creak, creak, creak, strides Mr. Hazleton.
From the back parlor to the front, from the front to the back—his head
down, his lips firmly compressed, his arms crossed behind his back,
while, by the knitting of his brows and the occasional jerk he gives his
head, it is very easy to see that the mind of Mr. Hazleton is crossed
also.

And how perfectly unconscious sits the lady in black satin upon the
sofa! With what a nonchalant air she beats the time with her foot, upon
the little _brioche_, to the air she is humming. The spirit of the
storm—yet herself how calm! Nothing vexes an angry man more, perhaps,
than indifference to his anger. Mrs. Hazleton knew her advantage, and
she also knew she was idolized, as young and pretty wives are apt to be,
whose husbands, like poor Mrs. ——, are a “score of years too old.”
Pretty sure, therefore, of carrying her point in the matter under
debate, she highly enjoyed this unwonted ebullition of anger in her
usually placid husband. By degrees the features of Mr. Hazleton
softened—his step became slower and lighter, and then approaching the
sofa, he said, in a tone which was evidently meant to be conciliatory,

“Come, come, this is all very foolish. I think I know your goodness of
heart too well, my dear Anna, to believe you serious, or that you will
receive so ungraciously the child of my only sister.”

“Mr. Hazleton, I tell you again,” replied the lady, carelessly playing
with her eye-glass, “you are demanding a most unheard-of thing! Were she
only coming here for a few days, to see the _lions_ and be off to the
woods again, I assure you I would be the most attentive chaperone. I
would escort her from one end of the city to the other with the greatest
pleasure, and load her off with ribbons, gew-gaws, and the latest novel,
when the joyful moment came for my release. But a fixture for the
winter—and that, too, my dear Julia’s first winter—O, heavens!”

Something very like an oath whistled through the teeth of Mr. Hazleton.

“Madam—Mrs. Hazleton—let me tell you I consider your remark as
reflecting upon myself. No relative of mine, madam, can ever disgrace
either yourself or your daughter, in any society.”

“Indeed!” was the cool reply.

“And I insist upon your treating my niece, Alice Churchill, not only
with politeness, but with kindness—and your daughter also must be
schooled to meet her as her equal.”

“Her equal, indeed!” and now the ire of Mrs. Hazleton was fast kindling
to a flame. “Her equal! I would ask you, Mr. Hazleton, if the Ninnybrain
blood flows in her veins?—the Ninnybrains, Mr. Hazleton, one of whom
was maid of honor to a queen—another—”

“Pish!” interrupted Mr. Hazleton, “and confound all the Ninnybrains!”

“Confound the Ninnybrains! Very pretty, really—yes, so much for
marrying beneath me! Confound all the Ninnybrains, I think you said!”

“Yes, and I repeat, confound them all! What have they to do with my poor
little Alice?”

It was now Mrs. Hazleton’s turn to sail majestically from room to room,
muttering,

“_Hem!_ very pretty treatment—very pretty, indeed!”

While her husband, throwing himself into the seat she had just occupied
upon the sofa, very coolly knocked his heels upon the unfortunate
footstool. At length the lady paused in her walk, and turning to her
husband, said,

“My dear,” (and when Mrs. Hazleton said “my dear,” it was no idle word,)
“I think you misjudge my motives entirely for what I have said. It is
only for the good of your dear niece, for of course she must be very
dear to you, and no doubt she is a very sweet girl, that I have raised
any objections to her becoming a member of our happy family—no doubt,
my love, she would prove a great acquisition—but—_hem_—but I think I
have heard you say your sister, our sister Churchill, was in rather
limited circumstances, and has been obliged to use great economy in
bringing up her family. Now I ask you, my dear, if—if—we should not be
doing wrong, very wrong, to vitiate the simple, happy tastes of Alice,
and render dull and uncongenial the home of contentment in which she has
ever so peacefully dwelt? This surely would be the case were we to
introduce her into the gay world. So perfectly unsophisticated as she
is, she would the more easily be led astray by the frivolities of
fashionable life. Would it not be better for her, then, better for her
dear mother, that this visit should not take place?”

“No, I tell you no!—she shall come, she shall go everywhere, she shall
see every thing the city has to boast.”

“That can easily be done, love, in a few days,” replied the plausible
lady. “Some pleasant morning you can go with her to the Museum, and
Girard College, and the Water-Works. When I spoke of her going out, I
meant to parties—”

“And I mean to parties, and to theatres, and concerts, and—”

“You are absurd, Mr. Hazleton!”

“Go on!”

“You have no regard for my feelings!”

“Go on.”

“You would willingly mortify me, and embarrass my sweet Julia, by
linking her in companionship with this uncultivated hoyden!”

“Go on.”

“And also ruin the girl!”

“What next?”

“No, let me tell you, Mr. Hazleton, it must not, shall not be. Julia
shall not be put to the blush continually for the solecisms this niece
of yours will commit upon the rules of etiquette!”

“Little dear!”

“And, and—and, Mr. Hazleton—Lord, I wish I had never married!” and
Mrs. Hazleton burst into tears.

Mr. Hazleton walked out.


                              CHAPTER II.

                       A BACHELOR IN CUPID’S NET.

In blessed bachelorhood had passed sixty years of Mr. Hazleton’s life.
With no one’s whims but his own to nurse—no one to scold but his tailor
and washerwoman, their flight had left little trace save in the silver
threads with which Time weaves experience—linking the what has been to
the what is and what will be. It is true, in early life he had wooed but
not won, and it might be from disgust at the willful blindness of the
lady of his love, he from that moment looked coldly upon the whole
sex—blind to their beauty—deaf to their voices, and invulnerable to
all their witchery, “charmed they never so wisely.”

But, alas! the work of years may be shattered in a moment! Hard as the
heart of Mr. Hazleton had become, it melted like the frost of an autumn
morning under the sunny beams of Mrs. Ketchim’s eyes! It was at
Saratoga, that great hunting-ground of Cupid, that Mr. Hazleton first
encountered the glances of the pretty widow. Whether that lady was in
truth on a matrimonial chase cannot be definitely stated. Yet one thing
is certain, no sooner did she meet with this rich, hard-hearted old
bachelor than she determined to forget her departed Ketchim, and catch
him—thus nobly avenging in her own person the slights her sex had
received. What could not a fair and handsome widow accomplish with
“sparkling black e’en and a bonnie sweet man!” Mr. Hazleton was lost.

The age of the widow was an enigma which no one but herself could solve.
She did acknowledge she was _too_ young—she did also own to the
interesting fact that one sweet child called her “mother.” “Ah, a little
golden-haired cherub, of some four or five summers!” thought our lover.
What, then, was the surprise of Mr. Hazleton when, a few weeks after
their marriage, a tall, beautiful girl of seventeen rushed into the
parlor, and, giving him a hearty kiss, called him “papa!”

He had abjured spectacles, using only the eyes of love, but he now for a
moment involuntarily resumed them, and gazed long and inquiringly at his
charming wife. He was satisfied. Mrs. Hazleton smiled as sweetly, and
looked just as young and bewitching as she had appeared to him
before—so he returned the filial salute of his _daughter_ with a
paternal embrace, and unlocked another chamber of his heart to receive
her.

Some months passed pleasantly on, and the honey-moon waxed not old. The
so long time bachelor almost wept with sorrow over those lost years
spent alone, and blessed the hour which had harbingered his present
happiness. By degrees a little, a very little difference of opinion
began to display itself—but insensibly gathering strength from frequent
recurrence. Most generally, however, the husband yielded, and harmony
was restored.

Julia was a lively, good-hearted girl—her faults more the result of her
mother’s mismanagement than her own willfulness. In fact, it was Julia
herself who first suggested the invitation which Alice Churchill
received from her uncle.

“Dear me, papa, how dull it is! Pray have not you any relations?” she
inquired one evening, when they were left _tête-à-tête_.

This was rather a posing question, for indeed Mr. Hazleton could hardly
remember whether he had any or not.

“No sisters, or nieces?” continued Julia.

“Or nice young nephews?” added Mr. Hazleton.

“Yes, papa—a cousin would be so delightful!” and here Julia sighed and
looked sad. Why she sighed the reader shall know bye and bye.

This careless remark of Julia aroused a train of long banished
reflections in the mind of Mr. Hazleton. Early associations came
thronging upon him, vividly calling up the image of his only sister, as
tearfully and patiently she had turned from his reproaches at their last
meeting, to follow the fortunes of him she loved. Ere Mr. Hazleton
sought his pillow, the letter to his long neglected sister was written,
and not even the possession of the late Mrs. Ketchim had made his heart
so light as this simple act of duty and kindness.

Mrs. Hazleton had many weak points, but there were two upon which she
was peculiarly sensitive. The first, viz.—her family. The Ninnybrains
could trace a pedigree almost as far back as Adam—a sprig of nobility,
too, had once engrafted itself upon the family tree, which important
item had been handed down from generation to generation, and Mrs.
Hazleton never lost an opportunity of proclaiming her noble lineage,
while at the same time she indulged an almost slavish fear of deviating
from the code of gentility, in _her_ acceptation of the term. Her second
tangible weakness was an affectation of juvenility. The idea of growing
old gracefully was preposterous. Although she saw the seams and creases
of Time’s fingers on other faces, she would not see them on her own, and
while all the world were growing old around her, she resolved to set the
gray-beard at defiance.

Mrs. Hazleton loved her daughter as much as she was capable of loving,
yet she could not forgive her for the very contradictory evidence she
brought against her youthfulness—could not pardon her for stepping
forth from the nursery a tall, grown up girl, instead of quietly
contenting herself with pantalettes and pinafores. The widow felt there
must be a rapid race, or her daughter would reach the goal of Hymen
before her—hence her conquest of Mr. Hazleton. Her own purpose
attained, she then generously resolved to give Julia a chance, who,
nothing loth, was summoned from a country boarding-school to catch a
husband as quick as possible. To be sure this latter clause was not
expressed in so many words—it was the ultimatum of the mother alone. As
for Julia, she thought only of escaping from the odious Mrs. Rulem—of
new dresses, theatres, and dancing till two o’clock in the morning. For
once, then, Mrs. Hazleton concluded to assume maternity gracefully, and
to matronize her daughter with all the dignity of the Ninnybrain school.

She was exceedingly annoyed, therefore, when she found her plans might
all be defeated by the arrival of Alice Churchill. No way could she
reconcile herself to this unavoidable evil. If handsome and engaging,
she would only be in the way of her daughter’s advancement—if awkward
and ugly, a constant source of mortification. Every device of which she
was mistress was put in practice to thwart the expected visit, but that
she did not accomplish her object has already been shown.


                              CHAPTER III.

                              THE ARRIVAL.

Alice Churchill was none of those fragile beauties whose step is too
light to bend “a hare-bell ’neath its tread”—whose eyes are compared to
those of the gazelle, or to violets and dew-drops—with cheeks like the
blush rose, and lips vieing with sea-corals, contrasted by teeth of
pearls! No such wealth of beauty had Alice, but she was a very sweet
girl notwithstanding—just pretty enough to escape being called plain,
and yet plain enough to escape being spoiled for her prettiness. Mrs.
Churchill was a widow of very moderate fortune, living in a retired
village of Pennsylvania, more than fifty miles from any town of note,
and which even in the year ’45, (happy little village!) could boast of
neither steam-boat nor railroad. It was here she had removed with her
husband soon after their marriage, and here for a few brief years their
happiness had been unclouded—until the shadow of death resting on that
happy home severed all earthly ties. Peaceful now in the quiet
grave-yard is the sleep of the husband and father.

Seventeen summers of Alice’s life had passed away—not all cloudless,
but happily—for she was kind and affectionate—in making others happy
she was herself so—indeed, as I said before, although she had no wealth
of beauty, Alice was rich in goodness and purity of heart. Mrs.
Churchill had offended her family by marrying a poor man, and there had
been little or no intercourse since that period. When, therefore, she
received a letter from her brother, not only affectionate, but
accompanied also by a kind invitation for her daughter Alice to pass a
few months in Philadelphia, it is difficult to say whether joy or
surprise preponderated. Anxious alone to promote the happiness of Alice,
Mrs. Churchill, sacrificing her own feelings at parting with her child,
hesitated not to accept the offer. Little did Alice know of the world,
except from books. Books had been her only companions, and, under her
mother’s judicious selection, these best of friends had wrought a silent
influence over her mind, preparing her to meet the realities of life,
its pleasures and its trials also, with rationality.

Such, then, was Alice Churchill, the innocent cause of the matrimonial
_fracas_ illustrated in a preceding chapter.

The boat touched the wharf, and the motley crowd which had been watching
her approach, noisily sprang on her deck. “Have a cab, miss?” “Cab,
sir?” “Take your baggage, ma’am?” “Have a carriage?” Poor Alice shrank
back into the farthest corner of the ladies’ cabin, perfectly bewildered
with the noise and confusion. At length she heard her own name called,
and, stepping forward, she was the next moment in the arms of her uncle.
Mr. Hazleton embraced her affectionately, and then, gazing long and
earnestly upon her, exclaimed, as he wiped a tear from his eye—

“Yes, you do look like your dear mother!”

But this was no time for sentiment, especially as the stewardess,
anxious herself to be on shore, already began to bustle about
preparatory to the next trip—so, after attending to the baggage, they
left the boat, and were soon rattling through the streets at the mercy
of an independent cabman who “_had another job_.”

Who that has passed through the streets of a great city for the first
time cannot imagine the feelings of our simple country-girl, as she
found herself thus borne amid the busy throng—the side-walks crowded
with people hurrying to and from their business—the gaily ornamented
windows—elegantly dressed ladies—beggars—squeaking
hand-organs—dancing monkeys—the cry of the fish-man, mingling with the
noisy bell of the charcoal-vender—carriages clashing rapidly
past—omnibuses rattling heavily along—dust, din, smoke—no wonder the
poor girl rejoiced when the cab stopped at her uncle’s dwelling, and she
found herself safe within its walls.

“My dear love, let me have the pleasure of introducing you to my niece,”
said Mr. Hazleton, advancing with the blushing Alice on his arm.

Mrs. Hazleton coldly raised her eyes from the book on which they had
been pertinaciously fixed, and with a slight bow and a formal “How do
you do, Miss Churchill!” as coldly dropped them again.

Not so Julia, who, in spite of the lessons her ma’ma had been teaching
her for the last half hour, could not see this young, blushing stranger
so repulsed—she therefore rushed forward, exclaiming—

“O papa, do stand away, and let me greet my new cousin.”

“_Julia!_ my dear!” emphasized Mrs. Hazleton.

“Now, my dear Alice—that’s your name, is it not? Mine is Julia—Julia
Ketchim—horrible! don’t you think so? Now you must not wonder at
ma’ma—she is a great reader—she has got hold of Carlyle—but she is
very glad to see you—so are we all—but that’s her way. Come, sit
down—or would you prefer to go to your room?”

“Julia, I am surprised!” and Mrs. Hazleton rang the bell.

A servant entered.

“Show Miss Churchill her apartment.”

“O no, ma’ma, I am going with Alice.”

“Nancy, attend Miss Churchill. Julia, I want you—_Julia!—Julia!_” and
with pouting lips and a very flushed face Julia was forced to obey, but
not until she had whispered to Alice, who, almost terrified, was
following the servant maid:

“Never mind ma’ma, dear—she is great upon etiquette—she is a
Ninnybrain you know.”

There was an attempt at a Caudle lecture after Alice had left, but to
her dismay Mrs. Hazleton found her influence, like the honey-moon,
rapidly on the wane! When Alice again appeared in the drawing-room
escorted by Julia, who, in spite of ma’ma, had contrived to slip away to
her apartment, Mrs. Hazleton for the first time allowed her eyes to
dwell searchingly upon the person of her unwelcome guest. To her
inexpressible relief she found Miss Churchill presented that happy
medium of which she had never dreamed, viz. that although her
countenance was pleasing, yet she was by no means handsome enough to
cause her one moment’s fear on the score of rivalship—while her natural
ease of manner at once removed her from that awkward simplicity she had
expected to find in an unskilled country girl. The effect of her
scrutiny, therefore, was so satisfactory that Mrs. Hazleton with a
pretty, girlish air instantly embraced her, and trusted she would feel
herself as much at home as under her own dear mother’s roof. Although
somewhat surprised, Alice did not doubt the sincerity of her welcome,
and grateful for her kindness, returned her aunt’s embrace. Mr. Hazleton
gave his wife a smile of approbation, while Julia whispered:

“There, I told you so—O that odious Carlyle—I knew ma’ma would be glad
to see you when she had put down her book.”

At the close of the evening, after the girls had retired, Mrs. Hazleton
affirmed that really Miss Churchill was quite passable, and that if her
manners only had a little of the Ninnybrain air—as, for instance,
Julia’s or her own—one would hardly suspect that she had never been
accustomed to good society! Upon which wondrous conclusion of his lady,
Mr. Hazleton shrugged his shoulders and went to bed.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                              COUSIN FRANK

Alice and Julia were soon good friends—and by degrees Alice became the
confidante of a little episode in the life of her cousin which she
feared might bear heavily upon her future happiness, unless her
affections were as the wind-kissed lakelet—disturbed only on the
surface—the heart-depths unmoved.

At first Julia only spoke of “Cousin Frank” as being such a “dear, merry
soul,” “so pleasant,” “so kind”—she next admitted that she loved him
“dearly, very dearly,” indeed she did—and that he loved her just as
well, poor fellow!—and finally, blushing like a rose, she acknowledged
that both hand and heart were pledged to “dear Cousin Frank!”

But did ma’ma know any thing about it? Not she indeed! A pretty fuss she
would make to find out she loved Frank—a poor midshipman in the navy,
that had not even a drop of the Ninnybrain blood to compensate for want
of fortune! No indeed! But they had vowed to be faithful, and that was
enough—Cousin Frank was too proud to say a word to ma’ma until he had
won laurels as well as money—poor fellow! and so Julia cried one moment
and laughed the next.

It appeared they had become acquainted at the house of a mutual relative
in the village where Julia had been placed at school by her youthful
mother. Cousins are without doubt a very dangerous allotment of the
human family, as it proved in this case, for Frank Reeve came near
losing his examination before the navy-board, while Julia, instead of
treasuring up the wisdom of Mrs. Rulem, was filling her little brain
with love, and such nonsense—just as naughty girls will sometimes do
for their cousins!

Mrs. Hazleton would indeed have made a fuss had she known of this. Far
different views had she for her daughter, and she would have spurned the
poor midshipman’s love as most presumptuous.

It was now the joyous season of the holydays—when happiness and mirth,
pleasure and folly trip hand in hand, gladdening this _once a year_ the
beggar and the bondman, and sweeping triumphantly through the halls of
wealth and fashion. Parties and balls followed each other in rapid
succession, and on the topmost wave of this tumultuous sea giddily
floated Mrs. Hazleton. How the money fled from the well-lined pockets of
Mr. Hazleton into the hands of tradesmen and milliners—smooth hard
dollars, and soft silky scraps of paper exchanged for rings and
bracelets, that the dress of both mother and daughter might be all as
fine as money could purchase or fashion form. Alice seldom accompanied
her aunt and cousin into these gay scenes. A short essay in fashionable
life sufficed for her quiet tastes and habits, and she preferred
therefore remaining at home with her uncle, who was no less pleased to
have her do so, as with her he could talk over the scenes of his early
life, and he loved too to listen to her own artless details of mother
and home. Nor was Mrs. Hazleton sorry for Alice’s decision. She was
often surprised to find that her modest pretty face, and her unaffected
manners, attracted nearly or quite as much attention as the brilliant
charms of Julia, so that on the whole she rather countenanced her
remaining _tête-à-tête_ with her uncle. “O you dear, quiet little soul,”
she would often say, “you must marry a country parson, and knit
stockings.”

One evening, Mrs. Hazleton came home from a large party in high spirits.
She had marked her future son-in-law, and Julia had now only to bring
down the game! Full, therefore, was she of the praises of young Herman
Wallace. He was not only very rich, very handsome, very graceful, but of
an ancient Scottish family—could trace his descent even from the great
hero, Sir William Wallace—at least Mrs. Pryout had said so.

“But, ma’ma,” interposed Julia, “he is the stiffest, coldest mortal—a
beautiful petrifaction of man! When at last you got an opportunity to
introduce me,”—and Julia, sly girl, remembered how blind she had been
to many winks and nods and “wreathed smiles” of managing ma’ma,—“he
looked down upon me with those great black eyes—oh, so cold and
disdainful—he might just suit you, Alice, but as for me—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Mrs. Hazleton, “he did no such thing. I tell you
what first drew my particular attention to _him_, was his very evident
admiration of _you_!”

“Indeed, ma’ma!”

“Yes, indeed, silly child. I overheard him asking who that very
beautiful girl was in blue and silver—”

“O, ma’ma!”

“I don’t wonder he asked, however, for you did look sweetly. It was when
you were waltzing with young Langden, and as you floated so sylph-like
around the room, I could not help thinking of a portrait I once saw
of—”

“A Ninnybrain, ma’ma?”

Mr. Hazleton burst into a hearty laugh, in which the saucy girl as
heartily joined, and even Alice could not refrain a smile. Mrs. Hazleton
was evidently disconcerted, but too well pleased with her plans to be
angry.

“You will see him again to-morrow evening, love,” she continued, “and I
think you will alter your opinion.”

“By the way, Alice, you promised to go to Mrs. Dashwood’s grand party,”
cried Julia; “so you will be able to judge of ma’ma’s prodigy;” and
then, as they left the room, she whispered, “Talk of _Herman Wallace_,
indeed! I would not give one of dear Frank’s heart-glances for all his
frozen lordly looks!”


                               CHAPTER V.

                         MRS. DASHWOOD’S PARTY.

The toilet of the fair Julia, for this eventful evening, was made under
the tasteful eye of Mrs. Hazleton herself, who wished her daughter to
look her loveliest—to eclipse all other stars in that brilliant galaxy
of youth and beauty. Next, the adornment of her own person was her chief
care—upon Alice she bestowed not a thought. Julia would fain have had
the dress of her friend as beautiful as her own, but this Alice rejected
as unsuitable, and made her appearance in the dressing-room of her aunt
in a simple white muslin, her only ornaments a set of corals, the gift
of her uncle. Mrs. Hazleton enrobed in crimson velvet, and Julia
radiantly lovely in white satin and blonde, offered a striking contrast
to the unpretending Alice.

“Well, child, you really look quite well—don’t she, love?” was the
careless remark of Mrs. Hazleton, “but only see what a rich color Julia
has!—I think I never saw her look so perfectly lovely—quite mature,
don’t you think so?—more like me! Why what have you got on?—white
muslin over a _plain cambric_! Mercy, had you not a silk skirt? Julia’s
tunic is magnificent—I paid one hundred dollars for the lace at Levy’s.
Corals are too warm, child—but they will do very well for you—they
won’t be noticed. Come here, Julia, and let Alice examine the chasteness
of that beautiful aquamarine bracelet—now the ruby—and look at her
pin, Alice, is it not superb!”

But a brighter jewel was in the breast of Alice—_a heart free from
envy_!

And now over the tessellated floor fair and lovely forms are
gliding—music pours its enchanting strains, and voices scarcely less
sweet float on the perfumed air—jewels flash, feathers wave—there are
smiles on the brow of beauty, soft speeches on the lips of manhood.

But why, amid this joyous scene, is the brow of Mrs. Hazleton clouded?
Admiration can find no higher aim than the charms of Julia; nor does her
own ear drink in unwelcome the flatterer’s whisper—yet still the cloud
is there. Would you know the reason? Herman Wallace makes not one of the
festive throng. She is almost angry with Julia for being so carelessly
happy—with Alice for her composure. Suddenly her eye brightens. Ah, the
game’s in view! And in a few moments Mrs. Hazleton, now all smiles,
presses on to the gay circle of which Wallace seems to be the
attraction. She soon fastened upon him, and led him off triumphant to
the spot where she had a moment before seen Julia—but Julia was gone,
and Alice alone remained, quietly viewing the scene before her. Mrs.
Hazleton, however, took not the slightest notice of her, but continued a
ceaseless strain in the ears of Wallace. Did not Mr. Wallace like
waltzing? Mr. Wallace did not. The polka? Decidedly not. Was Mr. Wallace
fond of music? Not in a crowded room.

Mr. Wallace now turned his eye upon Alice. Could Mrs. Hazleton tell him
who that interesting looking girl was?

“O, a niece of my husband’s—poor child! You know, my dear sir, every
family cannot look back upon a pedigree like yours—like mine, I was
going to say—a very good sort of girl, though, but poor, and all that
sort of thing.”

Yet the descendant of a “noble pedigree” asked for an introduction to
that “good sort of a girl,” which, with a very ill grace, was granted.
Julia now joined them, and a lively conversation ensued, which Mrs.
Hazleton with great chagrin saw interrupted. The fair hand of Julia was
claimed for a dance, and away she tripped. Mrs. Hazleton, too, soon
followed, to bring her back the earliest moment, leaving Alice and
Wallace alone.

There was a pause of a few moments, when, with some embarrassment,
Wallace said,

“The interest I feel, Miss Churchill, in a very dear friend, must be my
apology for what I am about to say. He is a noble, generous fellow, but
I fear has recklessly given his affections where they are but too
lightly prized. You look surprised, Miss Churchill—I allude to Francis
Reeve. I think you can be no stranger to the relationship existing
between him and Miss Ketchim.”

“I have frequently heard Julia speak of her cousin, Mr. Reeve,” replied
Alice.

“And no more! Has she never told you they stand in a far nearer light
than mere cousins?”

“I will be candid with you, Mr. Wallace. Julia has confessed to me her
affection for your friend.”

“Her affection! Then you think she does love him?”

“Most sincerely.”

“Is it possible! And has she a heart—she who seems to be the mere sport
and puppet of fashion!” exclaimed Wallace.

“Indeed she has, and a warm one, too,” replied Alice. “You must not
judge of her as you now see her—that she is very volatile I
acknowledge, but most affectionate and sincere.”

“I rejoice to hear you say so,” answered Wallace. “You know not, Miss
Churchill, the ardor of my friend’s attachment. True love is always
jealous—and you surely then cannot blame poor Frank, when, on his
return from a long voyage, he hears of her only as the gayest among the
gay, receiving with apparent pleasure the flatterer’s insidious
praises!”

“She is not alone to blame, Mr. Wallace. Believe me, with all her
seeming indifference, she is worthy the love of your friend,” said
Alice.

“I surely can no longer doubt her worth when I find her so ably
defended, and by so amiable a champion,” answered Wallace, bowing. “May
I then ask you to deliver her this note, with which poor Frank, in an
agony of jealous doubts, has entrusted me?”

Ere Alice could reply Mrs. Hazleton and Julia joined them. What could
have brought such a glow to the cheek of Alice? thought her aunt—and
Wallace, too, how animated! whose eyes were bent on the plain
country-girl with an expression of admiration which caused the heart of
this worldly woman to swell with envy and mortification. But dressing
her countenance in well-feigned smiles, she exclaimed—

“Really, you seem to be having a very interesting discussion—I have
been watching you some time. Come, I am dying to know what it is—and
here is Julia, too, all curiosity.”

Wallace made some cool reply to Mrs. Hazleton, and then, turning to the
latter, began conversing with her so entirely different from his former
manner, that she was astonished. He was no longer the “petrifaction” she
had pronounced him, but animated and agreeable. She little thought how
much she was indebted to the praises of Alice for this change. Mrs.
Hazleton noticed this also, and her jealous fears subsided. The deer is
wounded at last! was her exulting conclusion.

That may be, my good madam—but the shaft may have sped from another
source, nevertheless!

“Do come into my room,” said Julia to Alice, upon their return from Mrs.
Dashwood’s party. “For mercy’s sake! let me get away from that Scotch
bag-pipe ma’ma is ever sounding! One would think she was in love with
Herman Wallace herself—but I’m sure I am not—though, just as plain as
looks can speak, she tells him, ‘Here she is—you may have her for the
asking.’ If this is Ninnybrain dignity, I beg to be excused from sharing
it. I wonder what poor Frank would say? But how happy you look,
Alice—what is the matter? After all, I believe poor ma’ma’s trouble has
all been thrown away.

        ‘Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell—
         It fell upon a little western flower.’

Ah, ah! Alice—now confess—has not this descendant of heroes been
saying tender things to you?”

“He has, indeed, talked of love!” said Alice, laughing.

“Oh, excellent!” cried the giddy girl, clapping her hands.

“But alas for your theory, you were the object,” continued Alice.

“_Me?_”

“Yes, you—and one other—and that other was—can’t you guess?”

“No, Ally dear, you talk in enigmas.”

“Which perhaps this may solve,” and kissing her blushing cheek, Alice
placed the note in her hand.

Julia screamed with surprise and pleasure, as she recognized the beloved
handwriting. When she looked up her friend had left the room.

There was a light tap at the door of Alice’s chamber, and Julia entering
threw herself upon her neck, covered with tears and blushes.

“Oh, my dear Alice, he has come! Frank is here—in this city! How happy
I am—and—and, oh dear, what shall I do? He wishes to come and see me!
Ma’ma will be so angry—I dare not—what shall I do? Dear Alice, do tell
me.”

Alice advised her to accede unhesitatingly to the wishes of her lover,
urging her no longer to have any concealment from her mother. Perhaps,
after all, her fears were groundless, and she might sanction her choice.
In any event, this clandestine intercourse must not continue, and Alice,
“severe in youthful beauty,” endeavored to point out the great fault she
would be committing against her parent by allowing it to proceed
further. Julia was overcome by the serious manner in which Alice spoke.
She had never before allowed herself to reflect upon her error in its
true light—her mother’s anger had been her only fear—but she now
resolved to break the subject at once to her mother, and ask forgiveness
for her fault.


                              CHAPTER VI.

                          COUSIN FRANK AGAIN.

Breakfast was over—Mr. Hazleton gone to his office—Alice to pen a
letter to her mother—and Julia was left alone with Mrs. Hazleton. It
was no light errand upon which she was bent, and gladly would she have
followed her cousin from the room—but an encouraging smile from Alice
re-assured her. Yet how to open the dreaded subject? Several times she
essayed to speak, but the words died upon her lips. Meanwhile Mrs.
Hazleton, in a most voluble strain, was planning characters and dresses
for a fancy ball. So far as Julia herself was concerned, the Scottish
Chiefs were chosen for the field of display—deciding she should go as
Helen Mar, and she was now trying to fix upon some character calculated
to set forth her own charms to the best advantage.

“What do you think of Die Vernon?” said she turning to Julia—“or would
Flora McIvor suit my style better—perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, or—but
what is the matter with you? How stupid you are! Why don’t you speak? I
declare I believe you will get to be as dull as Alice Churchill. What
ails you?”

“Nothing, ma’ma—I—I only—”

“Only what? do speak!” cried Mrs. Hazleton, impatiently.

“I only wanted to tell you that—that Frank Reeve is in town,” stammered
poor Julia.

“And pray who is Frank Reeve, to call such a blush to your cheek?”

“Why, dear me, ma’ma, you know Cousin Frank Reeve!”

“No, I don’t know Cousin Frank Reeve!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, turning
very red—“neither do I wish to know him.”

“Why, ma’ma, he is so pleasant—so delightful!”

“_Is he?_ Well, Miss Julia, that is no reason why I should know him, or
you either—and, let me tell you, if you have any ridiculous, childish
_penchant_ for ‘Cousin Frank,’ you had better banish it at once!” and
Mrs. Hazleton looked very knowing.

“Ma’ma, I—I don’t understand you.”

“O yes you do. I have said enough—so no more of Frank Reeve. Now tell
me if you can what were the colors of the _Vich-ian Vohr_ plaid—Alice
knows I dare say—go and ask her.” And glad of an excuse to leave the
room, Julia quickly withdrew.

Mrs. Hazleton spoke the truth—she did not know Cousin Frank, though the
nephew of the departed Ketchim. She had never seen him—but she had
heard of moonlight walks and tender billet-doux. In her widowhood, so
long as Julia was out of the way, she cared little which most occupied
her time—books or a lover. The case was now altered. She had a higher
object to be accomplished, to which the plighted affections of her
daughter must be made to yield—what did she care for the affections!

Poor Julia’s eyes were swollen with weeping—her head ached intolerably,
but her heart ached worse. There was a ring at the door—she listened—O
happiness! ma’ma was out—and there was Cousin Frank! What could Julia
do! What _did_ she do but rush down stairs and burst into a fresh flood
of tears on Cousin Frank’s shoulders! Very improper, was it not?
However, we will not stop to argue the matter now, but rather adopt Jack
Easy’s system—finish the story first and have the argument afterward!

As interesting as our pair of lovers undoubtedly were to themselves, a
third party might not form the same opinion. We will not intrude,
therefore, but content ourselves with marking the result of this
interview, which was that Julia from that hour appeared in excellent
spirits, quite delighting ma’ma with her praises of Herman Wallace, and
never once mentioning the name of Cousin Frank again—simply amusing
herself when alone with kissing mysteriously folded billets, and penning
little rose-colored notes—surely there was no harm in that!

In the meanwhile Wallace had become a constant visiter. Although Alice
was generally in the room upon these occasions, Mrs. Hazleton had no
longer any fears. Wallace to be sure was very polite and
agreeable—brought her books—sometimes reading a favorite passage—of
course, why should he not? and so Mrs. Hazleton herself began to treat
her with more attention—but with Julia he would chat in a low voice in
snug window seats, or remote corners, while she in turn seemed to lend a
willing ear—blushing, smiling, and evidently very happy. “Ah, there
certainly must be some understanding between them!” thought the
delighted Mrs. Hazleton.


                              CHAPTER VII.

                             MASQUERADING.

Mrs. Hazleton resolved to give a party which should eclipse in splendor
all those to which the gay season had given rise, and Mr. Hazleton,
willing to gratify her, had placed both his purse and time at her
command. For once every thing went favorably—the presiding Fates were
all on the side of Mrs. Hazleton. Taste and elegance marked the
upholsterer’s high finish—the rooms were flooded with that soft, mellow
light which throws so becoming a shade o’er the cheek of beauty—music
was to lend its charms—and the luxuries of every clime were gathered on
the refreshment tables, mingled with all those tasteful little devices
which the skill of the confectioner can compound. So far well, and Mrs.
Hazleton, bowing to herself as she took a last survey in her mirror,
pronounced the image superb!

Mr. Wallace had begged permission to bring a friend—certainly, any
friend of his would be most welcome. The rooms were already rapidly
filling, when trembling and blushing Julia saw Mr. Wallace approaching,
and with him—_Cousin Frank_! And how handsome the fellow looked, too,
and what a joyous, happy glance met hers!

“Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Francis—” the rest was somewhat
unintelligible—and Mrs. Hazleton most gracefully bent to the modest
salute of the stranger, and then turned to introduce her daughter also.
It certainly was praiseworthy in Julia not to know cousin Frank, as her
mother had so positively forbidden; so she merely bowed, and that, too,
in the stiffest manner, which bow was as stiffly returned, and then
immediately turning from her, Mr. Francis began an animated conversation
with her mother. It is true that, in the course of the evening, he very
formally invited Miss Julia to dance, who, with a toss of her pretty
head, gave him her hand to lead her off—and that no sooner were they
free from the vicinity of Mrs. Hazleton, than they both laughed right
merrily, and said a great many things which must have been interesting
to themselves, to judge from their looks; nay, more than this, instead
of joining the dancers as they had proposed, they strolled off into the
conservatory!

Mrs. Hazleton seemed blessed this evening with wonderful ubiquity of
vision. She could not only look to the wants of her numerous guests, and
see that each one was placed in his or her peculiar sphere for
display—that the feet of the merry dancers stayed not for music—that
the waiters were all in the quiet performance of their duties; but also
that the actors in her private play of “_Manœuvering_” should not fail
in the favorite parts she had allotted them. Thus when she suddenly came
upon Herman Wallace and Alice evidently much engrossed by some
interesting topic, and discovered the fact that the latter had never
looked so well as on this evening, how adroitly she contrived to
separate them by despatching Alice upon some trifling commission to
another part of the room, and then, with a bland smile, requesting
Wallace to go in search of her dear Julia! In a few moments, however,
Julia appeared, leaning on the arm of Frank, who, by his graceful
compliments, soon restored her good humor; nay, so well did he top his
part in a play of his own, that, although Mrs. Hazleton’s eyes were
almost blasted by seeing Wallace leading that odious Alice Churchill to
the dance, while Julia herself was disengaged, she yet had not courage
to break away from his flattering speeches.

“How very much your sister resembles you!” said Frank, recovering from a
sudden fit of absence, during which his eyes had been watching the
movements of Julia.

“My sister!” cried Mrs. Hazleton, blushing and laughing, “my
_sister_!—my daughter you mean.”

“Daughter! good heavens!” and here Cousin Frank gave a tragedy
start—“you don’t mean to say that lady is your _daughter_! O, no, it
cannot be—the resemblance is certainly striking—the same expressive
eyes, the same noble brow, the full red lip, and luxuriant hair the
same—but your daughter—it cannot be!”

Mrs. Hazleton, however, was obliged to own the “soft impeachment,” while
she mentally wished she had not visited Saratoga, or that she had
allowed some other of the sex to avenge the sisterhood on Mrs. Hazleton,
for here indeed was a prize which might else have been hers!


                             CHAPTER VIII.

                               UNMASKING!

A few mornings after the party, both Wallace and Francis had a long and
confidential interview with Mr. Hazleton, which resulted in the penning
of a letter by the former to Mrs. Churchill, not, however, without the
consent of the blushing Alice. Mr. Hazleton then went in search of his
wife, whom he found absorbed in reflections which, could he have read
her heart’s frivolous page, he would have found not at all flattering to
himself.

“Ah, my dear Anna, I have news for you! Who would have thought young
Wallace so much in love!”

“Ha! why what is it, Mr. Hazleton?” demanded his lady, eagerly.

“Why that he has this morning proposed.”

“Indeed! and to _you_—I should have thought—but no matter, I am truly
rejoiced at the dear girl’s good fortune—however, I think it would have
been more proper if Wallace had spoken to me first.”

“I don’t think so, my dear,” said Mr. Hazleton.

“No, I dare say not,” replied the lady, evidently piqued; “it is to be
sure a mark of respect to your—your years.”

“On the contrary, I think it a mark of respect to Mrs. Churchill.”

“_Mrs. Churchill!_” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, “what has Mrs. Churchill to
do with Herman Wallace’s proposals for my daughter?”

“Nothing at all—but a great deal to do with his proposals for her own.”

“What! _Alice Churchill!_ You don’t mean to say that Herman Wallace has
made proposals of marriage to _her_!”

“Certainly I do—and I have given my consent with all my heart, and I
doubt not, from my representations, her mother will also give hers.”

“He is a villain!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton. “Have all his devoted
attentions come to this? My poor Julia! has he been trifling with her
affections merely for his own amusement—and has he now the audacity to
offer his hand to another!”

“I thought you were aware, my dear,” said Mr. Hazleton, mildly, “that
the affections of Julia were already given to a very deserving nephew of
yours.”

“Ridiculous, Mr. Hazleton! I should like to see Julia disposing of her
affections without my consent. Pray, where did you hear this nonsense?”

“From Julia herself,” answered Mr. Hazleton. “She would have made a
confidante of you, Anna, but you would not listen to her. She has
acknowledged to me, therefore, her long attachment for Frank Reeve, and
has requested me to intercede with you to sanction their engagement.”

“That I will never do,” cried Mrs. Hazleton, in a towering passion.
“What!—consent to her marrying a poor midshipman? No, never!”

“But he will rise—he will be promoted.”

“No matter if he is—he shall never marry Julia Ketchim!”

“She loves him, my dear, sincerely,” interposed Mr. Hazleton. “It has
been an attachment since childhood—would you break her heart?”

“Yes, I would—before I would consent to her becoming his wife.”

“But, my dear, will you not see your nephew, and let him plead his own
cause? Do, my dear, reflect upon the consequences of what you are now
doing.”

“No, Mr. Hazleton—I tell you I will not see him, and I have already
forbidden Julia. If it had not been for him, and for the artful
machinations of your niece, I might have seen Julia properly
allied—rank with rank.”

Mr. Hazleton could swallow a great deal, and he therefore swallowed
this, though with something of a take-physic face. He then resumed:

“Since such, then, is your firm decision, I feel more free to inform you
that the friend of Mr. Wallace, Mr.——”

“Francis.”

“The same—has also requested permission to pay his addresses to Julia.”

“Ah, indeed!” and now Mrs. Hazleton began to look pleased again.

“He is an old friend of Wallace,” continued Mr. Hazleton—“is of a good
family—has great expectations, I am told—and, for my own part, I see
no reasonable objection against encouraging his addresses—that is, if
Julia herself can be persuaded.”

“I shall take care of that, Mr. Hazleton. Thank Heaven! the Ninnybrains
are no such obstinate people as some other people I _could_ name. None
of _my_ family ever married against the wishes of their friends, as some
other people’s friends have done! Julia will receive Mr. Francis—I
shall command her to do so.”

And as Julia had made up her mind to be henceforth very dutiful to
ma’ma, she promised, like a good girl, to transfer all her affections
from Cousin Frank to Mr. Francis, and most submissively and demurely
consented to receive his visits.

The wooing sped rapidly, and the happy day was already appointed for
their nuptials, when Julia took an unaccountable freak in her head that
she could not be married unless Cousin Frank was present at the
ceremony! Mrs. Hazleton ridiculed—Julia insisted—and finally Mrs.
Hazleton concluded to do the amiable, and wrote:

     “DEAR NEPHEW—

    “I hear you have been in town some weeks. Am surprised you have
    not paid your respects to your aunt and cousin. Julia will be
    married to-morrow morning at half-past eleven. Shall be happy to
    see you.

                                         “Your affectionate aunt,
                                                   “ANNA HAZLETON.”

    “TO MR. FRANCIS REEVE.”

How brightly dawned the morning—how lovely looked the fair young
bride—how happy the bridegroom, dear reader mine, determine in your own
mind. Every one seemed particularly happy, but no one more so than Mr.
Hazleton—although several times, with a very grave face, he demanded of
the blushing bride if _Cousin Frank had not come yet_?

Alice, whose return home had only been postponed that she might be
present at her friend’s wedding, stood by the side of Julia, while
Wallace performed the same pleasing office for his friend.

And now the priest has blessed them. Mrs. Hazleton has gracefully folded
her daughter to her bosom, and turned her cheek modestly to the salute
of her son-in-law. The carriage whirls to the door—tender adieus are
interchanged, and with a “blush on her cheek and a tear in her eye,”
Julia is borne off by the exulting bridegroom!

As the carriage rolled from the door, Mrs. Hazleton sank down on the
sofa, and folded her hands, and threw up her beautiful eyes
complacently, exclaiming—

“Thank Heaven! my duty to Julia is done—she is off my hands! She has
certainly made a most eligible match—as Lady Lackwit, who married into
the Ninnybrain family in the reign of George the Second,
observed——how, a letter for me?—where did you get it, John?”

“The postman just brought it, ma’am.”

Mrs. Hazleton broke the seal and read:

     “DEAR AUNT—

    “Your invitation to Julia’s wedding was received—was accepted.
    And you did not know me, dear aunt—nay, you would not know me!
    You could trust your daughter’s happiness to a stranger, but not
    to one whom she has known and loved from childhood! The fond
    hopes of years you could recklessly destroy, uncaring for the
    anguish you might inflict—or of your daughter’s peace of
    mind—wrecked perhaps forever! All this you could do. But to
    assure you that your child’s happiness will be safe in the hands
    of your _chosen_ son-in-law, I gratefully acknowledge myself
    that happy person!

                           “Your affectionate _nephew_ and _son_,
                                                   “FRANCIS REEVE.”
     “P. S.—Julia sends her dutiful love.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. III.


[Illustration]


                        COMMON DUCK OR MALLARD.

The common wild duck is the one which is usually meant when the word
duck is used without any other qualification, and it is the species
which is most frequently seen in the markets. They breed in all parts of
the country, from Pennsylvania north as far as the inland woody
districts of the fur countries, and it is met with everywhere in Europe,
up to Spitzbergen. As a bird of passage it is seen in every part of the
United States, always showing more activity in the night than in the
day; its conduct even in a domesticated state presenting evidences of
noisy watchfulness in the evening and at dawn. Its food is small fish,
fry snails, aquatic insects and plants, and all kinds of seeds and
grain. In England, ducks are very highly esteemed, and many expedients
are resorted to by the fowlers who supply the London markets with this
kind of food. Some account of their operations may prove interesting as
well as instructive. The chief method employed in capturing them is the
decoy, and instances have been known of eight hundred pounds being
cleared in one year by a single decoy on the Essex coast. These decoys
consist, in the first place, of an expanse of water which is called the
pond, and which is placed in the shelter of reeds, and generally
speaking also of bushes. The banks of the pond are left clear for some
little way, so that the birds may rest upon land, and, in short, this
portion of the contrivance is made as tempting as possible, as much of
the success depends upon this requisite. But though the ducks resort to
the pond in vast numbers, and pass the day in an inactive state, yet
still great skill, or at all events practice, is required in examining
the pond, because they are exceedingly watchful, take wing on the least
alarm, and do not readily settle. The sense of smelling is remarkably
acute in these birds, as one might naturally suppose from the margins of
their bills being so copiously supplied with nerves. In consequence of
this, when it becomes necessary to approach them on the windward, it is
usual to carry a bit of burning turf, the acid smoke of which
counteracts the smell of the carrier, which would be sufficient to alarm
the birds except for this precaution. The inland extremity of the pond
is formed into pipes or funnel-shaped channels which narrow gradually,
and have at the end a permanent net placed upon hoops. This net forms
the trap in which the birds are taken, often in vast numbers at one
time. In order that the decoy may be worked in all weathers, it is
necessary that there should be one to suit each of the prevailing winds.
We need not go farther into the details of this mode of bird catching.
The ducks are enticed by tame ones, which are trained to the purpose.

These birds begin to be taken in October, and the taking continues, by
law, only until the following February. Beside these decoys, there are,
in the places where ducks are numerous, many of the country people who
shoot them, and these are called _Punt Shooters_ or _Punt Gunners_—in
the creeks and openings of the streams, in the lower part of the Thames
estuary, and, as they ply night and day, according as the tide answers,
their labor is very severe and hazardous. This occupation once led a
fowler into singular distress. It happened in the day-time. Mounted on
his mud pattens (flat, square pieces of board, tied to the foot, to
avoid sinking in the ooze) he was traversing one of these oozy plains in
search of ducks, and being intent only on his game, suddenly found the
water, which had been accelerated by some peculiar circumstance
affecting the tide, had made an alarming progress around him, and he
found himself completely encircled. In this desperate situation, an idea
struck him as the only hope of safety. He retired to that part which
seemed the highest from its being yet uncovered by water, and striking
the barrel of his long gun deep in the ooze, he resolved to hold fast by
it, as well as for a support as a security against the waves, and to
wait the ebbing of the tide. He had reason to believe a common tide
would not have flowed above his waist; but, in the midst of his
reasoning on the subject, the water reached him. It rippled over his
feet, it gained his knees, his waist, button after button was swallowed
up, until at length it advanced over his shoulders. Fortunately for
himself, he preserved his courage and hope—he held fast by his anchor,
and with his eye looked anxiously about in search of some boat which
might accidentally be passing. None appeared. A head upon the surface of
the water, and that sometimes covered by a wave, was no object to be
descried from the land at the distance of half a league; nor could he
make any sounds of distress that could be heard so far. He finally
concluded that his destruction was inevitable. Just now a new object
attracted his attention. He thought he saw the topmost button of his
coat begin to appear. No mariner, floating on a wreck, could behold
succor approach with greater transport than he felt at this transient
view of the button; but the fluctuation of the water was such, and the
turn of the tide so slow, that it was yet some time before he dared
venture to assure himself that the button was yet fairly above the level
of the flood. At length, a second button appearing at intervals, his
sensations may rather be imagined than described, and his joy gave him
spirits and resolution to hold on four or five hours longer, until the
waters had fully retired.

One of the most tender and delicately flavored of the ducks which find
their way into our markets is the Shoveller, (_Anas Clypeata_). The
Shoveller is a very handsome bird, though its bill is disproportionally
large, and very peculiar in shape—it is about three inches in length,
of a black color, widened toward the extremity; and the fibres along the
margin are so much produced that the bill has the appearance of being
surrounded all along the gape with a fringe of hairs. The form of the
bill is well adapted to the habit of the animal, which is that of
picking up very small animal matters in the shallows and runs of the
rivers, and as these fibrous appendages are very sensitive, they enable
it to detect with great nicety all substances that are edible. The
Shoveller is an inland bird, and somewhat discursive. It is found, we
believe with very little difference of appearance, as well in the
Eastern continent as in our own; but, so far as is known, it is a bird
of the northern hemisphere, and is not met with in any part of the
south. On the continent of Europe it is pretty abundant, and it breeds
in the marshes of the middle latitudes; but in Britain it is not common,
even in the fens, and, in our own country, it is much more migratory
than in the eastern continent. This, however, does not establish a
difference in the birds themselves, but may readily be accounted for in
the difference of the two countries. The American summer is more dry
than the European, and the American marshes in the middle latitudes
partake of this drought; or, if they do not, they are covered with
pumpers and other evergreens, so that they do not answer well for the
summer resort of dabbling birds. The northern latitudes of America,
again, are remarkably well adapted on account of their flatness, the
abundance of water, the high temperature, and the corresponding great
production of small animals. Yet, in respect of latitude, the climate to
which the shoveller moves northward during the American summer is not
more northerly than those in which it breeds in central Europe,
although, from the different character of the seasons, it ranges more in
the one country than in the other. In all countries where it is known,
this bird forms its nest in the tallest and thickest tufts of rushes and
other aquatic herbage, and generally also in places which are not
accessible by man, or indeed by any of the land mammalia. The nest is
rudely formed of withered grass, collected in considerable quantity, and
the female is a close sitter. The young Shovellers have to find their
food in the water, and therefore they have the feet and the bill in a
tolerably complete state when they come out of the shell, whereas the
organs of flight are then in a rudimental state; and they continue so
much longer than they do in birds which are obliged to make use of the
wing at an early stage of their existence. This slow production of the
organs of flying is general among birds which seek their food upon the
ground, whether in the shallow waters, the marshes, the fields, or the
uplands; but all of them are better provided for the use of their bills
and feet than birds of more early flight. Thus we see how well these
creatures are adapted to the places in which they reside, and to which
they are of course drawn by this very adaptation. The Shoveller is thus
accurately described by Nuttall. The head, adjoining half of the neck,
medial stripe to the interscapulars; the whole back, interior scapulars
and primaries, umber brown; sides of the head, the neck and crest,
glossed with duck green; the rump and tail coverts, above and below,
with blackish green; lower half of the neck, the breast, shoulders,
shorter scapulars, ends of the greater wing coverts and sides of the
rump, white; longer scapulars, striped with pale blue, white and
blackish brown; lesser coverts, pale blue; speculum or wing-spot,
brilliant grass green, broadly bordered above and narrowly edged below
with white, bounded interiorly with greenish black; belly and flanks,
deep orange brown, the latter waved posteriorly with black; bill, black;
legs, orange.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;


                             OR, ROSE BUDD.


           Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
           I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
           Travelers must be content.    AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”
                       “MILES WALLINGFORD,” 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.]

           _Pros._   Why, that’s my spirit!
                     But was not this nigh shore?
           _Ariel._  Close by, my master.
           _Pros._   But are they, Ariel, safe?
           _Ariel._  Not a hair perished.           TEMPEST.

“D’ye hear there, Mr. Mulford?” called out Capt. Stephen Spike, of the
half-rigged brigantine Swash, or Molly Swash, as was her registered
name, to his mate—“we shall be dropping out as soon as the tide makes,
and I intend to get through the Gate, at least, on the next flood.
Waiting for a wind in port is lubberly seamanship, for he that wants one
should go outside and look for it.”

This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned city of Manhattan, to
one who was in the trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking craft, of the name
mentioned, and on the deck of which not a soul was visible. Nor was the
wharf, though one of those wooden piers that line the arm of the sea
that is called the East River, such a spot as ordinarily presents itself
to the mind of the reader, or listener, when an allusion is made to a
wharf of that town which it is the fashion of the times to call the
_Commercial_ Emporium of America—as if there might very well be an
_emporium_ of any other character. The wharf in question had not a
single vessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it, with the
exception of the Molly Swash. As it actually stood on the eastern side
of the town, it is scarcely necessary to say that such a wharf could
only be found high up, and at a considerable distance from the usual
haunts of commerce. The brig lay more than a mile above the Hook
(Corlaer’s, of course, is meant—not Sandy Hook) and quite near to the
old Alms-House—far above the ship-yards, in fact. It was a solitary
place for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum, top-chain voice
of Captain Spike had nothing there to mingle with, or interrupt its
harsh tones, and it instantly brought on deck Harry Mulford, the mate in
question, apparently eager to receive his orders.

“Did you hail, Captain Spike?” called out the mate, a tight, well-grown,
straight-built, handsome sailor-lad of two or three-and-twenty—one full
of health, strength and manliness.

“Hail! If you call straining a man’s throat until he’s hoarse, hailing,
I believe I did. I flatter myself there is not a man north of Hatteras
that can make himself heard further in a gale of wind than a certain
gentleman who is to be found within a foot of the spot where I stand.
Yet, sir, I’ve been hailing the Swash these five minutes, and thankful
am I to find some one at last who is on board to answer me.”

“What are your orders, Capt. Spike?”

“To see all clear for a start as soon as the flood makes. I shall go
through the Gate on the next young flood, and I hope you’ll have all the
hands aboard in time. I see two or three of them up at that Dutch
beer-house, this moment, and can tell ’em, in plain language, if they
come here with their beer aboard _them_, they’ll have to go ashore
again.”

“You have an uncommonly sober crew, Capt. Spike,” answered the young
man, with great calmness. “During the whole time I have been with them,
I have not seen a man among them the least in the wind.”

“Well, I hope it will turn out that I’ve an uncommonly sober mate in the
bargain. Drunkenness I abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell you, short
metre, that I will not stand it.”

“May I inquire if you ever saw me, the least in the world, under the
influence of liquor, Capt. Spike?” _demanded_ the mate, rather than
asked, with a very fixed meaning in his manner.

“I keep no log-book of trifles, Mr. Mulford, and cannot say. No man is
the worse for bowsing out his jib when off duty, though a drunkard’s a
thing I despise. Well, well—remember, sir, that the Molly Swash casts
off on the young flood, and that Rose Budd and the good lady, her aunt,
take passage in her, this v’y’ge.”

“Is it possible that you have persuaded them into that, at last!”
exclaimed the handsome mate.

“Persuaded! It takes no great persuasion, sir, to get the ladies to try
their luck in that brig. Lady Washington herself, if she was alive and
disposed to a sea-v’y’ge, might be glad of the chance. We’ve a ladies’
cabin, you know, and it’s suitable that it should have some one to
occupy it. Old Mrs. Budd is a sensible woman, and takes time by the
forelock. Rose is ailin’—pulmonary, they call it, I believe, and her
aunt wishes to try the sea for her constitution—”

“Rose Budd has no more of a pulmonary constitution than I have myself,”
interrupted the mate.

“Well, that’s as people fancy. You must know, Mr. Mulford, they’ve got
all sorts of diseases now-a-days, and all sorts of cures for ’em. One
sort of a cure for consumption is what they tarm the Hyder-Ally—”

“I think you must mean hydropathy, sir—”

“Well, it’s something of the sort, no matter what—but cold water is at
the bottom of it, and they _do_ say it’s a good remedy. Now Rose’s aunt
thinks if cold water is what is wanted, there is no place where it can
be so plenty as out on the ocean. Sea-air is good, too, and by taking a
v’y’ge her niece will get both requisites together, and cheap.”

“Does Rose Budd think herself consumptive, Capt. Spike?” asked Mulford,
with interest.

“Not she—you know it will never do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs. Budd
has held her tongue carefully on the subject before the young woman.
Rose fancies that her _aunt_ is out of sorts, and that the v’y’ge is
tried on her account—but the aunt, the cunning thing, knows all about
it.”

Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander’s countenance
while Spike uttered the last words. At no time was that countenance very
inviting, the features being coarse and vulgar, while the color of the
entire face was of an ambiguous red, in which liquor and the seasons
would seem to be blended in very equal quantities. Such a countenance,
lighted up by a gleam of successful management, not to say with hopes
and wishes that it will hardly do to dwell on, could not but be
revolting to a youth of Harry Mulford’s generous feelings, and most of
all to one who entertained the sentiments which he was quite conscious
of entertaining for Rose Budd. The young man made no reply, but turned
his face toward the water, in order to conceal the expression of disgust
that he was sensible must be strongly depicted on it.

The river, as the well known arm of the sea in which the Swash was lying
is erroneously termed, was just at that moment unusually clear of craft,
and not a sail, larger than that of a boat, was to be seen between the
end of Blackwell’s Island and Corlaer’s Hook, a distance of about a
league. This stagnation in the movement of the port, at that particular
point, was owing to the state of wind and tide. Of the first, there was
little more than a southerly air, while the last was about two-thirds
ebb. Nearly every thing that was expected on that tide, coast-wise, and
by the way of the Sound, had already arrived, and nothing could go
eastward, with that light breeze and under canvas, until the flood made.
Of course it was different with the steamers, who were paddling about
like so many ducks, steering in all directions, though mostly crossing
and re-crossing at the ferries. Just as Mulford turned away from his
commander, however, a large vessel of that class shoved her bows into
the view, doubling the Hook, and going eastward. The first glance at
this vessel sufficed to drive even Rose Budd momentarily out of the
minds of both master and mate, and to give a new current to their
thoughts. Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf but he now
so far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board the brig and
spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to get a
better look at the steamer. Mulford, who loathed so much in his
commander, was actually glad of this, Spike’s rare merit as a seaman
forming a sort of attraction that held him, as it might be against his
own will, bound to his service.

“What will they do next, Harry?” exclaimed the master, his manner and
voice actually humanized, in air and sound at least, by this unexpected
view of something new in his calling—“What _will_ they do next?”

“I see no wheels, sir, nor any movement in the water astern, as if she
were a propeller,” returned the young man.

“She’s an out-of-the-way sort of a hussy! She’s a man-of-war, too—one
of Uncle Sam’s new efforts.”

“That can hardly be, sir. Uncle Sam has but three steamers, of any size
or force, now the Missouri is burned, and yonder is one of them, lying
at the Navy Yard, while another is, or was lately, laid up at Boston.
The third is in the Gulf. This must be an entirely new vessel, if she
belong to Uncle Sam.”

“New! She’s as new as a Governor, and they tell me they’ve got so now
that they choose five or six of _them_, up at Albany, every fall. That
craft is sea-going, Mr. Mulford, as any one can tell at a glance. She’s
none of your passenger-hoys.”

“That’s plain enough, sir—and she’s armed. Perhaps she’s English, and
they’ve brought her here into this open spot to try some new machinery.
Ay, ay! she’s about to set her ensign to the navy men at the yard, and
we shall see to whom she belongs.”

A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark, the
colors of the steamer going up to the end of a gaff on the sternmost of
her schooner-rigged masts, just as Mulford ceased speaking. There was
just air enough, aided by the steamer’s motion, to open the bunting, and
let the spectators see the design. There were the stars and stripes, as
usual, but the last ran perpendicularly, instead of in a horizontal
direction.

“Revenue, by George!” exclaimed the master, as soon as his breath was
exhausted in the whistle. “Who would have believed they could have
screwed themselves up to doing such a thing in that bloody service?”

“I now remember to have heard that Uncle Sam was building some large
steamers for the revenue service, and, if I mistake not, with some new
invention to get along with, that is neither wheel nor propeller. This
must be one of these new craft, brought out here, into open water, just
to try her, sir.”

“You’re right, sir, you’re right. As to the natur’ of the beast, you see
her buntin’, and no honest man can want more. If there’s any thing I
_do_ hate, it is that flag, with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down,
instead of running in the true old way. I _have_ heard a lawyer say,
that the revenue flag of this country is onconstitutional, and that a
vessel carrying it on the high seas might be sent in for piracy.”

Although Harry Mulford was neither Puffendorf nor Grotius, he had too
much common sense, and too little prejudice in favor of even his own
vocation, to swallow such a theory, had fifty Cherry-Street lawyers
sworn to its justice. A smile crossed his fine, firm-looking mouth, and
something very like a reflection of that smile, if smiles _can_ be
reflected in one’s own countenance, gleamed in his fine, large, dark
eye.

“It would be somewhat singular, Capt. Spike,” he said, “if a vessel
belonging to any nation should be seized as a pirate. The fact that she
is national in character would clear her.”

“Then let her carry a national flag, and be d—d to her,” answered Spike
fiercely. “I can show you law for what I say, Mr. Mulford. The American
flag has its stripes fore and aft by law, and this chap carries his
stripes parpendic’lar. If I commanded a cruiser, and fell in with one of
these up and down gentry, blast me if I wouldn’t just send him into
port, and try the question in the old Alms-House.”

Mulford probably did not think it worth while to argue the point any
further, understanding the dogmatism and stolidity of his commander too
well to deem it necessary. He preferred to turn to the consideration of
the qualities of the steamer in sight, a subject on which, as seamen,
they might better sympathise.

“That’s a droll-looking revenue cutter, after all, Capt. Spike,” he
said—“a craft better fitted to go in a fleet, as a look-out vessel,
than to chase a smuggler in-shore.”

“And no goer in the bargain! I do not see how she gets along, for she
keeps all snug under water; but, unless she can travel faster than she
does just now, the Molly Swash would soon lend her the Mother Carey’s
Chickens of her own wake to amuse her.”

“She has the tide against her, just here, sir; no doubt she would do
better in still water.”

Spike muttered something between his teeth, and jumped down on deck,
seemingly dismissing the subject of the revenue entirely from his mind.
His old, coarse, authoritative manner returned, and he again spoke to
his mate about Rose Budd, her aunt, the “ladies’ cabin,” the “young
flood,” and “casting off,” as soon as the last made. Mulford listened
respectfully, though with a manifest distaste for the instructions he
was receiving. He knew his man, and a feeling of dark distrust came over
him, as he listened to his orders concerning the famous accommodations
he intended to give to Rose Budd and that “capital old lady, her aunt;”
his opinion of “the immense deal of good sea-air and a v’y’ge would do
Rose,” and how “comfortable they both would be on board the Molly
Swash.”

“I honor and respect Mrs. Budd, as my captain’s lady, you see, Mr.
Mulford, and intend to treat her accordin’ly. She knows it—and Rose
knows it—and they both declare they’d rather sail with me, since sail
they must, than with any other ship-master out of America.”

“You sailed once with Capt. Budd yourself, I think I have heard you say,
sir?”

“The old fellow brought me up. I was with him from my tenth to my
twentieth year, and then broke adrift to see fashions. We all do that,
you know, Mr. Mulford, when we are young and ambitious, and my turn came
as well as another’s.”

“Capt. Budd must have been a good deal older than his wife, sir, if
_you_ sailed with him when a boy,” Mulford observed a little drily.

“Yes; I own to forty-eight, though no one would think me more than five
or six-and-thirty, to look at me. There was a great difference between
old Dick Budd and his wife, as you say, he being about fifty when he
married, and she less than twenty. Fifty is a good age for matrimony, in
a man, Mulford; as is twenty in a young woman.”

“Rose Budd is not yet nineteen, I have heard her say,” returned the
mate, with emphasis.

“Youngish, I will own, but that’s a fault a liberal-minded man can
overlook. Every day, too, will lessen it. Well, look to the cabins, and
see all clear for a start. Josh will be down presently with a cart-load
of stores, and you’ll take ’em aboard without delay.”

As Spike uttered this order, his foot was on the plank-sheer of the
bulwarks, in the act of passing to the wharf again. On reaching the
shore, he turned and looked intently at the revenue steamer, and his
lips moved, as if he were secretly uttering maledictions on her. We say
maledictions, as the expression of his fierce, ill-favored countenance
too plainly showed that they could not be blessings. As for Mulford,
there was still something on his mind, and he followed to the gangway
ladder and ascended it, waiting for a moment, when the mind of his
commander might be less occupied, to speak. The opportunity soon
occurred, Spike having satisfied himself with the second look at the
steamer.

“I hope you don’t mean to sail again without a second mate, Capt.
Spike?” he said.

“I do, though, I can tell you. I hate Dickies—they are always in the
way, and the captain has to keep just as much of a watch with one as
without one.”

“That will depend on his quality. You and I have both been Dickies in
our time, sir; and my time was not long ago.”

“Ay—ay—I know all about it—but you didn’t stick to it long enough to
get spoiled. I would have no man aboard the Swash who made more than two
v’y’ges as second officer. As I want no spies aboard my craft, I’ll try
it once more without a Dicky.”

Saying this in a sufficiently positive manner, Capt. Stephen Spike
rolled up the wharf, much as a ship goes off before the wind, now
inclining to the right, and then again to the left. The gait of the man
would have proclaimed him a sea-dog, to any one acquainted with that
animal, as far as he could be seen. The short squab figure, the arms
bent nearly at right angles at the elbow, and working like two fins with
each roll of the body, the stumpy, solid legs, with the feet looking in
the line of his course and kept wide apart, would all have contributed
to the making up of such an opinion. Accustomed as he was to this
beautiful sight, Harry Mulford kept his eyes riveted on the retiring
person of his commander, until it disappeared behind a pile of lumber,
waddling always in the direction of the more thickly peopled parts of
the town. Then he turned and gazed at the steamer, which, by this time,
had fairly passed the brig, and seemed to be actually bound through the
Gate. That steamer was certainly a noble-looking craft, but our young
man fancied she struggled along through the water heavily. She might be
quick at need, but she did not promise as much by her present rate of
moving. Still, she was a noble-looking craft, and, as Mulford descended
to the deck again, he almost regretted he did not belong to her; or, at
least, to any thing but the Molly Swash.

Two hours produced a sensible change in and around that brigantine. Her
people had all come back to duty, and what was very remarkable among
seafaring folk, sober to a man. But, as has been said, Spike was a
temperance man, as respects all under his orders at least, if not
strictly so in practice himself. The crew of the Swash was large for a
half-rigged brig of only two hundred tons, but, as her spars were very
square, and all her gear as well as her mould seemed constructed for
speed, it was probable more hands than common were necessary to work her
with facility and expedition. After all, there were not many persons to
be enumerated among the “people of the Molly Swash,” as they called
themselves; not more than a dozen, including those aft, as well as those
forward. A peculiar feature of this crew, however, was the circumstance
that they were all middle-aged men, with the exception of the mate, and
all thorough-bred sea-dogs. Even Josh, the cabin-boy, as he was called,
was an old, wrinkled, gray-headed negro, of near sixty. If the crew
wanted a little in the elasticity of youth, it possessed the steadiness
and experience of their time of life, every man appearing to know
exactly what to do, and when to do it. This, indeed, composed their
great merit; an advantage that Spike well knew how to appreciate.

The stores had been brought alongside of the brig in a cart, and were
already stowed in their places. Josh had brushed and swept, until the
ladies’ cabin could be made no neater. This ladies’ cabin was a small
apartment beneath a trunk, which was, ingeniously enough, separated from
the main cabin by pantries and double doors. The arrangement was
unusual, and Spike had several times hinted that there was a history
connected with that cabin; though what the history was Mulford never
could induce him to relate. The latter knew that the brig had been used
for a forced trade on the Spanish Main, and had heard something of her
deeds in bringing off specie, and proscribed persons, at different
epochs in the revolutions of that part of the world, and he had always
understood that her present commander and owner had sailed in her, as
mate, for many years before he had risen to his present station. Now,
all was regular in the way of records, bills of sale, and other
documents; Stephen Spike appearing in both the capacities just named.
The register proved that the brig had been built as far back as the last
English war, as a private cruiser, but recent and extensive repairs had
made her “better than new,” as her owner insisted, and there was no
question as to her sea-worthiness. It is true the insurance offices blew
upon her, and would have nothing to do with a craft that had seen her
two score years and ten; but this gave none who belonged to her any
concern, inasmuch as they could scarcely have been underwritten in their
trade, let the age of the vessel be what it might. It was enough for
them that the brig was safe, and exceedingly fast, insurances never
saving the lives of the people, whatever else might be their advantages.
With Mulford it was an additional recommendation, that the Swash was
usually thought to be of uncommonly just proportions.

By half past two, P. M., every thing was ready for getting the
brigantine under way. Her foretopsail—or fore_taw_sail, as Spike called
it—was loose, the fasts were singled, and a spring had been carried to
a post in the wharf that was well forward of the starboard bow, and the
brig’s head turned to the southwest, or down stream, and consequently
facing the young flood. Nothing seemed to connect the vessel with the
land but a broad gangway plank, to which Mulford had attached
life-lines, with more care than it is usual to meet with on board of
vessels employed in short voyages. The men stood about the decks with
their arms thrust into the bosoms of their shirts, and the whole picture
was one of silent, and possibly of somewhat uneasy expectation. Nothing
was said, however; Mulford walking the quarter-deck alone, occasionally
looking up the still little tenanted streets of that quarter of the
suburbs, as if to search for a carriage. As for the revenue-steamer, she
had long before gone through the southern passage of Blackwell’s,
steering for the Gate.

“Dat’s dem, Mr. Mulford,” Josh at length cried, from the look-out he had
taken in a stern-port, where he could see over the low bulwarks of the
vessel. “Yes, dat’s dem, sir. I know dat old gray horse dat carries his
head so low and sorrowful like, as a horse has a right to do dat has to
drag a cab about dis big town. My eye! what a horse it is, sir!”

Josh was right, not only as to the gray horse that carried his head
“sorrowful like,” but as to the cab and its contents. The vehicle was
soon on the wharf, and in its door soon appeared the short, sturdy
figure of Capt. Spike, backing out, much as a bear descends a tree. On
top of the vehicle were several light articles of female appliances, in
the shape of bandboxes, bags, &c., the trunks having previously arrived
in a cart. Well might that over-driven gray horse appear sorrowful, and
travel with a lowered head. The cab, when it gave up its contents,
discovered a load of no less than four persons besides the driver, all
of weight, and of dimensions in proportion, with the exception of the
pretty and youthful Rose Budd. Even she was plump, and of a well-rounded
person; though still light and slender. But her aunt was a fair picture
of a ship-master’s widow; solid, comfortable and buxom. Neither was she
old, nor ugly. On the contrary, her years did not exceed forty, and
being well preserved, in consequence of never having been a mother, she
might even have passed for thirty-five. The great objection to her
appearance was the somewhat indefinite character of her shape, which
seemed to blend too many of its charms into one. The fourth person, in
the fare, was Biddy Noon, the Irish servant and _factotum_ of Mrs. Budd,
who was a pock-marked, red-faced, and red-armed single woman, about her
mistress’s own age and weight, though less stout to the eye.

Of Rose we shall not stop to say much here. Her deep-blue eye, which was
equally spirited and gentle, if one can use such contradictory terms,
seemed alive with interest and curiosity, running over the brig, the
wharf, the arm of the sea, the two islands, and all near her, including
the Alms-House, with such a devouring rapidity as might be expected in a
town-bred girl, who was setting out on her travels for the first time.
Let us be understood; we say town-bred, because such was the fact; for
Rose Budd had been both born and educated in Manhattan, though we are
far from wishing to be understood that she was either very-well born, or
highly educated. Her station in life may be inferred from that of her
aunt, and her education from her station. Of the two, the last was,
perhaps, a trifle the highest.

We have said that the fine blue eye of Rose passed swiftly over the
various objects near her, as she alighted from the cab, and it naturally
took in the form of Harry Mulford, as he stood in the gangway, offering
his arm to aid her aunt and herself in passing the brig’s side. A smile
of recognition was exchanged between the young people, as their eyes
met, and the color, which formed so bright a charm in Rose’s sweet face,
deepened, in a way to prove that that color spoke with a tongue and
eloquence of its own. Nor was Mulford’s cheek mute on the occasion,
though he helped the hesitating, half-doubting, half-bold girl along the
plank with a steady hand and rigid muscles. As for the aunt, as a
captain’s widow, she had not felt it necessary to betray any
extraordinary emotions in ascending the plank, unless, indeed, it might
be those of delight on finding her foot once more on the deck of a
vessel!

Something of the same feeling governed Biddy, too, for, as Mulford
civilly extended his hand to her also, she exclaimed—

“No fear of me, Mr. Mate—I came from Ireland by wather, and knows all
about ships and brigs, I do. If you could have seen the times we had,
and the saas we crossed, you’d not think it nadeful to say much to the
likes iv me.”

Spike had tact enough to understand he would be out of his element in
assisting females along that plank, and he was busy in sending what he
called “the old lady’s dunnage” on board, and in discharging the cabman.
As soon as this was done, he sprang into the main-channels, and thence,
_viâ_ the bulwarks, on deck, ordering the plank to be hauled aboard. A
solitary laborer was paid a quarter to throw off the fasts from the
ring-bolts and posts, and every thing was instantly in motion to cast
the brig loose. Work went on as if the vessel were in haste, and it
consequently went on with activity. Spike bestirred himself giving his
orders in a way to denote he had been long accustomed to exercise
authority on the deck of a vessel, and knew his calling to its minutiæ.
The only ostensible difference between his deportment to-day and on any
ordinary occasion, perhaps, was in the circumstance that he now seemed
anxious to get clear of the wharf and that in a way which might have
attracted notice in any suspicious and attentive observer. It is
possible that such a one was not very distant, and that Spike was aware
of his presence, for a respectable-looking, well-dressed, middle-aged
man _had_ come down one of the adjacent streets, to a spot within a
hundred yards of the wharf and stood silently watching the movements of
the brig, as he leaned against a fence. The want of houses in that
quarter enabled any person to see this stranger from the deck of the
Swash, but no one on board her seemed to regard him at all, unless it
might be the master.

“Come, bear a hand, my hearty, and toss that bow-fast clear,” cried the
captain, whose impatience to be off seemed to increase as the time to do
so approached nearer and nearer. “Off with it, at once, and let her go.”

The man on the wharf threw the turns of the hawser clear of the post,
and the Swash was released forward. A smaller line, for a spring, had
been run some distance along the wharves, ahead of the vessel, and
brought in aft. Her people clapped on this, and gave way to their craft,
which, being comparatively light, was easily moved, and was very
manageable. As this was done, the distant spectator who had been leaning
on the fence, moved toward the wharf with a step a little quicker than
common. Almost at the same instant, a short, stout, sailor-like looking
little person, waddled down the nearest street, seeming to be in
somewhat of a hurry, and presently he joined the other stranger, and
appeared to enter into conversation with him; pointing toward the Swash,
as he did so. All this time, both continued to advance toward the wharf.

In the meanwhile, Spike and his people were not idle. The tide did not
run very strong near the wharves and in the sort of a bight in which the
vessel had lain, but, such as it was, it soon took the brig on her inner
bow, and began to cast her head off shore. The people at the spring
pulled away with all their force, and got sufficient motion on their
vessel to overcome the tide, and to give the rudder an influence. The
latter was put hard a-starboard, and helped to cast the brig’s head to
the southward.

Down to this moment, the only sail that was loose on board the Swash,
was the fore-topsail, as mentioned. This still hung in the gear, but a
hand had been sent aloft to overhaul the buntlines and clew-lines, and
men were also at the sheets. In a minute the sail was ready for
hoisting. The Swash carried a wapper of a fore-and-aft mainsail, and,
what is more, it was fitted with a standing gaff, for appearance in
port. At sea, Spike knew better than to trust to this arrangement, but
in fine weather, and close in with the land, he found it convenient to
have this sail haul out and brail like a ship’s spanker. As the gaff was
now aloft, it was only necessary to let go the brails to loosen this
broad sheet of canvas, and to clap on the out-hauler, to set it. This
was probably the reason why the brig was so unceremoniously cast into
the stream, without showing more of her cloth. The jib and flying-jibs,
however, did at that moment drop beneath their booms, ready for
hoisting.

Such was the state of things as the two strangers came first upon the
wharf. Spike was on the taffrail, overhauling the main-sheet, and
Mulford was near him, casting the fore-topsail braces from the pins,
preparatory to clapping on the halyards.

“I say, Mr. Mulford,” asked the captain, “did you ever see either of
them chaps afore? These jokers on the wharf I mean.”

“Not to my recollection, sir,” answered the mate, looking over the
taffrail to examine the parties. “The little one is a burster! The
funniest looking little fat old fellow I’ve seen in many a day.”

“Ay, ay, them fat little bursters, as you call ’em, are sometimes full
of the devil. I don’t like either of the chaps, and am right glad we are
well cast, before they got here.”

“I do not think either would be likely to do us much harm, Capt. Spike.”

“There’s no knowing, sir. The biggest fellow looks as if he might lug
out a silver oar at any moment.”

“I believe the silver oar is no longer used, in this country at least,”
answered Mulford, smiling. “And if it were, what have we to fear from
it? I fancy the brig has paid her reckoning.”

“She don’t owe a cent, nor ever shall for twenty-four hours after the
bill is made out, while I own _her_. They call me ready-money Stephen,
round among the ship-chandlers and caulkers. But I don’t like them
chaps, and what I don’t relish I never swallow, you know.”

“They’ll hardly try to get aboard us, sir; you see we are quite clear of
the wharf, and the mainsail will take now, if we set it.”

Spike ordered the mate to clap on the out-hauler, and spread that broad
sheet of canvas at once to the little breeze there was. This was almost
immediately done, when the sail filled, and began to be felt on the
movement of the vessel. Still, that movement was very slow, the wind
being so light, and the _vis inertiæ_ of so large a body remaining to be
overcome. The brig receded from the wharf, almost in a line at right
angles to its face, inch by inch, as it might be, dropping slowly up
with the tide at the same time. Mulford now passed forward to set the
jibs, and to get the topsail on the craft, leaving Spike on the
taffrail, keenly eyeing the strangers, who, by this time, had got down
nearly to the end of the wharf, at the berth so lately occupied by the
Swash. That the captain was uneasy was evident enough, that feeling
being exhibited in his countenance, blended with a malignant ferocity.

“Has that brig any pilot?” asked the larger and better-looking of the
two strangers.

“What’s that to you, friend?” demanded Spike, in return. “Have you a
Hell-Gate branch?”

“I may have one, or I may not. It is not usual for so large a craft to
run the Gate without a pilot.”

“Oh! my gentleman’s below, brushing up his logarithms. We shall have him
on deck to take his departure before long, when I’ll let him know your
kind inquiries after his health.”

The man on the wharf seemed to be familiar with this sort of sea-wit,
and he made no answer, but continued that close scrutiny of the brig, by
turning his eyes in all directions, now looking below, and now aloft,
which had in truth occasioned Spike’s principal cause for uneasiness.

“Is not that Capt. Stephen Spike, of the brigantine Molly Swash?” called
out the little, dumpling-looking person, in a cracked, dwarfish sort of
a voice, that was admirably adapted to his appearance. Our captain
fairly started; turned full toward the speaker; regarded him intently
for a moment, and gulped the words he was about to utter, like one
confounded. As he gazed, however, at little dumpy, examining his
bow-legs, red broad cheeks, and coarse snub nose, he seemed to regain
his self-command, as if satisfied the dead had not really returned to
life.

“Are you acquainted with the gentleman you have named?” he asked, by way
of answer. “You speak of him like one who ought to know him.”

[Illustration: Josh educating a Pig
 Philadelphia 1847]

“A body is apt to know a shipmate. Stephen Spike and I sailed together
twenty years since, and I hope to live to sail with him again.”

“_You_ sail with Stephen Spike? when and where, may I ask, and in what
v’y’ge, pray?”

“The last time was twenty years since. Have you forgotten little Jack
Tier, Capt. Spike?”

Spike looked astonished, and well he might, for he had supposed Jack to
be dead fully fifteen years. Time and hard service had greatly altered
him, but the general resemblance in figure, stature, and waddle,
certainly remained. Notwithstanding, the Jack Tier Spike remembered was
quite a different person from this Jack Tier. That Jack had worn his
intensely black hair clubbed and curled, whereas this Jack had cut his
locks into short bristles, which time had turned into an intense gray.
That Jack was short and thick, but he was flat and square; whereas this
Jack was just as short, a good deal thicker, and as round as a dumpling.
In one thing, however, the likeness still remained perfect. Both Jacks
chewed tobacco, to a degree that became a distinct feature in their
appearance.

Spike had many reasons for wishing Jack Tier were not resuscitated in
this extraordinary manner, and some for being glad to see him. The
fellow had once been largely in his confidence, and knew more than was
quite safe for any one to remember but himself while he might be of
great use to him in his future operations. It is always convenient to
have one at your elbow who thoroughly understands you, and Spike would
have lowered a boat and sent it to the wharf to bring Jack off, were it
not for the gentleman who was so inquisitive about pilots. Under the
circumstances, he determined to forego the advantages of Jack’s
presence, reserving the right to hunt him up on his return.

The reader will readily enough comprehend that the Molly Swash was not
absolutely standing still while the dialogue related was going on, and
the thoughts we have recorded were passing through her master’s mind. On
the contrary, she was not only in motion, but that motion was gradually
increasing, and by the time all was said that has been related, it had
become necessary for those who spoke to raise their voices to an
inconvenient pitch in order to be heard. This circumstance alone would
soon have put an end to the conversation, had not Spike’s pausing to
reflect brought about the same result, as mentioned.

In the mean time, Mulford had got the canvas spread. Forward, the Swash
showed all the cloth of a full-rigged brig, even to royals and flying
gib; while aft, her masts was the raking, tall, naked pole of an
American schooner. There was a taut top-mast, too, to which a
gaff-topsail was set, and the gear proved that she could also show, at
need, a staysail in this part of her, if necessary. As the Gate was
before them, however, the people had set none but the plain, manageable
canvas.

The Molly Swash kept close on a wind, luffing athwart the broad reach
she was in, until far enough to weather Blackwell’s, when she edged off
to her course, and went through the southern passage. Although the wind
remained light, and a little baffling, the brig was so easily impelled,
and was so very handy, that there was no difficulty in keeping her
perfectly in command. The tide, too, was fast increasing in strength and
velocity, and the movement from this cause alone was getting to be
sufficiently rapid.

As for the passengers, of whom we have lost sight in order to get the
brig under way, they were now on deck again. At first, they had all gone
below, under the care of Josh, a somewhat rough groom of the chambers,
to take possession of their apartment, a sufficiently neat, and
exceedingly comfortable cabin, supplied with every thing that could be
wanted at sea, and, what was more, lined on two of its sides with
state-rooms. It is true, all these apartments were small, and the
state-rooms were very low, but no fault could be found with their
neatness and general arrangements, when it was recollected that one was
on board a vessel.

“Here ebbery t’ing heart can wish,” said Josh, exultingly, who, being an
old-school black, did not disdain to use some of the old-school dialect
of his caste. “Yes, ladies, ebbery t’ing. Let Capt. Spike alone for dat!
He won’erful at accommodation! Not a bed-bug aft—know better dan come
here; jest like de people, in dat respects, and keep deir place forrard.
You nebber see a pig come on the quarter-deck, nudder.”

“You must maintain excellent discipline, Josh,” cried Rose, in one of
the sweetest voices in the world, which was easily attuned to
merriment—“and we are delighted to learn what you tell us. How do you
manage to keep up these distinctions, and make such creatures know their
places so well?”

“Nuttin easier, if you begins right, miss. As for de pig, I teach dem
wid scaldin’ water. Whenever I sees a pig come aft, I gets a little
water from de copper, and just scald him wid it. You can’t t’ink, miss,
how dat mend his manners, and make him squeel fuss, and t’ink arter. In
that fashion I soon gets de ole ones in good trainin’, and den I has no
more trouble with dem as comes fresh aboard; for de ole hog tell de
young one, and ’em won’erful cunnin’, and know how to take care of
’emself.”

Rose Budd’s sweet eyes were full of fun and expectation, and she could
no more repress her laugh than youth and spirits can always be discreet.

“Yes, with the pigs,” she cried, “that might do very well; but how is it
with those—other creatures?”

“Rosy, dear,” interrupted the aunt, “I wish you would say no more about
such shocking things. It’s enough for us that Capt. Spike has ordered
them all to stay forward among the men, which is always done on board
well disciplined vessels. I’ve heard your uncle say, a hundred times,
that the quarter-deck was sacred, and that might be enough to keep such
animals off it.”

It was barely necessary to look at Mrs. Budd in the face to get a very
accurate general notion of her character. She was one of those inane,
uncultivated beings, who seem to be protected by a benevolent Providence
in their pilgrimage on earth, for they do not seem to possess the power
to protect themselves. Her very countenance expressed imbecility and
mental dependence, credulity and a love of gossip. Notwithstanding these
radical weaknesses, the good woman had some of the better instincts of
her sex, and was never guilty of any thing that could properly convey
reproach. She was no monitress for Rose, however, the niece much oftener
influencing the aunt than the aunt influencing the niece. The latter had
been fortunate in having had an excellent instructress, who, though
incapable of teaching her much in the way of accomplishments, had
imparted a great deal that was respectable and useful. Rose had
character, and strong character, too, as the course of our narrative
will show; but her worthy aunt was a pure picture of as much mental
imbecility as at all comported with the privileges of self-government.

The conversation about “those other creatures” was effectually checked
by Mrs. Budd’s horror of the “animals,” and Josh was called on deck so
shortly after as to prevent its being renewed. The females staid below a
few minutes, to take possession, and then they re-appeared on deck, to
gaze at the horrors of the Hell-Gate passage. Rose was all eyes, wonder
and admiration of every thing she saw. This was actually the first time
she had ever been on the water, in any sort of craft, though born and
brought up in sight of one of the most thronged havens in the world. But
there must be a beginning to every thing, and this was Rose Budd’s
beginning on the water. It is true the brigantine was a very beautiful,
as well as an exceedingly swift vessel, but all this was lost on Rose,
who would have admired a horse-jockey bound to the West Indies, in this
the incipient state of her nautical knowledge. Perhaps the exquisite
neatness that Mulford maintained about every thing that came under his
care, and that included every thing on deck, or above board, and about
which neatness Spike occasionally muttered an oath, as so much senseless
trouble, contributed somewhat to Rose’s pleasure; but her admiration
would scarcely have been less with anything that had sails, and seemed
to move through the water with a power approaching that of volition.

It was very different with Mrs. Budd. She, good woman, had actually made
one voyage with her late husband, and she fancied that she knew all
about a vessel. It was her delight to talk on nautical subjects, and
never did she really feel her great superiority over her niece, so very
unequivocally, as when the subject of the ocean was introduced, about
which she did know something, and touching which Rose was profoundly
ignorant, or as ignorant as a girl of lively imagination could remain
with the information gleaned from others.

“I am not surprised you are astonished at the sight of the vessel,
Rosy,” observed the self-complacent aunt at one of her niece’s
exclamations of admiration. “A vessel is a very wonderful thing, and we
are told what extr’orny beings they are that ‘go down to the sea in
ships.’ But you are to know this is not a ship at all, but only a
half-jigger rigged, which is altogether a different thing.”

“Was my uncle’s vessel, The Rose In Bloom, then, very different from the
Swash?”

“Very different, indeed, child! Why, The Rose In Bloom was a
full-jiggered ship, and had twelve masts—and this is only a
half-jiggered brig, and has but two masts. See, you may count
them—one—two!”

Harry Mulford was coiling away a top-gallant-brace, directly in front of
Mrs. Budd and Rose, and, at hearing this account of the wonderful
equipment of The Rose In Bloom, he suddenly looked up, with a lurking
expression about his eye that the niece very well comprehended, while he
exclaimed, without much reflection, under the impulse of surprise—

“Twelve masts! Did I understand you to say, ma’am, that Capt. Budd’s
ship had twelve masts?”

“Yes, sir, _twelve_! and I can tell you all their names, for I learnt
them by heart—it appearing to me proper that a ship-master’s wife
should know the names of all the masts in her husband’s vessel. Do you
wish to hear their names, Mr. Mulford?”

Harry Mulford would have enjoyed this conversation to the top of his
bent, had it not been for Rose. She well knew her aunt’s general
weakness of intellect, and especially its weakness on this particular
subject, but she would suffer no one to manifest contempt for either, if
in her power to prevent it. It is seldom one so young, so mirthful, so
ingenuous and innocent in the expression of her countenance, assumed so
significant and rebuking a frown as did pretty Rose Budd when she heard
the mate’s involuntary exclamation about the “twelve masts.” Harry, who
was not easily checked by his equals, or any of his own sex, submitted
to that rebuking frown with the meekness of a child, and stammered out,
in answer to the well-meaning, but weak-minded widow’s question—

“If you please, Mrs. Budd—just as you please, ma’am—only twelve is a
good many masts—” Rose frowned again—“that is—more than I’m used to
seeing—that’s all.”

“I dare say, Mr. Mulford—for you sail in only a half-jigger; but Capt.
Budd always sailed in a full-jigger—and _his_ full-jiggered ship had
just twelve masts, and, to prove it to you, I’ll give you the
names—first, then, there were the fore, main, and mizzen masts—”

“Yes—yes—ma’am,” stammered Harry, who wished the twelve masts and The
Rose In Bloom at the bottom of the ocean, since her owner’s niece still
continued to look coldly displeased—“that’s right, I can swear!”

“Very true, sir, and you’ll find I am right as to all the rest. Then,
there were the fore, main, and mizzen top-masts—they make six, if I can
count, Mr. Mulford?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the mate, laughing, in spite of Rose’s frowns, as the
manner in which the old sea-dog had quizzed his wife became apparent to
him. “I see how it is—you are quite right, ma’am—I dare say The Rose
In Bloom had all these masts, and some to spare.”

“Yes, sir—I knew you would be satisfied. The fore, main and mizzen
top-gallant-masts make nine—and the fore, main and mizzen royals make
just twelve. Oh, I’m never wrong in any thing about a vessel, especially
if she is a full-jiggered ship.”

Mulford had some difficulty in restraining his smiles each time the
full-jigger was mentioned, but Rose’s expression of countenance kept him
in excellent order—and she, innocent creature, saw nothing ridiculous
in the term, though the twelve masts had given her a little alarm.
Delighted that the old lady had got through her enumeration of the spars
with so much success, Rose cried, in the exuberance of her spirits—

“Well, aunty, for my part, I find a half-jigger vessel so very, very
beautiful, that I do not know how I should behave were I to go on board
a _full_-jigger.”

Mulford turned abruptly away, the circumstance of Rose’s making herself
ridiculous giving him sudden pain, though he could have laughed at her
aunt by the hour.

“Ah, my dear, that is on account of your youth and inexperience—but you
will learn better in time. I was just so, myself when I was of your age,
and thought the fore-rafters were as handsome as the squared-jiggers,
but soon after I married Capt. Budd I felt the necessity of knowing more
than I did about ships, and I got him to teach me. He didn’t like the
business, at first, and pretended I would never learn; but, at last, it
came all at once like, and then he used to be delighted to hear me ‘talk
ship,’ as he called it. I’ve known him laugh, with his cronies, as if
ready to die, at my expertness in sea-terms, for half an hour
together—and then he would swear—that was the worst fault your uncle
had, Rosy—he _would_ swear, sometimes, in a way that frightened me, I
do declare!”

“But he never swore at you, aunty?”

“I can’t say that he did exactly do that, but he would swear all round
me, even if he didn’t actually touch me, when things went wrong—but it
would have done your heart good to hear him laugh! He had a most
excellent heart, just like your own, Rosy dear; but, for that matter,
all the Budds have excellent hearts, and one of the commonest ways your
uncle had of showing it was to laugh, particularly when we were together
and talking. Oh, he used to delight in hearing me converse, especially
about vessels, and never failed to get me at it when he had company. I
see his good-natured, excellent-hearted countenance at this moment, with
the tears running down his fat, manly cheeks, as he shook his very sides
with laughter. I may live a hundred years, Rosy, before I meet again
with your uncle’s equal.”

This was a subject that invariably silenced Rose. She remembered her
uncle, herself, and remembered his affectionate manner of laughing at
her aunt, and she always wished the latter to get through her eulogiums
on her married happiness, as soon as possible, whenever the subject was
introduced.

All this time the Molly Swash kept in motion. Spike never took a pilot
when he could avoid it, and his mind was too much occupied with his
duty, in that critical navigation, to share at all in the conversation
of his passengers, though he did endeavor to make himself agreeable to
Rose, by an occasional remark, when a favorable opportunity offered. As
soon as he had worked his brig over into the south or weather passage of
Blackwell’s, however, there remained little for him to do, until she had
drifted through it, a distance of a mile or more, and this gave him
leisure to do the honors. He pointed out the castellated edifice on
Blackwell’s as the new penitentiary, and the hamlet of villas, on the
other shore, as Ravenswood, though there is neither wood nor ravens to
authorize the name. But the “Sunswick,” which satisfied the Delafields
and Gibbses of the olden time, and which distinguished their lofty halls
and broad lawns, was not elegant enough for the cockney tastes of these
later days, so “wood” must be made to usurp the place of cherries and
apples, and “ravens” that of gulls, in order to satisfy its cravings.
But all this was lost on Spike. He remembered the shore as it had been
twenty years before, and he saw what it was now, but little did he care
for the change. On the whole, he rather preferred the Grecian Temples,
over which the ravens would have been compelled to fly, had there been
any ravens in that neighborhood, to the old fashioned and highly
respectable residence that once alone occupied the spot. The point he
did understand, however, and on the merits of which he had something to
say, was a little farther ahead. That, too, had been re-christened—the
Hallet’s Cove of the mariner being converted into Astoria—not that
bloody-minded place at the mouth of the Oregon, which has come so near
bringing us to blows with our “ancestors in England,” as the worthy
denizens of that quarter choose to consider themselves still, if one can
judge by their language. This Astoria was a very different place, and is
one of the many suburban villages that are shooting up, like mushrooms,
in a night, around the great _Commercial_ Emporium. This spot Spike
understood perfectly, and it was not likely that he should pass it
without communicating a portion of his knowledge to Rose.

“There, Miss Rose,” he said, with a didactic sort of air, pointing with
his short, thick finger at the little bay which was just opening to
their view; “there’s as neat a cove as a craft need bring up in. That
_used to be_ a capital place to lie in, to wait for a wind to pass the
Gate; but it has got to be most too public for my taste. I’m rural, I
tell Mulford, and love to get in out-of-the-way berths with my brig,
where she can see salt-meadows, and smell the clover. You never catch me
down in any of the crowded slips, around the markets, or any where in
that part of the town, for I _do_ love country air. That’s Hallet’s
Cove, Miss Rose, and a pretty anchorage it would be for us, if the wind
and tide didn’t sarve to take us through the Gate.”

“Are we near the Gate, Capt. Spike?” asked Rose, the fine bloom on her
cheek lessening a little, under the apprehension that formidable name is
apt to awaken in the breasts of the inexperienced.

“Half a mile, or so. It begins just at the other end of this island on
our larboard hand, and will be all over in about another half mile, or
so. It’s no such bad place, a’ter all, is Hell-Gate, to them that’s used
to it. I call myself a pilot in Hell-Gate, though I _have_ no branch.”

“I wish, Capt. Spike, I could teach you to give that place its proper
and polite name. We call it Whirl-Gate altogether now,” said the relict.

“Well, that’s new to me,” cried Spike. “I _have_ heard some
chicken-mouthed folk say _Hurl_-Gate, but this is the first time I ever
heard it called Whirl-Gate—they’ll get it to Whirlagig-Gate next. I
don’t think that my old commander, Capt. Budd called the passage any
thing but honest, up and down Hell-Gate.”

“That he did—that he did—and all my arguments and reading could not
teach him any better. I proved to him that it was Whirl-Gate, as any one
can see that it ought to be. It is full of Whirlpools, they say, and
that shows what Nature meant the name to be.”

“But, aunty,” put in Rose, half reluctantly, half anxious to speak,
“what has _gate_ to do with whirlpools? You will remember it is called a
gate—the gate to that wicked place I suppose is meant.”

“Rose, you amaze me! How can _you_, a young woman of only nineteen,
stand up for so vulgar a name as Hell-Gate?”

“Do you think it as vulgar as Hurl-Gate, aunty? To me it always seems
the most vulgar to be straining at gnats.”

“Yes,” said Spike, sentimentally, “I’m quite of Miss Rose’s way of
thinking—straining at gnats is very ill-manners, especially at table. I
once knew a man who strained in this way, until I thought he would have
choked, though it was with a fly to be sure; but gnats are nothing but
small flies, you know, Miss Rose. Yes, I’m quite of your way of
thinking, Miss Rose; it _is_ very vulgar to be straining at gnats and
flies, more particularly at table. But you’ll find no flies or gnats
aboard here, to be straining at, or brushing away, or to annoy you.
Stand by there, my hearties, and see all clear to run through Hell-Gate.
Don’t let me catch _you_ straining at any thing, though it should be the
fin of a whale!”

The people forward looked at each other, as they listened to this novel
admonition, though they called out the customary “ay, ay, sir,” as they
went to the sheets, braces and bowlines. To them the passage of no
Hell-Gate conveyed the idea of any particular terror, and with the one
they were about to enter, they were much too familiar to care any thing
about it.

The brig was now floating fast, with the tide, up abreast of the east
end of Blackwell’s, and in two or three more minutes she would be fairly
in the Gate. Spike was aft, where he could command a view of every thing
forward, and Mulford stood on the quarter-deck, to look after the
head-braces. An old and trustworthy seaman, who acted as a sort of
boatswain, had the charge on the forecastle, and was to tend the sheets
and tack. His name was Rove.

“See all clear,” called out Spike. “D’ye hear there, for’ard! I shall
make a half-board in the Gate, if the wind favor us, and the tide prove
strong enough to hawse us to wind’ard sufficiently to clear the pot—so
mind your—”

The captain breaking off in the middle of this harangue, Mulford turned
his head, in order to see what might be the matter. There was Spike,
leveling a spy-glass at a boat that was pulling swiftly out of the north
channel, and shooting like an arrow directly athwart the brig’s bows
into the main passage of the Gate. He stepped to the captain’s elbow.

“Just take a look at them chaps, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, handing his
mate the glass.

“They seem in a hurry,” answered Harry, as he adjusted the glass to his
eye, “and will go through the Gate in less time than it will take to
mention the circumstance.”

“What do you make of them, sir?”

“The little man who called himself Jack Tier is in the stern-sheets of
the boat, for one,” answered Mulford.

“And the other, Harry—what do you make of the other?”

“It seems to be the chap who hailed to know if we had a pilot. He means
to board us at Riker’s Island, and make us pay pilotage, whether we want
his services or not.”

“Blast him and his pilotage too! Give me the glass”—taking another long
look at the boat, which by this time was glancing, rather than pulling,
nearly at right angles across his bows. “I want no such pilot aboard
here, Mr. Mulford. Take another look at him—here, you can see him, away
on our weather bow, already.”

Mulford did take another look at him, and this time his examination was
longer and more scrutinising than before.

“It is not easy to cover him with the glass,” observed the young
man—“the boat seems fairly to fly.”

“We’re forereaching too near the Hog’s Back, Capt. Spike,” roared the
boatswain, from forward.

“Ready about—hard a-lee,” shouted Spike. “Let all fly, for’ard—help
her round, boys, all you can, and wait for no orders! Bestir
yourselves—bestir yourselves.”

It was time the crew should be in earnest. While Spike’s attention had
been thus diverted by the boat, the brig had got into the strongest of
the current, which, by setting her fast to windward, had trebled the
power of the air, and this was shooting her over toward one of the
greatest dangers of the passage on a flood tide. As everybody bestirred
themselves, however, she was got round and filled on the opposite tack,
just in time to clear the rocks. Spike breathed again, but his head was
still full of the boat. The danger he had just escaped as Scylla met him
as Charybdis. The boatswain again roared to go about. The order was
given as the vessel began to pitch in a heavy swell. At the next instant
she rolled until the water came on deck, whirled with her stern down the
tide, and her bows rose as if she were about to leap out of water. The
Swash had hit the Pot Rock.


                                PART II.

    _Watch._ If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on
    him?

    _Dogb._ Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that
    touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if
    you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and
    steal out of your company.

                                            MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

We left the brigantine of Capt. Spike in a very critical situation, and
the master himself in great confusion of mind. A thorough seaman, this
accident would never have happened, but for the sudden appearance of the
boat and its passengers; one of whom appeared to be a source of great
uneasiness to him. As might be expected, the circumstance of striking a
place as dangerous as the Pot Rock in Hell-Gate, produced a great
sensation on board the vessel. This sensation betrayed itself in various
ways, and according to the characters, habits, and native firmness of
the parties. As for the ship-master’s relict, she seized hold of the
main-mast, and screamed so loud and perseveringly, as to cause the
sensation to extend itself into the adjacent and thriving village of
Astoria, where it was distinctly heard by divers of those who dwelt near
the water. Biddy Noon had her share in this clamor, lying down on the
deck in order to prevent rolling over, and possibly to scream more at
her leisure, while Rose had sufficient self-command to be silent, though
her cheeks lost their color.

Nor was there any thing extraordinary in females betraying this alarm,
when one remembers the somewhat astounding signs of danger by which
these persons were surrounded. There is always something imposing in the
swift movement of a considerable body of water. When this movement is
aided by whirlpools and the other similar accessories of an interrupted
current, it frequently becomes startling, more especially to those who
happen to be on the element itself. This is peculiarly the case with the
Pot Rock, where, not only does the water roll and roar as if agitated by
a mighty wind, but where it even breaks, the foam seeming to glance up
stream, in the rapid succession of wave to wave. Had the Swash remained
in her terrific berth more than a second or two, she would have proved
what is termed a “total loss;” but she did not. Happily the Pot Rock
lies so low, that it is not apt to fetch up any thing of a light draught
of water; and the brigantine’s fore-foot had just settled on its summit,
long enough to cause the vessel to whirl round and make her obeisance to
the place, when a succeeding swell lifted her clear, and away she went
down stream, rolling as if scudding in a gale, and, for a moment, under
no command whatever. There lay another danger ahead, or it would be
better to say astern, for the brig was drifting stern foremost, and that
was in an eddy under a bluff, which bluff lies at an angle in the reach,
where it is no uncommon thing for craft to be cast ashore, after they
have passed all the more imposing and more visible dangers above. It was
in escaping this danger, and in recovering the command of his vessel,
that Spike now manifested the sort of stuff of which he was really made,
in emergencies of this sort. The yards were all sharp up when the
accident occurred, and springing to the lee-braces, just as a man winks
when his eye is menaced, he seized the weather fore-brace with his own
hands, and began to round in the yard, shouting out to the man at the
wheel to “port his helm” at the same time. Some of the people flew to
his assistance, and the yards were not only squared, but braced a little
up on the other tack, in much less time than we have taken to relate the
evolution. Mulford attended to the main-sheet, and succeeded in getting
the boom out in the right direction. Although the wind was in truth very
light, the velocity of the drift filled the canvas, and taking the
arrow-like current on her lee bow, the Swash, like a frantic steed that
is alarmed with the wreck made by his own madness, came under command,
and sheered out into the stream again, where she could drift clear of
the apprehended danger astern.

“Sound the pumps,” called out Spike to Mulford, the instant he saw he
had regained his seat in the saddle. Harry sprang amidships to obey, and
the eye of every mariner in that vessel was on the young man, as, in the
midst of a death-like silence, he performed this all-important duty. It
was like the physician’s feeling the pulse of his patient before he
pronounces on the degree of his danger.

“Well, sir?” cried out Spike, impatiently, as the rod re-appeared.

“All right, sir,” answered Harry, cheerfully—“the well is nearly
empty.”

“Hold on a moment longer, and give the water time to find its way
amidships, if there be any.”

The mate remained perched up on the pump, in order to comply, while
Spike and his people, who now breathed more freely again, improved the
leisure to brace up and haul aft, to the new course.

“Biddy,” said Mrs. Budd, considerately, during this pause in the
incidents, “you needn’t scream any longer. The danger seems to be past,
and you may get up off the deck now. See, I have let go of the mast. The
pumps have been sounded, and are found tight.”

Biddy, like an obedient and respectful servant, did as directed, quite
satisfied if the pumps were tight. It was some little time, to be sure,
before she was perfectly certain whether she were alive or not—but,
once certain of this circumstance, her alarm very sensibly abated, and
she became reasonable. As for Mulford, he dropped the sounding rod
again, and had the same cheering report to make.

“The brig is tight as a bottle, sir.”

“So much the better,” answered Spike. “I never had such a whirl in her
before in my life, and I thought she was going to stop and pass the
night there. That’s the very spot on which ‘The Hussar’ frigate was
wrecked.”

“So I have heard, sir. But she drew so much water that she hit slap
against the rock, and started a butt. We merely touched on its top, with
our fore-foot, and slid off.”

This was the simple explanation of the Swash’s escape, and every body
being now well assured that no harm had been done, things fell into
their old and regular train again. As for Spike, his gallantry,
notwithstanding, was upset for some hours, and glad enough was he when
he saw all three of his passengers quit the deck to go below. Mrs.
Budd’s spirits had been so much agitated that she told Rose she would go
down into the cabin and rest a few minutes on its sofa. We say sofa, for
that article of furniture, now-a-days, is far more common in vessels
than it was thirty years ago in the dwellings of the country.

“There, Mulford,” growled Spike, pointing ahead of the brig, to an
object on the water that was about half a mile ahead of them, “there’s
that bloody boat—d’ye see? I should like of all things to give it the
slip. There’s a chap in that boat I don’t like.”

“I don’t see how that can be very well done, sir, unless we anchor,
repass the gate at the turn of the tide, and go to sea by the way of
Sandy Hook.”

“That will never do. I’ve no wish to be parading the brig before the
town. You see, Mulford, nothing can be more innocent and proper than the
Molly Swash, as you know from having sailed in her these twelvemonths.
You’ll give her that character, I’ll be sworn?”

“I know no harm of her, Capt. Spike, and hope I never shall.”

“No, sir—you know no harm of her, nor does any one else. A nursing
infant is not more innocent than the Molly Swash, or could have a
clearer character, if nothing but truth was said of her. But the world
is so much given to lying, that one of the old saints, of whom we read
in the good book, such as Calvin and John Rogers, would be vilified if
he lived in these times. Then, it must be owned, Mr. Mulford, whatever
may be the raal innocence of the brig, she has a most desperate wicked
look.”

“Why, yes, sir—it must be owned she is what we sailors call a
wicked-looking craft. But some of Uncle Sam’s cruisers have that
appearance also.”

“I know it—I know it, sir, and think nothing of looks myself. Men are
often deceived in me, by _my_ looks, which have none of your long-shore
softness about ’em, perhaps; but my mother used to say I was one of the
most tender-hearted boys she had ever heard spoken of—like one of the
babes in the woods, as it might be. But mankind go so much by
appearances, that I do not like to trust the brig too much afore their
eyes. Now, should we be seen in the lower bay, waiting for a wind, or
for the ebb tide to make, to carry us over the bar, ten to one but some
philotropic or other would be off with a complaint to the District
Attorney, that we looked like a slaver, and have us all fetched up to be
tried for our lives as pirates. No, no—I like to keep the brig in
out-of-the-way places, where she can give no offence to your ’tropics,
whether they be philos, or of any other sort.”

“Well, sir, we are to the eastward of the Gate, and all’s safe. That
boat cannot bring us up.”

“You forget, Mr. Mulford, the revenue craft that steamed up, on the ebb.
That vessel must be off Sands’ Point by this time, and _she_ may hear
something to our disparagement from the feller in the boat, and take it
into her smoky head to walk us back to town. I wish we were well to the
eastward of that steamer! But there’s no use in lamentations. If there
is really any danger, it’s some distance ahead yet, thank Heaven!”

“You have no fears of the man who calls himself Jack Tier, Capt. Spike?”

“None in the world. That feller, as I remember him, was a little
bustlin’ chap that I kept in the cabin, as a sort of steward’s mate.
There was neither good nor harm in him, to the best of my recollection.
But Josh can tell us all about him—just give Josh a call.”

The best thing in the known history of Spike was the fact that his
steward had sailed with him for more than twenty years. Where he had
picked up Josh no one could say, but Josh and himself, and neither chose
to be very communicative on the subject. But Josh had certainly been
with him as long as he had sailed the Swash, and that was from a time
actually anterior to the birth of Mulford. The mate soon had the negro
in the council.

“I say, Josh,” asked Spike, “do you happen to remember such a hand
aboard here as one Jack Tier?”

“Lor’ bless you, yes, sir—’members he as well as I do the pea-soup that
was burnt, and which you t’rowed all over him to scald him for
punishment.”

“I’ve had to do that so often, to one careless fellow or other, that the
circumstance doesn’t recall the man. I remember him, but not as clear as
I could wish. How long did he sail with us?”

“Sebberal v’y’ge, sir, and got left ashore down on the Main, one night,
when ’e boat war obliged to shove off in a hurry. Yes, ’members little
Jack, right well I does.”

“Did you see the man that spoke us from the wharf, and hailed for this
very Jack Tier?”

“I see’d a man, sir, dat was won’erful Jack Tier built like, sir; but I
didn’t hear the conwersation, habbin’ the ladies to ’tend to. But Jack
was oncommon short in his floor timbers, sir, and had no length of keel
at all. His beam was won’erful for his length, altogedder—what you call
jolly-boat or bum-boat build, and was only good afore ’e wind, Capt.
Spike.”

“Was he good for any thing aboard ship, Josh? Worth heaving-to for,
should he try to get aboard of us again?”

“Why, sir, can’t say much for him in dat fashion. Jack _was_ handy in
the cabin, and capital feller to carry soup from the galley, aft. You
see, sir, he was so low-rigged that the brig’s lurchin’ and pitchin’
couldn’t get him off his pins, and he stood up like a church in the
heaviest wea’der. Yes, sir, Jack was right good for _dat_.”

Spike mused a moment—then he rolled the tobacco over in his mouth, and
added, in the way a man speaks when his mind is made up—

“Ay, ay!—I see into the fellow. He’ll make a handy lady’s maid, and we
want such a chap, just now. It’s better to have an old friend aboard,
than to be pickin’ up strangers, ’long shore. So, should this Jack Tier
come off to us, from any of the islands or points ahead, Mr. Mulford,
you’ll round to and take him aboard. As for the steamer, if she will
only pass out into the Sound, where there’s room, it shall go hard with
us but I get to the eastward of her, without speaking. On the other
hand, should she anchor this side of the Fort, I’ll not attempt to pass
her. There is deep water inside of most of the islands, I know, and
we’ll try and dodge her in that way, if no better offer. I’ve no more
reason than another craft, to fear a government vessel; but the sight of
one of them makes me oncomfortable—that’s all.”

Mulford shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent, perceiving that his
commander was not disposed to pursue the subject any further. In the
mean time, the brig had passed beyond the influence of the bluff, and
was beginning to feel a stronger breeze, that was coming down the wide
opening of Flushing Bay. As the tide still continued strong in her
favor, and her motion through the water was getting to be four or five
knots, there was every prospect of her soon reaching Whitestone, the
point where the tides meet, and where it would become necessary to
anchor; unless, indeed, the wind, which was now getting to the southward
and eastward, should come round more to the south. All this Spike and
his mate discussed together, while the people were clearing the decks,
and making the preparations that are customary on board a vessel before
she gets into rough water.

By this time, it was ascertained that the brig had received no damage by
her salute of the Pot Rock, and every trace of uneasiness on that
account was removed. But Spike kept harping on the boat, and “the
pilot-looking chap who was in her.” As they passed Riker’s Island, all
hands expected a boat would put off with a pilot, or to demand pilotage;
but none came, and the Swash now seemed released from all her present
dangers, unless some might still be connected with the revenue steamer.
To retard her advance, however, the wind came out a smart working breeze
from the southward and eastward, compelling her to make “long legs and
short ones” on her way towards Whitestone.

“This is beating the wind, Rosy dear,” said Mrs. Budd, complacently, she
and her niece having returned to the deck a few minutes after this
change had taken place. “Your respected uncle did a great deal of this
in his time, and was very successful in it. I have heard him say, that
in one of his voyages between Liverpool and New York, he beat the wind
by a whole fortnight, every body talking of it in the insurance offices
as if it was a miracle.”

“Ay, ay, Madam Budd,” put in Spike, “I’ll answer for that. They’re
desperate talkers in and about them there insurance offices in Wall
street. Great gossips be they, and they think they know every thing.
Now, just because this brig is a little old or so, and was built for a
privateer in the last war, they’d refuse to rate her as even B, No. 2,
and my blessing on ’em.”

“Yes, B, No. 2, that’s just what your dear uncle used to call me,
Rosy—his charming B, No. 2, or Betsy, No. 2; particularly when he was
in a loving mood. Captain Spike, did you ever beat the wind in a long
voyage?”

“I can’t say I ever did, Mrs. Budd,” answered Spike, looking grimly
around, to ascertain if any one dared to smile at his passenger’s
mistake; “especially for so long a pull as from New York to Liverpool.”

“Then your uncle used to boast of the Rose In Bloom’s wearing and
attacking. She would attack any thing that came in her way, no matter
who, and, as for wearing, I think he once told me she _would_ wear just
what she had a mind to, like any human being.”

Rose was a little mystified, but she looked vexed at the same time, as
if she distrusted all was not right.

“I remember all my sea education,” continued the unsuspecting widow, “as
if it had been learnt yesterday. Beating the wind and attacking ship, my
poor Mr. Budd used to say, were nice manœuvres, and required most of his
tactics, especially in heavy weather. Did you know, Rosy dear, that
sailors weigh the weather, and know when it is heavy and when it is
light?”

“I did not, aunt; nor do I understand now how it can very well be done.”

“Oh! child, before you have been at sea a week, you will learn so many
things that are new, and get so many ideas of which you never had any
notion before, that you’ll not be the same person. My captain had an
instrument he called a thermometer, and with that he used to weigh the
weather, and then he would write down in the log-book ‘to-day, heavy
weather, or to-morrow, light weather,’ just as it happened, and that
helped him mightily along in his voyages.”

“Mrs. Budd has merely mistaken the name of the instrument—the
‘barometer’ is what she wished to say,” put in Mulford, opportunely.

Rose looked grateful, as well as relieved. Though profoundly ignorant on
these subjects herself she had always suspected her aunt’s knowledge. It
was, consequently, grateful to her to ascertain that, in this instance,
the old lady’s mistake had been so trifling.

“Well, it may have been the barometer, for I know he had them both,”
resumed the aunt. “Barometer, or thermometer, it don’t make any great
difference; or quadrant, or sextant. They are all instruments, and
sometimes he used one, and sometimes another. Sailors take on board the
sun, too, and have an instrument for that, as well as one to weigh the
weather with. Sometimes they take on board the stars, and the moon, and
‘fill their ships with the heavenly bodies,’ as I’ve heard my dear
husband say, again and again! But the most curious thing at sea, as all
sailors tell me, is crossing the line, and I do hope we shall cross the
line, Rosy, that you and I may see it.”

“What is the line, aunty, and how do vessels cross it?”

“The line, my dear, is a place in the ocean where the earth is divided
into two parts, one part being called the North Pole, and the other part
the South Pole. Neptune lives near this line, and he allows no vessel to
go out of one pole into the other, without paying it a visit. Never!
never!—he would as soon think of living on dry land, as think of
letting even a canoe pass, without visiting it.”

“Do you suppose there is such a being, really, as Neptune, aunty?”

“To be sure I do; he is king of the sea. Why shouldn’t there be? The sea
must have a king, as well as the land.”

“The sea may be a republic, aunty, like this country; then, no king is
necessary. I have always supposed Neptune to be an imaginary being.”

“Oh! that’s impossible—the sea is no republic; there are but two
republics, America and Texas. I’ve heard that the sea is a highway, it
is true—the ‘highway of nations,’ I believe it is called, and that must
mean something particular. But my poor Mr. Budd always told me that
Neptune was king of the seas, and _he_ was always so accurate, you might
depend on every thing he said. Why, he called his last Newfoundland dog
Neptune, and do you think, Rosy, that your dear uncle would call his dog
after an imaginary being?—and he a man to beat the wind, and attack
ship, and take the sun, moon and stars aboard! No, no, child; fanciful
folk may see imaginary beings, but solid folk see solid beings.”

Even Spike was dumfounded at this, and there is no knowing what he might
have said, had not an old sea-dog, who had just come out of the
fore-topmast cross-trees, come aft, and, hitching up his trowsers with
one hand while he touched his hat with the other, said, with immovable
gravity,

“The revenue-steamer has brought up just under the Fort, Capt. Spike.”

“How do you know that, Bill?” demanded the captain, with a rapidity that
showed how completely Mrs. Budd and all her absurdities were momentarily
forgotten.

“I was up on the fore-topgallant yard, sir, a bit ago, just to look to
the strap of the jewel-block, which wants some sarvice on it, and I
see’d her over the land, blowin’ off steam and takin’ in her kites.
Afore I got out of the cross-trees, she was head to wind under bare
poles, and if she hadn’t anchored, she was about to do so. I’m sartain
’twas she, sir, and that she was about to bring up.”

Spike gave a long, low whistle, after his fashion, and he walked away
from the females, with the air of a man who wanted room to think in.
Half a minute later, he called out—

“Stand by to shorten sail, boys. Man fore-clew-garnets, flying jib
down-haul, topgallant sheets, and gaff-topsail gear. In with ’em all, my
lads—in with every thing, with a will.”

An order to deal with the canvas in any way, on board ship, immediately
commands the whole attention of all whose duty it is to attend to such
matters, and there was an end of all discourse while the Swash was
shortening sail. Every body understood, too, that it was to gain time,
and prevent the brig from reaching Throg’s Neck sooner than was
desirable.

“Keep the brig off,” called out Spike, “and let her ware—we’re too busy
to tack just now.”

The man at the wheel knew very well what was wanted, and he put his helm
up, instead of putting it down, as he might have done without this
injunction. As this change brought the brig before the wind, and Spike
was in no hurry to luff up on the other tack, the Swash soon ran over a
mile of the distance she had already made, putting her back that much on
her way to the Neck. It is out of our power to say what the people of
the different craft in sight thought of all this, but an opportunity
soon offered of putting them on a wrong scent. A large coasting
schooner, carrying every thing that would draw on a wind, came sweeping
under the stern of the Swash, and hailed.

“Has any thing happened, on board that brig?” demanded her master.

“Man overboard,” answered Spike—“you havn’t seen his hat, have you?”

“No—no,” came back, just as the schooner, in her onward course, swept
beyond the reach of the voice. Her people collected together, and one or
two ran up the rigging a short distance, stretching their necks, on the
lookout for the “poor fellow,” but they were soon called down to “’bout
ship.” In less than five minutes, another vessel, a rakish coasting
sloop, came within hail.

“Didn’t that brig strike the Pot Rock, in passing the Gate?” demanded
her captain.

“Ay, ay!—and a devil of a rap she got, too.”

This satisfied _him_; there being nothing remarkable in a vessel’s
acting strangely that had hit the Pot Rock, in passing Hell-Gate.

“I think we may get in our mainsail on the strength of this, Mr.
Mulford,” said Spike. “There can be nothing oncommon in a craft’s
shortening sail, that has a man overboard, and which has hit the Pot
Rock. I wonder I never thought of all this before.”

“Here is a skiff trying to get alongside of us, Capt. Spike,” called out
the boatswain.

“Skiff be d——d! I want no skiff here.”

“The man that called himself Jack Tier is in her, sir.”

“The d——l he is!” cried Spike, springing over to the opposite side of
the deck to take a look for himself. To his infinite satisfaction he
perceived that Tier was alone in the skiff, with the exception of a
negro, who pulled its sculls, and that this was a very different boat
from that which had glanced through Hell-Gate, like an arrow darting
from its bow.

“Luff, and shake your topsail,” called out Spike. “Get a rope there to
throw to this skiff.”

The orders were obeyed, and Jack Tier, with his clothes-bag, was soon on
the deck of the Swash. As for the skiff and the negro, they were cast
adrift the instant the latter had received his quarter. The meeting
between Spike and his quondam steward’s mate was a little remarkable.
Each stood looking intently at the other, as if to note the changes
which time had made. We cannot say that Spike’s hard, red, selfish
countenance betrayed any great feeling, though such was not the case
with Jack Tier’s. The last, a lymphatic, puffy sort of a person at the
best, seemed really a little touched, and he either actually brushed a
tear from his eye, or he affected so to do.

“So, you are my old shipmate, Jack Tier, are ye?” exclaimed Spike, in a
half-patronizing, half-hesitating way—“and you want to try the old
craft ag’in. Give us a leaf of your log, and let me know where you have
been this many a day, and what you have been about. Keep the brig off,
Mr. Mulford. We are in no particular hurry to reach Throg’s, you’ll
remember, sir.”

Tier gave an account of his proceedings, which could have no interest
with the reader. His narrative was any thing but very clear, and it was
delivered in a cracked, octave sort of a voice, such as little dapper
people not unfrequently enjoy—tones between those of a man and a boy.
The substance of the whole story was this. Tier had been left ashore, as
sometimes happens to sailors, and, by necessary connection, was left to
shift for himself. After making some vain endeavors to rejoin his brig,
he had shipped in one vessel after another, until he accidentally found
himself in the port of New York, at the same time as the Swash. He
know’d he never should be truly happy ag’in until he could once more get
aboard the old hussy, and had hurried up to the wharf, where he
understood the brig was lying. As he came in sight, he saw she was about
to cast off, and, dropping his clothes-bag, he had made the best of his
way to the wharf, where the conversation passed that has been related.

“The gentleman on the wharf was about to take boat, to go through the
Gate,” concluded Tier, “and so I begs a passage of him. He was
good-natured enough to wait until I could find my bag, and as soon
a’terwards as the men could get their grog we shoved off. The Molly was
just getting in behind Blackwell’s as we left the wharf, and, having
four good oars, and the shortest road, we come out into the Gate just
ahead on you. My eye! what a place that is to go through in a boat, and
on a strong flood! The gentleman, who watched the brig as a cat watches
a mouse, says you struck on the Pot, as he called it, but I says, ‘no,’
for the Molly Swash was never know’d to hit rock or shoal in my time
aboard her.”

“And where did you quit that gentleman, and what has become of him?”
asked Spike.

“He put me ashore on that point above us, where I see’d a nigger with
his skiff, who I thought would be willin’ to ’arn his quarter by giving
me a cast along side. So here I am, and a long pull I’ve had to get
here.”

As this was said, Jack removed his hat and wiped his brow with a
handkerchief, which, if it had never seen better days, had doubtless
been cleaner. After this, he looked about him, with an air not entirely
free from exultation.

This conversation had taken place in the gangway, a somewhat public
place, and Spike beckoned to his recruit to walk aft, where he might be
questioned without being overheard.

“What became of the gentleman in the boat, as you call him?” demanded
Spike.

“He pulled ahead, seeming to be in a hurry.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“Not a bit of it. I never saw the man before, and he didn’t tell me his
business, sir.”

“Had he any thing like a silver oar about him?”

“I saw nothing of the sort, Capt. Spike, and knows nothing consarning
him.”

“What sort of a boat was he in, and where did he get it?”

“Well, as to the boat, sir, I _can_ say a word, seein’ it was so much to
my mind, and pulled so wonderful smart. It was a light ship’s yawl, with
four oars, and came round the Hook just a’ter you had got the brig’s
head round to the eastward. You must have seen it, I should think,
though it kept close in with the wharves, as if it wished to be snug.”

“Then the gentleman, as you call him, expected _that_ very boat to come
and take him off?”

“I suppose so, sir, because it _did_ come and take him off. That’s all I
knows about it.”

“Had you no jaw with the gentleman? You wasn’t mum the whole time you
was in the boat with him?”

“Not a bit of it, sir. Silence and I doesn’t agree together long, so we
talked most of the time.”

“And what did the stranger say of the brig?”

“Lord, sir, he catechised me like as if I had been a child at
Sunday-school. He asked me how long I had sailed in her; what ports we’d
visited, and what trade we’d been in. You can’t think the sight of
questions he put, and how cur’ous he was for the answers.”

“And what did you tell him in your answers? You said nothin’ about our
call down on the Spanish Main, the time you were left ashore, I hope,
Jack?”

“Not I, sir. I played him off surprisin’ly. He got nothin’ to count upon
out of me. Though I _do_ owe the Molly Swash a grudge, I’m not goin’ to
betray her.”

“You owe the Molly Swash a grudge! Have I taken an enemy on board her,
then?”

Jack started, and seemed sorry he had said so much; while Spike eyed him
keenly. But the answer set all right. It was not given, however, without
a moment for recollection.

“Oh, you knows what I mean, sir. I owe the old hussy a grudge for having
desarted me like; but it’s only a love quarrel atween us. The old Molly
will never come to harm by my means.”

“I hope not, Jack. The man that wrongs the craft he sails in can never
be a true-hearted sailor. Stick by your ship in all weathers is my rule,
and a good rule it is to go by. But what did you tell the stranger?”

“Oh! I told him I’d been six v’y’ges in the brig. The first was to
Madagascar—”

“The d—l you did! Was he soft enough to believe that?”

“That’s more than I know, sir. I can only tell you what I _said_; I
don’t pretend to know how much he _believed_.”

“Heave ahead—what next?”

“Then I told him we went to Kamschatka for gold-dust and ivory.”

“Whe-e-e-w! What did the man say to that?”

“Why, he smiled a bit, and a’ter that he seemed more curious than ever
to hear all about it. I told him my third v’y’ge was to Canton, with a
cargo of broom-corn, where we took in salmon and dun-fish for home.
A’ter that we went to Norway with ice, and brought back silks and money.
Our next run was to the Havana, with salt and ’nips—”

“’Nips! what the devil be they?”

“Turnips, you knows, sir. We always calls ’em ’nips in cargo. At the
Havana I told him we took in leather and jerked beef, and came home. Oh!
he got nothin’ from me, Capt. Spike, that’ll ever do the brig a morsel
of harm!”

“I am glad of that, Jack. You must know enough of the seas to understand
that a close mouth is sometimes better for a vessel than a clean bill of
health. Was there nothing said about the revenue-steamer?”

“Now you name her, sir, I believe there was—ay, ay, sir, the gentleman
_did_ say, if the steamer fetched up to the westward of the Fort, that
he should overhaul her without difficulty, on this flood.”

“That’ll do, Jack; that’ll do, my honest fellow. Go below, and tell Josh
to take you into the cabin again, as steward’s mate. You’re rather too
Dutch built, in your old age, to do much aloft.”

One can hardly say whether Jack received this remark as complimentary,
or not. He looked a little glum, for a man may be as round as a barrel,
and wish to be thought genteel and slender; but he went below, in quest
of Josh, without making any reply.

The succeeding movements of Spike appeared to be much influenced by what
he had just heard. He kept the brig under short canvas for near two
hours, sheering about in the same place, taking care to tell every thing
which spoke him that he had lost a man overboard. In this way, not only
the tide, but the day itself, was nearly spent. About the time the
former began to lose its strength, however, the fore-course and the
main-sail were got on the brigantine, with the intention of working her
up toward Whitestone, where the tides meet, and near which the
revenue-steamer was known to be anchored. We say near, though it was, in
fact, a mile or two more to the eastward, and close to the extremity of
the Point.

Notwithstanding these demonstrations of a wish to work to windward,
Spike was really in no hurry. He had made up his mind to pass the
steamer in the dark, if possible, and the night promised to favor him;
but, in order to do this, it might be necessary not to come in sight of
her at all; or, at least, not until the obscurity should in some measure
conceal his rig and character. In consequence of this plan, the Swash
made no great progress, even after she had got sail on her, on her old
course. The wind lessened, too, after the sun went down, though it still
hung to the eastward, or nearly ahead. As the tide gradually lost its
force, moreover, the set to windward became less and less, until it
finally disappeared altogether.

There is necessarily a short reach in this passage, where it is always
slack water, so far as current is concerned. This is precisely where the
tides meet, or, as has been intimated, at Whitestone, which is somewhat
more than a mile to the westward of Throgmorton’s Neck, near the point
of which stands Fort Schuyler, one of the works recently erected for the
defence of New York. Off the pitch of the point, nearly mid-channel, had
the steamer anchored, a fact of which Spike had made certain, by going
aloft himself, and reconnoitering her over the land, before it had got
to be too dark to do so. He entertained no manner of doubt that this
vessel was in waiting for him, and he well knew there was good reason
for it; but he would not return and attempt the passage to sea by way of
Sandy Hook. His manner of regarding the whole matter was cool and
judicious. The distance to the Hook was too great to be made in such
short nights ere the return of day, and he had no manner of doubt he was
watched for in that direction, as well as in this. Then he was
particularly unwilling to show his craft at all in front of the town,
even in the night. Moreover, he had ways of his own for effecting his
purposes, and this was the very spot and time to put them in execution.

While these things were floating in his mind, Mrs. Budd and her handsome
niece were making preparations for passing the night, aided by Biddy
Noon. The old lady was factotum, or factota, as it might be most
classical to call her, though we are entirely without authorities on the
subject, and was just as self-complacent and ambitious of seawomanship
below decks, as she had been above board. The effect, however, gave
Spike great satisfaction, since it kept her out of sight, and left him
more at liberty to carry out his own plans. About nine, however, the
good woman came on deck, intending to take a look at the weather, like a
skilful marineress as she was, before she turned in. Not a little was
she astonished at what she then and there beheld, as she whispered to
Rose and Biddy, both of whom stuck close to her side, feeling the want
of good pilotage, no doubt, in strange waters.

The Molly Swash was still under her canvas, though very little sufficed
for her present purposes. She was directly off Whitestone, and was
making easy stretches across the passage, or river, as it is called,
having nothing set but her huge fore-and-aft mainsail and the jib. Under
this sail she worked like a top, and Spike sometimes fancied she
traveled too fast for his purposes, the night air having thickened the
canvas as usual, until it “held the wind as a bottle holds water.” There
was nothing in this, however, to attract the particular attention of the
ship-master’s widow, a sail, more or less, being connected with
observation much too critical for her schooling, nice as the last had
been. She was surprised to find the men stripping the brig forward, and
converting her into a schooner. Nor was this done in a loose and
slovenly manner, under favor of the obscurity. On the contrary, it was
so well executed that it might have deceived even a seaman under a
noon-day sun, provided the vessel were a mile or two distant. The manner
in which the metamorphosis was made was as follows. The studding-sail
booms had been taken off the topsail yard, in order to shorten it to the
eye, and the yard itself was swayed up about half mast, to give it the
appearance of a schooner’s fore-yard. The brig’s real lower yard was
lowered on the bulwarks, while her royal yard was sent down altogether,
and the topgallant-mast was lowered until the heel rested on the topsail
yard, all of which, in the night, gave the gear forward very much the
appearance of that of a fore-topsail schooner, instead of that of a half
rigged brig, as the craft really was. As the vessel carried a try-sail
on her foremast, it answered very well, in the dark, to represent a
schooner’s foresail. Several other little dispositions of this nature
were made, about which it might weary the uninitiated to read, but which
will readily suggest themselves to the mind of a sailor.

These alterations were far advanced when the females re-appeared on
deck. They at once attracted their attention, and the captain’s widow
felt the imperative necessity, as connected with her professional
character, of proving the same. She soon found Spike, who was bustling
around the deck, now looking around to see that his brig was kept in the
channel, now and then issuing an order to complete her disguise.

“Captain Spike, what _can_ be the meaning of all these changes? The
tamper of your vessel is so much altered that I declare I should not
have known her!”

“Is it, by George! Then, she is just in the state I want her to be in.”

“But why have you done it—and what does it all mean?”

“Oh, Molly’s going to bed for the night, and she’s only undressing
herself—that’s all.”

“Yes, Rosy dear, Captain Spike is right. I remember that my poor Mr.
Budd used to talk about the Rose In Bloom having her clothes on, and her
clothes off, just as if she was a born woman! But don’t you mean to
navigate at all in the night, Captain Spike? Or will the brig navigate
without sails?”

“That’s it—she’s just as good in the dark, under one sort of canvas, as
under another. So, Mr. Mulford, we’ll take a reef in that mainsail; it
will bring it nearer to the size of our new foresail, and seem more
ship-shape and Brister fashion—then I think she’ll do, as the night is
getting to be rather darkish.”

“Captain Spike,” said the boatswain, who had been sent to look-out for
that particular change—“the brig begins to feel the new tide, and sets
to windward.”

“Let her go, then—now is as good a time as another. We’ve got to run
the gantlet, and the sooner it is done the better.”

As the moment seemed propitious, not only Mulford, but all the people,
heard this order with satisfaction. The night was star-light, though not
very clear at that. Objects on the water, however, were more visible
than those on the land, while those on the last could be seen well
enough, even from the brig, though in confused and somewhat shapeless
piles. When the Swash was brought close by the wind, she had just got
into the last reach of the “river,” or that which runs parallel with The
Neck for near a mile, doubling where the Sound expands itself,
gradually, to a breadth of many leagues. Still the navigation at the
entrance of this end of the Sound was intricate and somewhat dangerous,
rendering it indispensable for a vessel of any size to make a crooked
course. The wind stood at south-east, and was very scant to lay through
the reach with, while the tide was so slack as barely to possess a
visible current at that place. The steamer lay directly off the Point,
mid-channel, as mentioned, showing lights, to mark her position to any
thing which might be passing in or out. The great thing was to get by
her without exciting her suspicion. As all on board, the females
excepted, knew what their captain was at, the attempt was made amid an
anxious and profound silence; or, if any one spoke at all, it was only
to give an order in a low tone, or its answer in a simple monosyllable.

Although her aunt assured her that every thing which had been done
already, and which was now doing, was quite in rule, the quick-eyed and
quick-witted Rose noted these unusual proceedings, and had an opinion of
her own on the subject. Spike had gone forward, and posted himself on
the weather-side of the forecastle, where he could get the clearest look
ahead, and there he remained most of the time, leaving Mulford on the
quarter-deck, to work the vessel. Perceiving this, she managed to get
near the mate, without attracting her aunt’s attention, and at the same
time out of ear-shot.

“Why is every body so still and seemingly so anxious, Harry Mulford?”
she asked, speaking in a low tone herself as if desirous of conforming
to a common necessity. “Is there any new danger here? I thought the Gate
had been passed altogether, some hours ago?”

“So it has. D’ye see that large dark mass on the water, off the Point,
which seems almost as huge as the Fort, with lights above it? That is a
revenue steamer which came out of York a few hours before us. We wish to
get past her without being troubled by any of her questions.”

“And what do any in this brig care about her questions? They can be
answered, surely.”

“Ay, ay, Rose—they _may_ be answered, as you say, but the answers
sometimes are unsatisfactory. Capt. Spike, for some reason or other, is
uneasy, and would rather not have any thing to say to her. He has the
greatest aversion to speaking the smallest craft when on a coast.”

“And that’s the reason he has undressed his Molly, as he calls her, that
he might not be known.”

Mulford turned his head quickly toward his companion, as if surprised by
her quickness of apprehension, but he had too just a sense of his duty
to make any reply. Instead of pursuing the discourse, he adroitly
contrived to change it, by pointing out to Rose the manner in which they
were getting on, which seemed to be very successfully.

Although the Swash was under much reduced canvas, she glided along with
great ease and with considerable rapidity of motion. The heavy night air
kept her canvas distended, and the weatherly set of the tide, trifling
as it yet was, pressed her up against the breeze, so as to turn all to
account. It was apparent enough, by the manner in which objects on the
land were passed, that the crisis was fast approaching. Rose rejoined
her aunt, in order to await the result, in nearly breathless
expectation. At that moment, she would have given the world to be safe
on shore. This wish was not the consequence of any constitutional
timidity, for Rose was much the reverse from timid, but it was the fruit
of a newly awakened and painful, though still vague, suspicion. Happy,
thrice happy was it for one of her naturally confiding and guileless
nature, that distrust was thus opportunely awakened, for she was without
a guardian competent to advise and guide her youth, as circumstances
required.

The brig was not long in reaching the passage that opened to the Sound.
It is probable she did this so much the sooner because Spike kept her a
little off the wind, with a view of not passing too near the steamer. At
this point, the direction of the passage changes at nearly a right
angle, the revenue-steamer lying on a line with the Neck, and leaving a
sort of bay, in the angle, for the Swash to enter. The land was somewhat
low in all directions but one, and that was by drawing a straight line
from the Point, through the steamer, to the Long Island shore. On the
latter, and in that quarter, rose a bluff of considerable elevation,
with deep water quite near it; and, under the shadows of that bluff,
Spike intended to perform his nicest evolutions. He saw that the revenue
vessel had let her fires go down, and that she was entirely without
steam. Under canvas, he had no doubt of beating her hand over hand,
could he once fairly get to windward, and then she was at anchor, and
would lose some time in getting under way, should she even commence a
pursuit. It was all important, therefore, to gain as much to windward as
possible, before the people of the government vessel took the alarm.

There can be no doubt that the alterations made on board the Swash
served her a very good turn on this occasion. Although the night could
not be called positively dark, there was sufficient obscurity to render
her hull confused and indistinct at any distance, and this so much the
more when seen from the steamer outside, or between her and the land.
All this Spike very well understood, and largely calculated on. In
effect he was not deceived; the look-outs on board the revenue vessel
could trace little of the vessel that was approaching beyond the spars
and sails which rose above the shores, and these seemed to be the spars
and sails of a common fore-topsail schooner. As this was not the sort of
craft for which they were on the watch, no suspicion was awakened, nor
did any reports go from the quarter-deck to the cabin. The steamer had
her quarter watches, and officers of the deck, like a vessel of war, the
discipline of which was fairly enough imitated, but even a man-of-war
may be overreached on an occasion.

Spike was only great in a crisis, and then merely as a seaman. He
understood his calling to its minutiæ, and he understood the Molly Swash
better than he understood any other craft that floated. For more than
twenty years had he sailed her, and the careful parent does not better
understand the humors of the child, than he understood exactly what
might be expected from his brig. His satisfaction sensibly increased,
therefore, as she stole along the land, toward the angle mentioned,
without a sound audible but the gentle gurgling of the water, stirred by
the stem, and which sounded like the ripple of the gentlest wave, as it
washes the shingle of some placid beach.

As the brig drew nearer to the bluff, the latter brought the wind more
ahead, as respected the desired course. This was unfavorable, but it did
not disconcert her watchful commander.

“Let her come round, Mr. Mulford,” said this pilot-captain, in a low
voice—“we are as near in as we ought to go.”

The helm was put down, the head sheets started, and away into the wind
shot the Molly Swash, forereaching famously in stays, and, of course,
gaining so much on her true course. In a minute she was round, and
filled on the other tack. Spike was now so near the land, that he could
perceive the tide was beginning to aid him, and that his weatherly set
was getting to be considerable. Delighted at this, he walked aft, and
told Mulford to go about again as soon as the vessel had sufficient way
to make sure of her in stays. The mate inquired if he did not think the
revenue people might suspect something, unless they stood further out
toward mid-channel, but Spike reminded him that they would be apt to
think the schooner was working up under the southern shore because the
ebb first made there. This reason satisfied Mulford, and, as soon as
they were half way between the bluff and the steamer, the Swash was
again tacked, with her head to the former. This manœuvre was executed
when the brig was about two hundred yards from the steamer, a distance
that was sufficient to preserve, under all the circumstances, the
disguise she had assumed.

“They do not suspect us, Harry!” whispered Spike to his mate. “We shall
get to windward of ’em, as sartain as the breeze stands. That boatin’
gentleman might as well have staid at home, as for any good his hurry
done him or his employers!”

“Whom do you suppose him to be, Capt. Spike?”

“Who?—a feller that lives by his own wicked deeds. No matter who he is.
An informer, perhaps. At any rate, he is not the man to outwit the Molly
Swash, and her old, stupid, foolish master and owner, Stephen Spike.
Luff, Mr. Mulford, luff. Now’s the time to make the most of your
leg—luff her up and shake her. She is setting to windward fast, the ebb
is sucking along that bluff like a boy at a molasses hogshead. All she
can drift on this tack is clear gain; there is no hurry, so long as they
are asleep aboard the steamer. That’s it—make a half-board at once, but
take care and not come round. As soon as we are fairly clear of the
bluff, and open the bay that makes up behind it, we shall get the wind
more to the southward, and have a fine long leg for the next stretch.”

Of course Mulford obeyed, throwing the brig up into the wind, and
allowing her to set to windward, but filling again on the same tack, as
ordered. This, of course, delayed her progress toward the land, and
protracted the agony, but it carried the vessel in the direction she
most wished to go, while it kept her not only end on to the steamer, but
in a line with the bluff, and consequently in the position most
favorable to conceal her true character. Presently, the bay mentioned,
which was several miles deep, opened darkly toward the south, and the
wind came directly out of it, or more to the southward. At this moment
the Swash was near a quarter of a mile from the steamer, and all that
distance dead to windward of her, as the breeze came out of the bay.
Spike tacked his vessel himself now, and got her head up so high that
she brought the steamer on her lee quarter, and looked away toward the
island which lies northwardly from the Point, and quite near to which
all vessels of any draught of water are compelled to pass, even with the
fairest winds.

“Shake the reef out of the mainsail, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, when the
Swash was fairly in motion again on this advantageous tack. “We shall
pass well to windward of the steamer, and may as well begin to open our
cloth again.”

“Is it not a little too soon, sir?” Mulford ventured to remonstrate;
“the reef is a large one, and will make a great difference in the size
of the sail.”

“They’ll not see it at this distance. No, no, sir, shake out the reef,
and sway away on the topgallant-mast rope; I’m for bringing the Molly
Swash into her old shape again, and make her look handsome once more.”

“Do you dress the brig, as well as undress her, o’nights, Capt. Spike?”
inquired the ship-master’s relict, a little puzzled with this fickleness
of purpose. “I do not believe my poor Mr. Budd ever did that.”

“Fashions change, madam, with the times—ay, ay, sir—shake out the
reef, and sway away on that mast-rope, boys, as soon as you have manned
it. We’ll convert our schooner into a brig again.”

As these orders were obeyed, of course, a general bustle now took place.
Mulford soon had the reef out, and the sail distended to the utmost,
while the topgallant-mast was soon up and fidded. The next thing was to
sway upon the fore-yard, and get that into its place. The people were
busied at this duty, when a hoarse hail came across the water on the
heavy night air.

“Brig ahoy!” was the call.

“Sway upon that fore-yard,” said Spike, unmoved by this summons—“start
it, start it at once.”

“The steamer hails us, sir,” said the mate.

“Not she. She is hailing a brig; we are a schooner yet.”

A moment of active exertion succeeded, during which the foreyard went
into its place. Then came a second hail.

“Schooner, ahoy!” was the summons this time.

“The steamer hails us again, Capt. Spike.”

“The devil a bit. We’re a brig now, and she hails a schooner. Come,
boys, bestir yourselves, and get the canvas on Molly for’ard. Loose the
fore-course before you quit the yard there, then up aloft and loosen
every thing you can find.”

All was done as ordered, and done rapidly, as is ever the case on board
a well ordered vessel when there is occasion for exertion. That occasion
now appeared to exist in earnest, for while the men were sheeting home
the topsail a flash of light illuminated the scene, when the roar of a
gun came booming across the water, succeeded by the very distinct
whistling of its shot. We regret that the relict of the late Capt. Budd
did not behave exactly as became a ship-master’s widow, under fire.
Instead of remaining silent and passive, even while frightened, as was
the case with Rose, she screamed quite as loud as she had previously
done that very day in Hell-Gate. It appeared to Spike, indeed, that
practice was making her perfect; and, as for Biddy, the spirit of
emulation became so powerful in her bosom, that, if any thing, she
actually outshrieked her mistress. Hearing this, the widow made a second
effort, and fairly recovered the ground some might have fancied she had
lost.

“Oh! Captain Spike,” exclaimed the agitated widow, “do not—do not, if
you love me, do not let them fire again!”

“How am I to help it!” asked the captain, a good deal to the point,
though he overlooked the essential fact, that, by heaving-to, and
waiting for the steamer’s boat to board him, he might have prevented a
second shot, as completely as if he had the ordering of the whole
affair. No second shot was fired, however. As it afterward appeared, the
screams of Mrs. Budd and Biddy were heard on board the steamer, the
captain of which, naturally enough, supposing that the slaughter must be
terrible where such cries had arisen, was satisfied with the mischief he
had already done, and directed his people to secure their gun and go to
the capstan-bars, in order to help lift the anchor. In a word, the
revenue vessel was getting under way, man-of-war fashion, which means
somewhat expeditiously.

Spike understood the sounds that reached him, among which was the call
of the boatswain, and he bestirred himself accordingly. Experienced as
he was in chases and all sorts of nautical artifices, he very well knew
that his situation was sufficiently critical. It would have been so,
with a steamer at his heels, in the open ocean; but, situated as he was,
he was compelled to steer but one course, and to accept the wind on that
course as it might offer. If he varied at all in his direction it was
only in a trifling way, though he did make some of these variations.
Every moment was now precious, however, and he endeavored to improve the
time to the utmost. He knew that he could greatly outsail the revenue
vessel, under canvas, and some time would be necessary to enable her to
get up her steam; half an hour at the very least. On that half hour,
then, depended the fate of the Molly Swash.

“Send the booms on the yards, and set stun’sails at once, Mr. Mulford,”
said Spike, the instant the more regular canvas was spread forward.
“This wind will be free enough for all but the lower stun’sail, and we
must drive the brig on.”

“Are we not looking up too high, Capt. Spike? The Stepping-Stones are
ahead of us, sir.”

“I know that very well, Mulford. But it’s nearly high water, and the
brig’s in light trim, and we may rub and go. By making a short cut here,
we shall gain a full mile on the steamer; that mile may save us.”

“Do you really think it possible to get away from that craft, which can
always make a fair wind of it, in these narrow waters, Capt. Spike?”

“One don’t know, sir. Nothin’ is done without tryin’, and by tryin’ more
is often done than was hoped for. I have a scheme in my head, and
Providence may favor me in bringing it about.”

Providence! The religionist quarrels with the philosopher if the latter
happen to remove this interposition of a higher power, even so
triflingly as by the intervention of secondary agencies, while the
biggest rascal dignifies even his success by such phrases as
Providential aid! But it is not surprising men should misunderstand
terms, when they make such sad confusion in the acts which these terms
are merely meant to represent. Spike had his Providence as well as a
priest, and we dare say he often counted on its succor, with quite as
rational grounds of dependence as many of the pharisees who are
constantly exclaiming, “The Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord
are these.”

Sail was made on board the Swash with great rapidity, and the brig made
a bold push at the Stepping-Stones. Spike was a capital pilot. He
insisted if he could once gain sight of the spar that was moored on
those rocks for a buoy, he should run with great confidence. The two
lights were of great assistance, of course, but the revenue vessel could
see these lights as well as the brig, and _she_, doubtless, had an
excellent pilot on board. By the time the studding-sails were set on
board the Swash, the steamer was aweigh, and her long line of peculiar
sails became visible. Unfortunately for men who were in a hurry, she lay
so much within the bluff as to get the wind scant, and her commander
thought it necessary to make a stretch over to the southern shore,
before he attempted to lay his course. When he was ready to tack, an
operation of some time with a vessel of her great length, the Swash was
barely visible in the obscurity, gliding off upon a slack bowline, at a
rate which nothing but the damp night air, the ballast-trim of the
vessel, united to her excellent sailing qualities, could have produced
with so light a breeze.

The first half hour took the Swash completely out of sight of the
steamer. In that time, in truth, by actual superiority in sailing, by
her greater state of preparation, and by the distance saved by a bold
navigation, she had gained fully a league on her pursuer. But, while the
steamer had lost sight of the Swash, the latter kept the former in view,
and that by means of a signal that was very portentous. She saw the
light of the steamer’s chimneys, and could form some opinion of her
distance and position.

It was about eleven o’clock when the Swash passed the light at Sands’
Point, close in with the land. The wind stood much as it had been. If
there was a change at all, it was half a point more to the southward,
and it was a little fresher. Such as it was, Spike saw he was getting,
in that smooth water, quite eight knots out of his craft, and he made
his calculations thereon. As yet, and possibly for half an hour longer,
he was gaining, and might hope to continue to gain on the steamer. Then
her turn would come. Though no great traveler, it was not to be expected
that, favored by smooth water and the breeze, her speed would be less
than ten knots, while there was no hope of increasing his own without an
increase of the wind. He might be five miles in advance, or six at the
most; these six miles would be overcome in three hours of steaming, to a
dead certainty, and they might possibly be overcome much sooner. It was
obviously necessary to resort to some other experiment than that of dead
sailing, if an escape was to be effected.

The Sound was now several miles in width, and Spike, at first, proposed
to his mate, to keep off dead before the wind, and by crossing over to
the north shore, let the steamer pass ahead, and continue a bootless
chase to the eastward. Several vessels, however, were visible in the
middle of the passage, at distances varying from one to three miles, and
Mulford pointed out the hopelessness of attempting to cross the sheet of
open water, and expect to go unseen by the watchful eyes of the revenue
people.

“What you say is true enough, Mr. Mulford,” answered Spike, after a
moment of profound reflection, “and every foot that they come nearer,
the less will be our chance. But here is Hempstead Harbor a few leagues
ahead; if we can reach _that_ before the blackguards close we may do
well enough. It is a deep bay, and has high land to darken the view. I
don’t think the brig could be seen at midnight by any thing outside, if
she was once fairly up that water a mile or two.”

“That is our chance, sir!” exclaimed Mulford cheerfully. “Ay, ay, I know
the spot, and every thing is favorable—try that, Capt. Spike; I’ll
answer for it that we go clear.”

Spike did try it. For a considerable time longer he stood on, keeping as
close to the land as he thought it safe to run, and carrying every thing
that would draw. But the steamer was on his heels, evidently gaining
fast. Her chimneys gave out flames, and there was every sign that her
people were in earnest. To those on board the Swash these flames seemed
to draw nearer each instant, as indeed was the fact, and just as the
breeze came fresher out of the opening in the hills, or the low
mountains, which surround the place of refuge in which they designed to
enter, Mulford announced that by aid of the night-glass he could
distinguish both sails and hull of their pursuer. Spike took a look, and
throwing down the instrument, in a way to endanger it, he ordered the
studding-sails taken in. The men went aloft like cats, and worked as if
they could stand in air. In a minute or two the Swash was under what
Mrs. Budd might have called her “attacking” canvas, and was close by the
wind, looking on a good leg well up the harbor. The brig seemed to be
conscious of the emergency, and glided ahead at capital speed. In five
minutes she had shut in the flaming chimneys of the steamer. In five
minutes more Spike tacked, to keep under the western side of the harbor,
and out of sight as long as possible, and because he thought the breeze
drew down fresher where he was than more out in the bay.

All now depended on the single fact whether the brig had been seen from
the steamer or not, before she hauled into the bay. If seen, she had
probably been watched; if not seen, there were strong grounds for hoping
that she might still escape. About a quarter of an hour after Spike
hauled up, the burning chimneys came again into view. The brig was then
half a league within the bay, with a fine dark back-ground of hills to
throw her into shadow. Spike ordered every thing taken in but the
trysail, under which the brig was left to set slowly over toward the
western side of the harbor. He now rubbed his hands with delight, and
pointed out to Mulford the circumstance that the steamer kept on her
course directly athwart the harbor’s mouth! Had she seen the Swash no
doubt she would have turned into the bay also. Nevertheless, an anxious
ten minutes succeeded, during which the revenue vessel steamed fairly
past, and shut in her flaming chimneys again by the eastern headlands of
the estuary.


                               PART III.

                 The western wave was all a flame,
                 The day was well nigh done,
                 Almost upon the western wave
                 Rested the broad bright sun;
                 When that strange ship drove suddenly
                 Betwixt us and the sun.
                                  THE ANCIENT MARINER.

At that hour, on the succeeding morning, when the light of day is just
beginning to chase away the shadows of night, the Molly Swash became
visible within the gloom of the high land which surrounds so much of the
bay of Hempstead, under easy sail, backing and filling, in order to keep
within her hiding place, until a look could be had at the state of
things without. Half an hour later, she was so near the entrance of the
estuary, as to enable the look-outs aloft to ascertain that the coast
was clear, when Spike ordered the helm to be put up, and the brig to be
kept away to her course. At this precise moment, Rose appeared on deck,
refreshed by the sleep of a quiet night, and with cheeks tinged with a
color even more delicate than that which was now glowing in the eastern
sky, and which was almost as brilliant.

“We stopped in this bit of a harbor for the night, Miss Rose, that is
all;” said Spike, observing that his fair passenger was looking about
her, in some little surprise, at finding the vessel so near the land,
and seemingly so much out of her proper position. “Yes, we always do
that, when we first start on a v’y’ge, and before the brig gets use to
traveling—don’t we, Mr. Mulford?”

Mr. Mulford, who knew how hopeless was the attempt to mystify Rose, as
one might mystify her credulous and weak-minded aunt, and who had no
disposition to deal any way but fairly by the beautiful, and in one
sense now helpless young creature before him, did not see fit to make
any reply. Offend Spike he did not dare to do, more especially under
present circumstances; and mislead Rose he would not do. He affected not
to hear the question, therefore, but issuing an order about the
head-sails, he walked forward as if to see it executed. Rose herself was
not under as much restraint as the young mate.

“It is convenient, Capt. Spike,” she coolly answered for Mulford, “to
have stopping places for vessels that are wearied, and I remember the
time when my uncle used to tell me of such matters, very much in the
same vein; but, it was before I was twelve years old.”

Spike hemmed, and he looked a little foolish, but Clench, the boatswain,
coming aft to say something to him in confidence, just at that moment,
he was enabled to avoid the awkwardness of attempting to explain. This
man Clench, or Clinch, as the name was pronounced, was deep in the
captain’s secrets; far more so than was his mate, and would have been
filling Mulford’s station at that very time, had he not been hopelessly
ignorant of navigation. On the present occasion, his business was to
point out to the captain, two or three lines of smoke, that were visible
above the water of the Sound, in the eastern board; one of which he was
apprehensive might turn out to be the smoke of the revenue craft, from
which they had so recently escaped.

“Steamers are no rarities in Long Island Sound, Clench,” observed the
captain, leveling his glass at the most suspected of the smokes. “That
must be a Providence, or Stonington chap, coming west with the Boston
train.”

“Either of _them_ would have been further west, by this time, Capt.
Spike,” returned the doubting, but watchful boatswain. “It’s a large
smoke, and I fear it is the revenue fellow coming back, after having had
a look well to the eastward, and satisfying himself that we are not to
be had in that quarter.”

Spike growled out his assent to the possibility of such a conjecture,
and promised vigilance. This satisfied his subordinate for the moment,
and he walked forward, or to the place where he belonged. In the mean
time, the widow came on deck, smiling, and snuffing the salt air, and
ready to be delighted with any thing that was maritime.

“Good morning, Capt. Spike,” she cried—“are we in the offing, yet—you
know I desired to be told when we are in the offing, for I intend to
write a letter to my poor Mr. Budd’s sister, Mrs. Sprague, as soon as we
get to the offing.”

“What is the offing, aunt?” enquired the handsome niece.

“Why _you_ have hardly been at sea long enough to understand me, child,
should I attempt to explain. The offing, however, is the place where the
last letters are always written to the owners, and to friends ashore.
The term comes, I suppose, from the circumstance that the vessel is
about to be off, and it is natural to think of those we leave behind, at
such a moment. I intend to write to your aunt Sprague, my dear, the
instant I hear we are in the offing; and what is more, I intend to make
you my amanuensis.”

“But how will the letter be sent, aunty?—I have no more objections to
writing than any one else, but I do not see how the letter is to be
sent. Really, the sea _is_ a curious region, with its stopping places
for the night, and its offings to write letters at!”

“Yes, it’s all as you say, Rose—a most remarkable region is the sea!
You’ll admire it, as I admire it, when you come to know it better; and
as your poor uncle admired it, and as Capt. Spike admires it, too. As
for the letters, they can be sent ashore by the pilot, as letters are
always sent.”

“But, aunty, there _is_ no pilot in the Swash—for Capt. Spike refused
to take one on board.”

“Rose!—you don’t understand what you are talking about! No vessel ever
yet sailed without a pilot, if indeed any _can_. It’s opposed to the
law, not to have a pilot; and now I remember to have heard your dear
uncle say it wasn’t a voyage if a vessel didn’t take away a pilot.”

“But if they take them away, aunty, how can they send the letters ashore
by them?”

“Poh! poh! child; you don’t know what you’re saying; but you’ll overlook
it, I hope, Capt. Spike, for Rose is quick, and will soon learn to know
better. As if letters couldn’t be sent ashore by the pilot, though he
was a hundred thousand miles from land! But, Capt. Spike, you must let
me know when we are about to get off the Sound, for I know that the
pilot is always sent ashore with his letters, before the vessel gets off
the Sound.”

“Yes, yes,” returned the captain, a little mystified by the widow,
though he knew her so well, and understood her so well—“you shall know,
ma’am, when we get off soundings, for I suppose that is what you mean.”

“What is the difference? Off the Sound, or off the soundings, of course,
must mean the same thing. But, Rosy, we will go below and write to your
aunt at once, for I see a light-house yonder, and light-houses are
always put just off the soundings.”

Rose, who always suspected her aunt’s nautical talk, though she did not
know how to correct it, and was not sorry to put an end to it, now, by
going below, and spreading her own writing materials, in readiness to
write, as the other dictated. Biddy Noon was present, sewing on some of
her own finery.

“Now write, as I tell you, Rose,” commenced the widow—

“My dear sister Sprague—Here we are, at last, just off the soundings,
with light-houses all round us, and so many capes and islands in sight,
that it does seem as if the vessel never _could_ find its way through
them all. Some of these islands must be the West Indies”—

“Aunty, that can _never_ be!” exclaimed Rose—“we left New York only
yesterday.”

“What of that? Had it been old times, I grant you several days might be
necessary to get a sight of the West Indies, but, now, when a letter can
be written to a friend in Boston and an answer received in half an hour,
it requires no such time to go to the West Indies. Besides, what other
islands are there in this part of the world?—they can’t be England—”

“No—no”—said Rose, at once seeing it would be preferable to admit they
were the West Indies; so the letter went on:—

“Some of these islands must be the West Indies, and it is high time we
saw some of them, for we are nearly off the Sound, and the light-houses
are getting to be quite numerous. I think we have already seen four
since we left the wharf. But, my dear sister Sprague, you will be
delighted to hear how much better Rose’s health is already becoming—”

“My health, aunty! Why, I never knew an ill day in my life!”

“Don’t tell me that, my darling; I know too well what all these
deceptive appearances of health amount to. I would not alarm you for the
world, Rosy dear, but a careful parent—and I’m your parent in
affection, if not by nature—but a careful parent’s eye is not to be
deceived. I know you _look_ well, but you are ill, my child; though,
Heaven be praised, the sea air and hydropathy are already doing you a
monstrous deal of good.”

As Mrs. Budd concluded, she wiped her eyes, and appeared really glad
that her niece had a less consumptive look than when she embarked. Rose
sat, gazing at her aunt, in mute astonishment. She knew how much and
truly she was beloved, and that induced her to be more tolerant of her
connection’s foibles than even duty demanded. Feeling was blended with
her respect, but it was almost too much for her, to learn that this
long, and, in some respects painful voyage, was undertaken on her
account, and without the smallest necessity for it. The vexation,
however, would have been largely increased, but for certain free
communications that had occasionally occurred between her and the
handsome mate, since the moment of her coming on board the brig. Rose
knew that Harry Mulford loved her, too, for he had told her as much with
a seaman’s frankness; and, though she had never let him know that his
partiality was returned, her woman’s heart was fast inclining toward
him, with all her sex’s tenderness. This made the mistake of her aunt
_tolerable_, though Rose was exceedingly vexed it should ever have
occurred.

“Why, my dearest aunt,” she cried, “they told me it was on _your_
account that this voyage was undertaken!”

“I know they did, poor, dear Rosy, and that was in order not to alarm
you. Some persons of delicate constitutions—”

“But my constitution is not in the least delicate, aunt; on the
contrary, it is as good as possible; a blessing for which, I trust, I am
truly grateful. I did not know but you might be suffering, though you do
look so well, for they all agreed in telling me you had need of a
sea-voyage.”

“I, a subject for hydropathy! Why, child, water is no more necessary to
me, than it is to a cat.”

“But going to sea, aunty, is not hydropathy—”

“Don’t say that, Rosy; do not say that, my dear. It is hydropathy on a
large scale, as Capt. Spike says, and when he gets us into blue water,
he has promised that you shall have all the benefits of the treatment.”

Rose was silent and thoughtful; after which she spoke quickly, like one
to whom an important thought had suddenly occurred.

“And Capt. Spike, then, was consulted in my case?” she asked.

“He was, my dear, and you have every reason to be grateful to him. He
was the first to discover a change in your appearance, and to suggest a
sea voyage. Marine Hydropathy, he said, he was sure would get you up
again; for Capt. Spike thinks your constitution good at the bottom,
though the high color you have proves too high a state of habitual
excitement.”

“Was Dr. Monson consulted at all, aunt?”

“Not at all. You know the doctors are all against hydropathy, and
mesmerism, and the magnetic telegraph, and every thing that is new; so
we thought it best not to consult him.”

“And my aunt Sprague?”

“Yes, _she_ was consulted after every thing was settled, and when I knew
her notions could not undo what had been already done. But she is a
seaman’s widow, as well as myself, and has a great notion of the virtue
of sea air.”

“Then it would seem that Dr. Spike was the principal adviser in my
case!”

“I own that he was, Rosy dear. Capt. Spike was brought up by your uncle,
who has often told me what a thorough seaman he was. ‘There’s Spike,
now,’ he said to me one day, ‘he can almost make his brig talk’—this
very brig, too, your uncle meant, Rosy, and of course one of the best
vessels in the world, to take hydropathy in.”

“Yes, aunty,” returned Rose, playing with the pen, while her air proved
how little her mind was in her words. “Well, what shall I say next to my
aunt Sprague?”

“Rose’s health is already becoming _confirmed_,” resumed the widow, who
thought it best to encourage her niece by as strong terms as she could
employ, “and I shall extol hydropathy to the skies, as long as I live.
As soon as we reach our port of destination, my dear sister Sprague, I
shall write you a line to let you know it, by the magnetic telegraph—”

“But there is no magnetic telegraph on the sea, aunty,” interrupted
Rose, looking up from the paper, with her clear, serene, blue eyes,
expressing even _her_ surprise, at this touch of the relict’s ignorance.

“Don’t tell me _that_, Rosy child, when every body says the sparks will
fly round the whole earth, just as soon as they will fly from New York
to Philadelphia.”

“But they must have something to fly on, aunty; and the ocean will not
sustain wires, or posts.”

“Well, there is no need of being so particular; if there is no
telegraph, the letter must come by mail. You can say telegraph, here,
and when your aunt gets the letter, the post-mark will tell her how it
came. It looks better to talk about telegraphic communications, child.”

Rose resumed her pen, and wrote at her aunt’s dictation, as
follows:—“By the magnetic telegraph, when I hope to be able to tell you
that our dear Rose is well. As yet, we both enjoy the ocean exceedingly;
but when we get off the Sound, into blue water, and have sent the pilot
ashore, or discharged him, I ought to say, which puts me in mind of
telling you that a cannon was discharged at us only last night, and that
the ball whistled so near me, that I heard it as plain as ever you heard
Rose’s piano.”

“Had I not better first tell my aunt Sprague what is to be done when the
pilot is discharged?”

“No; tell her about the cannon that was discharged, first, and about the
ball that I heard. I had almost forgot that adventure, which was a very
remarkable one, was it not Biddy?”

“Indeed, Missus, and it was! and Miss Rose might put in the letter how
we both screamed at that cannon, and might have been heard as plainly,
every bit of it, as the ball.”

“Say nothing on the subject, Rose, or we shall never hear the last of
it. So, darling, you may conclude in your own way, for I believe I have
told your aunt all that comes to mind.”

Rose did as desired, finishing the epistle in a very few words, for,
rightly enough, she had taken it into her head there was no pilot to be
discharged, and consequently that the letter would never be sent. Her
short, but frequent conferences with Mulford were fast opening her eyes,
not to say her heart, and she was beginning to see Capt. Spike in his
true character, which was that of a great scoundrel. It is true, that
the mate had not long judged his commander quite so harshly; but had
rather seen his beautiful brig and her rare qualities, in her owner and
commander, than the man himself; but jealousy had quickened his
observation of late, and Stephen Spike had lost ground sensibly with
Harry Mulford, within the last week. Two or three times before, the
young man had thought of seeking another berth, on account of certain
distrusts of Spike’s occupations; but he was poor, and so long as he
remained in the Swash, Harry’s opportunities of meeting Rose were
greatly increased. This circumstance, indeed, was the secret of his
still being in the “Molly,” as Spike usually called his craft; the last
voyage having excited suspicions that were rather of a delicate nature.
Then the young man really loved the brig, which, if she could not be
literally made to talk, could be made to do almost every thing else. A
vessel, and a small vessel, too, is rather contracted as to space, but
those who wish to converse can contrive to speak together often, even in
such narrow limits. Such had been the fact with Rose Budd and the
handsome mate. Twenty times since they sailed, short as that time was,
had Mulford contrived to get so near to Rose, as to talk with her,
unheard by others. It is true, that he seldom ventured to do this, so
long as the captain was in sight, but Spike was often below, and
opportunities were constantly occurring. It was in the course of these
frequent but brief conversations, that Harry had made certain dark hints
touching the character of his commander, and the known recklessness of
his proceedings. Rose had taken the alarm, and fully comprehending her
aunt’s mental imbecility, her situation was already giving her great
uneasiness. She had some undefined hopes from the revenue steamer,
though, strangely enough as it appeared to her, her youngest and most
approved suitor betrayed a strong desire to escape from that craft, at
the very moment he was expressing his apprehensions on account of her
presence in the brig. This contradiction arose from a certain _esprit de
corps_, which seldom fails, more or less, to identify the mariner with
his ship.

But the writing was finished, and the letter sealed with wax, Mrs. Budd
being quite as particular in that ceremony as Lord Nelson, when the
females again repaired on deck. They found Spike and his mate sweeping
the eastern part of the sound, with their glasses, with a view to look
out for enemies; or, what to them, just then, was much the same thing,
government craft. In this occupation, Rose was a little vexed to see
that Mulford was almost as much interested as Spike himself, the love of
his vessel seemingly overcoming his love for her, if not his love of the
right—she knew of no reason, however, why the captain should dread any
other vessel, and felt sufficiently provoked to question him a little on
the subject, if it were only to let him see that the niece was not as
completely his dupe as the aunt. She had not been on deck five minutes,
therefore, during which time several expressions had escaped the two
sailors touching their apprehensions of vessels seen in the distance,
ere she commenced her inquiries.

“And why should we fear meeting with other vessels?” Rose plainly
demanded—“here in Long Island Sound, and within the power of the laws
of the country?”

“Fear!” exclaimed Spike, a little startled, and a good deal surprised at
this straight-forward question—“Fear, Miss Rose! You do not think we
are afraid, though there are many reasons why we do not wish to be
spoken by certain craft that are hovering about. In the first place, you
know it is war time—I suppose you know, Madam Budd, that America is at
war with Mexico?”

“Certainly,” answered the widow, with dignity—“and that is a sufficient
reason, Rose, why one vessel should chase, and another should run. If
you had heard your poor uncle relate, as I have done, all his chasings
and runnings away, in the war times, child, you would understand these
things better. Why, I’ve heard your uncle say that, in some of his long
voyages, he has run thousands and thousands of miles, with sails set on
both sides, and all over his ship!”

“Yes, aunty, and so have I, but that was ‘running before the wind,’ as
he used to call it.”

“I s’pose, however, Miss Rose,” put in Spike, who saw that the niece
would soon get the better of the aunt;—“I s’pose, Miss Rose, that
you’ll acknowledge that America is at war with Mexico?”

“I am sorry to say that such is the fact, but I remember to have heard
you say, yourself, Capt. Spike, when my aunt was induced to undertake
this voyage, that you did not consider there was the smallest danger
from any Mexicans.”

“Yes, you did, Capt. Spike,” added the aunt—“you did say there was no
danger from Mexicans.”

“Nor is there a bit, Madam Budd, if Miss Rose, and your honored self
will only hear me. There is no danger, because the brig has the heels of
any thing Mexico can send to sea. She has sold her steamers, and, as for
any thing else under her flag, I would not care a straw.”

“The steamer from which we ran, last evening, and which actually fired
off a cannon at us, was not Mexican, but American,” said Rose, with a
pointed manner that put Spike to his trumps.

“Oh! that steamer—” he stammered—“that was a race—only a race, Miss
Rose, and I wouldn’t let her come near me, for the world. I should never
hear the last of it, in the insurance offices, and on ’change, did I let
_her_ overhaul us. You see, Miss Rose—you see, Madam Budd—” Spike ever
found it most convenient to address his mystifying discourse to the
aunt, in preference to addressing it to the niece—“You see, Madam Budd,
the master of that craft and I are old cronies—sailed together when
boys, and set great store by each other. We met only last evening, just
a’ter I had left your own agreeable mansion, Madam Budd, and says he,
‘Spike, when do you sail?’ ‘To-morrow’s flood, Jones,’ says I—his name
is Jones;—Peter Jones, and as good a fellow as ever lived. ‘Do you go
by the Hook, or by Hell-Gate—’”

“Hurl-Gate, Capt. Spike, if you please—or Whirl-Gate, which some people
think is the true sound; but the other way of saying it is awful.”

“Well, the captain, my old master, always called it Hell-Gate, and I
learned the trick from him—”

“I know he did, and so do all sailors; but genteel people, now-a-days,
say nothing but Hurl-Gate, or Whirl-Gate.”

Rose smiled at this, as did Mulford; but neither said any thing, the
subject having once before been up between them. As for ourselves, we
are still so old fashioned as to say, and write, Hell-Gate, and intend
so to do, in spite of all the Yankees that have yet passed through it,
or who ever shall pass through it, and that is saying a great deal. We
do not like changing names to suit their uneasy spirits.

“Call the place Hurl-Gate, and go on with your story,” said the widow,
complacently.

“Yes, Madam Budd—‘Do you go by the Hook, or by Whirl-Gate?’ said Jones.
‘By Whirl-a-Gig-Gate,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I shall go through the
Gate myself, in the course of the morning. We may meet somewhere to the
eastward, and, if we do, I’ll bet you a beaver,’ says he, ‘that I show
you my stern.’ ‘Agreed,’ says I, and we shook hands upon it. That’s the
whole history of our giving the steamer the slip, last night, and of my
not wishing to let her speak me.”

“But you went into a bay, and let her go past you,” said Rose, coolly
enough as to manner, but with great point as to substance. “Was not that
a singular way of winning a race?”

“It does seem so, Miss Rose, but it’s all plain enough, when understood.
I found that steam was too much for sails, and I stood up into the bay
to let them run past us, in hopes they would never find out the trick. I
care as little for a hat, as any man, but I do care a good deal about
having it reported on ’change that the Molly was beat, by even a
steamer.”

This ended the discourse, for the moment, Clench again having something
to say to his captain in private.

“How much of that explanation am I to believe, and how much disbelieve?”
asked Rose, the instant she was left alone with Harry. “If it be all
invention, it was a ready and ingenious story.”

“No part of it is true. He no more expected that the steamer would pass
through Hell-Gate, than I expected it myself. There was no bet, or race,
therefore; but it was our wish to avoid Uncle Sam’s cruiser, that was
all.”

“And why should _you_ wish any such thing?”

“On my honor, I can give you no better reason, so far as I am concerned,
than the fact that, wishing to keep clear of her, I do not like to be
overhauled. Nor can I tell you why Spike is so much in earnest in
holding the revenue vessel at arm’s length; I know he dislikes all such
craft, as a matter of course, but I can see no particular reason for it
just now. A more innocent cargo was never struck into a vessel’s hold.”

“What is it?”

“Flour; and no great matter of that. The brig is not half full, being
just in beautiful ballast trim, as if ready for a race. I can see no
sufficient reason, beyond native antipathy, why Capt. Spike should wish
to avoid any craft, for it is humbug his dread of a Mexican, and least
of all, here in Long Island Sound. All that story about Jones is a tub
for whales.”

“Thank you for the allusion; my aunt and myself being the whales.”

“You know I do mean—_can_ mean nothing, Rose, that is disrespectful to
either yourself or your aunt.”

Rose looked up, and she looked pleased. Then she mused in silence, for
some time, when she again spoke.

“Why have you remained another voyage, with such a man, Harry?” she
asked, earnestly.

“Because, as his first officer, I have had access to your house, when I
could not have had it otherwise; and because I have apprehended that he
might persuade Mrs. Budd, as he had boasted to me it was his intention
to do, to make this voyage.”

Rose now looked grateful; and deeply grateful did she feel, and had
reason to feel. Harry had concealed no portion of his history from her.
Like herself, he was a ship-master’s son, but one better educated and
better connected than was customary for the class. His father had paid a
good deal of attention to the youth’s early years, but had made a seaman
of him, out of choice. The father had lost his all, however, with his
life, in a ship-wreck, and Harry was thrown upon his own resources, at
the early age of twenty. He had made one or two voyages as a second
mate, when chance threw him in Spike’s way, who, pleased with some
evidences of coolness and skill, that he had shown in a foreign port, on
the occasion of another loss, took him as his first officer; in which
situation he had remained ever since, partly from choice and partly from
necessity. On the other hand, Rose had a fortune; by no means a large
one, but several thousands in possession, from her own father, and as
many more in reversion from her uncle. It was this money, taken in
connection with the credulous imbecility of the aunt, that had awakened
the cupidity, and excited the hopes of Spike. After a life of lawless
adventures, one that had been chequered by every shade of luck, he found
himself growing old, with his brig growing old with him, and little left
beside his vessel and the sort of half cargo that was in her hold. Want
of means, indeed, was the reason that the flour barrels were not more
numerous.

Rose heard Mulford’s explanation favorably, as indeed she heard most of
that which came from him, but did not renew the discourse, Spike’s
conference with the boatswain just then terminating. The captain now
came aft, and began to speak of the performances of his vessel in a way
to show that he took great pride in them.

“We are traveling at the rate of ten knots, Madam Budd,” he said
exultingly, “and that will take us clear of the land, before night shuts
in ag’in. Montauk is a good place for an offing; I ask for no better.”

“Shall we then have _two_ offings, this voyage, Capt. Spike?” asked
Rose, a little sarcastically. “If we are in the offing now, and are to
be in the offing when we reach Montauk, there must be two such places.”

“Rosy, dear, you amaze me!” put in the aunt. “There is no offing until
the pilot is discharged, and when he’s discharged there is nothing but
offing. It’s all offing. On the Sound, is the first great change that
befalls a vessel as she goes to sea; then, comes the offing; next the
pilot is discharged—then—then—what comes next, Capt. Spike?”

“Then the vessel takes her departure—an old navigator like yourself,
Madam Budd, ought not to forget the departure.”

“Quite true, sir. The departure is a very important portion of a
seaman’s life. Often, and often have I heard my poor, dear Mr. Budd talk
about his departures. His departures, and his offings and his—”

“Land-falls,” added Spike, perceiving that the ship-master’s relict was
a little at fault.

“Thank you, sir; the hint is quite welcome. His land-falls, also, were
often in his mouth.”

“What is a land-fall, aunty?” enquired Rose—“It appears a strange term
to be used by one who lives on the water.”

“Oh! there is no end to the curiosities of sailors! A ‘land-fall,’ my
dear, means a ship-wreck of course. To fall on the land, and a very
unpleasant fall it is, when a vessel should keep on the water. I’ve
heard of dreadful land-falls in my day, in which hundreds of souls have
been swept into eternity, in an instant.”

“Yes; yes, Madam Budd—there are such accidents truly, and serious
things be they to encounter,” answered Spike, hemming a little to clear
his throat, as was much his practice whenever the widow ran into any
unusually extravagant blunder; “yes, serious things to encounter. But
the land-fall that I mean is a different sort of thing; being, as you
well know, what we say when we come in _sight_ of land a’ter a v’y’ge;
or, meaning the land we may happen first to see. The departure is the
beginning of our calculation when we lose sight of the last cape or
head-land, and the land-fall closes it, by letting us know where we are,
at the other end of our journey, as you probably remember.”

“Is there not such a thing as clearing out in navigation?” asked Rose
quickly, willing to cover a little confusion that was manifest in her
aunt’s manner.

“Not exactly in navigation, Miss Rose, but clearing out, with honest
folk, ought to come first and navigation a’terwards. Clearing out means
going through the Custom House, accordin’ to law.”

“And the Molly Swash has cleared out, I hope?”

“Sartain—a more lawful clearance was never given in Wall Street; it’s
for Key West and a market. I did think of making it Havana and a market,
but port-charges are lightest at Key West.”

“Then Key West is the place to which we are bound?”

“It ought to be, agreeable to papers; though vessels sometimes miss the
ports for which they clear.”

Rose put no more questions, and her aunt being conscious that she had
not appeared to advantage in the affair of the “land-fall,” was also
disposed to be silent. Spike and Mulford had their attention drawn to
the vessel, and the conversation dropped.

The reader can readily suppose that the Molly Swash had not been
standing still all this time. So far from this, she was running “down
Sound,” with the wind on her quarter, or at south-west, making great
head-way, as she was close under the south shore, or on the island side
of the water she was in. The vessel had no other motion than that of her
speed, and the females escaped every thing like sea-sickness, for the
time being. This enabled them to attend to making certain arrangements
necessary to their comforts below, previously to getting into rough
water. In acquitting herself of this task, Rose received much useful
advice from Josh, though his new assistant, Jack Tier, turned out to be
a prize indeed, in the cabins. The first was only a steward; but the
last proved himself not only a handy person of his calling, but one full
of resources; a genius, in his way. Josh soon became so sensible of his
own inferiority, in contributing to the comforts of females, that he
yielded the entire management of the “ladies’ cabin,” as a little place
that might have been ten feet square, was called, to his
uncouth-looking, but really expert deputy. Jack waddled about below, as
if born and brought up in such a place, and seemed every way fitted for
his office. In height, and in build generally, there was a surprising
conformity between the widow and the steward’s deputy, a circumstance
which might induce one to think they must often have been in each
other’s way, in a space so small; though, in point of fact, Jack never
ran foul of any one. He seemed to avoid this inconvenience, by a species
of nautical instinct.

Towards the turn of the day, Rose had every thing arranged, and was
surprised to find how much room she had made for her aunt and herself,
by means of Jack’s hints, and how much more comfortable it was possible
to be, in that small cabin, than she had, at first, supposed.

After dinner, Spike took his siesta. He slept in a little state-room
that stood on the starboard side of the quarter-deck, quite aft; as
Mulford did in one on the larboard. These two state-rooms were fixtures;
but a light deck over-head, which connected them, shipped and unshipped,
forming a shelter for the man at the wheel, when in its place, as well
as for the officer of the watch, should he see fit to use it, in bad
weather. This sort of cuddy, Spike termed his “coach-house.”

The captain had no sooner gone into his state-room, and closed its
window, movements that were understood by Mulford, than the latter took
occasion to intimate to Rose, by means of Jack Tier, the state of things
on deck, when the young man was favored with the young lady’s company.

“He has turned in for his afternoon’s nap, and will sleep for just one
hour, blow high, or blow low,” said the mate, placing himself at Rose’s
side on the trunk, which formed the usual seat for those who could
presume to take the liberty of sitting down on the quarter-deck. “It’s a
habit with him, and we can count on it, with perfect security.”

“His doing so, now, is a sign that he has no immediate fears of the
revenue steamer?”

“The coast is quite clear of her. We have taken good looks at every
smoke, but can see nothing that appears like our late companion. She has
doubtless gone to the eastward, on duty, and merely chased us, on her
road.”

“But _why_ should she chase us, at all?”

“Because we ran. Let a dog run, or a man run, or a cat run, ten to one
but something starts in chase. It is human nature, I believe, to give
chase; though I will admit there was something suspicious about that
steamer’s movements—her anchoring off the Fort, for instance. But let
her go, for the present; are you getting things right, and to your mind,
below decks?”

“Very much so. The cabin is small, and the two state-rooms the merest
drawers that ever were used, but, by putting every thing in its place,
we have made sufficient room, and no doubt shall be comfortable.”

“I am sorry you did not call on me for assistance. The mate has a
prescriptive right to help stow away.”

“We made out without your services,” returned Rose, slightly
blushing—“Jack Tier, as he is called, Josh’s assistant, is a very
useful person, and has been our adviser and manager. I want no better,
for such services.”

“He is a queer fellow, all round. Take him altogether, I hardly ever saw
so droll a being! As thick as he’s long, with a waddle like a duck, a
voice that is cracked, hair like bristles, and knee high, the man might
make a fortune as a show. Tom Thumb is scarcely a greater curiosity.”

“He is singular in ‘build,’ as you call it,” returned Rose, laughing,
“but, I can assure you, that he is a most excellent fellow in his
way—worth a dozen of Josh. Do you know, Harry, that I suspect he has
strong feelings towards Capt. Spike; though whether of like or dislike,
friendship or enmity, I am at a loss to say.”

“And why do you think that he has any feeling, at all? I have heard
Spike say, he left the fellow ashore, somewhere down on the Spanish
Main, or in the Islands, quite twenty years since, but a sailor would
scarce carry a grudge so long a time, for such a thing as that.”

“I do not know—but feeling there is, and much of it, too; though,
whether hostile, or friendly, I will not undertake to say.”

“I’ll look to the chap, now you tell me this. It is a little odd, the
manner in which he got on board us, taken in connection with the company
he was in, and a discovery may be made. Here he is, however, and, as I
keep the keys of the magazine, he can do us no great harm, unless he
scuttles the brig.”

“Magazine! Is there such a thing here?”

“To be sure there is, and ammunition enough in it, to keep eight
carronades in lively conversation for a couple of hours.”

“A carronade is what you call a gun, is it not?”

“A piece of a one—being somewhat short, like your friend Jack Tier, who
is shaped a good deal like a carronade.”

Rose smiled—nay, half laughed, for Harry’s pleasantries almost took the
character of wit in her eyes, but she did not the less pursue her
inquiries.

“Guns! And where are they, if they be on this vessel?”

“Do not use such a lubberly expression, my dear Rose, if you respect
your father’s profession. _On_ a vessel is a new fangled Americanism,
that is neither fish, flesh, nor red-herring, as we sailors say—neither
English nor Greek.”

“What should I say, then? My wish is not to parade sea-talk, but to use
it correctly, when I use it at all.”

“The expression is hardly ‘sea-talk,’ as you call it, but every-day
English—that is when rightly used. On a vessel is no more English, than
it is nautical—no sailor ever used such an expression.”

“Tell me what I ought to say, and you will find me a willing, if not an
apt scholar. I am certain of having often read it, in the newspapers,
and that quite lately.”

“I’ll answer for that, and it’s another proof of its being wrong. _In_ a
vessel is as correct as _in_ a coach, and _on_ a vessel as wrong as can
be; but you can say _on board_ a vessel, though not ‘on a vessel!’ Not
on the ‘boards of a vessel,’ as Mrs. Budd has it.”

“Mr. Mulford!”

“I beg a thousand pardons, Rose, and will offend no more—though she
does make some very queer mistakes!”

“My aunt thinks it an honor to my uncle’s memory to be able to use the
language of his professional life, and if she do sometimes make mistakes
that are absurd, it is with a motive so respectable that no sailor
should deride them.”

“I am rebuked for ever. Mrs. Budd may call the anchor a silver spoon,
hereafter, without my even smiling. But, if the aunt has this kind
remembrance of a seaman’s life, why cannot the niece think equally well
of it.”

“Perhaps she does,” returned Rose, smiling again—“seeing all its
attractions through the claims of Capt. Spike.”

“I think half the danger from him gone, now that you seem so much on
your guard. What an odious piece of deception, to persuade Mrs. Budd
that you were fast falling into a decline!”

“One so odious that I shall surely quit the brig at the first port we
enter, or even in the first suitable vessel that we may speak.”

“And Mrs. Budd—could you persuade her to such a course?”

“You scarce know us, Harry Mulford. My aunt commands, when there is no
serious duty to perform, but we change places, when there is. I can
persuade her to any thing that is right, in ten minutes.”

“You might persuade a world!” cried Harry, with strong admiration
expressed in his countenance; after which he began to converse with
Rose, on a subject so interesting to themselves that we do not think it
prudent to relate any more of the discourse, forgetting all about the
guns.

About four o’clock, of a fine summer’s afternoon, the Swash went through
the Race, on the best of the ebb, and with a staggering south-west wind.
Her movement by the land, just at that point, could not have been less
than at the rate of fifteen miles in the hour. Spike was in high
spirits, for his brig had got on famously that day, and there was
nothing in sight to the eastward. He made no doubt, as he had told his
mate, that the steamer had gone into the Vineyard Sound, and that she
was bound over the shoals.

“They want to make political capital, out of her,” he added, using one
of the slang phrases that the “business habits” of the American people
are so fast, and so rapidly incorporating with the common language of
the country—“They want to make political capital out of her, Harry, and
must show her off to the Boston folk, who are full of notions. Well, let
them turn her to as much account in that way, as they please, so long as
they keep her clear of the Molly. Your sarvant, Madam Budd”—addressing
the widow, who just at that moment came on deck—“a fine a’ternoon, and
likely to be a clear night to run off the coast in.”

“Clear nights are desirable, and most of all at sea, Capt. Spike,”
returned the relict, in her best, complacent, manner, “whether it be to
run _off_ a coast, or to run _on_ a coast. In either case, a clear
night, or a bright moon must be useful.”

Capt. Spike rolled his tobacco over in his mouth, and cast a furtive
glance at the mate, but he did not presume to hazard any further
manifestations of his disposition to laugh.

“Yes, Madam Budd,” he answered, “it is quite as you say, and I am only
surprised where you have picked up so much of what I call useful
nautical knowledge.”

“We live and learn, sir. You will recollect that this is not my first
voyage, having made one before, and that I passed a happy, happy, thirty
years in the society of my poor, dear husband, Rose’s uncle. One must
have been dull, indeed, not to have picked up, from such a companion,
much of a calling that was so dear to him, and the particulars of which
were so very dear to him. He actually gave me lessons in the ‘sea
dialect,’ as he called it, which probably is the true reason I am so
accurate and general in my acquisitions.”

“Yes, Madam Budd—yes—hem—you are—yes, you are wonderful in that way.
We shall soon get an offing, now, Madam Budd—yes, soon get an offing,
now.”

“And take in our departure, Capt. Spike—” added the widow with a very
intelligent smile.

“Yes, take our departure. Montauk is yonder, just coming in sight; only
some three hours’ run from this spot. When we get there, the open ocean
will lie before us, and give me the open sea, and I’ll not call the king
my uncle.”

“Was he your uncle, Capt. Spike?”

“Only in a philanthropic way, Madam Budd. Yes, let us get a good offing,
and a rapping to’gallant breeze, and I do not think I should care much
for two of Uncle Sam’s new-fashioned revenue craft, one on each side of
me.”

“How delightful do I find such conversation, Rose! It’s as much like
your poor, dear uncle’s, as one pea is like another. ‘Yes,’ he used to
say, too, ‘let me only have one on each side of me, and a wrapper round
the topgallant sail to hold the breeze, and I’d not call the king my
uncle.’ Now I think of it, _he_ used to talk about the king as his
uncle, too.”

“It was all talk, aunty. He had no uncle, and what is more, he had no
king.”

“That’s quite true, Miss Rose,” rejoined Spike, attempting a bow, which
ended in a sort of a jerk. “It is not very becoming in us republicans to
be talking of kings, but a habit is a habit. Our forefathers had kings,
and we drop into their ways without thinking of what we are doing.
Fore-topgallant yard, there?”

“Sir.”

“Keep a bright look-out, ahead. Let me know the instant you make any
thing in the neighborhood of Montauk.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“As I was saying, Madam Budd, we seamen drop into our forefather’s ways.
Now, when I was a youngster, I remember, one day, that we fell in with a
ketch—you know, Miss Rose, what a ketch is, I suppose?”

“I have not the least notion of it, sir.”

“Rosy, you amaze me!” exclaimed the aunt—“and you a ship-master’s
niece, and a ship-master’s daughter! A catch is a trick that sailors
have, when they quiz landsmen.”

“Yes, Madam Budd, yes; we have them sort of catches, too, but I now mean
the vessel with a peculiar rig, which we call a ketch, you know.”

“Is it the full-jigger, or the half-jigger sort, that you mean?”

Spike could hardly stand this, and he had to hail the top-gallant-yard
again, in order to keep the command of his muscles, for he saw by the
pretty frown that was gathering on the brow of Rose, that she was
regarding the matter a little seriously. Luckily, the answer of the man
on the yard diverted the mind of the widow from the subject, and
prevented the necessity of any reply.

“There’s a light, of course sir, on Montauk, is there not, Capt. Spike?”
demanded the seaman who was aloft.

“To be sure there is—every head-land, here-abouts, has its light; and
some have two.”

“Ay, ay, sir—it’s that which puzzles me; I think I see one light-house,
and I’m not certain but I see two.”

“If there is any thing like a second, it must be a sail. Montauk has but
one light.”

Mulford sprang into the fore-rigging, and in a minute was on the yard.
He soon came down and reported the light-house in sight, with the
afternoon’s sun shining on it, but no sail near.

“My poor, dear Mr. Budd used to tell a story of his being cast away on a
light-house, in the East Indies,” put in the relict, as soon as the mate
had ended his report, “which always affected me. It seems there were
three ships of them together, in an awful tempest directly off the
land—”

“That was comfortable any how,” cried Spike;—“if it must blow hard, let
it come off the land, say I.”

“Yes, sir, it was directly off the land, as my poor husband always said,
which made it so much the worse you must know, Rosy, though Capt.
Spike’s gallant spirit would rather encounter danger than not. It blew
what they call a Hyson, in the Chinese seas—”

“A what, aunty?—Hyson is the name of a tea, you know.”

“A Hyson, I’m pretty sure it was, and I suppose the wind is named after
the tea, or the tea after the wind.”

“The ladies do get in a gale, sometimes, over their tea,” said Spike
gallantly. “But I rather think Madam Budd must mean a Typhoon.”

“That’s it—a Typhoon, or a Hyson—there is not much difference between
them, you see. Well, it blew a Typhoon, and they are always mortal to
somebody. This my poor Mr. Budd well knew, and he had set his
chronometer for that Typhoon—”

“Excuse me aunty, it was the barometer that he was watching—the
chronometer was his watch.”

“So it was—his watch on deck _was_ his chronometer, I declare. I _am_
forgetting a part of my education. Do you know the use of a chronometer,
now, Rose? You have seen your uncle’s often, but do you know how he used
it?”

“Not in the least, aunty. My uncle often tried to explain it, but I
never could understand him.”

“It must have been, then, because Capt. Budd did not try to make himself
comprehended,” said Mulford, “for I feel certain nothing would be easier
than to make _you_ understand the uses of the chronometer.”

“I should like to learn it from _you_, Mr. Mulford,” answered the
charming girl, with an emphasis so slight on the ‘you,’ that no one
observed it but the mate, but which was clear enough to him, and caused
every nerve to thrill.

“I can attempt it,” answered the young man, “if it be agreeable to Mrs.
Budd, who would probably like to hear it, herself.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mulford, though I fancy you can say little on such a
subject, that I have not often heard, already, from my poor, dear, Mr.
Budd.”

This was not very encouraging, truly, but Rose continuing to look
interested, the mate proceeded.

“The use of the chronometer is to ascertain the longitude,” said Harry,
“and the manner of doing it, is simply this: A chronometer is nothing
more nor less, than a watch made with more care than usual, so as to
keep the most accurate time. They are of all sizes, from that of a
clock, down to this which I wear in my fob, and which is a watch in size
and appearance. Now, the nautical almanacs are all calculated to some
particular meridian—”

“Yes,” interrupted the relict, “Mr. Budd had a great deal to say about
meridians.”

“That of London, or Greenwich, being the meridian used by those who use
the English Almanacs, and those of Paris or St. Petersburgh, by the
French and Russians. Each of these places has an observatory, and
chronometers that are kept carefully regulated, the year round. Every
chronometer is set by the regulator of the particular observatory or
place to which the almanac used is calculated.”

“How wonderfully like my poor, dear Mr. Budd, all this is, Rosy!
Meridians, and calculated and almanacs! I could almost think I heard
your uncle entertaining me with one of his nautical discussions, I
declare!”

“Now the sun rises earlier in places east, than in places west of us.”

“It rises earlier in the summer, but later in the winter, every where,
Mr. Mulford.”

“Yes, my dear Madam, but the sun rises earlier every day, in London,
than it does in New York.”

“That is impossible,” said the widow, dogmatically—“Why should not the
sun rise at the same time in England and America?”

“Because England is east of America, aunty. The sun does not move, you
know, but only appears to us to move, because the earth turns round from
west to east, which causes those who are farthest east to see it the
first. That is what Mr. Mulford means.”

“Rose has explained it perfectly well,” continued the mate. “Now the
earth is divided into 360 degrees, and the day is divided into 24 hours.
If 360 be divided by 24, the quotient will be 15. It follows, that for
each fifteen degrees of longitude, there is a difference of just one
hour in the rising of the sun, all over the earth, where it rises at
all. New York is near five times 15 degrees west of Greenwich, and the
sun consequently rises five hours later at New York than at London.”

“There _must_ be a mistake in this, Rosy,” said the relict in a tone of
desperate resignation, in which the desire to break out in dissent, was
struggling oddly enough, with an assumed dignity of deportment. “I’ve
always heard that the people of London are some of the latest in the
world. Then I’ve been in London, and know that the sun rises in New
York, in December, a good deal earlier than it does in London, by the
clock—yes, by the clock.”

“True enough, by the clock, Mrs. Budd, for London is more than ten
degrees north of New York, and the farther north you go, the later the
sun rises in winter, and the earlier in summer.”

The relict merely shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say that she
knew no such thing; but Rose, who had been well taught, raised her
serene eyes to her aunt’s face, and mildly said—

“All true, aunty, and that is owing to the fact that the earth is
smaller at each end, than in the middle.”

“Fiddle faddle with your middles and ends, Rose—I’ve been in London,
dear, and know that the sun rises later there than in New York, in the
month of December, and that I know by the clock, I tell you.”

“The reason of which is,” resumed Mulford, “because the clocks of each
place keep the time of that place. Now, it is different with the
chronometers, they are set in the observatory of Greenwich, and keep the
time of Greenwich. This watch chronometer was set there, only six months
since, and this time, as you see is near nine o’clock, when in truth it
is only about four o’clock, here, where we are.”

“I wonder you keep such a watch, Mr. Mulford!”

“I keep it,” returned the mate smiling, “because I know it to keep good
time. It has the Greenwich time; and, as your watch has the New York
time, by comparing them together, it is quite easy to find the longitude
of New York.”

“Do you, then, keep watches to compare with your chronometers?” asked
Rose, with interest.

“Certainly not, as that would require a watch for every separate part of
the ocean, and then we should only get known longitudes. It would be
impracticable, and load a ship with nothing but watches. What we do, is
this: We set our chronometers at Greenwich, and thus keep the Greenwich
true time, wherever we go. The greatest attention is paid to the
chronometers, to see that they receive no injuries, and usually there
are two, and often more of them, to compare one with another, in order
to see that they go well. When in the middle of the ocean, for instance,
we find the true time of day at that spot, by ascertaining the height of
the sun. This we do by means of our quadrants, or sextants; for, as the
sun is always in the zenith at twelve o’clock, nothing is easier than to
do this, when the sun can be seen, and an arc of the heavens measured.
At the instant the height of the sun is ascertained by one observer, he
calls to another, who notes the time on the chronometer. The difference
in these two times, or that of the chronometer and that of the sun,
gives the distance in degrees and minutes, between the longitude of
Greenwich and that of the place on the ocean, where the observer is; and
that gives him his longitude. If the difference is three hours and
twenty minutes, in time, the distance from Greenwich is fifty degrees of
longitude, because the sun rises there three hours and twenty minutes
sooner in London, than in the fiftieth degree of west longitude.”

“A watch is a watch, Rosy,” put in the aunt, doggedly—“and time is
time.—When it’s four o’clock at our house, it’s four o’clock at your
aunt Sprague’s, and it’s so all over the world. The world may turn
round—I’ll not deny it, for your uncle often said as much as _that_,
but it cannot turn in the way Mr. Mulford says, or we should all fall
off it, at night, when it was bottom upwards. No, sir, no; you’ve
started wrong. My poor, dear, late Mr. Budd always admitted that the
world turned round, as the books say; but, when I suggested to him the
difficulty of keeping things in their places, with the earth upside
down, he acknowledged candidly—for he was all candor, I must say that
for him—and owned that he had made a discovery, by means of his
barometer, which showed that the world did not turn round, in the way
you describe, or by rolling over, but by whirling about as one turns in
a dance. You must remember your uncle’s telling me this, Rose?”

Rose did remember her uncle’s telling her aunt this, as well as a great
many other similar prodigies. Capt. Budd had married his silly wife, on
account of her pretty face, and when the novelty of that was over, he
often amused himself by inventing all sorts of absurdities, to amuse
both her and himself. Among other things, Rose well remembered his
quieting her aunt’s scruples about falling off the earth, by laying down
the theory that the world did not “roll over,” but “whirl round.” But
Rose did not answer the question.

“Objects are kept in their places on the earth, by means of attraction,”
Mulford ventured to say, with a great deal of humility of manner. “I
believe it is thought there is no up or down, except as we go from, or
towards the earth; and that would make the position of the last a matter
of indifference, as respects objects keeping on it.”

“Attractions are great advantages, I will own, sir, especially to our
sex. I think it will be acknowledged there has been no want of them in
our family, any more than there has been of sense and information.
Sense, and information, we pride ourselves on; attractions being gifts
from God, we try to think less of them. But all the attractions in the
world could not keep Rosy, here, from falling off the earth, did it ever
come bottom upwards. And, mercy on me, where would she fall to!”

Mulford saw that argument was useless, and he confined his remarks,
during the rest of the conversation, to showing Rose the manner in which
the longitude of a place might be ascertained, with the aid of the
chronometer, and by means of observations to get the true time of day,
at the particular place itself. Rose was so quick witted, and already so
well instructed, as easily to comprehend the principles; the details
being matters of no great moment to one of her sex and habits. But Mrs.
Budd remained antagonist to the last. She obstinately maintained that
twelve o’clock was twelve o’clock; or, if there _was_ any difference,
“London hours were notoriously later, than those of New York.”

Against such assertions, arguments were obviously useless, and Mulford,
perceiving that Rose began to fidget, had sufficient tact to change the
conversation altogether.

And still the Molly Swash kept in swift motion. Montauk was, by this
time, abeam, and the little brigantine began to rise and fall, on the
long swells of the Atlantic, which now opened before her, in one vast
sheet of green and rolling waters. On her right, lay the termination of
Long Island; a low, rocky cape, with its light, and a few fields in
tillage, for the uses of those who tended it. It was the “land’s end” of
New York, while the island that was heaving up out of the sea, at a
distance of about twenty miles to the eastward, was the property of
Rhode Island, being called Blok Island. Between the two, the Swash
shaped her course for the ocean.

Spike had betrayed uneasiness, as his brig came up with Montauk; but the
coast seemed clear, with not even a distant sail in sight, and he came
aft rubbing his hands with delight, speaking cheerfully.

“All right, Mr. Mulford,” he cried—“every thing ship-shape and
brister-fashion—not even a smack fishing here-away, which is a little
remarkable. Ha!—what are you staring at, over the quarter, there?”

“Look here, sir, directly in the wake of the setting sun, which we are
now opening from the land—is not that a sail?”

“Sail! Impossible, sir. What should a sail be doing in there, so near
Montauk—no man ever saw a sail there, in his life. It’s a spot in the
sun, Madam Budd, that my mate has got a glimpse at, and, sailor-like, he
mistakes it for a sail! Ha—ha—ha—yes, Harry, it’s a spot in the sun.”

“It is a spot _on_ the sun, as you say, but it’s a spot made by a
vessel—and here is a boat pulling towards her, might and main; going
from the light, as if carrying news.”

It was no longer possible for Spike’s hopes to deceive him. There was a
vessel sure enough, though, when first seen, it was so directly in a
line with the fiery orb of the setting sun, as to escape common
observation. As the brig went foaming on towards the ocean, however, the
black speck was soon brought out of the range of the orb of day, and
Spike’s glass was instantly leveled at it.

“Just as one might expect, Mr. Mulford,” cried the captain, lowering his
glass, and looking aloft to see what could be done to help his craft
along; “a bloody revenue cutter, as I’m a wicked sinner! There she lies,
sir, within musket shot of the shore, hid behind the point, as it might
be in waiting for us, with her head to the southward, her helm hard
down, topsail aback, and foresail brailed; as wicked looking a thing as
Free Trade and Sailor’s Rights ever ran from. My life on it, sir, she’s
been put in that precise spot, in waiting, for the Molly to arrive. You
see, as we stand on, it places her as handsomely to windward of us, as
the heart of man could desire.”

“It _is_ a revenue cutter, sir; now she’s out of the sun’s wake, that is
plain enough. And that is her boat, which has been sent to the light to
keep a lookout for us. Well, sir; she’s to windward, but we have every
thing set for our course, and as we are fairly abeam, she must be a
great traveler to overhaul us.”

“I thought these bloody cutters were all down in the Gulf,” growled the
captain, casting his eyes aloft, again, to see that every thing drew.
“I’m sure the newspapers have mentioned as many as twenty that are down
there, and here is one, lying behind Montauk, like a snake in the
grass!”

“At any rate, by the time he gets his boat up, we shall get the start of
him—ay; there he fills and falls off, to go and meet her. He’ll soon be
after us, Capt. Spike, at racing speed.”

Every thing occurred as those two mariners had foreseen. The revenue
cutter, one of the usual fore-topsail schooners that are employed in
that service, up and down the coast, had no sooner hoisted up her boat,
than she made sail, a little off the wind, on a line to close with the
Swash. As for the brig, she had hauled up to an easy bowline, as she
came round Montauk, and was now standing off south south-east, still
having the wind at south-west. The weatherly position of the cutter
enabled her to steer rather more than one point freer. At the
commencement of this chase, the vessels were about a mile and a half
apart, a distance too great to enable the cutter to render the light
guns she carried available, and it was obvious from the first, that
every thing depended on speed. And speed it was, truly; both vessels
fairly flying; the Molly Swash having at last met with something very
like her match. Half an hour satisfied both Spike and Mulford that, by
giving the cutter the advantage of one point in a freer wind, that she
would certainly get along side of them, and the alternative was to keep
off.

“A starn chase is a long chase, all the world over,” cried Spike—“edge
away, sir; edge away, sir, and bring the cutter well on our quarter.”

This order was obeyed, but to the surprise of those in the Swash, the
cutter did not exactly follow, though she kept off a little more. Her
object seemed to be to maintain her weatherly position, and in this
manner, the two vessels ran on, for an hour longer, until the Swash had
made most of the distance between Montauk and Blok Island. Objects were
even becoming dimly visible on the last, and the light on the point was
just becoming visible, a lone star above a waste of desert, the sun
having been down now fully a quarter of an hour, and twilight beginning
to draw the curtain of night over the waters.

“A craft under Blok,” shouted the look-out, that was still kept aloft as
a necessary precaution.

“What sort of a craft?” demanded Spike, fiercely; for the very mention
of a sail, at that moment, aroused all his ire. “Arn’t you making a
frigate out of an apple orchard?”

“It’s the steamer, sir. I can now see her smoke. She’s just clearing the
land, on the south side of the island, and seems to be coming round to
meet us.”

A long, low, eloquent whistle from the captain, succeeded this
announcement. The man aloft was right. It _was_ the steamer, sure
enough; and she had been lying hid behind Blok Island, exactly as her
consort had been placed behind Montauk, in waiting for their chase to
arrive. The result was to put the Molly Swash in exceeding jeopardy, and
the reason why the cutter kept so well to windward, was fully explained.
To pass out to sea between these two craft was hopeless. There remained
but a single alternative from capture, by one or by the other, and that
Spike adopted instantly. He kept his brig dead away, setting
studding-sails on both sides. This change of course brought the cutter
nearly aft, or somewhat on the other quarter, and laid the brig’s head
in a direction to carry her close to the northern coast of the island.
But the principal advantage was gained over the steamer, which could not
keep off, without first standing a mile or two, or even more, to the
westward, in order to clear the land. This was so much clear gain to the
Swash, which was running off at racing speed, on a northeast course,
while her most dangerous enemy was still heading to the westward. As for
the cutter, she kept away; but, it was soon apparent that the brig had
the heels of her, dead before the wind.

Darkness now began to close around the three vessels; the brig and the
schooner soon becoming visible to each other principally by means of
their night-glasses; though the steamer’s position could be easily
distinguished by means of her flaming chimney. This latter vessel stood
to the westward for a quarter of an hour, when her commander appeared to
become suddenly conscious of the ground he was losing, and he wore short
round, and went off before the wind, under steam and canvas; intending
to meet the chase off the northern side of the island. The very person
who had hailed the Swash, as she was leaving the wharf, who had passed
her in Hell-Gate, with Jack Tier in his boat, and who had joined her off
Throgmorton’s, was now on her deck, urging her commander, by every
consideration, not to let the brig escape. It was at his suggestion that
the course was changed. Nervous, and eager to seize the brig, he
prevailed on the commander of the steamer to change his course. Had he
done no more than this, all might have been well; but, so exaggerated
were his notions of the Swash’s sailing, that, instead of suffering the
steamer to keep close along the eastern side of the island, he persuaded
her commander of the necessity of standing off, a long distance to the
northward and eastward, with a view to get ahead of the chase. This was
not bad advice, were there any certainty that Spike would stand on, of
which, however, he had no intention.

The night set in dark and cloudy, and, the instant that Spike saw, by
means of the flaming chimney, that the steamer had wore, and was going
to the eastward of Blok, his plan was laid. Calling to Mulford, he
communicated it to him, and glad to find that his intelligent mate was
of his own way of thinking. The necessary orders were given,
accordingly, and every thing was got ready for its execution.

In the meantime, the two revenue craft were much in earnest. The
schooner was one of the fastest in the service, and had been placed
under Montauk, as described, in the confident expectation of her being
able to compete with even the Molly Swash successfully; more especially
if brought upon a bowline. Her commander watched the receding form of
the brig with the closest attention, until it was entirely swallowed up
in the darkness, under the land, towards which he then sheered himself,
in order to prevent the Swash from hauling up, and turning to windward,
close in under the shadow of the island. Against this manœuvre, however,
the cutter had now taken an effectual precaution, and her people were
satisfied that escape in that way was impossible.

On the other hand, the steamer was doing very well. Driven by the
breeze, and propelled by her wheels, away she went, edging further and
further from the island, as the person from the Custom House succeeded,
as it might be, inch by inch, in persuading the captain of the necessity
of his so doing. At length a sail was dimly seen ahead, and then no
doubt was entertained that the brig had got to the northward and
eastward of them. Half an hour brought the steamer along side of this
sail, which turned out to be a brig, that had come over the shoals, and
was beating into the ocean, on her way to one of the southern ports. Her
captain said there had nothing passed to the eastward.

Round went the steamer, and in went all her canvas. Ten minutes later
the look-out saw a sail to the westward, standing before the wind. Odd
as it might seem, the steamer’s people now fancied they were sure of the
Swash. There she was, coming directly for them, with square yards! The
distance was short, or a vessel could not have been seen by that light,
and the two craft were soon near each other. A gun was actually cleared
on board the steamer, ere it was ascertained that the stranger was the
schooner! It was now midnight, and nothing was in sight but the coasting
brig. Reluctantly, the revenue people gave the matter up; the Molly
Swash having again eluded them, though by means unknown.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                HAWKING.


                            BY E. M. SIDNEY.


    Up and away, for the day is bright,
      With the falconers shouting cheerily!
    Look at the gos-hawk’s eye of light,
      As he plumes his pinions merrily!

    He sees the heron, and quick he starts,
      Wheeling to heaven so cheerily!
    Now, like a thunderbolt down he darts
      Away, away right merrily!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _History of the Thirty Years’ War. Translated from the German of
    Frederick Schiller. By the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison, M. A. New
    York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

In the opinion of Carlyle this is the best philosophical history that
Germany has produced. The Harpers have reprinted it in the cheap and
elegant series of valuable books, entitled their “New Miscellany.” The
volume presents a graphic and exceedingly interesting view of one of the
most terrible and devastating wars with which Europe was ever cursed. It
represents the struggle of the Protestant States against the overgrown
power of Austria, and the various motives, religious and devilish, which
animated the parties during the contest. The skill and bravery of the
commanders engaged in the war, give a personal as well as general
interest to the narrative. On the one side we have Gustavus Adolphus,
Count Thorn, Mansfield, Bernard of Weimar, Banner, Torstensohn, on the
other Wallenstein, Tilly, Piccolimini, Pappenheim, and Hatzfeld.
Gustavus Adolphus and Wallenstein are, of course, the leading objects of
interest. In reading this history the mind becomes so accustomed to the
devastation of provinces, the murder of peasants, and horrible outrages
on all the decencies and sanctities of life,—that fire, famine and
slaughter become mere commonplaces and matters of course. We read, at
last, the most terrible accounts of wretchedness and cruelty, with
hardly a shudder. Schiller, in summing up the various evils of this war,
a war which devastated whole provinces, reduced towns and cities to
ashes, “smothered the glimmering sparks of civilization in Germany, and
threw back the improving manners of the country into their pristine
barbarity and wildness,” still finds consolation in the thought that
from this fearful war Europe came forth free and independent. “In it she
first learned to recognize herself as a community of nations; and this
intercommunion of States, which originated in the thirty years’ war,
would alone be sufficient to reconcile the philosopher to its horrors.”
There is, in truth, some consolation in the idea that a soul of goodness
abides in things evil,—that men, mad with passion or drunk with
fanaticism, cannot hack each other to pieces, without having their blind
fury directed by a higher power to a good result.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The History of Civilization from the Fall of the Roman Empire
    to the French Revolution. By F. Guizot. Translated by William
    Hazlitt. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 4 vols. 12mo._

No person can have watched the course of the prominent American
publishers of the United States, without observing a manifest
improvement, within the last three or four years, in the character of
the books they reprint, and the style of their execution. The house of
Appleton & Co. have been especially distinguished for the intrinsic
value, and the cheapness and elegance, of their publications. Their
mercantile daring, in hazarding capital on books which were not
considered, until lately, profitable speculations, deserves the highest
praise. The present edition of Guizot’s admirable work on Civilization,
is one of their most important additions to the stock of works,
combining great learning and profound thought, with some of the most
charming qualities of style. The first portion of the present
publication, on the General History of Civilization in Europe, is well
known; but the other three volumes, containing Guizot’s lectures on the
History of Civilization in France, have been but lately translated.
Guizot is probably the greatest historian that France has produced, in
the combination of those qualities which go to make up a genius for
history. He yields to none in the research which collects facts, the
understanding which analyses and arranges them, and the imagination
which represents them as realities, and endows them with substantial
life and meaning. To all these advantages, he adds a beautiful
clearness, vigor and brilliancy of style, in narrating the progress of
events and setting forth their laws and principles. The present history
is at once popular and profound. It is calculated to delight and
instruct the common reader as well as the student. We cordially
recommend it to all, as a book containing a vast amount of erudition and
thought, devoted to the illustration of a subject in which everybody has
an interest, and calculated to improve the literary taste of the reader,
as well as to inform and enlarge his understanding.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Stories from the Italian Poets. By Leigh Hunt. New York: Wiley
    & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most entertaining volumes of the season. It contains
a summary in prose of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and various stories from
the poems of Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, with occasional passages
versified, and some interesting critical notices of the lives and genius
of the poets. In the criticisms Hunt evinces a knowledge of his authors,
founded on a long acquaintance with them, and a keen enjoyment of their
excellencies. The account of the Divine Comedy is the best, for the
general mind, which we have yet seen in English, and is calculated to
give delight to thousands, to whom Cary’s translation would be a bore.
The stories from Pulci are exquisite for their mirthful beauty. The
tales from Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, will introduce the common novel
reader into a new world of beauty, heroism and romance. The passages of
grandeur and sublimity, of pathos and sweetness,—the images both
delicate and magnificent, with which the volume abounds,—make its
circulation in this country a thing devoutly to be wished. It will
enable the reader to obtain some idea of the splendor and opulence of
the Italian mind, in all which enchants the senses and thrills the
imagination.

Hunt’s critical notices and occasional comments are very characteristic.
His style has the same sweetness and felicity which constitute the charm
of his other essays; and is dotted over with those little impertinences
of personal opinion, from which nothing that he writes is wholly free.
His remarks on Dante throw more light upon his own character than that
of his subject. From the very constitution of his mind he revolts at all
infliction of suffering, even for sin. He would have ice-creams in
Pandemonium. He is inexpressibly shocked at Dante’s severity and spleen,
and speaks many a fair word for the poor rascals whom the austere
Florentine has consigned to perdition. His comments on the remorseless
severity of the punishments in Hell,—his indignation that Cato should
be placed in Purgatory while his wife, Marcia, sojourns in the pit,—his
exceptions to some of the persons placed on high seats in heaven,—are
often exquisitely amusing. It requires a man like Hunt to criticise a
man like Dante.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
    1 vol. 8vo._

This is a splendid edition of one of the most popular of English poets.
It has ten fine steel embellishments, and its general execution places
it very nearly on a level with the English edition. As a specimen of
American typography it is very honorable to the enterprising publishers.
It is the only complete edition of Moore ever published in this country,
being reprinted from the London collection, lately edited by the poet
himself, and containing his autobiographical prefaces and illustrations.
In these the poet very pleasantly prattles about his own life and works,
and is exhibited as the most graceful of egotists. The volume contains
an immense number of brilliant verses, ranging in subject from the
romantic poem to the political squib. Without depth of passion,
elevation of sentiment, or grandeur of imagination, the poems of Moore
still evince a quickness of sensibility, an opulence of fancy, and a
brilliancy of wit, which have made them among the most popular works
produced within the present century. His poems are lit up with an
incessant shower of sparkling fancies. Almost everything he has written
is full of glitter and point—his sentiment as well as his satire. His
songs are often epigrams of feeling. Though, as a poet, he can hardly
stand by the side of Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, or Byron, in the
greatest qualities of the bard, yet no one can glance over the present
volume without being impressed with the brilliant genius of its author,
and fascinated with the stores of wit, fancy, learning and sentiment,
which glisten and gleam on every page.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The French Revolution. A History. By Thomas Carlyle. Newly
    Revised by the Author, with Index. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 3
    Parts. 12mo._

This is Carlyle’s grandest work—a prose epic on the great event of
modern history. In our narrow limits we cannot hope to do any thing like
justice, to the imagination, fancy, learning, humor, pathos, sublimity,
characterization, with which the volumes abound. In spite of some
obstinate faults, in spite of much false and pernicious doctrine, in
spite of the style, no work ever written on the French Revolution equals
this in the clearness with which it represents the causes of that
revolution, in the vividness with which it brings up its different
events in magnificent pictures, speaking directly to the eye, and in the
grandeur of its delineations of the principal actors in the drama. The
portraits of Mirabeau, Danton, Robespierre, are masterpieces. Every page
glows with vital life. The words are all alive with meaning. They paint
objects so distinctly that we become observers of the scenes to which
they relate. Carlyle, in truth, is a master of expression as
distinguished from mere fluency. He selects the “inevitable best word,”
or compounds it, with an unmistakable tact and sureness. If to his other
great qualities he joined calmness, comprehension, mental honesty, the
present work would be almost perfect. Viewing it with an eye to all its
faults, it must be pronounced a work of great genius and power.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life and Correspondence of John Foster. Edited by J. E.
    Ryland. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 vols. 12mo._

Foster is well known as the author of a volume of essays, laden with
weighty thought and acute observations on character and life. The
present volume, containing his letters and journals from his earliest to
his latest years, is one of great value, not merely to his own sect, the
Baptists, but to all who can appreciate originality of character and
thought. Foster was a hard, determined, patient thinker, gifted with
much imagination, and impressing on every thing he wrote the invincible
honesty of his character. His correspondence reveals to us the inmost
recesses of his mind and disposition, and constitutes a kind of
psychological autobiography, replete with materials of interest and
instruction. The separate thoughts scattered over these volumes would
alone be sufficient to reward abundantly the trouble of its perusal. One
of the strongest peculiarities of genius, Foster says in one place, “is
the power of lighting its own fire.” Of a soft and pensive evening, he
remarks—“It is as if the soul of Eloisa pervaded all the air.”
Shakspeare, he observes, had perceptions of every kind; “he could think
every way. His mind might be compared to that monster the prophet saw in
his vision, which _had eyes all over_.” Again he says—“Lord Chatham did
not _reason_; he struck, as by intuition, directly on the _results_ of
reasoning; as a cannon-shot strikes the mark without your seeing its
course through the air as it moves towards its object.” When shown a
piece of ornamental worsted-work, with a great deal of red in it, he
said “it was red with the blood of murdered time.” The volumes are full
of thoughts and observations equally striking and pointed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The New Timon. A Romance of London. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart.
    1 vol. 12mo._

This poem has excited no inconsiderable interest in London. It is
reprinted from the third English edition. Bulwer has been mentioned as
the probable author, but this must be a mistake, unless Bulwer has
essentially changed his literary opinions. Wordsworth, Keats and
Tennyson, each of whom the author of “Pelham” has warmly praised, the
author of “Timon” most ignorantly and pertly ridicules. The poem, it
must be admitted, has much merit. It is written in a vigorous style,
contains numerous passages of flashing description, much keen
portraiture of prominent English politicians, and many beautiful scenes
of pathos and passion. The pith and nerve of the verse, the
half-misanthropic, half-romantic tone of the sentiment, the frequent
allusion to contemporary events and persons, and the bitter sharpness of
the satire on social evils,—often remind the reader of Byron. The work
evidences a brilliant and restless intellect, ill at ease with the
manners and institutions of society, scornful, dogmatic and perverse,
but quite felicitous in running keen observations into the moulds of
fancy and wit. Kinglake, the author of Eothen, might have written it.
The author’s character is a composite, made up of Diogenes and
Alcibiades.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Memoirs of the Life of Addison. By Miss Aiken. Philadelphia:
    Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publishers of this volume have started a “Library for the People,”
of which the Life of Addison constitutes No. 5. It makes a volume of
about 300 pages, elegantly printed. The price is only fifty cents, or
_one-fourteenth_ of the cost of the English edition. All the mistakes of
the English edition, so acutely pointed out by Macaulay, have been
corrected in the American reprint. The work is well written, and
introduces us to a most interesting period of English literature and
history. The correspondence of Addison confers great value upon the
work. Most of the letters were never before printed. The beautiful
character of the subject, joined to the immense influence which his
writings have exerted on English letters and manners, give to the
details of his virtuous and well-spent life a peculiar interest and
charm. A volume which introduces us so completely to Addison, and
strengthens that affectionate companionship with him, which his works
may have commenced, cannot fail to be popular.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poetry of Wit and Humor. Selected from the English Poets.
    With an Illustrative Essay, and Critical Comments. By Leigh
    Hunt. 1 vol. 12mo._

The matter of this book will ensure its success. It contains extracts
from Chaucer, Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Suckling,
Dryden, Pope, Goldsmith and Wolcot, with running comments on the authors
and on particular passages of the poems. The essay on Wit and Humor,
though it does not exhaust the topic, is ingenious, and pleasantly
illustrated. We do not think that in the case of a few of the authors,
Hunt has hit upon the happiest selections. Few, for example, would
obtain an idea of the comic genius of Fletcher from the specimens quoted
in the volume. The task, however, was a difficult one to perform; and
the editor, in compiling an entertaining volume, has done all that
perhaps could be expected, in the limited space to which he was
confined.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Island Bride, and other Poems. By James F. Colman. Boston:
    Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The most superficial glance over this volume would convince even the
supercilious critic, that the author is destined to take a high rank
among American poets. “The Island Bride” contains nine Cantos of
Spenserian verse, finished in diction, poetical in feeling, and replete
with thought, fancy and imagination. It is one of the very few long
poems in American literature, which more than repay perusal. The other
pieces are of much merit, and bear unmistakable marks of power. The most
surprising quality manifested in the volume, is perhaps the correct
taste which is everywhere observable throughout its pages. It seems the
work of a veteran in composition, rather than the first volume of a
youthful poet. We should be pleased, had we time, to make it the subject
of a more extended notice; but at present, we can do little more than
cordially commend it to the notice of our readers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Classical Antiquities, a Compendium of Roman and Grecian
    Antiquities, with a Sketch of Ancient Mythology. By Joseph
    Salkeld. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The object of this volume is a good one, and it will be found eminently
useful. To read modern books understandingly, some knowledge of the
religion, government and manners and customs of the Greeks and Romans,
is indispensable, from the multitude of allusions to them throughout
every department of modern literature. In addition to this, the subject
of Classical Antiquities is sufficiently interesting of itself, to
justify the reading of a much larger book than the present. The “way of
life” among two nations, which have once held a vast dominion on earth,
by virtue of their power and policy, and still hold even a vaster
dominion over the mind by virtue of their literature, must be
interesting to every reflective and curious mind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Rationale of Crime, and its Appropriate Treatment; being a
    Treatise on Criminal Jurisprudence considered in relation to
    Cerebral Organization. By M. B. Sampson. With Notes and
    Illustrations by E. W. Farnham. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1
    vol. 12mo._

The character of this volume is indicated by its title. It is the
application of the principles of phrenology to the phenomena of crime.
The notions of the author are illustrated by a number of portraits of
criminals and other persons, the shape of whose heads are said to
indicate the bent of their characters. The book is readable, even to
unbelievers in the science of bumps. Phrenology, however, to all intents
and purposes, is an exploded system; and thieves and murderers cannot,
at this day, save themselves from punishment, by exhibiting in
extenuation of their crime, the most gigantic organs of acquisitiveness
and destructiveness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Notes on the Northwest and Valley of the Upper Mississippi. By
    Wm. J. A. Bradford. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

A work like this has long been wanted. The large mass of readers are
singularly deficient in accurate knowledge respecting the great region
of which it treats. Mr. Bradford has interesting chapters on the
physical geography, history, topography, pursuits, health, geology,
botany, monuments, and aboriginal inhabitants of the Northwest. Under
this name he includes the country between Lakes Superior and Michigan,
east,—the Illinois and Missouri Rivers, and the Northern Boundary of
the United States,—including Iowa and Wisconsin, part of Michigan
northwest of the Straits of Mackinaw, and Northern Illinois and
Missouri.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poetry and Truth from my Life. From the German of Goethe. By
    Parke Godwin. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts, 12mo._

It is singular that this is the first good English translation of the
celebrated work of Goethe on his own life. As a record of the external
influences and internal experiences, which went to form the character of
Germany’s master-intellect, it is one of the most important works of the
age. Carlyle, in referring to it, well says—“what would we give for
such an autobiography of Shakspeare, of Milton, even of Pope or Swift?”
The publishers have included it in their series of “Choice Books”—an
enterprise which they have successfully extended to eighty numbers,
without any evidence of exhausting their materials.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Something for Every-Body: Gleaned in the Old Purchase, from
    Fields often Reaped. By Robert Carlton. New York: D. Appleton &
    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This book well bears out its title. It is a collection of anecdotes,
personal adventures, and hits upon popular errors. The author is a
shrewd observer of life and character, and has an eye for the tendencies
of popular movements. There is much sense and humor in his remarks on
the various moral reforms of the day. He is “a gentleman of the old
school,” and perhaps does not always do complete justice to the objects
of his sarcasm or indignation; but he well probes their weak points.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sartor Resartus: the Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh.
    In Three Books. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This edition of Carlyle’s celebrated work on the philosophy of clothes,
is revised by the author; and Wiley & Putnam are authorized by him, to
“print and vend the same in the United States.” The book, itself, with
all its wildness of style, is one of the most fascinating works of the
century—full of splendid imagination, deep thought, and humorous
insight into life, character and manners. Its wealth of pictorial
expression, would alone entitle it to a high rank among works of
imagination. The present edition is altogether the best and most elegant
ever published in the United States.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Experimental Researches on the Food of Animals, and the
    Fattening of Cattle; with Remarks on the Food of Man. By Robert
    Dundas Thomson, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work presents the results of an extensive series of original
experiments, undertaken by order of the British government. It is full
of matter important at once to the practical agriculturist and the
scientific physiologist. The publishers have issued it in a cheap form,
so as to bring it within the reach of the humblest means. The author is
evidently a patient man of science, who may be relied upon as a close
observer of facts, and strict reasoner from them. No farmer can well
dispense with the book.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.
_Coiffure de_ Normandin, _passage Choiseul, 19—Chapeaux de M^{me}._
  Baudry, _r. Richlieu 87;_
_Toilettes de M^{me}._ Ferrière Pennona, _r. Mondovi, 1—plumes de M^{me}._
  Tilman, _rue Minars, 5;_
_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2^{bis}—Mouchoirs de_ L. Chapron
  & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7;_
_Essences & flacons de_ Guerlain, _r. de la Paix, 11—Chaussures de_
  Hoffmann, _r. du Dauphin, 9_.
Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has 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 iv, by Charles E. Cathrall, 149 ==> by Charles E. Cathrall, 140
page iv, Fox and Saukie Indians, ==> Saukie and Fox Indians,
page 5, a suprise took place ==> a surprise took place
page 21, like barks again put ==> like barques again put
page 28, thou seeest, hearest, ==> thou seest, hearest,
page 30, the streets, massacreing ==> the streets, massacring
page 31, supremay of the Pope! ==> supremacy of the Pope!
page 31, they were massacreing men, ==> they were massacring men,
page 46, your neice, I might ==> your niece, I might
page 51, with a manifest distate ==> with a manifest distaste
page 54, this arrangment, but in ==> this arrangement, but in
page 55, was a taunt top-mast, ==> was a taut top-mast,
page 60, would be villified ==> would be vilified
page 144, Firm of Domby & Son ==> Firm of Dombey & Son
Le Follet, _Chapeau de M^{me}._ Baudry ==> _Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 1, January 1847, George Rex
Graham, Editor]