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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                 Vol. XXX.      June, 1847.      No. 6.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Boots; Or the Misfortunes of Peter Faber
          A Chapter on Eating. Part I
          The Loyalist’s Daughter
          The Strawberry-Woman
          The Islets of the Gulf; Or Rose Budd
          Spectral and Supernatural Appearances
          The Musician. A Tale Founded upon Fact
          Review of New Books

                           Poetry and Fashion

          The Idiot Boy
          Youthful Love
          Sonnet from Petrarch, on the Death of Laura
          Morning Invitation
          A Prayer
          Lines on Visiting Broad Street Hotel
          The Soul’s Search
          To Lizzie
          To Ianthé
          Picture of Tasso
          Le Follet

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Drawn by J. Smillie from a sketch by T. Addison Richards.
  Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie.
 FALLS OF TOCCOA.
 Graham’s Magazine 1844.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by J. W. Wright.         Engraved by A. L. Dick.
 THE HOME BIRD.]


                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

           Vol. XXX.     PHILADELPHIA, June, 1847.     No. 6.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                “BOOTS;”


                   OR THE MISFORTUNES OF PETER FABER.


                           BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.


[Illustration]

It was a lovely autumnal morning. The air was fresh, with just enough of
frost about it to give ruddiness to the cheek and brilliancy to the eye.
The rays of the sun streamed brightly up the street; knockers,
door-plates and bell-handles, beamed with more than usual lustre; while
they who had achieved their breakfasts and had no fear of duns, went,
according to the bias of their musical fancy, either whistling or
singing through the town, as if they had finally dissolved partnership
with care, and had nothing else to do for the remainder of their natural
lives but to be as merry as grigs and as frolicsome as kittens. Every
one, even to the heavy-footed, displayed elasticity of step and buoyancy
of motion. There were some who seemed to have a disposition to dance
from place to place, and evidently found it difficult to refrain from a
pirouette around the corner or a pigeon-wing across the way, in evidence
of the light-heartedness that prevailed within. The atmosphere had a
silent music in it, more delicious than orchestral strains, and none
could resist its charm, who were not insensible in mind and body to the
innocent delight which is thus afforded to the healthful spirit. There
are mornings in this variable climate of ours, more exhilirating than
the wines of the banquet. There are days which seem to be a fête opened
to all the world. The festive hall with its blaze of chandeliers and its
feverish jollity has no pleasure in its joys to equal Nature’s holyday,
which demands no hollow cheek or haggard eye in recompense. Enjoyment
here has no remorse.

No wonder, then, that young men slapped their comrades on the back with
a merry laugh, and dealt in mirthful salutations. Nor could it cause
surprise that old men poked their cronies with a stick, and thought that
it was funny. Ay, there are moments when our frail humanity is
forgotten—when years and sorrow roll away together—when time slackens
its iron hold upon us—when pain, tears, disappointments and contrition
cease to bear down the spirit, and, for a little moment, grant it leave
to sport awhile in pristine gleefulness—when, indeed, we scarcely
recognize our care-worn selves, and have, as it were, brief glimpses of
a new existence.

Still, however, this is a world of violent contrasts, and of painful
incongruities. Some of us may laugh; but while we laugh, let us be
assured of it that there are others who are weeping. It is pleasant all
about you here, within your brief horizon, but the distance may be short
to scenes most sadly different. Smiles are on your brow, as you jostle
through the street, yet your elbow touches him whose heart is torn with
grief. Is there a merry-making in your family—are friends in
congregation there with mirth, and dance and song? How strange to think
that it is scarce a step to the couch of suffering or the chamber of
despair! The air is tremulous perchance with sighs and groans; and
though our joyous strains overwhelm all sorrow’s breathings, yet the
sorrow still exists even when we hear it not.

And so it was on this autumnal morning. While the very air had delight
in it, and while happiness pervaded the atmosphere, there was a little
man who felt it not—poor little man—poor grim little man—poor queer
little man—poor little man disconsolate. Sadness had engrossed the
little man. For him, with no sunshine in his heart, all outward sunshine
was in vain. It had no ray to dispel the thick fogs of gloom that
clouded round his soul; and the gamesome breezes which fluttered his
garments and played around his countenance, as if to provoke a smiling
recognition, met with as little of response as if they had paid
courtship to the floating iceberg, and they passed quickly by, chilled
by the hyperborean contact. The mysterious little man—contradictory in
all his aspects to the order of the day—appeared as he walked toward
the corner of Fifth and Chestnut streets—justice’s peculiar stand,
where “Black Marias” most do congregate, and where his Honor does the
honors to that portion of society who are so unfortunate and so
maladroit as to be caught in their transgressions and to be arrested in
their sins—he appeared, we say, as he approached this awful corner, to
be most assuredly under duresse, as well as an enlistment under general
affliction—a guard of functionaries—a body-guard, though not of honor,
seemed to wait upon him—the grim little man and the queer little man.
There was a hand too—ponderous in weight—austere in knuckle—severe in
fist—resting clutchingly upon the collar of the little man, as if to
demonstrate the fact that he only was the person to be gazed at—the
incident, the feature, the sensation of the time—though the little man
resisted not. He had yielded to his fate, sulkily, it may be, but
submissively. Pale was the little man’s face—most pale; while his hat
was generally crumpled in its circumference, and particularly smashed in
the details of its crown, having the look, abused hat, of being typical
of its owner’s fortunes—an emblem, as it were, of the ups and the
downs, the stumbling-places and the pitfalls wherewith its owner’s way
through life is diversified. He had a coat, too—though this simple fact
cannot be alluded to as distinctly characteristic—most men wear coats
whose aspirations go beyond the roundings of a jacket. But our little
man’s coat was peculiar—“itself alone,” speaking of it merely as a
coat. There were two propositions—either the coat did not belong to
him, or else he did not belong to the coat—one of these must have been
true, if it were proper to form an opinion upon the usual evidences
which go to settle our impression as to the matter of proprietorship in
coats. The fitness of things is the great constituent of harmony in
coats, as in all other matters; but here was a palpable violation of the
fitness of things, a coat being a thing that ought always to fit, or to
come as near to that condition as the skill of the tailor or the
configuration of the man will allow. It may possibly be that mischance
had shrunk the individual’s fair proportions, and had thus left his
garments in the lurch—the whole arrangement being that of a very small
kernel in an uncommonly extensive shell. It may be mentioned also in the
way of illustration, that the buttons behind were far below their just
and proper location—that its tails trailed on the ground; while in
front, the coat was buttoned almost around its wearer’s knees—not so
stringently, however, as to impede progression, for its ample
circumference allowed sufficient play to his limbs. Thus the little man
was not only grim, and queer, and sorrowful, but was also picturesque
and original. There was at least nothing like him to be seen that day,
or any other day; and, as he walked, marvelous people held up their
hands and wondered—curious people rubbed their eyes and
stared—sagacious people shook their wise heads in disapproval; and
dubious people, when they heard of it, were inclined to the opinion that
it must be a mistake altogether, and “a no such thing.” A boy admiringly
observed that it was his impression that “there was a good deal of coat
with a very small allowance of man,” like his grandmother’s pies, which,
according to his report, were more abundantly endowed with crust than
gifted with apples; as if the merit of a pie did not consist mainly in
its enclosures. To confess the truth, it might as well be candidly
granted at once, that but for the impediment of having his arms in the
sleeves, the little man might have turned round in his coat, without
putting his coat to the inconvenience of turning round with him.

The case—we do not mean the coat, but the case, in general and
inclusive—offered another striking peculiarity. In addition to the
somewhat dilapidated pair which already adorned his pedal extremities,
the little man, or Mr. Peter Faber—for such was the appellation in
which this little man rejoiced, when he did happen to rejoice,—for no
one ever was lucky enough to catch him at it—Mr. Peter Faber carried
another pair of boots along with him—one in each hand—as if he had
used precaution against being sent on a bootless errand, and took the
field like artillery, supplied with extra wheels. But it was not that
Mr. Peter Faber had feloniously appropriated these boots, as ill-advised
persons might be induced to suppose. But each man has his
idiosyncrasy—his peculiarities—some trait which, by imperceptible
advances, results at last in being the master-passion, consuming all the
rest; and boots—an almost insane love of boots—stood in this important
relation to Mr. Peter Faber. In happier days, when the sun of prosperity
beamed brightly on him, full of warmth and cheeriness, Peter Faber had a
whole closet full of boots, and a top-shelf full of blacking—in boxes
and in bottles—solid blacking, and that which is diluted; and Peter
Faber’s leisure hours were passed in polishing these boots, in admiring
these boots, and in trying on these boots. Peter knew, sadly enough,
that he could not be regarded as a handsome man—that neither his face
nor his form were calculated to attract attention as he passed along;
but his foot was undeniably neat—both his feet were—and his affection
for himself came to a concentration at that point.

Some men there are who value themselves upon one quality—others may be
discovered who flatter themselves on the possession of another
quality—each of us is a sort of heathen temple, with its peculiar idol
for our secret worship. There are those who pay adoration to their hair.
Whiskers, too, have votaries. People are to be met with who attitudinize
with their fingers, from a belief that these manual appendages are
worthy to be admired, because they are white or chance to be of the
diminutive order. Many eyes have double duty to perform, that we may be
induced to mark their languishing softness or to note their sparkling
brilliancy. To smile is often a laborious occupation to those who fancy
they are displayed to advantage in that species of physiognomical
exercise; and there are persons of the tragic style, who practice
frowning severity in the mirrors, that they may “look awfully” at times.
Softnesses of this kind are innumerable, rendering us the most
ridiculous when most we wish to please. The strongest have such folly;
and the weak point in Peter Faber’s character lay in his foot. Men there
are who will make puns, and are yet permitted to live. Peter Faber
cherished boots, and became the persecuted of society! Justice is blind.

On the previous night, in the very hours of quietness and repose, there
came a strange noise of rattling and bumping at the front door of the
respectable house of the respectable family of the Sniggses—people by
no means disposed to turbulence themselves, or inclined to tolerate
turbulence in others. It so happened, indeed, on this memorable
occasion, that Sniggs himself was absent from the city; and the rest of
the family were nervous after dark, because his valor had temporarily
been withdrawn from their protection. Still, however, the fearful din
continued, to the complete and terrified awakening of the innocent
Sniggses from the refreshment of balmy slumber. And such a turmoil—such
hurrying to and fro, under the appalling influence of nocturnal alarm.
Betsy, the maid of all-work, crept in terror to the chamber of the
maternal Mrs. Sniggs. Betsy first heard the noise and thought it
“washing-day,” but discovering her mistake, Betsy aroused the matron
with the somewhat indefinite news, though rather fearful announcement,
that “they are breaking in!”—the intelligence, perhaps, being the more
horrible because of its vagueness, it being left to the excited
imagination to determine who “they” were. Then came little Tommy Sniggs,
shivering with cold and fear, while he looked like a sheeted ghost in
the whiteness of his nocturnal habiliments. Tommy and Betsy crawled
under the bed that they might lie hid in safety. Nor were Mary and
Sally, and Prudence and Patience slow in their approach; and they
distributed themselves within the bed and beneath, as terror chanced to
suggest. Never before had the Sniggs family been stowed away with such
compactness—never before had there been such trembling and shaking
within the precincts of that staid and sober mansion.

“There it goes again!” shivered Mrs. Sniggs, from beneath the blankets.

“They’re most through the door!” quivered Betsy, under the bed.

“They’ll take all our money!” whimpered Prudence.

“And all our lives, too!” groaned Patience.

“And the spoons besides!” shrieked Mary, who was acting in the capacity
of housekeeper for that particular week.

“Pa!” screamed Tommy, under the usual impression of the juveniles, that
as “pa” corrects them, he is fully competent to the correction of all
the other evils that present themselves under the sun.

“Ma!” ejaculated the others, seeking rather for comfort and consolation,
than for fiercer methods of relief. But neither “pa” nor “ma” seemed to
have an exorcising effect upon the mysterious bumpings and bangings, and
pantings, and ejaculations at the front door.

In process of time, however, becoming a little familiarized to the
disturbance, Mrs. Sniggs slowly raised the window, and put forth her
nightcapped head, it having been suggested that by possibility it might
be a noise emanating from Mr. Sniggs, or “pa” himself, returning
unexpectedly.

“Who’s there?” said Mrs. Sniggs.

“Boots!” was the sepulchral reply.

“Is it you, dear—you, Sniggs?”

“If you mean me by saying you, it is me—but I’m not ‘dear’—boots is
‘dear’—Sniggs, did you say? Who’s Sniggs? If he is an able-bodied man,
send him down here to bear a hand, will you?” and another crash renewed
the terrors of the second story, which sought vent in such loud and
repeated shrieks, that even the watchman himself was awakened, and
judiciously halting at the distance of half a square, he made his
reconnoisance with true military caution, concluding with an inquiry as
to what was the matter, that he might know exactly how to regulate his
approaches to the seat of war. An idea had entered his mind that perhaps
a ghost was at the bottom of all this uproar; and though perhaps as
little afraid of mere flesh and blood as most people of his vocation, he
had no fondness for taking spectres by the collar, or for springing his
rattle at the heels of a goblin, holding it—the principle, and not the
ghost—as a maxim that if such folks pay no taxes and are not allowed to
vote, they are not entitled to the luxury of an arrest; for the
ordinances of the city do not apply to them.

“Even if it is not a ghost nor a sperrit, and I’m not very fond of any
sort of sperrits but them that comes in bottles,” said he, having now
approached near enough to hear the knocking and to see a dark object in
motion at the top of Mr. Sniggs’s steps; “perhaps it’s something out of
the menagerie or the museum—something that bites or something that
hooks; and I cannot afford to have my precious corporation used up for
the benefit of the city’s corporation. The wages is too small for a man
to have himself killed into the bargain.”

“But maybe it’s a bird,” continued he, as he caught a glimpse of Peter’s
coat-tail fluttering in the wind. “Sho-o-o-o!”

But no regard being paid to the cry, which settled the point that there
was no bird in the case—“sho-oo!” being a part of bird language, and
only comprehensible by the feathered race—the watchman slowly advanced
until he saw that the mysterious being was a man—a little
man—apparently leveling a blunderbuss and pulling at the trigger.

“Who said shoe, when it’s boot?” inquired the unknown figure, still
seemingly with a gun at its shoulder, and turning round so that the
muzzle appeared to point dangerously at the intruder.

“Halloo! don’t shoot—maybe it will go off!” cried the watch, as he
ducked and dived to confuse the aim and to avoid the anticipated bullet.

“Don’t shute! I know it, don’t shute—that’s what I want it to do—I’m
trying to make it shute with all my ten fingers,” was the panting reply,
as the apparently threatening muzzle was lowered for an instant and
raised again—“and as for its going off, that’s easy done. What I want,
is to make it go on.”

Luckily for Charley’s comfort, he now discovered that the supposed
blunderbuss was Peter Faber’s leg, and that the little man had it
leveled like a gun, in the vain attempt to pull a Wellington boot over
that which already encased his foot. He sighed and tugged, and sighed
and tugged again. The effort was bootless. He could not, to use his own
words, make it “shute.” The first pair, which already occupied the
premises, would not be prevailed upon to admit of interlopers, and
Peter’s pulling and hauling were in vain.

It was the banging of Peter’s back against the front door of Mrs.
Sniggs’s mansion that had so alarmed the family; and now as he talked,
he hopped across the pavement, still tugging at the boot, and took his
place upon the fire-plug.

“Pshaw!—baint it hot!” said Peter. “Drat these boots! they’ve been
eating green presimmings. I guess their mouths are all drawed up, just
as if they wanted to whistle ‘Hail Kerlumby.’ They did fit like nothing
when I tried ’em on this morning; but now I might as well pull at the
door-handle and try to poke my foot through the key-hole. My feet
couldn’t have growed so much in a single night, or else my stockings
would have been tore; and I’m sure these are my own legs and nobody
else’s, because they are as short as ever and as bandy. Besides, I know
it’s me by the patches on my knees. That’s the way I always tell.”

“Are you quite sure,” inquired the watch, “that you didn’t get swopped
as you came up the street? You’ve got boot, somehow or other. But come,
now,” added he authoritatively, and putting on the dignity that belongs
to his station, “quit being redickalis, and tell us what’s the meaning
of sich goin’s on in a white man, who ought to be a credit to his
fetching up. If you’re a gentleman’s son, always be genteel, and never
cut up shindies or indulge in didoes. What are you doing with them ’are
boots? That’s the question, Mr. Speaker.”

“Doing with my boots? What could I do without my boots, watchy?” added
Peter, in tones of the deepest solemnity, as he laid his boots upon his
lap and smoothed them down with every token of affection. “Watchy,
though you are a watchy, you’ve got a heart with the sensibilities in
it—nothing of the brickbat about you, is there, watchy? If you are ugly
to look at, it’s not your fault, and it’s not your fault that you’re a
watchy. I can see with half an eye that you’re a man with feelings; and
you know as well as I do that we must have something to love in this
world—you love your rattle—I love my boots—better nor they love me,
I’m afraid,” and Peter grew plaintive.

The watchman, however, shook his head with an expression of
“duberousness,” which, like the celebrated nod of Lord Burleigh, seemed
to signify a great deal relative to the thoughts existing within the
head that was thus shaken. It vibrated, as it were, between opinions,
oscillating to the right, under the idea that Peter Faber was insane
from moral causes, and pendulating to the left with the impression that
he was queer perchance from causes which come upon the table of liquid
measure.

Peter’s thoughts, however, were too intent upon the work he had in hand
and desired to get on foot, to pay attention to any other insinuation
than that of trying to insinuate his toes into the calf-skin. Sarcastic
glances and nods of distrust were thrown away upon him. He asked no
other solace than that of bringing his sole in contact with the sole of
his new boot. On this his soul was intent.

“It’s not a very genteel expression, I know,” said the nocturnal
guardian, “and it may seem to be rather a personal insinivation, though
I only ask it in a professional way, and not because I want to know as a
private citizen—no, it’s in my public campacity, that I think you have
been drinking—I think so as a watchman, not as David Dumps. Isn’t you a
leetle corned?”

“Corned! No—look at my foot—nor bunioned either,” replied Peter, as he
commenced another series of tugging at the straps; and with a look of
suspicion, he added, “That tarnal bootman must have changed ’em. He’s
guv me some baby’s boots. But never mind—boots was made to go on, and
go on they must, if I break my back a driving into ’em. Hurra!” shrieked
our hero, “bring on your wild cats!”

With this exclamation—which amounts with those who use it, to a
determination to do or die—Peter screwed up his visage and his courage
to what may be truly denominated “the terrible _feet_,” and put forth
his whole strength. Every nerve was strained to its utmost tension; the
tug was tremendous; but alas! Cæsar was punctured as full of holes as a
cullender, by those whom he regarded as his best friends; many others
have been stuck in a vital part by those who were their intimate
cronies, and how could Peter Faber hope to escape the treachery by which
all great men are begirt? When exerting the utmost of his physical
strength, the traitorous straps gave way. Two simultaneous cracks were
heard; a pair of heels, describing a short curve, flashed through the
air, and Peter, with the rapidity of lightning, turned a series of
backward somersets from the fire-plug, and went whizzing like a wheel
across the street. Now the half-donned boot appeared uppermost, and
again his head followed his heels, as if for very rage he was trying to
bite the hinder part of his shins, or sought to hide his mortification
at his failure, not only by swallowing his boots, but likewise by
gobbling up his whole body.

“Why, bless us, Boots!” said the Charley, following him like a boy
beating a hoop, “this is what I call rewarsing the order of natur. You
travel backerds, and you stop on your noddle. I thought you was trying
to go clean through the mud into the middle of next week. A’n’t you most
knocked into a cocked hat?”

“Cocked fiddlesticks!” muttered Peter. “Turn us right side up, with
care. That’s right—cocked hat, indeed! when you can see with half an
eye—if you’ve got as much—it’s my boots vot vont go on. A steam
engine—forty horse power—couldn’t pull ’em on, if your foot was a
thimble and your legs a knitting-needle. Don’t you see it was the straps
as broke? Not a good watchy!” continued Peter, as he dashed the boots on
the pavement, and made a vain attempt to dance on them, and “tread on
haughty Spain.”

“Well, now, I think I am a good watchy; for I’ve been watching you and
your boots for some time.”

“What’s a man if he a’n’t got handsome boots; and what’s the use of
handsome boots, if he a’n’t got ’em on? As the English Gineral said,
what’s beauty without bootee, and what’s bootee without beauty? Look at
them ’are articles—fust I bought ’em, and then I black’d ’em, and now
they turn agin me, and bite their best friend, like a wiper. Don’t they
look as if they ought to be ashamed?”

“Yes, I rather think they do look mean enough.”

“Who cares what you think? Have you got a boot-jack in your pocket?—no,
not a boot-jack—I want a pair of them ’are hook-em-sniveys, vot they
uses in the shops. I don’t want a pull-offer; I want a pair of
pull-on-ers.”

“If you’ll walk with me, I’ll find you a pair of hook-em-sniveys in less
than no time.”

“If you will, I’ll go, because I must get my boots on somehow, and
hook-em-sniveys will do it if anything will. There’s no fun in boots
what wont go on; you can’t make any thing of ’em except old clothes-bags
and letter-boxes, and I a’n’t got much use for articles of the
sort—seeing as how clothes and letters are scarce with me.”

“Can’t you use ’em for book-keeping by double-entry? That’s the way I
do. I put all my cash into one old boot, and all my receipts into the
other. That’s scientific double-entry simplified,—old slippers is the
Italian method.”

“No, I can’t. I does business on the fork-out system. I don’t save up,
only for boots; and as soon as I gets any money, I speculates right off
in something to eat, and lives upon the principal.”

Peter gathered up his boots, and half reclining upon the watchman,
wended his way to the common receptacle, where, after discovering the
trick played upon him, and finding that the “hook-em-sniveys” were not
forthcoming, he shared his wrath between the boots which had originally
betrayed him, and the individual who had consequently betrayed him. At
length,

        “Sweet sleep, the wounded bosom healing,”

restored Peter to himself and that just estimate of the fitness of
things, which teaches that it is not easy—even for a man who is as
sober as a powder-horn—to pull a pair of long boots over another pair;
particularly if the latter happen to be wet and muddy. Convinced of this
important truth, Peter put his boots under his arm, and departed to get
the straps repaired, and try the efficacy of hook-em-sniveys where the
law could not interfere.

And such was the close of this remarkable episode in the life of the
grim little man and the queer little man, whose monomania had boots for
its object.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE IDIOT BOY.


    There is a lowly mountain home
      That nestles near a clear blue stream,
    A shady nook—a fitting spot
      For pilgrim rest, or poet’s dream.
    Two tall elm trees their branches fling
      Across the humble roof-tree there
    While fearlessly the robins sing,
      And woodland flowers perfume the air.

    Not ten yards from the cottage door
      A rocky wall the streamlet meets,
    And wildly, quickly dashing o’er
      With its rude song the valley greets.
    While far and wide the glittering spray
      Like showers of diamonds fill the air,
    The golden sunbeams with them play
      And arch the beauteous rainbow there.

    A shelving rock, like semi-bridge,
      From the rude bank hangs jutting o’er,
    While round the rough and frowning ridge
      Twine moss and vine and creeping flower.
    A winding pathway, near the stream,
      Leads to this wild and dizzy height;
    Once gained the waters flash and gleam
      Like jewels on the gazer’s sight.

    Beyond, the hills, in robe of green,
      Mount upward to the calm blue sky,
    While at their feet the silver sheen
      Of a broad river meets the eye.
    Here in this cot, a space below,
      A widow dwells in silent grief,
    Earth has no balm to sooth her wo,
      No magic song, no healing leaf.

    Long weary years have slowly fled
      Since death first filled her home with gloom.
    Numbered her husband with the dead
      And traced for her a widow’s doom.
    One sunbeam there, one ray of joy
      On that low cottage shed its light,
    A fair-haired child, an idiot boy
      Was to her heart like stars to night.

    I’ve seen a vine, a fragile vine,
      When strong support had failed,
    Around a weaker cling and twine,
      Till drooping both in dust they trailed.
    I’ve seen a lonely captive find
      Sweet solace in his hours of grief,
    Yea food for heart, and thought for mind,
      In a frail plant—one pale green leaf.

    From the damp earth in his lone cell
      It sprung to life, sad life awhile,
    But there, alas! it could not dwell,
      No sunshine shed its cheering smile.
    ’Twas tended well mid hope and fear,
      And watched with all a parent’s care,
    Yea, watered daily with a tear,
      But could not stay in darkness there.

    So in this cot that idiot boy
      Was like that leaf to captive sad,
    His guileless ways, and childish joy,
      Oft made the broken-hearted glad.
    Beside him she on earth had nought,
      For him all labor, love and prayer,
    And he no other playmates sought,
      Save birds and flowers, sunlight and air.

    Speech was denied him, and not one
    Save she who gave him birth alone
    His uncouth gestures e’er could read,
    Or learn his sorrows, joy or need,
    And as, amid the quiet sleep
    Of summer noon, a storm will sweep
    In sudden wrath, and blackness cast
    O’er skies serene a moment past;
    So in the spirit of this child
    Dark passion, fitful, quick and wild,
    Such inward storm would sometimes wake,
    Naught but her gaze its power could break;
    Her words could bid its fury cease,
    The _mother’s voice_ could whisper peace.
    Not often thus, but the long hours
    Of summer day mid birds and flowers
    He’d cheerful spend, or watch the spray
    Of dashing waves in their wild play.
    And this, indeed, his chief delight,
    When airs were bland and skies were bright.
    So fixed his gaze, you wondered why,
    A child should look so earnestly.
    It seemed as if he longed to be
    A wave amid those waters free.
    His thoughts we know not, but perchance
    Some spirit dream was in that glance!
    Such as when reason leaves her throne
    And fancy reigns supreme alone,
    Will lead the helpless captive on
    To deeds we fear to think upon.
    Some thought as strange, some wish as wild,
    We deem possessed this idiot child.
    One day he climbed the pathway, where
    The rocky bridge seemed hung in air;
    Awhile he looked with strange delight
    On sparkling wave and rainbow bright;
    Then, with a scream so wild and shrill
    It made the distant hearer thrill,
    He plunged amid those waves and foam,
    Like Naiade seeking its lost home.
    A moment, and it all was o’er—
    He sunk, to rise with life no more.
    A schoolboy saw but could not save
    The idiot from his watery grave.

    Few were the mourners, and some there
    With hard heart said, “the widow’s care
    Would now be less,” yea, thought that she
    From a great burthen thus was free.
    Ill judging ones! ye could not know
    The depth of that fond mother’s wo.
    He surely was not loved the less
    Because of his great helplessness—
    Nor can we in our weakness tell
    He was not loved by God as well—
    The smallest bird and flow’ret share
    His holy watch and daily care.
    That broken link in Nature’s chain
    May after death unite again.
    The fettered mind! Ah! who can tell
    What mysteries in that casket dwell,
    When God, alone who holds the key
    Shall set the darkened captive free?
    One gleam of that electric thought,
    Which beauty out of chaos wrought;
    One touch of that creative hand
    Which loosed prime Nature’s iron band,
    To feeblest mind can give the power
    On seraph’s wing to mount and soar.
    We know not but the soul that lay
    Like folded flower in feeble clay,
    May open beneath purer skies,
    And, fanned by airs of Paradise,
    May bloom in beauty fresh and fair
    Amid the richer glories there.
                                       E. P.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             YOUTHFUL LOVE.


                            BY ALICE G. LEE.


              “Child no longer. I _love_, and I am Woman!”

    When first thy face blent with my youthful dreaming,
      I loved thee fondly, madly, e’en as now;
    Yet to a mossy bank, with careless seeming,
      I pressed a woman’s heart, a girl’s young brow.
    I did not dream that thou couldst ever love me,
      One that was fondled as a very child!
    But as the glorious stars that beamed above me,
      I worshiped thee, with love as deep and wild.

    Then bending low, thy face was by my pillow:
      A kiss was pressed upon my burning cheek—
    As floats a flower upon the foamy billow,
      Uprose my heart, and yet I could not speak.
    I sat beside thee in that pulseless hour,
      And gazed into the cloudless vault above.
    I learned that o’er thy heart was cast the power—
      E’en as on mine—the fatal spell of love.

    Unto my soul it came a torrent rushing,
      And brought wild thoughts unknown to it before.
    Bright hopes and dreams within thy heart were gushing
      Of joys the future held for thee in store.
    I only knew that, seated now beside thee,
      My hand lay trembling, nestling in thine own;
    I only felt thy dear voice did not chide me—
      Oh, how I treasured every careless tone.

    Another hand in fancy thou wert pressing;
      Another voice fell softly on thine ear:
    And looks of love came—with a low-voiced blessing—
      From beaming eyes, that memory brought _so near_.
    While thoughts of a bright meeting on the morrow
      Had chased a transient shadow from thy brow—
    Unto my heart came the first thrill of sorrow;
      An omen of the weight it beareth now.

    We parted: I those mournful thoughts to smother
      Within a breast till then unknown to care.
    I knew thou lovedst only as a brother—
      A sister’s love I had no wish to share.
    In that short hour I had lived many years;
      And now, alas! must share the common lot—
    The lot of woman—suffering and tears;
      While yet a child to those who knew me not.

    The wreath of Fame e’en then for thee was twining;
      High aspirations urged thee proudly on:
    The light of love upon thy path was shining,
      A dear hand would be thine when fame was won.
    I bade God speed thee; though my heart was breaking
      My pale cheek flushed beneath thy parting kiss—
    Hope from my soul a final leave was taking—
    _The future hath no trial worse than this_.

                 *        *        *        *        *




              SONNET FROM PETRARCH, ON THE DEATH OF LAURA.


                       TRANSLATED BY ALICE GREY.


    Where is the brow that, with the slightest sigh,
      Moved my fond heart, its most devoted slave?
    Where the fair eye-lid, and those stars divine,
      Which to my life its only lustre gave?
    Where is the worth, the wise, accomplished mind;
      The prudent, modest, humble, sweet discourse?
    Where are the beauties which, in her combined,
      So long of all my actions were the source?
    The shadow of that gentle countenance
    To which the weary soul for rest might flee?
    And where my thoughts were written; where is she
    Who held my willing life within her hands?
    Alas! for the sad world! alas! for my
    Still weeping eyes, that never shall be dry.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          A CHAPTER ON EATING.


              PART I. (THE PHILOSOPHY AND USES OF EATING.)


                          BY FRANCIS J. GRUND.


Brillat Savarin, the immortal author of “The Physiology of Taste,” among
his axioms has the following: “_Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai
qui tu es._” (Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you who you are.) If
any one doubt the truth of this remark, or has the least objection to
it, he must not read my essay; for I judge him utterly incapable of
understanding what follows. It was an equally wise saying of Sir John
Hunter, that man was what his stomach made him; but he did not carry his
investigations far enough. He had reference to the capacity, and, in
case of damage, to the recuperative faculty of the stomach, and did not
take into consideration the gentle persuasions of the palate—the sense
which is slowest of development, but the most faithful companion of old
age. The worthy Englishman had drawn his inferences from the stomachs of
the livery and aldermen of London; and his beau ideal, in this respect,
was no doubt the stomach of the Lord Mayor. But turtle and venison,
though excellent things in themselves, are not the only criterion of
rank, fashion, and capacity, though they _are_ the necessary
concomitants of magisterial dignity. Brillat Savarin went much further;
he classified men according to their dinners; judging thereby of their
tastes, their accomplishments, their refinement, and their scientific
pursuits. There is, indeed, no function that man performs in common with
the beasts, in which he differs so widely from the brute creation, as in
eating, which led Brillat Savarin to another not less important axiom:
“_L’animal se repait, l’homme mange, l’homme d’ésprit seul sait
manger_,” (which, translated into elegant English, means, animals feed,
man eats, but the man of education and refinement alone knows how to
eat.)

The savage merely wants his meat coagulated—civilized man wants it
_cooked_; but it requires taste to discriminate between gravies. Gravy
is to meat what dress is to man, or rather woman; it not only hides
deformities, but sets off and enhances beauty. It dissolves the
dissonance which might otherwise exist between boiled and roasted into
harmony; it establishes the balance of power between the joints and the
_petits pieds_. Talk of man, in his savage state, appreciating gravy; or
the man without refinement discriminating between a common _sauce aux
capres_ and one _aux truffes_, or _au vin de champagne_! Men, in
civilized countries, have immortalized themselves by gravies; and
Very—I mean the old man, not his son, who has done nothing in the world
to entitle him to respect, except marrying a pretty woman, who never
peeled a mushroom—has made gravies with which, as Puckler Muscau said,
“a man could eat his grandfather!” The prince, being of half royal
descent, meant by his grandfather the beau ideal of toughness.

But I must not shoot ahead of my argument. I am to show that we, in this
country, lay too little stress on what we eat—do no justice whatever to
cooks, and thereby deprive ourselves of a vast deal of enjoyment that
would not interfere with our neighbors. A man who tells you he does not
care what he eats, might just as well tell you he does not care with
whom he associates. You may depend on it that man cannot appreciate
beauty. To him one woman is just as good as another—prose just as good
as poetry—the sound of a jews-harp equal to that of a harpsichord.
Avoid that man, by all means, or your associations will become vulgar,
your taste corrupted, and your appreciation of beauty and elegance as
dull as a pair of cobbler’s spectacles.

But there are those who boast of caring naught for a good dinner. They
are so etherial, scientific, or Spartan-like, as to be just as well
satisfied with a piece of beef as with a pair of canvas-backs. Well,
what does it mean? Might a man not, for as good a reason, boast of his
blindness, and his stoic indifference as to the color of woman’s eyes,
or the incarnation of her cheeks? Might he not as well boast of liking
the smell of tobacco as much as that of a rose or a violet? The man who
has no taste, has only four senses instead of five, and is therefore
defective in organization. What notion has he of a _sweet_ face, a
_sweet_ disposition, or a _sweet_ voice?

Taste may be _cultivated_ as much as every other sense. The man who has
never exercised his eyes, cannot be a judge of painting, of statuary, or
of architecture. The man who has not cultivated his ear, will not easily
distinguish between the harmony of Mozart and the tuning of the
instruments, which set a musician’s _teeth on edge_; and a man who has
not practiced his sense of touch, will take no more pleasure in taking a
lady’s hand, than in handling her glove. Would, can, ought, a lady to
give her _hand_ to such a man?

But there is yet another still more remarkable philosophical
consideration, which ought to induce us to investigate this subject.
What we eat assimilates with us, becomes our own flesh and blood,
influences our disposition, our temper, and consequently our amiability.
Every living thing in nature longs for incarnation, aspires to become
human—to move from its apogee to its human perihelium. But the lord of
creation makes his selection; he consults his _taste_, and admits but
few of the aspirants to his intimacy.

Nothing but want is an excuse for bad living—for not restoring
ourselves in the best manner possible. Only think that every seven years
we are made entirely new! Our whole frame is consumed, and new particles
of matter accrue in place of the old ones, during that period. Then to
reflect that we are made up of half boiled potatoes, raw meat, and
doughy pie-crust! The very thought of it is enough to lower our
self-respect, and to diminish very sensibly the regard we owe to others.

It is intended by nature that we should have taste—that we should
_select_ our food and make it palatable. The infinite variety of plants
and animals subject to the human stomach, testify to the superiority of
man. Without the power of assimilation, what sympathy could there exist
between him and the rest of Creation? To say we are fond of trout, of
grouse, of venison, is but another way of expressing our affection for
fish, bird, and deer. What would these animals be to us if we did not
eat them? What we to them? And does not our love often partake of the
same characteristics? Do we not frequently crush that which we tenderly
press to our bosoms?

The Germans have a terrible idiom for expressing the highest paroxysm of
affection. They say “they love a woman well enough to _eat_ her.” The
idea is monstrous; and yet can it be denied that the greatest intimacy
imaginable is the identity produced by assimilation. The idea, in spite
of its apparent coarseness, is purely transcendental. And is not the
converse of this principle admitted by all civilized nations? What do
the terms “distasteful,” “disgusting,” “nauseating,” “sickening,”
signify? What else but that these things do not agree with our stomachs?
there are no stronger similes in the English language. Mark the climax;
“distasteful,” referring to the tongue; “disgusting,” having reference
to the palate; “nauseating,” applying to the throat; and “sickening,”
proceeding, _ex profundis_, from the stomach! Here you have the whole
gamut of human pathos—in which the stomach is, after all, the
key-note—the heart being nothing but the sounding-board.

Even knowledge borrows its terms from the stomach. Our scientific
acquisitions are “_crude_” and “_undigested_,” when they have not been
systematized; and a man is “raw,” when he has neither tact or experience
in the common pursuits of life. One half of our vocabulary is taken from
the palate and the stomach—the milky-way of that microcosm of which man
is the universe. Nor have we as yet properly watched that wonderful
economy of nature, by which we are constantly consumed and
restored—those unceasing pulsations between life and death, which, when
undisturbed, are the cause of so much enjoyment. We watch the heavenly
bodies, we rejoice over the discovery of a new planet, or an asteroid;
we espy comets, and endeavor to account for their movements and
perturbations, while a much more wonderful process is going on every day
before our eyes, without exciting our astonishment. How comes it that
the stomach, out of the most heterogeneous matters treasured up in it,
is daily preparing flesh, bones, brains, the enamel of the teeth, the
horny substance of the hair and nails, &c.? Can any philosopher explain
how the particles of inanimate matter are vivified and thrown from the
womb of life—the stomach—into circulation, to perform with the blood
those rapid revolutions which mark our existence, and bear such a close
analogy to the revolution of our planet round the sun? We look for
wonders to the stars, and are a living wonder ourselves—a microcosm
much more astonishing and interesting than all above and beneath us. The
stomach is the great laboratory of the world, and yet how indifferent
are the greater part of mankind to the gentle affinities of that much
abused organ! We cultivate a good appearance—a healthy complexion—a
clear eye, handsome teeth, and all that, but entirely neglect the gentle
admonitions of that organ which alone can impart these virtues. Men talk
of hereditary blood; but of what possible use is it without an
hereditary good stomach? Give me a good stomach, and the blood will
follow as a matter of course.

We talk of improving the breed of cattle, of horses, sheep, &c. But how
is it done? By what other principal means than by improved feeding, and
taking care that nothing shall interfere with the proper digestion of
the improved food. You may use every possible means of improving the
breed, without improved feeding the race will degenerate. And so it is
with man. Whole nations, as, for instance, the English, wear a better
aspect than others, merely because they are better feeders. Meat-eaters
have generally a more florid complexion, and, on an average, a greater
development of brains. They are, usually, not easily wrought; but when
excited, “perplexed in the extreme;” and as slow to back out of as they
are to commence a fight. We imagine these qualities inherent in the
race; but they are the offsprings of the stomach, and nothing else.
Change the diet of that nation, and she will soon lose her
distinguishing characteristics. And so it is with certain classes of
society. Why is the mob of England cowardly? Because it is badly fed.
Increase the wages of the laboring man so that he can obtain beef once a
day, and no soldiery in the world will be able to cope with him. He
would soon show symptoms of animation; he would, in very characteristic
language begin “to feel his oats.” Nothing is equal to the contempt
which well-fed people have for those who are badly fed. The former are
called respectable, the latter are thought capable of any mischief that
can be conceived of. _Pauper ubique jacet._

Between the stomach and the highest faculty of our souls there is a very
close connection, though men have vainly endeavored to disprove it.
Heavy food, which calls for undue action of the stomach, paralyzes, for
a time at least, all mental action, and destroys the highest power of
the mind—imagination. By gentle stimulants, however, we may increase
both—provided we are temperate. You see better with a spy-glass than
with the naked eye, provided you do not draw it out beyond the proper
focus. Again; good cheer promotes cordiality, friendship, benevolence,
and charity. Only the highest paroxysm of love is capable of triumphing
over the stomach. But how long does it last? And does it not, in the
end, warm itself at the chemical fire of good cheer, or die for the want
of it? Love does very well during the hey-days of the blood; while the
stomach, with its even sway, governs until death, with a power which
increases as it goes on. Every passion fades as we pass the meridian of
life, or dwells only in that great faculty of the soul, reminiscence,
until that even becomes palsied by the gnawing tooth of time; but the
sensitiveness of the palate increases—a regular gourmandizer scarcely
existing before the age of forty. Our taste becomes matured with our
judgment; when reason waits upon the tender passions, they have already
flown. Every other passion has a regular rise and fall, and a
culmination point, the pleasures of the palate alone are fixed and
immovable as the eternal stars in the firmament. The fiery youth may
“sigh like furnace,” and make “ballads to his mistress’ eyebrow,” and
man “may seek the bubble reputation even at the cannon’s mouth;” but the
sober _justice_ is “_capon lined_;” he is the only sensible person among
them, and guards against the _bowels_ of compassion, by that
completeness about the region of the stomach which is generally received
as _prima faciæ_ evidence of good nature. The Chinese—the oldest
civilized people on earth—require that their justices should be _fat_;
and the popular idiom of our own language corresponds to it; for we
expect from a judge, _gravity_ of deportment, and sedate manners. Lean
men seldom inspire the confidence which fat men do. “I wish he were
fatter,” says Cæsar, of Cassius; for a man who feeds well, and grows
fat, has given “hostage to fortune.” Corpulency, like marriage, being “a
great impediment either to enterprise or mischief.”[1]

There is yet another reason for conceding the ascendancy of the palate
over the other organs. The palate and the stomach have had more to do
with the establishment of civil liberty than is even suspected by those
who have neglected this important study. The custom for magistrates to
feed their clients, is as old as the Roman empire, and has been
preserved in all civilized countries. Our Saxon and Anglo-Saxon
ancestors were accustomed to do every thing important over a dinner; and
to that circumstance, as Alderman Walker, of the English metropolis,
very justly remarked, must be ascribed the preservation of English
liberty, as contradistinguished from that of France. A people,
accustomed to civic festivals, will not easily be reduced to slavery.
Good cheer enlivens our attachment to the country, enhances patriotism,
and calls for those expressions of sentiment which I look upon as the
main pillars of liberal institutions. And if public liberty is
consolidated by public feastings and Lord Mayors’ dinners in England,
where the people only partake of the good cheer, by a liberal
construction of the constitutional charter, that is to say, through
their legal _representatives_, how much more conducive to public liberty
must be those public dinners in _our_ country, where people enjoy the
privilege of assisting in person at the banquet! Instead of hearing the
herald proclaim, “Now the Lord Mayor is helping himself to turtle—now
the Lord Mayor has commenced upon venison—now the Lord Mayor drinks to
the queen!” they themselves eat the turtle, the venison, and drink
success to popular governments;—with this difference only, that they
have less patriotic _cooks_—cooks who, in most cases, have scarcely an
interest in common with those to whose patriotism they minister. This is
radically wrong, and ought to be looked to. If our Fourth of July
dinners have somewhat fallen into disrepute with the fashionables, it
is, I trust, not from a want of patriotism on their part, but on account
of the atrocious manner in which some of them are prepared. Let venison
and turtle, or if these be out of season, the best that the market
affords abound, and the _beau monde_ of our Atlantic cities will excuse
the sentiments for the cook’s sake, and wash them down with Champagne
and Madeira!

The custom to invite men whom we respect and honor to a public dinner,
is as old as the hills, and ought to be carefully handed down to our
children. No higher distinction ought ever to be claimed by our public
men, and none granted. Political feasts are the highest _stimulants_ to
action I know of—but in order to ensure their success, an act of
Congress ought to prohibit set speeches, and _impromptus_ prepared for
the occasion. The awkward manner of taking public men by surprise, was
strikingly exhibited in the speech of Lord Brougham, at a dinner of the
members of the National Institute, which began thus: “_Non-accoutumé que
je suis à parler en publique_,” and extorted some smiles even from the
furrowed countenances of the French savants. The reading of written
addresses, concealed under the plate during dinner, for the purpose of
being let loose after the cloth is removed, is a breach of hospitality,
and ought to be voted a nuisance; but the greatest latitude might,
without danger to public safety, be allowed in regard to toasts,
especially when they refer to the Eagle, who from his royal toughness
has nothing to fear from the barbarism of the cooks. By the by, English
writers and reviewers need not feel so squeamish about “that Eagle,” as
“the British Lion” is quite as tough, if not more so, and when he is
finished, there still remains the Unicorn, as a _corps de reserve_. They
have two beasts to our one; neither of which is fit to be exhibited in a
drawing-room.

Dinners serve scientific and artistical purposes quite as well as they
do political ones. Every learned society of England has its annual
meetings, at which a public feast is prepared for its officers and
members. Turtle and venison are the only means of bringing the members
together, just as the suppers at our Philadelphia Wistar parties season
the scientific conversation of our own men of learning, and render their
entertainments more attractive and _cheerful_. Dinners and suppers act
as the attraction of cohesion among members of the same family. Why
should they not promote a feeling of fraternity among men of science and
literature?

The practice of patronizing literary men and artists by dining them,
has, it is to be regretted, not yet been generally adopted in this
country. In England and France it is quite common; but since the
remuneration of artists exceeds all bounds in the latter country, the
artists, in turn, invite their patrons. There is no better means of
spreading useful information than these interchanges of hospitality.
Knowledge in general is dry,[2] and would have few votaries if the
stomach did not act as interpreter between the learned and the tyro. At
table you may bring the most opposite characters together, and they will
agree—as long as they are eating—on most subjects, provided they are
but half bred. The elective affinity of viands and gravy, mushrooms and
truffles, will establish harmony among them, which may last even for an
hour after dinner; but at tea you must be careful. All beverages are
deceptive, and are rather apt to exhibit differences than to equalize
them. A true diplomat will press you to drink; but he will seldom taste
any thing but ice water and lemonade.

What important part the stomach plays in diplomacy, is known to the
whole world. Napoleon, when sending the _Abbé de Pradt_ to Poland, gave
him no other instruction than this: _Tenez bonne table et soignez les
femmes_, (keep a good table and take care of the women.) I wonder
whether the late administration gave similar instructions to Colonel
Todd, when it sent him to St. Petersburg! Our ministers abroad may take
care of the women, after a fashion, but I defy them, unless they are
rich, to keep a good table.

It is a vulgar error to suppose that ladies are most attractive at a
ball. I prefer to see a woman at dinner. The dinner is the touchstone of
her attractions. If she be graceful and agreeable there, she will be so
in every position in life, and you may say of her what Napoleon said of
Josephine: _elle a de la grâce même en se couchant_. It was whimsical
affectation in Lord Byron to pretend that ladies ought not to eat at
all. A woman who has no appetite, or is indifferent as to the manner of
gratifying it, is but a poor companion for life, whose good nature and
agreeable temper will scarcely last through the honey-moon. Byron had in
his mind’s eye an English woman, who breakfasts on chops and dines on
raw joints, which is detestable. But fancy an artistically arranged
_salle à manger_, a _partie quarrée_, (two ladies and as many gentlemen)
at breakfast, and the servants handing round _côtelettes à la
Maintenon_, (little lambs’ ribs that look as innocent as new-born babes,
artistically set off and coupled with historical associations of the
golden age of French literature!) and you have quite another picture.
Then the _abandon_ which follows the little cup of Mocca—the sallies of
wit and humor—the little attractions of graceful hands and mouths, and
fine teeth—the flow of conversation, and the embarrassing intervals and
flaws filled up with wine! Then the dessert, which ought never to fail,
even at breakfast,—flowers decorating the table, and the women as in
the Hesperian garden, touching the forbidden fruit! There you see woman
in all her grace, and in all the attractions of her sex,—calm,
collected, dignified, observing, listening and perhaps—consenting. What
is a ball in comparison? Ladies and gentlemen do not move as
ballet-dancers, and make at best but an impression inferior to the
latter. Their dilettantism in that respect is no better than that of
music, compared with regular performers. At breakfast and dinner, a
woman may study attitude, and remain longest in those which are
attractive. At the ball-room, she is hurried along, and depends for
success on her partner. A clumsy, ungraceful partner in a dance, is
enough to ruin her—comparisons will wound her pride—she is agitated,
angry, and it is only the queen of a ball who enjoys it and is capable
of giving pleasure. At dinner, you possess a woman altogether to
yourself,—the impressions which you receive and make are lasting, and
you are, by the pleasant occupations of the table, prepared to _relish_
them. You cannot become intimate with a woman unless you have taken a
meal with her. And then how many thousand opportunities you have of
showing your attention, your being captivated by her charms—how much
_resignation_ you can practice in entertaining her! The impressions made
at dinner are indelible; those of a ball are evanescent, for you do not
receive them in a proper state of mind, and forget them after a night’s
rest. The dance deranges a woman’s toilet, makes her gasp and pant for
breath, and is apt to exhibit those faults which a skillful toilet would
have concealed, and which we would have been happier in not knowing.
Ladies after a dance look like victims that have been tortured; and oh!
gentle reader, may you never have the misfortune to be behind the scenes
at a ballet! The first _ballerina_, after the greatest storm of
applause, looks then but like a fallen angel scourged by furies. No, no!
give balls and routes to boys and girls. A sensible man scorns at that,
and takes it as no mark of respect for him to be invited to them. Let me
lead the woman I fancy to dinner, and give me an hour’s conversation
with her afterward, in the boudoir, and I will gladly resign meeting her
in a crowd. Let the cook but half do his duty, and I will not be
deficient in mine.

A word, before I part, to the Blue Stockings—(I would _whisper_ it if I
could do so in print)—It’s very well to quote Shakspeare, and Byron,
and Milton, (whom nobody reads,) and Mrs. Hemans, who had much better
written sermons. But if you want to acquire a lasting reputation, and
choke off envy and detraction, have an eye to your cook. The most
fastidious critic would sooner forgive a misquotation than the want of
seasoning in a favorite dish. As much literary reputation may be
acquired by dining literary men, as by imitating or plundering their
writings.

-----

[1] I hope that in a chapter on eating I may quote “Bacon.”

[2] “Gray, my friend, is all Theory, and Green the Tree of life,” says
Mephistophiles to the student, in Goethe’s Faust.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          MORNING INVITATION.


                        BY THE PRIVATE SCHOLAR.


    Let us go to the dewy mountain, love,
      ’Tis the time of the Maying weather;
    The lark is up in the blue above,
      The thrush in the briery heather;
    From the cottage elm the robin calls—
      List, love, to the gentle warning—
    We’ll away to the mountain waterfalls,
      And drink the dew of the morning.

    Let us go to the tangled greenwood fair,
      The scented buds invite us;
    The young red deer will gambol there,
      And a thousand songs delight us.
    Thy hand in mine, and mine in thine,
      In the wood-path we will linger,
    Where the dew is bright on the eglantine,
      As the jewel on thy finger.

    Let us go to the moor and the virgin lake—
      I hear the call of the plover;
    And the fisherman’s song comes over the brake,
      With the perfume of the clover.
    A bonny boat with a pennon gay,
      Like a nymph on the blue is sleeping—
    To the fairy lake, oh, let us away,
      While the sun from the hills is peeping.

    Let us go to the upland airy lea,
      Where the silent flocks are browsing;
    We’ll pass the dale where the honey-bee
      His early store is housing.
    Our path shall lead through the meadow lane,
      Its daisy blooms will meet us;
    And the reed-pipe strain on the distant plain,
      With the herd-boy’s song will greet us.

    Let us go abroad at the early dawn,
      With the blue sky bending o’er us;
    While the mingled music of grove and lawn
      Goes up in a grateful chorus;
    For sweet is the breath of the morning, love,
      And sweet are the opening flowers;
    And sweet shall our communion prove,
      In the fields and woodland bowers.

    Let us go while Nature’s holy strain,
      O’er the joyous earth is pealing;
    My pulse has caught its youth again,
      And throbs with the rural feeling.
    Each bird, and brook, and dripping bud,
      Invites with a gentle warning;
    Then let us away to the field and wood,
      And drink the health of the morning.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               A PRAYER.


                        BY MRS. C. E. DA PONTE.


          Weary of earth, and tossed
    Amid the storms which ever wreck my way,
    Thou who canst save the wretched and the lost,
          O hear me pray.

          Weary of time, which brings
    Little of comfort to my bosom now,
    Feeble and worn, to Thee my bosom clings,
          To Thee I bow.

          Deep is the inward strife,
    Thou knowest consumes my sick and weary soul,
    Deep is that grief still agitates my life,
          Beyond control.

          Here joy is o’er,
    Earth cannot soothe, for life can nothing give,
    Take me, then, Father, to that mighty shore,
          For Thee I’ll live.

          Watch me where’er I go,
    Guide my faint footsteps through this valley drear;
    Father, I weep with more than mortal wo,
          But yet can bear.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE LOYALIST’S DAUGHTER.


                   A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.


                         BY P. HAMILTON MEYERS.


                      (_Concluded from page 274._)


                              CHAPTER VII.

The ensuing evening was cold, dark, and stormy. The commandant of Fort
Constitution was faithful to his appointment. He was received at the
door of Captain Wilton’s cottage by Arabella, and conducted silently to
the drawing-room. A single light faintly illuminated the interior, and
scarcely served to reveal the figure of an individual, plainly dressed,
and enveloped in an overcoat, seated beside a table in the centre of the
apartment. He rose on the entrance of Gansevoort, and advancing hastily
to meet him, with extended hand, and a cordial manner, said, “I rejoice
to meet you, Mr. Gansevoort, or rather Sir Francis, if you will permit
me thus, in anticipation, to address you.”

The commandant drew back with evident emotion, and declining the
proffered hand of the other, replied; “If I mistake not, I have the
honor of addressing Sir Philip Bender. We will waive courtesies for the
present, until we more fully understand the relation in which we stand
to each other.”

“We meet no longer as enemies, Mr. Gansevoort, but as fellow-subjects of
the same most gracious sovereign.”

“You and I are, indeed, subjects of one sovereign, Sir Philip, but it is
that Sovereign whose empire is the universe.”

“Very true,” replied the other. “My remark, perhaps, was not properly
applicable until our business is accomplished.”

“If there is business to be transacted between us, Sir Philip will have
the kindness to disclose the nature of it.”

“Come, come, Colonel Gansevoort,” replied Major Bender, with a smile,
“let us have no unnecessary formality. I have come to consummate, in
every particular, the negotiation already pending between us, through my
fair plenipotentiary here, and to learn from you at what hour you will
be prepared to deliver formal possession of the fortress under your
charge to its rightful and royal proprietor, whom I have the honor to
represent.”

“You then recognize this lady as your authorized agent in what has
heretofore passed between her and myself on this subject, and now renew
her propositions.”

“I do,” eagerly replied Sir Philip; “I see we are fast coming to the
point.”

“Yes, Sir Philip Bender, we _are_ coming to the point; but it is one of
which you do not seem to dream. In the name, and by the authority of the
Congress of the United States, _I arrest you as a spy_.”

Simultaneously with these words, which were spoken in a tone
sufficiently elevated to be heard without, the door opened, and a
serjeant, followed by a dozen men, entered the room. A deadly palor
overspread the countenance of Sir Philip. Surprise and consternation for
a moment paralyzed his faculties. He made no attempt at escape, but
dropping silently into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and
remained speechless. Had not Bender considered his success in this
intrigue as nearly certain as any human project can be rendered before
its fulfillment, nothing would have induced him to run the hazard of a
personal exposure. But, notwithstanding his certainty, he had still done
all that he could do, to be prepared for what he considered the very
remote contingency of a mistake. He had landed thirty men, under command
of Wiley, and concealed them at the edge of a wood, about a third of a
mile distant; it being impossible to bring them into the village without
instant detection. A faithful servant alone had accompanied him to the
house, and had received instructions, in case of need, to hasten, if
possible, and bring them up in time for a rescue. At the moment of his
arrest, Miss Wilton, trembling with terror, had slipped from the room,
and hastened to notify the servant of his master’s danger. Sir Philip’s
horse stood saddled at the door, and the clatter of his hoofs, as he
dashed down the street, now caught the ear of the prisoner. Hope,
therefore, had not entirely deserted him. If by any means he could
detain his captor fifteen or twenty minutes, he was yet safe, and not
only so, but would have accomplished no slight enterprise in capturing
the commandant of the fort. Gansevoort manifested a becoming respect for
the feelings of his prisoner, and allowed him to remain some minutes
undisturbed. When the latter, however, saw that preparations were making
to depart, he resorted to another artifice to gain time. He sought to
draw the commandant into a debate on the propriety of his arrest,
alledging that if he had been guilty of any offence, he had been decoyed
into it by the latter.

“Not so,” replied Gansevoort, indignantly. “Did I decoy the Dragon into
this harbor, or your emissaries into my presence? If I have made use of
strategy, it has been to _counteract_ strategy; to undermine the miner,
and ‘blow up the engineer with his own petard.’ But why should I waste
words in justifying myself to a man who has shown himself to be beyond
the influence of every honorable feeling. Extraordinary, indeed, must be
those measures which I should not have been justified in using, to
prevent the accomplishment of an outrage so great, that I can scarcely
refrain even here from inflicting signal vengeance for its
contemplation. Base, perfidious, cowardly man! the mantling blood upon
your cheek tells me that I am understood.”

“He rails with safety, who rails at a prisoner,” replied Bender, “but
let me ask you,” he continued, rising and speaking slowly, and with an
abstracted air, “let me ask you whether—”

“Another time and place must suffice,” said the other.

“One word,” rejoined Sir Philip, “only one word!” He paused suddenly,
and threw back his head in a listening attitude. A distant tramp was
heard. It came nearer—nearer—until a loud “_halt!_” resounded in front
of the house. Then, with an air of indescribable exultation, he shouted,
“Now, Colonel Gansevoort, the tables are turned. You are _my_ prisoner!
What think you _now_ of ‘undermining the miner, and blowing up the
engineer with his own petard?’”

“Stand to your arms, my men!” shouted Gansevoort, hastily drawing his
sword, “Let one fly and alarm the garrison. Quick! barricade the doors!”

It was too late. The doors were flung violently open, and panting with
haste, rushed into the room—not a British officer, but the Count Louis
De Zeng! “We heard that you were in danger,” he exclaimed, hastily, to
the commandant. “A hundred men at the door await your orders.”

“Your aid is timely,” was the reply. “Take half of your men, and conduct
the prisoner immediately to the fort. The rest will remain with me to
receive our approaching visiters.”

These orders were immediately put into execution. Wiley, however, became
apprized of the state of affairs, and retreated with his men rapidly to
their boats. They were not pursued.

A few words will explain the secret of Count De Zeng’s unexpected
appearance. When Arabella gave her orders to the servant of Major
Bender, Alice, unperceived, stood trembling by. She was terrified beyond
measure at the peril of Gansevoort, in whom the gentle girl was
interested to a degree that she would not own, even to herself and which
nothing could have induced her to exhibit to another. She could not give
the alarm within, without exposing her predilections, besides which, she
supposed the British force to be much nearer than they were, and that
nothing but an immediate alarm of the garrison would afford the
slightest chance of escape. She ran, therefore, as soon as she was
unobserved, hastily to the fort, which was scarcely forty rods distant.
A sentinel on duty conducted her immediately to Count De Zeng, to whom,
after exacting a promise of secrecy in regard to her agency in the
matter, she briefly communicated the state of affairs at her father’s
house. The count lost not a moment in acting on her information, with
the result which has been described.


                             CHAPTER VIII.

We will not follow the prisoner to the place of his confinement, or
dwell upon his dismal reflections behind the grated bars of a felon’s
cell. He was not a prisoner of war, entitled to the courtesies and
respect due to a brave but unfortunate soldier. He was a criminal,
guilty of a most base and ignominious act, for which his thorough
knowledge of military law told him he must die. He had landed without a
flag, entered the enemy’s quarters in disguise, and there sought to
bribe an officer to the betrayal of his trust. There was no hope. He
felt it. He must die upon the scaffold. In vain, with impotent rage, did
he heap curses upon the heads of his imbecile agents. They were at
liberty, and he was the victim. If any thing could aggravate his
wretchedness, it was the reflection that the day of his arrest was the
day of his expected nuptials. No time was lost in his trial. A military
court was convened on the ensuing day, before which the prisoner made an
ingenious but useless defence. He was convicted, and sentenced to death,
and the sentence was immediately forwarded to the commander-in-chief for
approval.

The minutes of the trial, which were also sent to General Washington,
were fully explanatory of the particulars of his arrest, and of the
personal reasons which had influenced Gansevoort in resorting to
measures for its procurement, which the latter would otherwise have
considered objectionable. To these, the commandant added his express
desire, that if the circumstances afforded any ground for a mitigation
of punishment, the prisoner might have the full benefit of it.

During the few days that elapsed before a return could be expected, no
exertions were spared by the unhappy man that seemed to offer a chance
for his escape. At times, inflated with the idea of his personal
importance, he indulged the hope that Washington would not dare to
proceed to extremities against him. If that distinguished leader
entertained any idea of compromising the national quarrel, it certainly
would be bad policy to widen the breach between the opposing parties, by
unnecessary rigor. He did not, therefore, neglect to magnify his own
importance by allusions to his family connections, his expected
promotion to the peerage, and, stretching a point for that purpose, his
intimacy with royalty itself. He succeeded so well by these means, in at
least convincing himself of his security, that he soon began to resent
even the indignity of a personal confinement. His first expostulations
on this point, addressed to an officer on guard, were met by the
assurance that his cause of complaint would be speedily removed. The
order for his execution had arrived. Blanched with terror, he refused to
believe the tidings. He had not entertained a doubt that whatever the
decision of the commander-in-chief should be, the importance of the
transaction would at least induce the personal attendance of that
officer. When, however, pursuant to his request, the report of his trial
and sentence was shown to him, bearing the simple endorsement,
“Approved—Geo. Washington,” his humiliation was complete. Losing at
once all sense of personal dignity and fortitude, he begged his life in
the most abject terms. Resolutely refusing any personal interview with
the prisoner, Gansevoort was importuned by letter. Entreaties, threats,
and promises, mingled together, and urged with all the energy and
earnestness of despair, formed the staple of his epistles. They were
read and returned with the simple reply that his execution would take
place on the ensuing day at sunset. We will pass over that dreadful
interval, in which hope had entirely forsaken the breast of the doomed.
Coward-like, he died a thousand anticipatory deaths.

The day and the hour approached. The giant shadows of the western
mountains began to stretch toward the environs of Fort Constitution. As
the declining sun lingered above the summit of the hills, its rays were
reflected by the bayonets of a military guard, encircling a scaffold, a
prisoner, and a coffin. To that sun the executioner looked for his
signal. Its disk was resting on the horizon, and a hundred eyes were
watching its motion. At this moment there was a sudden movement in the
crowd—a parting to give way to some new comer, and a messenger,
breathless with haste, placed a letter in the hands of Count De Zeng.
Not heeding that it was addressed to the commandant, he hastily opened
and perused it. The blood forsook his cheeks, as with a trembling hand
he passed the note to Gansevoort, and made a signal to the executioner
to forbear. As the eyes of the other ran rapidly down the page, mingled
rage and terror shook for a moment his manly frame. Recovering himself
with an effort, he directed the serjeant in command to approach.

“Remand the prisoner to his cell,” he said, “the execution must be
deferred.”

Before explaining the cause of this sudden change in the aspect of
affairs at the fort, it will be necessary to travel back a short period,
and take up another clew of this singular history.


                              CHAPTER IX.

Miss Gansevoort’s week of dreadful expectation had passed away, and the
day of her expected sacrifice arrived. Her father in the meantime had
used every means both to persuade and frighten her into a peaceable
compliance with his wishes. Fancying he perceived an increased docility
in her conduct, he relaxed a portion of his severity, and tried the
effect of kindness. Although closely watched, she was no longer confined
to her room. When the appointed day arrived without bringing Sir Philip,
she felt a temporary relief; but she then had the additional agony of
suspense to endure. Hope, vague and indefinite, began to dawn in her
breast; but its light was scarcely more than sufficient to reveal the
depth of her despair. Every foot-fall alarmed her. Every voice quickened
her pulsation.

In this state of mind, she was astonished and delighted by the
unexpected reception of a letter from her brother. It was delivered in
the evening to a servant at the door, by a man cloaked and muffled, who
immediately departed. It informed her that, having heard of her
situation, he had provided means for her immediate rescue; that at the
hour of nine in the ensuing evening, a carriage would be in attendance
at the corner of the street, displaying a single light in front; and
that if she could escape her father’s _surveillance_ long enough to
reach the vehicle, she would be safe. A confidential friend of her
brother would there receive her, and convey her before morning to the
fort. Every thing, he said, was arranged to avoid detection or arrest
upon the route.

There were no bounds to the ecstasy of Miss Gansevoort on the receipt of
this letter. She resolved to brave every danger, for the purpose of
escaping the one which she dreaded most. Never did time travel so slowly
as on the ensuing day. Every moment was an age of fear and suspense.
Could she manage to make her escape? Would not Sir Philip arrive? Would
there be no failure or mistake on the part of her brother’s friend? _Who
was that friend?_ These, and a thousand similar questions, continually
passed through her mind, and kept it in a state of the most violent
agitation. She was obliged to confide her secret to one of her maids,
who readily promised all the aid in her power, and even consented to be
the companion of her flight. Through her agency, when the appointed hour
arrived, she was enabled to transfer a few indispensable articles to the
carriage; and when she herself tremblingly prepared to depart, it was
without an article of dress about her which could create a suspicion of
her design. As the clock struck nine, she rose from her seat in the
drawing-room, and with careless air approaching the outer door, suddenly
opened it, and darted, fawn-like, down the street. She heard the alarm
behind. She heard the clattering steps of her pursuers; but she saw the
signal-light at hand. The carriage-door stood open, and a cloaked
stranger at its side. Without a word he lifted her in—followed—closed
the door—and the cracking of the coachman’s whip, and the rattling of
the wheels, mingled with the shouts and execrations of the pursuers.

“My maid! my maid!” exclaimed Ellen, “she is left!”

“Silence! it is too late!” was the answer in a low voice. The noise made
by the rapid motion of the coach, for some time effectually debarred any
further attempt at conversation; but thinking only of her escape, Miss
Gansevoort easily postponed her curiosity, convinced that their present
velocity would soon carry them beyond the danger of pursuit, and admit
of a more moderate speed. Worn out with fatigue and anxiety, she fell
into an uneasy sleep, but was soon awakened by the stopping of the
coach. Confused noises were heard without. Angry questions and replies
were followed by a demand to open the door. Her companion suddenly let
down a window and looking out, uttered a few words in a low tone. “Oh,
it’s you, is it?” was the reply; and without further questions the
carriage was allowed to proceed. Ellen strove hard, but in vain, to
catch a glimpse of her mysterious companion’s face. She again sunk to
sleep, and was again awakened to witness a similar scene. Every thing
presented itself to her mind in a mystified and unnatural manner.
Darkness and drowsiness, commingled dreams and realities, passing
lights, strange voices, half understood sentences, beginning close at
hand, and dying away in the distance, all contributed to complete her
confusion, and prevent the obtaining of one distinct idea. It is not
surprising that she yielded herself again and again, contentedly to
sleep, for the one dominant hope of her waking moments became a glorious
certainty in her dreams, and she smiled in security under the assured
protection of him to whom, unawares, she had long since yielded up the
priceless treasure of her heart.

Once, on awakening, the gurgling, rippling sound of water reached her
ears. They were crossing the river at a ferry. The vehicle being
stationary, it was a favorable moment to address her companion, which,
with trembling voice, she hastened to do. The long, hard breathing of a
sleeper was her only reply. Abashed and alarmed, she desisted from her
inquiries, and in a few moments they were again in rapid motion. Fully
awakened now by her fears, she slept no more.

Leaving the main route, the carriage at length entered a dark and narrow
defile of the mountains, and for more than an hour slowly pursued its
labarynthine course, amidst a gloom rendered tenfold by the surrounding
forests. Having stopped at last before a small and obscure looking
house, her companion alighted, and was received by several individuals,
who seemed to have been awaiting his arrival. Laughter and
congratulations ensued. Several of the bystanders approached the
carriage, and in no gentle terms requested Ellen to alight. Hurried into
the cottage, as soon as her bewildered faculties were enabled to
comprehend the answers to her incoherent questions, she learned in
substance that she was among a band of Tories and savages, a prisoner,
and a hostage for the safety of Sir Philip Bender.


                               CHAPTER X.

It is needless to say that the letter which had so suddenly arrested the
threatened tragedy at Fort Constitution, was from Ellen Gansevoort. Her
situation was perilous in the extreme. A prisoner among the most lawless
of men, she was held, as has been said, in pledge for the safety of
Bender, and was threatened, in the event of his execution, with being
carried into remote captivity. A detachment of Indians, belonging to a
western tribe, formed part of her captors, and on the fourth ensuing day
were to set out on their return to the wilderness, with her, or without,
as the fate of Bender should decide. It is unnecessary to say that Wiley
was the agent in this infernal transaction. Horror-struck at the arrest
of his patron, his terror had given way only to the most vindictive
anger toward his supposed dupe, Gansevoort. He knew well the
extraordinary affection which that gentleman entertained for his sister,
and had also some intimation of Count De Zeng’s attachment to Ellen.
With the desperate hope of aiding Sir Philip, for whose arrest he
considered himself responsible, he had concocted, and, with unrelenting
barbarity, carried into effect, the plot which has been detailed; and
which his intimate connection with the Tories of Westchester county had
afforded him every facility for consummating. His hand had forged the
letter which had deceived Miss Gansevoort, and he had been her companion
in the carriage. In the further execution of his plan, he had been
compelled to disclose himself to his prisoner. But, although it was his
exorcism that had conjured up the storm which now impended over the
unfortunate Ellen, he had not the power to control its fury. The
savages, whose services had been engaged, had been secured by the
promise of a large reward from Major Bender, if released, or the person
of their prisoner, if the project failed. Wiley had not the means, if he
had had the disposition, to purchase her release in the event of
failure. It was therefore no idle threat which had been made.

The substance of these facts was briefly communicated in Ellen’s letter
to her brother, which was written at the request of Wiley, and by him
forwarded to Gansevoort. In this he proposed to send Ellen, at once, in
safety to the fort, upon receiving a written promise from the
commander-in-chief to pardon Sir Philip. Miss Gansevoort expressed her
belief that there was no reasonable hope of her rescue, owing to the
wild and almost inaccessible nature of the fastnesses among which her
captors were lurking. Her language betrayed inadvertently the anguish of
fear which overwhelmed her, and which, in pity to her friends, she would
fain have concealed. The startling effect produced by this letter on
Colonels Gansevoort and De Zeng, will no longer be considered
surprising; or that all other considerations were immediately lost sight
of in so engrossing a subject. To them the safety of Ellen was a matter
of paramount moment; and had they possessed the power to procure her
release by the discharge of Bender, his shackles would have melted at a
breath. But, alas! such was not the case. An immediate sally was
earnestly urged by De Zeng, in pursuit of the brigand force; but this,
without a guide, without any clew to the hiding-places of the enemy, who
had their choice of a hundred impregnable positions among the mountains,
would have been but wasting time, and rendering the situation of the
captive still more perilous. The inflexible character of the
commander-in-chief, in matters pertaining to the welfare of the country,
left them but little hope that he would sacrifice its interests to any
private consideration. But there was no time to be lost in deliberation;
and De Zeng himself set out on the same evening, with a small guard, for
Washington’s quarters. His route lying exclusively through a friendly
region, he was enabled to obtain frequent relays of horses, and, by dint
of hard riding, arrived at the camp soon after daylight on the ensuing
morning. He did not hesitate to disturb the slumbers of the commander
with a message, begging an instant audience. In the fewest words he had
put General Washington in possession of all the facts, and pale with
fatigue, and trembling with anxiety, stood watching the working of his
countenance, to catch the first glimpses of a decision which he knew
would be final. Benevolence gleamed from the commander’s eye, but a
stern compression of his lips foreshadowed his reply. It was impossible,
he said, to compromise the interests of the whole country for a single
life, however precious. Bender’s guilt was unmitigated. The example of
his punishment must be made. Similar attempts at corruption on the part
of the British government had become frequent, and unless checked by
some signal act, might be productive of the most disastrous
consequences. In vain did the count, with all the earnestness of
impassioned feeling, plead the cause of poor Ellen and her distracted
brother. A calm rebuke from the commander reminded him that he also
possessed the feelings of benevolence common to humanity, but that his
decision, painful as it was, had been well weighed, and could not be
altered.

After a brief repose, De Zeng, with a heavy heart, prepared to return;
but, in the meantime, a second messenger had arrived from the fort,
bearing a dispatch for the count. It was from Sir Philip Bender himself,
and had been forwarded by permission of Gansevoort. It enclosed a letter
to Gen. Washington, in which the prisoner proposed not only the release
of Ellen, but also the surrender of his coadjutor, Wiley, to procure his
own pardon. He boldly asserted that he had the means to bring about
these results. Wiley was well known at head-quarters as a desperate and
daring man, whose connection both with the British army at New York, and
with the Tories in the river counties, rendered him a formidable
adversary. His bitter hatred of the republicans, the frequency and
facility of his disguises, and his utter disregard of every principle of
honorable warfare, made him a valuable auxiliary to the enemy, and, not
infrequently, a real scourge to the patriots. To accomplish his arrest,
scarcely any sacrifice would have been considered inordinate. His life
was trebly forfeited even before the affair of Fort Constitution, in
which he had prostituted the sacred character of a flag to the most vile
and corrupt of purposes.

General Washington avowed his utter disbelief in Bender’s ability to
fulfill his engagement, which he considered probably a _ruse_ to gain
time. He, however, to the great delight of Count De Zeng, accepted the
proposition; and the latter, with renewed hope, but with many misgivings
set out on his return.


                              CHAPTER XI.

The messenger who had brought Miss Gansevoort’s letter to the fort, was
the same servant of Sir Philip who had accompanied him to the house of
Captain Wilton on the night of his arrest. It was through his agency
that the prisoner proposed to accomplish his present designs. Base and
perfidious to the last, he manifested not the least repugnance to thus
sacrificing one, who, whatever were his other faults, had ever
manifested the utmost fidelity to him. The servant had come directly
from the camp of the brigands, and being fully in their confidence,
could guide a detachment from the garrison directly to the spot, and
thus probably promote the destruction or capture of the whole band. No
time was lost in this enterprise. Count De Zeng in the most earnest
manner begged, and obtained, command of the expedition. The outlaws were
only about thirty in number, and the count, anxious to make a rapid and
secret march, did not consider it necessary or prudent to take more than
twice that force. The distance to be accomplished was about thirty
miles, and at the hour of ten on the ensuing evening the little army set
out. Knowing the vigilant character of his enemy, De Zeng had observed
the greatest secrecy, and at the hour of starting not an individual of
the company, excepting himself and his guide, had the most remote idea
of the object of the expedition. Avoiding the village, which might
contain the lurking spies of Wiley, they took the nearest route to the
forest, and there, through its wild and unfrequented depths, slowly
pursued their way. We will not dwell upon the particulars of this most
toilsome march. The cold was intense, the snow lay deep upon the ground,
and the wind came moaning through the long defiles of the mountains,
among which their path must be pursued. To the Count De Zeng,
unaccustomed even to the sight of an American wilderness, it was painful
in the extreme. But no word or look gave token of impatience. The deep
anxiety that pervaded his breast in relation to the result of his
mission, on which the life of Miss Gansevoort, and his own future
happiness must depend, diminished every smaller trial. Laughing at every
obstacle, he encouraged his followers by his own fortitude and
fearlessness. At the dawn of day they had accomplished but little more
than half of their journey. Allowing his men a single hour for
refreshment and repose, he again pressed forward. They beheld his
endurance with surprise, and were ashamed to complain.

At about noon, the guide having informed De Zeng that they were drawing
near to Wiley’s encampment, he made a brief halt, for the purpose of
explaining to his men the nature of the service on which they were
bound. He informed them that Wiley was to be taken alive, if possible;
but charged them particularly that the chief object of the expedition
was the safe recovery of Miss Gansevoort. Having succeeded in animating
them with a portion of his own enthusiasm, by a few brief but forcible
remarks, he resumed his march.

The camp was situated on a summit which overlooked all the adjacent
region, and which, by reason of its steepness, was nearly inaccessible,
excepting at a point which was in full view of the enemy. The denseness
of the forest was, however, favorable to the secret approach from
another direction, and De Zeng resolved at once to scale the height in
the rear. With incredible toil this task was performed. The summit
having been attained, the panting soldiers were immediately formed and
led forward. Against any ordinary approach of an enemy Wiley was
sufficiently guarded; but he was not prepared for treachery. He could
not anticipate the approach of an army by a way that even a chamois
hunter would have hesitated to climb. He was taken so entirely off his
guard, that but few of his company were even under arms, and the first
intimation of his enemy’s approach was a loud demand to surrender. The
Tories and savages flew hastily to their arms, but a single volley, and
a rapid charge with the bayonet proved decisive. Several were killed,
and the rest, excepting only their leader, instantaneously surrendered.
He alone, agile as a deer, fled into the forest, and descending the
dreadful declivity almost at a leap, once more seemed to bid defiance to
his foes. But the avenger was on his path. Nothing could exceed the rage
which had burned in the bosom of the young count from the moment when he
first caught sight of his enemy. Calling now on a few of his men to
follow, but distancing every competitor, De Zeng rushed down the side of
the mountain in pursuit, and gaining momentarily upon the fugitive, once
more called on him to yield. Wiley turned, and stood for a moment at
bay; but beholding the flashing blade of his pursuer at his breast, and
numbers of his enemies hastening up, he quietly surrendered. Exulting in
his success, the count now returned hastily to the camp; but, alas! he
was yet destined to experience a bitter proof how difficult it is to
circumvent a vigilant adversary. Notwithstanding Wiley’s terror, his
countenance had worn a sardonic smile, which gave token of some unknown
calamity. Too soon did the fearful truth transpire. Miss Gansevoort was
not in the camp. No words can express the anguish of Count De Zeng at
this discovery. Wiley, who was immediately sternly interrogated by his
captor, stated that Ellen was a full day’s journey in the wilderness, in
custody of a band of Hurons. But a moment’s reflection convinced the
count of the improbability of this story. The time had not yet arrived,
when, according to the statement in Ellen’s letter, the Indians were to
start; and they would not be likely thus to defeat their whole plan by a
premature movement. The other prisoners were severally questioned, but
no satisfactory information could be obtained. Rage mingled with the
grief of De Zeng, when he saw himself thus trifled with. He believed
that Miss Gansevoort had been conveyed to some other lurking-place in
the forest, by Wiley’s direction, and that the latter was fully
cognizant of her present position. This hypothesis alone affording him
any hope of rescuing her, he resolved to act upon it. Summoning Wiley,
therefore, to his presence, he addressed him as follows:

“You alone are accountable for the present captivity and suffering of
Miss Gansevoort. Produce her here within two hours or those forest trees
shall afford a gallows for you, higher than Haman ever hung. Select any
three of your men whom you choose to send upon this errand, and they
shall immediately be set at liberty.”

Wiley smiled as he replied: “Count De Zeng forgets that he is talking to
a gentleman, and an officer of the British army. Such threats may
frighten children.”

“Decline the proposition,” said De Zeng sternly, “and the hours shall be
shortened into minutes.”

“I repeat,” answered Wiley, again smiling contemptuously, “that I am not
thus to be intimidated.”

De Zeng did not reply, but hastily detailing a dozen men, made known to
them his wishes. The preparations went rapidly forward, but still the
prisoner laughed. Not for effect, not with affectation, but with real
incredulity and scorn, he laughed. He laughed while his hands were being
tied. He laughed while the rope was fastened around his neck. A sapling
had been bent slightly toward the ground, and secured in that position
by a rope, readily formed of twisted bark, and tied around the summit
and base of the tree, while another rope of the same material, suspended
from the top, received the prisoner’s neck. The severance of the
first-named cord would allow the tree to return to its upright position,
thus simply effecting the design.

When all things were ready, Count De Zeng took out his watch, and
solemnly informed the prisoner that he had only five minutes of life
remaining, if he continued to refuse the proposed terms.

“You shall yet answer for this foolery,” was the only reply. “The law
will redress me.”

“Outlaw! brigand! kidnapper!” returned the count; “do you talk to me of
law?”

Wiley knew that his life was forfeited, and that if carried a prisoner
to the American camp, his only chance of escape from death would consist
in his being exchanged for Miss Gansevoort, which he entertained
sanguine hopes of effecting. He was also infatuated to the last with
entire incredulity in regard to De Zeng’s threats, having himself before
witnessed, and even been a party to similar transactions, where nothing
more was intended than to extort some valuable information. He therefore
continued unrelenting.

An awful silence for a few minutes prevailed, during which De Zeng’s
eyes were riveted upon his watch, and an attendant with drawn sword
stood ready to sever the cord at the base of the tree. The prisoner
again smiled, as he remarked, “The time must be past, Count De Zeng: I
suppose the play is now over.”

A signal from the count, and a flash of the executioner’s blade, was the
only reply. The released tree sprang upwards, and, suspended, struggling
from its lofty top, Edward Wiley passed into eternity.

Appalled at the awful spectacle, the little company remained for some
time silent, but at length one of the prisoners, who seemed in some
authority, and who had ventured to remonstrate against the proceedings,
remarked that the “tragedy was ended.”

“Ended!” exclaimed De Zeng, in a voice of startling tone; “it is but
just begun. Your whole number, man by man, shall dangle at those
tree-tops, if you still persist in withholding your captive. Who stands
next in authority?”

Of course none were anxious to lay claim to so dangerous a dignity; but
the majority of the prisoners being Indians, one, who bore the insignia
of a chief, was selected and brought forward. Glancing with a slight
tremor upward at the suspended body of his leader, he turned to the
count, and said,

“The white chief carried a forked tongue; Wind-Wing will bring back the
Pale Flower.”

A brief parley ensued, during which it appeared that the chief had a son
among the prisoners, who agreed to be responsible for the fulfillment of
his promise. The compact was duly made. By the time that the shadow of
an adjacent maple should fall across the corner of the encampment,
Wind-Wing was to return with the maiden, or his son was to die. The time
specified was about an hour. It was a period of intense interest to all.
The short winter day was fast wasting away, and Count De Zeng felt that
if it passed without the rescue of Miss Gansevoort, but little hope
would remain of effecting that object. He hardly dared to believe either
in the fidelity of the savage, or in his ability to accomplish his task.
If Ellen was in reality in the vicinity, she was doubtless in the
custody of Tories, over whom the Indian would have no control. More
especially, if the latter should be indiscreet enough to divulge the
death of Wiley, would that circumstance operate against poor Ellen. The
more De Zeng reflected the more he despaired. He even began to
anticipate an attack of the camp, as Wind-Wing might make use of his
fleetness only to arouse the neighboring Tories to the rescue of their
friends. Double vigilance was therefore enjoined upon the sentinels. In
the meantime the hour dragged slowly along, and the shadow gradually
approached the designated line. It was with real pain that De Zeng gave
orders to make ready the fatal tree. Wiley’s death he had witnessed
without the slightest compunction, but the Indian was comparatively
innocent. His resolution, however, was fixed. If the chief failed of his
promise, there would be nothing further to rely upon, excepting a
thorough intimidation of the remaining prisoners.

But the Indian who stood in jeopardy manifested no fear. While others
watched the creeping shadow of the maple, his gaze was fixed upon the
distant hills. The rope was adjusted, but he did not quail. The
executioner took his stand, but still his bright eye, bespeaking an
unfaltering faith in his sire’s fidelity, rested on the distant forests.
Choked with emotion, his whole frame moved by the violent pulsations of
his heart, Count De Zeng stood silently by. At this moment a sudden
ejaculation from the Indian caused all eyes to take the direction of his
own, when, bounding down the side of a distant mountain, Wind-Wing,
bearing a white burthen in his arms, was perceived. Long, loud, and
tumultuous were the cheers that burst from that assembled throng, and
awakened the distant echoes of the silent forest. Darting from the midst
of his companions, De Zeng once more dashed down the hill, and seeming
to surpass all human speed in his flight, in a short time had met and
received from the nearly exhausted chieftain, the terrified but yet
conscious Ellen. Let us not undertake so idle a task as that of
depicting the delight either of the liberated captive, or her generous
rescuer.

The conjectures of Count De Zeng had been nearly correct. Anticipating a
possible attack, Wiley had taken the precaution to send his prisoner, in
custody of a small detachment of Indians, to a secure hiding-place a few
miles distant from the encampment. There were, however, no Tories among
her guard, and the influence of the chief over his fellow savages was,
of course, sufficient to enable him to obtain the maiden without
difficulty. They had even accompanied him the greater part of the way,
and assisted to transport his gentle burthen.

With a light heart the count now gave orders for his homeward march. A
litter was readily formed, in which Ellen was carried; the soldiers, who
had begun to idolize their leader for his bold and successful conduct in
the late enterprise, vieing with each other in alacrity to perform this
duty. With brief intervals of repose, their march was continued through
the night, and before noon of the ensuing day they arrived in safety at
the fort. The commandant, to whom the period of De Zeng’s absence had
been one of the most painful suspense, now gave way to the most
unbounded delight, which soon, with a contagious influence diffused
itself throughout the garrison. He gave orders to celebrate the event by
a general salute from the guns of the fort, which were immediately
carried into effect, amidst the heartiest and most tumultuous cheering
that ever awakened the echoes of Tappaan Zee.

Bender, within a few days, was pardoned and released. Thoroughly
humbled, yet sufficiently happy in saving his life, he quietly departed.

One result of the remarkable events which have been recorded will be so
easily conjectured by the reader, as scarcely to require its relation.
Born at remote points of the globe, singularly united in their recent
destinies, and long really wedded in affection, Louis De Zeng and Ellen
Gansevoort were not henceforth to be separated. But the day which
witnessed their union was equally auspicious to another pair of generous
and gentle hearts. Colonel Gansevoort had, by some accident, at length
discovered his own attachment to the beautiful Alice. By her seemingly
slight agency what momentous results had been effected. A lifetime of
devotion could not have repaid the service, which, under the impulse of
a generous feeling, she had freely rendered. But a sense of obligation
was not necessary to inspire affection for Alice. Her gentle heart
elicited a voluntary and perpetual homage, which no sentiment of duty
was needed to confirm.

Little remains to be told. The subsequent military career of Colonels
Gansevoort and De Zeng were distinguished by the same integrity,
sagacity, and courage, which had marked their commencement. If they did
not rise to eminence in station, it was less from want of ability than
want of ambition. They had drunk of that charmed cup of bliss which
renders tasteless and insipid all the inferior joys of life.

Colonel Edmund Gansevoort lived to read the proclamation by which his
royal master acknowledged the sovereignty and independence of the United
States of America, and to behold his own boasted possessions saved from
confiscation only by the interest of his once disinherited son.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES


                    ON VISITING BROAD STREET HOTEL,


  HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON, WHEN NEW YORK WAS EVACUATED BY CLINTON.


                        BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.


    It is a structure of the olden time,
    Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;
    A stain is on the venerable roof,
    Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,
    And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,
    With thread-like roots, the moss.
                            Grey shutters swing
    On rusted hinges, but the beams of day
    Dart with a softening radiance through the bars.
    Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,
    Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,
    And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,
    Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,
    But a cold glance they win from me alone.

    Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,
    To look on pile more humble? Why in thought
    Linger around this ancient edifice?
    The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,
    Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.
    Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,
    Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,
    At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,
    His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,
    Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.
    Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,
    While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,
    Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowed
    To die or conquer with their matchless chief.
    Methinks at yon old window I behold
    His calm, majestic features—while the sound
    Of blessing rises from the throng below.
    Have not the scenes of other days returned?
    Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,
    Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,
    Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?
    No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a place
    Allied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,
    Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.

    Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!
    Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,
    Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,
    And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voice
    Comes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,
    Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul—
    A _mighty voice_ that speaks of Washington,
    And prompts renewal of stern vow to guard
    Pure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR.


“Strawb’_rees_! Strawb’_rees_!” cried a poorly clad, tired-looking
woman, about eleven o’clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a
handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked
earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not
look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady,
dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop. The woman
lifted the heavy tray from her head, and placing it upon the door-step,
sat wearily down.

“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she came to
the door.

“Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh.”

“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up
and looking grave. Then shaking her head, and compressing her lips
firmly, she added—

“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries. It’s too much.”

“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said the
woman. “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”

“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say. I never pay such
prices. I bought strawberries in market yesterday, just as good as
yours, for eight cents a box.”

“I don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned the
woman. “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least
twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can sell out quickly.
It’s a very hot day.” And the woman wiped, with her apron, the
perspiration from her glowing face.

“No, I wont pay ten cents,” said the lady(?) coldly. “I’ll give you
forty cents for five quarts, and nothing more.”

“But, madam, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a quart.”

“I can’t help that. You paid too much for them, and this must be your
loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other
people’s mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than that.”

The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually hot and
sultry, and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than usual. Five
boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight cents, she
would clear two cents and a half, and that made her something.

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” she said, after thinking a few moments;
“I don’t feel as well as usual to-day, and my tray is heavy. Five boxes
sold will be something. You shall have them at nine cents. They cost me
seven and a half, and I am sure it’s worth a cent and a half a box to
cry them about the streets such hot weather as this.”

“I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do,” said the
customer, with dignity. “If you are willing to take what I offer you,
say so, if not, we needn’t stand here any longer.”

“Well, I suppose you will have to take them,” replied the
strawberry-woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better. “But
it’s too little.”

“It’s enough,” said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five
boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid for
them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good bargain, while
the poor woman turned from the door sad and disheartened. She walked
nearly the distance of a square before she could trust her voice to
utter her monotonous cry of

“Strawb’_rees_! Strawb’_rees_!”

An hour afterward, a friend called upon Mrs. Mier, the lady who had
bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and things
interesting to lady house-keepers, Mrs. Mier said—

“How much did you pay for strawberries this morning?”

“Ten cents.”

“You paid too much. I bought them for eight.”

“For eight! Were they good ones?”

“Step into the dining-room and I will show them to you.”

The ladies stepped into the dining-room, when Mrs. Mier displayed her
large, red berries, which were really much finer than she had at first
supposed them to be.

“You didn’t get them for eight cents,” remarked the visiter
incredulously.

“Yes I did. I paid forty cents for five quarts.”

“While I paid fifty for some not near so good.”

“I suppose you paid just what you were asked?”

“Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season, who
agrees to furnish me at the regular market price.”

“Which you will always find to be two or three cents above what you can
get them for in the market.”

“You always buy in market.”

“I bought these from a woman at the door.”

“Did she only ask eight cents for them?”

“Oh no! She asked ten cents, and pretended that she got twelve and a
half for the same quality of berries yesterday. But I never give these
people what they ask.”

“While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor, tired-looking
woman at my door, to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks me. A
cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of great
importance to her.”

“You are a very poor economist, I see,” said Mrs. Mier. “If that is the
way you deal with every one, your husband no doubt finds his expense
account a very serious item.”

“I don’t know about that. He never complains. He allows me a certain sum
every week to keep the house, and find my own and the children’s
clothes; and so far from ever calling on him for more, I always have
fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me.”

“You must have a precious large allowance then, considering your want of
economy in paying everybody just what they ask for their things.”

“Oh, no! I don’t do that exactly, Mrs. Mier. If I consider the price of
a thing too high, I don’t buy it.”

“You paid too high for your strawberries to-day.”

“Perhaps I did; although I am by no means certain.”

“You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you own that
they are superior to yours at ten cents.”

“Still, yours may have been too cheap, instead of mine too dear.”

“Too cheap! That is funny! I never saw any thing too cheap in my life.
The great trouble is, that every thing is too dear. What do you mean by
too cheap?”

“The person who sold them to you may not have made profit enough upon
them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the case, she sold them
to you too cheap.”

“Suppose she paid too high for them? Is the purchaser to pay for her
error?”

“Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell; and even if she had made
such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to pay her a
price that would give her a fair profit, instead of taking from her the
means of buying bread for her children. At least this is my way of
reasoning.”

“And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a system of
reasoning. But how much, pray, do you have a week to keep the family? I
am curious to know.”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

“Thirty-five dollars! You are jesting.”

“Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find the
sum ample.”

“While I receive fifty dollars a week,” said Mrs. Mier, “and am forever
calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me. And yet I
never pay the exorbitant prices asked by everybody for every thing. I am
strictly economical in my family. While other people pay their domestics
a dollar and a half and two dollars a week, I give but a dollar and a
quarter each to my cook and chambermaid, and require the chambermaid to
help the washer-woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen, for I
take care, in marketing, not to allow room for waste. I don’t know how
it is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while
I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system.”

The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly understood by
the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs. Mier never paid any
body as much as was at first asked for an article, and was always
talking about economy, and trying to practice it, by withholding from
others what was justly their due, as in the case of the
strawberry-woman, yet she was a very extravagant person, and spared no
money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs. Gilman, her visiter, was, on the
contrary, really economical, because she was moderate in all her
desires, and was usually as well satisfied with an article of dress or
furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars, as Mrs. Mier was with one
that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little things, the former was not
so particular as to infringe the rights of others, while in larger
matters, she was careful not to run into extravagance in order to
gratify her own or children’s pride and vanity, while the latter pursued
a course directly opposite.

Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied, on reflection, about the price
she had paid for her strawberries, as she had felt at first.

“I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a quart too much than
too little,” she said to herself,—“dear knows, they earn their money
hard enough, and get but a scanty portion after all.”

Although the tray of the poor strawberry-woman, when she passed from the
presence of Mrs. Mier, was lighter by five boxes, her heart was heavier,
and that made her steps more weary than before. The next place at which
she stopped, she found the same disposition to beat her down in her
price.

“I’ll give you nine cents, and take four boxes,” said the lady.

“Indeed, madam, that is too little,” replied the woman; “ten cents is
the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable profit.”

“Well, say thirty-seven and a-half for four boxes, and I will take them.
It is only two cents and a-half less than you ask for them.”

“Give me a fip, ma!—there comes the candy-man!” exclaimed a little
fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. “Quick, ma! Here,
candy-man!” calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his arm,
that looked something like an ice-cream freezer. The lady drew out her
purse, and searched among its contents for the small coin her child
wanted.

“I havn’t any thing less than a levy,” she at length said.

“Oh, well, he can change it. Candy-man, you can change a levy?”

By this time the “candy-man” stood smiling beside the strawberry-woman.
As he was counting out the fip’s worth of candy, the child spoke up in
an earnest voice, and said—

“Get a levy’s worth, mother, do, wont you? Cousin Lu’s coming to see us
to-morrow.”

“Let him have a levy’s worth, candy-man. He’s such a rogue I can’t
resist him,” responded the mother. The candy was counted out, and the
levy paid, when the man retired in his usual good humor.

“Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a-half cents?”
said the lady, the smile fading from her face. “It is all I am willing
to give.”

“If you wont pay any more, I mustn’t stand for two cents and a-half,”
replied the woman, “although they would nearly buy a loaf of bread for
the children,” she mentally added.

The four boxes were sold for the sum offered, and the woman lifted the
tray upon her head, and moved on again. The sun shone out still hotter
and hotter as the day advanced. Large beads of perspiration rolled from
the throbbing temples of the strawberry-woman, as she passed wearily up
one street and down another, crying her fruit at the top of her voice.
At length all were sold but five boxes, and now it was past one o’clock.
Long before this she ought to have been at home. Faint from
over-exertion, she lifted her tray from her head, and placing it upon a
door-step, sat down to rest. As she sat thus, a lady came up, and paused
at the door of the house as if about to enter.

“You look tired, my good woman,” she said kindly. “This is a very hot
day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your strawberries?”

“I ought to have ten cents for them, but nobody seems willing to give
ten cents to-day, although they are very fine, and cost me as much as
some I have got twelve and a half for.”

“How many boxes have you?”

“Five, ma’am.”

“They are very fine, sure enough,” said the lady, stooping down and
examining them; “and well worth ten cents. I’ll take them.”

“Thanky, ma’am. I was afraid I should have to take them home,” said the
woman, her heart bounding up lightly.

The lady rang the bell, for it was at her door that the tired
strawberry-woman had stopped to rest herself. While she was waiting for
the door to be opened, the lady took from her purse the money for the
strawberries, and handing it to the woman, said,

“Here is your money. Shall I tell the servant to bring you out a glass
of cool water? You are hot and tired.”

“If you please, ma’am,” said the woman, with a grateful look.

The water was sent out by the servant who was to receive the
strawberries, and the tired woman drank it eagerly. Its refreshing
coolness flowed through every vein, and when she took up her tray to
return home, both heart and step were lighter.

The lady, whose benevolent feelings had prompted her to the performance
of this little act of kindness, could not help remembering the woman’s
grateful look. She had not done much—not more than it was every one’s
duty to do; but the recollection of even that was pleasant, far more
pleasant than could possibly have been Mrs. Mier’s self-gratulations at
having saved ten cents on her purchase of five boxes of strawberries,
notwithstanding the assurance of the poor woman who vended them, that,
at the reduced rate, her profit on the whole would only be two cents and
a-half.

After dinner Mrs. Mier went out and spent thirty dollars in purchasing
jewelry for her eldest daughter, a young lady not yet eighteen years of
age. That evening, at the tea-table, the strawberries were highly
commended as being the largest and most delicious in flavor of any they
had yet had; in reply to which, Mrs. Mier stated, with an air of
peculiar satisfaction, that she had got them for eight cents a box when
they were worth at least ten cents.

“The woman asked me ten cents,” she said, “but I offered her eight, and
she took it.”

While the family of Mrs. Mier were enjoying their pleasant repast, the
strawberry-woman sat at a small table, around which were gathered three
young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in
the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries, for which she was to pay
seven and a-half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box,
she would have made seventy-five cents; but such was not the case. Rich
ladies had beaten her down in her price—had chaffered with her for the
few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her—and
actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strove to earn for her
children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she
had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian
meal and molasses for her own and her children’s supper and breakfast.

As she sat with her children, eating the only food she was able to
provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a
feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her; but the remembrance
of the kind words, and the glass of cool water, so timely and
thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaven in the waters of Marah.
Her heart softened, and with the tears stealing to her eyes, she glanced
upward, and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though
poor, she was still human.

Economy is a good thing, and should be practiced by all, but it should
show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see
persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour, and in the next
trying to save a five penny piece off of a wood-sawyer, coal-heaver, or
market-woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE SOUL’S SEARCH.


                        BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.


    A weary, wandering soul am I,
      O’erburthened with an earthly weight;
    A palmer through the world and sky
      Seeking the celestial gate.

    Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,
      Who all night gaze upon the skies,
    Have ye not in the silent hours
      Seen aught of Paradise?

    Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate
      With joy which makes your voices strong,
    Have ye not at the crystal gate
      Caught somewhat of your song?

    Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,
      Ye seas, which hold the starry night,
    Have ye not from the imperial bourn
      Caught glimpses of its light?

    Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,
      Ye mountain forests old and gray,
    In all your long and winding lines
      Have ye not seen the way?

    Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,
      Knowest thou the path the angels tread?
    Seest thou beyond thy azure towers
      The golden gates dispread?

    Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth
      While earth was yet a sinless star,
    Have the immortals heavenly birth
      Within your realms afar?

    Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurls
      Thy banners through unnumbered skies,
    Seest thou amid thy subject worlds
      The flaming portals rise?

    All, all are mute! and still am I
      O’erburthened with an earthly weight,
    A palmer through the world and sky
      Seeking the celestial gate.

    No answer wheresoe’er I roam—
      From skies afar no guiding ray;
    But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!
      Arise! I am the way!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               TO LIZZIE.


                        BY MRS. M. N. M’DONALD.


                And all hearts do pray, “God love her!”
                  Ay, in certes, in good sooth,
                  We may all be sure He doth.
                                          Miss Barrett.

    There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,
      That I cannot well define,
    And I sometimes think it lieth
      In that soft blue eye of thine;
    And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,
      And beautiful thy lip—
    As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,
      A bee might love to sip—
    Yet I think it is nor lip nor eye
      Which binds me with its spell,
    But a something dearer far than these,
      Though undefinable.

    When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,
      When I hear thy gentle tone;
    When my hand is pressed so tenderly,
      So warmly in thine own—
    Why then I think it is thy voice,
      Whose music, like a bird’s,
    Can soothe me with the melody
      Of sweetly spoken words:
    Perchance the pressure of thy hand
      This hidden charm may be—
    Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sigh
      That lures my heart to thee.

    Perchance it is thy gentleness,
      Perchance thy winning smile,
    Which lurketh in such dimples
      As might _easily_ beguile;
    Or perchance the music of thy laugh
      Hath a bewildering flow—
    Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,
      If it be thy laugh or no;
    For mirth as musical as thine
      Hath met mine ear before,
    But its memory faded from my heart
      When once the strain was o’er.

    Oh! for the wand of fairy
      To dissolve the witching spell,
    And teach me, dearest Lizzie,
      What it is I love so well.
    Thy simple truth and earnestness,
      Perchance it may be this,
    Or the gentle kindness breathing
      In thy morn or evening kiss—
    Thy care for others’ weal or wo,
      Thy quickly springing tears—
    Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,
      Unmeet for thy brief years.

    Well, be it either look or tone,
      Or smile, or soft caress,
    I know not, Lizzie, yet I feel
      I could not love thee less.
    And something, haply, there may be,
      “Like light within a vase,”
    Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,
      Flings o’er thee such a grace.
    Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,
      That words may not impart,
    Is but the warm affections
      Of a kind and loving heart.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        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.]

                      (_Continued from page 313._)


                               PART VIII.

           Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.—As You Like It.

While the tyro believes the vessel is about to capsize at every puff of
wind, the practiced seaman alone knows when danger truly besets him in
this particular form. Thus it was with Harry Mulford, when the Mexican
schooner went over, as related in the close of the preceding chapter. He
felt no alarm until the danger actually came. Then, indeed, no one there
was so quickly or so thoroughly apprized of what the result would be,
and he directed all his exertions to meet the exigency. While there was
the smallest hope of success, he did not lessen, in the least, his
endeavors to save the vessel; making almost superhuman efforts to cast
off the fore-sheet, so as to relieve the schooner from the pressure of
one of her sails. But, no sooner did he hear the barrels in the hold
surging to leeward, and feel by the inclination of the deck beneath his
feet, that nothing could save the craft, than he abandoned the sheet,
and sprang to the assistance of Rose. It was time he did; for, having
followed him into the vessel’s lee waist, she was the first to be
submerged in the sea, and would have been hopelessly drowned, but for
Mulford’s timely succor. Women _might_ swim more readily than men, and
do so swim, in those portions of the world where the laws of nature are
not counteracted by human conventions. Rose Budd, however, had received
the vicious education which civilized society inflicts on her sex, and,
as a matter of course, was totally helpless in an element in which it
was the design of Divine Providence she should possess the common means
of sustaining herself, like every other being endued with animal life.
Not so with Mulford, he swam with ease and force, and had no difficulty
in sustaining Rose until the schooner had settled into her new berth, or
in hauling her on the vessel’s bottom immediately after.

Luckily, there was no swell, or so little as not to endanger those who
were on the schooner’s bilge; and Mulford had no sooner placed her in
momentary safety at least, whom he prized far higher than his own life,
than he bethought him of his other companions. Jack Tier had hauled
himself up to windward by the rope that steadied the tiller, and he had
called on Mrs. Budd to imitate his example. It was so natural for even a
woman to grasp any thing like a rope at such a moment, that the widow
instinctively obeyed, while Biddy seized, at random, the first thing of
the sort that offered. Owing to these fortunate chances, Jack and Mrs.
Budd succeeded in reaching the quarter of the schooner, the former
actually getting up on the bottom of the wreck, on to which he was
enabled to float the widow, who was almost as buoyant as cork, as,
indeed, was the case with Jack himself. All the stern and bows of the
vessel were under water, in consequence of her leanness forward and aft;
but though submerged, she offered a precarious footing, even in these
extremities, to such as could reach them. On the other hand, the place
where Rose stood, or the bilge of the vessel, was two or three feet
above the surface of the sea, though slippery and inclining in shape.

It was not half a minute from the time that Mulford sprang to Rose’s
succor, ere he had her on the vessel’s bottom. In another half minute,
he had waded down on the schooner’s counter, where Jack Tier was lustily
calling to him for “help,” and assisted the widow to her feet, and
supported her until she stood at Rose’s side. Leaving the last in her
aunt’s arms, half distracted between dread and joy, he turned to the
assistance of Biddy. The rope at which the Irish woman had caught, was a
straggling end that had been made fast to the main channels of the
schooner, for the support of a fender, and had been hauled partly
in-board to keep it out of the water. Biddy had found no difficulty in
dragging herself up to the chains, therefore, and had she been content
to sustain herself by the rope, leaving as much of her body submerged as
comported with breathing, her task would have been easy. But, like most
persons who do not know how to swim, the good woman was fast exhausting
her strength, by vain efforts to walk on the surface of an element that
was never made to sustain her. Unpracticed persons, in such situations,
cannot be taught to believe that their greatest safety is in leaving as
much of their bodies as possible beneath the water, keeping the mouth
and nose alone free for breath. But we have seen even instances in which
men, who were in danger of drowning, seemed to believe it might be
possible for them to crawl over the waves on their hands and knees. The
philosophy of the contrary course is so very simple, that one would
fancy a very child might be made to comprehend it; yet, it is rare to
find one unaccustomed to the water, and who is suddenly exposed to its
dangers, that does not resort, under the pressure of present alarm, to
the very reverse of the true means to save his or her life.

Mulford had no difficulty in finding Bridget, whose exclamations of
“murther!” “help!” “he-l-lup!” “Jasus!” and other similar cries led him
directly to the spot, where she was fast drowning herself by her own
senseless struggles. Seizing her by the arm, the active young mate soon
placed her on her feet, though her cries did not cease until she was
ordered by her mistress to keep silence.

Having thus rescued the whole of his companions from immediate danger,
Mulford began to think of the future. He was seized with sudden surprise
that the vessel did not sink, and for a minute he was unable to account
for the unusual fact. On the former occasion, the schooner had gone down
almost as soon as she fell over; but now she floated with so much
buoyancy as to leave most of her keel and all of her bilge on one side
quite clear of the water. As one of the main hatches was off, and the
cabins doors, and booby-hatch doors forward were open, and all were
under water, it required a little reflection on the part of Mulford to
understand on what circumstance all their lives now depended. The mate
soon ascertained the truth, however, and we may as well explain it to
the reader in our own fashion, in order to put him on a level with the
young seaman.

The puff of wind, or little squall, had struck the schooner at the most
unfavorable moment for her safety. She had just lost her way in tacking,
and the hull not moving ahead, as happens when a craft is thus assailed
with the motion on her, all the power of the wind was expended in the
direction necessary to capsize her. Another disadvantage arose from the
want of motion. The rudder, which acts solely by pressing against the
water as the vessel meets it, was useless, and it was not possible to
luff, and throw the wind from the sails, as is usually practiced by
fore-and-aft rigged craft, in moments of such peril. In consequence of
these united difficulties, the shifting of the cargo in the hold, the
tenderness of the craft itself, and the force of the squall, the
schooner had gone so far over as to carry all three of the openings to
her interior suddenly under water, where they remained, held by the
pressure of the cargo that had rolled to leeward. Had not the water
completely covered these openings, or hatches, the schooner must have
sunk in a minute or two, or by the time Mulford had got all his
companions safe on her bilge. But they were completely submerged, and so
continued to be, which circumstance alone prevented the vessel from
sinking, as the following simple explanation will show.

Any person who will put an empty tumbler, bottom upwards, into a bucket
of water, will find that the water will not rise within the tumbler more
than an inch at most. At that point it is arrested by the resistance of
the air, which, unable to escape, and compressed into a narrow compass,
forms a body that the other fluid cannot penetrate. It is on this simple
and familiar principle, that the chemist keeps his gases, in inverted
glasses, placing them on shelves slightly submerged in water. Thus it
was, then, that the schooner continued to float, though nearly bottom
upward, and with three inlets open, by which the water could and did
penetrate. A considerable quantity of the element had rushed in at the
instant of capsizing, but meeting with resistance from the compressed
and pent air, its progress had been arrested, and the wreck continued to
float, sustained by the buoyancy that was imparted to it, in containing
so large a body of a substance no heavier than atmospheric air. After
displacing its weight of water, enough of buoyancy remained to raise the
keel a few feet above the level of the sea.

As soon as Mulford had ascertained the facts of their situation, he
communicated them to his companions, encouraging them to hope for
eventual safety. It was true, their situation was nearly desperate,
admitting that the wreck should continue to float forever, since they
were nearly without food, or any thing to drink, and had no means of
urging the hull through the water. They must float, too, at the mercy of
the winds and waves, and should a sea get up, it might soon be
impossible for Mulford himself to maintain his footing on the bottom of
the wreck. All this the young man had dimly shadowed forth to him,
through his professional experience; but the certainty of the vessel’s
not sinking immediately had so far revived his spirits, as to cause him
to look on the bright side of the future, pale as that glimmering of
hope was made to appear whenever reason cast one of its severe glances
athwart it.

Harry had no difficulty in making Rose comprehend their precise
situation. Her active and clear mind understood at once the causes of
their present preservation, and most of the hazards of the future. It
was not so with Jack Tier. He was composed, even resigned; but he could
not see the reason why the schooner still floated.

“I know that the cabin-doors were open,” he said, “and if they wasn’t,
of no great matter would it be, since the joints ar’n’t caulked, and the
water would run through them as through a sieve. I’m afeard, Mr.
Mulford, we shall find the wreck going from under our feet afore long,
and when we least wish it, perhaps.”

“I tell you the wreck will float so long as the air remains in its
hold,” returned the mate, cheerfully. “Do you not see how buoyant it
is?—the certain proof that there is plenty of air within. So long as
that remains, the hull _must_ float.”

“I’ve always understood,” said Jack, sticking to his opinion, “that
wessels floats by vartue of water, and not by vartue of air; and, that
when the water gets on the wrong side on ’em, there’s little hope left
of keepin’ ’em up.”

“What has become of the boat?” suddenly cried the mate. “I have been so
much occupied as to have forgotten the boat. In that boat we might all
of us still reach Key West. I see nothing of the boat!”

A profound silence succeeded this sudden and unexpected question. All
knew that the boat was gone, and all knew that it had been lost by the
widow’s pertinacity and clumsiness; but no one felt disposed to betray
her at that grave moment. Mulford left the bilge, and waded as far aft
as it was at all prudent for him to proceed, in the vain hope that the
boat might be there, fastened by its painter to the schooner’s tafferel,
as he had left it, but concealed from view by the darkness of the night.
Not finding what he was after, he returned to his companions, still
uttering exclamations of surprise at the unaccountable loss of the boat.
Rose now told him that the boat had got adrift some ten or fifteen
minutes before the accident befell them, and that they were actually
endeavoring to recover it when the squall, which capsized the schooner,
struck them.

“And why did you not call me, Rose?” asked Harry, with a little of
gentle reproach in his manner. “It must have soon been my watch on deck,
and it would have been better that I should lose half an hour of my
watch below, than we should lose the boat.”

Rose was now obliged to confess that the time for calling him had long
been past, and that the faint streak of light, which was just appearing
in the east, was the near approach of day. This explanation was made
gently, but frankly, and Mulford experienced a glow of pleasure at his
heart, even in that moment of jeopardy, when he understood Rose’s motive
for not having him disturbed. As the boat was gone, with little or no
prospect of its being recovered again, no more was said about it; and
the widow, who had stood on thorns the while, had the relief of
believing that her awkwardness was forgotten.

It was such a relief from an imminent danger to have escaped from
drowning when the schooner capsized, that those on her bottom did not,
for some little time, realize all the terrors of their actual situation.
The inconvenience of being wet was a trifle not to be thought of, and,
in fact, the light summer dresses worn by all, linen or cotton as they
were entirely, were soon effectually dried in the wind. The keel made a
tolerably convenient seat, and the whole party placed themselves on it
to await the return of day, in order to obtain a view of all that their
situation offered in the way of a prospect. While thus awaiting, a
broken and short dialogue occurred.

“Had you stood to the northward the whole night?” asked Mulford,
gloomily, of Jack Tier; for gloomily he began to feel, as all the facts
of their case began to press more closely on his mind. “If so, we must
be well off the reef, and out of the track of wreckers and turtlers. How
had you the wind, and how did you head before the accident happened?”

“The wind was light the whole time, and for some hours it was nearly
calm,” answered Jack, in the same vein; “I kept the schooner’s head to
the nor’ard, until I thought we were getting too far off our course, and
then I put her about. I do not think we could have been any great
distance from the reef, when the boat got away from us, and I suppose we
are in its neighborhood now, for I was tacking to fall in with the boat
when the craft went over.”

“To fall in with the boat! Did you keep off to leeward of it, then, that
you expected to fetch it by tacking?”

“Ay, a good bit; and I think the boat is now away here to windward of
us, drifting athwart our bows.”

This was important news to Mulford. Could he only get that boat, the
chances of being saved would be increased a hundred fold, nay, would
almost amount to a certainty; whereas, so long as the wind held to the
southward and eastward, the drift of the wreck must be toward the open
water, and consequently so much the further removed from the means of
succor. The general direction of the Trades, in that quarter of the
world, is east, and should they get round into their old and proper
quarter, it would not benefit them much; for the reef running
south-west, they could scarcely hope to hit the Dry Tortugas again, in
their drift, were life even spared them sufficiently long to float the
distance. Then there might be currents, about which Mulford knew nothing
with certainty; they might set them in any direction; and did they
exist, as was almost sure to be the case, were much more powerful than
the wind in controlling the movements of a wreck.

The mate strained his eyes in the direction pointed out by Jack Tier, in
the hope of discovering the boat through the haze of the morning, and he
actually did discern something that, it appeared to him, might be the
much desired little craft. If he were right, there was every reason to
think the boat would drift down so near them, as to enable him to
recover it by swimming. This cheering intelligence was communicated to
his companions, who received it with gratitude and delight. But the
approach of day gradually dispelled that hope, the object which Mulford
had mistaken for the boat, within two hundred yards of the wreck,
turning out to be a small low, but bare hummock of the reef, at a
distance of more than two miles.

“That is a proof that we are not far from the reef at least,” cried
Mulford, willing to encourage those around him all he could, and really
much relieved at finding himself so near even this isolated fragment of
_terra firma_. “This fact is the next encouraging thing to finding
ourselves near the boat, or to falling in with a sail.”

“Ay, ay,” said Jack, gloomily; “boat or no boat, ’twill make no great
matter of difference now. _There’s_ customers that’ll be sartain to take
all the grists you can send to their mill.”

“What things are those glancing about the vessel?” cried Rose, almost in
the same breath; “those dark sharp-looking sticks—see, there are five
or six of them; and they move as if fastened to something under the
water that pulls them about.”

“Them’s the customers I mean, Miss Rose,” answered Jack, in the same
strain as that in which he had first spoken; “they’re the same thing at
sea as lawyers be ashore, and seem made to live on other folks. Them’s
sharks.”

“And yonder is truly the boat!” added Mulford, with a sigh that almost
amounted to a groan. The light had, by this time, so far returned, as to
enable the party not only to see the fins of half a dozen sharks, which
were already prowling about the wreck, the almost necessary consequence
of their proximity to a reef in that latitude, but actually to discern
the boat drilling down toward them, at a distance that promised to carry
it past, within the reach of Mulford’s powers of swimming, though not as
near as he could have wished, even under more favorable circumstances.
Had their extremity been greater, or had Rose begun to suffer from
hunger or thirst, Mulford might have attempted the experiment of
endeavoring to regain the boat, though the chances of death by means of
the sharks, would be more than equal to those of escape; but still
fresh, and not yet feeling even the heat of the sun of that low
latitude, he was not quite goaded into such an act of desperation. All
that remained for the party, therefore, was to sit on the keel of the
wreck, and gaze with longing eyes at a little object floating past,
which, once at their command, might so readily be made to save them from
a fate that already began to appear terrible in the perspective. Near an
hour was thus consumed, ere the boat was about half a mile to leeward;
during which scarcely an eye was turned from it for one instant, or a
word was spoken.

“It is beyond my reach now,” Mulford at length exclaimed, sighing
heavily, like one who became conscious of some great and irretrievable
loss. “Were there no sharks, I could hardly venture to attempt swimming
so far, with the boat drifting from me at the same time.”

“I should never consent to let you make the trial, Harry,” murmured
Rose, “though it were only half as far.”

Another pause succeeded.

“We have now the light of day,” resumed the mate, a minute or two later,
“and may see our true situation. No sail is in sight, and the wind
stands steadily in its old quarter. Still, I do not think we leave the
reef! There, you may see breakers off here at the southward, and it
seems as if more rocks rise above the sea, in that direction. I do not
know that our situation would be any the better, however, were we
actually on them, instead of being on this floating wreck.”

“The rocks will never sink,” said Jack Tier, with so much emphasis as to
startle the listeners.

“I do not think this hull will sink until we are taken off it, or are
beyond caring whether it sink or swim,” returned Mulford.

“I do not know that, Mr. Mulford. Nothing keeps us up but the air in the
hold, you say.”

“Certainly not; but that air will suffice as long as it remains there.”

“And what do you call these things?” rejoined the assistant steward,
pointing at the water near him, in or on which no one else saw anything
worthy of attention.

Mulford, however, was not satisfied with a cursory glance, but went
nearer to the spot where Tier was standing. Then, indeed, he saw to what
the steward alluded, and was impressed by it, though he said nothing.
Hundreds of little bubbles rose to the surface of the water, much as one
sees them rising in springs. These bubbles are often met with in lakes
and other comparatively shallow waters, but they are rarely seen in
those of the ocean. The mate understood, at a glance, that those he now
beheld were produced by the air which escaped from the hold of the
wreck; in small quantities at a time, it was true, but by a constant and
increasing process. The great pressure of the water forced this air
through crevices so minute that, under ordinary circumstances, they
would have proved impenetrable to this, as they were still to the other
fluid, though they now permitted the passage of the former. It might
take a long time to force the air from the interior of the vessel by
such means, but the result was as certain as it might be slow. As
constant dropping will wear a stone, so might the power that kept the
wreck afloat be exhausted by the ceaseless rising of these minute
air-bubbles.

Although Mulford was entirely sensible of the nature of this new source
of danger, we cannot say he was much affected by it at the moment. It
seemed to him far more probable that they must die of exhaustion, long
before the wreck would lose all of its buoyancy by this slow process,
than that even the strongest of their number could survive for such a
period. The new danger, therefore, lost most of its terrors under this
view of the subject, though it certainly did not add to the small sense
of security that remained, to know that inevitably their fate must be
sealed through its agency, should they be able to hold out for a
sufficient time against hunger and thirst It caused Mulford to muse in
silence for many more minutes.

“I hope we are not altogether without food,” the mate at length said.
“It sometimes happens that persons at sea carry pieces of biscuit in
their pockets, especially those who keep watch at night. The smallest
morsel is now of the last importance.”

At this suggestion, every one set about an examination. The result was,
that neither Mrs. Budd nor Rose had a particle of food, of any sort,
about their persons. Biddy produced from her pockets, however, a whole
biscuit, a large bunch of excellent raisins that she had filched from
the steward’s stores, and two apples; the last being the remains of some
fruit that Spike had procured a month earlier in New York. Mulford had
half a biscuit, at which he had been accustomed to nibble in his
watches; and Jack lugged out, along with a small plug of tobacco, a
couple of sweet oranges. Here, then, was every thing in the shape of
victuals or drink, that could be found for the use of five persons, in
all probability for many days. The importance of securing it for equal
distribution, was so obvious, that Mulford’s proposal to do so, met with
a common assent. The whole was put in Mrs. Budd’s bag, and she was
intrusted with the keeping of this precious store.

“It may be harder to abstain from food at first, when we have not
suffered for its want, than it will become after a little endurance,”
said the mate. “We are now strong, and it will be wiser to fast as long
as we conveniently can, to-day, and relieve our hunger by a moderate
allowance toward evening, than to waste our means by too much indulgence
at a time when we are strong. Weakness will be sure to come if we remain
long on the wreck.”

“Have you ever suffered in this way, Harry?” demanded Rose, with
interest.

“I have, and that dreadfully. But a Merciful Providence came to my
rescue then, and it may not fail me now. The seaman is accustomed to
carry his life in his hand, and to live on the edge of eternity.”

The truth of this was so apparent as to produce a thoughtful silence.
Anxious glances were cast around the horizon from time to time, in quest
of any sail that might come in sight; but uselessly. None appeared, and
the day advanced without bringing the slightest prospect of relief.
Mulford could see, by the now almost sunken hummocks, that they were
slowly drifting along the reef, toward the southward and eastward, a
current no doubt acting slightly from the north-west. Their proximity to
the reef, however, was of no advantage, as the distance was still so
great as to render any attempt to reach it, even on the part of the
mate, unavailable. Nor would he have been any better off could he have
gained a spot on the rocks, that was shallow enough to admit of his
walking, since wading about in such a place would have been less
desirable than to be floating where he was.

The want of water to drink, threatened to be the great evil. Of this,
the party on the wreck had not a single drop! As the warmth of the day
was added to the feverish feeling produced by excitement, they all
experienced thirst, though no one murmured. So utterly without means of
relieving this necessity did each person know them all to be, that no
one spoke on the subject at all. In fact, shipwreck never produced a
more complete destitution of all the ordinary agents of helping
themselves, in any form or manner, than was the case here. So sudden and
complete had been the disaster, that not a single article, beyond those
on the persons of the sufferers, came even in view. The masts, sails,
rigging, spare spars, in a word, every thing belonging to the vessel was
submerged and hidden from their sight, with the exception of a portion
of the vessel’s bottom, which might be forty feet in length, and some
ten or fifteen in width, including that which was above water on both
sides of the keel, though one only of these sides was available to the
females, as a place to move about on. Had Mulford only a boat-hook, he
would have felt it a relief; for not only did the sharks increase in
number, but they grew more audacious, swimming so near the wreck that,
more than once, Mulford apprehended that some one of the boldest of them
might make an effort literally to board them. It is true, he had never
known of one of these fish’s attempting to quit his own element in
pursuit of his prey; but such things were reported, and those around the
wreck swam so close and seemed so eager to get at those who were on it,
that there really might be some excuse for fancying they might resort to
unusual means of effecting their object. It is probable that, like all
other animals, they were emboldened by their own numbers, and were
acting in a sort of concert, that was governed by some of the many
mysterious laws of nature, that have still escaped human observation.

Thus passed the earlier hours of that appalling day. Toward noon,
Mulford had insisted on the females dividing one of the oranges between
them, and extracting its juice by way of assuaging their thirst. The
effect was most grateful, as all admitted, and even Mrs. Budd urged
Harry and Tier to take a portion of the remaining orange; but this, both
steadily refused. Mulford did consent to receive a small portion of one
of the apples, more with a view of moistening his throat than to appease
his hunger, though it had, in a slight degree, the latter effect also.
As for Jack Tier, he declined even the morsel of apple, saying that
tobacco answered his purpose, as indeed it temporarily might.

It was near sunset, when the steward’s assistant called Mulford aside,
and whispered to him that he had something private to communicate. The
mate bade him say on, as they were out of ear-shot of their companions.

“I’ve been in sitiations like this afore,” said Jack, “and one l’arns
exper’ence by exper’ence. I know how cruel it is on the feelin’s to have
the hopes disapp’inted in these cases, and therefore shall proceed with
caution. But, Mr. Mulford, there’s a sail in sight, if there is a drop
of water in the Gulf!”

“A sail, Jack! I trust in Heaven, you are not deceived!”

“Old eyes are true eyes in such matters, sir. Be careful not to start
the women. They go off like gunpowder, and, Lord help ’em! have no more
command over themselves, when you loosen ’em once, than so many
flying-fish with a dozen dolphins a’ter them. Look hereaway, sir, just
clear of the Irish woman’s bonnet, a little broad off the spot where the
reef was last seen—if that an’t a sail, my name is not Jack Tier.”

A sail there was, sure enough! It was so very distant, however, as to
render its character still uncertain, though Mulford fancied it was a
square-rigged vessel heading to the northward. By its position, it must
be in one of the channels of the reef, and by its course, if he were not
deceived, it was standing through, from the main passage along the
southern side of the rocks, to come out on the northern. All this was
favorable, and at first the young mate felt such a throbbing of the
heart as we all experience when great and unexpected good intelligence
is received. A moment’s reflection, however, made him aware how little
was to be hoped for from this vessel. In the first place, her distance
was so great as to render it uncertain even which way she was steering.
Then, there was the probability that she would pass at so great a
distance as to render it impossible to perceive an object as low as the
wreck, and the additional chance of her passing in the night. Under all
the circumstances, therefore, Mulford felt convinced that there was very
little probability of their receiving any succor from the strange sail;
and he fully appreciated Jack Tier’s motive in forbearing to give the
usual call of “Sail, ho!” when he made his discovery. Still, he could
not deny himself the pleasure of communicating to Rose the cheering fact
that a vessel was actually in sight. She could not reason on the
circumstances as he had done, and might at least pass several hours of
comparative happiness by believing that there was some visible chance of
delivery.

The females received the intelligence with very different degrees of
hope. Rose was delighted. To her their rescue appeared an event so very
probable now, that Harry Mulford almost regretted he had given rise to
an expectation which he himself feared was to be disappointed. The
feelings of Mrs. Budd were more suppressed. The wreck and her present
situation were so completely at variance with all her former notions of
the sea and its incidents, that she was almost dumb-founded, and feared
either to speak or to think. Biddy differed from either of her
mistresses—the young or the old; she appeared to have lost _all_ hope,
and her physical energy was fast giving way under her profound moral
debility.

From the return of light, that day, Mulford had thought, if it were to
prove that Providence had withdrawn its protecting hand from them,
Biddy, who to all appearance ought to be the longest liver among the
females at least, would be the first to sink under her sufferings. Such
is the influence of moral causes on the mere animal.

Rose saw the night shut in around them, amid the solemn solitude of the
ocean, with a mingled sensation of awe and hope. She had prayed
devoutly, and often, in the course of the preceding day, and her
devotions had contributed to calm her spirits. Once or twice, while
kneeling with her head bowed to the keel, she had raised her eyes toward
Harry with a look of entreaty, as if she would implore him to humble his
proud spirit and place himself at her side, and ask that succor from
God, which was so much needed, and which indeed it began most seriously
to appear that God alone could yield. The young mate did not comply, for
his pride of profession and of manhood offered themselves as
stumbling-blocks to prevent submission to his secret wishes. Though he
rarely prayed, Harry Mulford was far from being an unbeliever, or one
altogether regardless of his duties and obligations to his Divine
Creator. On the contrary, his heart was more disposed to resort to such
means of self-abasement and submission, than he put in practice, and
this because he had been taught to believe that the Anglo-Saxon mariner
did not call on Hercules, on every occasion of difficulty and distress
that occurred, as was the fashion with the Italian and Romish seamen,
but he put his own shoulder to the wheel, confident that Hercules would
not forget to help him who knew how to help himself. But Harry had great
difficulty in withstanding Rose’s silent appeal that evening, as she
knelt at the keel for the last time, and turned her gentle eyes upward
at him, as if to ask him once more to take his place at her side.
Withstand the appeal he did, however, though in his inward spirit he
prayed fervently to God to put away this dreadful affliction from the
young and innocent creature before him. When these evening devotions
were ended, the whole party became thoughtful and silent.

It was necessary to sleep, and arrangements were made to do so, if
possible, with a proper regard for their security. Mulford and Tier were
to have the look-out, watch and watch. This was done that no vessel
might pass near them unseen, and that any change in the weather might be
noted and looked to. As it was, the wind had fallen, and seemed about to
vary, though it yet stood in its old quarter, or a little more easterly,
perhaps. As a consequence, the drift of the wreck, insomuch as it
depended on the currents of the air, was more nearly in a line with the
direction of the reef, and there was little ground for apprehending that
they might be driven further from it in the night. Although that reef
offered in reality no place of safety, that was available to his party,
Mulford felt it as a sort of relief, to be certain that it was not
distant, possibly influenced by a vague hope that some passing wrecker
or turtler might yet pick them up.

The bottom of the schooner and the destitute condition of the party
admitted of only very simple arrangements for the night. The females
placed themselves against the keel in the best manner they could, and
thus endeavored to get a little of the rest they so much needed. The day
had been warm, as a matter of course, and the contrast produced by the
setting of the sun was at first rather agreeable than otherwise. Luckily
Rose had thrown a shawl over her shoulders, not long before the vessel
capsized, and in this shawl she had been saved. It had been dried, and
it now served for a light covering to herself and her aunt, and added
essentially to their comfort. As for Biddy, she was too hardy to need a
shawl, and she protested that she should not think of using one, had she
been better provided. The patient, meek manner in which that humble, but
generous-hearted creature submitted to her fate, and the earnestness
with which she had begged that “Miss Rosy” might have her morsel of the
portion of biscuit each received for a supper, had sensibly impressed
Mulford in her favor; and knowing how much more necessary food was to
sustain one of her robust frame and sturdy habits, than to Rose, he had
contrived to give the woman, unknown to herself, a double allowance. Nor
was it surprising that Biddy did not detect this little act of fraud in
her favor, for this double allowance was merely a single mouthful. The
want of water had made itself much more keenly felt than the want of
food, for as yet anxiety, excitement and apprehension prevented the
appetite from being much awakened, while the claims of thirst were
increased rather than the reverse, by these very causes. Still, no one
had complained, on this or any other account, throughout the whole of
the long and weary day which had passed.

Mulford took the first look-out, with the intention of catching a little
sleep, if possible, during the middle hours of the night, and of
returning to his duty as morning approached. For the first hour nothing
occurred to divert his attention from brooding on the melancholy
circumstances of their situation. It seemed as if all around him had
actually lost the sense of their cares in sleep, and no sound was
audible amid that ocean waste, but the light washing of the water, as
the gentle waves rolled at intervals against the weather side of the
wreck. It was now that Mulford found a moment for prayer, and seated on
the keel, that he called on the Divine aid, in a fervent but silent
petition to God, to put away this trial from the youthful and beautiful
Rose, at least, though he himself perished. It was the first prayer that
Mulford had made in many months, or since he had joined the Swash—a
craft in which that duty was seldom thought of.

A few minutes succeeded this petition, when Biddy spoke.

“Missus—Madam Budd—dear Missus”—half whispered the Irish woman,
anxious not to disturb Rose, who lay furthest from her—“Missus, bees ye
asleep at sich a time as this?”

“No, Biddy; sleep and I are strangers to each other, and are likely to
be till morning. What do you wish to say?”

“Any thing is betther than my own t’oughts, missus dear, and I wants to
talk to ye. Is it no wather at all they’ll give us so long as we stay in
this place?”

“There is no one to give it to us but God, poor Biddy, and he alone can
say what, in his gracious mercy, it may please him to do. Ah! Biddy, I
fear me that I did an unwise and thoughtless thing, to bring my poor
Rose to such a place as this. Were it to be done over again, the riches
of Wall Street would not tempt me to be guilty of so wrong a thing!”

The arm of Rose was thrown around her aunt’s neck, and its gentle
pressure announced how completely the offender was forgiven.

“I’s very sorry for Miss Rose,” rejoined Biddy, “and I suffers so much
the more meself in thinking how hard it must be for the like of her to
be wantin’ in a swallow of fresh wather.”

“It is no harder for me to bear it, poor Biddy,” answered the gentle
voice of our heroine, “than it is for yourself.”

“Is it meself, then? Sure am I, that if I had a quar-r-t of good, swate
wather from our own pump, and _that’s_ far betther is it than the
Crothon the best day the Crothon ever seed—but had I a quar-r-t of it,
every dhrap would I give to you, Miss Rose, to app’ase your thirst, I
would.”

“Water would be a great relief to us all, just now, my excellent Biddy,”
answered Rose, “and I wish we had but a tumbler full of that you name,
to divide equally among the whole five of us.”

“Is it divide? Then it would be ag’in dividin’ that my voice would be
raised, for that same r’ason that the tumbler would never hold as much
as you could dhrink yourself, Miss Rose.”

“Yet the tumbler full would be a great blessing for us all, just now,”
murmured Mrs. Budd.

“And isn’t mutthon good ’atin’, ladies! Och! if I had but a good swate
pratie, now, from my own native Ireland, and a dhrap of milk to help
wash it down! It’s mighty little that a body thinks of sich thrifles
when there’s abundance of them; but when there’s none at all, they get
to be stronger in the mind than riches and honors.”

“You say the truth, Biddy,” rejoined the mistress, “and there is a
pleasure in talking of them, if one can’t enjoy them. I’ve been thinking
all the afternoon, Rose, what a delicious food is a good roast turkey,
with cranberry sauce; and I wonder, now, that I have not been more
grateful for the very many that Providence has bestowed upon me in my
time. My poor Mr. Budd was passionately fond of mutton, and I used
wickedly to laugh at his fondness for it, sometimes, when he always had
his answer ready, and that was that there are no sheep at sea. How true
that is, Rosy dear; there are indeed no sheep at sea!”

“No, aunty,” answered Rose’s gentle voice from beneath the shawl; “there
are no such animals on the ocean, but God is with us here as much as he
would be in New York.”

A long silence succeeded this simple remark of his well beloved, and the
young mate hoped that there would be no more of a dialogue, every
syllable of which was a dagger to his feelings. But nature was stronger
than reflection in Mrs. Budd and Biddy, and the latter spoke again,
after a pause of near a quarter of an hour.

“Pray for me, Missus,” she said, moaningly, “that I may sleep. A bit of
sleep would do a body almost as much good as a bit of bread—I wont say
as much as a dhrap of wather.”

“Be quiet, Biddy, and we _will_ pray for you,” answered Rose, who
fancied by her breathing that her aunt was about to forget her
sufferings for a brief space, in broken slumbers.

“Is it for you I’ll do _that_—and sure will I, Miss Rose. Niver would I
have quitted Ireland, could I have thought there was sich a spot on this
earth as a place where no wather was to be had.”

This was the last of Biddy’s audible complaints, for the remainder of
this long and anxious watch of Mulford. He then set himself about an
arrangement which shall be mentioned in its proper place. At twelve
o’clock, or when he thought it was twelve, he called Jack Tier, who in
turn called the mate again at four.

“It looks dark and threatening,” said Mulford, as he rose to his feet
and began to look about him once more, “though there does not appear to
be any wind.”

“It’s a flat calm, Mr. Mate, and the darkness comes from yonder cloud,
which seems likely to bring a little rain.”

“Rain! Then God is indeed with us here. You are right, Jack; rain must
fall from that cloud. We must catch some of it, if it be only a drop to
cool Rose’s parched tongue.”

“In what?” answered Tier, gloomily. “She may wring her clothes when the
shower is over, and in that way get a drop. I see no other method.”

“I have bethought me of all that, and passed most of my watch in making
the preparations.”

Mulford then showed Tier what he had been about, in the long and
solitary hours of the first watch. It would seem that the young man had
dug a little trench with his knife, along the schooner’s bottom,
commencing two or three feet from the keel, and near the spot where Rose
was lying, and carrying it as far as was convenient toward the run,
until he reached a point where he had dug out a sort of reservoir to
contain the precious fluid, should any be sent them by Providence. While
doing this, there were no signs of rain; but the young man knew that a
shower alone could save them from insanity, if not from death, and in
speculating on the means of profiting by one, should it come, he had
bethought him of this expedient. The large knife of a seaman had served
him a good turn, in carrying on his work, to complete which there
remained now very little to do, and that was in enlarging the receptacle
for the water. The hole was already big enough to contain a pint, and it
might easily be sufficiently enlarged to hold double that quantity.

Jack was no sooner made acquainted with what had been done, than he
pulled out a knife and commenced tearing splinter after splinter from
the planks, to help enlarge the reservoir. This could only be done by
cutting on the surface, for the wood was not three inches in thickness,
and the smallest hole _through_ the plank, would have led to the rapid
escape of the air and to the certain sinking of the wreck. It required a
good deal of judgment to preserve the necessary level also, and Mulford
was obliged to interfere more than once to prevent his companion from
doing more harm than good. He succeeded, however, and had actually made
a cavity that might contain more than a quart of water, when the first
large drop fell from the heavens. This cavity was not a hole, but a
long, deep trench—deep for the circumstances—so nicely cut on the
proper level, as to admit of its holding a fluid in the quantity
mentioned.

“Rose—dearest—rise, and be ready to drink,” said Mulford, tenderly
disturbing the uneasy slumbers of his beloved. “It is about to rain, and
God is with us here, as he might be on the land.”

“Wather!” exclaimed Biddy, who was awoke with the same call. “What a
blessed thing is good swate wather, and sure am I we ought all to be
thankful that there is such a precious gift in the wor-r-ld.”

“Come, then,” said Mulford, hurriedly, “it will soon rain—I hear it
pattering on the sea. Come hither, all of you, and drink, as a merciful
God furnishes the means.”

This summons was not likely to be neglected. All arose in haste, and the
word “water” was murmured from every lip. Biddy had less self-command
than the others, and she was heard saying aloud,—“Och! and didn’t I
dhrame of the blessed springs and wells of Ireland the night, and
haven’t I dhrunk at ’em all; but now it’s over, and I am awake, no good
has’t done me, and I’m ready to die for one dhrap of wather.”

That drop soon came, however, and with it the blessed relief which such
a boon bestows. Mulford had barely time to explain his arrangements, and
to place the party on their knees, along his little reservoir and the
gutter which led to it, when the pattering of the rain advanced along
the sea, with a deep rushing sound. Presently, the uplifted faces and
open mouths caught a few heavy straggling drops, to cool the parched
tongues, when the water came tumbling down upon them in a thousand
little streams. There was scarcely any wind, and merely the skirt of a
large black cloud floated over the wreck, on which the rain fell barely
one minute. But it fell as rain comes down within the tropics, and in
sufficient quantities for all present purposes. Everybody drank, and
found relief, and, when all was over, Mulford ascertained by examination
that his receptacle for the fluid was still full to overflowing. The
abstinence had not been of sufficient length, nor the quantity taken of
large enough amount, to produce injury, though the thirst was generally
and temporarily appeased. It is probable that the coolness of the hour,
day dawning as the cloud moved past, and the circumstance that the
sufferers were wetted to their skins, contributed to the change.

“Oh, blessed, blessed wather!” exclaimed Biddy, as she rose from her
knees; “America, afther all, isn’t as dhry a counthry as some say. I’ve
niver tasted swater wather in Ireland itself!”

Rose murmured her thanksgiving in more appropriate language. A few
exclamations also escaped Mrs. Budd, and Jack Tier had his sententious
eulogy on the precious qualities of sweet water.

The wind rose as the day advanced, and a swell began to heave the wreck
with a power that had hitherto been dormant. Mulford understood this to
be a sign that there had been a blow at some distance from them, that
had thrown the sea into a state of agitation, which extended itself
beyond the influence of the wind. Eagerly did the young mate examine the
horizon, as the curtain of night arose, inch by inch, as it might be, on
the watery panorama, in the hope that a vessel of some sort or other
might be brought within the view. Nor was he wholly disappointed. The
strange sail seen the previous evening was actually there; and what was
more, so near as to allow her hull to be distinctly visible. It was a
ship, under her square canvas, standing from between divided portions of
the reef, as if getting to the northward, in order to avoid the opposing
current of the Gulf Stream. Vessels bound to Mobile, New Orleans, and
other ports along the coast of the Republic, in that quarter of the
ocean, often did this; and when the young mate first caught glimpses of
the shadowy outline of this ship, he supposed it to be some packet, or
cotton-droger, standing for her port on the northern shore. But a few
minutes removed the veil, and with it the error of this notion. A seaman
could no longer mistake the craft. Her length, her square and massive
hamper, with the symmetry of her spars, and the long, straight outline
of the hull, left no doubt that it was a cruiser, with her hammocks
unstowed. Mulford now cheerfully announced to his companions, that the
ship they so plainly saw, scarcely a gun-shot distant from them, was the
sloop-of-war which had already become a sort of an acquaintance.

“If we can succeed in making them see our signal,” cried Mulford, “all
will yet be well. Come, Jack, and help me to put abroad this shawl, the
only ensign we can show.”

The shawl of Rose was the signal spread. Tier and Mulford stood on the
keel, and holding opposite corners, let the rest of the cloth blow out
with the wind. For near an hour did these two extend their arms, and try
all possible expedients to make their signal conspicuous. But,
unfortunately, the wind blew directly toward the cruiser, and instead of
exposing a surface of any breadth to the vision of those on board her,
it must, at most, have offered little more than a flitting, waving line.

As the day advanced, sail was made on the cruiser. She had stood through
the passage, in which she had been becalmed most of the night, under
short canvas; but now she threw out fold after fold of her
studding-sails, and moved away to the westward, with the stately motion
of a ship before the wind. No sooner had she got far enough to the
northward of the reef, than she made a deviation from her course as
first seen, turning her stern entirely to the wreck, and rapidly
becoming less and less distinct to the eyes of those who floated on it.

Mulford saw the hopelessness of their case, as it respected relief from
this vessel; still he persevered in maintaining his position on the
keel, tossing and waving the shawl, in all the manners that his
ingenuity could devise. He well knew, however, that their chances of
being seen would have been trebled could they have been ahead instead of
astern of the ship. Mariners have few occasions to look behind them,
while a hundred watchful eyes are usually turned ahead, more especially
when running near rocks and shoals. Mrs. Budd wept like an infant when
she saw the sloop-of-war gliding away, reaching a distance that rendered
sight useless, in detecting an object that floated as low on the water
as the wreck. As for Biddy, unable to control her feelings, the poor
creature actually called to the crew of the departing vessel, as if her
voice had the power to make itself heard, at a distance which already
exceeded two leagues. It was only by means of the earnest remonstrances
of Rose, that the faithful creature could be quieted.

“Why will ye not come to our relaif?” she cried at the top of her voice.
“Here are we, helpless as new-born babbies, and ye sailing away from us
in a con_thra_ry way! D’ye not bethink you of the missus, who is much of
a sailor, but not sich a one as to sail on a wrack; and poor Miss Rose,
who is the char-rm and delight of all eyes. Only come and take off Miss
Rose, and lave the rest of us, if ye so likes; for it’s a sin and a
shame to laive the likes of her to die in the midst of the ocean, as if
she was no betther nor a fish. Then it will be soon that we shall ag’in
fale the want of wather, and that, too, with nothing but wather to be
seen on all sides of us.”

“It is of no use,” said Harry, mournfully, stepping down from the keel,
and laying aside the shawl. “They cannot see us, and the distance is now
so great as to render it certain they never will. There is only one hope
left. We are evidently set to and fro by the tides, and it is possible
that, by keeping in or near this passage, some other craft may appear,
and we be more fortunate. The relief of the rain is a sign that we are
not forgotten by Divine Providence, and with such a protector we ought
not to despair.”

A gloomy and scanty breaking of the fast succeeded. Each person had one
large mouthful of bread, which was all that prudence would authorize
Mulford to distribute. He attempted a pious fraud, however, by placing
his own allowance along with that of Rose’s, under the impression that
her strength might not endure privation as well as his own. But the
tender solicitude of Rose was not to be thus deceived. Judging of his
wishes and motives by her own, she at once detected the deception, and
insisted on retaining no more than her proper share. When this
distribution was completed, and the meager allowance taken, only
sufficient bread remained to make one more similar scanty meal, if meal
a single mouthful could be termed. As for the water, a want of which
would be certain to be felt as soon as the sun obtained its noon-day
power, the shawl was extended over it, in a way to prevent evaporation
as much as possible, and at the same time to offer some resistance to
the fluid’s being washed from its shallow receptacle by the motion of
the wreck, which was sensibly increasing with the increase of the wind
and waves.

Mulford had next an anxious duty to perform. Throughout the whole of the
preceding day he had seen the air escaping from the hull, in an
incessant succession of small bubbles, which were formidable through
their numbers, if not through their size. The mate was aware that this
unceasing loss of the buoyant property of the wreck, must eventually
lead to their destruction, should no assistance come, and he had marked
the floating line on the bottom of the vessel with his knife, ere
darkness set in, on the previous evening. No sooner did his thoughts
recur to this fact, after the excitement of the first hour of daylight
was over, than he stepped to the different places thus marked, and saw,
with an alarm that it would be difficult to describe, that the wreck had
actually sunk into the water several inches within the last few hours.
This was, indeed, menacing their security in a most serious manner,
setting a limit to their existence, which rendered all precaution on the
subject of food and water useless. By the calculations of the mate, the
wreck could not float more than eight-and-forty hours, should it
continue to lose the air at the rate at which it had been hitherto lost.
Bad as all this appeared, things were fated to become much more serious.
The motion of the water quite sensibly increased, lifting the wreck at
times in a way greatly to increase the danger of their situation. The
reader will understand this movement did not proceed from the waves of
the existing wind, but from what is technically called a ground-swell,
or the long, heavy undulations that are left by the tempest that is
past, or by some distant gale. The waves of the present breeze were not
very formidable, the reef making a lee; though they might possibly
become inconvenient from breaking on the weather side of the wreck, as
soon as the drift carried the latter fairly abreast of the passage
already mentioned. But the dangers that proceeded from the heavy
ground-swell, which now began to give a considerable motion to the
wreck, will best explain itself by narrating the incidents as they
occurred.

Harry had left his marks, and had taken his seat on the keel at Rose’s
side, impatiently waiting for any turn that Providence might next give
to their situation, when a heavy roll of the wreck first attracted his
attention to this new circumstance.

“If any one is thirsty,” he observed quietly, “he or she had better
drink now, while it may be done. Two or three more such rolls as this
last will wash all the water from our gutters.”

“Wather is a blessed thing,” said Biddy, with a longing expression of
the eyes, “and it would be betther to swallow it than to let it be
lost.”

“Then drink, for Heaven’s sake, good woman, it may be the last occasion
that will offer.”

“Sure am I that I would not touch a dhrap, while the missus and Miss
Rosy was a sufferin’.”

“I have no thirst at all,” answered Rose, sweetly, “and have already
taken more water than was good for me, with so little food on my
stomach.”

“Eat another morsel of the bread, beloved,” whispered Harry, in a manner
so urgent that Rose gratefully complied. “Drink, Biddy, and we will come
and share with you before the water is wasted by this increasing
motion.”

Biddy did as desired, and each knelt in turn and took a little of the
grateful fluid, leaving about a gill in the gutters for the use of those
whose lips might again become parched.

“Wather is a blessed thing,” repeated Biddy, for the twentieth time—“a
blessed, blessed thing is wather!”—

A little scream from Mrs. Budd, which was dutifully taken up by the
maid, interrupted the speech of the latter, and every eye was turned on
Mulford, as if to ask an explanation of the groaning sound that had been
heard within the wreck. The young mate comprehended only too well. The
rolling of the wreck had lifted a portion of the open hatchway above the
undulating surface of the sea, and a large quantity of the pent air
within the hold had escaped in a body. The entrance of water to supply
the vacuum had produced the groan. Mulford had made new marks on the
vessel’s bottom with his knife, and he stepped down to them, anxious and
nearly heart-broken, to note the effect. That one surging of the wreck
had permitted air enough to escape to lower it in the water several
inches. As yet, however, the visible limits of their floating foundation
had not been sufficiently reduced to attract the attention of the
females; and the young man said nothing on the subject. He thought that
Jack Tier was sensible of the existence of this new source of danger,
but if he were, that experienced mariner imitated his own reserve, and
made no allusion to it. Thus passed the day. Occasionally the wreck
rolled heavily, when more air escaped, the hull settling lower and lower
in the water as a necessary consequence. The little bubbles continued
incessantly to rise, and Mulford became satisfied that another day must
decide their fate. Taking this view of their situation, he saw no use in
reserving their food, but encouraged his companions to share the whole
of what remained at sunset. Little persuasion was necessary, and when
night once more came to envelope them in darkness, not a mouthful of
food, or a drop of water remained to meet the necessities of the coming
morn. It had rained again for a short time, in the course of the
afternoon, when enough water had been caught to allay their thirst, and
what was almost of as much importance to the females now, a sufficiency
of sun had succeeded to dry their clothes, thus enabling them to sleep
without enduring the chilling damps that might otherwise have prevented
it. The wind had sensibly fallen, and the ground-swell was altogether
gone, but Mulford was certain that the relief had come too late. So much
air had escaped while it lasted as scarce to leave him the hope that the
wreck could float until morning. The rising of the bubbles was now
incessant, the crevices by which they escaped having most probably
opened a little, in consequence of the pressure and the unceasing action
of the currents, small as the latter were.

Just as darkness was shutting in around them for the second time, Rose
remarked to Mulford that it seemed to her that they had not as large a
space for their little world as when they were first placed on it. The
mate, however, successfully avoided an explanation; and when the watch
was again set for the night, the females lay down to seek their repose,
more troubled with apprehensions for a morrow of hunger and thirst, than
by any just fears that might so well have arisen from the physical
certainty that the body which alone kept them from being engulfed in the
sea, could float but a few hours longer. This night Tier kept the
look-out until Jupiter reached the zenith, when Mulford was called to
hold the watch until light returned.

It may seem singular that any could sleep at all in such a situation.
But we get accustomed, in an incredibly short time, to the most violent
changes; and calamities that seem insupportable, when looked at from a
distance, lose half their power if met and resisted with fortitude. The
last may, indeed, be too significant a word to be applied to all of the
party on the wreck, on the occasion of which we are writing, though no
one of them all betrayed fears that were troublesome. Of Mulford it is
unnecessary to speak. His deportment had been quiet, thoughtful, and
full of a manly interest in the comfort of others, from the first moment
of the calamity. That Rose should share the largest in his attentions
was natural enough, but he neglected no essential duty to her
companions. Rose, herself, had little hope of being rescued. Her
naturally courageous character, however, prevented any undue exhibitions
of despair, and now it was that the niece became the principal support
of the aunt, completely changing the relations that had formerly existed
between them. Mrs. Budd had lost all the little buoyancy of her mind.
Not a syllable did she now utter concerning ships and their manœuvres.
She had been, at first, a little disposed to be querulous and
despairing, but the soothing and pious conversation of Rose awakened a
certain degree of resolution in her, and habit soon exercised its
influence over even her inactive mind. Biddy was a strange mixture of
courage, despair, humility, and consideration for others. Not once had
she taken her small allowance of food without first offering it, and
that, too, in perfect good faith, to her “Missus and Miss Rosy;” yet her
moanings for this sort of support, and her complaints of bodily
suffering much exceeded that of all the rest of the party put together.
As for Jack Tier, his conduct singularly belied his appearance. No one
would have expected any great show of manly resolution from the little
rotund, lymphatic figure of Tier; but he had manifested a calmness that
denoted either great natural courage, or a resolution derived from
familiarity with danger. In this particular, even Mulford regarded his
deportment with surprise, not unmingled with respect.

“You have had a tranquil watch, Jack,” said Harry, when he was called by
the person named, and had fairly aroused himself from his slumbers. “Has
the wind stood as it is since sunset?”

“No change whatever, sir. It has blown a good working breeze the whole
watch, and what is surprising, not as much lipper has got up as would
frighten a colt on a sea beach.”

“We must be near the reef, by that. I think the only currents we feel
come from the tide, and they seem to be setting us back and forth,
instead of carrying us in any one settled direction.”

“Quite likely, sir; and this makes my opinion of what I saw an hour
since all the more probable.”

“What you saw! In the name of a merciful Providence, Tier, do not trifle
with me. Has any thing been seen near by?”

“Don’t talk to me of your liquors and other dhrinks,” murmured Biddy in
her sleep. “It’s wather that is a blessed thing; and I wish I lived, the
night and the day, by the swate pump that’s in our own yard, I do.”

“The woman has been talking in her sleep, in this fashion, most of the
watch,” observed Jack, coolly, and perhaps a little contemptuously.
“But, Mr. Mulford, unless my eyes have cheated me, we are near that boat
again. The passage through the reef is close aboard us, here, on our
larboard bow, as it might be, and the current has sucked us in it in a
fashion to bring it in a sort of athwart-hawse direction to us.”

“If that boat, after all, should be sent by Providence to our relief!
How long is it since you saw it, Jack?”

“But a bit since, sir; or, for that matter, I think I see it now. Look
hereaway, sir, just where the dead-eyes of the fore-rigging would bear
from us, if the craft stood upon her legs, as she ought to do. If that
isn’t a boat, it’s a rock out of water.”

Mulford gazed through the gloom of midnight, and saw, or fancied he saw,
an object that might really be the boat. It could not be very distant
either; and his mind was instantly made up as to the course he would
pursue. Should it actually turn out to be that which he now so much
hoped for, and its distance in the morning did not prove too great for
human powers, he was resolved to swim for it at the hazard of his life.
In the meantime, or until light should return, there remained nothing to
do but to exercise as much patience as could be summoned, and to confide
in God, soliciting his powerful succor by secret prayer.

Mulford was no sooner left alone, as it might be, by Tier’s seeking a
place in which to take his rest, than he again examined the state of the
wreck. Little as he had hoped from its long-continued buoyancy, he found
matters even worse than he apprehended they would be. The hull had lost
much air, and had consequently sunk in the water in an exact proportion
to this loss. The space that was actually above the water, was reduced
to an area not more than six or seven feet in one direction, by some ten
or twelve in the other. This was reducing its extent, since the evening
previous, by fully one-half; and there could be no doubt that the air
was escaping, in consequence of the additional pressure, in a ratio that
increased by a sort of arithmetical progression. The young man knew that
the whole wreck, under its peculiar circumstances, might sink entirely
beneath the surface, and yet possess sufficient buoyancy to sustain
those that were on it for a time longer, but this involved the terrible
necessity of leaving the females partly submerged themselves.

Our mate heard his own heart beat, as he became satisfied of the actual
condition of the wreck, and of the physical certainty that existed of
its sinking, at least to the point last mentioned, ere the sun came to
throw his glories over the last view that the sufferers would be
permitted to take of the face of day. It appeared to him that no time
was to be lost. There lay the dim and shapeless object that seemed to be
the boat, distant, as he thought, about a mile. It would not have been
visible at all but for the perfect smoothness of the sea, and the low
position occupied by the observer. At times it did disappear altogether,
when it would rise again, as if undulating in the ground-swell. This
last circumstance, more than any other, persuaded Harry that it was not
a rock, but some floating object that he beheld. Thus encouraged, he
delayed no longer. Every moment was precious, and all might be lost by
indecision. He did not like the appearance of deserting his companions,
but, should he fail, the motive would appear in the act. Should he fail,
every one would alike soon be beyond the reach of censure, and in a
state of being that would do full justice to all.

Harry threw off most of his clothes, reserving only his shirt and a pair
of light summer trowsers. He could not quit the wreck, however, without
taking a sort of leave of Rose. On no account would he awake her, for he
appreciated the agony she would feel during the period of his struggles.
Kneeling at her side, he made a short prayer, then pressed his lips to
her warm cheek, and left her. Rose murmured his name at that instant,
but it was as the innocent and young betray their secrets in their
slumbers. Neither of the party awoke.

It was a moment to prove the heart of man, that in which Harry Mulford,
in the darkness of midnight, alone, unsustained by any encouraging eye,
or approving voice, with no other aid than his own stout arm, and the
unknown designs of a mysterious Providence, committed his form to the
sea. For an instant he paused, after he had waded down on the wreck to a
spot where the water already mounted to his breast, but it was not in
misgivings. He calculated the chances, and made an intelligent use of
such assistance as could be had. There had been no sharks near the wreck
all that day, but a splash in the water might bring them back again in a
crowd. They were probably prowling over the reef, near at hand. The mate
used great care, therefore, to make no noise. There was the distant
object, and he set it by a bright star, that wanted about an hour before
it would sink beneath the horizon. That star was his beacon, and
muttering a few words in earnest prayer, the young man threw his body
forward, and left the wreck, swimming lightly, but with vigor.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               TO IANTHÉ.


    Sweetest Ianthé, I can read thy features,
      And tell the latent meaning of each look—
    Thou most inscrutable of earth’s bright creatures;
      Thou unread riddle in an open book—
      To me thou art a clear and crystal brook,
    And I need be no wonder-raising seer
      To tell thee that thy brow of Parian stone
    Is radiant with pure thought; that deep and clear
      Thine eye is lighted from the soul alone.
    That on thy tranquil nostril Courage sleeping
      Heeds not the fears that Reason smiles to see;
    That from the dimples round thy mouth are peeping
      Sweetness and mirth and heavenly charity—
      Thy glances—nay, look up—I’ll read them silently.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                 SPECTRAL AND SUPERNATURAL APPEARANCES.


                            BY R. BALMANNO.


Belief in the supernatural has obtained credit in the world from the
earliest records with which we are acquainted. The Grecian and Roman
histories are full of it; even the Sacred Volume contains instances of
spectral or preternatural appearances, which can neither be denied nor
explained. In all civilized nations, at all times, up to the present
period, we have testimony of unequivocal authority, giving minute
details of extraordinary facts, on the evidence of individuals of
unimpeachable integrity, which confound experience, elude investigation,
and baffle research. The wisest of our divines, and the most
accomplished of our philosophers are all forced to admit that there are
things, with which human comprehension and reason cannot successfully
grapple.

We must allow the truth of the remark of that immortal poet, whose
commanding intellect and reach of thought, soared far above that of any
“man of woman born;”—“there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy.” The boastful wisdom of vain-glorious
men, like Voltaire, and such deistical writers, must bow before the
Almighty fiat, “Thus far shalt thou go, and NO farther.” That fiat can
never be violated by man.

As I am about to give the result of some rather extraordinary
circumstances which have either occurred to myself, or to personal
friends with whose names the world is well acquainted, it may not be
altogether out of place to introduce them, by a short notice of those
very singular annoyances to which the family of the Reverend Samuel
Wesley, of Epsworth Parsonage, in the county of Leicester, in England,
were subjected for a considerable length of time.

And it is remarkable that these extraordinary circumstances were not
confined to the experience of one, nor two, nor three individuals, but
to a whole family, consisting of nine persons, besides a neighboring
clergyman; and it is still more extraordinary that they were not made
apparent to one sense alone, but to several, inasmuch as they _heard_,
they _felt_, and they _saw_. Confederacy or collusion appears to have
been out of the question, and, indeed, to have been strictly guarded
against, at the suggestion of Mr. Wesley’s two sons, then absent, whose
suspicions were deeply excited.

Both these gentlemen were men of strong sense and highly cultivated
mind. Samuel, the elder of the two, was at the time an usher in
Westminster High School, and John, so celebrated afterward as the
founder of Methodism, was a student of Christ Church, the most
aristocratic of all the colleges in Oxford.

These gentlemen, in writing to their parents concerning the appearances,
suggested the possibility of collusion, or the work of young men wishing
to get access to the house, to enable them to make love to their
sisters, who were, however, young ladies of unsullied purity and virtue.

Dismal groans were heard, and strange knockings, three or four at a
time. Loud rumblings above and below stairs. Clatterings amongst
bottles; footsteps of a man going up and down stairs at all times of the
night; dancings in an empty room, whose door was locked; and gobblings
like a turkey-cock. Mr. and Mrs. Wesley endeavored _at first_ to
persuade the children and servants it was rats _within_, and mischievous
persons _without_, or that some of their daughters sat up late, and made
the noises as a hint to their lovers; but these ideas soon underwent a
change. Mrs. Wesley supposed she saw a black badger run from under the
bed; and the man, Robert Brown, saw a white rabbit, with its ears erect,
and its scut standing straight up, run from behind the oven. A shadow
might explain the first, and the last might be owing to the propensity
of ignorant persons to exaggerate.

But no such animals had ever been kept on the premises, nor were any
such in the neighborhood. Yet, granting them to have been shadows, _or
an affection of the retina_, these in no degree invalidate the other
parts of the story, which rest on the concurrent testimony of many
intelligent persons.

They cannot be explained by confederacy, collusion, legerdemain, nor
ventriloquism, nor by any secret of accoustics. Such things may be
preternatural, and yet not miraculous; they may not be in the ordinary
course of nature, yet imply no violation of its laws.

The sounds seemed sometimes in the air of the room, and the family could
not by any contrivance make such sounds themselves. The pewter trenchers
were rattled down—the doors clapped—curtains were drawn—the nursery
door was thrown open—the mastiff dog barked violently when the noises
_first_ commenced, but ever afterward, and sometimes before the family
were sensible of its approach, he ran whining behind some of the
company, or into the servant’s bed; and this is a remarkable feature in
the case, because the intelligence of a dog is such, and his ear so
fine, that he is invariably the first to discover the advance of a
stranger—he never shrinks at the approach of man, but becomes fierce
and forward to defend his protectors.

It never came by _day_, until Mr. Wesley ordered a horn to be blown
about the premises, and then it was as frequent in the day as in the
night. After that, none of the family could go from one room to another
without the latch of the room they were going to being lifted before
they entered it. It never went into Mr. Wesley’s study, until he
reproved it sharply, and called it “_a deaf and dumb devil_,” and bid it
cease to disturb the innocent children, and come to _him_ in his study,
if it had any thing to say to him; after which it visited him in his
study frequently, nay, once it _pushed_ him in, almost headlong. At
other times it slammed the door in his face. There is the mother’s
account of it to her son John Wesley, a student at Oxford, his sister
Emilia’s account, his sister Mary’s account, his sister Susan’s account,
his sister Ann’s, the Rev. Mr. Horne’s account, and Robert Brown, the
servant’s account.

All these give long details in letters to the brothers, and other
persons.

On one occasion it seemed as if a vessel full of silver were poured on
Mrs. Wesley’s breast, and ran jingling about her feet, as she was going
down stairs to breakfast with her husband.

The noises continued from the second of December till the end of January
following, nearly two months.

None of the family _felt_ the goblin until Mr. Wesley had called it a
deaf and dumb devil; after that, they were sensible of being _touched_,
pushed forward. Once or twice, when Mr. Wesley, in his clerical
capacity, rebuked it severely, he heard two or three feeble squeaks, a
little louder than the chirping of a bird, but not at all resembling the
noise made by rats.

The details are so perplexing, that Dr. Southey, from whom the account
is in part extracted, does not attempt to explain them. They are better
authenticated than any similar story on record, by persons whose
testimony, on _any other_ subject, could not for one moment be
questioned.

What interest could a quiet, retired, respectable clergyman, of the
established Church of England, have for imposing on the world? His
acknowledged piety precludes the suspicion; he was fast approaching, and
was very near that period of life when he knew he had to account to his
Creator for his truth or falsehood. His testimony is supported by that
of a brother clergyman, equally pious and respectable, who came to
assist in detecting the cheat, if cheat there had been. Can it be for
one instant believed, that if there had been collusion, the ladies of
the family would not in after life have confessed it to their husbands
or children? No less than nine respectable witnesses lived and _died_ in
the belief of its supernatural origin, and at their respective deaths,
they were as unable to account for the mystery as at the time of its
occurrence.

It commenced without apparent or ostensible cause, and terminated with
no other effect than the annoyance of an amiable family.

I shall now endeavor to relate a few remarkable circumstances which have
occurred either to myself or to personal friends, on whose veracity I
place implicit reliance; they are altogether unlike the preceding, and I
think I shall be enabled to show that, by a quiet, cool, persevering
investigation, we may _generally_ be enabled to account in a natural
way, for imaginary preternatural circumstances and appearances, although
the senses may have been many times deceived.

Every story or averment of the sort ought to be taken _quære tamen_, or
_sed quære_, as the lawyers have it—searched, sifted, scrutinized.

In Scotland, the land of second-sight, of brownies, bogles, kelpies, and
fairies, a superstition prevailed when I was a child, which was called
the Dead Candle. It was said that when a person was in the last agony,
in the act of departing this life, a pale blue gleam of light,
resembling the flame of a small spirit-lamp, was seen to flit slowly
across the room and through the passages, and disappear, without its
being evident whence it came, or whither it went. It was said and
supposed to be the soul of the departed, taking its flight for eternity.
Many were the dismal narratives of the dead candle, to which, while a
mere boy, I had listened amongst the servants of my father’s household.

In a certain ancient city in Scotland which I could name, the houses are
very large and very old; they are built entirely of granite, having very
thick walls, in a far more substantial manner than houses of the present
day.

The different floors, or _flats_, as they are there called, are shut off
from the general stair-case, and are let out to separate families, each
having a complete suite of apartments within itself.

In a large antique house of this sort, in the city alluded to, whilst I
and my brother were at school, under the charge of a sister considerably
older than ourselves, there resided in the flat above us, a young lady
who was lying dangerously ill of a brain fever. One night, about eleven
o’clock, during her illness, some time after my brother and I had
retired to bed, and as I lay thinking of the poor girl, I distinctly saw
a faint gleam of light pass across the foot of the bed in which I and my
brother were reposing. The house at the moment was perfectly still, and
the beam of light passed without the slightest sound; its appearance
exactly corresponded with what, in my childhood, I had been told was
presented by a “dead candle.” I was considerably alarmed, but probably
not so much as might have been expected in a boy twelve years of age,
inasmuch as from my earliest years, my parents had endeavored to
disabuse my mind of all superstitious fancies, and the venerable and
venerated clergyman, at whose school I then was, had, I believe, almost
eradicated them.

I watched the light as it slowly moved across the inequalities of the
bed-clothes, over my own and brother’s feet; and as its appearance
recalled all the dismal stories of dead candles, I fully expected the
young person who lay sick had just then expired. But next morning I
found that although she had been exceedingly ill, she was still alive.

On the following night, about the same hour, I again saw the self-same
appearance, in every respect as on the preceding night. The pale beam of
light was clearly and palpably defined, moving slowly athwart the foot
of the bed, as it had done on the former occasion; it was impossible I
could be mistaken—seeing is believing.

The young lady certainly did die that night, about the very hour that I
saw what I then verily believed to be her dead candle. I found it
impossible to divest myself of the impressions with which my infant mind
had been imbued; but what was, perhaps, rather singular in so young a
person as I then was, I concealed the circumstance of seeing her spirit
even from my brother; he was my senior by some years, and I well knew he
would have jeered and laughed at me, if I had told him—I was a trifle
more sensitive to ridicule then than now. My brother had been asleep on
both occasions and did not see it.

Of course, I pondered much on so extraordinary an appearance, which I
then actually believed to be a _real_ dead candle, and it was not long
before I had all doubt respecting its reality removed. On the following
night, at the same hour, I saw the apparition a third time, and—the
explanation shall be detailed in the sequel.

I was indebted to my late eminent friend, Henry Fuseli, R. A., the
celebrated historical painter, for the following story of a spectral
apparition which he himself saw.

During the time of his residence in Italy as a student at Rome, he had
gone on an excursion to Frascati, where he intended to remain all night,
but having changed his intention, he returned to Rome, rather late in
the night. Being fatigued with the journey, which he performed as a
pedestrian, and having gained access to his apartments without calling
for a light, or otherwise disturbing the family in whose house he
resided, he undressed in the dark and retired to rest.

On awaking, between two and three o’clock in the morning, he was
horror-stricken to behold in the dim light afforded by the now risen
moon, the figure of an angel of majestic proportions, arrayed in a loose
flowing robe of radiant whiteness, hovering over the foot of his bed.

He gazed on the seraphic vision with straining eyes, lost in amazement
to observe that, at one moment it seemed to approach with outstretched
arms, as if intending to descend and embrace him, and then gracefully
and slowly recede, gazing all the time with deep, fixed attention on his
countenance.

As far as his terror permitted, he observed that always between the
approach and retreat of the vision there was a pause, as if it
hesitated, and stopped in uncertainty.

All the while the Seraph was palpably floating “in thin air.” The artist
was both astonished and alarmed at so terrifying a phantom, even
although the purity of its robe threw a halo of glory around it
exceedingly Corregiesque.

In that Catholic country, where visions of saints are seen, and
apparitions visible, the phantom, to a good Catholic, would probably
have been hailed as a manifestation of Divine presence, a Beatification
of the blessed Virgin.

Not so, however, to a sturdy Swiss—a Protestant Master of
Arts—educated in the school and church of John Calvin, the
contemporary, school-fellow, and friend of Lavater, Hess, Bodmer, and
Bretinger.

But notwithstanding all this, it shook his nerves to their inmost
extremity, and made each particular hair like quills; and as he once
said to me with deep-toned emphasis, “_it made my marrow cold_.” For a
length of time he continued spell-bound, with his large blue eyes
riveted on the vision as intensely as his own sublime Hamlet glares on
the ghost of his father. Those in this country who remember the
penetrating eyes and look of the late lamented Dr. Follen, can easily
picture to themselves Henry Fuseli, for there was a striking resemblance
between them.

Becoming at last overpowered by the agony of his fears, and almost mad
with excitement and apprehension, involuntarily and sudden as lightning,
he sprung from the bed, and with outstretched arms clutched at the
angelic form, as it came floating majestically toward him, and seemed to
court his embrace.

Alas! poor youth, he little dreamt what an angel is composed of—the
beatific form was evanescent; he caught the _radiance_, but it was
unearthly—fleshless—boneless—a shadow, “an unreal mockery;” like
Ixion, he had embraced—that which shall appear hereafter.

The next incomprehensible circumstance which I shall relate, occurred to
myself. When I first became a resident in the Temple, “eating” my way
into the technicalities of English jurisprudence, I rented chambers,
consisting of a suite of three rooms and a spacious entrance hall, in
one of those ancient brick tenements, which have what I believe
architects call a well-staircase, built of solid timber from bottom to
top, intended to last, as they have lasted, for ages. Each suite has two
doors, a strong outer one, with a very substantial lock, and an inner,
which can also be locked, should occasion require, or when the occupant
is absent on circuit.

They are snug, cosy places—for bachelors—these Inns of Court, whether
it be in the Temple, the most ancient of all, or Lincoln’s, Grey’s,
Clement’s, Clifford’s, Furnival’s, Serjeant’s, or Staple’s Inn.

Most of them have extensive squares, besides gardens of great extent,
with fountains and jets of water playing under old ancestral trees. All
are extra parochial, and the whole have peculiar privileges—let the
limbs of the law alone for _that_! There are gates at the various
entrances, strong enough to defy the force of a battering-ram, which are
carefully barred, bolted, and locked, every night at ten o’clock, and
none, save inmates having chambers, are admitted after that hour.

The benchers, barristers, and students, resident within the precincts of
the Temple, number from one thousand two hundred to fifteen hundred
persons, which will give some idea of the extent of the societies of the
Inner and Middle Temple. Respectable elderly females, called
laundresses, who mostly reside in the neighborhood, come every morning
to clean the rooms, light the fires, prepare breakfast, &c., &c.

That glorious spirit, Charles Lamb, was a Templer, at the time I speak
of, and rented chambers not far from my own. Perchance I may hereafter
give some reminiscences of dear Elia.

The first night I slept in the Temple was the most melancholy and
uncomfortable which, in the whole course of my life, I remember ever to
have passed.

It was toward the end of the long vacation, during autumn, when most of
the profession were in the country. I felt a solemn awe steal over me as
I locked the outer-door upon myself in a suite of large, lofty, gloomy
rooms, some centuries old, which were wainscoted and paneled from floor
to ceiling, with fifty, perhaps five hundred coats of paint, that had
_once_ been white.

Melancholy and heavy did the hours pass, until I lit my reading lamp,
and took up that detested collection of Commentaries, the text book of
lawyers; but I soon laid it aside in disgust. A Black-snake could not
have been more loathsome to me than was Blackstone, that dismal,
solitary, sad, and heavy evening.

Finding it impossible to read, or write, or do any one thing in the way
of study, I passed through the hall into the very dark bed-room, and my
uncomfortable fears, or fancies, induced me to take down a long antique
rapier, which I had hung up at the head of my bed, and I was silly
enough to plunge it underneath, in case any assassin or robber might be
lying perdu under it. So “stern was the dint,” that I had some
difficulty in withdrawing the point from the wainscot, into which it had
penetrated on the further side of the bed. Ridiculous as it now seems, I
continued this practice of pinking the panels for some nights afterward.
There were five or six floors in the house, on all which were suites of
chambers. Mine were on the floor which, in this country, would be called
the second; in England it is known as the first. On entering from the
courtyard, you ascended _three_ stone steps into a long passage, in
which were a set of chambers, directly underneath mine. At the end of
the passage you ascended a short flight of _nine_ steps to a landing,
and then went up _nine_ more, making in all eighteen steps from the
entrance hall. These eighteen steps landed you close to the door of my
apartments. I am thus particular for very good reasons, to be stated
presently.

It was during the second, or possibly the third night after I had taken
possession of the rooms, between ten and eleven o’clock, that I heard a
_very heavy_ foot coming along the paved court. Whoever it was, ascended
the three stone steps, came along the entrance hall, up the stairs, and
made a sudden dead stop at my door. I waited, expecting every moment to
hear some one knock, but all was silent, the intruder stirred no
further. I went softly, a tip-toe, to the door, listened, put my ear to
the key-hole, but could hear no one move or breathe.

I thought it very singular, and stood considering what I should do.
After remaining ten minutes breathless, with the light in my hand, I
came away, thinking as there were two stout doors between us, each of
which had strong patent locks, the person outside would find it a
difficult matter to get at me, if so disposed; but I kept a lamp burning
all night, and had my rapier ready at hand.

The following night, after I was in bed, I distinctly heard from the
window of the room, which opened upon the stair-case, the same heavy
tread coming up the stairs, and again it stopped close to my door. What
can the man want haunting my door? thought I. I lay long immovable, with
my head raised from the pillow, scarcely drawing my breath—but I could
hear no further movement. Finally, I concluded it might be some drunken
man, who, having no home, had somehow contrived to get into the Temple
before the gates were closed, and had probably since then been sitting
under the cloisters, and was now come to lie down and sleep on the mat.
I determined to get up early in the morning and give him into the
custody of the porters at the gate-house.

As the Temple bell struck four, I rose, dressed hastily, and went to the
door; but the bird was flown—no trace of him was there. I thought I
_might, possibly_, have been deceived, although the sound of the heavy
tread coming up the stairs, and stopping exactly at my door, was so
distinct, and the death-like stillness of the house at the time, seemed
to preclude the possibility of mistake; but to guard against any chance
of future deception, I counted the number of steps on the stairs, and
found them to be eighteen, as I have stated.

Although I watched attentively the next night, the unwelcome footsteps
were not heard; but on the succeeding one I heard them
distinctly—counted the sound of the foot on the three stone steps—the
walk along the passage—then the first nine risings—the turn—and the
succeeding nine steps landed him close to my door. No mistake now,
thought I to myself. I was burning with rage at the fellow’s
pertinacity, and going boldly to the door, whipt it open in a twinkling,
and found—what thinkest thou, reader? Exactly that which the Dutchman
caught in his famous bear-trap—“nothing at all.” Not a soul was there.
And yet that a heavy man _had_ entered, _had_ come along the hall, _had_
ascended the stair, and _had_ stopped at my door, I felt as morally
certain as I could have been of any thing whatever. I could have sworn
to it, because on this last occasion the night was remarkably still, so
still, indeed, that I could distinctly hear the pattering of the drops
of water, as they fell into the basin from the _jet d’eau_ in the
quadrangle of Garden Court. I had heard the footsteps on the pavement of
the court-yard, _before_ the person entered the door. The adjoining
houses were too large and too solid for a sound from them being audible,
and I had now several times heard the same footsteps, agreeing in every
particular, and always stopping at my own door. I was completely baffled
and at fault.

I tried to account for it in every way I could think of, and failed in
all. So I determined, the next time I heard the mysterious unknown, to
dash down stairs and seize him in the act of entering from the
court-yard. I had become excited, nervous, and was perpetually on the
watch. Sooner than expected, my curiosity was amply gratified; for the
very next night, as I patiently sat on the watch, scarcely drawing my
breath, I heard the well-known sounds,

        “Tramp, tramp, along the court,
         Stump, stump, into the hall.”

I bounded down the stairs like a tiger on his prey, and as I leapt into
the passage, the frightful unknown was discovered—the mystery cleared
completely and satisfactorily. I could scarcely believe my own eyes; but
as I had expended much valuable time, and much deep thought in
endeavoring to elucidate the mystery, I shall beg permission to leave
the solution, and the reader to ponder, think, weigh, and determine, as
_I_ had done. He shall be gratified hereafter; _and I doubt not will
wonder at much as I did_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

This affair of mine was, however, mere child’s play, compared with the
long series of mysterious occurrences which happened to a very dear
friend, whom I shall call Mr. Crofton. He is yet alive, and I hope he
will long live to enjoy the happiness and felicity to which he is
eminently entitled. He is a gentleman who has been long and favorably
known in the literary world as author of many popular and highly
embellished works; and he is, moreover, in common parlance, as good a
fellow as ever stirred a tumbler—and many is the _recherché_ goblet
compounded by his delicate hand, which I have sipped, listening to his
sparkling wit, and most interesting conversation long years ago. This
gentleman being then a bachelor, and of very studious habits, occupied
lodgings in a remarkably quiet house, in a quiet street, leading from
Holborn to Bloomsbury Square, where he had a large, elegant, richly
furnished room, with a spacious bay-window, and excellent attendance; in
short, he found himself as comfortably situated as is possible or
compatible for a bachelor—_to_ feel. There was no other lodger in the
house—no children—no pet-animals—no parrot—and no piano. The family
consisted of a respectable old gentleman who had a respectable old wife,
both of whom were strictly

        “Sober, steadfast, and demure.”

The female attendant was one of those sweet, artless, rosy-cheeked
damsels, which I verily believe no country on the face of the earth can
produce equal to England, in the same station of life.

Mr. Crofton was eminently happy. In process of time, however, as is
generally the lot of humanity, where people begin to feel themselves too
happy, he was somewhat annoyed by frequently finding his books and
papers in disorder, his pens split up to the plume, and his ink
sputtered or overturned.

Now, Mr. Editor, I am very sure _you_ can sympathize with my friend in
these petty annoyances. Did you never feel your bile, if you _have_ any,
bubbling up, on returning to your sanctum, after having left your papers
and proofs in apple-pie order, finding them all knocked into pi, as your
affectionate friends, the compositors, would call it?

But Mr. Crofton being a gentleman of an uncommonly amiable disposition,
said little, in fact nothing, about it, believing it to be occasioned by
the maid, in her assiduity to keep his room “tidy.”

As, however, repeated and increased annoyances of this kind will, in
time, ruffle the sweetest temper, Mr. Crofton one day, in the mildest
possible manner, ventured to tell the damsel it would much oblige him,
if she would be kind enough always to leave his papers and books exactly
as she found them. To his surprise, the girl burst into tears, and said
she was very glad he had named it, as she had now an excuse for giving
her mistress warning to quit her service.

On inquiring her reason for conduct which seemed to him rather
extraordinary, she said, “There is something wrong about this house,
sir. I never touch your books or papers, and sometimes when I am
cleaning the room, I hear whisperings near me, sometimes groans and
moanings, as of a person in distress. I have searched every corner, but
can discover nothing. I am sure the house is haunted by the spirit of
some woman who has been murdered.”

Mr. Crofton was more surprised at this recital, than he chose to
express, as he had himself reason to suspect there was some secret
mystery to be cleared up; but he comforted Marianne with the assurance
that, if she would say nothing about it, and would endeavor to arrange
the room whilst he was taking his breakfast in the bay-window, he would
lock the door when he went out to his office, and carry the key with
him.

This plan proved extremely acceptable to Marianne, because Mr. Crofton’s
kind, gentlemanly manners, and very handsome Christmas present, had
probably made a deeper impression on her simple heart, than she was,
perhaps, aware of, or would have been willing to admit.

Soon after this arrangement was entered into, Mr. Crofton was seized
with a complaint to which he was occasionally subject; it was, in fact,
a fit of the gout; and during the first night of his confinement to the
house, as he lay reading, with his candle on a small round-table, which
stood close by the bed-side, he noticed that the light was becoming
paler and fainter; when looking up from his book, he was astonished and
amazed beyond the power of utterance, to observe that the table was
moving, silently and slowly away, and by degrees gliding from the
bed-side.

At first he could scarcely believe his own eyes, he fancied he was
laboring either under an optical delusion, delirium, or hallucination of
the brain, induced by his illness; but on reaching out his hand to
_feel_ whether the table was absolutely removed, he became sensible,
beyond all doubt, that it had not only moved away, but was then silently
traversing the room. He watched its slow progress along the floor with
intense emotion, and noticed that, when it reached the right hand side
of the fire-place, its usual stand, it became stationary.

The effect of this unaccountable movement of the table, combined with
previous circumstances, operated on Mr. Crofton’s corporeal system, just
as if he had swallowed a dozen papers of James’s powders. At first he
became cold as lead, but when the table stopped, and the candle appeared
to be burning blue, and he was every instant expecting _something_ would
appear, he burst into a violent perspiration, and the fear of taking
cold prevented him from getting up to investigate the cause of the
table’s volition; so he continued gazing and perspiring until the
candle, which was nearly burnt out, dropped down into the socket; and as
the light alternately flickered up or fell, he again saw the table, _of
its own mere motion_, making its way back toward the bed-side, as slowly
as it had retreated, and then it stopped at the exact spot from whence
it had taken its mysterious departure, of which he made certain by
rising on his elbow, and raising the slide in the candlestick; and just
at that moment he fancied he heard a mouse run along the carpet; yet the
idea of a mouse moving a table backward and forward, across a large
room, was too absurd to be entertained for a moment. In a state of most
painful perplexity and suspense he passed the first part of the night,
but at last fell asleep; and on awakening late the next day, he found
the copious perspiration which he had been thrown into, had had the most
salutary effect on his gout. When he got up, he minutely examined the
table; but after a long inspection of it, he failed to discover the
slightest cause for its extraordinary perambulations backward and
forward along the room.

A short time after this unaccountable movement of the table, a friend
came to breakfast with him one morning, and as the maid servant could
not with propriety be in the room to arrange it, during the time his
friend was there, they went out together, leaving the breakfast equipage
on the table, to be removed, and the room put to rights, at leisure.

When Mr. Crofton returned in the afternoon, Marianne’s handsome
features, as she let him in, indicated that all was not right. She
followed him up stairs.

“Oh, sir,” were her first words, “I have been _so_ frightened; I’ll
never enter this room alone again.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Marianne?”

“The matter, sir! Why, as soon as you and Mr. Brooke went out, sir, I
set about cleaning the room, and directly heard those dreadful
mutterings all around me, with _such_ sighs, and _such_ groans, and
weeping and distress, and as I was removing the ashes from under the
grate, one of your books was thrown at me with _such_ force, I do
believe if it had hit me, it would have been the death of me. The house
is haunted by evil spirits; I am sure some horrid murder has been
committed.”

“Do you hear any thing of this in any other of the rooms, Marianne?”

“No, sir, only in yours, sir; and I cannot think of staying longer in
such a shocking place—_there_, sir,” said she, starting, “did you hear
_that_?”

Now Mr. Crofton did hear _something_, at the very moment, but the noise
was of a vague, confused nature, difficult to comprehend. It annoyed him
exceedingly, however, as he found it impossible to account for or
explain the cause of the disturbances, but he was possessed of an
indomitable courage, and affected to treat it all lightly, so begging
the girl to say nothing about the matter, nor by any means to think of
leaving her place; he put a guinea into her hand, and told her to
continue as good and virtuous a girl as she had ever been, and to fear
nothing.

Always on his return home in the afternoon, the girl was in the habit of
lighting the fire, and having done so, one evening, Mr. Crofton
immediately afterward went out to call on his friend Mr. Priestly, the
bookseller, with whom he staid and took tea. He came home about nine
o’clock, and on unlocking his door, was horrified to behold a creature,
which to all outward appearance was the devil, standing on his cloven
hoofs at the farther side of the table, engaged in munching some pears
which Mr. Crofton had left on a plate. The creature, or being, was large
and black, it had horns, which were sharp and slightly crooked, and an
enormous beard. This frightful apparition stared Mr. Crofton full in the
face, with a pair of large, black, oblique, glittering eyes, the glance
from which seemed to pierce his very soul! And still it kept its place
at the table devouring the fruit. There was a peculiarly offensive
effluvia in the room—it was not exactly brimstone, but equally nauseous
and strong. From the extremely offensive odor which was emitted,
however, it was soon apparent that the intruder was no other than an
enormous he-goat! but how it had obtained access to the room was
inexplicable. Mr. Crofton hesitated not a moment what was to be done; he
instantly relocked the door, went down stairs and procured a musket,
which having charged with buck-shot, he almost immediately, or in less
than five minutes, as he told me, returned to his room, fully determined
to shoot the hateful beast, but what was his astonishment on entering
the door, to meet, instead of a goat, a very fine, large bashful
Newfoundland dog, wagging his bushy tail in the most friendly manner.
Mr. Crofton could scarcely credit his own eyes—the room still smelt of
a goat, but there was no mistake about the noble, honest dog! Now it
happened that Mr. C. was uncommonly fond of dogs—who that has a heart
is not? So he laid aside the musket and all hostile intentions, but he
made an immediate examination of his canine visiter’s paws, to verify
whether there was not among them a cloven foot! The scrutiny was
satisfactory, but whether it was dog or devil, he was allowed to escape,
and happy he seemed thereat.

The mystery seemed to thicken, and Mr. Crofton now felt really uneasy.
He spoke to his landlord on the subject, but it was quite clear from the
old gentleman’s artless manner, and the real alarm he manifested, that
he was entirely ignorant of the cause of the disturbances.

He sent for a police officer, and had every part of the room and the
whole house carefully examined, but no clue to a discovery could be
obtained.

To guard against future surprises, Mr. Crofton procured and kept a brace
of pistols, constantly loaded, at the head of his bed, and directed
Marianne, as she lighted the fire, to put the poker between the bars, in
order that it might be always red hot.

Now let me assure you, Mr. Editor, that a red hot poker is a potent
weapon in the hands of an angry man.

I can of my own personal knowledge vouch, that from some singular
crotchet in his head, arising probably from apprehension of personal
danger, the late eminent antiquary and author, Francis Douce,
invariably, during the winter months, kept _his_ poker in the fire! I
observed he always took it out and laid it aside to cool, whenever I
entered his noble library to settle a Shakspearean difficulty, or
resolve a disputed point of antiquity; and I noticed, that from long
service in the fiery ordeal, his poker was half burnt away, and become
very short, and as thin as a skewer toward the point; in fact it bore a
striking resemblance to some men’s love—it was become—“too hot to
hold!”

Neither dog nor devil ever again made their appearance in the room; but
one afternoon, when Mr. Crofton had caught a cold, and was lying down on
his bed, he was startled to notice the closet-door near the fire-place
slowly and cautiously opening—and at last, the apparition of a human
head, upon the upper shelf of the closet! Its large, round, black eyes
were fixed on his, exactly like those of a rattlesnake intent on its
prey. The head had a horrible indescribable grin, or ghastly smile. For
a second, surprise at the apparition paralyzed him, but his natural
intrepidity rallied the next, he seized a pistol, and pointing it at the
head—which still grinned—he pulled the trigger, but the weapon flashed
in the pan; he instantly seized the other, but before he could point it
and draw the trigger, the door closed, and the pistol only flashed like
the former. Mr. Crofton sprung from his bed, seized the red-hot poker,
rushed to the closet and whipt open the door, but the head had vanished,
whither did not appear; he thrust the poker against the back of the
closet, between the shelves, where the head had appeared, but the brick
wall was solid.

The clew was, however, at last found; it was plain and palpable all the
annoyances had proceeded from that closet. Detection soon
followed—ample and astounding—but as its details lead back to, and are
connected with the fiercest and bloodiest period recorded in history, I
shall for a short time defer the explanation, whilst I relate the
circumstantial account of a spectral vision which appeared to two
intelligent persons, at or near the same moment of time. I give it on
the authority of a lady of the highest respectability, who is connected
with some of the first families in the city of New York. She related it
one evening, when ghost stories and second-sight—fruitful themes—were
the subject of discussion; and I was not a little surprised to learn, at
the same time, that there is a family in New York, consisting of two
maiden sisters, of high respectability, natives of New Jersey, who are
subject to those mysterious, melancholy and terrible visitations,
identical in every respect with what is known in the Highlands of
Scotland, as the “second-sight.” Equal ridicule has been attached to the
second-sight as to Mesmerism and clairvoyance; the very name is almost
enough to raise a smile, yet I am assured that the ladies in question,
could, if they chose, relate circumstances of a character so dismal,
that they would change smiles into tears, and ridicule into awe.

It ought to be remembered that the fearful visitation of the
second-sight is involuntary to the party who is subject to it. It is
sudden, unexpected, and unforeseen at the time of its occurrence, and
renders its victim miserable and melancholy to the last degree.

Of this I can vouch, that my friend, the late James Miller, M.D., of
Islington, near London, has often assured me he knew from boyhood a
servant of Sir John Sinclair’s, who resided at his castle near Thurso,
in Caithness, who was one of these pitiable beings, and the doctor
related to me many of the man’s fearful and fatal predictions, which
came to pass, literally, under his, the doctor’s, own personal
knowledge, when he was resident in that part of Scotland. But I digress.

The vision related by the lady I allude to, I considered so singular,
that I requested the favor of her to write it down for me. She kindly
complied with my request, and the following is a verbatim copy of her
letter. The names, of course, I suppress.

“Dear Sir,—The vision or dream which you wished me to relate, is, as
nearly as I can recollect it, as follows: James, the second son of Mrs.
G****, who lives in the south of England, was suddenly awakened one
night, by the apparition of his elder brother Charles, who seemed
visibly to approach his bed, dressed in his night-clothes, looking pale
and death-like. Charles was at the time absent in the West Indies, and
when the family last heard from him, was in perfect health, so that
James had no anxious fears respecting him, and although the vision made
a powerful and painful impression on his mind, as it was likely to do
from its vividness, he determined to think no more of it, but compose
himself again to sleep. He had, however, been so much startled by the
unearthly look of his brother, that he found sleep impossible, and
therefore rose to take a few turns about his room, in order to shake off
the melancholy impression, and he remarked, on looking at his watch,
that it was then just three in the morning!

“When the usual breakfast hour arrived, he went down to the parlor,
where the family were assembled. His mother appeared exceedingly
dejected, and complained of violent headache, which she accounted for by
saying she had been much shocked during the night, at having been
awakened by the appearance of her eldest son, who seemed as if alive in
her room, and to approach her bedside in his night-clothes, looking at
her with fixed eyes, and a countenance so pallid and corpse-like, that
she could not get rid of the impression and belief that he was either
dead or dying!

“James and her other children rallied her upon her superstitious fears
and faith in dreams and visions, and endeavored to dissipate her fears.
James appeared carelessly to inquire, whether she knew at what hour of
the night the vision appeared, and was answered it must have been a few
minutes before three in the morning, as she heard the hall clock strike
three directly after the spectre vanished.

“Nothing further was said on the subject, but as soon as James left the
parlor, he went to his own room, and wrote a minute account of his own
and his mother’s dream or visitation, mentioning the precise hour and
day of the month when it occurred.

“He sealed up the paper and asked his eldest sister to certify in
writing, that he had delivered that sealed paper to her that day.

“Both of them had almost forgotten the circumstance, when, about two
months afterward, a letter arrived from Jamaica, conveying the sad
intelligence that their brother had died there, at the very
moment—allowing for the difference of time—of his death-like
appearance to his mother and brother!

“Mr. James G**** was a student of medicine at the University of
Edinburgh, and resided in the same house in which I lived, at the time
he related to us the circumstances. I regret that although only a few
years have elapsed since I heard him relate it, the exact dates which he
then communicated have escaped my memory, and I will not attempt to
supply them. He was a young gentleman of undoubted veracity, and I
believe the circumstances to be true as stated.

“_New York, 22d December, 1840._”

In remarking on this communication, I will not say it is impossible that
the extraordinary circumstance of two persons having each the same
_dream_—I will call it—at the same hour, and that both believed they
were awakened by the phantom of a distant relative, may not be explained
by natural causes, as some things of a similar character were attempted
to be explained, under the word “spirit,” in an early edition of the
Encyclopædia Britannica, but in the absence of _facts_, what do such
attempts amount to? Probabilities and possibilities!

But in this instance, although the young man’s death may have been
imprinted on his mother’s and brother’s imagination—from apprehension
of his fate, we will say, by reading or hearing of the ravages of yellow
fever—which, however, is not alluded to in the lady’s interesting
letter, the singularity is, how the dream, or phantom, should come to
visit _both_—at precisely the _same hour_—and dressed exactly _alike_,
and that so vividly, as to awake them in fear and terror!

It would be folly to attempt a rational explanation—such things are
beyond human comprehension. We may speculate, but we can never penetrate
the veil under which the Divine Will has shrouded such mysteries; yet I
have not the shadow of a doubt that in some future state of existence,
they will, to those who walk aright in this, be made clear and manifest,
and we will then, possibly, wonder how near, how very close we have been
allowed to approach the threshold, without being able to cross it!
“_Thus_ far shalt thou go, and _no_ farther!”

I well remember one lovely starlight night, walking on the terrace in
front of Somerset House with Henry Fuseli, and whilst speculating on
futurity, he told me that he and Lavater had made a solemn agreement,
that whichever should die first, would, if permitted, make himself
manifest to the other, in some way. Lavater died many years before his
friend, but Mr. Fuseli informed me with a sigh, he had never, in any
way, waking or dreaming, made himself manifest. It is, perhaps, useless
to mention that Fuseli was a classical scholar of very high attainments,
and I know that he was a firm, undoubting believer in the immortality of
the soul. He died at the ripe age of 86, whilst on a visit to the
Dowager Countess of Guilford, and whilst on his death-bed, within an
hour of the time his immortal spirit took its flight for a better world,
he had an impression that he heard soft sweet music in the room, and
faintly inquired of the countess, why she had placed musical snuff-boxes
on the bed. Yet the dying man never had an ear for music, and could not
distinguish one air from another—music was all perfectly monotonous to
him—but the music which he imagined he _then_ heard was to him
heavenly. This impression on the _ear_ seems altogether different to
that made on the visual organ of many persons on the approach of death.
Fervently do we pray that such impressions as visited the dying hour of
Henry Fuseli, may equally be the blissful harbinger to eternity of all
such good men.

The above story related by a lady, coincides in some degree with a
visitation which occurred to Sir Walter Scott and his lady, at
Abbotsford, who were both awakened by some extraordinary noise on the
premises. He says in a letter—“The night before last, we were awakened
by a violent noise, like the drawing of heavy boards along the new part
of the house. I fancied something had fallen, and thought no more about
it. This was about two in the morning. Last night, at the same witching
hour, the very same noises occurred. So I got up, with Beardies’
broad-sword under my arm, but nothing was out of order, neither could I
discover what occasioned the disturbance.

“I protest to you, the noise resembled half a dozen men putting up
boards and furniture, and nothing can be more certain than that there
was nobody on the premises at the time.”

It subsequently appeared, that _at the exact hour mentioned_ by Scott,
Mr. George Bullock died suddenly in London. He was a particular friend
of Sir Walter’s, and had been very active in planning, and procuring
articles of antiquity and old furniture for the embellishment of
Abbotsford. The circumstance appeared to have made a strong impression
on Sir Walter’s mind. But I think I could show—as I certainly
believe—that the death of Mr. Bullock, at the time when Sir Walter
_and_ Lady Scott _fancied_ they heard noises, was merely a coincidence.

A near and dear relative of my own, a manufacturer, whose dwelling-house
adjoined the factory, was so successful in business, that his wife,
according to the superstition of the period, thought he was assisted by
fairies during the night! The excellent lady and her maid servants from
hearing the sound of the machinery all day, thought they heard the “good
people” making the same noise in the night; and, as I was told, they
more than once went slyly and softly to the factory-door, which they
opened with the greatest caution, in order to gratify that laudable
curiosity, _falsely_ attributed to the fair sex!—they longed to _see_
the little folks whom they _heard_ so well, but the moment they peeped
in, that instant _the fairies_ ceased! The accuracy of the _eye_,
exactly as in the case of Scott, destroyed the deception of the _ear_!

But Sir Walter’s eye, in consequence probably of irregularity of the
stomach, was sometimes more at fault than his ear. Once, while crossing
the hall at Abbotsford, he believed he saw Lord Byron standing before
him, but the imaginary form soon faded into a plaid cloak hanging on a
screen. At another time, on his way to Abbotsford, he supposed he saw a
shepherd in his plaid, standing on the moor a short distance from the
road, but the man vanished as soon as Scott came opposite to him, but
reappeared after he had passed a little way. Sir Walter turned his horse
to ride up to the man, who again vanished, into a pit as he supposed,
but on searching for it, he found it was merely an optical delusion, the
ground was all smooth and firm.

It is now high time I should enter the Confessional, and render to the
reader—if he or she have followed me so far—my account—detailing the
mystery of the “dead candle,” and sundry other marvels contained in this
article.

Imprimis, then. Of the annoyances to which the family of Mr. Wesley were
subjected, I have little further to add. The story must stand or fall on
the degree of credibility attached to the witnesses, but, as Doctor
Southey says, it is better authenticated than any similar story on
record.

In reading the letters written from Egypt, by the sister of Mr. Lane,
author of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, she details a
series of annoyances to which she and her brother’s family were
subjected, in a house at Cairo, supposed to be haunted by an ’Efreet, or
evil spirit, in consequence of a murder having been committed in it.

Some of the events closely resemble those which befel the family at
Epsworth parsonage, consisting of knockings, and other annoyances, at
all hours of the night, which eluded investigation; none of the native
maid servants would remain in the house over a week, and although it was
in every respect a delightful and most desirable residence, Mr. Lane and
his sister were reluctantly compelled to abandon it.

My own detection of the “dead candle” arose in this way. On the third
night of its appearance, the beam of light was as clearly defined to my
sight as it had been on the two preceding nights, but it was now passing
across the bed clothes more _quickly_, and was accompanied by a faint
_rustle_, and that sound flashed the truth upon my mind in a moment. It
was my own sister crossing the hall, and the ray of light from her
_live_ candle shining through the key-hole of the door!

I had formed a boyish admiration for the young lady who was ill, and
apprehension for her fate, and thoughts of her, kept me much longer
awake than usual. On the two first nights my sister crossed the hall
slowly and noiselessly, in order that she might not disturb the dying
sufferer, but now that the sad catastrophe was over, she moved quicker,
and I could _hear_ her!

                 *        *        *        *        *

The ANGEL—whose radiant effulgence had excited such fearful emotion in
the mind of Henry Fuseli, was neither more nor less than the white dress
of an Italian lady, which his hostess, not expecting his return from
Frascati before the following day, had hung up on a cord stretched
across the room, to dry, and its slow floating movements were occasioned
by the air from the window, which was left open to facilitate the
drying.

Fatigued by his long walk, he undressed the moment he gained his own
apartment, and retired to rest without observing the signora’s robe, or
that the window was open. The moon had risen whilst he was asleep, and
was faintly shining on the white drapery when he awoke, and the effect,
to an imaginative mind like his, gave it the appearance of animation.

The whole story, as related by him, was glorious—but who _could_ relate
a ghost story, or _any_ story, like Fuseli? His choice and powerful
language, and his _acting_ of the scene, were inimitable. He was equally
successful in any comic story, although in a dryer way; even his
description of the manner in which the present Lady Jersey catches a
flea! was irresistible. What action, what emphasis, what a look. You
could have almost sworn you saw the indignant flash of her ladyship’s
bold, brazen eye, and her long nose, when she discovered the little
blood-sucker upon her cream-colored skin. The recollection of it is so
perfect at this moment that I cannot resist a laugh as I write; but the
_manner_ of the thing I must defer until I give my Reminiscences of
Harry Fuseli, in which I shall try to detail some of his literary
combats at the table of Joseph Johnson, where he vanquished the great
Porson, with his, Porson’s, own chosen weapon, Greek.

But his angelic ghost story was absolutely terrific; after having worked
one up to the highest pitch of excitement, the denouement came so
entirely unexpected. With a low, sepulchral tone, he would say, “I was
mad with apprehension; and in an agony which I could not repress, I
sprung up like a maniac, clutched the apparition in my arms, and came
down _like a dog_, and broke both my shins on a d—d chair!—instead of
an angel, I grasped a white gown, perhaps smock, of some Italian
trollop.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

The invisible and mysterious personage who had, as I supposed, so
pertinaciously haunted the door of my chambers, was a large, heavy man,
employed as a porter in a shop near Temple Bar. His wife was a
respectable laundress, who, unknown to me, occupied the basement of the
house. The entrance hall was rather dark, and as I had just taken
possession, I had not observed a narrow passage which, by proceeding a
few steps beyond the foot of the stairs leading _up_, led to a staircase
going _down_, having exactly the same number of steps, and, in
consequence of the whole staircase from bottom to top being a species of
conductor, the sound of footsteps going down was conveyed up so
perfectly, that to any one sitting in my rooms it was impossible for the
nicest ear to tell, whether the person was coming up or going down; and
the floor of the basement being of brick, the sound was lost the moment
it was trodden on.

I was perfectly dumb-foundered when I saw the big fellow pass quietly by
me without taking the least notice; and I felt a mighty inclination for
a fight, in consequence of his having so cruelly disappointed and mocked
my determined belief in a ghost. But, like Mr. Van Buren, “sober second
thought,” induced me to retrace my steps, and walk quietly up stairs,
somewhat like a president walking down, when he is unexpectedly turned
to the right-about. My Andrea Ferrara was hung upon its peg, from which
it was never afterward removed, during all the unhappy years I
afterwards passed as a Templar in those old-fashioned rooms. What
reminiscences do they not now revive?

                 *        *        *        *        *

The vexatious annoyances to which my friend, Mr. Crofton, was so long
subjected, arose from an admirably concocted scheme of female waggery,
in which a youth bore a principal part; but to render its details
intelligible, it is, as formerly hinted, necessary to digress a little
into history.

In the year 1794, during the frenzy excited by the French Revolution,
when every throne in Europe was shaken to its centre, a society was
formed in London for the pretended _reform_, although it was in _fact_
for the overthrow of the English Government.

It was called the London Corresponding Society for Constitutional
Reform, and it was in secret correspondence with Robespierre, and other
monsters of that terrible tribunal which never spared, until it had
deluged France with the blood of 1,022,351 of its best citizens. Start
not, reader, in doubt, there is no mistake in the figures—ONE MILLION,
TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE victims, male and
_female_, adults and _children_, perished under the axe of the accursed
guillotine, or other wholesale murders, perpetrated during the Reign of
Terror.

May its bloody horrors be a lesson and A WARNING to nations, in all
future time, to beware or the perils attending MOB LAW!

The London Corresponding Society was headed by Hardy, Horne Tooke,
Thelwall, and other turbulent spirits of the time. But by the firmness
of the Prime Minister, William Pitt, son of the Earl of Chatham, the
leaders were apprehended in their own homes, during the night, and tried
for high treason. But the society, although with greater privacy, still
held its sittings, and in order to defeat the government police, one of
its agents hired two houses adjoining each other, where, with
extraordinary care and secrecy, a secret passage was constructed between
the two, by means of closets, so artfully contrived, that at a moment’s
warning the members could escape with their papers from one house to the
other, and elude the chance of capture.

In the room where the traitors met, the back of the closet was built up
of bricks, resting on strong shelves, which were fixed to a door of
strong plank. This door, with its shelves and brick back, swung on well
oiled pivots. The bricks were whitewashed, and were firmly attached to
the shelves, which were furnished with China and crockery, coated with
fine dust, to make it appear, on looking into the closet, as if it had
not been opened for a long time.

The closet in the adjoining house, resembled it exactly, except in the
arrangement of its contents. The back or swing door, on that side next
to the committee-room, had strong secret bolts, which kept all firm in
its place.

The two houses had passed into the occupation of different persons,
years after the society ceased to exist, without the secret of the
“corresponding” closets having been divulged; but at the time when Mr.
Crofton occupied his apartment, the servants of the adjoining house had
discovered the secret of the bolts and swing door, in consequence of a
brick coming loose, in driving a nail, and with that amiable curiosity
generally _attributed_ to the fair sex, and probably from envy of her
beauty, and of hearing some compliments paid to Marianne’s graceful
figure, they determined on the species of pantomime which they so
successfully put in practice, being mainly aided in it by a youth of
great inventive genius, and a very dare-devil at mischief.

The disarrangement of the books, papers, pens and ink, with suppressed
mutterings, groans, weepings and wailings, can therefore be easily
understood.

The movement of the table was effected by means of a long piece of
string, of the color of the carpet, which the young genius first passed
round one of the table-casters, then around the foot of the bed, and the
two ends of the string brought through the closet under the door, by
pulling either one end or the other, he could withdraw or advance the
table at pleasure; when the manœuvre was complete, he let go one end,
and, in nautical phrase, “hauled in the slack.” The withdrawing of the
cord was what Mr. Crofton took for a mouse.

The goat was obtained from the stable-yard of the George and Blue Boar,
a well-known Inn on the other side of Holborn, in the immediate
neighborhood; and the dog was one which the lad had enticed from the
street. Being perfectly cognizant of every thing said or done in Mr.
Crofton’s apartment, they overheard the conversation about the pistols
and poker, and found it necessary to be rather cautious. They were
perfectly aware of Mr. Crofton’s out-goings and in-comings, and during
his absence, the charges were withdrawn from his pistols, and plugs of
lead, covered with cotton, introduced, and firmly rammed down. When the
girl stealthily opened the closet door, she was not aware Mr. Crofton
was at home, and the appearance of her head on the shelf, in the act of
reconnoitering, led to the detection and exposure of the whole thing;
for the landlord was so exasperated, he had them all up before the
police. Ample apology, however, was made, and the joke, from its
ingenuity, forgiven. But the party-walls of both houses were restored to
their original condition, putting an effectual stop to all further
_correspondence_, or tricks, upon Mr. Crofton; but I believe it may have
been this very extraordinary affair, that induced him to write one of
his most popular works; and I only wonder he was never induced to work
up the details of the mystery (which I have so imperfectly attempted)
into a tale, or drama, of exciting interest. With reference to my
chambers in the Temple, when I spoke of the unhappy years I had passed
in them, I alluded to the contrast which they presented to the felicity
which a married life soon afterward conferred on—

An Unbeliever in Spectral or Supernatural Appearances.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           PICTURE OF TASSO.


          “Are there not deep, sad oracles to read
             In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
           Yes, ev’n like _thee_ must gifted spirits bleed,
             Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!”

    Those poet-eyes, with inspiration burning—
      Half wild, half pensive, still they haunt my dream—
    Eyes, in whose depths the soul of passionate yearning,
      Intense unrest, and high devotion gleam.

    The Spirit of the Ideal, throned in glory,
      Shines with superior brightness on that brow:—
    O, laurel-crowned! thou famed in song and story,
      How sweetly float thy spell-strains o’er me now!

    Doth this rapt, earnest, mournful face resemble
      In all its shaded lineaments thine own?
    Did the soft love-vow on that proud lip tremble—
      Yet fear to deepen to a tenderer tone?

    And the rare love that haunts thy magic numbers—
      Didst thou not hope to make such worship thine?
    The passionate paleness on thy cheek that slumbers,
      Tells that thy heart was but Love’s lonely shrine!

    The love of Genius!—with its dream and vision—
      Its hopes and fears—vainest of earthly things.
    Only in spiritual visitings Elysian
      Are realized the bard’s imaginings.

    Meanwhile thine image rises oft before me,
      With memories that to mine own heart belong;
    And as I muse on thy life’s hist’ry, o’er me
      Comes the conviction, O, sad son of song!

    That the celestial gift can never, _never_
      For all the _unrest_ it hath cost atone;
    The Unattained still haunts us _here_ forever—
      _There_, in _thy_ world, vain yearnings are unknown!
                                      ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE MUSICIAN.


                       A TALE FOUNDED UPON FACT.


                         BY HENRY COOD WATSON.


I was traveling outside the coach from B——, early in the year 18—,
after a season of fashionable dissipation, tired with the important
nothings which eke out the existence of the beau monde, and determined
to seek relief in change of scene, from the daily increasing ennui that
oppressed me. I am not one of those who travel from Dan to Beersheeba
without seeing any thing worthy of attention. To me the face of every
human being is a book, in which strange and eventful histories are
written legibly by the hand of time and passion, and with the assistance
of my somewhat active imagination, I often fancy that I can trace the
actions and events, the hopes and fears, that have made up their sum of
life. It is a pleasing and grateful task to watch the face of youth; to
trace love, hope, and confidence, in every line of the countenance.
There is not to be seen one doubt, one look of distrust in this the
brightest page of life’s eventful history.

My companions were a young girl, a free and generous-hearted sailor, two
ordinary, every-day travelers, and a pale, and to all appearances, an
intellectual youth. I make it a rule, when thrown into the company of
strangers, if but for an hour, to make that hour, by conversation, pass
as pleasantly as possible; and as I was likely to remain with my present
companions for some hours, I determined to draw them into a familiar
discourse. Our sailor was a character such as Dibden loved to
draw—light-hearted and careless to a fault. At each place, while the
horses were being changed, he would dismount, and insist upon treating
every one around, spending his hard-earned cash without a thought for
to-morrow. He kept us in a roar of laughter for some hours, by the
strange tales he told. One, I remember, but it was so interlarded with
technical terms, which he explained at the time, that I fear it will
lose half its gist by their omission, and the substitution of my
shore-going phraseology.

“We were cruising off the Bermudas,” said he, “in the summer of 179-.
And a blazing summer it was—so hot, that all the sugar on board was
turned into hard bake, and the purser’s skin was so dried, that he kept
his tally on his face for the rest of the voyage; to say nothing of the
captain’s dog, Toby, who was sitting on deck one day, when the pitch in
the seams melting, he was held so fast by the stern, that he was unable
to cut and run, and was in consequence exposed to the heat of the
varticle sun, whereby he caught what the parley-voos call a ‘coop do
sol’s heel,’ which, I suppose, means a ‘kick from the sun’s heel.’
Howsomever, that’s as may be. Well, as I said before, we were sailing
with a fine steady breeze, at the rate of eight knots an hour, when, all
of a sudden, we felt ourselves brought up, as it were, with a round
turn. All hands immediately jumped on deck; the skipper came up in a
devil of a hurry, swearing that we had struck upon some hidden rock. We
sounded but could not find the bottom. The wind was rising and filled
the canvas almost to bursting, but not an inch did she move. The skipper
was flabbergasted, and the master, an old Northman, said that he thought
we were over some magnetical rocks, and, according to the doctrine of
substraction, they would draw all the iron out of the bottom, and we
should fall to pieces. When, all of a sudden, it strikes Harry
Dare-em-all—ah, by the by, he was a fellow—bathing one day in those
very seas, he saw a shark as big as a whale coming right upon him. Away
swims Harry; down he dives, and up he comes again, but Mr. Sharkey, was
close upon his heels, and at last had turned over, ready for a grip,
when Harry darts under him, and gives him such a kick in the small of
his back, just to help him on the faster, that he broke him in half. The
gentleman was hauled on board, and to this day I uses one of his
grinders for a baccy-stopper. Well, says Harry, I shouldn’t wonder if
it’s one of them feline animals of the shark species—for you see Harry
knew something of fishogomy—as has bolted the junk we threw astarn to
catch them beggars with. Away we all flies to the starn, and sure
enough, there was the rope as taut as nothing. We pulled and hauled, but
it was no go; so at last we gave it a turn round the capstan, and all
hands were ready to toe it merrily round; but devil a bit of a round
could they go, for the more they pushed the more he pulled. He must have
had pretty tough muscle to stand against a stiff breeze and the whole
ship’s crew—but he did, and beat us too. So at last the skipper ordered
the carpenter to cut the rope—and so he did. But, my eyes! no sooner
was it cut than away goes the barkey at such a rate, for two hours, that
we thought we should have lost every stick. Howsomever, the shark got
nothing by his move, for I met one Bill Jones, some years after, which
had been cruising in them seas, and he says that there is a atomy of a
shark, as goes diving about like one demented, with an iron hook, and a
hundred fathom of cable hanging to his jaws, so that he hasn’t disgested
’em yet.”

The young girl, when she started, was weeping most bitterly, and sobbed
as though her heart would break. Being a stranger, I dared not intrude
upon her sorrow, but I longed to speak comfort to the poor wanderer. To
take one shade of grief from a sorrowing heart, affords me more sincere
pleasure, than all the luxuries of a winter campaign, however brilliant
it may be. The sight of her grief brought on a train of thought, and
suggested the following lines to my mind:—

    What makes thy bosom heave, thy tears o’erflow,
    Say, hast thou ever felt the throb of wo?
    Has sorrow ever come, fair girl, to thee,
    To dash thy cup of joy with misery?
    But such is life!—too sure the brightest sky
    That ever beamed to bless a mortal eye,
                Must pass away;
    The sweetest flower that ever yet has bloomed,
    By Nature’s law, is all too early doomed
                To know decay.

    Has she, the idol of thy friendship, proved
    A traitress, where she fondly vowed she loved?
    Or is it but affection’s tear,
    That falls at leaving friends so dear?
    Grievest thou to leave this lovely scene,
    Where all thy early joys have been,
                Thy youthful hours?
    Where thou hast frolicked through the days,
    With childhood’s many pleasant ways,
                In summer bowers?

    What, weeping still? believe ’tis folly
    To give full way to melancholy.
    Youth should be as an April day,
    Then smiles should chase those tears away;
    For if in youth deep sorrows come,
    Oh, where shall mem’ry find a home,
                In after years,
    To linger on, and raise a smile,
    Amidst the world’s deceit and guile,
                And other cares?

    Say, hast thou left thy parents dear,
    And need their smiles thy heart to cheer?
    For all these woes there is a cure—
    They never can ’gainst Time endure.
    If one of these is not thy grief,
    Then cannot Time bring thee relief;
                For should it prove,
    What now I deem thy cause for cares,
    There is no cure in after years
                For hopeless love.

I accosted the youth, whose appearance so interested me, and found him
intelligent, but of a wildly romantic turn of mind, on which fancy might
work her wildest spells. He told me that he was a musician, and
proceeding to the metropolis to get his works published. Without friends
or connections, I greatly feared—for I know something of these
publishers—that his speculations would prove but a source of annoyance
to him, without yielding him any profitable return. I offered to give
him letters of introduction to my friends, to introduce him to my circle
of acquaintance, and it was extensive; in short to be a patron to him in
his outset of life. But, with expressions of fervent gratitude, he
modestly declined my assistance, saying, “that he had determined to rely
solely on his own resources, to depend upon no one, but to let whatever
talent he possessed make a road to fortune for itself.” How confident is
youth! How trusting in its own powers. He fancied that he knew, and was
prepared for all the delays and disappointments endured by those who
have to dance attendance upon the all-powerful publishers. However,
while we were taking refreshments, I wrote a note to one of my most
powerful friends, an amateur devotedly attached to the study of music,
and prevailed upon him to accept it, and made him promise to use it if
he did not find fortune so smiling as he expected. I gave him my address
when we parted, and begged him to remember me when he was in need of a
sincere friend.

Shortly after this, business called me to the Continent, and, being
there, I was induced to make a tour of Europe, which detained me abroad
some years. On my return I made inquiries about him; but all I could
learn was, that he had published many beautiful compositions, and was
looked upon as one whose genius promised greatly for the future. At one
time he seemed fortunate and prosperous, but for some months past he had
disappeared; no tidings could be learned of him, and it was supposed
that he had left London.

I had not been in town many weeks, when one evening a person brought me
a note from Ernest Moreton, requesting me to visit him immediately. I
followed the bearer of the message, through many low streets in the
neighborhood of Fleet street, until we arrived at a narrow,
wretched-looking court. In a small, dark room, without furniture, on a
miserable couch, lay my poor friend. He pressed my hand, and a sad smile
passed over his wan, emaciated features, as I seated myself upon the
only chair in the room, by his side. Poor fellow! he was, indeed, sadly
changed! From the confident and aspiring youth, eager in the pursuit of
fame, and strong in hope, I beheld him shrunk to the miserable occupant
of a sick, untended bed. Where now are all those bright delusive dreams
which thy too warm fancy wove? Have they not all faded into nothingness?
Alas! do they not always fade?

“My friend,” he said, “I see by your countenance that you think me much
changed since our parting. I am also aware of it; but you do not think
me so ill as I really am. Dear sir, I feel that I am dying, and rapidly
will life’s flame be extinguished. But do not mourn for me, my friend;
it does not grieve me now. There was a time, indeed, when youth’s
delusions were strong within me; when ambition and love struggled for
mastery, and quite bewildered my too excitable imagination with glorious
dreams of the future; that thoughts of death seemed to fall upon my soul
like a blight. But the hand of God has been upon me; sorrow has
chastened the heart that transient prosperity had too much elated. In my
home, and, as you see, not very happy home, without a friend, without
money, food, fire, clothing, in sickness and desolation, the folly and
vanity of my pursuits have come most forcibly upon me. I am much
altered; though nothing can banish from my breast the old enthusiasm for
my profession, yet ambition has now no place there. You see, even here I
have written much; but of what avail, further than as a relief to my
overburthened heart? Music holds still her spell upon me, but hope has
quite departed. I am dying of no disease, save that of a broken heart. I
have for months been wasting away; as hope upon hope has taken flight,
deeper and deeper has sunk the barbed arrow of sorrow into my heart, and
life has ebbed away, purely from the want of a wish to live. To you, my
generous friend, in this last hour I call. With you by my side, I would
breathe my last breath. I have not power to say much more. A short
account of my life you will find amongst my papers; read it, and you
will learn by what means I was brought to this despairing state. My
music you will burn; and my last request is, that you will, if it be
possible, have my body placed by _her_ side. Do not leave me, my friend,
for the world is passing rapidly away.”

I took his thin, white hand in mine, and the slight pressure it returned
showed how weak he was. He lay still as death; but ever and anon a smile
would illumine his countenance, as if the memory of some happy hour shed
its bright influence over his latest moments. And he would murmur the
name of Adeline, in accents so tenderly bewailing, that it melted me to
tears. “My poor girl,” he said, “thy broken heart is now at rest; and I
am coming, freed from my many sorrows, to lie me down beside thee. I
have never smiled since you left me—my smiles were all buried with
thee, Ada, in the grave; but I am happy, now, for I come to join thee in
heaven! The tomb separated us, but the barrier is passed, and hope is
mine again.” As morning approached, his sentences grew fainter and less
frequent. As the dawn appeared he sunk into a quiet slumber, which
proved, as I feared, the sleep of death.

And thus died one, who, under happier circumstances, might have lived
honored, prosperous, and happy. Who, for want of some true friend to
regulate his wild enthusiasm—to save him from himself—perished like a
beggar, in a hovel, when his talents ought to have secured him an
independence. He belonged to a class of beings little understood or
appreciated by the world. The bright imaginings of the poet’s mind can
be understood by the million, for he writes in a language that is common
to all. But the musician pours forth his thoughts through a medium so
refined, so exquisitely delicate, that it requires a fancy as chastely
imaginative, a mind as richly stored with bright thoughts, a soul as
open to the liveliest and warmest emotions, and stored with feelings of
depth and intensity, with emotions which have a mixed derivation—the
effect of a devoted love and reverence of mistress, parents, sisters,
friends, of nature, and of God—it requires all this to comprehend his
dreamings, or to enter in any degree into the emotions of his soul. The
poet has a thousand means by which he can place his works before the
world. Publications are appearing daily wherein their works would be
gladly received; the musician has but one—the music publisher. Those
who have had any dealings with them, can bear witness how generously
disinterested they are. No young composer can “get any thing out,”
unless he pays for it, and then, as it is of little consequence to the
publisher whether it sells or not, it is of course allotted the least
prominent place in the shop; and, saving the immediate friends of the
author, if he has any, none know that the work is in existence. Or, if
too poor to indulge in the luxury of publishing on his own account, he
offer to _give_ some works, for the sake of their publication, such a
one is sure to be chosen as will offer the least evidences of his
capability. So he has no resource but to watch and wait upon these
mighty men, gathering a harvest of sorrow and bitterness of heart;
living through disappointments and hopes deferred, and dying in poverty
from neglect and a broken spirit.

I paid the last offices of friendship to my departed friend, and he
rests quietly beside her he so dearly loved in life. There are persons
who seem to be born for each other—whose souls own the same emotions,
the same passions excite them, the same destiny impels them—their fates
seem to be linked together by preordination. It is a strange fact, but
of the many instances which have come under my personal observation, of
hearts apparently fore-doomed for each other, in not one case has
happiness resulted. It appeared as though they were only to love and to
be wretched. So in this instance it proved; for they were to each other
as a sorrow, even while most devoted. But they rest, now, where sorrow
cannot reach them.

I shall give the short history nearly as I found it.

On entering London, my friend’s first care was to procure lodgings in
one of the most humble streets of the metropolis—the best suited to his
narrow means. When the excitement of the change of scene had subsided,
he began to feel that he was alone. “I,” to use his own words, “wandered
about the first few days, in an ecstasy of delight; but chilling
sensation of loneliness crept on apace; I felt myself alone amidst the
thousands; I looked around, and sought in vain for one familiar face to
give a smile of recognition; not one among the million that surrounded
me, would return a friendly pressure of my hand; there were none to
smile at my prosperity, to weep at my misfortunes, or to tend me should
I sink upon a bed of sickness. I have walked amidst the loneliest scenes
of nature, where not one sign of mortality intruded; I have wandered
alone upon the barren heath; have buried myself within the bosom of the
deepest wood, have singly stood upon the lofty mountain’s brow, but
never felt that I was truly, utterly alone till now.” After a few days
he began to present himself to the notice of the publishers. He was
received with the utmost politeness by many, and was requested to bring
some of his works, that they might judge of their merits. He left them,
flushed with hopes of success, and returned with some of his best
compositions, but, unfortunately, the gentlemen were from home. Again
and again, and yet again he called, until at last, when hope was
departing, he was honored by a hearing. The songs were “beautiful,
charming,” but they feared that they would not sell—this symphony was
too long, that required altering; these harmonies were too full, that
passage was too difficult; but if these, not perhaps faults, only
publishing faults, were altered, they would get them out for him. He
left them much depressed, and felt lowered in his own opinion—for a
young and sensitive mind is depressed or elated by the good or bad
opinion of the world. To cut and hack his songs to pieces went sorely
against his feelings. The very symphonies which the buying public would
not play, contain most frequently the most refined and choice thoughts,
and to omit these were to give forth a false impression of his talents.
But the mighty fiat had gone forth, and altered they must be.
Accordingly, he in a measure re-wrote them; but it was then found,
without a hearing, that their printers were employed for many months to
come. Thus, after keeping him months in continued suspense, he was in
every case put off with some palpable lie, or some frivolous excuse.
These annoyances, nay, misfortunes, are told in few words, but the time
of their duration was some eighteen months.

For some months his funds had been getting alarmingly low; and at this
period he was forced to part with much of his wardrobe, his books, and
other articles. This continued until he had parted with every thing that
would procure the means of existence. “I left my home in a state of mind
bordering upon insanity. I walked rapidly, with a scowling brow, through
the crowded streets, and felt the demon of despair brooding over my
heart. I knew myself to be disunited from my kind by misfortune; none
could feel sympathy with the starving musician; he is a being apart from
the rest—let him die! I had wandered unconsciously out of the city, and
found myself in view of the river. My soul seemed to start with joy at
the sight. Deliverance was at hand—total oblivion was within my grasp,
eternity already seemed gained, and I rushed on wildly to the banks of
the Thames. For awhile I remained gazing abstractedly upon the darkly
flowing stream, till the floodgates of memory opened upon my soul; my
happy, joyous childhood, my mother’s fond and tender smile, my sister’s
pure and deep devotion, seemed to call me back to earth. But with my
childhood, memory’s pleasures ceased. I recalled my youth passed amidst
strangers, in the cold and calculating world; the severing by death of
all those sweet endearing ties, and finally, my manhood, barren in aught
save misery, without parents, sisters, friends, starving and desolate,
my talents unappreciated, my hopes blasted! What had I to live for? Oh!
welcome then the oblivion of thy wave, dark river! One plunge, one
struggle with mortality, and the world, with its petty, though maddening
miseries, is lost forever. Oh, if it be a sin for the soul to resume its
immortality, yet surely it were better thus to die, having some hope of
forgiveness, than starving, die. Parting with life inch by inch;
enduring days of mortal agony, till the overburthened soul, cursing its
Maker, dies despairing. I took out my pocket-book, to pencil a short
note to the owner of my wretched home, begging her to accept my small
stock of worldly goods as a remuneration for her slight pecuniary loss,
when, as I opened it to tear from it a leaf, a letter fell upon the
ground. I snatched it up; a gleam of hope flashed upon my soul. It was
the letter of introduction given to me by my generous friend of a day. I
felt the hand of heaven had interposed between me and damnation. The
magnitude of the crime I was about to commit came fully before me; my
feelings softened, my soul melted into tears; and on my knees, with a
heart bowed down by misfortune, and filled with feelings of remorse and
gratitude, I poured forth my prayers and thanks to God.”

He returned home once more, with a heart humbled and trusting. In the
morning he waited upon the gentleman to whom the note was addressed, and
was received in the kindest manner. He led him to speak of his
prospects, and asked why the letter had not been delivered before. My
poor friend then related how he had relied upon his talents, and
recounted all the misfortunes and disappointments which had befallen
him. Mr. Singleton seemed much touched by the recital, and begged him to
dine with him that day, and in the meantime he would think how he could
assist him. With expressions of gratitude Moreton took his departure.
The events of the party had better be told in his own words. “On
reaching Mr. Singleton’s house, I was introduced to his daughter, a
creature so lovely, that to gaze upon was to adore. Of the middle
stature, with a form of the most perfect symmetry; her face was oval,
with a complexion neath which the warm blood came and went, as warm
tints play upon the snow-crowned Alps. An intellectual brow, sad and
contemplative; with eyes of great beauty, bespeaking a depth and
intensity of passion, whose wildest fires were hidden, and were only to
be roused by the emotions of the soul. There was some unutterable charm
about every movement of her form or features which entranced me. I felt
at once that I had found my destiny, and therefore did not attempt to
place any restraint upon my feelings. I could not deny myself the luxury
of drinking in love with her every look or word. I felt myself urged
toward her by an irresistible impulse, and did not, therefore, attempt
to check it. In the evening, Mr. Singleton begged me to publish a song,
and dedicate it to him, and said that he should like me to overlook the
musical studies of his daughter. Had the proudest fortune been placed at
my disposal, it would not have inspired me with the deep joy this
privilege bestowed upon me. I should then be near her; should see her
often, and be blessed by a smile from those speaking eyes. The past was
all forgotten. The sorrows of my past life were all merged in dreams of
future happiness.

“In the course of the evening I was introduced to the nephew of my host,
a low-browed youth, with a keen grey eye, and a look of habitual
cunning, but poorly concealed under a manner of assumed frankness.
Months, nay, two years passed away, and found me still attending at the
house. My prospects were much improved. I had many pupils, and the few
things I had published were highly spoken of. Those years were passed in
a state of intoxicating delight. I lived but for her; it was her image
that inspired me when I wrote; it was ever before me, and formed at once
my blessing and my bane. When I thought of the immense distance which
wealth had placed between us, I felt how utterly hopeless was my
love—and I was wretched. Then it was that music came to my aid. I would
sit for hours at my piano, and in its harmony forget all else beside.
While there, what are to me the pomp and luxury of the rich and great?
What to me their parties and their feastings? Do they enjoy for one
moment the blissful rapture which fills my heart then? Do they revel in
rapture, purged of all earthly grossness? These are the remunerating
moments of a musician’s wretched life. The soul seems floating in an
atmosphere of delicious harmony; a sad but pleasing melancholy comes on;
a grateful languor falls upon his heart, and softens it to happiness.
How indefinable those feelings; the emotions then felt have no sympathy
with things that be; the present has no connection with it; it is like
the dream of some dim, far-off land of beauty, the mortal eye never saw,
but with which the memory of the soul seems charged. I cannot word the
feeling—it is nameless.”

But I must bring the history to a conclusion. A month or two after the
date of the last quotation, he was tempted to declare his love, which,
to his great joy, was returned with an ardor equal to his own. He had
gained her heart’s first love—her young heart’s deep devotion was his,
and given with a fervor which nothing could exceed. For months they
enjoyed uninterrupted happiness, when, after a short illness, her father
died. His property was left entirely, saving an annuity to the nephew,
to Adeline, with this proviso, that if she died without heirs, the whole
was to revert to the nephew. Expressing at the same time a wish that
their fortunes should be united. Time wore on, and at the end of the
mourning, Adeline promised to wed Moreton. Her cousin had, by every
means in his power, endeavored to gain possession of her hand, but had
met with a decided refusal, and to avoid further persecution, Adeline
left London on a visit for a few months. The lovers parted with every
expression of tenderness and unalterable affection—but they parted to
meet no more in happiness. Her cousin, Arlington, maddened by the
indignant refusal he had met with, and the probable loss of the
property, determined to use every means in his power to frustrate the
intended marriage. This he was enabled to effect, by bribing the
waiting-maid of Adeline. She was, indeed, the confidant of her mistress.
From childhood had she lived with her, and had been treated more as an
humble friend than a servant. Many and sore were the poor girl’s
struggles of conscience, but the offered reward was too much for honesty
to resist, and she fell. A few weeks after Adeline’s departure, Moreton
was seized with an illness which proved to be a malignant fever, at that
time very prevalent, which confined him to his bed for many weeks. No
letters came to him. Between the wanderings of his mind at the fever’s
height, he would ask for the letters from Adeline, his wife, and would
not believe but that they were kept from him. As health began, though
slowly, to come, he wrote to Adeline, telling her of his illness, and
complaining of her neglect; to which he received in reply a renouncement
of every vow, at the same time declining any further correspondence with
the _fortune-hunter_. The shock occasioned by this letter, so unexpected
and so cruel, acting upon a constitution debilitated by a long illness,
brought on an inflammatory fever, which rendered him helpless for
months. As he recovered, his landlady, a good old babbling soul, used to
bring the newspapers and read to him in the hope to divert his mind, and
rouse him from his habitual melancholy. He listened, for he would not
hurt the feelings of one who had been as a mother to him during his long
illness. One morning she read, among other things, that “Miss Adeline
Singleton, the rich heiress, would be led to the hymenial altar by her
cousin, Alfred Arlington, Esq., to-morrow morning at Hanover Church.”
Ernest scarcely started, but begged for the paper, and to be left alone.
His course was fixed.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

The bride and bridegroom approached the altar! Ah! never was there a
sadder bride—the roses that were placed upon her brow were not more
pale than she. Life held but a slight tenure in that fair form, for the
hectic spot upon her cheek betrayed that the grave was not far distant.
The priest had raised his voice to breathe the prayer that was to join
their hands forever, when a form was seen hastening up the aisle, with a
tottering and uncertain step—he approached the altar; with a wild,
haggard and death-like look, gazed upon the bride, and uttering her name
sunk at her feet. The poor girl shrieked out, “Ernest!” and swooned in
the arms of her bridemaids. She was carried to her home, never to stir
from thence, but to a quieter home—the grave. Moreton, who had left his
sick couch to meet her at the altar, was removed to his dwelling, and
for three days remained in a state of listless stupor. On the fourth
day, a note from Adeline, begging him to come to her, roused him from
his lethargy, and, reckless of consequences, he complied with her
request. With a beating heart he entered the house; he found her
reclining on a couch, with the traces of recent tears upon her cheeks,
and very, very pale. On seeing him a bright smile irradiated her
countenance; he approached not—anger and love were struggling in his
breast for mastery. She held out her hands to him and murmured, “dear
Ernest!” Love had triumphed! he was kneeling by her side. Then came that
outpouring of the heart—that blissful confidence; sighs, tears, and
deep regrets spoken by each, removed ages of sorrow from their hearts.

On the disastrous termination of the wedding, the faithless servant,
conscience-stricken, disclosed the whole of the scene of heartless
treachery acted by her at the instigation of the villain Arlington. How
she, assisted by him, had intercepted letters; written others in their
place, and, by a system of the most artful deception, contrived to make
Moreton appear despicable, and to raise Arlington, in the estimation of
Adeline. The continued illness of Moreton materially assisted their
plot, as he could not defend himself. His guilt and falsehood were made
so apparent, that Adeline could not doubt their existence, and with a
woman’s heart, as quick in revenge as in love, and unswerving in both,
in mortified pride and wounded feelings, she gave her consent to marry
her cousin. But now all doubts were at an end, and they could smile
again and hope for the future.

Too true is it, that even in life we are in the midst of death! The
thought of Moreton’s falsehood had fixed sorrow too deeply in her heart
for health to live there too. During their separation, after the
scheming of the plotters began to take effect, she sought earnestly to
banish every feeling of love from her heart. But who shall control the
heart—a woman’s heart? Her love is not a thing of calculation; she
looks not to external circumstances; she asks not even if he be worthy
of her affection. If once her love be given, it is given without
reserve. The whole volume of that mighty and absorbing passion is laid
at his feet. Her all of earthly happiness is placed in his possession;
no other passion divides with it the interest of her heart; no other
feelings or sensations, save those which have their rise in this
all-powerful passion, can dwell therein. All ties of relationship or
friendship are trifling, compared to that tie which binds her heart to
his, and sink to nothing in the scale when opposed to it. To him she
awards all the attributes of virtue and honor; friends may condemn him;
fortune may leave him; the present may be a blank, and the future
without a hope, but she clings only the closer to him. She feels a sort
of selfish joy at being his only comfort; the only thing left him to
love, that leads her almost to rejoice in the misfortunes which make her
his all in all. Her heart teems with exhaustless affection, that only
flows more freely the more sorrow assails the object of her love. Though
where this deep feeling exists it must be paramount, yet the correlative
passions of self-love and jealousy are also there; and though dormant
when no exciting cause is in action, yet, when aroused, they go near to
banish love forever from the heart, however deeply based. Adeline’s
self-love had been aroused most powerfully; the thought of being loved
only for her wealth galled her proud, but warm and confiding soul.

Here at once were scattered all her most cherished hopes. She had
hitherto looked upon life as a bright and happy dream, thinking but to
wake from it when the grave should have opened to her dazzled sight the
glories of our heavenly home. But now the veil was torn aside, and cold
deceit was placed before her view, which had hitherto only looked on
love and joy. To be thus suddenly awoke from the beautiful but
fallacious dreamings which our first love ever weaves around us: to have
the world with all its selfishness thrust thus rudely upon our
shuddering hearts, is hard indeed. No shock of after years can ever
equal its intensity. All the ties and pleasant memories that our past
life has created are at once severed; the past has no connection with
the present; one is all dream, the other stern and rugged truth. It is
not, then, to be wondered at, that so frail a thing as a woman’s heart,
under the feeling of her first and only love, should sink beneath the
disruption of all her fondest wishes. The idol she worshiped has been
unsanctified; its altar desecrated, and her heart lies shattered at its
feet, a useless sacrifice. And the same spirit which led her to give her
hand to another, to hide from the common gaze her hopeless sufferings,
was silently, but surely, undermining her health, and sowing the seeds
of that remorseless disease which in a few months removed her broken
spirit from its earthly travail.     .     .     .     .     .     .

The disease rapidly assumed a more alarming aspect. Physicians were
called in; they advised a change of climate, but at the same time feared
that nothing could save her life. She felt that hope was past, and
refused to leave her home. For the few months she lived, Ernest never
left her. The days were passed in performing acts of the tenderest
solicitude, and the nights in feverish slumbers, whose visions showed
him his Adeline in all her former loveliness, and pictured forth scenes
of deep and holy love, such as might have been his, had Heaven so willed
it, only to sink him deeper in despair by the contrast the waking truth
presented.

He would read to her the wild and visionary tales of Germany, and her
eyes would brighten as she listened to some speculative but beautiful
theory of the future, or she would clasp his hand within her own, and
gaze up into his eyes with unspeakable affection, as she listened to
some tale of deep devotion, and murmur out, “they must have loved as we
love.” She would listen to his music for hours, with a breathless
attention, absorbed and unconscious of the passing time, as if unwilling
to lose one note of that harmony which must soon sound for her in vain.
Nothing so heightens and refines the passion of love as music; that
passion which would be firm and vigorous without its aid, becomes under
its influence more refined, luxurious, more blissful, more yielding, but
not less holy. All grossness and sensuality are purged from it; the
heart is softened to languor, but at the same time etherealized.

Thus days and weeks flew rapidly on unmarked; each day adding to their
deep devotion, and lessening the time to that day which was to separate
them forever in this world. It came at last.

The morning had been unusually overcast. Not an air stirred, and the
atmosphere was sultry and oppressive. They had felt a vague sensation,
such as is experienced previous to some unknown calamity, all the
morning, which prevented them following their usual occupations. Adeline
looked unusually well; there was a flush upon her lovely cheek, and her
eye beamed with unwonted brightness. They had drawn the sofa to the
window, which looked upon a charming lawn, and was thrown open as a
relief to the sultriness of the weather. They sat there, his one hand
holding her waist, the other clasping her slender hands. Her cheek
rested upon his shoulder, and oh! as he gazed upon that cheek, what a
gush of tenderness filled his heart! He thought what a scene of misery
his life had been until she rose upon his sight, an angel of light,
dispelling all grief and sorrow. He thought of what they had suffered
for each other; her deep devotion; her unswerving love; her pure and
classic mind; her virtuous principles; her beauty, whose spell was now
upon his heart; the scenes of dreamy bliss they had passed together, and
the whole intensity of his love filled his heart almost to bursting. All
that the mind can imagine of the extremest joy, thankfulness, hope and
love, was concentrated in that one fond look. She seemed to understand
the thoughts that were passing in his mind, and as he stooped to kiss
those murmuring lips she pressed his hand to her throbbing heart, and a
tear, the offspring of feelings too deep for expression, stole slowly
and silently down her glowing cheek. At that moment the sun shone
suddenly forth, and brightened again the face of nature. Till then they
had not spoken. “Dear Adeline,” he said, “let this be an omen of the
future, as the preceding gloom was of the past. There are, believe me,
many happy years in store for us. The bloom of health is mantling upon
your cheeks, and there is new vigor in the sparkling of your eyes; and
though this little and transparent hand, be but the shadow of its former
self, will not the summer’s genial warmth, and the tranquillity that
waits upon reciprocated love, and unclouded prosperity, soon, very soon
restore it? I have a strange sensation at my heart, which your altered
appearance translates into a precursor of happiness. My spirit seems to
have burst from the trammels of earth, and to revel in an atmosphere
where love and hope are fadeless. You do not smile, love! Does not your
heart echo my joy? Does not the same happy presentiment pervade your
heart, and gild the future in brilliant colors?”

“I have the same presentiment, but my heart refuses to give to it the
flattering meaning with which your hopes have invested it. I always
feared that our love was doomed never to meet with happy consummation.
Even in the first hours of our passion, when not one thought of grief
should have intruded, there was a fear that would not leave me, of
future sorrow. Our love was never meant for happiness on earth; it was
too exclusive—too perfect. The future would hold out no attraction or
hope, did death rudely destroy the state of present perfect bliss. But
to the weary and heavy-hearted, death opens a path to peace, and even to
the happy and joyful, a home of more blissful and lasting happiness. I
look on death as a kind and tender friend, who releases my soul from its
weak material companion, which, with its decay and rottenness, clogs
that immortal part. That it separates me from thee is my only grief; my
poor heart rebels against it, and clings to thee with a tenacity which
nothing can relax. But oh! my beloved, if, as we are told, the infinite
space is peopled with disembodied spirits, who wander round those spots
where centers all they loved—all that life has rendered dear, shall I
not be with you ever? Sleeping or waking, I will hover round you, and as
you wander over those spots sacred to our young hearts’ deep devotion, I
will be upon your heart as I am now; my spirit shall be upon your
memory, and awaken it to thoughts of those passionate hours. I will
throw a charmed halo round the Past, will sweeten the Present, and will
gild the Future with visions of fadeless bliss in heaven with our God.
Death cannot separate our souls! It shrinks the body into dust, but
there is an immortal link which binds soul unto soul, that death can
never break.”

As she uttered these words, her cheek became flushed, her eyes
brightened, and her whole air partook of a spiritual grace, and a deep
and holy enthusiasm. There was something unearthly in her look and
manner that chilled the heart of Ernest. At length with a voice
faltering with emotion, he replied, “Whatever be the end of these
forebodings, dear Ada, my heart is unchangeably yours. You are my first
love, the chosen of my heart, and living or in the grave, I dedicate
that heart to you alone. No other being shall have a vow of mine—this
hand shall clasp no other hand in love—no other lip shall join to mine
with passion’s kiss—no other form shall rest within these arms, or find
a pillow on my troubled breast; this I swear to you, by all my hopes of
our eternal joy hereafter. I will live and die your own in heart and
thought. And let this fond and holy kiss seal my vow of eternal
constancy.” He imprinted a long and ardent kiss upon her _paling_ lips.
The tears coursed each other rapidly down her pale cheeks, for the false
hectic bloom had fled, and the ravages of the fell disease were now
terribly visible in her sunken cheeks—her heart beat convulsively at
intervals—she pressed him closer to her, and gazing up into his face
with a look in which the whole intensity of her mighty and absorbing
love was centered, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion, she
murmured out—“I could die now.” Again his lips sought hers, and clung
there as though they had been incorporate—her head drooped upon his
breast—her hand relaxed its grasp—she had died then! . . . . . . . . .

How he died, I have before related.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Past and Present, and Chartism. By Thomas Carlyle. New York:
    Wiley & Putnam. 2 parts, 12mo._

In these works Carlyle states his views regarding the source and
character of the evils afflicting the British nation, and the means by
which they may be mitigated and removed. “Past and Present” is the most
splendidly written and carefully meditated of the two. It contains many
sentences of remarkable force and beauty, with numerous touches of that
savage humor peculiar to Carlyle. The tone of the work, however, is one
of perfect discontent. The style bristles with the author’s usual
extravagance about society and government, declaring both to be shams
and unveracities, and sneering at all plans for improvement which the
ingenuity or benevolence of others have framed. If we understand Carlyle
aright, he considers that the constitutional government of England is a
humbug; that William the Conqueror, and Oliver Cromwell were the best
governors that England has ever had; that since Cromwell’s time the
country has been governed by Sir Jahesh Windbag, strong in no faith but
that “paragraphs and plausibilities will bring votes;” and that
everybody is a fool or a flunkey except Thomas Carlyle. He hates every
form of government which it is _possible_ to establish in this
world—democracy among the rest. If his work may be said to have any
practical bearing on politics, it is this—that a governor is wanted
with force enough to assume arbitrary power, and exercise it according
to the dreams of mystics and sentimentalists. His system is a compound
of anarchy and despotism. His ideal of a governor is of a man, with an
incapacity or indisposition to explain himself, who rises up some day
and cries—“the government of this country is a lie, the people cannot
make it a reality, but I can and will.” His notion of the wretched
condition of society is disheartening enough. Man, he tells us, has lost
all the soul out of him. “This is verily the plague-spot—centre of the
universal social gangrene, threatening all modern things with frightful
death. You touch the focal-centre of all our disease, of our frightful
nosology of diseases, when you lay your hand on this. There is no
religion; there is no God; man has lost his soul, and vainly seeks
antiseptic salt. Vainly: in killing kings, in passing Reform Bills, in
French Revolutions, Manchester Insurrections, is found no remedy. The
foul elephantine leprosy reappears in new force and desperateness next
hour.” Sad condition of poor depraved humanity! A whole generation,
except one man, without souls, and that one exception without his
senses! It is curious to notice the illusions of an understanding so
powerful when governed by a sensibility so tempestuous. It would be
unjust, however, to deny the depth of many detached thoughts, and truth
of some of his speculations in this volume.

It would doubtless be unjust to deny Carlyle’s claim to be considered a
thinker, but he is an intense rather than a calm and comprehensive one.
A comprehensive thinker looks at every thing, not singly, but in its
relations; an intense thinker seizes hold of some particular thing,
exaggerates it out of its proper place in the economy of the world, and
looks at every thing in its relation to his own hobby. In reasoning on
the evils of society and government, it is useless to growl or snarl at
what you desire to improve. If a man cannot look an evil in the face
without rushing off into rage at its prevalence, and considering that
evil as the root of all others, he will do little for reform. Indeed,
Carlyle appears to us to find delight in getting the world into a
corner. Nothing pleases him more than to shoot a sarcasm at statesmen
and philanthropists who are grappling practically with some abuse; in
this way warning everybody to avoid particular medicines, and come to
him for an universal panacea. Thus his works on social evils are
substantially little more than savage jests at the depravity of mankind,
and contemptuous fleers at those who are attempting to mitigate it. It
is needless to remark that he is not always consistent; but this, it
seems to us, is the general character of his political writings. He
criticises human life as he would a play or a novel, and looks to his
own taste alone in passing his judgments.

Many objections have been made to Carlyle’s style. Now style, to be good
for any thing, should be characteristic of the writer; and certainly
Carlyle’s style, viewed in this light, is very good. It is an exponent
of himself. The fault lies in the man, not in the style. Those who
contrast the diction of the Life of Schiller with Past and Present,
should recollect that a change as great has occurred in the character of
the author. No other style than his present could fully express the
whole meaning of his thoughts. Most of his ideas are commonplace enough
in themselves; and their originality consists in the peculiar
modification they have received from his own mind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Constitutional History of England from the Accession of
    Henry VII. to the Death of George II. By Henry Hallam. From the
    Fifth London edition. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This great work was originally published in 1827. Since that period the
author has made many additions to it. The present edition is printed
from the latest London issue, in 1846, and is therefore the best and
most complete edition in the country. The Harpers have printed it in
clear, readable type, on good paper, and have placed it at a price so
moderate as to bring it within the means of the humblest student. Of the
value and importance of the work it is hardly necessary to speak, as it
has forced reluctant praise even from those whose principles and policy
it condemns. It has taken a prominent place among those standard books
which no library can be supposed to be without. There are probably few
books since Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which have equaled this in
the task of demolishing prejudice, and guiding public opinion aright.
The space of political history which the volume occupies, has long been
the battle-ground of opposing sects, factions, and parties. Historians,
who have explored it most successfully, have generally been unduly
influenced by their political or religious prejudices, in their accounts
of events and estimates of persons. The Whig and the Tory, the Catholic,
the Churchman, and the Puritan, each has bent the truth of history to
the purposes of party, and accommodated, like poets, the shows of things
to the desires of the mind. This has turned English political history
into historical romance. Cranmer, Burleigh, Charles I., Strafford, Laud,
Hampden, Cromwell, Sidney, Marlborough, Somers, Sunderland, have been so
often passed from the partisan who daubs to the partisan who damns, as
to appear like the heroes of bad novels, rather than mortal men.

Mr. Hallam has been especially able and courageous in his opposition to
all this perversion of facts and character. Though himself a moderate
Whig, and a sturdy friend of the popular element of the Constitution, he
is as remorseless in breaking the idols of the Whigs as of the Tories.
He holds no terms with the declamation of either side; and, indeed,
takes a peculiar delight in weighing in his impartial scales every
English politician who has been the object of stereotyped admiration or
hatred. Parties naturally individualize their principles, and depend a
good deal for their influence on the character of their great men, and
the charm of their catch-phrases. They naturally dislike that their
saints and martyrs should be subjected to calm scrutinizing criticism,
and deprived of their exaggerated virtues, and exhibited, naked and
shivering, to the profane eyes of the crowd. Mr. Hallam, from his mind
and disposition, was admirably calculated to perform this work well.
Without doing positive injustice to any statesman, and heartily praising
all who have labored in their generation for the public good, he has
considered truth of more importance than the service of party, and has
not spared the excesses of tyranny and fanaticism, even when committed
by the champions of freedom and toleration. Many a fine bubble, blown up
to a beautiful magnitude by the breath of political superstition, bursts
the moment it feels the prick of his pen, and is “resolved into its
elemental suds.” A critic very happily characterizes his work as
eminently judicial. “Its whole spirit is that of the bench, not of the
bar. He sums up with a calm, steady impartiality, turning neither to the
right nor the left, glossing over nothing, exaggerating nothing, while
the advocates on both sides are alternately biting their lips to hear
their conflicting mis-statements and sophisms exposed.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Clarsach Albin, and Other Poems. By James M. Morrison.
    Including his Correspondence with Clark, McCammon, and Longlap.
    Phila.: Zieber & Co._

We advise those who understand the Scottish dialect to read this
unpretending little book. The subjects of the poems are not such as to
excite much attention, and the interest of the very clever rhyming
correspondence carried on by the author with Messrs. Clark, McCammon,
and Longlap, must, of course, be in a great measure evanescent; but
there is a sly humor, a readiness of rhythm, and very often a burst of
pure poetical feeling, which will repay the reader. While we thank him
for this little book, from which we have derived much pleasure, the
author will allow us to say, that he is capable of far better things;
and we hope to have from his pen, at some future day, a collection of
pure lyrics, in good broad Scotch, both serious and playful.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Feudal Times; or the Court of James the Third. A Scottish
    Historical Play. By Rev. James White. New York: William Taylor &
    Co._

The merits of this play consist in the general vigor of its style, the
elevation of its sentiment, and the bustle of its action. It appears
well calculated to succeed in representation. The characters, however,
and many of the incidents, show little invention or imagination; and the
whole drama presents greater evidence of the playwright than the
dramatist. Compared, however, with the usual run of plays, and tested by
the rather gentle rules now applied to dramatic compositions, it would
honorably pass muster. The interest centres in Cochrane and Margaret,
two lofty natures, placed among a herd of feudal barons, and becoming
their victims. There are many striking passages of poetry in the play.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Aunt Kitty’s Tales. By Maria J. McIntosh. New York: D. Appleton
    & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The authoress of these pleasant stories has won a deserved celebrity by
her novel, entitled “To Seem and To Be”—a book which deserves a high
place among works on practical morals. The present volume is designed
more particularly for the young, and, we trust, will find its way to
that interesting portion of society. We cordially join in Aunt Kitty’s
wish that her efforts for the improvement of her young friends will not
prove unsuccessful, and that her stories will be found “not altogether
unworthy teachers of those lessons of benevolence and truth, generosity,
justice, and self-government, which she designed to convey through
them.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Streaks of Squatter Life, and Far-West Scenes. By John S. Robb.
    Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

These sketches, hastily dashed off in a few hours of the author’s
leisure from engrossing business, show quite an eye for character, and
are exceedingly amusing. With more care in composition, and a higher
aim, Mr. Robb might write a fine humorous novel. The “Streaks” in this
volume are full of life, but they are too coarse. Every writer in this
style would do well to study the art with which Dickens delineates the
lowest and most vulgar characters, without any sacrifice either of taste
or propriety.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Modern Chivalry, or the Adventures of Captain Farrago and Teage
    O’Regan. By H. H. Breckenridge. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 2 vols.
    12mo._

This novel belongs to Carey & Hart’s Library of Humorous American Works.
It is a reprint of an old book. The style is clear and familiar, the
humor such as touches the risibilities, and the strokes of satire
sometimes peculiarly happy. Though the author formed himself on the
model of Fielding, the allusions and subject matter are essentially
American. The illustrations by Darley are excellent. Like all true
humorists the author makes his pleasantries the vehicle of knowledge and
wisdom. He has sound political maxims embodied in jokes, and curious
bits of learning swimming on the surface of his humor.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET
Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 61.
_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Penet, _r. N^{ve}. S^{t}. Augustin, 4;—Plumes et
  fleurs de M^{me}._ Tilman, _r. Ménars, 5;_
_Robes de_ Palmyre;—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.;_
_Ombrelle de_ Lemarechal, _b^{t}. Montmartre, 17_.
Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and obvious
type-setting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may
be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for
preparation of the eBook. A cover has been created for this eBook and is
placed in the public domain.

page 332, ce que tu mange, ==> ce que tu manges,
page 333, will soon loose her ==> will soon lose her
page 335, true diplomate will ==> true diplomat will
page 344, They had drank of ==> They had drunk of
page 346, pay the exhorbitant ==> pay the exorbitant
page 347, lady rung the bell ==> lady rang the bell
page 347, own and her childrens’ ==> own and her children’s
page 351, quarter of the word, ==> quarter of the world,
page 356, than he out knife and ==> than he pulled out a knife and
page 363, built of sold timber ==> built of solid timber
page 360, added [_To be continued._
page 375, barren in ought save ==> barren in aught save
page 375, by an irresistable impulse, ==> by an irresistible impulse,
Le Follet, _Chapeau de M^{me}._ ==> _Chapeaux de M^{me}._

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 6, June 1847]