GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XXI.      November, 1842      No. 5.


                                Contents

                        Fiction and Literature

          The Spanish Student
          De Pontis
          Bainbridge
          A Young Wife
          The Reprimand
          Hester Ormesby
          Malina Gray
          Speculation: or Dyspepsia Cured
          Harry Cavendish
          Review of New Books
          Editor’s Table

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          The Child’s Prayer
          My Mother—A Dream
          Song—“I Saw Her Once.”
          Sonnet—The Unattained
          The Pet Rabbit
          The Life Voyage—A Ballad
          Hymn for the Funeral of a Child
          “L’Amour Sans Ailes.”
          The Shepherd and the Brook
          Write to Me, Love
          Latest Fashions

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




                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          Vol. XXI.    PHILADELPHIA: NOVEMBER, 1842.    No. 5.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE SPANISH STUDENT.


                        BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.


                   What’s done we partly may compute,
                   But know not what’s resisted.
                                               Burns.

                       (Concluded from page 180.)


                             ACT THE THIRD.

    Scene I.—_A cross-road through a woodland. In the back ground a
    distant village spire. Evening. Victorian as a traveling
    student; a guitar slung under his arm._

      _Vic._ I will forget thee! All dear recollections
    Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,
    Shall be torn out and scattered to the winds!
    I will forget thee! but perhaps hereafter,
    When thou shalt learn how heartless is the world,
    A voice within thee will repeat my name,
    And thou wilt say, “He was indeed my friend!”
          (_Enter Hypolito, dressed like Victorian._)
      _Hyp._ Still dreaming of the absent?
      _Vic._ Aye, still dreaming.
    Oh, would I were a soldier, not a scholar,
    That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums,
    The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet,
    The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm,
    And a swift death, might make me deaf forever
    To the upbraidings of this foolish heart!
      _Hyp._ Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more!
    To conquer love, one need but will to conquer.
    Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
    To talk of dying.
      _Vic._ Yet I fain would die!
    To go through life, unloving and unloved;
    To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
    We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
    And struggle after something we have not
    And cannot have; the effort to be strong;
    And, like the Spartan boy, to smile and smile
    While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks:
    All this the dead feel not—the dead alone!
    I envy them because they are at rest!
    Would I were with them!
      _Hyp._ Thou wilt be soon.
      _Vic._ It cannot be too soon. My happiest day
    Will be that of my death. O, I am weary
    Of the bewildering masquerade of Life,
    Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
    Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;
    And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
    Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons,
    And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
    A mockery and a jest; maddened—confused—
    Not knowing friend from foe.
      _Hyp._ Why seek to know?
    Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth!
    Take each fair mask for what it gives itself!
    Strive not to look beneath it.
      _Vic._ O, too often,
    Too often have I been deceived! The world
    Has lost its bright illusions. One by one
    The masks have gone; the lights burnt out; the music
    Dropped into silence, and I stand alone
    In the dark halls, and hear no sound of life
    Save the monotonous beating of my heart!
    Would that had ceased to beat!
      _Hyp._ If thou couldst do it,
    Wouldst thou lie down to sleep and wake no more?
      _Vic._ Indeed would I: as quietly as a child:
    As willingly as the tired artisan
    Lays by his tools and stretches him to sleep.
      _Hyp._ So would not I. Too many pleasant visions
    Hover before me; phantoms of delight
    Beckon me on, and wave their golden wings,
    Making the Future radiant with their smiles.
      _Vic._ Would it were so with me! For I behold
    Nothing but shadows; and the Future stands
    Before me like a wall of adamant
    I cannot climb.
      _Hyp._ And right above it gleams
    A glorious star. Be patient—trust thy star.
        (_Sound of a village bell in the distance._)
      _Vic._ Ave Maria! I hear the sacristan
    Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry!
    A solemn sound that echoes far and wide
    Over the red roofs of the cottages,
    And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd,
    Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer,
    And all the crowd in village streets stand still,
    And breathe a prayer unto the Blessed Virgin!
      _Hyp._ Amen! amen! Not half a league from hence
    The village lies.
      _Vic._ This path will lead us to it,
    Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail
    Across the running sea, now green, now blue,
    And like an idle mariner on the main
    Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on.       [_Exeunt._




Scene II.—_The public square of El Pardillo. The Ave Maria still
tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in
prayer. In front a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peel. A
Gipsy dance. Enter Pancho, followed by Pedro Crespo._

      _Pan._ Make room, ye vagabonds and gipsy thieves!
    Make room for the Alcalde of Pardillo!
      _P. Cres._ Keep silence all! I have an edict here
    From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,
    Which I shall publish in the market-place.
    Open your ears and listen!
         (_Enter Padre Cura at the door of his cottage._)
    Padre Cura,
    Good day! and pray you hear this paper read.
      _P. Cura._ Good day, and God be with you! What is this?
      _P. Crespo._ An act of banishment against the gipsies!
            (_Agitation and murmurs in the crowd._)
      _Pancho._ Silence!
      _P. Crespo._ (_reads._) “I hereby order and command,
    That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers,
    Known by the name of gipsies, shall henceforth
    Be banished from our realm, as vagabonds
    And beggars; and if after seventy days
    Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds,
    They shall receive a hundred lashes each;
    The second time, shall have their ears cut off;
    The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them;
    Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I the King.”
    Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!
    You hear the law! Obey and disappear!
      _Pancho._ And if in seventy days you are not gone,
    Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.
    (_The gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear_
             _and discontent. Pancho follows._)
      _P. Cura._ A righteous law! A very righteous law!
    Pray you sit down.
      _P. Crespo._ I thank you heartily.

    (_They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cura’s door.
    Sound of guitars and voices heard at a distance, approaching
    during the dialogue which follows._)

    A very righteous judgment, as you say.
    Now tell me, Padre Cura—you know all things—
    How came these gipsies into Spain?
      _P. Cura._ Why, look you,
    They came with Hercules from Palestine,
    And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,
    As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus.
    And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says,
    There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor
    Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the gipsies.
    They never marry, never go to mass,
    Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,
    Nor see the inside of a church—nor—nor—
      _P. Crespo._ Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!
    No matter for the other ninety-five.
    They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,
    They should be burnt.
        (_Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing._)
      _P. Cura._ And pray, whom have we here?
      _P. Crespo._ More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!
      _Hyp._ Good evening, gentlemen. Is this El Pardillo?
      _P. Cura._ Yes, El Pardillo, and good evening to you.
      _Hyp._ We seek the Padre Cura of the village;
    And judging from your dress and reverend mien
    You must be he.
      _P. Cura._ I am. Pray what’s your pleasure?
      _Hyp._ We are poor students, traveling in vacation.
    You know this mark?    (_Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band._)
      _P. Crespo._ (_aside._) Soup-eaters! by the mass!
    The very worst of vagrants, worse than gipsies,
    But there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant.      [_Exit._
      _P. Cura._ (_jovially._) Aye, know it, and have worn it.
      _Hyp._ Padre Cura,
    From the first moment I beheld your face,
    I said within myself, _This is the man!_
    There is a certain something in your looks,
    A certain scholar-like and studious something—
    You understand—which cannot be mistaken;
    Which marks you as a very learned man,
    In fine, as one of us.
      _Vic._ (_aside._) What impudence!
      _Hyp._ As we approached, I said to my companion,
    That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!
    Meaning your grace. The other man, said I,
    Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,
    Must be the sacristan.
      _P. Cura._ Ah! said you so?
    Ha! ha! ’Twas Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!
      _Hyp._ Indeed! why, you astonish me! His air
    Was not so full of dignity and grace
    As an alcalde’s should be.
      _P. Cura._ That is true.
    He’s out of humor with some vagrant gipsies,
    That have their camp here in the neighborhood.
    There’s nothing so undignified as anger.
      _Hyp._ The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,
    If from his well-known hospitality
    We crave a lodging for the night.
      _P. Cura._ I pray you!
    You do me honor! I am but too happy
    To have such guests beneath my humble roof.
    It is not often that I have occasion
    To speak with scholars; and _Emollit mores,_
    _Nec sinit esse feros_, Cicero says.
      _Hyp._ ’Tis Ovid, is it not?
      _P. Cura._ No, Cicero.
      _Hyp._ Your grace is right. You are the better scholar.
    Now what a dunce was I to say ’twas Ovid.
    But hang me if it is not! (_Aside._)
      _P. Cura._ Pass this way.
    He was a very great man, was Cicero!
    Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony.      [_Exeunt._




    Scene III.—_A room in the Padre Cura’s house. Enter the Padre
    and Hypolito._

      _P. Cura._ So then, Señor, you come from Alcalá.
    I’m glad to hear it. It was there I studied.
      _Hyp._ And left behind an honored name, no doubt.
    How may I call your grace?
      _P. Cura._ Gerónimo
    De Santillana; at your honor’s service.
      _Hyp._ Descended from the Marquis Santillana?
    From the distinguished poet?
      _P. Cura._ From the marquis,
    Not from the poet.
      _Hyp._ Why, they were the same.
    Let me embrace you! O some lucky star
    Has brought me hither! Yet once more—once more.
          (_Embraces him violently._)
    Your name is ever green in Alcalá,
    And our professor, when we are unruly,
    Will shake his hoary head, and say; _Alas!_
    _It was not so in Santillana’s time!_
      _P. Cura._ I did not think my name remember’d there.
      _Hyp._ More than remember’d; it is idolized.
      _P. Cura._ Of what professor speak you?
      _Hyp._ Timoneda.
      _P. Cura._ I don’t remember any Timoneda.
      _Hyp._ A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow
    O’erhangs the rushing current of his speech
    As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have you forgotten?
      _P. Cura._ Indeed, I have. O those were pleasant days,
    Those college days! I ne’er shall see the like!
    I had not buried then so many hopes!
    I had not buried then so many friends!
    I’ve turn’d my back on what was then before me;
    And the bright faces of my young companions
    Are wrinkled like mine own, or are no more.
    Do you remember Cueva?
      _Hyp._ Cueva? Cueva?
      _P. Cura._ Fool that I am! He was before your time.
    You are mere boys, and I am an old man.
      _Hyp._ I should not like to try my strength with you.
      _P. Cura._ Well, well. But I forget; you must be hungry.
    Martina! ho! Martina! ’Tis my niece;
    A daughter of my sister. What! Martina!
           (_Enter Martina._)
      _Hyp._ You may be proud of such a niece as that.
    I wish I had a niece. _Emollit mores!_ (_Aside._)
    He was a very great man, was Cicero!
    Your servant, fair Martina.
      _Mar._ Servant, sir.
      _P. Cura._ This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it.
    Let us have supper.
      _Mar._ ’Twill be ready soon.
      _P. Cura._ And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Peñas
    Out of the cellar. Stay; I’ll go myself.
    Pray you, Señor, excuse me.      [_Exit._
      _Hyp._ (_beckoning off._) Hist! Martina!
    One word with you. Bless me! what handsome eyes!
    To-day there have been gipsies in the village.
    Is it not so?
      _Mar._ There have been gipsies here.
      _Hyp._ Yes, and they told your fortune.
      _Mar._ (_embarrassed._) Told my fortune?
      _Hyp._ Yes, yes; I know they did. Give me your hand.
    I’ll tell you what they said. They said—they said,
    The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown,
    And him you should not marry. Was it not?
      _Mar._ (_surprised._) How know you that?
      _Hyp._ O I know more than that.
    What a soft little hand! And then they said
    A cavalier from court, handsome and tall,
    And rich, should come one day to marry you.
    And you should be a lady. Was it not?
      _Mar._ (_withdrawing her hand._) How know you that?
      _Hyp._ O I know more than that.
    He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. (_Tries to kiss her._
    _She runs off._)
             (_Enter Victorian, with a letter._)
      _Vic._ The muleteer has come.
      _Hyp._ So soon?
      _Vic._ I found him
    Sitting at supper by the tavern door,
    And from a pitcher, that he held aloft
    His whole arm’s length, drinking the blood-red wine.
      _Hyp._ What news from court?
      _Vic._ He brought this letter only. (_Reads._)
    O cursed perfidy! Why did I let
    That lying tongue deceive me! Preciosa,
    Sweet Preciosa! how art thou avenged?
      _Hyp._ What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale,
    And thy hand tremble?
      _Vic._ O, most infamous!
    The Count of Lara is a damnéd villain!
      _Hyp._ That is no news, forsooth.
      _Vic._ He strove in vain
    To steal from me the jewel of my soul,
    The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding,
    He swore to be revenged; and set on foot
    A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded.
    She has been hissed and hooted from the stage,
    Her reputation stained by slanderous lies
    Too foul to speak of; and once more a beggar
    She roams a wanderer over God’s green earth,
    Housing with gipsies!
      _Hyp._ To renew again
    The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains
    Desperate with love, like Gaspar Gil’s Diana.
    _Redit et Virgo!_
      _Vic._ Dear Hypolito,
    How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart!
    I will go seek for her; and with my tears
    Wash out the wrong I’ve done her!
      _Hyp._ O beware!
    Act not that folly o’er again.
      _Vic._ Aye, folly,
    Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt,
    I will confess my weakness—I still love her!
    Still fondly love her!
             (_Enter the Padre Cura._)
      _Hyp._ Tell us, Padre Cura,
    Who are these gipsies in the neighborhood?
      _P. Cura._ Beltran Cruzado and his crew.
      _Vic._ Kind Heaven,
    I thank thee! She is found again! is found!
      _Hyp._ And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl
    Called Preciosa?
      _P. Cura._ Aye, a pretty girl.
    The gentleman seems moved.
      _Hyp._ Yes, moved with hunger;
    He is half famished with this long day’s journey.
      _P. Cura._ Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits.
        [_Exeunt._




    Scene IV.—_A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far from
    the village of El Pardillo. Enter Chispa cracking a whip, and
    singing the Cachucha._

_Chis._ Halloo! the post-house! Let us have horses! and quickly. Alas,
poor Chispa! what a dog’s life dost thou lead! I thought when I left my
old master Victorian, the student, to serve my new master Don Carlos,
the gentleman, that I too should lead the life of a gentleman; should go
to bed early, and get up late. But in running away from the thunder I
have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my old master
and his gipsy girl. And a good beginning of the week it is, as he said
who was hanged on Monday morning.

                         (_Enter Don Carlos._)

_Don C._ Are not the horses ready yet?

_Chis._ I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. Ho!
within there! Horses! horses! horses!

(_He knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter Mosquito, putting on his
                               jacket._)

_Mos._ Pray have a little patience. I’m not a musket.

_Chis._ I’m glad to see you come on dancing, padre! Pray, what’s the
news?

_Mos._ You cannot have fresh horses; because there are none.

_Chis._ Cachiporra! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I look like your
aunt?

_Mos._ No; she has a beard.

_Chis._ Go to! go to!

_Mos._ Are you from Madrid?

_Chis._ Yes; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses.

_Mos._ What’s the news at court?

_Chis._ Why, the latest news is that I am going to set up a coach, and,
as you see, I have already bought the whip. (_Strikes him round the
legs._)

_Mos._ Oh! oh! you hurt me!

_Don C._ Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (_Gives money to
Mosquito._) It is almost dark; and we are in haste. But tell me, has a
band of gipsies passed this way of late?

_Mos._ Yes; and they are still in the neighborhood.

_Don C._ And where?

_Mos._ Across the fields yonder, in the woods near El Pardillo.
     [_Exit._

_Don C._ Now this is lucky. We’ll turn aside and visit the gipsy camp.

_Chis._ Are you not afraid of the evil eye? Have you a stag’s horn with
you?

_Don C._ Fear not. We will pass the night at the village.

_Chis._ And sleep like the squires of Hernan Daza, nine under one
blanket.

_Don C._ I hope we may find the Preciosa among them.

_Chis._ Among the squires?

_Don C._ No; among the gipsies, blockhead!

_Chis._ I hope we may; for we are giving ourselves trouble enough on her
account. Don’t you think so? However, there is no catching trout without
wetting one’s trowsers. Yonder come the horses.      [_Exeunt._




    Scene V.—_The gipsy camp in the forest. Night. Gipsies working
    at a forge. Others playing cards by the fire light._

    _Gipsies at the forge sing._

    On the top of a mountain I stand,
    With a crown of red gold in my hand,
    Wild Moors come trooping over the lea,
    Oh how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee?
    O how from their fury shall I flee?

_First Gip._ (_playing._) Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down
with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end.

_Gipsies at the forge sing._

    Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,
      And thus his ditty ran;
    God send the gipsy lassie here,
      And not the gipsy man.

_First Gip._ (_playing._) There you are in your morocco!

_Second Gip._ One more game. The alcalde’s doves against the Padre
Cura’s new moon.

_First Gip._ Have at you, Chirelin.

_Gipsies at the forge sing._

    At midnight, when the moon began
      To show her silver flame,
    There came to him no gipsy man,
      The gipsy lassie came.

(_Enter Beltran Cruzado._)

_Cruz._ Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rostilleros; leave work, leave
play; listen to your orders for the night. (_Speaking to the right._)
You will get you to the village, mark you, by the Cross of Espalmado.

_Gip._ Aye!

_Cruz._ (_to the left._) And you, by the pole with the hermit’s head
upon it.

_Gip._ Aye!

_Cruz._ As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and be busy
with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. D’ye
hear?

_Gip._ Aye!

_Cruz._ Keep your lanterns open, and if you see a goblin or a papagage,
take to your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing John is the word. Am I
comprehended?

_Gip._ Aye! aye!

_Cruz._ Away, then!

(_Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up the stage, and disappears among the
                        trees. Enter Preciosa._)

      _Pre._ How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees
    The red light of the forge! Wild, beckoning shadows
    Stalk through the forest, ever and anon
    Rising and bending with the bickering flame,
    Then flitting into darkness! So within me
    Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other,
    My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being
    As the light does the shadow. Wo is me!
    How still it is about me, and how lonely!
    All holy angels keep me in this hour;
    Spirit of her, who bore me, look upon me;
    Mother of God, the glorified, protect me;
    Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me!
        (_Enter Victorian and Hypolito behind._)
      _Vic._ ’Tis she! Behold how beautiful she stands
    Under the tent-like trees!
      _Hyp._ A woodland nymph!
      _Vic._ I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me.
      _Hyp._ Be wary.
    Do not betray thyself too soon.
      _Vic._ (_disguising his voice._) Hist! gipsy!
      _Pre._ (_aside, with emotion._) That voice!—that voice! O speak—O
        speak again!
    Who is it that calls?
      _Vic._ A friend.
      _Pre._ (_aside._) ’Tis he! ’Tis he!
    Now, heart, be strong! I must dissemble here.
    False friend or true?
      _Vic._ A true friend to the true.
    Fear not; come hither. So; can you tell fortunes?
      _Pre._ Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire.
    Give me your hand. It is not cross’d, I see.
      _Vic._ (_putting a piece of gold in her hand._) There is the cross.
      _Pre._ Is’t silver?
      _Vic._ No, ’tis gold.
      _Pre._ There’s a fair lady at the court, who loves you,
    And for yourself alone.
      _Vic._ Fie! the old story!
    Tell me a better fortune for my gold;
    Not this old woman’s tale!
      _Pre._ You’re passionate;
    And this same passionate humor in your blood
    Has marred your fortune. Yes; I see it now;
    The line of life is crossed by many marks.
    Shame! shame! O you have wronged the maid who loved you!
    How could you do’t?
      _Vic._ I never loved a maid;
    For she I loved, was then a maid no more.
      _Pre._ How know you that?
      _Vic._ A little bird in the air
    Whispered the secret.
      _Pre._ There, take back your gold!
    Your hand is cold, like a deceiver’s hand!
    There is no blessing in its charity!
    Make her your wife, for you have been abused;
    And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers.
      _Vic._ (_aside._) How like an angel’s, speaks the tongue of woman,
    When pleading in another’s cause her own!—
    That is a pretty ring upon your finger.
    Pray give it me. (_Tries to take the ring._)
      _Pre._ No; never from my hand
    Shall that be taken!
      _Vic._ Why, ’tis but a ring.
    I’ll give it back to you; or, if I keep it,
    Will give you gold to buy you twenty such.
      _Pre._ Why would you have this ring?
      _Vic._ A traveler’s fancy—
    A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it
    As a memento of the gipsy camp
    In El Pardillo, and the fortune-teller,
    Who sent me back to wed a widow’d maid.
    Pray, let me have the ring.
      _Pre._ No—never! never!
    I will not part with it, even when I die;
    But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus,
    That it may not fall from them. ’Tis a token
    Of a beloved friend, who is no more.
      _Vic._ How? dead?
      _Pre._ Yes; dead to me; and worse than dead.
    He is estrang’d! And yet I keep this ring.
    I will rise with it from my grave hereafter,
    To prove to him that I was never false.
      _Vic._ (_aside._) Be still, my swelling heart! one moment still!
    Why ’tis the folly of a love-sick girl.
    Come, give it me, or I will say ’tis mine,
    And that you stole it.
      _Pre._ O you will not dare
    To utter such a fiendish lie!
      _Vic._ Not dare?
    Look in my face, and say if there is aught
    I have not dared, I would not dare for thee!
           (_She rushes into his arms._)
      _Pre._ ’Tis thou! ’tis thou! Yes; yes; my heart’s elected!
    My dearest-dear Victorian! my soul’s heaven!
    Where hast thou been so long! Why didst thou leave me?
      _Vic._ Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa.
    Let me forget we ever have been parted!
      _Pre._ Hadst thou not come—
      _Vic._ I pray thee do not chide me!
      _Pre._ I should have perished here among these gipsies.
      _Vic._ Forgive me, sweet! for what I made thee suffer.
    Think’st thou this heart could feel a moment’s joy,
    Thou being absent? O believe it not!
    Indeed since that sad hour I have not slept
    For thinking of the wrong I did to thee!
    Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt thou forgive me!
      _Pre._ I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger
    Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee
    I had forgiven thee.
      _Vic._ I’m the veriest fool
    That walks the earth, to have believed thee false.
    It was the Count of Lara—
      _Pre._ That bad man
    Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard—
      _Vic._ I have heard all.
      _Pre._ May Heaven forgive him for it!
      _Hyp._ (_coming forward._) All gentle quarrels in the pastoral
        poets;
    All passionate love scenes in the best romances;
    All chaste embraces on the public stage;
    All soft adventures, which the liberal stars
    Have wink’d at, as the natural course of things,
    Have been surpass’d here by my friend the student
    And this sweet gipsy lass, fair Preciosa!
      _Pre._ Señor Hypolito! I kiss your hand.
    Pray shall I tell your fortune?
      _Hyp._ Not to-night;
    For should you treat me as you did Victorian,
    And send me back to marry forlorn damsels,
    My wedding day would last from now till Christmas.
      _Chis._ (_within._) What ho! the gipsies, ho! Beltran Cruzado!
    Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo!
         (_Enter booted, with a whip and lantern._)
      _Vic._ What now?
    Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed?
      _Chis._ Ay, robbed and murdered; and good evening to you,
    My worthy masters.
      _Vic._ Speak; what brings thee here?
      _Chis._ Good news from court; good news! Fair Preciosa,
    These letters are for you. Beltran Cruzado,
    The Count of the Calés, is not your father,
    But your true father has returned to Spain
    Laden with wealth. You are no more a gipsy.
      _Vic._ Strange as a Moorish tale!
      _Chis._ And we have all
    Been drinking at the tavern to your health,
    As wells drink in November, when it rains.
      _Pre._ (_having read the letters._) Is this a dream? O, if it be a
        dream
    Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
    Repeat thy story! Say I’m not deceived!
    Say that I do not dream! I am awake;
    This is the gipsy camp; this is Victorian,
    And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak—speak!
    Let me not wake and find it all a dream!
      _Vic._ It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream,
    A blissful certainty—a vision bright
    Of that rare happiness, which even on earth
    Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich
    As thou wert ever beautiful and good;
    And I am the poor beggar.
      _Pre._ (_giving him her hand._) I have still
    A hand to give.
      _Chis._ (_aside._) And I have two to take.
    I’ve heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds
    To those who have no teeth. That’s nuts to crack.
    I’ve teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds?—
    Your friend Don Carlos is now at the village
    Showing to Pedro Crespo, the alcalde,
    The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,
    Who stole you in your childhood, has confess’d;
    And probably they’ll hang her for the crime,
    To make the celebration more complete.
      _Vic._ No; let it be a day of general joy;
    Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late.
    Now let us join Don Carlos.
      _Hyp._ So farewell
    The Student’s wandering life! Sweet serenades,
    Sung under ladies’ windows in the night,
    And all that makes vacation beautiful!
    To you, ye cloister’d shades of Alcalá,
    To you, ye radiant visions of Romance,
    Written in books, but here surpass’d by truth,
    The Bachelor Hypolito returns
    And leaves the gipsy with the Spanish Student.

            THE END.


                                 NOTES.

_Act II. Scene I._—Busné, or gentiles, is the name given by the gipsies
to all who are not of their race. Calés is the name they give
themselves.

_Act III. Scene V._—The scraps of song in this scene are from Borrow’s
“Zincali; or an Account of the Gipsies in Spain.”

The gipsy words in the same scene may be thus interpreted:

_Juan-Dorados_, pieces of gold.
_Pigeon_, a simpleton.
_In your morocco_, robbed, stripped.
_Doves_, sheets.
_Moon_, a shirt.
_Chirelin_, a thief.
_Murcigalleros_, those who steal at night-fall.
_Rastilleros_, foot-pads.
_Hermit_, highway robber.
_Planets_, candles.
_Commandments_, the fingers.
_Saint Martin asleep_, to rob a person asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE CHILD’S PRAYER.


                           BY ROBERT MORRIS.


    Great Being! whose eternal home
      Is in the far-off skies,
    Permit a little child to kneel
      And heavenward turn her eyes!
    They tell me that our lower world
      Is not a world of bliss,
    And that there is a realm beyond
      More beautiful than this!

    That there are seen angelic throngs
      Constant in songs of praise,
    That brothers, sisters, never part,
      And years are but as days—
    That smiles illumine every face,
      And joy cheers every breast,
    That sighs and sorrows are unknown,
      And all alike are blest!

    Oh! I would, when my life shall close,
      Soar to that happy land,
    And mingle with the good and fair,
      And join the angel band—
    Wings for my spirit I would have,
      That like a bird at last
    Upward and on my soul should soar,
      Rejoicing as it passed!

    But oh! I would not go alone,
      I would not leave behind
    A mother fond and dear as mine,
      A father, too, so kind—
    Oh! no, may these, when Death shall come
      To close these fading eyes,
    Soar with me to my heavenly home,
      Or meet me in the skies!

    As yet I am a feeble child,
      A poor, frail thing of earth;
    Great Maker! keep me undefiled
      And sinless e’en in mirth!
    They tell me that thy guardian care
      Extends o’er land and sea,
    That e’en a sparrow may not fall
      Unseen, unknown to thee!

    That thou art God o’er great and small,
      That by thy power was made
    As well the fire-fly as the sun,
      The bright light as the shade—
    That the clear stars which shine above
      Are wondrous worlds like ours,
    Perchance with richer, softer skies
      And sweeter buds and flowers!

    They tell me, and my Bible true
      Confirms the cheering tale,
    That thou dost love all human things,
      That none who seek will fail—
    That none who bend the suppliant knee
      And ask thy godlike aid,
    Will fail to win a mansion bright
      When life and earth shall fade!

    Then guide, I pray thee, guide my feet,
      My youthful heart control,
    Chasten and purify my thoughts
      And brighten all my soul—
    Oh! make me true and dutiful
      To thee and kindred dear,
    And lead me to that better land,
      That world without a tear!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               DE PONTIS.


                          A TALE OF RICHELIEU.


      BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.”


                       (Continued from page 175.)


                               CHAPTER V.

Next morning, at the usual hour, Marguerite was at the door of the
_Conciergerie_.

The thread of affairs had become so intricate—matters that she felt at
liberty to explain to her father, and other circumstances, which regard
for the page’s safety forbade disclosing—that, for the first time in
her life, she felt ill at ease in his presence. She was conscious of
being, to a certain degree, culpable—the unreserved confidence hitherto
subsisting between father and daughter was no more—there was
reservation, and it produced distress, regret, and confusion.

Still she was true to her own intent. She had made a deliberate resolve
of secrecy when her mind was calm and free to judge, and she would not
break it when in a state of fluttering and depression. The veteran was
delighted with the progress in his affairs—there was yet some chance,
he said, of his being able to make provision for a dutiful
daughter—some temporal solace for old age.

Leaving him after a short visit—for, in truth, she felt much of what he
said as a secret reproach—Marguerite hastened to the advocate.

“The packet is deposited in sure hands—and not at the _Tuileries_,
Monsieur Giraud!” was her salutation.

“And half an hour hence will see me at the _Hôtel De Fontrailles_,”
replied the party addressed.

“But I dread the peril you incur, Monsieur,” rejoined the damsel; “is
there no”—

“Has Marguerite done her duty?” demanded Giraud, interrupting her.

“I have,” exclaimed the lady, firmly.

“Then have no fear for the advocate,” said her friend, relaxing the
piercing gaze he bent on the maiden.

Let us accompany Giraud. Donning hat—plain and featherless—tying a
black mantle round his throat, and, with cane in hand—for he was a
gentleman of the robe, not of the sword, and bore no weapon—he sallied
forth, walking with deliberate air, till he reached a gloomy mansion in
the _Rue D’Orleans_.

The gate or _porte-cochère_ was opened to his knock by the ever ready
porter, and he stood beneath the archway. The count had not yet gone
abroad, and would doubtless see him—the name was carried to
Monseigneur, and the lackey returned to usher the visiter. A spacious
staircase of polished chesnut-wood, so slippery that the advocate had
much ado to keep footing, led to a vestibule whence doors opened into
various chambers. Passing through an ante-chamber into a saloon, he was
at length conducted to the library of the _Hôtel De Fontrailles_.

The folios stood ranged in goodly rows, but the taste of the noble owner
appeared more conspicuously in the abundance of maps, charts, plans of
cities, models of European fortresses, and arms and armor. A large
gothic arched window at the extremity afforded light to the chamber, and
looked over a paved yard in the rear of the _hôtel_.

Fontrailles was seated at a table, his back toward the window. Robed in
a loose gown, surrounded with papers, books, opened letters, and others
tied with tape, among which had been negligently thrown his walking
rapier; the courtier and diplomatist was more apparent in the
occupation, than the gambler, gallant, and active political intriguer.
The count might have attained forty years, perhaps more. The long dark
face and prominent features, softened by the shade in which he sat, were
far from unpleasing. In repose, the face might be reckoned handsome,
certainly dignified.

A silent gesture to the advocate to take the seat which the lackey
placed at the opposite end of the table, and who, upon doing so,
immediately quitted the chamber—left the parties alone. The count
waited in silence the business of the visiter, who announced himself as
Etienne Giraud, _avocat du parlement_, friend and kinsman of Monsieur De
Pontis, confined in the _Conciergerie du Palais_, and engaged in
defending him against two suits now before the courts.

The count indicated by a slight motion that he was an attentive
listener—then added, after a moment’s pause—

“I am not ignorant of Monsieur Giraud’s merits, but I believe he has
mistaken my _hôtel_ for that of the President Longueil, the third
_porte-cochère_ beyond.”

“I have the honor to address the Count De Fontrailles?” replied the
advocate in a tone of inquiry.

“I was at a loss to account for Monsieur connecting me with suits in the
courts of parliament!” rejoined the count, smiling, “but I pray him to
proceed.”

Giraud detailed concisely the history of De Pontis—his uniform ill
luck, the present desperate situation of his affairs, and the probable
destitution of Mademoiselle. Fontrailles replied that the case was
distressing, but, like every other case of such description, it had
originated in culpable negligence. De Pontis was so eager to avail
himself of the fruits of the _droit_, that he had commenced
appropriating the effects ere the necessary legal forms had been gone
through—ere, indeed, it could be ascertained whether the deceased died
a wealthy man or a bankrupt.

“But why make my ear the receptacle of Monsieur De Pontis’ calamities—I
whom, I believe, he has never exchanged a word with,” asked the count,
in astonishment, “and who am neither the organ of grace or justice?”

“It is to crave the intercession of Monseigneur with one who is the
organ of both—to crave the intercession of the Count De Fontrailles
with his eminence to cancel the penal proceedings, being, at best, a
prosecution for the mere omission of a legal form which an old soldier
could know nothing of,” replied the advocate.

“This pleading, Monsieur Giraud,” said Fontrailles, impatiently, “may
prove effective in the proper quarters, but on me it is lost. I believe
you mean well, but zeal in the cause of a friend has made you overlook
the ordinary usages of society, in forcing the veteran’s tale of error
and distress on a stranger. I, therefore, am calmer than I might
be—indeed, may remind you that, being principally employed on foreign
services, and indulging, unavoidably, in some of the irregularities of
those whom it falls to my duty to have affairs with, I have not perhaps
that personal weight and consideration with his majesty and with his
court, which attends the grave and quiet discharge of offices of trust
and responsibility in Paris and the Provinces. Mine has been a life of
peril, though not of military warfare—danger has often beset me in
foreign lands—but here, in Paris, my services are overlooked, and the
disorders incident to a life of travel commented on. It is Monsieur’s
zeal for De Pontis, which I admire, that wrings this confession from
me—and I would recommend his application to the Tuileries, or the
_Palais Cardinal_, or, if he be seeking a patron for his client, to some
personage of more austere and reverential course of life than his humble
servant.”

So speaking, the count rose with an air which implied that the interview
should here terminate. The advocate could not but be surprised with the
language and manner assumed by the dissolute, turbulent noble—his
affected candor and sincerity—which he had doubtless acquired by
intercourse with foreign courts—a varnish to the vices which disgraced
his character.

Notwithstanding, however, this nonchalance, and professed ignorance of
the affairs of De Pontis, there was that in his discourse which
encouraged the advocate to persevere. His affectation of candor—the
confession wrung from him!—rather overshot the mark, and betrayed
weakness. Fontrailles was not the man to suffer any thing to be wrung
from him; and the plea of want of personal weight and character, a mere
mask. But wherefore interpose a mask, if there were nothing to conceal?

’Tis the most difficult part of simulation to refrain from covert
defence of an act, of which the party may be acutely self-conscious, but
desirous of concealing. With a shrewd, subtle, penetrating
adversary—such for instance as Giraud—it defeats the very object, to
aid which it is evoked. In the mild, moderate language of the count, the
advocate felt that he was speaking in a falsetto key—that the
sentiments were foreign to his natural character; and there was not, or
ought not to be, any necessity for extreme complaisance, and disguise of
feeling, with one of the comparative humbleness of the auditor.

Giraud arose from his seat in unison with the count’s movement, but had
no intention of taking leave.

“It is reported,” said he, “that Monseigneur is interested in the _droit
d’aubaine_ for which Monsieur De Pontis holds the sign manual, which
may, perhaps, furnish a better argument than I have yet advanced for my
appeal.”

“I know of no such report!” exclaimed the count, in a stern voice, “evil
news flies quick, and had such been current, I have too many friends,
glad of an opportunity to retail the slander, that they might watch its
effect. But I must retract the high opinion I had of Monsieur Giraud, in
carrying these fools’ messages—perhaps inventing. But we had better
part, sir, ere I have reason to suspect worse of your motives.”

With these words, the count approached the table and rang a silver bell,
a signal to the lackey in attendance to conduct the visiter to the gate.

“I have that to say, Monsieur le Comte, which it were better your
household should not hear,” said the advocate, retaining his place.

“Ah! has it come to that?” exclaimed Fontrailles, darting a glance of
anger; “so, the pleader threatens! Like the Spanish mendicant, he first
solicits alms, and when refused, points the fusil which he had concealed
in the grass.”

The lackey here entered in obedience to the summons, but the count
motioned him to retire.

The advocate remarked in reply, that, as Monseigneur seemed bent on
retaining his vantage-ground of professed ignorance of any special
knowledge of the affairs of his client—and disclaimed the report
respecting the _droit d’aubaine_—it became necessary that he should
inform the count that an individual, one Pedro Olivera, whom he believed
was not unknown to Monseigneur, had, like his superiors, occasion for
more money than he could legitimately obtain, and that, often borrowing
of his deceased countryman, the Spaniard, without the power or will of
refunding, he was at length reduced, in efforts to obtain further
supplies, to place in the hands of his rich friend, what was deemed good
security, although of a strange character. He professed to have certain
unsettled claims on the Count De Fontrailles for services of espionage,
and holding intercourse with underlings of the ministerial bureau in
Madrid. From his showing, it appeared that he had been the medium of a
negotiation between the Spanish ministry and the count. For this service
Fontrailles had not yet bestowed an equivalent, alleging the urgency of
his own necessities; but, in one instance, certainly an unguarded one,
he had given Pedro an authority in writing to appropriate to himself a
certain portion of a sum of money, receivable at the bureau, in Madrid,
and to be handed the count. Pedro, however, was unlucky, for, on
application, he was informed that satisfaction had been afforded
Fontrailles in person. He felt that this conduct of his patron was
unhandsome—hence, perhaps, the betrayal of the count’s secrets—there
was no proof, indeed, that the money had been paid Monseigneur—but the
authority of Pedro to appropriate a portion of what he should receive,
was still in existence in the count’s handwriting.

Pedro, as before intimated, having drawn all he could obtain by ordinary
means from the deceased, inscribed a formal claim on the count for the
heretofore named services, which he specially enumerated, and in which
he made reference to the count’s authorization appended to the
statement. The deceased upholsterer saw in this document, not only a
security for the money owing by Pedro, but also a collateral guarantee
for the refunding of what Fontrailles, who was also heavily his debtor,
owed him.

In short, added Giraud, the evidence appeared clearly to convict the
Count De Fontrailles of receiving money from Spain. The papers came into
the possession of Monsieur De Pontis, and were by him handed to the
advocate.

It would have baffled the painter’s art to have depicted the changing
aspects which dwelt for awhile, and then fled the countenance of the
noble. One minute listening attentively—the next he appeared lost in
abstraction, or meditating some course of action—then starting up
suddenly with menacing looks, the features took such a semblance, that
his most intimate friend could not have indentified the face as
belonging to the Count De Fontrailles.

“And this cunning cheat of forgery—this deep laid villany,” exclaimed
the favorite of Richelieu, “what if I were so weak as to quail beneath
it? What would the worthy, zealous, Monsieur Giraud require of me?”

“That the Count De Fontrailles cause Pedro Olivera to relinquish his
fabricated claim—prevail on the cardinal to cancel the _procureur’s_
proceedings, and leave the poor veteran in possession of the _droit
d’aubaine_,” replied the undaunted advocate.

“A moderate request,” gasped the count, with suppressed rage, “what,
give up all?”

“I knew not, so far as his own declaration went,” said Giraud, calmly,
“that there was any thing for Monseigneur to give up. Unlike his
friends, Pedro, and the deceased, we do not make the possession of these
documents a pretext of extortion to be held over his head _in
terrorem_—we ask of the count not the slightest pecuniary sacrifice,
not a livre—we ask him merely to use his intercession, to act the
honorable and coveted part of an interceder for mercy between justice
and an innocent defendant. Such conduct will go far to lend the count
that personal weight and respectability of character which he so much
feels the want of.”

“Liar! It is false!” shouted the bitterly enraged noble, rushing upon
the advocate. Seizing him by the throat, he bent his body over the
table, depriving the victim both of power of speech and motion. “It is
false, old dotard!” continued Fontrailles, without relaxing his grasp,
“thou believest the _droit_ is mine—and wouldst have me surrender it to
gratify thy paltry pride. I have sweet revenge in store, or thou
shouldst never have the chance of coining fresh lies!”

Being a powerful man, he was enabled to hold the advocate, prostrate and
gasping for breath, with the right hand on his throat, whilst his left
searched for the hand bell, which he rung violently. On the lackey
entering, he commanded the attendance of Eugene and Robert, both armed,
and to come without delay. Poor Giraud was nearly choked, and his back
almost broken by the torturing position in which he was pinned to the
library-table; nor did the count afford a moment’s respite till his
creatures arrived armed to the teeth.

“Stand guard over the wretch,” cried Fontrailles, quitting his
victim—“stand guard, at the peril of your lives, till I return—and if
he offer the least resistance, or utters a single cry to raise an alarm,
both of you fire—let him not escape, happen what may!”

The men mutely signified acquiescence by each taking a position, with
pistols cocked, at the doors of the library.

“Monsieur le Comte!” said Giraud, in a feeble voice, recovering from the
violence, “if you seek to commit a robbery, I promise you will be
foiled—if you perpetrate violence on an unarmed man, it will not pass
unrevenged. There are those able and willing waiting my return in
safety—if I return not, then let the Count De Fontrailles tremble!”

“Peace, old dotard! You are not addressing a president of the _Cour
Royale_!” said the count, now busily engaged in locking up his private
papers.

“I warn you that what you seek will prove beyond reach,” added Giraud.

The count glanced at him for one moment without speaking, and then
finished his occupation. Snatching the rapier, he quitted the chamber.


                              CHAPTER VI.

In the close immurement suffered by the advocate, he had leisure to
reflect on his situation, and it was far from cheering. The count’s
passion had carried him beyond bounds, more than Giraud had calculated
on. He had believed Fontrailles to be a man of the world, so sensitively
alive to his own interest, that the gratification of revenge would have
held only a secondary place in his thoughts.

But from the specimen of anger, the effects of which were painfully
visible, he began to dread the return of the incensed
noble—disappointed of his prey, he might, regardless of consequences,
abandon himself to a cruel revenge. There was no help in a house, and
among creatures subservient to such a master. And where could aid spring
from, even if it were posthumous only, but from the quarter where
Marguerite had deposited the documents.

To this unknown refuge his thoughts fled for solace and support. If
Marguerite’s friend failed her not—then, though his own life should be
sacrificed—his character and heroism would be preserved—De Pontis and
his daughter triumph, and infamy, ruin and disgrace be the portion of
Fontrailles.

Some hours passed in this sad tribulation. He requested food—it was
denied—water, if nothing else—Eugene shook his head. He was sorry for
Monsieur, but he had received no orders on that point, and it might be,
for aught he knew, the count’s desire that Monsieur should be kept
without nourishment. If Monsieur felt very hungry, he had better compose
himself to sleep—he had liberty to make a couch of the chairs—in his
campaigns, Eugene had often found such a plan the only remedy for a
barking stomach.

“But you had a contented mind, Eugene,” remarked the distressed
advocate.

At length came a change. A knocking was heard below; Giraud trembled,
for the footsteps of the count were on the stairs, and he presently
entered the chamber.

Casting a glance round the library, he ordered the two sentinels to
retire, but hold themselves in readiness. They obeyed the command, and
Giraud and the noble were once more alone. The advocate scanned the
countenance of Fontrailles attentively; there was a marked change, more
of disappointment than anger. For awhile he made no remark, busying
himself, or appearing to do so, with his papers—Giraud was equally
silent.

The count, at length, broke silence. “I think, Monsieur Giraud,” said
he, “that we are now on an equality to treat. You have suffered some
violence at my hands, and I, since I left you, have found your
pretensions to my interference better founded than I expected. My
conditions are these. I will quash Pedro’s suit—I will cause his
eminence to cancel the _procureur’s_ proceedings, with guarantee from
both that they shall not be renewed. De Pontis shall be liberated, and
remain in undisturbed enjoyment of the _droit d’aubaine_. From you I
expect a perfect silence, now and ever, in relation to these
affairs—also a restitution of all papers which affect me. Further, the
immediate payment of sixty thousand livres, and quittance of what I owe
the estate—you will see, by the inventory, the abstraction of such a
sum will leave De Pontis a very handsome maintenance for one of his
rank. There are several minor conditions—but I wait your reply.”

“Has the Count de Fontrailles been to my house?” asked Giraud.

“I have—I searched it with Richelieu’s warrant,” replied Fontrailles.

“Is Monseigneur aware that that action would tend, in the estimation of
the cardinal, to confirm the statement of Pedro Olivera?” demanded the
advocate.

“Let me reply by asking a question,” rejoined the count. “Is Monsieur
Giraud aware that, as affairs now stand, whatever the cardinal might
affect toward me—even the withdrawal of his favor—it would not
liberate De Pontis—would not leave him with the _droit d’aubaine_?”

“I know your agency is wanting—and I agree to the terms,” said the
advocate.

“My other conditions are,” continued Fontrailles, “that you make no
complaint of my search this morning—that you tell his eminence, should
you chance to meet him, that by advising Monsieur De Pontis to surrender
a portion to me, who, you are aware, had, even before the Spaniard’s
death, asked the future _droit_ of the cardinal, that you secured
thereby the remainder to your friend.”

“Well! I do not object to building a bridge for Monseigneur’s retreat,”
observed the advocate.

“It would be ridiculous toward one of your profession, and, above all,
age, to offer the satisfaction accorded to a gentleman who has received
violence at the hands of another,” said the count; “I, therefore, beg
pardon of Monsieur Giraud for the same.”

The advocate bowed. It were, perhaps, better, he said, to allow it to
pass thus, though the count must be aware that he had shown no want of
courage. Fontrailles assented, remarking that he believed their business
was now concluded—at least the preliminaries—and that he would call on
the advocate on the morrow, when he hoped everything would be prepared.

Giraud was not sorry to see the exterior of the _Hôtel De Fontrailles_.
The count had, however, made better terms for himself than he thought to
have granted—still, it was true, as Fontrailles remarked, that,
whatever became of him, through the cardinal listening to the tale of
Pedro Olivera, De Pontis would be none the richer. The pride of
Richelieu was touched by the veteran obtaining the sign-manual without
his knowledge or intervention, and it was very probable that, if
Fontrailles were disgraced, the _droit d’aubaine_ would be destined to
another favorite.

Giraud had foreseen this difficulty from the commencement, yet it was
hard to part with so many thousand livres, especially to one who had
almost choked him. On second consideration, the advocate thought it
wiser to withhold this portion of the adventure from De Pontis and his
daughter—the blood of the _militaire_ would rise at the insult and
imposition of hands offered to a kinsman, and fresh difficulties,
perhaps, be thrown in the way of what was, after all, a very peaceful
and happy termination of the affairs of the old soldier. The count had
confessed the injury, and sued for pardon, and what more could he do?
With this consolation, the advocate quieted himself.

The glad news was imparted to Marguerite that evening, and when the
_houblieur_ rang his bell, and was admitted, the maiden was more
gracious than on the former occasion—the youth more thoughtful. As
might be expected, from the previous intimacy shown relative to the
secret affairs of the _Palais Cardinal_, its inmates and visiters, much
of what had occurred was already known to the youth—the remainder he
heard from the lips of Marguerite. She was charged by Giraud to reclaim
the packet; it would be wanted on the morrow. That same night it was
placed in her hands, the seal unbroken, and, before she retired to rest,
it was again in the keeping of the zealous, faithful advocate.

Giraud was seated in his office. A night’s repose had calmed his
spirits, refreshed the wearied frame. Fontrailles had kept the
appointment, bringing an authenticated relinquishment of the suit of
Pedro Olivera—also a notification from the _procureur général_ that he
had abandoned the prosecution of the decree of sequestration—and,
lastly, a duplicate of Richelieu’s order to the warden of the
_Conciergerie_ to release the Sieur De Pontis. The count claimed and
received satisfaction on the conditions insisted on—reference to the
prisoner was not necessary, as Giraud had, on the committal of De
Pontis, received a legal power to act as representative, and affix by
procuration his signature to any act deemed necessary. As the cardinal’s
seal was removed from the ware-rooms, and attachment withdrawn from the
banker where the moneys of the deceased were lodged, there was no
impediment to the prompt payment of the count’s subsidy—a matter,
seemingly, of the utmost importance to Monseigneur.

Giraud, as we have said, was seated in his office, and alone. But
presently there arrived visiters—the Sieur De Pontis, and the fair
heroine, Marguerite. Congratulations and thanks exhausted, business
recited and discussed, there ensued a pause—their hearts were full.

“There are but three here,” said Giraud, looking archly at Marguerite,
“I should wish to see a fourth. There is a friend, Monsieur De Pontis,
who has wonderfully aided our endeavors for your release, and to whom we
owe many thanks. Shall we never see the unknown’s face?”

“Marguerite has my sanction to introduce him to Monsieur Giraud whenever
she pleases,” said the veteran.

“Hah! then I have been forestalled in her confidence,” cried the
advocate, “but I did not deserve the neglect!”

The day subsequent to the liberation of De Pontis, Louis was promenading
alone his customary path in the garden of the Tuileries. The old soldier
presented himself—he bent his knee to majesty.

“Rise, my good friend,” said the monarch, “I hear you have been better
served than Louis could have wrought for you, though he had not
forgotten his word, or his old servant.”

After a few remarks, the king complimented him on the perseverance and
heroism of Marguerite adding that she was deserving of all honor.

“With your majesty’s permission, I believe I am about to marry her,”
remarked De Pontis.

“To whom? I hope to a subject of mine!” exclaimed the monarch.

“François De Romainville, if it please your majesty,” replied the
veteran.

“I know the youth,” said Louis, “our cardinal’s page, of good lineage,
though accounted wild and reckless—the cardinal complains of his
habits, but loves the page’s intelligence and capacity. We must see what
can be done for this youth, also for Monsieur Giraud when the
opportunity offers.”

He might have added, “when the cardinal permits,” thought the veteran,
with a sigh.

“For yourself, De Pontis,” continued the royal personage, “I hope all
will go well in future.”

“I intend to put it out of fortune’s power to do me further harm,”
answered the _militaire_—“your majesty’s late bounty I shall settle on
my daughter and her husband; for, though I hope a true man in the tented
field, yet I do believe that, whether from my own fault, or an unlucky
destiny, I should lose, or mismanage the fairest estate in your realm.”

At that moment, the cardinal and his suite were seen in the
distance—the countenance of Louis fell, and De Pontis taking hasty
leave—much to the royal satisfaction—glided through a side-walk.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           MY MOTHER—A DREAM.


                           BY MRS. BALMANNO.


    Oh mother! sacred! dear! in dreams of thee,
    I sat, again a child, beside thy knee,
    Nestling amidst thy robe delightedly!
    And all was silent in the sunny room,
    Save bees that humm’d o’er honeysuckle bloom.

    I gazed upon thy face, so mild, so fair,
    I heard thy holy voice arise in prayer;
    Oh mother! mother! thou thyself wert there!
    Thou, by the placid brow, the thoughtful eye,
    The clasping hand, the voice of melody.

    I clung around thy neck—thy tears fell fast,
    Like rain in summer, yet the sorrow past;
    And smiles, more beautiful than e’en the last,
    Play’d on thy lip, dear mother! such it wore
    To bless our early home in days of yore.

    Then wild and grand arose my native hills—
    I heard the leaping torrents, and the thrills
    Of birds that hymn the sun; the charm that fills
    Old Haddon’s vales, and haunts its river side—
    What time the Fays pluck king-cups by its tide.

    Methought ’twas hawthorn time—the jolly May—
    For o’er far plains bright figures seemed to stray,
    Gath’ring the buds, and calling me away!
    I waked, but ah! to weep—no eye of thine,
    Sweet mother! beam’d its gentle light on mine.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              BAINBRIDGE.


    BY J. FENIMORE COOPER, AUTHOR OF “THE SPY,” “THE PIONEERS,” ETC.


Dr. Harris, in his “Life and Services” of this distinguished officer,
says that “The ancestor of Commodore Bainbridge, who, in the year 1600,
settled in the province of New Jersey, was the son of Sir Arthur
Bainbridge, of Durham county, England.” As no portion of the old United
States was settled as early as 1600, and the province of New Jersey, in
particular, was organized only about the middle of the seventeenth
century, the date, in this instance, is an oversight, or a misprint;
though the account of the ancestor is probably accurate. The family of
the late Commodore Bainbridge was of respectable standing, beyond a
question, both in the colony and state of New Jersey, and its
connections were principally among persons of the higher classes of
society. His father was a physician of local eminence, in the early part
of his life, who removed to New York about the commencement of the
Revolution, where he left a fair professional and personal reputation.

The fourth son of Dr. Bainbridge was William, the subject of our memoir.
He was born at Princeton, New Jersey, then the residence of his father,
May 7th, 1774. His birth must have occurred but a short time before the
removal of the family to New York. The maiden name of Mrs. Bainbridge,
the mother of William, was Taylor; a lady of Monmouth county, in the
same colony; and her father, a man of considerable estate, undertook to
superintend the education of the child.

Young Bainbridge was of an athletic manly frame, and early showed a bold
spirit, and a love of enterprise. This temperament was likely to
interfere with studies directed toward a liberal education, and, at the
early age of fifteen, his importunities prevailed on his friends to
allow him to go to sea. This must have been about the time when the
present form of government went first into operation, and the trade and
navigation of the country began to revive. In that day the republic had
no marine; the old Alliance frigate, the favorite ship of the
Revolution, then sailing out of the port at which young Bainbridge first
embarked, as an Indiaman.

Philadelphia, for many years after the peace of 1783, produced the best
seamen of America. Other ports, doubtless, had as hardy and as
adventurous mariners, but the nicety of the art was better taught and
practiced on the Delaware than in any other portion of the country. This
advantage was thought to be owing to the length of the river and bay,
which required more elaborate evolutions to take a ship successfully
through, than ports that lay contiguous to the sea. The same superiority
has long been claimed for London, and for the same reason, each place
having a long and intricate navigation, among shoals, and in a tide’s
way, before its wharves can be reached. The comparative decline of the
navigation of these two towns is to be attributed to the very
difficulties which made expert seamen, though the vast amount of
supplies required by the English capital, for its own consumption,
causes great bodies of shipping still to frequent the Thames. It is also
probable that the superiority formerly claimed for the seamen of these
two towns, was in part owing to the circumstances that, being the
capitals of their respective countries, they were then in advance of
other ports, both as to the arts, generally, and as to the wealth
necessary to exhibit them.

Young Bainbridge, consequently, enjoyed the advantage of being trained,
as a seaman, in what was then the highest American school. Singularly
handsome and prepossessing in his appearance, of a vigorous, and
commanding frame, with the foundation of a good education, all aided by
respectable connections, he was made an officer in the third year of his
service. When eighteen, he sailed as chief mate of a ship in the Dutch
trade, and on his first voyage, in this capacity, he recovered the
vessel from the hands of mutineers, by his personal intrepidity, and
physical activity. In the following year, when barely nineteen, the
owners gave him command of the same ship. From this time down to the
period of his joining the navy, Bainbridge continued in command of
different merchant vessels, all of which were employed in the European
trade, which was then carried on, by this country, in the height and
excitement of the war that succeeded the French revolution.

Occasions were not wanting, by which Bainbridge could prove his
dauntless resolution, even in command of a peaceful and slightly armed
merchantman. In 1796, whilst in command of the Hope, of Philadelphia, he
was lying in the Garonne, and was hailed by another American to come and
aid in quelling a mutiny. This he did in person; though his life had
nearly been the sacrifice, owing to an explosion of gunpowder. The same
season, while shaping his course for one of the West India islands, the
Hope was attacked by a small British privateer, of eight guns and thirty
men, being herself armed with four nines, and having a crew of only
eleven souls before the mast—an equipment then permitted, by the laws,
for the purposes of defence only. The privateer commenced the engagement
without showing any colors; but, receiving a broadside from the Hope,
she hoisted English, in the expectation of intimidating her antagonist.
In this, however, the assailant was mistaken; Bainbridge, who had his
colors flying from the first, continued his fire until he actually
compelled the privateer to lower her flag. The latter was much cut up,
and lost several men. The Hope escaped with but little injury. Although
he had compelled his assailant to submit, it would not have been legal
for Bainbridge to take possession of the prize. He even declined
boarding her, most probably keeping in view the feebleness of his own
complement; but, hailing the privateer, he told her commander to go to
his employers and let them know they must send some one else to capture
the Hope if they had occasion for that ship. It was probably owing to
this little affair, as well as to his general standing as a ship-master,
that Bainbridge subsequently entered the navy with the rank he obtained.

Not long after the action with the privateer, while homeward bound
again, a man was impressed from Bainbridge’s ship, by an English
cruiser. The boarding officer commenced by taking the first mate, on
account of his name, Allen M’Kinsey, insisting that the man must be a
Scotchman! This singular species of logic was often applied on such
occasions, even historians of a later day claiming such men as M’Donough
and Conner, on the supposition that they must be Irish, from their
family appellations. Mr. M’Kinsey, who was a native Philadelphian, on a
hint from Bainbridge, armed himself, and refused to quit his own ship;
whereupon the English lieutenant seized a foremast hand and bore him
off, in spite of his protestations of being an American, and the
evidence of his commander. Bainbridge was indignant at this
outrage—then, however, of almost daily occurrence on the high
seas—and, finding his own remonstrances disregarded, he solemnly
assured the boarding officer that, if he fell in with an English vessel,
of a force that would allow of such a retaliation, he would take a man
out of her to supply the place of the seaman who was then carried away.
This threat was treated with contempt, but it was put in execution
within a week; Bainbridge actually seizing a man on board an English
merchant-man, and that, too, of a force quite equal to his own, and
carrying him into an American port. The ship which impressed the man
belonging to the Hope, was the Indefatigable, Sir Edward Pellew.

All these little affairs contributed to give Bainbridge a merited
reputation for spirit; for, however illegal may have been his course in
impressing the Englishman, the sailor himself was quite content to
receive higher wages, and there was a natural justice in the measure
that looked down the policy of nations and the provisions of law.
Shortly after this incident the aggressions of France induced the
establishment of the present navy, and the government, after employing
all the old officers of the Revolution who remained, and who were fit
for service, was compelled to go into the mercantile marine to find men
to fill the subordinate grades. The merchant service of America has ever
been relatively much superior to that of most other countries. This has
been owing, in part, to the greater diffusion of education; in part, to
the character of the institutions, which throws no discredit around any
reputable pursuit; and in part, to the circumstance that the military
marine has not been large enough to give employment to all of the
maritime enterprise and spirit of the nation. Owing to these united
causes, the government of 1798 had much less difficulty in finding
proper persons to put into its infant navy, than might have been
anticipated; although it must be allowed that some of the selections, as
usual, betrayed the influence of undue recommendations, as well as of
too partial friendships.

The navy offering a field exactly suited to the ambition and character
of Bainbridge, he eagerly sought service in it, on his return from a
voyage to Europe; his arrival occurring a short time after the first
appointments had been made. The third vessel which got to sea, under the
new armament, was the Delaware 20, Capt. Stephen Decatur, the father of
the illustrious officer of the same name; and this vessel, a few days
out, had captured Le Croyable 14, a French privateer that she found
cruising in the American waters. Le Croyable was condemned, and
purchased by the navy department; being immediately equipped for a
cruiser, under the name of the Retaliation. To this vessel Bainbridge
was appointed, with the commission of lieutenant commandant; a rank that
was subsequently and unwisely dropped; as the greater the number of
gradations in a military service, while they are kept within the limits
of practical necessity, the greater is the incentive for exertion, the
more frequent the promotions, and the higher the discipline. First
lieutenants, lieutenants commandant, exist, and must exist in fact, in
every marine; and it is throwing away the honorable inducement of
promotion, as well as some of the influence of a commission, not to have
the rank while we have the duties. It would be better for the navy did
the station of first lieutenant, or lieutenant commandant, now exist,
those who held the commissions furnishing officers to command the
smallest class of vessels, and the executive officers of ships of the
line and frigates.

The Retaliation sailed for the West India station, in September, 1798.
While cruising off Guadaloupe, the following November, the Montezuma,
sloop of war, Capt. Murray, and the brig Norfolk, Capt. Williams, in
company, three sail were made in the eastern board, that were supposed
to be English; and two more strangers appearing to the westward, Capt.
Murray, who was the senior officer, made sail for the latter, taking the
Norfolk with him; while the Retaliation was directed to examine the
vessels to the eastward. This separated the consorts, which parted on
nearly opposite tacks. Unfortunately two of the vessels to the eastward
proved to be French frigates, le Volontier 36, Capt. St. Laurent, and
l’Insurgente 32, Capt. Barreault. The first of these ships carried 44
guns, French eighteens, and the latter 40, French twelves. L’Insurgente
was one of the fastest ships that floated, and, getting the Retaliation
under her guns, Bainbridge was compelled to strike, as resistance would
have been madness.

The prisoner was taken on board le Volontier, the two frigates
immediately making sail in chase of the Montezuma and Norfolk.
L’Insurgente again out-stripped her consort, and was soon a long
distance ahead of her. Capt. St. Laurent was the senior officer, and,
the Montezuma being a ship of some size, he felt an uneasiness at
permitting the Insurgente to engage two adversaries, of whose force he
was ignorant, unsupported. In this uncertainty, he determined to inquire
the force of the American vessels of his prisoner. Bainbridge answered
coolly that the ship was a vessel of 28 long twelves, and the brig a
vessel of 20 long nines. This was nearly, if not quite, doubling the
force of the two American cruisers, and it induced the French commodore
to show a signal of recall to his consort. Capt. Barreault, an
exceedingly spirited officer, joined his commander in a very ill humor,
informing his superior that he was on the point of capturing both the
chases, when he was so inopportunely recalled. This induced an
explanation, when the _ruse_ practiced by Bainbridge was exposed. In the
moment of disappointment, the French officers felt much irritated, but,
appreciating the conduct of their prisoner more justly, they soon
recovered their good humor, and manifested no further displeasure.

The Retaliation and her crew were carried into Basseterre. On board the
Volontier was Gen. Desfourneaux, who was sent out to supersede Victor
Hughes in his government. This functionary was very diplomatic, and he
entered into a negotiation with Bainbridge of a somewhat equivocal
character, leaving it a matter of doubt whether an exchange of
prisoners, an arrangement of the main difficulties between the two
countries, or a secret trade with his own island, and for his own
particular benefit, was his real object. Ill treatment to the crew of
the Retaliation followed; whether by accident or design is not known;
though the latter has been suspected. It will be remembered that no war
had been declared by either country, and that the captures by the
Americans were purely retaliatory, and made in self-defence. Gen.
Desfourneaux profited by this circumstance to effect his purposes,
affecting not to consider the officers and people of the Retaliation as
prisoners at all. To this Bainbridge answered that he regarded himself,
and his late crew, not only as prisoners of war, but as ill-treated
prisoners, and that his powers now extended no farther than to treat of
an exchange. After a protracted negotiation, Bainbridge and his crew
were placed in possession of the Retaliation again, all the other
American prisoners in Guadaloupe were put on board a cartel, and the two
vessels were ordered for America. Accompanying the Americans, went a
French gentleman, ostensibly charged with the exchange; but who was
believed to have been a secret diplomatic agent of the French
government.

The conduct of Bainbridge, throughout this rude initiation into the
public service, was approved by the government, and he was immediately
promoted to the rank of master commandant, and given the Norfolk 18, the
brig he had saved from capture by his address. In this vessel he joined
the squadron under Com. Truxtun, who was cruising in the vicinity of St.
Kitts. While on that station, the Norfolk fell in with and chased a
heavy three-masted schooner, of which she was on the point of getting
alongside, when both topmasts were lost by carrying sail, and the enemy
escaped. The brig went into St. Kitts to repair damages, and here she
collected a convoy of more than a hundred sail, bound home. Bainbridge
performed a neat and delicate evolution, while in charge of this large
trust. The convoy fell in with an enemy’s frigate, when a signal was
thrown out for the vessels to disperse. The Norfolk occupied the
frigate, and induced her to chase, taking care to lead her off from the
merchantmen. That night the brig gave her enemy the slip, and made sail
on her course, overtaking and collecting the whole fleet the following
day. It is said not a single vessel, out of one hundred and nineteen
sail, failed of the rendezvous!

It was August, 1799, before the Norfolk returned to New York. Here
Bainbridge found that no less than five lieutenants had been made
captains, passing the grades of commanders and lieutenants commandant
altogether. This irregularity could only have occurred in an infant
service, though it was of material importance to a young officer in
after life. Among the gentlemen thus promoted, were Capts. Rodgers, and
Barron, two names that, for a long time, alone stood between Bainbridge
and the head of the service. Still, it is by no means certain that
injustice was done, such circumstances frequently occurring in so young
a service, to repair an original wrong. At all events, no slight was
intended to Bainbridge, or any other officer who was passed; though the
former ever maintained that he had not his proper rank in the navy.

After refitting the Norfolk, Bainbridge returned to the West Indies,
where he was put under the orders of Capt. Christopher R. Perry, the
father of the celebrated Commodore Oliver H. Perry, who sent him to
cruise off Cape François. The brig changed her cruising ground, under
different orders, no opportunity occurring for meeting an enemy of equal
force. Indeed, it was highly creditable to the maritime enterprise of
the French that they appeared at all in those seas, which were swarming
with English and American cruisers; this country alone seldom employing
fewer than thirty sail in the West Indies, that year; toward the close
of the season it had near, if not quite forty, including those who were
passing between the islands and the home coast.

On the 31st October, however, the Norfolk succeeded in decoying an armed
barge within reach of her guns. The enemy discovered the brig’s
character in time to escape to the shore, notwithstanding; though he was
pursued and the barge was captured. Six dead and dying were found in, or
near the boat.

In November, Bainbridge took a small lugger privateer, called Le
Républicain, with a prize in company. The former was destroyed at sea,
and the latter sent in. The prize of the lugger was a sloop. She
presented a horrible spectacle when taken possession of by the
Americans. Her decks were strewed with mangled bodies, the husbands and
parents of eleven women and children, who were found weeping over them
at the moment of recapture. The murders had been committed by some
brigands in a barge, who slew every man in the sloop, and were
proceeding to further outrages when the lugger closed and drove them
from their prey. An hour or two later, Bainbridge captured both the
vessels. His treatment of the unfortunate females and children was such
as ever marked his generous and manly character.

Shortly after, Capt. Bainbridge received an order, direct from the Navy
Department, to go off the neutral port of the Havana, to look after the
trade in that quarter. Here he was joined by the Warren 18, Capt.
Newman, and the Pinckney 18, Capt. Heyward. Bainbridge was the senior
officer, and continued to command this force to the great advantage of
American commerce, by blockading the enemy’s privateers, and giving
convoy, until March, 1800, when, his cruise being up, he returned home,
anchoring off Philadelphia early in the month of April. His services,
especially those before Havana, were fully appreciated, and May 2d, of
the same year, he was raised to the rank of captain. Bainbridge had
served with credit, and had now reached the highest grade which existed
in the navy, when he wanted just five days of being twenty-six years
old. He had carried with him into the marine the ideas of a high-class
Philadelphia seaman, as to discipline, and these were doubtless the best
which then existed in the country. In every situation he had conducted
himself well, and the promise of his early career as a master of a
merchantman was likely to be redeemed, whenever occasion should offer,
under the pennant of the republic.

Among the vessels purchased into the service during the war of 1798, was
an Indiaman called the George Washington. This ship was an example of
the irregularity in rating which prevailed at that day; being set down
in all the lists and registers of the period as a 24, when her tonnage
was 624; while the Adams, John Adams, and Boston, all near one sixth
smaller, are rated as 32s. The George Washington was, in effect, a large
28, carrying the complement and armament of a vessel of that class. To
this ship Bainbridge was now appointed, receiving his orders the month
he was promoted; or, in May, 1800. The destination of the vessel was to
carry tribute to the Dey of Algiers! This was a galling service to a man
of her commander’s temperament, as, indeed, it would have proved to
nearly every other officer in the navy; but it put the ship quite as
much in the way of meeting with an enemy as if she had been sent into
the West Indies; and it was sending the pennant into the Mediterranean
for the first time since the formation of the new navy. Thus the United
States 44, first carried the pennant to Europe, in 1799; the Essex 32,
first carried it round the Cape of Good Hope, in 1800, and around Cape
Horn, in 1813; and this ship, the George Washington 28, first carried it
into the classical seas of the old world.

Bainbridge did not get the tribute collected and reach his port of
destination, before the month of September. Being entirely without
suspicion, and imagining that he came on an errand which should entitle
him, at least, to kind treatment, he carried the ship into the mole, for
the purpose of discharging with convenience. This duty, however, was
hardly performed, when the Dey proposed a service for the George
Washington, that was as novel in itself as it was astounding to her
commander.

It seems that this barbarian prince had got himself into discredit at
the Sublime Porte, and he felt the necessity of purchasing favor, and of
making his peace, by means of a tribute of his own. The Grand Seignor
was at war with France, and the Dey, his tributary and dependant, had
been guilty of the singular indiscretion of making a separate treaty of
peace with that powerful republic, for some private object of his own.
This was an offence to be expiated only by a timely offering of certain
slaves, various wild beasts, and a round sum in gold. The presents to be
sent were valued at more than half a million of our money, and the
passengers to be conveyed amounted to between two and three hundred. As
the Dey happened to have no vessel fit for such a service, and the
George Washington lay very conveniently within his mole, and had just
been engaged in this very duty, he came to the natural conclusion she
would answer his purpose.

The application was first made in the form of a civil request, through
the consul. Bainbridge procured an audience, and respectfully, but
distinctly, stated that a compliance would be such a departure from his
orders as to put it out of the question. Hereupon the Dey reminded the
American that the ship was in his power, and that what he now asked, he
might take without asking, if it suited his royal pleasure. A protracted
and spirited discussion, in which the consul joined, now followed, but
all without effect. The Dey offered the alternatives of compliance, or
slavery and capture, for the frigate and her crew, with war on the
American trade. One of his arguments is worthy of being recorded, as it
fully exposes the feeble policy of submission to any national wrong. He
told the two American functionaries, that their country paid him
tribute, already, which was an admission of their inferiority, as well
as of their duty to obey him; and he chose to order this particular
piece of service, in addition to the presents which he had just
received.

Bainbridge finally consented to do as desired. He appears to have been
influenced in this decision, by the reasoning of Mr. O’Brien, the
consul, who had himself been a slave in Algiers, not long before, and
probably retained a lively impression of the power of the barbarian, on
his own shores. It is not to be concealed, however, that temporizing in
all such matters, had been the policy of America, and it would have
required men of extraordinary moral courage to have opposed the wishes
of the Dey, by a stern assertion of those principles, which alone can
render a nation great. “To ask for nothing but what is right, and to
submit to nothing that is wrong,” is an axiom more easily maintained on
paper than in practice, where the chameleon-like policy of trade
interferes to color principles; and O’Brien, a merchant in effect, and
Bainbridge, who had so lately been in that pursuit himself, were not
likely to overlook the besetting weakness of the nation. Still, it may
be questioned if there was a man in the navy who felt a stronger desire
to vindicate the true maxims of national independence than the subject
of this memoir. He appears to have yielded solely to the arguments of
the consul, and to his apprehensions for a trade that certainly had no
other protection in that distant sea, than his own ship; and she would
be the first sacrifice of the Dey’s resentment. It ought to be
mentioned, too, that a base and selfish policy prevailed, in that day,
on the subject of the Barbary Powers, among the principal maritime
states of Europe. England, in particular, was supposed to wink at their
irregularities, in the hope that it might have a tendency to throw a
monopoly of the foreign navigation of the Mediterranean into the hands
of those countries which, by means of their great navies, and their
proximity to the African coast, were always ready to correct any serious
evil that might affect themselves. English policy had been detected in
the hostilities of the Dey, a few years earlier, and it is by no means
improbable that Mr. O’Brien foresaw consequences of this nature, that
did not lie absolutely on the surface.

Yielding to the various considerations which were urged, Bainbridge
finally consented to comply with the Dey’s demand. The presents and
passengers were received on board, and on the 19th of October, or about
a month after her arrival at Algiers, the George Washington was ready to
sail for Constantinople. When on the very eve of departing a new
difficulty arose, and one of a nature to show that the Dey was not
entirely governed by rapacity, but that he had rude notions of national
honor, agreeably to opinions of the school in which he had been trained.
As the George Washington carried his messenger, or ambassador, and was
now employed in his service, he insisted that she should carry the
Algerine flag at the main, while that of the republic to which the ship
belonged, should fly at the fore. An altercation occurred on this point
of pure etiquette, the Dey insisting that English, French, and Spanish
commanders, whenever they had performed a similar service for him, had
not hesitated to give this precedency to his ensign. This was probably
true, as well as the fact that vessels of war of those nations had
consented to serve him in this manner, in compliance with the selfish
policy of their respective governments; though it may be doubted whether
English, or French ships, had been impressed into such a duty. Dr.
Harris, whose biography of Bainbridge is much the most full of any
written, and to which we are indebted for many of our own details, has
cited an instance as recently as 1817, when an English vessel of war
conveyed presents to Constantinople for the Dey; though it was
improbable that any other inducement for the measure existed, than a
desire in the English authorities to maintain their influence in the
regency. Bainbridge, without entering into pledges on the subject, and
solely with a view to get his ship beyond the reach of the formidable
batteries of the mole, hoisted the Algerine ensign, as desired, striking
it, as soon as he found himself again the commander of his own vessel.

The George Washington had a boisterous and weary passage to the mouth of
the Dardanelles, the ship being littered with Turks, and the cages of
wild beasts. This voyage was always a source of great uneasiness and
mortification to Bainbridge, but he occasionally amused his friends with
the relation of anecdotes that occurred during its continuance. Among
other things he mentioned that his passengers were greatly puzzled to
keep their faces toward Mecca, in their frequent prayers; the ship often
tacking during the time thus occupied, more especially after they got
into the narrow seas. A man was finally stationed at the compass to give
the faithful notice when it was necessary to “go-about,” in consequence
of the evolutions of the frigate.

Bainbridge had great apprehensions of being detained at the Dardanelles,
for want of a firman, the United States having no diplomatic agent at
the Porte, and commercial jealousy being known to exist, on the subject
of introducing the American flag into those waters. A sinister influence
up at Constantinople might detain him for weeks, or even prevent his
passage altogether, and having come so far, on his unpleasant errand, he
was resolved to gather as many of its benefits as possible. In the
dilemma, therefore, he decided on a _ruse_ of great boldness, and one
which proved that personal considerations had little influence, when he
thought the interests of his country demanded their sacrifice.

The George Washington approached the castles with a strong southerly
wind, and she clewed up her light sails, as if about to anchor, just as
she began to salute. The works returned gun for gun, and in the smoke
sail was again made, and the ship glided out of the range of shot before
the deception was discovered; passing on toward the sea of Marmora under
a cloud of canvass. As vessels were stopped at only one point, and the
progress of the ship was too rapid to admit of detention, she anchored
unmolested under the walls of Constantinople, on the 9th November, 1800;
showing the flag of the republic, for the first time, before that
ancient town.

Bainbridge was probably right in his anticipation of difficulty in
procuring a firman to pass the castles, for when his vessel reported her
nation, an answer was sent off that the government of Turkey knew of no
such country. An explanation that the ship came from the new world, that
which Columbus had discovered, luckily proved satisfactory, when a bunch
of flowers and a lamb were sent on board; the latter as a token of
amity, and the former as a welcome.

The George Washington remained several weeks at Constantinople, where
Bainbridge and his officers were well received, though the agents of the
Dey fared worse. The Capudan Pacha, in particular, formed a warm
friendship for the commander of the George Washington, whose fine
personal appearance, frank address and manly bearing were well
calculated to obtain favor. This functionary was married to a sister of
the Sultan, and had more influence at court than any other subject. He
took Bainbridge especially under his own protection, and when they
parted, he gave the frigate a passport, which showed that she and her
commander enjoyed this particular and high privilege. In fact, the
intercourse between this officer and the commander of the George
Washington was such as to approach nearly to paving the way for a
treaty, a step that Bainbridge warmly urged on the government at home,
as both possible and desirable. It has been conjectured even, that Capt.
Bainbridge was instructed on this subject; and that, in consenting to go
to Constantinople at all, he had the probabilities of opening some such
negotiation in view. This was not his own account of the matter,
although, in weighing the motives for complying with the Dey’s demands,
it is not impossible he permitted such a consideration to have some
weight.

The visit of Clarke, the well known traveler, occurred while the George
Washington was at Constantinople. The former accompanied Bainbridge to
the Black Sea, in the frigate’s long-boat, where the American ensign was
displayed also, for the first time. It appears that an officer was one
of the party in the celebrated visit of the traveler to the seraglio,
Bainbridge confirming Dr. Clarke’s account of the affair, with the
exception that he, himself, looked upon the danger as very trifling.

During the friendly intercourse which existed between Capt. Bainbridge
and the Capudan Pacha, the latter incidentally mentioned that the
governor of the castles was condemned to die for suffering the George
Washington to pass without a firman, and that the warrant of execution
only waited for his signature, in order to be enforced. Shocked at
discovering the terrible strait to which he had unintentionally reduced
a perfectly innocent man, Bainbridge frankly admitted his own act, and
said if any one had erred it was himself; begging the life of the
governor, and offering to meet the consequences in his own person. This
generous course was not thrown away on the Capudan Pacha, who appears to
have been a liberal and enlightened man. He heard the explanation with
interest, extolled Bainbridge’s frankness, promised him his entire
protection, and pardoned the governor; sending to the latter a minute
statement of the whole affair. It was after this conversation that the
high functionary in question delivered to Bainbridge his own especial
letter of protection.

At length the Algerine ambassador was ready to return. On the 30th of
December, 1800, the ship sailed for Algiers. The messenger of the Dey
took back with him a menace of punishment, unless his master declared
war against France, and sent more tribute to the Porte; granting to the
Algerine government but sixty days to let its course be known. On
repassing the Dardanelles, Bainbridge was compelled to anchor. Here he
received presents of fruit and provisions, with hospitalities on shore,
as an evidence of the governor’s gratitude for his generous conduct in
exposing his own life, in order to save that of an innocent man. It is
shown by a passage in Dr. Clarke’s work, that Bainbridge was honorably
received in the best circles in Pera, during his stay at Constantinople,
while the neatness and order of his ship were the subject of general
conversation. An entertainment that was given on board the frigate was
much talked of also; the guests and all the viands coming from the four
quarters of the earth. Thus there was water, bread, meats, etc., etc.,
each from Europe, Asia, Africa and America, as well as persons to
consume them; certainly a thing of rare occurrence at any one feast.

The George Washington arrived at Algiers on the 20th January, 1801, and
anchored off the town, beyond the reach of shot. The Dey expressed his
apprehensions that the position of the ship would prove inconvenient to
her officers, and desired that she might be brought within the mole, or
to the place where she had lain during her first visit. This offer was
respectfully declined. A day or two later the object of this hospitality
became apparent. Bainbridge was asked to return to Constantinople with
the Algerine ambassador; a request with which he positively refused to
comply. This was the commencement of a new series of cajoleries,
arguments and menaces. But, having his ship where nothing but the
barbarian’s corsairs could assail her, Bainbridge continued firm. He
begged the consul to send him off some old iron for ballast, in order
that he might return certain guns he had borrowed for that purpose,
previously to sailing for Constantinople, the whole having been rendered
necessary in consequence of his ship’s having been lightened of the
tribute sent in her from America. The Dey commanded the lightermen not
to take employment, and, at the same time, he threatened war if his guns
were not returned. After a good deal of discussion, Bainbridge exacted a
pledge that no further service would be asked of the ship; then he
agreed to run into the mole and deliver the cannon, as the only mode
that remained of returning property which had been lent to him.

As soon as the frigate was secured in her new berth, Capt. Bainbridge
and the consul were admitted to an audience with the Dey. The reception
was any thing but friendly, and the despot, a man of furious passions,
soon broke out into expressions of anger, that bade fair to lead to
personal violence. The attendants were ready, and it was known that a
nod or a word might, at a moment’s notice, cost the Americans their
lives. At this fearful instant, Bainbridge, who was determined at every
hazard to resist the Dey’s new demand, fortunately bethought him of the
Capudan Pacha’s letter of protection, which he carried about him. The
letter was produced, and its effect was magical. Bainbridge often spoke
of it as even ludicrous, and of being so sudden and marked as to produce
glances of surprise among the common soldiers. From a furious tyrant,
the sovereign of Algiers was immediately converted into an obedient
vassal; his tongue all honey, his face all smiles. He was aware that a
disregard of the recommendation of the Capudan Pacha would be punished,
as he would visit a similar disregard of one of his own orders; and that
there was no choice between respect and deposition. No more was said
about the return of the frigate to Constantinople, and every offer of
service and every profession of amity were heaped upon the subject of
our memoir, who owed his timely deliverance altogether to the friendship
of the Turkish dignitary; a friendship obtained through his own frank
and generous deportment.

The reader will readily understand that dread of the Grand Seignior’s
power had produced this sudden change in the deportment of the Dey. The
same feeling induced him to order the flag-staff of the French consulate
to be cut down the next day; a declaration of war against the country to
which the functionary belonged. Exasperated at these humiliations, which
were embittered by heavy pecuniary exactions on the part of the Porte,
the Dey turned upon the few unfortunate French who happened to be in his
power. These, fifty-six in number, consisting of men, women and
children, he ordered to be seized and to be deemed slaves. Capt.
Bainbridge felt himself sufficiently strong, by means of the Capudan
Pacha’s letter, to mediate; and he actually succeeded, after a long
discussion, in obtaining a decree by which all the French who could get
out of the regency, within the next eight-and-forty hours, might depart.
For those who could not remained the doom of slavery, or of ransom at a
thousand dollars a head. It was thought that this concession was made
under the impression that no means of quitting Algiers could be found by
the unfortunate French. No one believed that the George Washington would
be devoted to their service, France and America being then at war; a
circumstance which probably increased Bainbridge’s influence at
Constantinople, as well as at Algiers.

But our officer was not disposed to do things by halves. Finding that no
other means remained for extricating the unfortunate French, he
determined to carry them off in the George Washington. The ship had not
yet discharged the guns of the Dey, but every body working with good
will, this property was delivered to its right owner, sand ballast was
obtained from the country and hoisted in, other necessary preparations
were made, and the ship hauled out of the mole and got to sea just in
time to escape the barbarian’s fangs, with every Frenchman in Algiers on
board. It is said that in another hour the time of grace would have
expired. The ship landed her passengers at Alicant, a neutral country,
and then made the best of her way to America, where she arrived in due
season.

This act of Bainbridge’s was quite in conformity with the generous
tendencies of his nature. He was a man of quick and impetuous feelings,
and easily roused to anger; but left to the voluntary guidance of his
own heart, no one was more ready to serve his fellow creatures. It
seemed to make little difference with him, whether he assisted an
Englishman or a Frenchman; his national antipathies, though decided and
strong, never interfering with his humanity. Napoleon had just before
attained the First Consulate, and he offered the American officer his
personal thanks for this piece of humane and disinterested service to
his countrymen. At a later day, when misfortune came upon Bainbridge, he
is said to have remembered this act, and to have interested himself in
favor of the captive.

On reaching home, Bainbridge had the gratification of finding his
conduct, in every particular, approved by the government. It was so much
a matter of course, in that day, for the nations of Christendom to
submit to exactions from those of Barbary, that little was thought of
the voyage to Constantinople, and less said about it. A general feeling
must have prevailed that censure, if it fell any where, ought to light
on the short-sighted policy of trade, and the misguided opinions of the
age. It is more probable, however, that the whole transaction was looked
upon as a legitimate consequence of the system of tribute, which then so
extensively prevailed.

Bainbridge must have enjoyed another and still more unequivocal evidence
that the misfortunes which certainly accompanied his short naval career,
had left no injurious impressions on the government, as touching his own
conduct. The reduction law, which erected a species of naval peace
establishment, was passed during his late absence, and, on his arrival,
he found its details nearly completed in practice. Previously to this
law’s going into effect, there were twenty-eight captains in the navy,
of which number be stood himself as low as the twenty-seventh in rank.
There was, indeed, but one other officer of that grade below him, and,
under such circumstances, the chances of being retained would have been
very small, for any man who had not the complete confidence of his
superiors. He was retained, however, and that, too, in a manner in
defiance of the law, for, by its provisions, only nine captains were to
be continued in the service in a time of peace; whereas, his was the
eleventh name on the new list, until Dale and Truxtun resigned; events
which did not occur until the succeeding year. The cautious and
reluctant manner in which these reductions were made by Mr. Jefferson,
under a law that had passed during the administration of his
predecessor, is another proof that the former statesman did not deserve
all the reproaches of hostility to this branch of the public service
that were heaped upon him.[1]

Not satisfied with retaining Capt. Bainbridge in the service, after the
late occurrences at Algiers, the Department also gave him immediate
employment. For the first time this gallant officer was given a good
serviceable ship, that had been regularly constructed for a man-of-war.
He was attached to the Essex 32, a fine twelve-pounder frigate, that had
just returned from a first cruise to the East Indies, under Preble; an
officer who subsequently became so justly celebrated. The orders to this
vessel were issued in May, 1801, and the ship was directed to form part
of a squadron then about to sail for the Mediterranean.

Capt. Bainbridge joined the Essex at New York. He had Stephen Decatur
for his first lieutenant, and was otherwise well officered and manned.
The squadron, consisting of the President 44, Philadelphia 38, Essex 32,
and Enterprise 12, sailed in company; the President being commanded by
Capt. James Barron, the Philadelphia by Capt. Samuel Barron, and the
Enterprise by Lieut. Com. Sterrett. The broad pennant of Com. Dale was
flying on the President. This force went abroad under very limited
instructions. Although the Bashaw of Tripoli was seizing American
vessels, and was carrying on an effective war, Mr. Jefferson appeared to
think legal enactments at home necessary to authorize the marine to
retaliate. As respected ourselves, statutes may have been wanting to
prescribe the _forms_ under which condemnations could be had, and the
other national rights carried out in full practice; but, as respected
the enemy, there can be no question his own acts authorized the cruisers
of this country to capture their assailants wherever they could be
found, even though they rotted in our harbors for the want of a
prescribed manner of bringing them under the hammer. The _mode_ of
condemnation is solely dependent on municipal regulations, but the right
to capture is dependent on public law alone. It was in this singular
state of things that the Enterprise, after a bloody action, took a
Tripolitan, and was then obliged to let her go!

The American squadron reached Gibraltar the 1st day of July, where it
found and blockaded two of the largest Tripolitan cruisers, under the
orders of a Scotch renegade, who bore the rank of an admiral. The
Philadelphia watched these vessels, while the Essex was sent along the
north shore to give convoy. The great object, in that day, appears to
have been to carry the trade safely through the Straits, and to prevent
the enemy’s rovers from getting out into the Atlantic; measures that the
peculiar formation of the coasts rendered highly important. It was while
employed on this duty, that Capt. Bainbridge had an unpleasant collision
with some of the Spanish authorities at Barcelona, in consequence of
repeated insults offered to his ship’s officers and boats; his own barge
having been fired into twice, while he was in it in person. In this
affair he showed his usual decision and spirit, and the matter was
pushed so far and so vigorously, as to induce an order from the Prince
of Peace, “to treat all officers of the United States with courtesy and
respect, and more particularly those attached to the United States
frigate Essex.” The high and native courtesy of the Spanish character
renders it probable that some misunderstandings increased and
complicated these difficulties, though there is little doubt that
jealousy of the superior order and beauty of the Essex, among certain
subordinates of the Spanish marine, produced the original aggression. In
the discussions and collisions that followed, the sudden and somewhat
_brusque_ spirit of the American usages was not likely to be cordially
met by the precise and almost oriental school of manners that regulates
the intercourse of Spanish society. Bainbridge, however, is admitted to
have conducted his part of the dispute with dignity and propriety;
though he was not wanting in the promptitude and directness of a
man-of-war’s man.

On the arrival of the Essex below, with a convoy, it was found that the
enemy had laid up his ships, and had sent the crews across to Africa in
the night; the admiral making the best of his way home in a neutral.
Com. Morris had relieved Com. Dale, and the Essex, wanting material
repairs, was sent home in the summer of 1802, after an absence of rather
more than a year. During her short cruise, the Essex had been deemed a
model ship, as to efficiency and discipline, and extorted admiration
wherever she appeared. On her arrival at New York, the frigate was
unexpectedly ordered to Washington to be laid up, a measure that excited
great discontent in her crew. One of those _quasi_ mutinies which, under
similar circumstances, were not uncommon in that day, followed; the men
insisting that their times were up, and that they ought to be paid off
in a sea-port, and “not on a tobacco plantation, up in Virginia;” but
Bainbridge and Decatur were men unwilling to be controlled in this way.
The disaffection was put down with spirit, and the ship obeyed her
orders.

Bainbridge was now employed in superintending the construction of the
Siren and Vixen; two of the small vessels that had been recently ordered
by law. As soon as these vessels were launched, he was again directed to
prepare for service in the Mediterranean, for which station the
celebrated squadron of Preble was now fitting. This force consisted of
the Constitution 44, Philadelphia 38, Siren 16, Argus 16, Nautilus 14,
Vixen 14, and Enterprise 12; the latter vessel being then on the
station, under Lieut. Com. Hull. Of these ships, Bainbridge had the
Philadelphia 38, a fine eighteen-pounder frigate that was often, by
mistake, called a forty-four, though by no means as large a vessel as
some others of her proper class. It was much the practice of that day to
attach officers to the ships which were fitting near their places of
residence, and thus it followed that a vessel frequently had a sort of
local character. Such, in a degree, was the case with the Philadelphia,
most of whose sea-officers were Delaware sailors, in one sense; though
all the juniors had now been bred in the navy. As these gentlemen are
entitled to have their sufferings recorded, we give their names, with
the states of which they were natives, viz:

_Captain._—William Bainbridge, of New Jersey.

_Lieutenants._—John T. R. Cox; Jacob Jones, Delaware; Theodore Hunt,
New Jersey; Benjamin Smith, Rhode Island.

_Lieutenant of Marines._—Wm. S. Osborne.

_Surgeon._—John Ridgely, Maryland.

_Purser._—Rich. Spence, New Hampshire.

_Sailing-Master._—Wm. Knight, Pennsylvania.

_Surgeon’s Mates._—Jonathan Cowdery, N. York; Nicholas Harwood, Va.

_Midshipmen._—Bernard Henry, Pa.; James Gibbon, Va.; James Biddle, Pa.;
Richard B. Jones, Pa.; D. T. Patterson, N. Y.; Wm. Cutbush, Pa.; B. F.
Reed, Pa.; Thomas M’Donough, Del.; Wallace Wormley, Va.; Robert Gamble,
Va.; Simon Smith, Pa.; James Renshaw, Pa.

The Philadelphia had a crew a little exceeding three hundred souls on
board, including her officers. One or two changes occurred among the
latter, however, when the ship reached Gibraltar, which will be
mentioned in their proper places.

The vessels of Com. Preble did not sail in squadron, but left home as
each ship got ready. Bainbridge, being equipped, was ordered to sail in
July, and he entered the Straits on the 24th of August, after a passage
down the Delaware and across the Atlantic of some length. Understanding
at Gibraltar that certain cruisers of the enemy were in the neighborhood
of Cape de Gatte, he proceeded off that well-known headland the very
next day; and, in the night of the 26th, it blowing fresh, he fell in
with a ship under nothing but a foresail, with a brig in company, under
very short canvass also. These suspicious circumstances induced him to
run alongside of the ship, and to demand her character. After a good
deal of hailing, and some evasion on the part of the stranger, it was
ascertained that he was a cruiser from Morocco, called the Meshboha 22,
commanded by Ibrahim Lubarez, and having a crew of one hundred and
twenty men. The Philadelphia had concealed her own nation, and a boat
coming from the Meshboha, the fact was extracted from its crew that the
brig in company was an American, bound into Spain, and that they had
boarded but had not detained her. Bainbridge’s suspicions were aroused
by all the circumstances; particularly by the little sail the brig
carried; so unlike an American, who is ever in a hurry. He accordingly
directed Mr. Cox, his first lieutenant, to board the Meshboha, and to
ascertain if any Americans were in her, as prisoners. In attempting to
execute this order, Mr. Cox was resisted, and it was necessary to send
an armed boat. The master and crew of the brig, the Celia of Boston,
were actually found in the Meshboha, which ship had captured them, nine
days before, in the vicinity of Malaga, the port to which they were
bound.

Bainbridge took possession of the Moorish ship. The next day he
recovered the brig, which was standing in for the bay of Almeria, to the
westward of Cape de Gatte. On inquiry he discovered that Ibraham Lubarez
was cruising for Americans under an order issued by the governor of
Mogadore. Although Morocco was ostensibly at peace with the United
States, Bainbridge did not hesitate, now, about taking his prize to
Gibraltar. Here he left the Meshboha in charge of Mr. M’Donough, under
the superintendence of the consul, and then went off Cape St. Vincent in
pursuit of a Moorish frigate, which was understood to be in that
neighborhood. Failing in his search, he returned within the Straits, and
went aloft, in obedience to his original orders. At Gibraltar, the
Philadelphia met the homeward bound vessels, under Com. Rodgers, which
were waiting the arrival of Preble, in the Constitution. As this force
was sufficient to watch the Moors, it left the Philadelphia the greater
liberty to proceed on her cruise. While together, however, Lieut.
Porter, the first of the New York 36, exchanged with Lieut. Cox, the
latter gentleman wishing to return home, where he soon after resigned;
while the former preferred active service.

The Philadelphia found nothing but the Vixen before Tripoli. A
Neapolitan had given information that a corsair had just sailed on a
cruise, and this induced Capt. Bainbridge to despatch Lieut. Com. Smith
in chase. In consequence of this unfortunate, but perfectly justifiable,
decision the frigate was left alone off the town. A vigorous blockade
having been determined on, the ship maintained her station as close in
as her draught of water would allow until near the close of October,
when, it coming on to blow fresh from the westward, she was driven some
distance to leeward, as often occurred to vessels on that station. As
soon as it moderated, sail was made to recover the lost ground, and, by
the morning of the 31st, the wind had become fair, from the eastward. At
8, A. M., a sail was made ahead, standing like themselves to the
westward. This vessel proved to be a small cruiser of the Bashaw’s, and
was probably the very vessel of which the Vixen had gone in pursuit. The
Philadelphia now crowded every thing that would draw, and was soon so
near the chase as to induce the latter to hug the land. There is an
extensive reef to the eastward of Tripoli, called Kaliusa, that was not
laid down in the charts of the ship, and which runs nearly parallel to
the coast for some miles. There is abundance of water inside of it, as
was doubtless known to those on board the chase, and there is a wide
opening through it, by which six and seven fathoms can be carried out to
sea; but all these facts were then profound mysteries to the officers of
the Philadelphia. Agreeably to the chart of Capt. Smyth, of the British
navy, the latest and best in existence, the eastern division of this
reef lies about a mile and a half from the coast, and its western about
a mile. According to the same chart, one of authority and made from
accurate surveys, the latter portion of the reef is distant from the
town of Tripoli about two and a half miles, and the former something
like a mile and a half more. There is an interval of quite half a mile
in length between these two main divisions of the reef, through which it
is possible to carry six and seven fathoms, provided three or four
detached fragments of reef, of no great extent, be avoided. The channels
among these rocks afforded great facilities to the Turks in getting in
and out of their port during the blockade, since a vessel of moderate
draught, that knew the land-marks, might run through them with great
confidence by daylight. It is probable the chase, in this instance, led
in among these reefs as much to induce the frigate to follow as to cover
her own escape, either of which motives showed a knowledge of the coast,
and a familiarity with his duties in her commander.

In coming down from the eastward, and bringing with her a plenty of
water, the Philadelphia must have passed two or three hundred yards to
the southward of the northeastern extremity of the most easterly of the
two great divisions of the reef in question. This position agrees with
the soundings found at the time, and with those laid down in the chart.
She had the chase some distance inshore of her; so much so, indeed, as
to have been firing into her from the two forward divisions of the
larboard guns, in the hope of cutting something away. Coming from the
eastward, the ship brought into this pass, between the reef and the
shore, from fourteen to ten fathoms of water, which gradually shoaled to
eight, when Capt. Bainbridge, seeing no prospect of overhauling the
chase, then beginning to open the harbor of Tripoli, from which the
frigate herself was distant but some three or four miles, ordered the
helm a-port, and the yards braced forward, in the natural expectation of
hauling directly off the land into deep water. The leads were going at
the time, and, to the surprise of all on board, the water shoaled, as
the frigate run off, instead of deepening. The yards were immediately
ordered to be braced sharp up, and the ship brought close on a wind, in
the hope of beating out of this seeming _cul de sac_, by the way in
which she had entered. The command was hardly given, however, before the
ship struck forward, and, having eight knots way on her, she shot up on
the rocks until she had only fourteen and a half feet of water under her
fore-chains. Under the bowsprit there were but twelve. Aft she floated,
having, it is said, come directly out of six or seven fathoms of water
into twelve and fifteen feet; all of which strictly corresponds with the
soundings of the modern charts.[2]

There was much of the hard fortune which attended a good deal of
Bainbridge’s professional career, in the circumstances of this accident.
Had the prospects of the chase induced him to continue it, the frigate
might have passed ahead, and the chances were that she would have hauled
off, directly before the mouth of the harbor of Tripoli, and gone clear;
carrying through nowhere less than five fathoms of water. Had she stood
directly on, after first hauling up, she might have passed through the
opening between the two portions of the reef, carrying with her six,
seven, nine and ten fathoms, out to sea. But, in pursuing the very
course which prudence and a sound discretion dictated to one who was
ignorant of the existence of this reef, he ran his ship upon the very
danger he was endeavoring to avoid. It is by making provision for war,
in a time of peace, and, in expending its money freely, to further the
objects of general science, in the way of surveys and other similar
precautions, that a great maritime state, in particular, economizes, by
means of a present expenditure, for the moments of necessity and danger
that may await it, an age ahead.

Bainbridge’s first recourse, was the natural expedient of attempting to
force the ship over the obstacle, in the expectation that the deep water
lay to seaward. As soon, however, as the boats were lowered, and
soundings taken, the true nature of the disaster was comprehended, and
every effort was made to back the Philadelphia off, by the stern. A ship
of the size of a frigate, that goes seven or eight knots, unavoidably
piles a mass of water under her bows, and this, aided by the shelving of
the reef, and possibly by a ground swell, had carried the ship up too
far, to be got off by any ordinary efforts. The desperate nature of her
situation was soon seen by the circumstance of her falling over so much,
as to render it impossible to use any of her starboard guns.

The firing of the chase had set several gun-boats in motion in the
harbor, and a division of nine was turning to-windward, in order to
assist the xebec the Philadelphia had been pursuing, even before the
last struck. Of course the nature of the accident was understood, and
these enemies soon began to come within reach of shot, though at a
respectful distance on the larboard quarter. Their fire did some injury
aloft, but neither the hull nor the crew of the frigate were hit.

Every expedient which could be resorted to, in order to get the
Philadelphia off, was put in practice. The anchors were cut from the
bows; water was pumped out, and other heavy articles were thrown
overboard, including all the guns, but those aft. Finally the foremast
was cut away. It would seem that the frigate had no boat strong enough
to carry out an anchor, a great oversight in the equipment of a vessel
of any sort. After exerting himself, with great coolness and discretion,
until sunset, Bainbridge consulted his officers, and the hard necessity
of hauling down the colors was admitted. By this time, the gun-boats had
ventured to cross the frigate’s stern, and had got upon her weather
quarter, where, as she had fallen over several feet to leeward, it was
utterly impossible to do them any harm. Other boats, too, were coming
out of the harbor to the assistance of the division which had first
appeared.

The Tripolitans got on board the Philadelphia, just as night was setting
in, on the last day of October. They came tumbling in at the ports, in a
crowd, and then followed a scene of indiscriminate plunder and
confusion. Swords, epaulettes, watches, jewels, money, and no small
portion of the clothing of the officers even, disappeared, the person of
Bainbridge himself being respected little more than those of the common
men. He submitted to be robbed, until they undertook to force from him a
miniature of his young and beautiful wife, when he successfully
resisted. The manly determination he showed in withstanding this last
violence, had the effect to check the aggression, so far as he was
concerned, and about ten at night, the prisoners reached the shore, near
the castle of the Bashaw.

Jussuf Caramelli received his prisoners, late as was the hour, in full
divan; feeling a curiosity, no doubt, to ascertain what sort of beings
the chances of war had thrown into his power. There was a barbarous
courtesy in his deportment, nor was the reception one of which the
Americans had any right to complain. After a short interview, he
dismissed the officers to an excellent supper which had been prepared
for them in the castle itself, and to this hour, the gentlemen who sat
down to that feast with the appetites of midshipmen, speak of its merits
with an affection which proves that it was got up in the spirit of true
hospitality. When all had supped, they were carried back to the divan,
where the Pacha and his ministers had patiently awaited their return;
when the former put them in charge of Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies, one of the
highest functionaries of the regency, who conducted the officers, with
the necessary attendants, to the building that had lately been the
American consular residence.

This was the commencement of a long and irksome captivity, which
terminated only with the war. The feelings of Bainbridge were most
painful, as we know from his letters, his private admissions, and the
peculiar nature of his case. He had been unfortunate throughout most of
his public service. The Retaliation was the only American cruiser taken
in the war of 1798, and down to that moment, she was the only vessel of
the new marine that had been taken at all. Here, then, was the second
ship that had fallen into the enemy’s hands, also under his orders. Then
the affair of the George Washington was one likely to wound the feelings
of a high spirited and sensitive mind, to which explanations, however
satisfactory, are of themselves painful and humiliating. These were
circumstances that might have destroyed the buoyancy of some men; and
there is no question, that Bainbridge felt them acutely, and with a
lively desire to be justified before his country. At this moment, his
officers stepped in to relieve him, by sending a generous letter, signed
by every man in the ship whose testimony could at all influence the
opinion of a court of inquiry. Care was taken to say, in this letter,
that the charts and soundings justified the ship in approaching the
shore, as near as she had, which was the material point, as connected
with his conduct as a commander; his personal deportment after the
accident being beyond censure. Bainbridge was greatly relieved by the
receipt of this letter, the writing of which was generously and kindly
conceived, though doubts may exist as to its propriety, in a military
point of view. The commander of a ship, to a certain extent, is properly
responsible for its loss, and his subordinates are the witnesses by
whose testimony the court, which is finally to exonerate, or to condemn,
is guided; to anticipate their evidence, by a joint letter, is opening
the door to management and influence which may sometimes shield a real
delinquent. So tender are military tribunals, strictly courts of honor,
that one witness is not allowed to hear the testimony of another, and
the utmost caution should ever be shown about the expression of opinions
even, until the moment arrives to give them in the presence of the
judges, and under the solemnities of oaths. This is said without direct
reference to the case before us, however; for, if ever an instance
occurred in which a departure from severe principles is justifiable, it
was this; and no one can regret that Bainbridge, in the long captivity
which followed, had the consolation of possessing such a letter. It may
be well, here, to mention that all the officers whose names are given
already in this biography, shared his prison, with the exception of
Messrs. Cox and M’Donough; the former of whom had exchanged with
lieutenant Porter, now a captain, while the latter had been left at
Gibraltar, in charge of the Meshboha, to come aloft with Decatur, and to
share in all the gallant deeds of that distinguished officer, before
Tripoli.

Much exaggeration has prevailed on the subject of the treatment the
American prisoners received from the Turks. It was not regulated by the
rules of a more civilized warfare, certainly, and the common men were
compelled to labor under the restrictions of African slavery; but the
officers, on the whole, were kindly treated, and the young men were even
indulged in many of the wild expressions of their humors. There were
moments of irritation, and perhaps of policy, it is true, in which
changes of treatment occurred, but confinement was the principal
grievance. Books were obtained, and the studies of the midshipmen were
not neglected. Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies proved their friend, though the
Danish consul, M. Nissen, was the individual to whom the gratitude of
the prisoners was principally due. This benevolent man commenced his
acts of kindness the day after the Americans were taken, and he
continued them, with unwearying philanthrophy, down to the hour of their
liberation. By means of this gentleman, Bainbridge was enabled to
communicate with Com. Preble, who received many useful suggestions from
the prisoner, concerning his own operations before the town.

The Turks were so fortunate as to be favored with good weather, for
several days after the Philadelphia fell into their hands. Surrounding
the ship with their gunboats, and carrying out the necessary anchors,
they soon hove her off the reef into deep water; where she floated,
though it was necessary to use the pumps freely, and to stop some bad
leaks. The guns, anchors, &c., had, unavoidably, been thrown on the
rocks; and they were also recovered with little difficulty. The
prisoners, therefore, in a day or two, had the mortification to see
their late ship anchored between the reef and the town; and, ere long,
she was brought into the harbor and partially repaired.

It is said, on good authority, that Bainbridge suggested to Preble the
plan for the destruction of the Philadelphia, which was subsequently
adopted. His correspondence was active, and there is no question that it
contained many useful suggestions. A few weeks after he was captured he
received a manly, sensible letter from Preble, which, no doubt, had a
cheering influence on his feelings.

It will be remembered that the Philadelphia went ashore on the morning
of the 31st October, 1803. On the 15th of the succeeding February, the
captives were awakened about midnight by the firing of guns. A bright
light gleamed upon the windows, and they had the pleasure to see the
frigate enveloped in flames. Decatur had just quitted the ship, and his
ketch was then sweeping down the harbor, towards the Siren, which
awaited her in the offing!

This exploit caused a sensible change in the treatment of the officers,
who were then captives in Tripoli. On the first of March, they were all
removed to the castle, where they continued for the remainder of the
time they were prisoners, or more than a twelvemonth. Several attempts
at escape were made, but they all failed; principally for the want of
means. In this manner passed month after month, until the spring had
advanced into the summer. One day the cheering intelligence spread among
the captives that a numerous force was visible in the offing, but it
disappeared in consequence of a gale of wind. This was about the 1st of
August, 1804. A day or two later, this force reappeared, a heavy firing
followed, and the gentlemen clambered up to the windows which commanded
a partial view of the offing. There they saw a flotilla of gunboats,
brigs, and schooners, gathering in towards the rocks, where lay a strong
division of the Turks, the shot from the batteries and shipping dashing
the spray about, and a canopy of smoke collecting over the sea. In the
back-ground was the Constitution—that glorious frigate!—coming down
into the fray, with the men on her top-gallant-yards gathering in the
canvass, as coolly as if she were about to anchor. This was a sight to
warm a sailor’s heart, even within the walls of a prison! Then they got
a glimpse of the desperate assault led by Decatur—the position of their
windows permitting no more—and they were left to imagine what was going
on, amid the roar of cannon, to leeward. This was the celebrated attack
of the 3d August; or that with which Preble began his own warfare, and
little intermission followed for the next two months. On the night of
the 4th of September, a few guns were fired—a heavy explosion was
heard—and this terminated the din of war. It was the catastrophe in
which Somers perished. A day or two later, Bainbridge was taken to see
some of the dead of that affair, but he found the bodies so much
mutilated as to render recognition impossible.

Bainbridge kept a journal of the leading events that occurred during his
captivity. Its meagreness, however, supplies proof of the sameness of
his life; little occurring to give it interest, except an occasional
difficulty with the Turks, and these attacks. In this journal he speaks
of the explosion of the Intrepid, as an enterprise that entirely failed;
injuring nothing. It was thought in the squadron that a part of the wall
of the castle had fallen, on this occasion, but it was a mistake. Not a
man, house, or vessel of Tripoli, so far as can now be ascertained,
suffered, in the least, by the explosion. Bainbridge also mentions, what
other information corroborates, that the shells seldom burst. Many fell
within the town, but none blew up. Two or three even struck the house of
the worthy Nissen, but the injury was slight, comparatively, in
consequence of this circumstance.

At length the moment of liberation arrived. An American negotiator
appeared in the person of the consul general for Barbary, and matters
drew toward a happy termination. Some obstacles, however, occurred, and,
to get rid of them, Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies, a judge of human nature, and
a man superior to most around him, proposed to the Bashaw to let
Bainbridge go on board the Constitution, then commanded by Com. Rodgers.
The proposal appeared preposterous to the wily and treacherous Jussuf,
who insisted that his prisoner would never be fool enough to come back,
if once at liberty. The minister understood the notions of military
honor that prevailed amongst Christian nations better, and he finally
succeeded in persuading his master to consent that Bainbridge might
depart; but not until he had placed his own son in the Bashaw’s hands,
as a hostage.[3]

The 1st of June, 1805, was a happy hour for the subject of our memoir,
for then, after a captivity of nineteen months, to a day, was he
permitted again to tread the deck of an American man-of-war. The entire
day was spent in the squadron, and Bainbridge returned in the night,
greatly discouraged as to the success of the negotiation. Finding Sidi
Mohammed D’Ghies, they repaired to the palace together, where the Bashaw
received them with wonder. He had given up the slight expectation he
ever had of seeing his captive again, and had been sharply rebuking his
minister for the weakness he had manifested by his credulity. Bainbridge
stated to the prince the only terms on which the Americans would treat,
and these Jussuf immediately rejected. The friendly offices of M. Nissen
were employed next day, however, and on the third, a council of state
was convened, at which the treaty, drawn up in form, was laid before the
members for approval or rejection.

At this council, Bainbridge was invited to be present. When he entered
he was told by the Bashaw, himself, that no prisoner in Barbary had ever
before been admitted to a similar honor, and that the discussions should
be carried on in French, in order that he might understand them. The
question of “peace or war” was then solemnly proposed. There were eight
members of the council, and six were for war. Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies and
the commandant of the marine alone maintained the doctrine of peace.
There may have been preconcert and artifice in all this; if so, it was
well acted. The speeches were grave and dignified, and seemingly
sincere, and, after a time, two of the dissentients were converted to
the side of peace; leaving the cabinet equally divided. “How shall I
act?” demanded the Bashaw. “Which party shall I satisfy—you are four
for peace, and four for war!” Here Sidi Mohammed D’Ghies arose and said
it was for the sovereign to decide—they were but councillors, whereas
he was their prince; though he entreated him, for his own interests and
for those of his people, to make peace. The Bashaw drew his signet from
his bosom, deliberately affixed it to the treaty, and said, with dignity
and emphasis, “_It is peace._”

The salutes followed, and the war ceased. The principal officers of the
squadron visited the captives that evening; and the next day the latter
were taken on board ship. A generous trait of the seamen and marines, on
this occasion, merits notice. A Neapolitan slave had been much employed
about them, and had shown them great kindness. They sent a deputation to
Bainbridge, to request he would authorize the purser to advance them
$700, of their joint pay; it was done, and, with the money, they bought
the liberty of the Neapolitan; carrying him off with them—finally
landing him on his own shores.

At Syracuse, a court of inquiry was held, for the loss of the
Philadelphia. This court consisted of Capts. James Barron, Hugh G.
Campbell and Stephen Decatur, jun. Gen. Eaton was the judge advocate.
The result was an honorable aquittal. The finding of this court was
dated June 29, 1805.

The country dealt generously and fairly by Bainbridge and his officers.
The loss of the Philadelphia was viewed as being, precisely what it was,
an unavoidable accident, that was met by men engaged in the zealous
service of their country, in a distant sea, on an inhospitable shore,
and at an inclement season of the year; and an accident that entailed on
the sufferers a long and irksome captivity. To have been one of the
Philadelphia’s crew has ever been rightly deemed a strong claim on the
gratitude of the republic, and, from the hour at which the ill-fated
ship lowered her ensign, down to the present moment, a syllable of
reproach has never been whispered. Bainbridge, himself, was brought
prominently into notice by the affair, and the sympathy his misfortunes
produced in the public mind, made him a favorite with the nation. The
advantage thus obtained, was supported and perpetuated by that frank and
sincere earnestness which marked his public service, and which was so
well adapted to embellish the manly career of a sailor.

The officers and crew of the Philadelphia reached home in the autumn of
1805, and were welcomed with the warmth that their privations entitled
them to receive.

Capt. Bainbridge had married, when a young man, and he now found himself
embarrassed in his circumstances, with an increasing family. But few
ships were employed, and there were officers senior to himself to
command them. The half-pay of his rank was then only $600 a year, and he
determined to get leave to make a voyage or two, in the merchant
service, in order to repair his fortunes. He had been appointed to the
navy yard at New York, however, previously to this determination, but
prudence pointed out the course on which he had decided. A voyage to the
Havana, in which he was part owner, turned out well, and he continued in
this pursuit for two years; or from the summer of 1806, until the spring
of 1808. In March of the latter year, he was ordered to Portland, and,
in December following, he was transferred to the command of the
President 44, then considered the finest ship in the navy. Owing to
deaths, resignations, and promotions, the list of captains had undergone
some changes since the passage of the reduction-law. It now contained
thirteen names, a number determined by an act passed in 1806, among
which that of Bainbridge stood the sixth in rank. The difficulties with
England, which had produced the armament, seemed on the point of
adjustment, and immediate war was no longer expected. Bainbridge hoisted
his first broad pennant in the President, having the command on the
southern division of the coast; Com. Rodgers commanding at the north. In
the summer of 1809 the President sailed on the coast service, and
continued under Bainbridge’s orders, until May, 1810, when he left her,
again to return to a merchant vessel.

On this occasion Bainbridge went into the Baltic. On his way to St.
Petersburg, a Danish cruiser took him, and carried him into Copenhagen.
Here, his first thought was of his old friend Nissen. Within half an
hour, the latter was with him, and it is a coincidence worthy of being
mentioned, that at the very moment the benevolent ex-consul heard of
Bainbridge’s arrival, he was actually engaged in unpacking a handsome
silver urn, which had been sent to him, as a memorial of his own
kindness to them, by the late officers of the Philadelphia.

Through the exertions of this constant friend, Bainbridge soon obtained
justice, and his ship was released. He then went up the Baltic. In this
trade, Capt. Bainbridge was induced to continue, until the rencontre
occurred, between his late ship, the President, and the British vessel
of war, the Little Belt. As soon as apprized of this event, he left St.
Petersburg, and made the best of his way to the Atlantic coast,
over-land. In February, 1812, he reached Washington, and reported
himself for service. But no consequences ever followed the action
mentioned, and a period of brief but delusive calm succeeded, during
which few, if any, believed that war was near. Still it had been
seriously contemplated; and, it is understood, the question of the
disposition of the navy, in the event of a struggle so serious as one
with Great Britain’s occurring, had been gravely agitated in the
cabinet. To his great mortification, Bainbridge learned the opinion
prevailed that it would be expedient to lay up all the vessels; or, at
most, to use them only for harbor defence. Fortunately, the present Com.
Stewart, an officer several years the junior of Bainbridge in rank, but
one of high moral courage and of great decision of character, happened
to be also at the seat of government. After a consultation, these two
captains had interviews with the Secretary and President, and, at the
request of the latter, addressed to him such a letter as finally induced
a change of policy. Had Bainbridge and Stewart never served their
country but in this one act, they would be entitled to receive its
lasting gratitude. Their remonstrances against belonging to a
_peace_-navy were particularly pungent; but their main arguments were
solid and convincing. After aiding in performing this act of vital
service to the corps to which he belonged, Bainbridge proceeded to
Charlestown, Massachusetts, and assumed the command of the yard.

War was declared on the 18th June, 1812; or shortly after Bainbridge was
established at his new post. By this time death had cleared the list of
captains of most of his superiors. Murray was at the head of the navy,
but too old and infirm for active service. Next to him stood Rodgers;
James Barron came third, but he was abroad; and Bainbridge was the
fourth. This circumstance entitled him to a command afloat, and he got
the Constellation 38, a lucky ship, though not the one he would have
chosen, or the one he might justly have claimed in virtue of his
commission. But the three best frigates had all gone to sea, in quest of
the enemy, and he was glad to get any thing. A few weeks later, Hull
came in with the Constitution, after performing two handsome exploits in
her, and very generously consented to give her up, in order that some
one else might have a chance. To this ship Bainbridge was immediately
transferred, and on board her he hoisted his broad pennant on the 15th
September, 1812.

The Essex 32, Capt. Porter, and Hornet 18, Capt. Lawrence, were placed
under Bainbridge’s orders, and his instructions were to cruise for the
English East India trade, in the South Atlantic. The Essex being in the
Delaware, she was directed to rendezvous at the Cape de Verdes, or on
the coast of South America. The Constitution and Hornet sailed in
company, from Boston, on the 26th October, but the events of the cruise
prevented the Essex, which ship was commanded by Porter, his old first
lieutenant in the Philadelphia, from joining the commodore.

The Constitution and Hornet arrived off St. Salvador on the 13th of
December. The latter ship went in, and found the Bonne Citoyenne, an
enemy’s cruiser of equal force, lying in the harbor. This discovery led
to a correspondence which will be mentioned in the life of Lawrence, and
which induced Bainbridge to quit the offing, leaving the Hornet on the
look-out for her enemy. On the 26th, accordingly, he steered to the
southward, intending to stand along the coast as low as 12° 20′ S.,
when, about 9, A. M., on the 29th, the ship then being in 13° 6′ S.
latitude, and 31° W. longitude, or about thirty miles from the land, she
made two strange sail, inshore and to windward. After a little
manœuvring, one of the ships closing, while the other stood on towards
St. Salvador, Bainbridge was satisfied he had an enemy’s frigate fairly
within his reach. This was a fortunate meeting to occur in a sea where
there was little hazard of finding himself environed by hostile
cruisers, and only sixty-four days out himself from Boston.

In receiving the Constitution from Hull, Bainbridge found her with only
a portion of her old officers in her, though the crew remained
essentially the same. Morris, her late first lieutenant, had been
promoted, and was succeeded by George Parker, a gentleman of Virginia,
and a man of spirit and determination. John Shubrick and Beekman
Hoffman, the first of South Carolina and the last of New York, two
officers who stood second to none of their rank in the service, were
still in the ship, however, and Alwyn, her late master, had been
promoted, and was now the junior lieutenant.[4] In a word, their
commander could rely on his officers and people, and he prepared for
action with confidence and alacrity. A similar spirit seemed to prevail
in the other vessel, which was exceedingly well officered, and, as it
appeared in the end, was extra manned.

At a quarter past meridian, the enemy showed English colors. Soon after,
the Constitution, which had stood to the southward to draw the stranger
off the land, hauled up her mainsail, took in her royals, and tacked
toward the enemy. As the wind was light and the water smooth, the
Constitution kept every thing aloft, ready for use, closing with the
stranger with royal yards across. At 2 P. M. the latter was about half a
mile to windward of the Constitution, and showed no colors, except a
jack. Bainbridge now ordered a shot fired at him, to induce him to set
an ensign. This order, being misunderstood, produced a whole broadside
from the Constitution, when the stranger showed English colors again,
and returned the fire.

This was the commencement of a furious cannonading, both ships
manœuvring to rake and to avoid being raked. Very soon after the action
commenced, Bainbridge was hit by a musket ball in the hip; and, a minute
or two later, a shot came in, carried away the wheel, and drove a small
bolt with considerable violence into his thigh. Neither injury, however,
induced him even to sit down; he kept walking the quarter-deck, and
attending to the ship, greatly adding to the subsequent inflammation, as
these foreign substances were lodged in the muscles of his leg, and, in
the end, threatened tetanus. The last injury was received about twenty
minutes after the firing commenced, and was even of more importance to
the ship than the wound it produced was to her captain. The wheel was
knocked into splinters, and it became necessary to steer below.[5] This
was a serious evil in the midst of a battle, and more particularly in an
action in which there was an unusual amount of manœuvring. The English
vessel, being very strong manned, was actively handled, and, sailing
better than the Constitution in light winds, her efforts to rake
produced a succession of evolutions, which caused both ships to ware so
often, that the battle terminated several miles to leeward of the point
on the ocean at which it commenced.

After the action had lasted some time, Bainbridge determined to close
with his enemy at every hazard. He set his courses accordingly, and
luffed up close to the wind. This brought matters to a crisis, and the
Englishman, finding the Constitution’s fire too heavy, attempted to run
her aboard. His jib-boom did get foul of the American frigate’s mizzen
rigging, but the end of his bowsprit being shot away, and his foremast
soon after following, the ships passed clear of each other, making a
lucky escape for the assailants.[6] The battle continued some time
longer, the Constitution throwing in several effective raking
broadsides, and then falling alongside of her enemy to leeward. At
length, finding her adversary’s guns silenced and his ensign down,
Bainbridge boarded his tacks again, luffed up athwart the Englishman’s
bows, and got a position ahead and to windward, in order to repair
damages; actually coming out of the battle as he had gone into it, with
royal yards across, and every spar, from the highest to the lowest, in
its place! The enemy presented a singular contrast. Stick after stick
had been shot out of him, as it might be, inch by inch too, until
nothing, but a few stumps, was left. All her masts were gone, the
foremast having been shot away twice, once near the catharpings, and
again much nearer to the deck; the main-topmast had come down some time
before the mainmast fell. The bowsprit, as has been said, was shot away
at the cap. After receiving these damages, the enemy did not wait for a
new attack, but as soon as the Constitution came round, with an
intention to cross his fore-foot, he lowered a jack which had been
flying at the stump of his mizzenmast.

The ship Bainbridge captured was the Java 38, Capt. Lambert. The Java
was a French built ship that had been taken some time previously, under
the name of La Renommée, in those seas where lies the island after which
she was subsequently called. She mounted 49 carriage guns, and had a
sufficient number of supernumeraries on board to raise her complement at
quarters to something like 400 souls. Of these the English accounts
admit that 124 were killed and wounded; though Bainbridge thought her
loss was materially greater. It is said a muster-list was found in the
ship, that was dated five days after the Java left England, and which
contained 446 names. From these, however, was to be deducted the crew
for a prize she had taken; the ship in company when made the day of the
action. Capt. Lambert died of his wounds; but there was a master and
commander on board, among the passengers, and the surviving first
lieutenant was an officer of merit.

In addition to the officers and seamen who were in the Java, as
passengers, were Lieutenant-General Hislop and his staff, the former of
whom was going to Bombay as governor. Bainbridge treated these captives
with great liberality and kindness, and, after destroying his prize for
want of means to refit her, he landed all his prisoners, on parole, at
St. Salvador.

In this action the Constitution had nine men killed and twenty-five men
wounded. She was a good deal cut up in the rigging, and had a few spars
injured, but, considering the vigor of the engagement and the smoothness
of the water, she escaped with but little injury. There is no doubt that
she was a heavier ship than her adversary, but the difference in the
batteries was less than appeared by the nominal calibres of the guns;
the American shot, in that war, being generally of light weight, while
those of the Java, by some accounts, were French.

It has been said that Bainbridge disregarded his own wounds until the
irritation endangered his life. His last injury must have been received
about half past two, and he remained actively engaged on deck until 11
o’clock at night; thus adding the irritation of eight hours of exertion
to the original injuries. The consequences were some exceedingly
threatening symptoms, but skilful treatment subdued them, when his
recovery was rapid.

An interesting interview took place between Bainbridge and Lambert, on
the quarter-deck of the Constitution, after the arrival of the ship at
St. Salvador. The English captain was in his cot, and Bainbridge
approached, supported by two of his own officers, to take his leave, and
to restore the dying man his sword. This interview has been described as
touching, and as leaving kind feelings between the parting officers.
Poor Lambert, an officer of great merit, died a day or two afterwards.

The Constitution now returned home for repairs, being very rotten. She
reached Boston February 27, 1813, after a cruise of only four months and
one day. Bainbridge returned in triumph, this time, and, if his
countrymen had previously manifested a generous sympathy in his
misfortunes, they now showed as strong a feeling in his success. The
victor was not more esteemed for his courage and skill, than for the
high and chivalrous courtesy and liberality with which he had treated
his prisoners.

Bainbridge gave up the Constitution on his return home, and resumed the
command of the yard at Charlestown, where the Independence 74 was
building, a vessel he intended to take, when launched. Here he remained
until the peace, that ship not being quite ready to go out when the
treaty was signed. In the spring of 1815, a squadron was sent to the
Mediterranean, under Decatur, to act against the Dey of Algiers, and
Bainbridge followed, as commander-in-chief, in the Independence, though
he did not arrive until his active predecessor had brought the war to a
successful close. On this occasion, Bainbridge had under his orders the
largest naval force that was ever assembled beneath the American flag;
from eighteen to twenty sail of efficient cruisers being included in his
command. In November, after a cruise of about five months, he returned
to Newport, having one ship of the line, two frigates, seven brigs, and
three schooners in company. Thus he carried to sea the first two-decker
that ever sailed under the American ensign; the present Capt. Bolton
being his first lieutenant. During this cruise, Com. Bainbridge arranged
several difficulties with the Barbary powers, and in all his service he
maintained the honor and dignity of his flag and of his command.

Bainbridge now continued at Boston several years, with his pennant
flying in the Independence, as a guard ship. In the autumn of 1819,
however, he was detached once more, for the purpose of again commanding
in the Mediterranean. This was the fifth time in which he had been sent
into that sea; three times in command of frigates, and twice at the head
of squadrons. The Columbus 80, an entirely new ship, was selected for
his pennant, and he did not sail until April, 1820, in consequence of
the work that it was necessary to do on board her. The Columbus reached
Gibraltar early in June. This was an easy and a pleasant cruise, one of
the objects being to show the squadron in the ports of the
Mediterranean, in order to impress the different nations on its coast
with the importance of respecting the maritime rights of the republic.
Bainbridge had a strong desire to show his present force, the Columbus
in particular, before Constantinople, whither he had been sent twenty
years before, against his wishes; but a firman could not be procured to
pass the castles with so heavy a ship. After remaining out about a year,
Bainbridge was relieved, and returned home, the principal objects of his
cruise having been effected.

This was Bainbridge’s last duty afloat. He had now made ten cruises in
the public service; had commanded a schooner, a brig, five frigates and
two line-of-battle ships, besides being at the head of three different
squadrons; and it was thought expedient to let younger officers gain
some experience. Age did not induce him to retire, for he was not yet
fifty; but others had claims on the country, and his family had claims
on himself.

But, although unemployed afloat, Bainbridge continued diligently engaged
in the service, generally of the republic and of the navy. He was at
Charlestown—a favorite station with him—for some time, and then was
placed at the head of the board of navy commissioners, at Washington.
After serving his three years in the latter station, he had the
Philadelphia yard. Bainbridge had removed his family twenty-six times,
in the course of his different changes, and considering himself as a
Delaware seaman, he now determined to set up his _penates_ permanently
in the ancient capital of the country. An unpleasant collision with the
head of the department, however, forced him from his command in 1831;
but, the next year, he was restored to the station at Charlestown. His
health compelled him to give up this yard in a few months, and, his
constitution being broken, he returned to his family in Philadelphia, in
the month of March, 1832, only to die. His disease was pneumonia,
connected with great irritation of the bowels and a wasting diarrhœa. As
early as in January, 1833, he was told that his case was hopeless, when
he manifested a calm and manly resignation to his fate. He lived,
however, until the 28th of July, when he breathed his last, aged
fifty-nine years, two months and twenty-one days. An hour or two
previously to his death, his mind began to wander, and not long before
he yielded up his breath, he raised all that was left of his once noble
frame, demanded his arms, and ordered all hands called to board the
enemy!

Bainbridge married, in the early part of his career, a lady of the West
Indies, of the name of Hyleger. She was the grand-daughter of a former
governor of St. Eustatia, of the same name. By this lady he had five
children who grew up; a son and four daughters. The son was educated to
the bar, and was a young man of much promise; but he died a short time
previously to his father. Of the daughters, one married a gentleman of
the name of Hayes, formerly of the navy; another married Mr. A. G.
Jaudon, of Philadelphia, and a third is now the wife of Henry K. Hoff, a
native of Pennsylvania, and a sea-lieutenant in the service, of eleven
years standing. He left his family in easy circumstances, principally
the result of his own prudence, forethought, gallantry and enterprise.

At the time of his death, Commodore Bainbridge stood third in rank, in
the American navy; having a long list of captains below him. Had justice
been done to this gallant officer, to the service to which he belonged,
or even to the country, whose interests are alone to be efficiently
protected by a powerful marine, he would have worn a flag some years
before the termination of his career. Quite recently a brig of war has
received his name, in that service which he so much loved, and in which
he passed the best of his days.

Com. Bainbridge was a man of fine and commanding personal appearance.
His stature was about six feet, and his frame was muscular and of
unusually good proportions. His face was handsome, particularly in
youth, and his eye uncommonly animated and piercing. In temperament he
was ardent and sanguine; but cool in danger, and of a courage of proof.
His feelings were vehement, and he was quickly roused; but, generous and
brave, he was easily appeased. Like most men who are excitable, but who
are firm at bottom, he was the calmest in moments of the greatest
responsibility.[7] He was hospitable, chivalrous, magnanimous, and a
fast friend. His discipline was severe, but he tempered it with much
consideration for the wants and health of his crews. Few served with him
who did not love him, for the conviction that his heart was right, was
general among all who knew him. There was a cordiality and warmth in his
manner, that gained him friends, and those who knew him best, say he had
the art of keeping them.

A shade was thrown over the last years of the life of this
noble-spirited man by disease. His sufferings drove him to the use of
antispasmodics, to an extent which deranged the nerves. This altered his
mood so much as to induce those who did not know him well, to imagine
that his character had undergone the change. This was not the case,
however; to his dying hour Bainbridge continued the warm-hearted friend,
the chivalrous gentleman, and the devoted lover of his country’s honor
and interests.

-----

[1] There appears to have been some uncertainty about officers remaining
in service, after the peace of 1801, that contributed to rendering the
reduction irregular. The resignations of Dale and Truxtun, and the death
of Barry, brought the list down to nine; the number prescribed by law.
As the Tripolitan _war_ occurred so soon, a question might arise how far
the peace establishment law was binding at all. Certainly, in its
_spirit_, it was meant only for a time of peace. On the other hand, Mr.
Jefferson, by his public acts, did not seem to think the nation legally
at war with Tripoli, even after battles were fought and vessels
captured.

[2] There already exists some disagreement as to the question on which
of the two principal portions of this reef, the eastern or the western,
the Philadelphia ran. Captain Bainbridge, in his official letter, says
that the _harbor_ of Tripoli was distant three or four miles, when his
ship struck. But the _harbor_ of Tripoli extends more than a mile to the
eastward of the _town_. Fort English lies properly near the mouth of the
harbor, and it is considerably more than a mile east of the castle;
which, itself, stands at the southeastern angle of the town. Com.
Porter, in his testimony before the court of inquiry, thought the ship
struck about three miles and a half from the _town_ of Tripoli, and one
and a half from the nearest point of land, which bore _south_. By the
chart, the _western_ margin of the _western_ reef is about 4000 yards
from the nearest point in the town, and the _western_ margin of the
_eastern_ reef, about 6000. Three miles and a half would be just 6110
yards. This reef, too, lies as near as may be, a mile and a half north
of the nearest land; thus agreeing perfectly with Com. Porter’s
testimony. In addition, the western portion of the reef could not have
been reached without passing into five fathoms water, and Capt.
Bainbridge deemed it prudent to haul off when he found himself in eight.
All the soundings show, as well as the distances, that the frigate
struck as stated in the text, on the eastern half of the Kaliusa Reef;
which might well be named the Philadelphia Reef. It may be added, that
the nearest land would bear nearer southeast, than south, from the
western half of these shoals.

[3] It is pleasing to know that this son has since had his life most
probably saved, by the timely intervention of the American authorities.
A man-of-war was sent to Tripoli, and brought him off, at a most
critical moment, when he was about to fall a sacrifice to his enemies.
He is dead; having been an enlightened statesman, like his father, and a
firm friend of this country; though much vilified and persecuted toward
the close of his brief career.

[4] Alas! how few of the gallant spirits of the late war remain!
Bainbridge is gone. Parker died in command of the Siren, the next year.
John Shubrick was lost in the Epervier, a twelvemonth later; and Beekman
Hoffman died a captain in 1834; while Alwyn survived the wounds received
in this action but a few days.

[5] Some time after the peace of 1815, a distinguished officer of the
English navy visited the Constitution, then just fitted anew at Boston,
for a Mediterranean cruise. He went through the ship accompanied by
Capt. ——, of our service. “Well, what do you think of her?” asked the
latter, after the two had gone through the vessel and reached the
quarter-deck again. “She is _one_ of the finest, if not the very finest
frigate I ever put my foot on board of,” returned the Englishman, “but,
as I must find _some_ fault, I’ll just say that your wheel is one of the
clumsiest things I ever saw, and is unworthy of the vessel.” Capt. ——
laughed, and then explained the appearance of the wheel to the other, as
follows: “When the Constitution took the Java, the former’s wheel was
shot out of her. The Java’s wheel was fitted in the Constitution to
steer with, and, although we think it as ugly as you do, we keep it as a
trophy!”

[6] On the part of the enemy, in the war of words which succeeded the
war of 1612, it was pretended that the Constitution kept off in this
engagement. Bainbridge, in his official letter, says he endeavored to
close, at the risk of being raked; though the early loss of the
Constitution’s wheel prevented her from manœuvring as quickly as she
might otherwise have done. When a frigate’s wheel is gone, the tiller is
managed by tackles, below two decks, and this makes awkward work; first,
as to the transmission of orders, and next, and principally, as to the
degree of change, the men who do the work not being able to see the
sails. There are two modes of transmitting the orders; one by a tube
fitted for that express purpose, and the other by a line of midshipmen.

But the absurd part of the argument was an attempt to show that the
Constitution captured the Java by her great superiority in
small-arms-men; Kentucky riflemen, of course, of whom, by the way, there
probably was never one in an American ship. This attempt was made, in
connection with a battle in which the defeated party, too, had every
spar, even to her bowsprit, shot out of her! All the witnesses on the
subsequent court of inquiry appear to have been asked about this
musketry, and the answer of the boatswain is amusing.

_Question._ “Did you suffer much from musketry on the forecastle?”

_Answer._ “Yes: and _likewise from round and grape_.”

Another absurdity was an attempt to show (see James, Ap. p. 12) that the
Java would have carried the Constitution had her men boarded. The
Constitution’s upper deck was said to be deserted, as if her people had
left it in apprehension of their enemies. Not a man left his station in
the ship, that day, except under orders, and so far from caring about
the attempt to board, the crew ridiculed it. The Java was very bravely
fought, beyond a question, but the Constitution took her, and came out
of action with royal yards across!

[7] A singular proof how far the resolution of Bainbridge could overcome
his natural infirmities, was connected with a very melancholy affair.
When Decatur fought the duel in which he fell, he selected his old
commander and friend, Bainbridge, to accompany him to the field.
Bainbridge had a slight natural impediment in his speech which sometimes
embarrassed his utterance; especially when any thing excited him. On
such occasions, he usually began a sentence—“un-_ter_”—“un-_ter_,” or
“un-_to_,” and then he managed to get out the beginning of what he had
to say. On the sad occasion alluded to, the word of command was to be
“Fire—_one_, _two_, three;” the parties firing between “Fire” and
“three.” Bainbridge won the toss, and was to give the word. It then
occurred to one of the gentlemen of the other side that some accident
might arise from this peculiarity of Bainbridge’s—“one _two_” sounding
so much like “un-_ter_,” and he desired that the whole order might be
rehearsed before it was finally enacted. This was done; but Bainbridge
was perfectly cool, and no mistake was made.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         SONG—“I SAW HER ONCE.”


                          BY RICHARD H. DANA.


    I saw her once; and still I see
      That placid eye and thoughtful brow;
    That voice! it spoke but once to me—
      That quiet voice is with me now.

    Where’er I go my soul is blest;
      She meets me there, a cheering light;
    And when I sink away to rest
      She murmurs near—Good night! good night!

    Our earthly forms are far apart;
      But can her spirit be so nigh
    Nor I a home within her heart?
      And Love but dream her fond reply?

    Oh, no! the form that I behold—
      No shaping this of memory!
    Her self, her self is here ensoul’d!
      —I saw her once; and still I see.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         SONNET—THE UNATTAINED.


                          BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.


    Is this, then, Life? Oh! are we born for this?
    To follow phantoms that elude the grasp!
    Or whatsoe’er secured, within our clasp
    To withering lie! as if an earthly kiss
    Were doomed Death’s shuddering touch alone to greet.
    Oh Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss?
    Must still the Unattained allure our feet?

    The Unattained with yearnings fill the breast,
    That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest?
    Yes, this is Life, and everywhere we meet,
    Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat—
    Yet falter not, thou dost apply a test
    That shall incite thee onward, upward still—
    The present cannot sate, thy soul it cannot fill.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             A YOUNG WIFE.


            BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE.”


                               CHAPTER I.

                    An she shall walk in silken tire
                    And siller hae to spare.
                                    _Scottish Song._

“No, no, Lowndes,” answered Mr. Gilmer, in reply to some question which
the former had made his friend touching the accomplishments of his bride
elect. “No, no: you will find Miss Vivian very different probably from
what you expect. Men at my age, who know the world, know that talents
and accomplishments are not the first qualities to seek in a wife.
Freshness of heart and mind, _naïveté_ and disinterestedness are the
charms that we prize as we grow older, for they alone, springing from
the heart, can insure us happiness. No, you will not find Miss Vivian
accomplished to any high degree. Her extreme youth precludes that. But
what music or language can equal the melody and eloquence that speak in
a young voice fresh from a warm heart! Of disinterested affection, one
can feel sure in a creature so young; and the pleasure of cultivating a
heart and mind all your own, of feeling that every flower that springs
there is of your own planting, is worth more to my taste than the utmost
perfection of acquirements ready made to the hand.”

Mr. Lowndes, who was also mature in the world’s ways, was somewhat
amused at his friend’s warmth, while he smiled as he thought of the
_disinterestedness_ that leads sixteen to wed with forty-two, and he
said,

“The lady is beautiful, no doubt. For with all your philosophic
knowledge of the world, Gilmer, I doubt whether you would appreciate so
highly the charms of a youthful mind were they not united to the
loveliness of a youthful person.”

Gilmer replied with a smile,

“I think you will find she does credit to my taste. You must let me
introduce you;” and the friends having agreed to call at Mrs. Vivian’s
for that purpose in the evening, separated; Gilmer pitying Lowndes’
forlorn state as an old bachelor, while Lowndes could not but be amused
to see his friend so enthusiastic in a folly he had often ridiculed in
others.

Mr. Gilmer, at forty-two, knew the world as he said; and what is more,
the world knew him; and having run a gay career, to settle in a grave
and polished middle age, he would now renew life, and start afresh for
the goal of happiness; deeming himself, old worldling that he was, a fit
match for bright sixteen, and a natural recipient for the first warm
affections of that happy age.

But is time to be so cheated? Let us see.

“Look!” cried the little bride elect, “is not this beautiful?” showing
her mother an exquisite _cadeau_ from her lover. “Oh, mamma,” added she,
clasping her little hands in an ecstasy, “how he will dress one!”

“Yes, my love,” said her mother tenderly, “it is beautiful, indeed. How
very attentive and kind in Mr. Gilmer to remember that passing wish of
yours.”

“Oh yes! and what perfect taste too he has,” continued the little lady,
evidently much more intent upon her present than her lover; and so she
flew to her aunt to show the rich present she had just received. Miss
Lawrence, a younger sister of her mother, who resided with them, had
been absent when this engagement took place; and having examined and
admired the jewel to the satisfaction of her niece, said,

“I am quite anxious to see this Mr. Gilmer of yours, Charlotte.”

“Are you? Well, he will be here this evening, I suppose; and I dare say
you will like him. He likes all those sensible, dull books that you and
mamma are so fond of. He’ll just suit you.”

“I hope,” replied her aunt, smiling, “he suits you too.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a little hesitation, “only he is too grave and
sensible: but then he’s old, you know,” she added with a serious look.

“Old!” replied Miss Lawrence, “what do you call old?”

“Oh, I don’t know; thirty, or forty, or fifty, I don’t know exactly; but
he must be quite as old as mamma, maybe older: but,” added she, with
more animation, “I shall have the prettiest phaeton, with the dearest
little pair of black ponies you ever saw, just to drive when I shop, you
know, and an elegant chariot to pay visits; and I mean to give so many
parties and a fancy ball regularly every winter;” and she continued
dwelling on her anticipated gaieties to the utter exclusion, in all her
plans, of husband or lover, to the surprise and amusement, not unmixed
with anxiety, of her aunt, who soon began to perceive that her niece’s
young brain was dizzy with the prospect of splendors and gaieties that
her mother’s limited income denied her, while her heart was as untouched
by any deeper emotion as one might naturally have expected from her
joyous, unthinking, careless age. She was dazzled by Mr. Gilmer’s
fortune and flattered by his attentions, for he was _distingué_ in
society; but _love_ she deemed out of the question with a man as old as
her mother; and she was right. It _was_ out of the question with a girl
young enough to be his daughter; for however age may admire youth, there
is nothing captivating to youth in age. His fine mind, cultivated tastes
and elegant manners were lost upon one whose youth and ignorance
precluded her appreciating qualities she did not comprehend; and she
only looked forward to her marriage as the first act in a brilliant
drama in which she was to play the principal part.

“Are you quite satisfied, sister, with this engagement of Charlotte’s?”
asked Miss Lawrence, with some anxiety.

“Perfectly,” replied Mrs. Vivian, “more than satisfied. Mr. Gilmer’s
fortune and station are all I could ask. He is a man of sense and a
gentleman. What more could I desire?”

“He is that, certainly,” replied her sister, “but I confess I wish that
the disparity of years between them was less.”

“I am not sure that I do,” answered Mrs. Vivian. “His age gives me a
security for his character that I could not have otherwise. And the
younger the wife the greater the idol generally. Charlotte has been too
much of an indulged and spoiled child, if you will, to humor and support
the caprices of a young man, and I had rather she were an ‘old man’s
darling than a young man’s slave.’”

“If she were compelled to either alternative,” said Miss Lawrence.

“Beside,” continued Mrs. Vivian, scarce hearing her sister’s
interruption, “his fortune is immense; and the certainty that she will
always be encompassed by every luxury wealth can procure is to me an
unspeakable comfort. You cannot know, Ellen, with what idolatry a mother
loves an only child, nor can you, therefore, comprehend how anxiously I
would guard her from every trial or privation that could beset her path
in life. My income is so small that with me she must suffer many
privations both as to pleasures and comforts that will now be showered
upon her with a liberal hand; and I own I anticipate her marriage with
as much happiness as a mother can look forward to a separation from her
only child.”

And now the preparations were rapidly making for the marriage, and every
day brought some new finery to deck the pretty bride, who was in one
continued ecstasy at every fresh importation; and when the wedding-day
arrived and brought with it a _corbeille_ from Mr. Gilmer, which, when
opened, disclosed a bouquet of sixteen white camellias, and underneath
the bridal veil of costliest lace, with other elegancies too numerous to
mention, she fairly danced in her childish glee as she threw the veil
over her head and flew to the mirror; and the only shadow or doubt that
crossed her fair young face that day, was lest Martille, that most
faithless of _coiffeurs_, should disappoint her in the evening.

The veil is at last arranged, with its orange buds and blossoms, and as
the sparkling, white dress floats around her airy figure, a prettier,
brighter, more graceful creature has rarely glanced across this world
than that beauteous young bride; and Mr. Gilmer as he stood beside her,
high-bred, grave and middle-aged, looked better fitted to perform the
part of father than of groom.

As his friend Mr. Lowndes gazed upon the flashing eyes and glowing
cheeks of the young beauty, and heard the merry tones of her childish
voice, and then glanced round at the small rooms and plain furniture of
her mother’s house, he perfectly comprehended the infatuation of his
friend and the motives of his bride.


                              CHAPTER II.

            That may gar one cry, but it canna gar me mind.
                                    _Heart of Mid Lothian._

“Well, Charlotte,” said Mr. Gilmer, after they had been married about
six weeks, “I suppose our wedding gaieties are nearly over?”

“Oh! I hope not,” cried she, looking almost aghast at the idea. “Why
they have scarcely more than begun. There would be very little use in
being a bride indeed, if it were to end so soon,” she continued.

“So soon!” replied her husband. “Why I should think that even you would
be tired of this incessant gaiety. I fairly long for one quiet dinner
and evening at home.”

“I agree with you,” she returned, “the dinners _are_ bores. To be
obliged to sit four or five mortal hours and talk is very dull. But the
balls are delightful, and I hope may continue these three months. You
don’t dance, however,” she added, “and I don’t wonder you find it
tiresome. Mamma used to complain of it too, and I dare say it is dull to
you old folks who look on. But to us who waltz, you don’t know how
charming it is,” and as she shook back her curls and looked up in his
face, with such an expression of youthful delight, he was compelled to
swallow with good humor the being classed with “Mamma” and the “old
folks,” unpleasant as it might be, in the hope that she would soon weary
of this heartless gaiety, and ceasing to be a child, “put away childish
things.”

Finding, however, that her youth was more than a match for his patience,
he soon wearied of playing the indulgent lover, and within two months
after their marriage he said,

“Charlotte, after to-night we go to no more evening parties. I am
thoroughly tired of them, and you have had enough for this season.”

She would have remonstrated, but the decision, almost amounting to
sternness with which he spoke, startled her, and she only pouted without
replying. Her usual resource, to complain of her husband to her mother,
was left her, and Mrs. Vivian’s spirit quickly fired at seeing her
darling child thwarted, and she said with the feeling more natural than
judicious in a mother-in-law,

“Tell your husband, Charlotte, that if he does not wish to go, I am
always ready to accompany you,” and the young wife returned triumphantly
to her husband to say, “that mamma would take her to Mrs. Johnson’s.”
Mr. Gilmer could not reasonably object to the arrangement, little as he
liked it; but thus Mrs. Vivian laid the foundation of a dislike between
her son-in-law and self that took root but to flourish and strengthen
with time.

Mrs. Vivian calling soon after on her daughter, found her poring over a
large volume most intently.

“What are you reading, Charlotte?” inquired her mother.

“Oh!” she said, tossing the book from her, “the stupidest thing you ever
read. Mr. Gilmer insisted on my reading it. He wants me to ‘cultivate my
mind,’ to read and think, but I won’t think for him,” she said,
pettishly pushing the book from her, “he can’t make me do that, do what
he will. Now is it not hard,” she said, appealing to her mother, “that
just as I have left school, I should be surrounded by masters and forced
to study? He insisted on engaging Signor F. to give me Italian lessons,
as he says that time will hang heavy on my hands if I have nothing to do
when he is absent. Not nearly as heavy, I can tell him, as when I have
something to do I don’t like. And, then, these stupid dinners he _will_
give, where he has only grave, sensible old men. If I had thought I was
to lead such a life as this, I would have married a young man at once;”
and thus she poured out her complaints, which were “as fresh from a warm
young heart,” as Mr. Gilmer himself could have desired in his most
enthusiastic mood. In fact, he was beginning to find that this
“cultivating a wife’s mind” was not the easy delightful task he had once
promised himself; and the _naïveté_ that had so charmed him before his
marriage, annoyed him now not a little, as he saw it amuse his friends,
particularly Mr. Lowndes, whose quick eye would involuntarily glance at
him as his wife let forth most unconsciously some of the little
_disagrémens_ of their _ménage_. That same _naïveté_ is the most
unmanageable quality in an establishment where all does not run
smoothly, and for that very reason, perhaps, often more amusing to
strangers. But we pity the proud reserved man who is to be tortured with
the “simplicity” by which he was once captivated.

And if she was weary of the “grave sensible men” that surrounded his
table, he was not less so of her young companions, who chattered and
gossiped till his ears fairly ached with their nonsense.

The career of self indulgence, generally denominated a “gay life,” that
Mr. Gilmer had led, was not the best of preparations for an indulgent
husband, and resuming, as time wore on, the selfishness that had been
laid asleep or aside in the first excitement of winning his little
beauty, he became more decided and less tender in his manner toward his
young wife. Finding he could not make her a companion, and having no
respect for her understanding, nor sympathy in her tastes, he soon began
to treat her as a child, that is, as a being having no _rights_. She on
her side, quicker in feeling than defining, felt as every child feels,
when defrauded of their due, that she had claims to assert as well as
himself; and thus commenced a struggle that each urged as far as they
dared. We say dared, for there was a cold, stern decision about him,
that awed her in spite of herself; and he saw a look in her eye
sometimes that told him it were best not to push matters to extremities,
or he might raise a spirit, once raised not so easily laid. Mrs. Vivian
seeing her beautiful child consigned to the cold selfishness rather of a
step-father, than the indulgent affection of a devoted husband as she
had expected, injudiciously took part in their little differences, and
could not help giving her son-in-law an occasional _cut_ that neither
sweetened his temper nor mended his manners. He respected her
understanding, and feared her penetration; and fear and respect too
often engender dislike; and it was not long before a state of feeling
arose between mother and son-in-law less seldom than sorrowful.


                              CHAPTER III.

                     “Nae treasures nor pleasures
                     Could mak us happy long;
                     The heart’s aye the part aye
                     That makes us right or wrong.”
                                           _Burns._

The birth of a daughter at length opened new feelings and hopes to the
parents; and the thought “that Mr. Gilmer could no longer treat her as a
child, and require her to study and read,” added not a little to the
happiness that flashed in Charlotte’s eyes as she kissed her baby with
rapture; and the quiet but deep satisfaction with which Mr. Gilmer
contemplated his child, was partly founded in the expectation, “that
Charlotte, in assuming the duties and feelings of a mother, would sink
the giddiness of the girl in the steadiness of the woman.” But little
did he know in supposing that youth and nature were thus to be cheated
of their privileges by the assumption of the responsibilities of maturer
age. That Charlotte loved her infant with the liveliest affection, is
true; but it was rather the playful fondness of a child for its
play-thing than the passionate love of a mother for her first born; and
although she would delightedly fondle the infant for a few minutes, yet
easily terrified by the cries of the little creature, drawn forth by the
awkward handling of its inexperienced parent, she would quickly resign
it to the soothing cares of its nurse, who, in fact, dreaded the sight
of the young mother in the nursery. Once, indeed, after having been
admonished and lectured by her husband on her new duties and
responsibilities, she took it in her head, at the imminent risk of life
and limb of her child, to wash and dress it herself, and which was most
terrified and exhausted under the operation, mother or child, it would
be difficult to say; and very soon she resumed her usual routine of
life, only varied by occasional visits to her nursery. Mr. Gilmer,
disappointed in the change he had hoped to see in her character and
tastes, became more impatient and less yielding than before. Had he, in
the indulgent spirit that should have accompanied his age and knowledge
of the world, given way to the joyous spirits and excitable feelings
natural to her youth, he would have won to himself a heart naturally
warm and affectionate, at the same time that he quenched her ardent love
of pleasure in satiety. But, too selfish to put that constraint on
himself, he expected at once that calm indifference to society, in a
girl of scarce eighteen, that was in himself the result of twenty-five
years devotion to its frivolities, and his wife’s thirst for gaiety
seemed to increase in proportion to the difficulties and objections he
threw in the path of her enjoyment—and it was but natural that she
should escape with delight, looks of grave displeasure, quick words of
impatience, and selfish forgetfulness of her tastes at home, for the
gaiety of brilliant throngs where she was followed, admired and
flattered, and which she enjoyed the more, that the opportunities were
rare and doubtful.

And thus time wore on, adding rather than diminishing the discontents of
all parties. We have said before that the feelings subsisting between
Mrs. Vivian and her son-in-law were any thing but kind and friendly; and
they now rarely met without quick and biting sarcasms on her side,
retorted by a cold and haughty disrespect on his. Age, too, was now
adding its usual exactions to his natural selfishness of character, and
that he might enjoy that luxurious indolence and tranquillity so
necessary to his happiness, and withdraw his wife from the pleasure so
opposite to his tastes, and, above all, that he might free himself from
the interference and investigation of Mrs. Vivian, and separate
Charlotte from her mother as much as possible, he resolved to purchase a
place in the country. Regardless of the wishes of his wife, heedless of
her remonstrance, the idea was no sooner conceived than executed, and
however much Mrs. Gilmer disliked the removal, there was no resource but
to submit. That she submitted with a good grace we cannot say, for
Charlotte had now learned to _think_, (as what woman does not that makes
an ill-assorted marriage?) although her mind had not expanded in the
direction that her husband desired. She had become acquainted with her
own claims, and in penetrating the heartlessness and hollowness of her
husband’s character, had learned to mourn over the sacrifice of her
youth and beauty with indignation and anguish. Resenting the steady
pursuance of his own plans, to the utter exclusion of all consideration
for her wishes, she in her turn became careless of his comforts and
negligent of her duties. Who that passed that beautiful place, with its
rich lawns, noble trees and magnificent views, would have suspected the
discontented tempers and unsatisfied hearts that dwelt in that embowered
paradise. Her child was a source of unmingled happiness to her as it
grew in beauty and intelligence. But will the love of a child alone
compensate for that want of companionship and sympathy that the heart
asks for in vain where there is no equality of mind or years?

The society of her mother had been her greatest source of comfort during
the last few years of her existence, as she turned to her for that
indulgence and love of which she felt the want more and more; and which
was poured forth upon her more fully in her hour of disappointment than
even in her petted childhood by her doting parent. And now how gladly
did she hail every little excuse the calls of life afforded her, the
procuring a servant, the necessary purchases, &c., to drive to the city
and spend as many hours as possible with that dear friend. And oh, how
doubly happy was she on such occasions, if she were caught in a storm,
or losing the boat, was compelled to remain a few days in that small
house, which with its mean furniture she had once been so anxious to
escape, but which was now to her the centre of all happiness, for there
she found liberty, sympathy, love; and her mother acknowledged to
herself that when she had so anxiously essayed to guard her child from
every sorrow and trial of life, she had attempted a task not to be
achieved upon earth. Cares and sorrows are the lot of earth’s children;
but they fall comparatively lightly on those whose hearts are
strengthened and sustained by an all-supporting and enduring love for
those to whom fortune has connected their destiny.

And was Mr. Gilmer happier for the new mode of life he had adopted? No.
Accustomed to the habits of a city, he was wanting in that personal
activity necessary for the enjoyment of country pleasures, or keen
interest in the agricultural improvement of his place. His literary
pursuits, wanting the stimulus of congenial spirits, was degenerating
into careless reading and sedentary habits, only diversified by light
dozing; and, after spending the afternoon and evening hours in his
library alone, there was a dreamy abstraction in his eye, that the keen
vigilance of Mrs. Vivian having once detected, she knew immediately came
neither from literary excitement nor intellectual meditation. Thus will
the selfish pursuance of one’s own gratification, alone, fall back upon
the head of him who essays to secure all for himself in yielding nothing
to others.

A wasted youth and useless manhood must end in a neglected and unhonored
age.

Should a few years bring forth a young and beauteous widow, society may
look for the natural results of an unnatural youth, in that saddest of
anomalies, _a gay widow_. And should she essay a second “Experiment of
Living,” we fear that having been worldly when she should have been
romantic, she will now be romantic when it would be more graceful, or at
least more respectable, to be worldly, and the result will scarcely be
less unfortunate and infinitely more ridiculous than the first.

                                                             F. E. F.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _Fanny Corbaux_, _H. S. Sadd, N. Y._
_The Pet Rabbit_,
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE PET RABBIT.


    True were your words, heart-reader, Jacques Rousseau—
      ’Tis woman’s nature to be loving ever;
    Though like the winds, the amorous winds that blow,
      She to one object may be constant never.

    The gentle Julia, fickle as she’s fair,
      Still cannot triumph o’er the pleasing habit.
    Live without love? As well without the air!
      She scorns her husband, but—_adores her rabbit_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by Destouches., Eng^{d} by J.N. Gimbrede.
_The Reprimand_,
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE REPRIMAND.


                            BY EPES SARGENT.


In this utilitarian, leveling, democratic age, when candidates for the
Presidency are expected to attend “mass clam-bakes,” at Seekonk, Squam,
or some equally central and populous locality, it is quite delightful to
meet with a good, old-fashioned, uncompromising aristocrat like Aunt
Adeline. Possessing no discoverable attraction, personal, intellectual,
or moral—masculine in her features, voice and manners—penurious in her
habits—and violent in her prejudices—all these little foibles and
defects are redeemed and dignified by her magnificent family pride. Her
grandmother was niece to a lady, whose husband had a cousin, whose
husband’s brother’s wife’s sister had been lady-in-waiting to Queen
Anne. What a blessed privilege! What a cause for felicitation and
delicious retrospection to the remotest posterity!

Amy Ammidon and her brother Harry had the
never-to-be-sufficiently-appreciated good fortune to be the children of
Aunt Adeline’s brother, and to partake consequently in the lustre of her
ancestral glories. At the time of the incident, the particulars of which
have been communicated to me, Mr. Ammidon, who had been a prosperous
merchant, had met with reverses in business, which compelled him to
circumscribe his expenditures. Harry was supposed to be traveling in
Europe; and Aunt Adeline, much to the chagrin of all concerned, had
undertaken to supply the void in the family, occasioned about a year
before by the death of an affectionate mother and wife, by taking up her
residence amongst them. Such were the circumstances of the little group
early in the spring of 1842.

What a dear, artless, sunny-tempered creature was Amy! Vainly, vainly
has the limner tried accurately to trace her face and figure. He
deserves credit for what he has done. I can see a resemblance—a strong
one, in the picture which the graver of Gimbrede has transferred to
steel. But where is the ever-varying expression, the sparkling animation
of lip and eye, too evanescent and too mutable to be daguerreotyped even
by memory with fidelity? Art can do much, but it cannot do justice to
such a Protean beauty as Amy.

Although born in the city—although the din of Broadway was the first
noise that broke upon her infant slumbers—Amy was as much out of place
in New York, with its reeking gutters, its eternal omnibuses and its
“indignation processions,” as a pond lily would be in a tanner’s pit.
The country, with its wealth of foliage, its fields and its wild
flowers, was her delight. The anticipation of visiting it seemed to be
alone sufficient to fill her heart with cheerfulness during the winter
months. A little cottage, in Westchester county, to which the name of
Glenwood had been given, and which had not been sacrificed in the
general wreck of her father’s property, was her _beau ideal_ of
Paradise. And a delicious spot it was—cool, sequestered, rich in its
smooth lawns and ancient forests, and commanding a fine view of Long
Island Sound, from which a fresh breeze was wafted in the hottest days
of summer. I cannot imagine a more suitable place at which to introduce
Amy to the friendly regards of my readers.

But before I proceed, let me express my regret that a rigid adherence to
truth and candor will not permit me to conceal the fact that there was
one trait of character in which Amy was lamentably and unaccountably
deficient. Notwithstanding the lessons and the example of her
respectable aunt—notwithstanding the hereditary _blood_ in her
veins—notwithstanding the family tree and the family pictures, Amy had
not one particle of that praiseworthy and truly disinterested pride
which springs from the contemplation of the superiority of some remote
ancestor over ourselves. She had not sense enough to see (poor thing!)
why the circumstance of her great grandfather’s having been a bishop was
a sufficient proof of her own orthodoxy and worth, or what her
grandmother’s merit had to do with _hers_. Had she been in the habit of
quoting poetry, she might have adopted the base-spirited sentiment
expressed by Pope:

    What can ennoble fools, or knaves, or cowards?

A great fallacy, and one which never failed to excite the vehement and
proper indignation of Aunt Adeline! I am sorry that at the very outset I
am compelled to tell these things of Amy, but, as they illustrate her
conduct on an important occasion, they could not well be omitted.

It was a bright and beautiful afternoon in June. The air from the water
was fresh and elastic. The bees about Glenwood were plying a brisk
business among the clover, and the birds were singing as if their life
depended on the amount of noise they could make. Amy stole in from the
piazza that encircled the cottage, and, with her apron full of newly
plucked flowers, sat down in the big leathern armchair in the library to
arrange a nosegay. To one who could not sympathize with her admiration
of their fragrance and beauty, her delight would have seemed almost
childish, for she kissed them and laughed, and laughed and kissed them
again, then put her forefinger to her mischievous lips, and whispered
“hush!” as if warning herself against intrusion, then shrugged her ivory
shoulders and laughed once more, as if congratulating herself upon the
undisturbed enjoyment of some interdicted pleasure.

But Amy was mistaken in supposing that she was alone and unobserved, for
at that moment Aunt Adeline, who had been watching her antics from
behind a door, burst in upon her with an exclamation which made her
start from her seat and drop the half-formed nosegay, and scatter the
flowers upon the floor, while she stood trembling like a culprit, with
one hand grasping her apron, and her left elbow instinctively resting on
a couple of large volumes which concealed a whole wilderness of pressed
flowers.

And what was Amy’s crime? Listen, and perhaps you may find out.

“So, Miss—so!” screamed Aunt Adeline, at the top of her voice, which,
in its melody, resembled a Scotch bag-pipe more than a Dorian flute. And
having uttered these monosyllables, she tossed herself into the vacated
chair, as if preparing for a reprimand of some length. Then, pointing to
the abandoned flowers, she sternly asked—“How came you by those
flowers? Speak, minx!”

Amy continued silent; and Aunt Adeline renewed her interrogation with
more severity. A little indignation began now to mingle with Amy’s
grief, and she was on the point of astonishing her aunt with a spirited
reply, when the latter exclaimed:

“You needn’t tell me where you got them, Miss. I know all about it. They
were given to you by that plebeian clodhopper, Tom Greenleaf, the
milk-man’s son. Yes, you mean-spirited thing, you. The milk-man’s son!”

It was even so. Mortifying to my feelings as it is to make any such
admission in regard to a heroine of mine, I must confess that Aunt
Adeline was right, and that the flowers were the gift (pah!) of an
individual of thoroughly rustic extraction. Some twenty years since, old
Greenleaf was the owner of a snug farm on the island of Manhattan; where
he obtained a frugal subsistence by selling milk to the denizens of the
city. It was even true, that occasionally, when the old man was confined
at home by the rheumatism, Tom, who was then a mere lad, would mount the
cart and go the rounds in his father’s stead. While engaged in this
employment, it was his lot to meet Amy Ammidon, whose family he supplied
with the snowy beverage enclosed in his large tin tubs. Amy was then as
rosy-cheeked, black-eyed a little maiden as ever perpetrated unconscious
damage in the hearts of venturous youths. Tom instinctively discovered
her fondness for flowers, and the nosegays he used to bring her in
consequence surpassed all computation. Years rolled on; and one fine
summer day the old milk-man was overwhelmed with astonishment at
discovering that his little thirty-acre farm was worth a hundred
thousand dollars. He sold out, purchased a beautiful estate in
Westchester, removed to it, and just as he was beginning to feel the
_ennui_ of inert prosperity, he died, leaving Tom the sole heir of his
safely invested property.

Tom showed himself a man, every inch of him, in the course he pursued.
He had always had a taste for reading, and he now devoted himself with
assiduity to the attainment of a fitting education. At the age of
twenty-one he graduated at a respectable college, and then wisely chose
the profession of a farmer. He had not been home many days, when in one
of his walks he encountered his old friend Amy. Both were equally
delighted at renewing the acquaintance; and one step led to another,
until Tom had the audacity to send her the nosegay which had called down
Aunt Adeline’s appropriate indignation.

“Hear me, Amy Ammidon,” continued she; “if you dare to disgrace your
family by receiving the addresses of that son of a cauliflower—that
low-born, low-bred cultivator of turnip-tops and radishes—that
superintendent of hay-mows and pig-pens—that vulgar cow-boy—if you
dare to sully the blood of an Ammidon by such a union, I will utterly
disown you, and you shall never have the advantage of my society again.”

Strange to say, Amy’s eyes brightened at this menace, and I am afraid
she was just on the point of exclaiming, “O, then, I will marry him, by
all means;” but she checked herself, and said: “Can’t one receive a few
flowers from a gentleman without risking the imputation of being engaged
to him?”

“Gentleman, indeed! Tom Greenleaf a gentleman!”

“Yes, Miss Adeline Ammidon,” exclaimed Amy in a tone which transfixed
her aunt with amazement, “as true a gentleman as any ancestor of yours
or mine ever was! A gentleman not only in mind and manners, but what is
better far, in heart—and therefore a perfect gentleman!”

“Oh dear! What a deal of spirit Miss Innocence can show when a word is
said against the clodhopper! Why doesn’t she show as much indignation
when Frank Phaeton and Harry Hawker, from both of whom she has had
offers, are abused?”

“I shall be eighteen next January—heigho!”

“So, you mean by that to taunt me with your approaching freedom; but we
will have you married before that time in a manner becoming your rank.
Have you forgotten what I told you about Col. Mornington, a son of the
Earl of Bellingham, being in the city from Canada? My friend, Mrs.
Ogleby, has promised to give him a letter to me, and I am daily
expecting a call. When he comes, I mean to invite him to pass a week at
Glenwood, and if you are not a fool you can bring him to your feet.”

“Isn’t he very dissipated?”

“That is not of the slightest consequence, my dear, when you think of
his splendid connections.”

“I am told he is utterly destitute of principle.”

“He will be a lord when his eldest brother dies. It is ridiculous to
bring up such frivolous objections.”

While this conversation was going on, Greenleaf, who had been lying in
wait for Amy near the porch, was attracted to the window by the loud,
objurgatory tones of aunt Adeline’s voice, and, to his dismay, found
that Amy was the victim of her anger. He was on the point of jumping
into the room, and gagging the old woman, when his eye fell on a
suspicious-looking flask near the window-sill, and he charitably
concluded that the cordial it contained was at the bottom of the
disturbance. How far this conjecture was correct I have never been able
to ascertain. Tom was soon joined by Amy, who, with tears in her eyes,
told him of her aunt’s violent behavior. The lovers sauntered away, arm
in arm, and, as they reached the termination of a shady lane that opened
upon the highway, they saw a carriage, containing a young man of foreign
appearance, with long hair and moustaches, drive toward the cottage.

“That must be the Colonel Mornington, of whom Aunt Adeline spoke,” said
Amy, stifling a sob.

“Shall I knock him down?” asked Tom, clenching his fists.

Before Amy could reply, the carriage was suddenly stopped, and the
stranger, throwing open the door, jumped from it without waiting for the
steps to be let down. Then, rushing toward Amy, he threw his arms about
her neck, hugged and kissed her. So abrupt and rapid was the act, that
Greenleaf was thoroughly confounded at the fellow’s impudence, and had
no opportunity of interposing. He was making preparations to seize the
coxcomb, however, and throw him over the hedge, when he was relieved by
Amy’s exclaiming, “Brother Harry! Is it possible? I should never have
dreamed it was you, with those frightful whiskers.”

“Yes, Amy, it is Harry himself. And you—how you have grown! When I last
saw you, you were a chubby little girl, But, Amy, Amy, is that a tear on
your cheek? What is the meaning of it?”

“Oh, nothing serious, I assure you. I am so glad—so very glad to see
you, Harry! You intend to remain with us, do you not?”

“Nay, I must know the meaning of that tear. Father is well, is he not?”

“When I last heard from him, at Charleston, he was never better. We are
all well—quite well.”

“Introduce me to your companion, Amy.”

Amy did as her brother requested; and the introduction was soon
succeeded by a frank explanation of the position of the parties, and of
Aunt Adeline’s ferocious opposition to the existence of their present
relation.

“I will punish the old shrew,” exclaimed Harry. “I owe her an ancient
grudge, for making me go in petticoats, when a boy, a year longer than
was necessary. Let me see—she is daily expecting this Colonel
Mornington, you say?”

“Yes; and she is studying, with more zest than ever, the family records,
to enlighten him fully in regard to her pedigree.”

“Well, you must concur in a little plot, by which you can be relieved
from her present system of annoyance, and I can gratify the
long-deferred vengeance implanted by her opposition to my appearance in
jacket and trowsers. It is nearly ten years since she saw me. Of course
she will not recognize me with these hirsute appendages. I will appear
as Col. Mornington. I will make love to you. You must prove fickle, and
receive my attentions—and then leave the _dénouement_ to me.”

“Delightful! Do you approve of it, Thomas?”

“By all means. It will be a very harmless mode of revenging ourselves.”

An hour afterwards, as Aunt Adeline was peeping through the parlor
blinds, she saw, as she supposed, the long expected carriage of Col.
Mornington dash up before the door, and the colonel himself—the “dear,
delightful colonel,” with a remarkably languid air, alight. Preceded by
a servant, she hastened to receive him, and, as the door was thrown
open, welcomed him to Glenwood with an antiquarian courtesy. The
colonel’s manner of receiving her salutation was rather peculiar. Before
replying to her greeting, or saying a word, he slowly drew from his
pocket a leather case, from which he took an enormous opera glass. Then
hunting, first in one pocket and then in another, for a handkerchief, he
finally succeeded in finding one; and, in a manner which was not at all
significant of haste, proceeded to wipe the glasses. Then leisurely
returning the handkerchief to its place of deposit, he balanced himself
in a sort of easy straddle, coolly put the opera-glass to his eyes, and
took a long survey of Aunt Adeline’s physiognomy. As soon as he had
finished his inspection he returned the glass to its case, and asked, in
a drawling tone—“Are you Miss Am-Am-Amworth, or Amburgh, or Am—”

“Miss Ammidon, you probably mean,” said Aunt Adeline. “I am that person,
and you, sir, I presume, are Colonel Mornington. You needn’t hunt for
your letter of introduction. I have been expecting the honor of a visit,
sir, for some days, and now bid you heartily welcome to Glenwood. Have
the goodness to walk into the parlor. Your baggage shall be taken care
of. I must insist on your making our cottage your home while you are in
the village.”

“Thawideawquoitewavishesme,” said the colonel, but whether he was
speaking in the Choctaw or Hindostanee tongue, Aunt Adeline could not
guess.

Entering the parlor he encountered Amy, to whom he was at once
introduced by Aunt Adeline. He again went through the process of
inspection with the aid of an opera-glass, and Amy, in spite of her
aunt’s frowns, burst into a fit of laughter and left the room.

“Extwardinarygwirl!” exclaimed the colonel, in the same unknown tongue.
Then turning to Aunt Adeline, he abruptly asked for “bwandy and water.”

As soon as she could comprehend his wants, she recollected, much to her
chagrin, that there was no brandy in the house; and informed the colonel
of the fact, promising at the same time to send to the nearest grocery,
which was a mile off, and obtain the desired article.

“No bwandy! No bwandy in the house!” exclaimed the noble visiter,
staring at his dismayed hostess with an expression of utter
consternation and despair depicted in his countenance.

Assuring him that the brandy should be procured with all possible
expedition, Aunt Adeline hurried out of the room, and despatched all the
servants in different directions, promising a reward to that one who
would be the first to bring home a pint of brandy. No sooner had she
disappeared than Amy re-entered the parlor; and when Aunt Adeline
returned, which she did not venture to do until, after great exertions,
the brandy had been obtained, she saw to her surprise her niece and the
colonel sitting familiarly on the sofa, engaged, apparently, in
affectionate dalliance.

“Now, colonel, if you will try some of this brandy,” said Aunt Adeline.

“Throw it away!” exclaimed the colonel, “here is something better than
_eau de vie_!” and saying thus, he kissed Amy, first on either cheek,
then on her lips, to all which she submitted with perfect resignation.
Aunt Adeline flung up both arms in astonishment. “This is the quickest
wooing,” thought she, “that I ever heard of!”

The colonel had not been two days in the family before it was regarded
as settled that he and Amy were affianced. Aunt Adeline eagerly gave her
consent, notwithstanding some little eccentricities in the young man’s
conduct, of which she did not wholly approve. For instance, when she
undertook to bore him with an explanation of her family tree, he laughed
in her face, and told her that his mare Betsey could boast a better
pedigree. This was touching the old woman on a tender point, but she
suppressed the exhibition of her chagrin through a secret admiration of
that superiority in blood, which could afford to sneer at her genealogy.
Another circumstance was rather annoying, and some illiberal people
might have considered the trait it displayed objectionable in a lover.
The colonel, who had _apparently_ been indulging too freely in strong
potations, on meeting Aunt Adeline alone on the stairs, was rude to the
ancient vestal, and even attempted to throw his arms about her neck. To
tell the truth, Aunt Adeline was a very little shocked at this
ebullition, but when she recollected that the aggressor was the son of
an earl, she forgave him with all her heart, and determined not to
mention the occurrence to her niece.

These, however, were but trivial symptoms of depravity, compared with
those which were soon developed. The colonel had not been engaged two
days when he petrified the “old woman,” as he called her to her face, by
applying to her for money. She could have endured any thing but this
without faltering in her alliance. He might have been as tipsy and
profligate as he pleased, and still she would have thought him an
excellent match for Amy; but in money matters, Aunt Adeline was rigid
and inexorable as death itself. Although in the receipt of a competent
annuity, she had always contrived, from parsimonious motives, to live
upon her friends and relatives; and it was rare indeed that a dollar
found its way from her store. And now Colonel Mornington called upon
her, peremptorily, for a hundred dollars, and would not listen to a
refusal! It was like draining her of her life-blood, but there was no
remedy. With a heavy heart, and with many a longing, lingering look at
the money, she placed it in his hands. She had hoped that he would of
his own accord offer to give her his acceptance for the sum; but the
idea evidently did not occur to him, and she timidly hinted something
about a receipt.

“A what!” exclaimed the colonel in a tone, and with a stare, which
effectually prevented her from renewing the suggestion.

The very next day the colonel applied for another hundred dollars,
ingenuously informing her that he had experienced heavy losses at the
village nine-pin alley. Aunt Adeline at first peremptorily refused to
give him the amount, but she was finally so worked upon by his taunts
and menaces that she acceded to his exorbitant demands. The same scene
was repeated the next day, and the next, and the next, until the colonel
was her debtor to the amount of five hundred dollars, when she
unequivocally declared that she would advance him no more money. The
colonel left her presence, muttering mysterious threats.

Late that night, as Aunt Adeline, with a mind torn by unavailing regrets
and painful conjectures as to the probabilities of her ever getting back
her loan, was vainly trying to compose herself to sleep, she heard a
slight noise at the handle of her chamber door, and, turning her eyes in
the direction, saw to her horror the colonel enter with a dark lanthorn
in his hand and two enormous pistols under his arms. Gently closing the
door, he locked it, and stealthily advanced toward the toilet table,
where he deposited one of the murderous weapons, and then cocking the
other, approached the bed-side. Although Aunt Adeline was shaking with
fright, she had sense enough to feign slumber, and the colonel, after
examining her features and muttering, “it is lucky for the old girl she
is asleep,” proceeded to search the various drawers and trunks in the
room for plunder, having first abstracted a formidable bunch of keys
from under the venerable spinster’s pillow. The most valuable articles
he found were a bag filled with golden half eagles and a little casket
of jewels. Thrusting these into the pockets of his dressing-gown, he
replaced the keys where he had found them, took another look at Aunt
Adeline, to assure himself that she was asleep, and glided quietly out
of the room.

At the breakfast-table the next morning, when Aunt Adeline made her
appearance, both her niece and the colonel professed to be very much
shocked at her pale and altered features; and the latter pressed upon
her some patent pills, in regard to the efficacy of which he told some
wonderful stories. Had not Aunt Adeline been thoroughly convinced of his
wish to poison her, she might have taken some. The poor woman’s troubles
were by no means lessened on the reception of the following letter from
her brother, which was handed to her while her coffee was cooling:

    “Dear Adeline,—Far from having my indignation awakened by your
    account of Amy’s attachment to young Greenleaf, I was heartily
    glad to hear that she had fixed it on so worthy an object. I
    have the most satisfactory assurances as to his worth, his
    unexceptionable habits, and his ability to make my daughter
    happy. What more shall we look for? You say he is a milk-man’s
    son, and ask if I am willing to see my child wedded to a
    clodhopper. Let me tell you, it is no small distinction in these
    days, when whole states have set the example of repudiating
    their debts (or, in plain, downright English, of _swindling
    their creditors_,) to be descended from an honest man, let his
    vocation have been what it might. At any rate, I am delighted at
    Amy’s choice, and I most earnestly forbid your throwing any
    obstacle in the way of its fulfillment. I remain your
    affectionate brother, etc., etc.”

As Aunt Adeline lifted her eyes from the letter, she beheld Amy seated
in the colonel’s lap, and playfully feeding him with a spoon, while at
intervals she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. The girl
was evidently wildly enamored of a character who had shown himself a
most eligible candidate for Sing Sing; and Aunt Adeline had the soothing
reflection, that she herself had originated and encouraged the
attachment. Requesting Amy to follow her to the library, she at once
made known to her the fact of the colonel’s unworthiness, and related
the occurrence of the night before. Amy professed her utter disbelief of
the charges against her “own Arthur,” as she called him, and on her
aunt’s offering to prove them, by calling in a magistrate, and having
the colonel’s trunk searched, the infatuated girl exclaimed:

“Well, what if he is guilty? His father is an earl, and his aunt is the
daughter-in-law of a duke, and happen what may I won’t give up my own
Arthur.”

Aunt Adeline groaned in spirit as she replied—“Have you so soon
forgotten that nice, respectable, amiable young man, Greenleaf, to whom
you gave so much encouragement? I never believed you could be so fickle,
Amy!”

“Greenleaf! Foh! Turnip-tops and cabbage-heads! Radishes and carrots!
How can you condescend to mention his vulgar, vegetable name after what
yourself have said about him to me, my dear aunt? Besides, how do you
know that the milk-man’s son has not changed his mind by this time,
seeing your hostility to his pretensions?”

Aunt Adeline had penetration enough to put a favorable construction upon
this last interrogation, and, leaving her niece, she started off to pay
a visit to Greenleaf. After an abundance of circumlocution, she ventured
to sound him upon the subject of her niece. To her disappointment, she
found him cold and impenetrable, and when she put him the question
point-blank, whether he wished to marry Amy, the upstart replied that he
had some young ladies in his eye, who, if they did not possess the
personal charms of her niece, could boast of more illustrious ancestors,
which, of course, rendered them far more eligible. Aunt Adeline could
only groan. The weapons with which she was foiled were of her own
forging.

Poor Aunt Adeline! After being tormented a couple of days longer, the
joke was explained to her, the money and jewels were restored, and
Colonel Mornington and Harry Ammidon were shown to be one and the same
personage. In the first blush of her mortification and rage, she packed
up her trunks, and removed to the city, where she bivouacked upon a
niece, who was blessed with a houseful of small children. Soon after her
departure, Greenleaf and Amy were married, and established in the new
and tasteful structure built by the father and embellished by the son.
Since that event, there has been but one ripple in the smooth stream of
their felicity, and that was occasioned by the reception of a letter
from Aunt Adeline, in which was the following passage:

“You know, Amy dear, that you were always my favorite niece, and I am
sure you will be pleased to hear that I intend paying you a long visit
next month. I am quite willing to forego the gayeties of New York, for
the pleasure of passing a year or two with you and your charming
husband. I hear you see a good deal of company, and are visited by many
highly genteel people from the city. I always said that my darling Amy
would make a creditable match. You may expect me early in October.”

Immediately on the arrival of this letter, there were a number of
anxious consultations in regard to its contents. A proposition was
brought forward by Harry Ammidon for blowing up the old woman with
gunpowder, after a plan that had been communicated to him in Paris by
one of the conspirators against Louis Philippe. This project being
objected to, he suggested whether she couldn’t be put into a haunted
room, and a ghost hired, for a small compensation, to torment her
nightly. But the house being one of modern construction, and no well
authenticated murder having been yet committed in it, this contrivance
did not appear altogether feasible.

When I took leave of the family, which was on a pleasant afternoon last
September, they were still plotting the means of averting the menaced
visitation. Should any thing interesting transpire in this connection,
perhaps I will give an account of it in a supplement to my present
narrative.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE LIFE VOYAGE—A BALLAD.


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


    Once in the olden time there dwelt,
          Beside the sounding sea,
    A little maid—her garb was coarse,
          Her spirit pure and free.

    Her parents were an humble twain,
          And poor, as poor could be;
    Yet gaily sang the guileless child,
          Beside the sounding sea.

    The hut was bare, and scant the fare,
          And hard her little bed;
    But she was rich! A single gem
          Its beauty round her shed.

    She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—
          That pearl whose lustrous glow
    Made her white forehead dazzling fair,
          And pure as sunlit snow.

    Her parents died! With tears, she cried,
          “God will my father be!”
    Then launched alone her shallop light,
          And bravely put to sea.

    The sail she set was virgin-white
          As inmost lily leaf,
    And angels whispered her from Heaven,
          To loose it or to reef.

    And ever on the dancing prow
          One glorious brilliant burned,
    By whose clear ray she read her way,
          And every danger learned:

    For she had hung her treasure there,
          Her heaven-illumined pearl!
    And so she steered her lonely bark,
          That fair and guileless girl!

    The wind was fresh, the sails were free,
          High dashed the diamond spray,
    And merrily leaping o’er the sea
          The light skiff left the bay!

    But soon false, evil spirits came,
          And strove, with costly lure,
    To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
          And win her jewel pure:

    They swarmed around the fragile boat,
          They brought her diamonds rare,
    To glisten on her graceful throat,
          And bind her flowing hair!

    They brought her gold from Afric-land;
          And from the sea-king’s throne,
    They pilfered gems to grace her hand
          And clasp her virgin zone.

    But still she shook the silken curl
          Back from her beaming eyes,
    And cried—“I bear my spotless pearl
          Home, home to yonder skies!

    “Now shame ye not your ocean gems
          And Eastern gold to show?
    Behold! how mine but burns them all!
          God’s smile is in its glow!”

    Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,
          High shoots the diamond spray,
    And merrily o’er the murmuring sea
          The light boat leaps away!

    They swarmed around the fragile bark,
          They strove, with costlier lure,
    To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
          And win her jewel pure.

    “We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—
          We bring thee pleasures free—
    No empress, in her silk-hung bower,
          May queen her realm like thee!

    “Now yield us up the one, white pearl!
          ’Tis but a star, whose ray
    Will fail thee, rash, devoted girl,
          When tempests cloud thy way.”

    But still she smiled a loftier smile,
          And raised her frank, bright eyes,
    And cried—“I bear my vestal star,
          Home, home to yonder skies!”

    The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—
          High shoots the diamond spray!
    And merrily o’er the moaning sea
          The light boat leaps away!

    Suddenly, stillness broods around,
          A stillness as of death,
    Above, below—no motion, sound!
          Hardly a struggling breath!

    Then wild and fierce the tempest came,
          The dark wind-demons clashed,
    Their weapons swift—the air was flame!
          The waves in madness dashed!

    They swarmed around the tossing boat—
          “Wilt yield thy jewel _now_?
    Look! look! already drenched in spray,
          It trembles at the prow.

    “Be _ours_ the gem! and safely launched
          Upon a summer sea,
    Where never cloud may frown in heaven,
          Thy pinnance light shall be!”

    But still she smiled a fearless smile,
          And raised her trusting eyes,
    And cried—“I bear my talisman,
          Home, home to yonder skies!”

    And safe through all that blinding storm
          The true bark floated on,
    And soft its pearl-illumined prow
          Through all the tumult shone!

    An angel, guided through the clouds,
          By that most precious light,
    Flew down the fairy helm to seize
          And steer the boat aright.

    Then died the storm upon the sea!
          High dashed the diamond spray,
    And merrily leaping, light and free,
          The shallop sailed away!

    And meekly, when, at eve, her bark
          Its destined port had found,
    She moored it by the mellow spark
          Her jewel shed around!

    Would’st know the name the maiden wore?
          ’Twas Innocence—like thine!
    Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?
          ’Twas Truth—a gem divine!

    _Thou_ hast the jewel—keep it bright,
          Undimmed by mortal fear,
    And bathe each stain upon its light
          With Grief’s repentant tear!

    Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,
          By Flattery unbeguiled!
    Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,
          My pure and simple child!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            HESTER ORMESBY.


                        BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.


           Aye, it is ever thus: in every heart
             Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,
           Some deep desire in every soul has part,
             Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;
           Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffed
           That not _one_ drop was wanting to life’s draught?


“So Miss Ormesby is dead. Well, no one will miss her; these queer people
are never of any use in the world.” Such was the cold and sneering
comment made by a certain commonplace, precise, _pattern_ woman, upon
the sudden death of one whose exaggerated sensibility had been her only
fault, and who had expiated her folly by a life of sorrow and seclusion.
Such is the judgment of the world: a crime may be forgiven, while a
weakness receives no pardon.

Hester Ormesby had been one of those supernumeraries usually found in
all large families. She was neither the eldest child, the pride of the
household—nor the youngest, usually the pet: she was distinguished
neither for great beauty nor precocious talent, and as she had been not
only preceded in the world by four promising sisters, but also succeeded
by several sturdy brothers, she certainly occupied a very insignificant
position. The mother, who had early determined that the beauty of her
girls should purchase for them a more elevated station in society,
already saw in imagination her blooming roses transplanted to the hotbed
of fashionable life, but for this new claimant on her maternal care,
this humble little “_cinque-foil_,” a lowlier destiny must be
anticipated. She could devise no better plan, in aid of the child’s
future fortunes, than to bestow upon her the name of an eccentric old
relative, whose moderate estate was entirely at her own disposal. This
was accordingly done, and, notwithstanding the indisputable authority of
Shakspeare on the subject of names, it was Hester Ormesby’s _name_ which
decided the fate of her future life, since it was the means of placing
her under such influences as could not fail to direct the flexile mind
of childhood.

Miss Hester Templeton was a maiden lady who had long passed her grand
climacteric, and who lived in that close retirement which is so
peculiarly favorable to the growth of whims and oddities. At the age of
twenty she had been betrothed, but her lover died on the very day fixed
for their marriage; and the widowed bride, yielding to the violence of
her overwhelming sorrow, determined to abjure the world forever. For
years she never quitted the limits of her own apartment, and was
generally looked upon as the victim of melancholy madness; until the
death of her parents made it necessary for her to take some interest in
the affairs of every-day life, when it was discovered that whatever
might be her eccentricity, her intellect was perfectly unclouded. Acute
and sensible in all worldly matters, quite competent to manage her
pecuniary affairs, and gifted with a degree of shrewdness which enabled
her to see through the fine-spun webs of cunning and deceit, there was
yet one weak point in her character which showed how immedicable had
been the early wound of her heart. Her memory of the dead was still
religiously cherished, her vow of seclusion still bound her, and thirty
years had passed since her foot had crossed the threshold of her own
door. Living in a remote country village, which offered no temptation to
either the speculator or the manufacturer, time had wrought few changes
around her. The old homestead, in which she was born, was the spot in
which she meant to die, and she would have thought it sacrilege to
change the position of the cumbrous furniture, or even to displace a
superannuated article by a more modern invention. Her own apartment was
filled with memorials of her lost lover. His picture looked down upon
her from the wall, his books lay on her table, and in an antique cabinet
were preserved letters, love gifts, withered nosegays and all the
melancholy remnants of by-gone affection, which, to the bereaved heart,
are but as the dust and ashes of the dead.

To this lonely and isolated being, in whose character romance and morbid
sensibility were so singularly combined with worldly prudence and
sagacity, the acquisition of a new object of interest, in the person of
her little namesake, formed an epoch in life. She was flattered by the
compliment, and pleased with the importance which it gave her in her own
opinion. She determined to adopt the child, and, as she found no
difficulty in obtaining the consent of the parents, she scarcely waited
for the lapse of actual infancy ere she look the little girl to her
heart and home.

Few children would have been happy in such seclusion as that in which
Miss Templeton lived; but Hester Ormesby possessed that quiet, gentle,
loving nature which finds sources of content and fountains of affection
everywhere. With the quick perception of a sensitive nature, the little
girl had early discovered that she was not a favorite at home. She could
not complain of unkindness, for Mrs. Ormesby considered herself a most
exemplary mother, and prided herself upon the strict performance of
every duty. She would not, for the world, have given a cake to one child
without furnishing all the others with a similar dainty, but she was
quite unaware of the fact that in voice, and look, and manner may be
displayed as much of the injustice of favoritism as in the unequal
distribution of bounties. There are no beings on earth to whom sympathy
is so essential as to children. Those “little people,” as Dr. Johnson
calls them, well know the difference between simple indulgence and
actual interest in their concerns. The most expensive gifts, the most
unlimited indulgence, is of less value to them than an earnest and
affectionate attention to their petty interests, and the mother whose
influence will linger longest in the minds of her world tried sons is
she who has most frequently flung aside her work or her book, to share
their infantine sports, or listen to their boyish schemes of happiness.
This sympathy was denied to Hester. Her mother was proud of the four
beautiful girls, who attracted the notice even of strangers, but the
little sickly looking child, whose nervous timidity rendered her almost
repulsive, was merely one to be well fed, and clad, and kept from bodily
harm. The transition between this indifference and the affection with
which Miss Templeton treated her, was delightful to the shy and
sensitive child. In her father’s house she was perfectly insignificant,
in her new home she was an object of the greatest importance; and though
Miss Templeton’s quiet, old-fashioned mode of life offered few
attractions to a healthy and spirited child, it was exactly the kind of
existence best suited to the taste of a delicate one, like Hester, who
possessed a precocity of feeling more dangerous, in all cases, than
precocity of mind.

Miss Templeton had some excellent notions respecting education. Implicit
obedience, deference, perfect truthfulness and active industry were, in
her opinion, essential points; and as these requisites have become so
obsolete as to have quite gone into disuse in modern systems of
instruction, it may be judged how entirely the old lady had fallen
behind the march of intellect. Her affection awakened some of the
dormant energy of her character, and she applied herself diligently to
the task of training and disciplining the mind of her young charge. In
this, as in most other cases, usefulness brought its own blessing along
with it, and, as the child increased in knowledge, the heart of the
recluse seemed to expand to a wider circle of sympathies. It was,
indeed, a pleasant thing to see the frost of so many winters melting
away before the sunshine of childish happiness, and it may be questioned
whether Miss Templeton or Hester derived the most benefit from this
close connection between them.

But character in its earliest development is very chameleon-like, and
takes its hue from the objects with which it is brought directly in
contact. Miss Templeton educated Hester thoroughly and usefully; she
imparted to her a stock of knowledge far beyond that acquired at the
most of schools, she imbued her with noble principles and an accurate
sense of duty, but she also endowed her, unconsciously and involuntarily
it may be, with her own high-toned and romantic sentiments. Indeed, it
was impossible for a sensitive child to live within the atmosphere of
romance and not imbibe its spirit. The circumstances of Miss Templeton’s
life, her unselfish devotion to the memory of the dead, her reverential
love for him who had lain so many years within the tomb, her scrupulous
adherence to a vow made in the first anguish of a wounded spirit, her
quiet sufferance of a blighted heart during a long life, all were
calculated to make a deep impression on the mind of a girl whose
sensibilities were already morbidly acute. The unlimited range of her
reading, too, tended to confirm such impressions. With that respect for
every thing which bears the semblance of a printed volume, so
characteristic of a bookworm, Miss Templeton had carefully preserved an
extensive but very miscellaneous library. The poets and essayists of
England’s golden age were ranged side by side with the controversial
theologists—sermons were elbowed by cookery books—Sir Charles
Grandison was a close neighbor to the grave Sherlock—while Clarissa
Harlowe and Pamela were in curious juxtaposition with the excellent
Jeremy Taylor and Richard Baxter. Novels and romances formed no small
part of this heterogeneous collection, and Hester, who was a most
inveterate reader, devoured every work of fiction which came in her way.
To the present generation, who have become fastidious from literary
indulgence, and who, since the days of Edgeworth and Scott, ask for
_vraisemblance_ in the fiction over which they hang enraptured, the
romances of a preceding age seem dull, prosy and unnatural. But at the
time of which I speak, the great object of the novelist was to portray
heroines, such as never could exist, and events such as never could have
happened, while feelings refined to absolute mawkishness, and sentiments
sublimated beyond the limits of human understanding, were expressed in
parlance to which the language of common life was tame and trite. With
such models placed before her in her favorite volumes, and the example
of Miss Templeton to impress their truthfulness upon her ductile mind,
it is not surprising that Hester Ormesby should have been thoroughly
imbued with romance at an age when most girls are only thinking of their
dolls.

Hester was in the habit of paying an annual visit to her parents, but
seldom derived much pleasure from her short sojourn with the family. Her
mother derided her rustic manners, while her sisters ridiculed what they
termed her “highflown notions,” and it was rather in obedience to the
dictates of duty than in the hope of pleasure that she ever turned her
face toward the home of her infancy. On one occasion, however, her visit
produced a more lasting impression. Among the gentlemen who surrounded
her elder and lovelier sisters was one whose personal appearance was
little calculated to prepossess a stranger. Small in stature, and with a
slight deformity which destroyed all grace, his countenance full of
intelligence, but “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” Edward
Legard was not one on whom the eye of woman rests with pleasure.
Reserved and almost cold in manners, he mingled rarely in the gayeties
of society, and, excepting amid a select circle, seldom displayed the
treasures of his gifted mind. Yet those who had once seen him in moments
of enthusiasm, when the fire of genius lit up his dark eye, and the
honey-dew of eloquence hung on his pale lip, could never forget the
effect of his words and looks. But he was excessively sensitive, the
merest trifle discomposed him, and there were times when, for days
together, his manner was moody, sad, and almost severe. Legard was an
artist of no mean skill, but he was young and poor, and the poetic
images which filled his imagination, and were depicted on the speaking
canvass, or portrayed in the graphic language of eloquence, were unable
to secure him the gifts of fortune. The hope of his heart was a visit to
the birthplace of Art—the glorious land of shadows—the kingdom of
noble memories—even Italy; and for this he toiled day after day as if
life had no other object worth attainment.

When she first met Legard, Hester Ormesby had just numbered her
fourteenth summer, and the genial influence of renovated health had
given beauty to her countenance and symmetry to her form. Struck with
the bounding freedom of her step, the grace of her unfettered movements,
and the rich bloom of her dark but clear complexion, the young artist
had already made several sketches of the unconscious girl before she
became sensible of his notice. He regarded her as a lovely child, who
stood upon the very threshold of womanhood, while the sentiments which
were hereafter to become passions, were slowly budding within her heart,
their existence only known by their sweet and delicate perfume of maiden
modesty. He was charmed with her freshness of feeling, her enthusiasm,
her girlish romance, and found in her artless character a new and
delightful study. An intimacy, characterized by all the purest and best
impulses of human nature, sprung up between them; yet it was only the
familiar intercourse which might safely exist between a gifted man and
an admiring child. Legard would have denied the possibility of inspiring
a passion in so young a heart, but a very little knowledge of woman’s
nature might have led him to doubt the prudence of forcing into
premature existence those passions whose slow expansion formed so sweet
a subject of contemplation.

Hester returned from this visit almost reluctantly, and, for the first
time in her life, her home seemed dull and sad. She carried with her a
beautifully finished sketch of herself, painted by Legard, for Miss
Templeton, while a few stanzas addressed to her, on parting, by the same
gifted individual, and a faded rosebud which he laid once twined in her
long curls, were her own solitary treasures.

Not long after this, Miss Templeton was seized with a severe nervous
affection, which partially deprived her of the use of her limbs, and
compelled her to require the constant aid of others. Hester loved her
too devotedly to shrink from such attendance, and month after month
passed away, while she was confined to the invalid’s apartment, with
only her own thoughts to relieve the monotony of her existence. Had she
never met Legard, such thoughts would have been but

            “The thousand things
      That keep young hearts forever glowing—
    Vague wishes, fond imaginings,
      Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”

Like all the fancies of a young and pure-hearted girl, they would have
been indefinite and dream-like, fading away ere their outlines were
accurately determined, like the frost-work landscapes on a window-pane.
But now there was form and coloring to all such visions. The image of
that pale intellectual being, full of genius and morbid feeling,
aspiring after immortality, yet pining over mere physical defects, was
ever present with her. She thought over all their past interviews, and
words which seemed meaningless when first uttered, now were of deep
import when repeated by the magical voice of memory. She recalled his
looks, and the glance which then only spoke a love for the beautiful in
nature, now, when reflected from the mirror of fancy, was fraught with
earnest tenderness. The consequence of such pernicious day dreaming may
be easily imagined. She persuaded herself into the belief that she was
beloved, and, at fifteen, Hester Ormesby was already the passionate, the
tender, the loving woman. Reader, do you doubt the possibility of such
rapid development of the affections? Ask any imaginative, warm-hearted,
truth-loving woman, if, amid the arcana of her past emotions, some
remnants of such a girlish passion do not yet exist.

During several years Hester was confined to Miss Templeton’s sick room,
and, though occasionally receiving visits and letters from her family,
she heard nothing of Legard, excepting that he had departed for Italy.
Perhaps the knowledge of his absence tended to reconcile her to the
close seclusion in which she now lived, and, with a degree of imprudence
perfectly natural to such a character, she treasured up every thing
which could feed her romantic passion. A book which his pencil had
marked—a plant which he had admired—a melody which he had
praised—even the color of a ribbon which he had once approved, were
objects of remembered interest to her. She delighted to think of him as
roaming through the galleries of ancient art, drinking deep draughts of
beauty from the antique fountains of classic taste, and winning, leaf by
leaf, the laurel bough which had been the object of his vain longing. Of
the future—of his return and its probable results to herself, she never
thought. Nothing is so purely unselfish as true love; it asks every
thing for its object, but nothing for itself; and she who finds
matrimonial calculations mingling with the early emotions of her heart,
may make a notable managing and useful creature, but cannot lay claim to
the character of a true, devoted, self-forgetting woman.

Hester Ormesby was just eighteen when the death of Miss Templeton
deprived her of her best friend, and made it necessary for her to return
to her childhood’s home. Her mother’s scheme had fully succeeded, and,
as a compensation for her homely appellation, she was now the mistress
of the old homestead, together with some five or six thousand dollars in
personal property. It was but a small fortune, to be sure; but Mrs.
Ormesby had managed to marry two of her daughters advantageously by
means of their extreme beauty, and concluding that Hester was quite
pretty enough for an heiress, she had been careful to quadruple the
amount of her bequest when making mention of it to those who were likely
to repeat the tale. But the poor woman found that the daughters, for
whom she was now to manœuvre, were far more difficult to manage than
those whom she had already placed so comfortably in their carriages.

Celestina Ormesby was exceedingly beautiful. Her blond hair, dazzling
complexion, clear blue eyes, and rosy mouth, together with the
expression of cherub sweetness which characterized her countenance, made
her just such a creature as a painter might select as his model of
seraphic loveliness; while her manners were perfectly bewitching from
their innocent frankness. There was a tenderness in her voice—an almost
plaintive tone—as if her heart were longing for sympathy; which,
combined with her pleading glance and sweet simplicity of demeanor, was
quite irresistible. Yet all this, except the natural gift of beauty, was
the effect of consummate art. Celestina had been a coquette from her
very childhood—deception seemed an innate idea, and from the time when
she first practiced her little arts upon the boys at dancing school, she
never looked, or said, or did any thing without calculating its full
effect. She cared less for marrying well than for securing a host of
lovers. To have refused many was her proudest boast, and she looked
forward to matrimony as the termination of a long vista of triumphs. In
vain Mrs. Ormesby argued, and scolded and entreated; Celestina trusted
in the power of her charms, and suffered several most advantageous
matches to escape, while she was enjoying the unprofitable pleasures of
admiration.

Hester was as different from her sister in character as in person, and,
if she attracted less general attention, she obtained more lasting
regard. Men of talent and character—persons of quiet domestic habits,
who had been brought up among virtuous sisters, and, therefore, knew how
to appreciate the real value of woman—such were the admirers of the
less obtrusive sister. But Hester was insensible to all their homage,
and, far from imitating Celestina’s example, sought rather to withdraw
from all their adulation. Her acquaintance with society had taught her
to distrust her long cherished dream of love, and, though the image of
Edward Legard still possessed its influence over her imagination, she
was not insensible to the fact that, in shutting out all other
affections from her heart, she should be guilty of an act of folly.
When, therefore, she was addressed by a man whose talents commanded her
respect, while his virtues won her esteem, she yielded to her mother’s
wishes, and, without actually accepting his proffered hand, contented
herself with not rejecting his suit. Many a girl is placed in precisely
similar circumstances. Many a woman accepts one who ranks _second_ in
her estimation, because he who stands _first_ is unattainable; and,
however wrong such conduct may seem in principle, it will still be
pursued so long as women are taught that the term “old maid” is one of
reproach, and that the chief end and aim of their existence is marriage.

Mr. Vernon was a widower, rather past the prime of life, remarkably
handsome in person, a great lover of literature, gifted with fine
talents, and possessed of an ample fortune. Even Hester, uncalculating
as she was, could not be insensible to the advantages of such an
alliance, and, had she never seen Legard, she would doubtless have been
quite satisfied with the calm, quiet liking which she felt for her new
lover. But in the stillness of her own bosom arose the spectre of that
first vague love—the very shadow of a shade—throwing its dark image
athwart the stream of memory. Mr. Vernon was one of those persevering
men, however, who will not be repulsed. His proposals were rather
hesitatingly declined, but he proffered them a second time. Hester
explained to him her scruples respecting the feelings with which he had
inspired her, and he answered her by disclaiming all pretensions to that
passionate and devoted love which his principles taught him to denounce
as idolatrous. A calm and tender friendship was all he asked, and that
Hester had already given. It was no wonder, therefore, that, pressed as
she was, on all sides, by advice and entreaty, while the lapse of every
day made her more and more ashamed of the real cause of her reluctance,
she at last yielded her consent to become a wife.

Overjoyed at his success, Mr. Vernon urged a speedy fulfillment of her
promise. Preparations were immediately commenced, and, as the bridegroom
was already installed in a stately mansion, nothing now was necessary
but to arrange the bridal paraphernalia. But no sooner was the affair
definitively settled, than Hester seemed to become sensible she had done
wrong. Early associations returned in their full force—her ideas of
first love, enduring through a life of estrangement, and living even
beyond the dreary changes of the grave, came back with reproachful power
to her mind. She hated herself for the facility with which she had
yielded to new impressions. The dream of her youth was so much sweeter
to her heart than the realities of the present, that she felt as if it
would be sacrilege to wed another. She became half wild with excitement,
and, at length, poured out her whole heart in a letter which she
determined to place in Mr. Vernon’s hands; hoping that he might be
induced to withdraw his suit. But Mrs. Ormesby now exerted her skill and
tact. Unwilling to lose such a son-in-law, she assailed Hester with
every weapon her ingenuity could devise. Though ignorant of the real
cause of Hester’s repugnance, she yet half suspected some secret
attachment, and, knowing the sensitive delicacy and maiden pride of the
poor girl, she was enabled to influence her in the most effective
manner. Hester was persuaded to suppress the letter—she was assured
that many women married with no more ardent attachment than actuated
her, and instances were adduced of the happy results which were sure to
proceed from a union founded on mutual esteem. Weak as a child in all
matters of mere feeling, utterly incapable of reasoning on such
subjects; and, accustomed to give up her judgment entirely to the
control of her imagination, Hester saw the approach of her bridal day
with mingled terror and remorse.

The appointed time arrived, and Hester, in a tumult of feeling which,
but for her mother’s watchfulness, would have led her even then to
confess the truth to Mr. Vernon, was attired for the ceremony. Pale and
trembling she met her lover, and as she placed a hand, cold as death, in
the warm grasp of his, she was in doubt whether her reluctance arose
from the memory of past affection, or from a simple consciousness that
her heart held treasures which did not accompany the gift of her
hand—whether she shrunk because she loved another, or only because she
did not love him. So vague, so indistinct had been her early dream,
that, even now, she could not define the limits between it and reality.
The ceremony was to be performed in church, and, placed before the
altar, with her beautiful sister at her side, as bridemaid, Hester heard
the commencement of the service. The awful requisition which demands
_truth_, even as it will be exhibited “at the last day, when the secrets
of all hearts shall be revealed,” was solemnly uttered, and the
officiating clergyman paused one moment, as if to give time for the
confession of any impediment which might exist. At that instant Hester
raised her eyes and beheld, leaning against a pillar near the altar,
with a countenance in which the wildest emotions of grief were depicted,
the long absent Edward Legard. The shock was too great—with a faint
cry, she sunk to the floor, while her head struck, with some violence,
against the rails of the altar. All was now confusion and dismay. The
unwedded bride was borne to her home, and her medical attendants
enjoined the most perfect quiet, both of mind and body. Her nervous
system had received a severe shock; and, while her physicians attributed
it to the over excitement of the moment, her family fancied they could
trace it to the deep reluctance with which she had contemplated the
marriage. For several weeks she was in imminent danger, and, even after
her convalescence, she suffered from a deep dejection which seemed to
portend the most serious injury to the mind as well as the body. One of
her first acts, when permitted to exercise her slowly returning
strength, was to write a letter to Mr. Vernon, frankly stating her
repugnance to the marriage, and entreating his forgiveness for the wound
she had inflicted upon his feelings. But Mr. Vernon was too
matter-of-fact a man to understand Hester’s character. His self-love was
wounded, and he deigned no reply to her eloquent and passionate appeal.
In little more than three months afterwards she received her letter,
enclosed in a blank cover, together with a piece of bride-cake, and the
“at home” cards of _Mr._ and _Mrs._ Vernon.

When Hester was so far recovered as to admit the family to her
apartment, she learned that Legard, who had only arrived from Europe the
day preceding her ill-omened nuptials, had been a constant visiter
during her illness. The first evening that she descended to the
drawing-room she met him, and she could but rejoice that the absence of
Celestina secured to them an uninterrupted interview. Ever ready to
deceive herself, she fancied that the warmth of his congratulations, on
her recovery, proceeded from a peculiar interest in her welfare, and, as
she gazed on the emaciated form and pallid cheek of the poor artist, she
felt all her romantic passion revive. A recurrence to their first
meeting led to one of those half-sentimental, half-tender conversations
which are always so dangerous to a susceptible heart; and when he spoke
of long-hidden sorrow, and hinted at a hopeless attachment, Hester could
not doubt that she fully understood his meaning. Maiden modesty
restrained the confession which rose to her lips, but she felt that the
time was fast approaching when both would be made happy; and, while
Legard saw in her only the sympathizing friend, she fancied he beheld
the mistress of his heart.

Two days later, when Hester returned from a short ride, she was informed
that Legard had called to bid farewell. No one but Celestina had been at
home to receive him, and, after a long interview with her, he had left
his adieus for the family, previous to his embarking for Charleston.
Hester was too much accustomed to Celestina’s vanity to pay much
attention to the significant smile with which her sister mentioned
Legard. She knew that it was no uncommon thing for the beautiful
coquette to claim, _by insinuation_, lovers who had never thought of
offering their homage; and, therefore, while she deeply regretted the
fatality which seemed to interpose obstacles between Legard and herself,
she felt no doubt as to her own possession of his heart. She believed
that his poverty and ill success had restrained the expression of his
cherished love, and she determined on his return to afford him such
opportunities of avowal as he could not mistake. But alas! for all her
anticipations. Legard reached Charleston just as the yellow fever had
commenced its frightful ravages; he was one of its first victims, and
the ship which had borne him from his native shore brought back the
tidings of his untimely death.

To the Ormesby family the poor artist was an object of such utter
insignificance that they never dreamed of attributing Hester’s sudden
relapse to the news of his melancholy fate. A long fit of illness left
her listless and inert, and giving herself up entirely to the guidance
of her romantic nature, she withdrew entirely from society. The more she
reflected upon the past, the more she was confirmed in the belief of
Legard’s attachment to her. His words, his manners, and, above all, the
wretched countenance which he wore on the day of her bridal, all
convinced her of his love; while an acute sense of his poverty and his
personal defects, together with his probable belief in Hester’s
attachment to the man to whom she had been betrothed, seemed to her
sufficient reasons for his silence and reserve. She became cold,
abstracted and indifferent to every thing. Life seemed to her one long
dream, and her days were passed in that vague reverie which is as
pernicious to the mind as the habitual opium draught to the body.

Fifteen years were passed in this aimless, useless kind of existence.
She walked amid shadows, a quiet, harmless being, mechanically
performing the common duties of life, even as a hired laborer, who toils
rather to finish the day than to complete his work. The dream of her
youth became a sort of monomania; the one subject on which her mind was
unsound and unsettled; while the epithet of “eccentric,” which is so
often used to cover a multitude of errors, was here applied to a single
weakness. That dream was destined to be rudely broken; but the strings
of her gentle heart—that delicate instrument on which fancy had so long
played a mournful melody—were destined to be broken with it.

Celestina Ormesby had married, and, with the usual fortune of a
coquette, had made the worst possible choice. Deserted by a worthless
husband, after years of ill treatment, she had returned home only to
die; and it was during the examination of her letters and papers, after
her decease, that Hester was awakened at length to know the truth. With
a natural but unpardonable vanity, Celestina had carefully preserved all
the epistles of her various lovers, and Hester, wondering at the
indiscriminate vanity which had led her sister to encourage the
addresses of some who were far beneath her in the scale of society, had
thrown by many packages, unread, when her attention was attracted by a
parcel lettered “From Edward Legard.” It was not in the nature of woman
to resist such a temptation. The letters were opened and read with the
most intense eagerness, and Hester at length learned the extent of her
own weakness. The secret of Legard’s unhappiness was revealed to her. He
was indeed the victim of a hopeless passion, but he pined not for her
who had cherished the life-long vision of his love. He had fallen a
victim to the arts of Celestina, who, in the gratification of her own
inordinate selfishness, had not scrupled to add the envenomed draught of
disappointed affection to the bitter chalice from which gifted poverty
must ever drink. He had loved her passionately and devotedly, and the
look of hopeless sorrow which, even at the foot of the altar, had
transformed the half-wedded bride into the lonely and heart-stricken
spinster, had been directed not to her, but to the fickle and beautiful
bridemaid at her side.

Hester had long suffered from an organic disease of the heart, and her
physicians had warned her that any sudden excitement, or severe shock,
whether of grief or terror, might prove fatal. The event justified their
predictions. She was found sitting at a table, strewed with letters, her
head was resting upon her arms, as if, like a wearied child, she had
been overcome with slumber, but it was the weight of a colder hand which
pressed her brow. She had received the severest of all shocks—the
illusion that had brightened her early life, and shed a pure, sweet
radiance over the loneliness of her latter days, was suddenly dispelled,
and the victim of imaginary sorrows now “slept the sleep that knows no
waking.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    HYMN FOR THE FUNERAL OF A CHILD.


                           BY JAMES ALDRICH.


    Lift up our suffering hearts, O Lord!
      Let grief our souls no longer bow,
    Here, in this house of death, afford
      Sense of thy grateful presence now.

    Thou griev’st us with no ill intent,
      Though missed and mourned our child must be;
    This deep affliction thou hast sent
      Shall closer bind our hearts to thee.

    Sweet words of comfort! we have read,
      Till hope sublimest faith became,
    What Jesus in Judea said,
      When children for his blessing came.

    Yet, lost and loved! through coming years
      How many sighs must uttered be,
    How many silent thoughts and tears,
      Our hearts will consecrate to thee.

    In the cold grave, without a stain,
      We place thy little form to-day,
    But hope to meet thee once again,
      When the long night shall pass away.

    Most holy, merciful, and just!
      Be our complaining hearts forgiven;
    To Thee we yield our darling trust,
      Receive his gentle soul in heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              MALINA GRAY.


                          BY ANN S. STEPHENS.


                       (Continued from page 214.)


                              CHAPTER II.

            “Oh, it is pleasant for the good to die—to feel
            Their last mild pulses throbbing, while the seal
            Of death is placed upon the tranquil brow;
            The soul in quiet looks within itself
            And sees the heavens pictured faintly there.”


Those less innocent and pure minded than Phebe Gray, might have thought
lightly both of her sister’s fault and its probable punishment, but to
one brought up in the strict discipline of a Connecticut church, and
with a deep reverence for all its exactions, any thing like contempt of
them was little less than sacrilege; and to be reprimanded by the
minister, a disgrace which would have broken poor Phebe’s heart, had she
been called upon to endure it instead of her sister. When she reached
her room the gentle girl knelt down in the midst of her tears and prayed
earnestly, for in all her troubles and in all her tranquil joys, she had
a Father to whom she could plead as a little child—a Father in heaven,
though she had none on earth.

Phebe was yet kneeling, subdued and tranquilized, for prayer was the
poetry of her existence, when the door was flung suddenly open, and
Malina entered the chamber, her eyes flashing and her lips trembling
with passionate feelings.

“Never!” she exclaimed, while the tears stood on her burning cheeks,
“never, never!”

“What has happened—what have they done to you?” inquired her gentle
sister, rising from her knees; “Oh Malina, do not look so angry, I
scarcely know you with that face.”

“Angry, sister, who would not be angry, persecuted as I am, and all
because I would not sit still and be insulted in open church, because I
did not cringe in my seat and acknowledge that to hear a sermon from any
man but Minister Brown was a deadly sin; but I will never listen to him
again, never enter the old meeting-house while he preaches there—I will
take a vow here—and this moment.”

As she spoke, the excited girl snatched the pocket Bible which her
mother had replaced on the toilet, and was about to press her burning
lips upon the cover, but Phebe sprung forward, laid her small hand on
the book, and turned her pale earnest face on the excited features of
her sister.

“Malina!” she said.

There was something solemn and sweet in the tones with which this little
word was uttered—a look of awe and wonder in the large blue eyes which
Phebe Gray lifted to her sister’s face, which would have checked the
passions of a fiend—a flood of crimson rushed over Malina’s face, she
laid the Bible down, covered her eyes with both hands, and shuddered
amid her tears with a sense of the sacrilege which she had been tempted
to commit. Phebe drew her gently to the bed, and when they were seated
she placed an arm around her neck, and kissed the trembling fingers that
covered her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” she said softly, repeating her kiss, “they have been harsh,
perhaps, but it was intended for your good.”

Malina suddenly removed her hands—dashing the tears from her eyes with
the action—while her lips and cheeks began to glow again.

“Phebe,” she said, sitting upright and grasping her sister’s hand,
“Phebe, you will not believe it, but our mother has commanded me to
kneel down before the minister and ask his pardon for what I have done.”

A look of indignation, almost the first that had ever visited the sweet
features of Phebe Gray, was all the answer she could give.

“But you did not obey?” she said at last.

“Obey! sister, no, no; but I said things which made them both look
aghast. They called me audacious, and so I was—they called me an
unnatural child, and so I was—for I told my mother that she was a
tyrant to her face. I told Minister Brown that I was not audacious
enough to mock my Creator, by giving the homage which he alone should
have to a weak fellow creature; and when they would have read me a
chapter in the Bible, I told them the holy book was given as a blessing,
not to be used as a punishment, with much more—but this I fear has made
you angry with me already. Dear Phebe, don’t you turn against me with
the rest, I am wretched enough without that.”

“But what did the minister say? surely he did not wish you to humble
yourself so far?” inquired Phebe, thoughtfully.

“No, he begged my mother not to urge it, and even said that he had
perhaps acted unwisely in reprimanding me from the pulpit. But mother
still insisted. I do believe she is setting her cap at Parson Brown, and
thinks if I kneel to him he will return the compliment by kneeling to
her.” Here Malina broke off with a hysterical laugh, while a flash of
mischievous humor shone through her tears.

Phebe smiled very faintly, and kissing her sister once more, murmured,
“But there is One to whom we may kneel,” and sinking to her knees, Phebe
Gray kept Malina’s hand and would have drawn her to the same position.

“I am not fit to pray,” exclaimed the passionate girl, struggling
faintly to free her hand.

Phebe did not urge her, but scarcely were the first faint words of her
own petition breathed through the chamber, when Malina was by her side,
and when they went to rest that night the high spirited girl went to
sleep with her head nestled on her sister’s bosom, half subdued by her
pure and affectionate counsel.

Mrs. Gray had no sympathy for the faults of a warm and sensitive
disposition. She scarcely knew what an impulse was; even her anger was
systematical, and she exhibited it with a cold perseverance which only
served to irritate and mortify her daughter. Like all girls, Malina was
fond of dress, but months went by and Mrs. Gray seemed altogether
unconscious of her wants. She had kept her resolution not to enter the
old meeting-house again, and when Mrs. Gray brought home a new dress or
shawl for Phebe, Malina was quietly told that as she never went to
meeting her old dresses were quite good enough for school; indeed it is
doubtful if she would have been permitted to remain at home but for the
claim which her majority would give upon the property. Mrs. Gray was
quite too politic for violent measures, so she contented herself with
annoying negatives, and tormented her sensitive and high-tempered child
by _doing_ nothing, while she comforted her self-sanctity with a belief
that it was all meek and Christian forbearance. It was not long before
the gay, dashing Malina became one of the most shabbily dressed girls in
the village. She wore her thin straw gipsy and roses through all the
cold winter months—mended her gloves over and over again—concealed her
summer dresses beneath a cloak when she came to school, and returned the
jeers of her schoolmates with a sort of important pride which soon
silenced them. When spring came she still remained obstinate in a
determination never to visit the old meeting-house so long as Parson
Brown preached there. A few kind words from her mother might have
persuaded her, but those words were not spoken. Mrs. Gray only showed
her sense of this contumacious conduct by heaping that finery on poor
Phebe which should have been her sister’s, but which she was forbidden
even to share with her. Well, the spring came round again, and Malina
was still obstinate. She bleached her bonnet, brightened up the roses,
and altered over the old muslin dress with an ingenuity which made her
wardrobe quite respectable once more; but she was not happy in her
disobedience, the habits of her childhood could not be shaken off so
easily, and many a quiet Sabbath as she sat by her chamber window and
watched Phebe gather a handful of snowdrops in the yard, spread her
green parasol and go forth to “meeting” by her mother’s side, looking so
chaste and beautiful in her white dress and new cottage bonnet, poor
Malina would turn away with tears in her eyes and think of the old
meeting-house, with a yearning wish to sit in the family pew once more,
which made her petty chamber seem almost like a prison.

How long this state of things might have remained is uncertain, but that
spring Minister Brown was taken ill. He had preached in that same pulpit
thirty years, and had grown old in it. It was a melancholy service which
the deacon read after announcing the state of their pastor to the
congregation, for it was the first time in many years that Minister
Brown had been absent from his people. It seemed all that solemn day as
if the angel of death were mournfully brooding over the old
meeting-house, and when the closing prayer was made, sobs deep and
audible were heard in the congregation.

Another Sabbath came and our minister grew worse. After the solemn
service was over, the deacon arose to appoint watchers for the suffering
man. It is a solemn and beautiful practice, that of “appointing
watchers” for the sick in our Connecticut churches. When the village is
collected together in one vast family, it is both an affecting and
pleasant sight to witness the young and kind-hearted rise, with blooming
cheeks and modest looks, to offer themselves as nurses for the sick.
Among the first who arose that Sabbath was Malina Gray, and her eyes
were full of tears. The deacon was looking very sad when he cast his
eyes over the congregation to mark who would rise. When he saw Malina
standing there in her simple dress, and her beautiful face shaded by her
last year’s bonnet, a moisture glistened in his eyes also, and he smiled
kindly as her name was pronounced.

Malina went home with a full heart. When she thought of the minister ill
and suffering, it smote her that she could ever have felt enmity toward
him. He was a widower and childless, so all that week she lingered by
his bed, prepared his medicines, smoothed the pillows beneath his
fevered temples, and many a time, when no one was near, would the
warm-hearted but wayward creature kneel down, cover his hand with tears,
and beseech him to forget the harsh, rude language which she had used
that night at her mother’s.

Our minister was trembling on the verge of another world, and he felt
perhaps that Malina also had something to forgive, and at such times he
would lay his thin hand on her hair, murmur thanks for all her kindness,
would beg her to forget the past, and then he would dwell on the time
when she would meet him in Heaven, and all this with a gentle sweetness
that made poor Malina’s heart ache the more that she could ever have
pained so good a man.

Still our minister grew worse, and the next Sabbath a student of
divinity from New Haven, who had just taken orders, stood in his pulpit.
It was a sorrowful day that—and as the clear solemn tones of the young
divine filled the old meeting-house, their youthfulness and their sweet
ringing melody made us feel like strangers in our house of worship. He
was a handsome man, slight and pale, with hair sweeping aside from his
white forehead like the wing of a raven, and those large sad eyes which
take their color from the soul, and are changeable from the feelings
that live there—one of those men who interest you almost painfully, you
cannot understand why. He was indeed a man to awaken the heart to
strange sympathies; but we felt without understanding this on the day
when he first preached to us, for our hearts were heavy with thoughts of
the dear old minister who lay almost within hearing on his death-bed,
and we yearned to see his calm face and gray hairs in the place of this
strange young man.

Mr. Mosier—for that was the name of our new minister—did not return to
New Haven for many weeks, and all that time he spent by the sick-bed of
our pastor. Malina Gray seldom left her post, and Phebe, the meek and
gentle Phebe, was often there to comfort and assist. Flowers, the
beautiful children of the soil, sometimes spring up brightest and
sweetest on a grave; so human affection often takes deepest root beneath
troubled shadows. Religion must have some strange and comprehensive
power, which fills the soul with affection for all things; for those who
love our heavenly Father most, cherish that love as a brave tree, around
which a thousand earthly ties are lifted like green and clinging vines
toward the blue skies. I have said Malina never left her station by the
sick-bed; her cheek grew pale with watching, her bright eye dim, but yet
she was always there, subdued to the meekness of a lamb by the dark and
solemn shadows of death that fell everywhere around her. And _he_ was
her fellow watcher, and the strange fascination of his voice, the spell
of those large eyes, tranquil, almost sad, and forever changing, settled
upon the young girl’s heart, and it was the voice of a pure and
high-souled Christian in prayer which first taught the gay and careless
girl how well she could love. And she did love, happily, blindly; every
impulse of her heart was full of gushing tenderness, and that soft
repose which thrills the soul it sleeps in, blended while it made her
happy. She was changed even in countenance; the glad healthy smile which
had been the playmate of her lips from infancy, now half fled to her
eyes. The color was not so deep upon her cheek, but it came and went
like shadows on a flower, and her whole face looked calm and yet
brighter, as if sunshine were striking up from the heart of a rose
instead of falling upon its leaves. Her voice became more low and calm,
but a richer tone was given to it, and the tread of her little feet
became more noiseless as she glided around that sick chamber. Alas,
alas, poor Malina Gray, the fountains of her young heart were troubled,
never to rest again; the destiny of her womanhood was upon her.

One Sabbath morning the congregation came to our old meeting-house in a
body, two and two; the young, the middle aged, and the old filing
solemnly from the parsonage door along the road, and over the sward
which sloped greenly down from our place of worship. Our minister came
also, but he lay upon a bier, a velvet pall swept over him, and four
pale men carried him through the door which we had seen him enter so
often. They placed him in the broad aisle which his feet had trod for
twenty years, and eyes that had scarcely known moisture for that
duration of time were wet as they fell upon the coffin. Pale young faces
looked down upon him from the galleries, old men veiled their foreheads
with hands that had so often grasped his, and women sobbed aloud in the
fullness of their grief. Prayer and solemn music, with the deep tones of
the young student, swept over that bier, and swelled through the old
building amid all these manifestations of sorrow. When the bier was
lifted again, with slow and solemn footsteps the congregation followed
their pastor for the last time, and to his grave.

There was a grave in our burial ground sunken almost level with the
earth, covered with tall grass and marked by old and moss covered
stones. It was the grave of our minister’s wife; she had died in her
youth, he never married again, and so they brought the old man, true
even to her ashes, and laid him by her side. The shadow of his grave
fell upon hers, as if it were still his duty to cherish, and the dew
that fell upon the rich grass which had sprung up from her ashes, slept
within that shadow longer each morning than in any other place.

When Malina Gray left the funeral procession she went to the parsonage
house. The ashes lay cold upon its hearth-stone, and a chill, desolate
silence reigned through the building, for the old woman who had been
housekeeper had not yet returned, and no living thing was there save a
pet robin that stood mute upon his perch, and a large gray cat which
walked slowly from room to room as if wondering at the silence that
reigned there. A chill crept over Malina as the cat came with a soft
purr and rubbed his coat against her ankle. She looked at the robin,
there was no food to his cage, and his dejected manner probably arose
from hunger. The back door opened upon an orchard, and a line of
cherry-trees, red with fruit, ranged along the stone wall. The minister
had always kept his orchard and the grass around the back door steps
neat and green, but this year a growth of plantain leaves had started up
amid the grass, and docks grew rife around the well curb, a few paces
from the stepping stones. During his illness Malina had scarcely noticed
these things, but now that the minister was dead and she had no hopes
nor fears regarding him, they struck upon her heart with painful force.
She went to the nearest tree, gathered some ripe cherries for the bird,
and carried them into the house. The poor creature was half famished,
and coming down from his perch, pecked at the ruby fruit with an
eagerness that made the young girl smile through her tears.

“Poor fellow, he wants drink,” she murmured softly, and laying the
cherries that filled her hand on a table, she took a glass and went out
to get some water. How much more effective than a thousand lectures were
the silence and the familiar objects that surrounded Malina. It seemed
as if she had learned to think and feel for the first time in that
desolated place. As she grasped the well-pole with her small hand and
saw the deep round bucket rise up from the water, with the bright drops
dashing over the moss-covered brim, she began to weep afresh, and her
hands trembled so that she could hardly balance it on the curb. How many
times had she seen the minister come from that door, rest that same
bucket on the well-curb, and slant it down to meet her lips, when she
was a little girl and had come with her mates from the close
school-room, at “play-time,” to drink at the minister’s well. How often
had he filled her apron with cherries, and allowed her to pick up the
golden apples from that orchard; now she could almost see his new grave
through the trees—and she had dared to speak unkindly, rudely to him.
Malina was athirst and she remembered the grateful coolness of the
water, but with all these memories swarming to her heart she could not
touch her lips to that moss-rimmed bucket; the waters dripping over it
seemed too pure for one who could speak as she had spoken to the dead.
That which Mrs. Gray had struggled and waited for a whole year was
accomplished in a few moments by less stern influences than human
upbraiding. Never was a girl more penitent than Malina amid the silence
of that funereal dwelling. The heart which can reproach itself needs no
other accuser, and that which cannot, will remain hardened to the
reproaches, however just, which come from another.

Malina filled her glass, and entering the house, gave the neglected
robin some drink. The grateful bird began to flutter his wings, and
plunging into the water, sent a shower of drops over his cage. Malina
was so occupied with him that she did not observe when the door-yard
gate fell to with a slight sound, and Mr. Mosier, the young clergyman,
came slowly along the footpath leading to the front door; and when she
did hear his step upon the threshold, her eyes drooped and she began to
tremble as if there had been something to apprehend in his sudden
presence.

Mr. Mosier approached the young girl, and addressed her in those calm
low tones which her heart had learned to answer too thrillingly.

“It was kind to think of the bird,” he said almost smiling upon her,
“our friend that is gone mentioned it but the day before he died; he
gave it to you, Miss Gray, and that with many grateful thanks for all
your kindness.”

Malina’s bosom heaved and she strove to conceal the tears that sprung to
her eyes, by a quick motion of the heavy lashes that veiled them.

“He has left other tokens of his regard,” continued the young divine,
kindly observing her. “A clergyman with his benevolent habits is not
likely to become rich, but this quiet old house and the savings of his
income are left behind and for you—he has no legal heirs.”

Malina lifted her large eyes to the minister’s face with a look of mute
astonishment, and it was a moment before she comprehended him.

“Oh, no, no,” she said at last, bursting into tears, “he could not, I
never deserved it. It was Phebe that he meant. It must have been Phebe.”

“You will find that I am correct,” said Mr. Mosier; “indeed I can hardly
see how it should be otherwise, for never was there so faithful or so
kind a nurse.”

Malina did not speak, but a rosy flood swelled over her neck and face,
which glowed warmly beneath the concealment of her hands. These were the
first words of commendation she had ever heard from that voice, and she
was lost in the delicious pleasure they excited. At length she removed
her tremulous hands and looked up, but instantly the silken lashes
drooped over her eyes again, and she blushed and trembled beneath his
gaze. Yet his look was tranquil and kind, only it was the tumult of her
own feelings which made the young creature ashamed to meet it, feelings
all pure and innocent, but full of timidity and misgiving.

“I must go home,” she said in confusion, moving toward the door. Mr.
Mosier extended his hand. “We have performed a painful and yet pleasant
duty together in this house,” he said; “the thanks of the departed are
already yours, may I offer mine? It may be wrong to think so, but young
and gentle women hovering near a sick bed seem to me angels of earth,
consigning the sufferer to sister angels in heaven. Good night, my dear
Miss Gray. To-morrow, by your kind mother’s invitation, I shall make my
home at your house.”

Malina started, and a look of exquisite happiness beamed over her face.

“To-morrow!” she repeated, unconscious of the rich tones which joy gave
to her voice.

“Yes, I shall stay here to-night,” he replied in the same tranquil
tones, but a little more sadly. “The solemn scene through which we have
passed unfits me for any thing but solitude. I never knew till now how
beautiful and holy are the links which bind a minister to his people. It
is sweet to think how completely our brother’s spirit was borne up to
heaven on the hearts of those who had listened to him so many years.”

“He was indeed a good man, and we all loved him,” murmured Malina Gray.

“And such love would fill any life with sunshine; but God bless you, my
dear Miss Gray, seek repose to-night, for your strength must be
overtaxed with so much watching. I will see you in the morning, and our
departed friend’s pet shall come with me.”

Malina longed to say how happy his visit would make her home, how full
of delight she was, but some intuitive feeling checked her tongue, and
murmuring a few indistinct words she turned away in a tumult of strange
happiness.

When she reached home, Malina went directly to her chamber, took off her
bonnet, and lying down on the bed, drew the curtains and fell into a
pleasant half sleepy day dream, with her eyes fixed languidly on the
folds of snowy muslin which fell around her and on the rose branches
seen dimly through as they waved and rustled before the open sash. All
at once she started, and turning her damask cheek upon the pillow, stole
both hands up to her face as if some thought of which she was half
ashamed had crept to her heart. It was no guilty thought, but Malina
blushed when it broke upon her mind, that she might some day live in the
old parsonage which had become her property, and that he who was now
resting beneath its roof might share her home. She was dreaming on. The
tinge of gold which fell over her bed drapery as the sun sunk behind
Castle-rock had long since died away, and the chamber was filled with
the misty and pleasant gloom of a summer twilight, and yet Malina lay
dreaming on. Phebe came softly into the apartment, lifted the curtains,
and stealing her arms around the recumbent girl, laid her own pure cheek
against the rich damask of her sister’s.

“Poor Malina, you are tired out,” she murmured fondly, “but we are so
glad to get you home once more. I only came to say this—now go to sleep
again.” So Phebe kissed her cheek, let the curtains fall softly over the
bed and went away—and still Malina dreamed on.

The next morning Mr. Mosier took up his abode at Mrs. Gray’s. Our
minister had called the elders of his church around his death-bed, and
besought them to let this young man fill his place in the pulpit, so he
was to remain a few months, on trial, and then be installed as pastor in
the old meeting-house.

Our young pastor, though never gay, was at all times filled with a
degree of tranquil enjoyment that diffused itself over all things that
surrounded him—his sadness was never gloomy, and when he seemed
thoughtful, it was the quiet repose of a mind communing with its own
treasures rather than an unsocial humor. He was musical as well as
studious, and often, during those summer nights when Mrs. Gray’s family
sat in the portico, would we assemble round the door of our dwelling to
hear the notes of his flute, as they mingled in some sacred harmony with
the soft clear voice of Phebe, or with the bolder and richer tones of
her sister. At such times this music, softened by distance, and blended
with the still more remote sound of the waterfall, seemed almost
heavenly. We became well acquainted with the young minister, for though
not exclusively of his congregation, he loved to ramble about the pine
grove and the waterfall, where he was certain to find some of “us
children” at play. Like all pure hearted men, he was fond of children,
and loved to sit down in the shade and talk with us for hours together,
when he would lead us to the gate, on his way home, and sometimes walk
into the cottage for a glass of water and a few minutes’ chat with its
inmates. Sometimes Phebe Gray and her sister accompanied him in these
walks, and once or twice I remember to have seen him standing on the
ledge near the falls at sunset, with Phebe leaning on his arm, while he
seemed deeply occupied with her rather than the surrounding scenery.
Once when they were together thus, he slightly bending toward her and
speaking in a low earnest tone, while her eyes were fixed on the waters
foaming beneath their feet, Malina, who had lingered behind to help me
up the rocks—for I was often of their party—moved lightly toward them,
holding up her finger to me with a look of good natured mischief, as if
she intended to startle them with her sudden presence. I was a very
little girl and knew that Malina was doing this to amuse me, so clapping
a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud, I stole on softly by
her side till the folds of my pink dress almost mingled with the white
muslin that Phebe wore. I have said that Mr. Mosier was talking low and
earnestly—he was, in truth, so earnestly that our mischievous progress
neither aroused him nor his companion. I was not aware that love could
know a language save that which breathed in my mother’s voice, but there
was something earnest and thrilling in the impassioned word which Mr.
Mosier was pouring into the ear of Phebe Gray, which checked my childish
playfulness, and made me turn wonderingly to Malina. She was standing as
I had seen her last, with her finger still held up as if to check my
mirth, but there was no look of gleeful mischief in her eyes nor a
vestige of color in her face. She stood motionless, white, and like a
thing of marble, save that her eyes were bright and filled with a look
of such agony as made my young heart sink within me. At last Phebe
spoke, and her voice was so faint and soft as she leaned gently toward
her companion, that the words were lost in the rushing sound of the
waterfall; their broken melody and the rose tinge that flooded her face
and neck, were all the tokens by which their meaning could be guessed;
but the young clergyman must have heard her more distinctly, for his
face lighted up with an expression of happiness that made his usually
quiet features brilliant almost beyond any thing human. His arm trembled
as he drew the young girl to his bosom, and with murmuring words of
tenderness pressed his lips to her forehead. Phebe neither shrunk from
his embrace nor resisted his caress, but the crimson flood swelled more
deeply over her neck, and when his arm was withdrawn from her waist, her
little hand timidly sought his and nestled itself in the clasp of his
fingers, as if it sought his protection from the very solitude which she
believed had alone witnessed her modest confession, a confession which
made her tremble and blush with a tumult of strange sensations—all pure
as the sigh of an angel, but startling to a young creature who had been
taught to think every warm impulse almost a sin against Heaven.

They stood together hand in hand, silent and happy. Malina remained
motionless, distant scarcely two paces, and yet they were so absorbed in
the delirium of their own thoughts that her presence was unnoticed. My
hand was still in hers, but the fingers which clasped mine grew cold as
ice, and when I looked anxiously into her face again, the lips which had
kissed me so often appeared hard and colorless; her forehead was
contracted as if from physical suffering, and she seemed rooted to the
stone, never to move again. A moment, and I felt that a shiver ran
through her frame down to the cold fingers that grasped mine. She turned
and moved away mechanically and noiseless as a shadow, leading me down
the rocks and gradually tightening her grasp on my hand till I could
scarcely forbear calling out from pain; but my childish heart ached so
from the intuitive sense which taught me how dreadful were the feelings
of my poor companion, that I could not complain. She moved forward
hurriedly and with rapid footsteps, which made my earnest effort to keep
up with her almost impossible. We left the rocks and crossing the
highway plunged into the pine-woods; she did not take the footpath, but
all unmindfully forced a passage through the undergrowth, crushing the
rich winter-green with her impetuous tread. A humble ground bird started
up from a tuft of brake leaves directly in her path, and took wing with
a cry of terror. Still she hurried on unconscious, without heeding the
bird who fluttered around us, uttering cry upon cry with a plaintive
melody which made the tears start to my young eyes; but her racked heart
was deaf even to that, and her foot passed so near the pretty nest which
lay in its green lawn filled with speckled eggs, that a fox-glove which
bent beneath her tread dipped its crimson cup into the nest, where it
lay to perish on the broken stem. Still she hurried me on through the
thickest undergrowth, and where the grove was cut up into knolls and
grassy hollows which even my venturous footsteps had never searched
before, all the time her cold hand tightened its grasp till my fingers
were locked as in a vice, and the pain became insupportable.

“Oh don’t, Miss Malina, you walk _so_ very fast and hurt my hand so it
almost kills me!” I exclaimed at last, looking piteously up into her
pale face. “Indeed, indeed, I can’t go any further, I am tired, see how
the bushes have torn my new frock,” I added, sobbing as much from want
of breath as from grief.

She stopped the moment I spoke, and looked at me as if surprised that I
was her companion. Not even the piteous expression of my face, with the
tears streaming down it, and the tattered state of my dress, which was
indeed sadly torn, could arouse her to a consciousness of our position;
for more than a minute she stood looking earnestly in my face, but
perfectly unconscious of what she gazed upon.

“Oh, Miss Malina, don’t look at me in that way!” I said, burying my face
in her dress and weeping still more bitterly. “Take me back to the
falls, Miss Phebe and the minister will think we are lost.”

Malina dropped my hand as I spoke, and sunk to the grass, trembling all
over and utterly strengthless; after a moment she lifted her head,
looked wildly around as if to be certain that no eye witnessed her
grief, and then she gave way to a passionate burst of sorrow, which to
my young perception seemed like madness; she wrung her hands, shrouded
her tearful face in the long curls which fell over it one moment, and
flung them back with both hands damp and disheveled the next; her lips
trembled with the broken and sorrowful words that rushed over them,
words that had no connection but were full of that passionate eloquence
which grief gives to the voice. At length she ceased to tremble and sat
motionless, bending forward with her hands locked over her face and
veiled by the drooping tresses of her hair. Now and then a sob broke
through her fingers, while tears would trickle over them and fall, one
after another, like drops of rain, over my dress, for I had crept into
her lap and with my arms about her neck was striving in my childish way
to comfort her.

“Don’t cry so,” I entreated, kissing her hands and exerting my infant
skill to put back the curls which drooped in wet and glossy volumes over
her face, “I love you very much.” She unclasped her hands, and drawing
me closer to her bosom, looked with a mild and touching sorrow into my
eyes.

“Nobody loves me,” murmured the poor, sobbing girl, shaking her head
mournfully, “nobody loves _me_.”

I could only answer with childish expressions of endearment, which made
her beautiful eyes brim with tears, and she wept on calmly and in
silence, for the passion of her grief had exhausted itself. At length
she placed me on the turf, and gathering up her hair, strove to arrange
it, but the tresses were too abundant, and had become so disordered,
that when she was compelled to grasp it in both her hands, and knot it
back from her face beneath the cottage bonnet, the plain look which it
gave to her forehead, the pallor of her face, with the dint and
sorrowful expression of those eyes, almost transformed her. She was
altogether unlike the gay and frolicsome girl who had helped me climb
the rocks but one hour before. Alas! how few moments are required to
change the destiny of a heart!

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         “L’AMOUR SANS AILES.”


                           BY C. F. HOFFMAN.


    Love came one day to Lilla’s window
      And restive round the casement flew,
    She raised it just so far to hinder
      His wings and all from coming through.

    Love brought no perch on which to rest,
      And Lilla had not one to give him;
    And now the thought her soul distressed—
      What should she do?—where should she leave him?

    Love maddens to be thus half caught,
      His struggle Lilla’s pain increases;
    “He’ll fly—he’ll fly away!” she thought,
      “Or beat himself and wings to pieces.

    “His wings! why them I do not want,
      The restless things make all this pother!”
    Love tries to fly, but finds he can’t,
      And nestles near her like a brother.

    _Plumeless_, we call him Friendship now;
      Love smiles at acting such a part—
    But what cares he for lover’s vow
      While thus _perdu_ near Lilla’s heart?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    SPECULATION: OR DYSPEPSIA CURED.


                          BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.


               When the mind’s free the body’s delicate.
                                                 _Lear._

The romantic traveler who enters Italy at Leghorn, cannot but feel
disappointed. No antiquated repose broods, like a dream, over the scene;
no architectural wonders arrest the eye. The quays present the same
bustle and motley groups observable in every commercial town; and were
it not for the galley slaves, whose fetters clank in the thoroughfares,
and the admirable bronze group, by Pietro Tacco, around the statue of
Ferdinand I., it would be difficult to point out any distinctive feature
amid the commonplace associations of the spot. To a stranger’s eye,
however, the principal street affords many objects of diversion. The
variety of costume and physiognomy is striking in a place where pilgrims
and merchants, Turks and Jews, burly friars and delicate invalids are
promiscuously clustered; and one cannot long gaze from an adjacent
balcony, without discovering some novel specimen of humanity. A more
secluded and melancholy resort is the English burying-ground, where
hours may be mused away in perusing the inscriptions that commemorate
the death of those who breathed their last far from country and home.
The cemeteries devoted to foreign sepulture, near some of the Italian
cities, are quite impressive in their isolated beauty. There, in the
language of a distant country, we read of the young artist suddenly cut
off at the dawn of his career, and placed away with a fair monument to
guard his memory, by his sorrowful associates, who long since have
joined their distant kindred. Another stone marks the crushed hopes of
children who brought their dying mother to this clime in the vain
expectation to see her revive. Names, too, not unknown to fame, grace
these snowy tablets—the last and affecting memorials of departed
genius. Monte Nero is an agreeable retreat in the vicinity where the
Italians make their _villeggiatura_, and the foreigners ride in the
summer evenings, to inhale the cheering breeze from the sea. Leghorn was
formerly subject to Genoa, and remained a comparatively unimportant
place until Cosmo I. exchanged for it the Episcopal town of Sarzana. I
had quite exhausted the few objects of interest around me, and my
outward resources were reduced to hearing Madame Ungher in Lucrezia
Borgia in the evening, and dining in the afternoon in the pleasant
garden of a popular restaurant; when, one day as I was walking along a
crowded street, my attention was arrested by a singular figure ensconced
in the doorway of a fashionable inn. It was a lank, sharp-featured man,
clad in linsey-woolsey, with a white felt hat on his head and an
enormous twisted stick in his hand. He was looking about him with a
shrewd gaze in which inquisitiveness and contempt were strangely
mingled. The moment I came opposite to him, he drew a very large silver
watch from his fob, and, after inspecting it for a moment with an
impatient air, exclaimed,

“I say, stranger, what time do they dine in these parts?”

“At this house the dinner hour is about five.”

“Five! why I’m half starved and its only twelve. I can’t stand it later
than two. I say, I guess you’re from the States?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you came here to be cured of dyspeps_y_?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I’m glad of it, for it’s a plaguy waste of money. I just arrived
from New Orleans, and there was a man on board who made the trip all on
account of dyspeps_y_. I as good as told him he was a fool for his
pains. I know a thing or two, I guess. You see that stick? Well, with
that stick I’ve killed six alligators. There’s only one thing that’s a
certain cure for dyspeps_y_.

“And what’s that?”

For a moment the stranger made no reply, but twisted his stick and gave
a wily glance from his keen, gray eyes, with the air of a man who can
keep his own counsel.

“You want to know what will cure dyspeps_y_?”

“Yes.”

“Well then—_Speculation!_”

After this announcement the huge stick was planted very sturdily, and
the spectral figure drawn up to its utmost tension, as if challenging
contradiction. Apparently satisfied with my tacit acceptance of the
proposition, the man of alligators grew more complacent.

“I’ll tell you how I found out the secret. I was a schoolmaster in the
State of Maine, and it was as much as I could do to make both ends meet.
What with flogging the boys, leading the choir Sundays, living in a
leaky school-house and drinking hard cider, I grew as thin as a rail,
and had to call in a traveling doctor. After he had looked into me and
my case; ‘Mister,’ says he, ‘there’s only one thing for you to do, you
must speculate.’ I had a kind of notion what he meant, for all winter
the folks had been talking about the eastern land speculation; so, says
I, ‘Doctor, I haven’t got a cent to begin with.’ ‘So much the better,’
says he, ‘a man who has money is a fool to speculate; you’ve got nothing
to lose, so begin right away.’ I sold my things all but one suit of
clothes, and a neighbor gave me a lift in his wagon as far as Bangor. I
took lodgings at the crack hotel, and by keeping my ears open at the
table and in the bar-room, soon had all the slang of speculation by
heart, and, having the gift of the gab, by the third day out-talked all
the boarders about ‘lots,’ ‘water privileges,’ ‘sites’ and ‘deeds.’ One
morning I found an old gentleman sitting in the parlor, looking very
glum. ‘Ah,’ says I, ‘great bargain that of Jones, two hundred acres,
including the main street as far as the railroad depot—that is, where
they’re to be when Jonesville’s built.’ ‘Some people have all the luck,’
says the old gentleman. ‘There isn’t a better tract than mine in all
Maine, but I can’t get an offer.’ ‘It’s because you don’t talk it up,’
says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you seem to understand the business. Here’s my
bond, all you can get over three thousand dollars you may have.’ I set
right to work, got the editors to mention the thing as a rare chance,
whispered about in all corners that the land had been surveyed for a
manufacturing town, and had a splendid map drawn, with a colored border,
six meeting-houses, a lyceum, blocks of stores, hay-scales, a state
prison and a rural cemetery—with Gerrytown in large letters at the
bottom, and then hung it up in the hall. Before the week was out, I sold
the land for cash to a company for twenty thousand dollars, gave the old
gentleman his three thousand, and have been speculating ever since. I
own two thirds of a granite quarry in New Hampshire, half of a coal mine
in Pennsylvania, and a prairie in Illinois, besides lots of bank stock,
half of a canal and a whole India rubber factory. I’ve been in New
Orleans, buying cotton, and came here to see about the silk business,
and mean to dip into the marble line a little. I’ve never had the
dyspeps_y_ since I began to speculate. It exercises all the organs and
keeps a man going like a steamboat.”

Just then a bell was heard from within, and the stranger, thinking it
the signal for dinner, precipitately withdrew.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE SHEPHERD AND THE BROOK.


                  IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.


                          BY WILLIAM FALCONER.


              The Shepherd.
    Whither speed you, brooklet fair,
      Fringed with willows green,
    Blue-gleaming clear as summer air,
      Your rival banks between;
    Singing to the listening trees
      An endless melody,
    Kissed by every amorous breeze?
      Come tarry and reply.

              The Brook.
    I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,
      That glads the summer morn;
    The mill must clatter night and day,
      To grind the miller’s corn.

              The Shepherd.
    I envy you your joyous life—
      With courage rare you race,
    To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,
      And glass her morning face.

              The Brook.
    Yes! when Aurora lights the scene
      With charms, as fresh she laves
    Her sunny hair and brow serene
      In my dew-treasured waves,
    To me her beauty she confides,
      I smile her blush to greet,
    And when her form my lymph divides,
      It thrills with passionate heat.

              The Shepherd.
    If thus your gelid waters glow,
      With love’s pervading flame,
    To echo, murmuring as they flow,
      Her soft and winning name;
    How must my throbbing bosom burn,
      Warmed by life’s fitful fever,
    Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,
      To love her more than ever.

              The Brook.
    On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,
      I burst in pearly shower,
    But when I view her bloomy smile,
      Fresh at the matin hour,
    A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,
      I tremble into calm,
    To woo, in love, her gentle feet,
      My azure to embalm.

              The Shepherd.
    Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?
      Yet why?—on you she smiles,
    And pays you, with a grateful look,
      Your pleasant summer toils;
    She sports upon your crystal breast,
      Pure as your mountain source—
    Fond brook, do not her charms arrest
      Your shady downward course?

              The Brook.
    Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,
      I murmuring glide away,
    A thousand turns I make, in vain,
      ’Neath many a birchen-spray;
    But through the meadows I must glide—
      Ah! were it in my power,
    A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,
      I’d spread, nor quit her bower.

              The Shepherd.
    Companion of my luckless love,
      Farewell! But may, ere long,
    Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,
      Be turned to merry song;
    Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,
      Paint—paint in colors warm—
    The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,
      Where birds the greenwood charm.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            HARRY CAVENDISH.


 BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.


                             THE OPEN BOAT.

How shall I describe the horrors of that seemingly endless night. Borne
onward at the mercy of the waves—possessing just sufficient control
over the boat to keep her head in the proper direction—now losing sight
altogether of our consort, and now hanging on the top of the wave while
she lay directly under us, we passed the moments in a succession of
hopes and fears which no human pen can adequately describe. As the night
advanced our sufferings increased. The men, worn out with fatigue, were
kept at their oars only by the consciousness that even a moment’s
respite might be our destruction. With difficulty we maintained even the
slightest communication with our fellow sufferers in the other boat,
and, as the hours wore away, communication became almost impossible. It
was only at intervals that we caught sight of our companions through the
gloom, or heard their loud huzzas in answer to our shouts. And no one,
except he who has been in a like situation, can tell how our sense of
loneliness was relieved when we saw these glimpses of our consort, or
caught the welcome sound of other voices than our own across that
fathomless abyss.

At length a gigantic wave rolled up between us and the launch, and, when
we rose from the trough of the sea, I fancied I heard beneath us a wild,
prolonged cry of human agony. At the sound, my blood curdled in my
veins, and I strove to pierce the obscurity ahead, hoping almost against
hope that our companions yet survived, and that I might catch a glimpse
of the launch; but my straining eyes scanned the prospect in vain, for
the thick darkness shut out every thing from my vision, except when the
ghastly foam whitened along the waves beside me. For an instant I tried
to believe that what I heard had sprung from a disordered fancy, but the
eager, yet horror-struck faces of my shipmates beside me soon convinced
me that I was not the only one who had heard that cry. We looked at each
other for a moment, as men may be supposed to look who have seen a
visitant from the tomb, and then, with one common impulse, we joined in
a halloo that rose wildly to windward, swept down on us, rose again, and
finally died away to leeward in melancholy notes. No answering cry met
our ears. Again and again we united in a shout—again and again the roar
of the wind and wash of the waves was our only reply. Suddenly a flash
of lightning blazed around us, and, taking advantage of the momentary
light thus shed on the prospect, I gazed once more across the waste of
waters. We hung, at the moment, on the topmost height of a mountain
wave, while beneath yawned a black abyss, along whose sides the foam was
rolling in volumes, while the ghastly crests of each mimic billow and
the pitchy darkness of the depths below were lit up with the awful glare
of the lightning, presenting to the imagination a scene that reminded me
of the lake of fire into which Milton’s apostate spirits fell. Just at
the lowest point of the vortex a boat was seen, bottom upwards, while,
in close proximity to it, one or two human forms were struggling in the
sea; but all in vain; for at every despairing stroke they were borne
further and further from the few frail planks which now were to them
their world. Oh! never will that sight fade from my memory. A cry of
horror broke simultaneously from all who beheld the scene, and long
after it had vanished from our eyes, we heard the first despairing
shriek of our drowning messmates, we saw the last look of agony ere they
sank forever. To save them was beyond our power. As we were whirled down
into the abyss we leaned over the gun-wale to catch, if possible, a sign
of the vicinity of any of the sufferers, but our efforts were in vain,
and, after watching and listening for more than an hour, we desisted in
despair. As the storm gradually passed away, and the stars broke out on
high, diffusing a shadowy light around us, we gazed again across the
waste for some token of our lost messmates, but our scrutiny was in
vain. The tale of their death, save as it is rehearsed in these hurried
pages, will never be told until the judgment day.

Morning at length dawned. Insensibly the first cold streaks of day crept
along the eastern horizon, gradually diffusing a gray twilight over the
vast solitude of waters around, and filling the mind with a sensation of
utter loneliness, which, though I had experienced it partially before,
never affected me with such indescribable power as now. As far as the
eye could stretch there was nothing to break the vast monotony of the
horizon. The first glance across the deep destroyed the hope which so
many had secretly entertained, that morning would discover some sail in
sight, and, though no unmanly lamentations were uttered, the dejected
look with which each shipmate turned to his fellow was more eloquent
than words. All knew that we were out of the usual route of ships
crossing the Atlantic, and that our chances of rescue were consequently
lessened. We were, moreover, nearly a thousand miles from land, with but
scanty provisions, and those damaged. Our boat was frail, and one far
stronger had already been submerged—what, then, would probably, nay!
must be our fate. It was easy to see that these thoughts were passing
through the minds of all, and that a feeling akin to despair was
gathering around every heart.

“Cheer up, my hearties!” at length said Bill Seaton, a favorite topman,
looking round on his companions, “it’s always darkest just before day,
and if we don’t meet a sail now we must look all the sharper for one
to-morrow. Never say die while you hear the wind overhead, or see the
waves frolicking around you. Twenty years have I sailed, in one craft or
another, and often been in as bad scrapes as this—so it’s hard to make
me think we’re going to Davy Jones’ locker this time. Cheer up, cheer
up, braves, and I’ll give you ‘Bold Hawthorne,’” and, with the words, he
broke out into a song, whose words acted like an inspiration on the
crew, and in a moment the air rung with the ballad, chorused forth by a
dozen stentorian voices. And thus, alternating between hope and despair,
we spent the day. But, unlike the others, my situation forbade me to
betray my real sentiments, and I was forced to maintain an appearance of
elation which illy agreed with my feelings.

Meanwhile the day wore on, and as the sun mounted toward the zenith, his
vertical rays pouring down on our unprotected heads, became almost
insupportable. The gale had long since sunk into a light breeze, and the
mountainous waves were rapidly subsiding into that long measured swell
which characterizes the deep when not unusually agitated. Over the wide
surface of the dark azure sea, however, might be seen ten thousand
crests of foam, one minute crisping into existence, and the next
disappearing on the declining surge; and, as the hour approached high
noon, each of these momentary sheets of spray glistened in the sunbeams
like frosted silver. Overhead the dark, deep sky glowed as in a furnace,
while around us the sea was as molten brass. Parched for thirst, yet not
daring to exceed the allowance of water on which we had
determined—burning in the intense heat, without the possibility of
obtaining shelter—worn out in body and depressed in spirits, it
required all my exertions, backed by one or two of the most sanguine of
the crew, to keep the men from utter despair, nor was it until evening
again drew on, and the intolerable heat of a tropical day had given way
to the comparative coolness of twilight, that the general despondency
gave way. Then again the hopes of the men revived, only, however, to be
once more cast down when darkness closed over the scene, with the
certainty we should obtain no relief until the ensuing day.

Why need I recount the sufferings of that second night, which was only
less dreadful than the preceding one because the stars afforded us some
comparative light, sufficing only, however, to keep us on the watch for
a strange sail, without allowing us to hope for success in our watch,
unless by almost a miracle? Why should I narrate the alternation of hope
and fear on the ensuing day, which did not differ from this one, save in
the fiercer heat of noon day, and the more utter exhaustion of the men?
What boots it to recount the six long days and nights, each one like its
predecessor, only that each one grew more and more intolerable, until at
length, parched and worn out, like the Israelites of old, we cried out
at night, “Would God it were morning,” and in the morning, “Would God it
were evening.” And thus, week after week passed, until our provisions
and water were exhausted, and yet no relief arrived, but day after day
we floated helplessly on that boiling ocean, or were chilled by the icy
and unwholesome dews of night. Hunger and thirst, and heat—fever and
despair contended together for the mastery, and we were the victims.
Often before I had read of men who were thus exposed, coming at length
to such a pitch of madness and despair, that they groveled in the bottom
of the boat, and cried out for death; but never had I thought such
things could be credible. Now, how fearfully were my doubts removed! I
saw lion-hearted men weeping like infants—I beheld those whose strength
was as that of a giant, subdued and powerless—I heard men who, in other
circumstances, would have clung tenaciously to life, now sullenly
awaiting their fate, or crying out, in their agony, for death to put a
period to their sufferings. No pen, however graphic—no imagination,
however vivid, can do justice to the fearful horrors of our situation.
Every morning dawned with the same hope of a sail in sight, and every
night gathered around us with the same despairing consciousness that our
hope was in vain.

There was one of my crew, a pale, delicate lad, whom I shall never
forget. He was the only son of a widow, and had entered the navy, though
against her will, to earn an honorable subsistence for her. Though he
had been among us but a short time, he had already distinguished himself
by his address and bravery, while his frank demeanor had made him a
universal favorite. Since the loss of the Dart he had borne up against
our privations with a heroism that had astonished me. When the rest were
sad he was cheerful; and no suffering, however great, could wring from
him a complaint. But on the twentieth day—after having tasted no food
for forty-eight hours—the mortal tenement proved too weak for his
nobler soul. He was already dreadfully emaciated, and for some days I
had been surprised at his powers of endurance. But now he could hold out
no longer, and was forced to confess that he was ill. I felt his
pulse—he was in a high fever. Delirium soon seized him, and throughout
all that day and night he was deprived of reason. His ravings would have
melted the heart of a Nero. He seemed conscious of his approaching end,
and dwelt constantly, in terms of the most heart-rending agony, on his
widowed mother—so soon to be deprived of her only solace and support.
Oh! the terrible eloquence of his words. Now he alluded in the most
touching accents to his father’s death—now he recounted the struggles
in his mother’s heart when he proposed going to sea—and now he dwelt on
her grief when she should hear of his untimely end, or watch month after
month, and year after year, in the vain hope of again pressing him to
her bosom. There were stern men there listening to his plaintive
lamentations, who had perhaps never shed a tear before, but the
fountains of whose souls were now loosened, and who wept as only a man
can weep. There were sufferers beside him, whose own anguish almost
racked their hearts to pieces, yet who turned aside from it to sorrow
over him. And as hour after hour passed away, and he waxed weaker and
weaker, one feeble shipmate after another volunteered to hold his aching
head, for all thought of the lone widow, far, far away, who was even now
perhaps making some little present for the boy whom she should never see
again.

It was the evening of the day after his attack, and he lay with his head
on my lap, when the sufferer, after an unusually deep sleep of more than
an hour, woke up, and faintly opening his eyes lifted them to me. It was
a moment before he could recognize me, but then a grateful smile stole
over his wan face. I saw at a glance that the fever had passed away, and
I knew enough of the dying hour to know that this return of reason
foreboded a speedy dissolution. He made an attempt to raise his hand to
his face, but weakness prevented him. Knowing his wishes, I took my
handkerchief and wiped the dampness from his brow. Again that sweet
smile played on the face of the boy, and it seemed as if thenceforth the
expression of his countenance had in it something not of earth. The
hardy seamen saw it too, and leaned forward to look at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, thank you,” he said faintly, “I hope I
haven’t troubled you—I feel better now—almost well enough to sit up.”

“No—no, my poor boy,” I said, though my emotion almost choked me, “lie
still—I can easily hold you. You have slept well?”

“Oh! I have had such a sweet sleep, and it was full of happy dreams,
though before that it seemed as if I was standing at my father’s dying
bed, or saw my mother weeping as she wept the night I came away. And
then,” and a melancholy shadow passed across his face as he spoke, “I
thought that she cried more bitterly than ever, as if her very heart
were breaking for some one who was dead—and it appears, too, as if I
was that one,” he said, with child-like simplicity. Then for a moment he
mused sadly, but suddenly said—“Do you think I am dying, sir?”

The suddenness of the question startled me, and when I saw those large,
clear eyes fixed on me, I was more embarrassed than ever.

“I hope not,” I said brokenly. He shook his head, and again that
melancholy shadow passed across his face, and he answered in a tone of
grief that brought the tears into other eyes than mine,

“I feel I am. Oh! my poor mother—my poor, poor widowed mother, who will
care for you when I am gone?”

“I will,” I said with emotion; “if God spares me to reach the land, I
will seek her out, and tell her all about you—what a noble fellow you
were—”

“And—and,” and here a blush shot over his pale face, “will you see that
she never wants—will you?” he continued eagerly.

“I will,” said I, “rest easy on that point, my dear, noble boy.”

“Aye! and while there’s a shot in the locker for Bill Seaton she shall
never want,” said the topman, pressing in his own horny hand the more
delicate one of the boy.

“God bless you!” murmured the lad faintly, and he closed his eyes. For a
moment there was silence, the hot tears falling on his face as I leaned
over him. At length he looked up; a smile of joy was on his countenance,
and his lips moved. I put my ear to them and listened.

“Mother—father—I die happy, for we shall meet in heaven,” were the
words that fell in broken murmurs from his lips, and then he sunk back
on my lap and was dead. The sun, at the instant, was just sinking behind
the distant seaboard. Ah! little did his mother, as she gazed on the
declining luminary from her humble cottage window, think that that sun
beheld the dying hour of her boy. Little did she think, as she knelt
that night in prayer for him, that she was praying for one whose silent
corpse rocked far away on the fathomless sea. Let us hope that when, in
her sleep, she dreamed of hearing his loved voice once more, his spirit
was hovering over her, whispering comfort in her ear. Thank God that we
can believe the dead thus revisit earth, and become ministering angels
to the sorrowing who are left behind!

Another sun went and came, and even the stoutest of hearts began to give
way. For twenty-three days had we drifted on the pathless deep, and in
all that time not a sail had appeared—nothing had met our sight but the
brazen sky above and the unbroken deep below. During the greater portion
of that period we had lain motionless on the glittering sea, for a
succession of calms had prevailed, keeping us idly rocking on the long,
monotonous swell. When the sun of the twenty-fourth day rose, vast and
red, there was not one of us whose strength was more than that of an
infant; and though, at the first intimation of dawn, we gazed around the
horizon as we were wont, there was little of hope in our dim and glazing
eyes. Suddenly, however, the topman’s look became animated, and the
color went and came into his face, betokening his agitation. Following
the direction of his eyes, I saw a small, white speck far off on the
horizon. I felt the blood rushing to the ends of my fingers, while a
dizziness came over my sight. I controlled my emotion, however, with an
effort. At the same instant the doubts of the topman appeared to give
way, and waving his hand around his head, he shouted,

“A sail!—a sail!”

“Whereaway?” eagerly asked a dozen feeble voices, while others of the
crew who were too far gone to speak, turned their fading eyes in the
direction in which all were now looking.

“Just under yonder fleecy cloud.”

“I can’t see it,” said one, “surely there is a mistake.”

“No—we are in the trough of the sea—wait till we rise—there!”

“I see it—I see it—huzza!” shouted several.

A sudden animation seemed to pervade all. Some rose to their feet and
clasping each other in their arms, wept deliriously—some cast
themselves on their knees and returned thanks to God—while some gazed
vacantly from one face to another, every now and then breaking out into
hysterical laughter. For a time it seemed as if all had forgotten that
the strange sail was still far away, and that she might never approach
near enough to be hailed. But these thoughts finally found their way
into the hearts of the most sanguine, and gradually the exhilaration of
sudden hope gave way to despair, or the even more dreadful uncertainty
of suspense. Hour after hour, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, the
sufferers watched the course of that strange sail, and when at length
her topsails began to lift, and her approach was no longer doubtful, a
faint huzza rose up from their overcharged hearts, and once more they
exhibited the wild delirious joy which had characterized the first
discovery of the stranger.

The approaching sail was apparently a merchant ship of the largest
class, and the number of her look-outs seemed to intimate that she was
armed. She was coming down toward us in gallant style, her canvass
bellying out in the breeze, and the foam rolling in cataracts under her
bows. Once we thought that she was about to alter her course—her head
turned partially around and one or two of her sails shook in the
wind—but, after a moment’s anxious suspense, we saw her resume her
course, her head pointing nearly toward us. For some time we watched her
in silence, eagerly awaiting the moment when she should perceive our lug
sail. But we were doomed to be disappointed. Minute after minute passed
by, after we had assured ourselves that we were nigh enough to be seen,
and yet the stranger appeared unconscious of our vicinity. She was now
nearly abreast of us, running free before the wind, just out of hail.
Our hearts throbbed with intense anxiety. But though several minutes
more had passed, and she was directly on our beam, her look-outs still
continued gazing listlessly around, evidently ignorant that we were
near.

“She will pass us,” exclaimed Seaton, the topman, “how can they avoid
seeing our sail?”

“We must try to hail them,” I said, “or we are lost.”

“Ay—ay, it is our only chance,” said the topman, and a grim smile
passed over his face as he looked around on his emaciated shipmates, and
added bitterly, “though it’s little likely that such skeletons as we can
make ourselves heard to that distance.”

“We will try,” said I, and raising my hand to time the cry, I hailed the
ship. The sound rose feebly on the air and died waveringly away. But no
symptoms of its being heard were perceptible on board the stranger.

“Again,” I said, “once more!”

A second time the cry rose up from our boat, but this time with more
volume than before. Still no look-out moved, and the ship kept on her
course.

“A third time, my lads,” I said, “we are lost if they hear us
not—ahoy!”

“Hilloo!” came floating down toward us, and a topman turned his face
directly toward us, leaning his ear over the yard to listen.

“Aboy!—a-hoy!—Ho-ho-o-oy!” we shouted, joining our voices in a last
desperate effort.

“Hilloo—boat ahoy!” were the glad sounds that met our ears in return,
and a dozen hands were extended to point out our location. At the
instant, the ship gallantly swung around, and bore down directly toward
us.

“They see us—praise the Lord—they see us—we are saved!” were the
exclamations of the crew as they burst into hysteric tears, and fell on
their knees in thanksgiving, again enacting the scene of delirious joy
which had characterized the first discovery of the strange sail.

On came the welcome ship—on like a sea-bird on the wing! Scores of
curious faces were seen peering over her sides as she approached, while
from top and cross-trees a dozen look-outs gazed eagerly toward us. The
sun was shining merrily on the waves, which sparkled in his beams like
silver; while the murmur of the wind over the deep came pleasantly to
our ears. Oh! how different did every thing appear to us now from what
it had appeared when hope was banished from our hearts. And when, weak
and trembling, we were raised to the deck of the stranger, did not our
hearts run over with gratitude to God? Let the tears that even our
rescuers shed proclaim.

“Water—give us water, for God’s sake,” was the cry of my men as they
struggled to the deck.

“Only a drop now—more you shall have directly,” answered the surgeon,
as he stood between the half frenzied men and the water can.

With difficulty the ravenous appetites of the crew were restrained, for
to have suffered the men to eat in large quantities after so long an
abstinence would have ensured their speedy deaths. The sick were hurried
to cots, while the captain insisted that I should share a portion of his
own cabin.

It was many days before we were sufficiently recovered to mingle with
our rescuers, and during our sickness we were treated with a kindness
which was never forgot.

The strange sail was a privateersman, sailing under the American flag.
We continued with her about two months, when she found it necessary to
run into port. As we were nearly opposite Block Island, it was
determined to stand in for Newport, where accordingly we landed, after
an absence of nearly a year.

Here I found that we had been given up for lost. A bucket, with the name
of the Dart painted on it, having been picked up at sea, from which it
was concluded that all on board the vessel had perished. This belief had
now become general in consequence of the lapse of time since we had been
heard from. I was greeted, therefore, as one restored from the dead.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          “WRITE TO ME, LOVE,”


                               A BALLAD.

           THE POETRY BY MISS PARDOE, THE MUSIC BY DAVID LEE.

            Selected for Graham’s Magazine by J. G. Osbourn.

[Illustration: musical score]

                Write to me, love,
            When thou art far away,
    Write every thought which glances o’er thy mind,—
                Write to me, love,
            And let thy fond words say,
    All that may spirit unto Spirit bind!
                Write to me, love,
                  Write to me;
                Write to me, love,
                  Write to me!

                Write to me, love,
            And let each glowing line
    Teem with the vows we have so often ta’en.
                Write to me, love,
            And when the treasure’s mine,
    Resume thy task, and write to me again.
                Write to me, love,
                  Write to me;
                Write to me, love,
                  Write to me!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _History of Charles VIII., King of France. By Count Philip de
    Segur, Lieutenant-General, Peer of France, Member of the French
    Academy, Author of “Napoleon’s Russian Campaign,” etc.
    Translated by Richard R. Montgomery. Two volumes, duodecimo.
    Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This work in its original language has been very popular, and some
critics have deemed it the best of Segur’s productions. It is a history
of France while that country was in the transition state between
feudalism and centralism, and is written in the picturesque style of the
old chroniclers.

Louis XI., the father of Charles, died in 1483. He had wielded the
sceptre with strong hands, and given an extraordinary impulse to public
affairs. It was therefore necessary that the government should be
administered by an experienced person during the minority of the young
king. There was a deep and pervading dissatisfaction in the country,
especially among the nobles, who had been repressed by Louis, and were
now anxious to reclaim their lost privileges. Anne of Beaujeu, the
eldest daughter of the deceased monarch, and wife of the lord of Bourbon
Beaujeu, had been selected by her father for the regency. She was not
more than twenty-two years old, but at that early age was shrewd,
resolute and dignified—the wisest and most beautiful woman of the
realm. Her first act was the convocation of the Estates General at
Tours, an event long celebrated on account of the ability and
independence manifested by the deputies in their debates. She afterward
undertook and accomplished the conquest of Bretagne—the great measure
for which the regency was distinguished,—and finally, having maintained
her position amid innumerable dangers, adding from year to year to her
own and the national glory, resigned the government to Charles. A new
policy was from that time pursued. The young king was ignorant and
capricious, guided by his own mad impulses, or the wishes of intriguing
courtiers, to whom he had given the places before occupied by gravest
and wisest counsellors; and his reign, disastrous to France, prepared
the way for the most important changes in European politics. A false
notion of honor and the ambition of two favorites made him undertake the
conquest of Naples. He succeeded, but instead of endeavoring to secure
the permanent possession of that kingdom, gave himself up to a
thoughtless voluptuousness, until a confederacy was formed which
expelled him from Italy. After re-entering his own dominions his conduct
and policy continued to be nerveless and vacillating. He seemed to
regard the Neapolitan expedition as of slight importance, speaking of it
as a series of passages at arms, a royal adventure which had resulted
somewhat unfortunately; and never dreamed that the foolishly commenced
and insanely conducted enterprise had destroyed the balance of power in
Italy, taught the states of Europe to view with jealousy each other’s
motions, and opened the way for the cultivation of those sciences and
arts which civilized society and made men feel that they had other
pursuits and pastimes than war. A short time before the close of his
life a change came over his character; hitherto Cæsar had been his hero,
and Charlemagne his model, but from the death of his third son, in
infancy, he was ambitious to imitate St. Louis, and occupied himself
with reforms in religion, legislation, and the administration of
justice. How long he would have continued in his new career, but for his
sudden death, cannot be known. He died in consequence of an injury,
received in his magnificent château d’Amboise, in the year 1498.

Many eminent men flourished in France during this reign, among whom were
the brave and intriguing Dunois; Philip de Comines, the celebrated
historian and minister; La Tremouille, a principal actor in the
Neapolitan expedition; Savonarola, the prophet priest of Florence; and
others of less distinction.

The work of Segur is not alone interesting as a history of important
political transactions; it contains numerous passages of a romantic
description, characteristic of the age and its institutions, and written
in a highly dramatic and picturesque style. The translation we doubt not
is rigidly correct; but had Mr. Montgomery been less studious to render
his original literally, his version would have flowed somewhat more
smoothly, without losing any of its freshness or animation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Book of the Navy; comprising a general History of the
    American Marine, and Particular Accounts of all the most
    celebrated Naval Battles, from the Declaration of Independence
    to the present time; compiled from the best authorities, by John
    Frost, A. M., etc. One volume, octavo. New York, D. Appleton &
    Co. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

Mr. Frost has succeeded in his attempt to present the leading incidents
in the history of our national marine in an attractive form. The Book of
the Navy is one of those “books for the people” which awaken only
patriotism, pride and emulation. The Appendix, containing selections of
naval lyrical pieces and anecdotes, seems to have been prepared with
less care than the historical part of the work. The best American naval
songs are Edwin C. Holland’s “Pillar of Glory” and the “Old Ironsides”
of Oliver W. Holmes, neither of which appears in Mr. Frost’s collection,
while it embraces some which have no allusion to the navy, and others
too worthless in a literary point of view to deserve preservation. The
volume is very elegantly printed, and is embellished with several
portraits on steel, and other engravings from designs by Croome.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Family Secrets, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy. By
    Mrs. Ellis. Two volumes, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea &
    Blanchard._

This work is composed of a series of tales, each illustrating a
principle or enforcing a moral. The first volume contains, Dangers of
Dining Out, Confessions of a Madman, Somerville Hall, The Rising Tide,
and The Favorite Child; the second, First Impressions, and The
Minister’s Family. The characters are usually well-drawn, and the
interest of some of the stories is deep and well sustained.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter, Compiled from various
    Sources, together with his Autobiography. Translated from the
    German. Two volumes, duodecimo. Boston, Little & Brown._

The name of Jean Paul has become so familiar to American and English
readers, that this work will doubtless supply a great desideratum with
many ardent admirers of German literature. Our ideas of Jean Paul do not
coincide with those of most critics. We have great respect for his
genius, the purity of his thoughts, the extreme delicacy of his
sentiments, and his almost universal learning; but we think his style
forced and unnatural, and the amount of his wit, sarcasm, humor and
hyperbolical refinement, altogether disproportionate to the “littleness”
of his subjects. He is the most poetic of prose writers, and his
autobiography furnishes many happy illustrations of this assertion. In
our opinion, however, he indulges far too much in _didacticism_, a style
which we dislike equally in poetry or prose, and which is seldom chosen
by men of great intellect. He is a _feminine_ writer, and much which in
his works appears and is applauded as poetry, is in truth only high
wrought feminine delicacy. He is accordingly much read and admired by
women. But we doubt whether in all his productions there is a well drawn
character of a _man_. When we look upon his heroes we cannot but
remember Hotspur—

    “I would rather be a cat and cry mew
    Than one of those self same ballad mongers.”

The writings of Jean Paul have had a pernicious influence on the minds
of the youth of Germany, who are naturally inclined to sojourn in the
regions of fancy; but it is a proof of returning reason that among the
numerous republications of the works of German authors his have not gone
through very large editions.

Schiller and Goethe disliked the muse of Jean Paul; the former because
she had not warmth, and the latter because as an artist he was shocked
with her morbid taste. Jean Paul was much mortified at the coldness of
this Corephæus of German literature, and in giving an account of his
visit to Weimer, says—

    “On the second day I threw away my foolish prejudices in favor
    of great authors. They are like other people. Here every one
    knows that they are like the earth, that looks from a distance,
    from heaven, like a shining moon, but, when the foot is upon it,
    is found to be _boue de Paris_ (Paris mud.) An opinion
    concerning Herder, Wieland, and Goethe is as much contested as
    any other. Who would believe that the great watch towers of our
    literature avoid and dislike each other? I will never again bend
    myself anxiously before any great man, only before the
    _virtuous_.”

This sentiment is unworthy the mind of Jean Paul. The best relations
existed between Schiller and Goethe through life. Each of them was great
enough in his sphere to fear no rival. The jealousies which Jean Paul
refers to were those of some women in “the society” of Weimer, but the
men whom they maligned were both immeasurably beyond their reach.

Gervinus, in his “History of German Literature,” the most national work
lately published, assigns to Jean Paul rather a low rank among the poets
of his country. There is much thought and meditation in his works, but
that divine spark which kindles enthusiasm and inspires men to sublime
action is not in them. Even his female portraits are not drawn after
Nature, and his Linda, in “Titan”—perhaps the best of his novels—is,
after all the praise it has received, but a transparent shadow.

This memoir contains Jean Paul’s autobiography, reaching to his
thirteenth year; a connected narrative of his life, compiled and
translated from the best sources, and copious extracts from his
correspondence. The translation is generally correct and elegant, but
many errors occur in the proper names, especially by the transpositions
of the _i_ and _e_. We have seen mentioned, as the compiler and
translator, Miss Lee of Boston, a lady of taste and learning, to whom
the public have before been indebted for several pleasing and
instructive publications.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Remains of the Rev. Joshua Wells Downing, A. M. With a brief
    Memoir. Edited by Elijah H. Downing, A. M. One volume,
    duodecimo. New York, J. Lane and P. P. Sandford: 1842._

We have read the sermons, sketches of sermons, and letters in this
volume with considerable attention, and regret finding in them so little
to praise. Mr. Downing died when but twenty-six years old, in Boston. He
was a pious, earnest and efficient minister of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, and, had he lived to a mature age, we doubt not, would have been
one of the most useful clergymen of his denomination. But, however
excellent his qualities as a man or as a preacher, his printed
discourses bear too few of the marks of genius or learning to secure for
him a high reputation as a writer. They are not distinguished for
graceful expression, vigor, or originality. The fraternal partiality of
the editor deserves not to be censured, but the common practice of
printing sermons, “called so,” as Bishop Andrews well remarks, “by a
_charitable construction_,” and other “remains,” not originally designed
for the press and unworthy of publication, is an evil which can be
remedied only by honest critical judgments.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Elements of Chemistry, Including the most recent Discoveries
    and Applications of the Science to Medicine and Pharmacy, and to
    the Arts. By Robert Kane, M. D., M. R. T. A., &c. An American
    Edition, with Additions and Corrections, and arranged for the
    use of the Universities, Colleges, Academies and Medical Schools
    of the United States. By John William Draper, M. D. New York,
    Harper & Brothers._

Chemistry, more than any other science, is progressive. In the work
before us Mr. Kane has exhibited with great ability its advancement,
general extent, and present condition. There is no lack of elementary
works on the subject, but we know of none which enter into it so fully
or are so clear and comprehensive as this. Dr. Kane ranks among the
first philosophical inquirers of the day, and is probably unequaled as a
chemist. The American editor is likewise well known for his profound
knowledge of this science. In looking through the work we have been
particularly pleased with its practical character—the explanations it
contains of the various processes by which chemistry has been made to
contribute to the progress of the arts, which enhance its value to the
medical practitioner and the manufacturer.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest: With
    Anecdotes of their Courts. Now first published from Official
    Records and other Authentic Documents, Private as well as
    Public. By Agnes Strickland. Second Series. Three volumes,
    duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

The new series of Miss Strickland’s Lives of the Queens of England
contains memoirs of Elizabeth of York, Katharine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn,
Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katharine Howard, Catherine Parr, and Mary
“the Catholic.” The work improves as it advances and the materials for
history accessible to the authoress become more abundant. Some of the
memoirs in the second series are exceedingly interesting. The volumes
deserve a place in every lady’s library.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Uncas and Miantonimoh; A Historical Discourse delivered at
    Norwalk, (Con.) on the fourth day of July, 1842, on the occasion
    of the erection of a Monument to the Memory of Uncas, the White
    Man’s Friend, and first Chief of the Mohegans. By W. L. Stone.
    New York: Dayton & Newman._

This is an interesting and valuable contribution to our historical
writings. Uncas, “the white man’s friend,” was the king of a powerful
tribe of Indians occupying a large part of the territory now called
Connecticut, when it was colonized by the English Pilgrims, in 1635. His
ashes rest in the “royal burying-ground” near Norwich; and, above them,
in 1833, when General Jackson was on a visit to that city, the corner
stone of a monument was laid, with imposing ceremonies. The granite
obelisk, with the simple inscription, Uncas, was finished on the fourth
of July, 1842, and on that day Mr. Stone delivered the address which,
with its appendix and notes, composes the volume before us.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Principalities and Powers in Heavenly Places. By Charlotte
    Elizabeth. One volume, duodecimo. New York, John S. Taylor._

“Charlotte Elizabeth” is the wife, we believe, of a London clergyman.
Excepting Hannah More, no woman has written so much or so well on
religious subjects. In the work before us she treats with her usual
ability of the holy angels and of evil spirits, their existence,
character, power, and destiny.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Smuggler’s Son, and Other Tales and Sketches. By A. W. M.
    One volume, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This volume contains several interesting prose pieces, mingled with
lyrics, smoothly versified, and poetical in ideas and expression.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A History of the State of Vermont: In Three Parts. I. Natural
    History. II. Civil History. III. Gazetteer. By Rev. Zadok
    Thompson, M. A. With a new Map of the State, and Two Hundred
    Engravings. Burlington, Chauncey Goodrich. Philadelphia, Herman
    Hooker._

This is the title of a large and closely printed octavo just issued from
the press. It embraces much curious and valuable information, some of
which is from original sources. The work, however, is badly arranged and
carelessly written. The different parts, having but little connection
with each other, should have been published separately.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Kiss for a Blow. By Henry C. Wright. One volume, 18mo.
    Published at 31 North Fifth Street, Philadelphia._

    _Emma, or the Lost Found. One volume, 18mo. New York, Dayton &
    Newman: Philadelphia, Hogan & Thompson._

    _The Great Secret, or How to be Happy. One volume, 18mo. New
    York, Dayton & Newman: Philadelphia, Hogan & Thompson._

These are short stories, for children and youth, written with simplicity
and in a genial and loving spirit, and in every way superior to the
books of the class written before the last few years.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Collection of the Promises of Scripture, under their proper
    heads, representing the Blessings promised, the Duties to which
    Promises are made, with an Appendix and Introduction, by Samuel
    Clarke, D. D. One volume, 32mo. New York, D. Appleton & Co.
    Philadelphia, Herman Hooker._

This little work is well known to Christians, and to others its title
will convey an accurate idea of its character. The present edition is
doubtless the most beautiful that has been published.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


We have, in manuscript, a biographical sketch of the late Commodore
Perry, from the pen of Mr. Cooper, which it was our intention to publish
in December, but, it proving too long for a single number, we shall
carry it over to the next year, that its parts may appear in the same
volume. In this sketch Mr. Cooper has gone into the critical details
concerning the battle of Lake Erie, which were not thought proper to be
introduced into his great naval work, as they belong to biography rather
than to history. Mr. Cooper, we learn, has delayed publishing his answer
to the Lectures of Burgess, the Biography of Mackenzie, and his account
of the late arbitration in New York, in order not to anticipate the
appearance of the biographical sketch, which, while it is critical
rather than controversial, will necessarily cover much of the same
ground. We understand that the “Answers” will immediately follow the
appearance of the article in our magazine.

The naval story entitled “Harry Cavendish,” will be brought to a close
in our next number, and we shall not hereafter commence the publication
of any article which may not be completed in two or three months.

A new edition of the works of Jonathan Edwards will be published within
a few weeks, by Jonathan Leavitt and John F. Trow, of New York, in four
very large octavo volumes. Edwards was the greatest metaphysician of the
eighteenth century—and his name, first and highest in our literary
history, can never be spoken but with pride by an American. The only
copies of his writings for sale in this country for several years have
been from the English press.

Mr. Cooper’s new romance, “Wing and Wing, or Le Feu Follet,” will be
published about the fifteenth of this month, by Lea & Blanchard, and we
are pleased to learn that it is to be sold at one third the price of his
former novels—that is, for fifty cents per copy. We are confident the
publishers will find in nearly all cases—international copyright or no
copyright—that the greatest profits accrue from small prices and
consequent large circulation.

“The Life and Adventures of John Eugene Leitensdorfer, formerly a
Colonel in the Austrian Service, and Adjutant and Inspector-General in
the United States’ Army under General Eaton, in the Tripolitan War,” is
the title of a work soon to appear in St. Louis, where the veteran hero
and biographer resides. Few persons in any period have passed through
more romantic scenes than Colonel Leitensdorfer, and his memoirs cannot
fail to be deeply interesting.

A new prose romance, entitled “Idomen, or the Vale of Yumuri,” by Mrs.
Brooks, better known by her poetical name, _Maria del Occidente_, will
soon be published by Colman, of New York. We have had the pleasure of
reading the work in manuscript. It will sustain the reputation of the
authoress as the “most passionate and most imaginative of all
poetesses.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Three ladies and a gentleman dressed in latest fashions.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below.

page 275, mute upon her perch, ==> mute upon his perch,

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 5, November 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]