GIFT OF 
 
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LADIES'WREATH, 
 
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 A SOUVENIR 
 
 'ALL SEASONS 
 
 illustrate*. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPB, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 
 
 1K> W \MiIV ,T N 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Woman and Fame 
 
 The Rebel of the Cevcnncs, 11 
 
 Hymn to the Setting Sun, 32 
 
 The One-Handed Flute-Player, 35 
 
 The Poet's Pen, 42 
 
 The Gleaner 44 
 
 A Lawyer's Clerk's Tale, 45 
 
 Spring 63 
 
 Foragers, 65 
 
 What is Lore? 79 
 
 Deliberation; or, the Choice, 81 
 
 The Visionary 94 
 
 The March of Luxury 96 
 
 The Beautiful, the Good, and the True, . . . .112 
 
 Common Events, 115 
 
 The Devoted Son, 131 
 
 The Smuggler 133 
 
 To my Mother's Bible 192 
 
 The Dreamer to his Daughter, 193 
 
 The Fatal Revenge, 198 
 
 Love in Absence, 210 
 
 Withered Violets, . . , 212 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 A Steam Voyage on the Mediterranean 213 
 
 Song, 229 
 
 The Useful Family 230 
 
 We met when Life and Hope were new, . . .239 
 
 Zelica, 242 
 
 The Physician's Levee, 245 
 
 The Evening Fire, 254 
 
 Celestina, a Spanish Story 256 
 
 The Arab Maid, 274 
 
 Female Devotedness, 277 
 
 Upon thy Truth relying, 281 
 
 Thoughts, 283 
 
 Remembrance, 286 
 
 Song 244 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Presentation "Plate. 
 
 Illuminated Title, .... SHAW So Co. 
 
 The Gleaner O. PBLTOJC, ... 44 
 
 The Devoted Son, . . . O. PELTOJC, . . .131 
 
 Reading the Bible, . . . O. PBLXOIT, . . .192 
 
 Zelica, 0. PKLTOX, . . .242 
 
LADIES' WREATH 
 
 WOMAN AND FAME, 
 
 BY MBS. HEMANS. 
 
 Tnon hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 
 
 A draught that mantles high, 
 And seems to lift this earthly frame 
 
 Above mortality. 
 
 Away ! to me a woman bring 
 Sweet flowers from affection's spring. 
 
 Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 
 
 Into so proud a wreath ; 
 For that resplendent gift of thine, 
 
 1 It-roes have smiled in death : 
 Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
 The record of one happy hour ! 
 
10 WOMAN AND FAMK. 
 
 Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
 Can bid each life-pulse beat 
 
 As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 
 Calling the l>ruvc to meet: 
 
 But mine, let mine a woman's breast, 
 
 By words of home-born love be bless'd. 
 
 A hollow sound is in thy song, 
 
 A mockery in thine eye, 
 To the sick heart that doth but long 
 
 For aid, for sympathy 
 For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
 For tender accents that are gone. 
 
 Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 
 
 Unto the drooping reed, 
 The cool fresh fountain in the day 
 
 Of the soul's feverish need : 
 Where must the lone one turn or flee ? 
 Not unto thee oh ! not to thee ! 
 
11 
 
 THE REBEL OP THE CEVENNES. 
 
 BT S. 6. 6. 
 
 IT was in the year 1703, while Louis the 
 Fourteenth was engaged in hostilities with for- 
 eign powers, that a domestic war of singular 
 character was baffling the skill of one of his 
 bravest generals in the south of France. The 
 persecuted Huguenots had been scattered abroad, 
 carrying with them to other climes their indom- 
 itable valor and all-enduring faith, and much, 
 too, that France might have been glad to retain, 
 for the sake of her own best interests, their 
 industrious habits, their skill in useful arts, and 
 their correct morals. A few of their expelled 
 clergy had had the courage to return ; but, de- 
 prived of the wisest and best of the Protestant 
 party, the untutored mountaineers of the Ce- 
 vennes had become the prey of designing or 
 deluded fanatics. A strange madness had bro- 
 ken out among them ; prophets and prophet- 
 esses had appeared, and the people listened to 
 the voices of women and children, as to oracles. 
 When the arm of military discipline was raised 
 to lash or crush them into submission, the un- 
 
12 THE REBEL OF 
 
 daunted spirit of mountain liberty blazed up ; 
 and heroes sprang forth from the fastnesses of 
 the Cevennes and the Vivarez to defy the power 
 of their sovereign. It was a fierce and pro- 
 tracted contest ; and, at the time when our tale 
 opens, the Sieur de Montrevel, an officer of 
 high repute, had been sent against the rebels. 
 The severity with which he treated those who 
 fell into his hands, struck no terror into the sur- 
 vivors : they seized every opportunity of making 
 stern reprisals ; and, as he advanced farther 
 into the heart of their territory, carrying devas- 
 tation among their humble cottages, and the 
 fields which they had almost created on the 
 bare rocks, they fought him at every pass with 
 frenzied courage. 
 
 He arrived one sunny morning at a defile, 
 which led down into a green valley, whose 
 peaceful hamlet was to be reduced to ashes. 
 Not a human being appeared along the gray 
 cliffs above, not a living thing stirred in the 
 silent village ; a few smokes rose from the cot- 
 tages, but no children sported on the green, no 
 old men sat before their doors, no dogs barked 
 at the stranger's approach. On marched the 
 well-trained soldiers into the scene of their 
 work ; and, in a few minutes, brands, snatched 
 from the lately deserted hearths, kindled a 
 crackling conflagration ; the red flames and 
 
THE CEVENNES. 13 
 
 black smoke rushed up, and the soldiers, again 
 forming into ranks on a green slope where the 
 rising breeze drove the smoke from them, sent 
 forth a shout of triumph to the surrounding 
 jocks. The rocks echoed it back again and 
 again, and, as the last reverberation died away 
 among the hills, another and yet wilder sound 
 answered it from the depths of their forests. 
 A yell of mingled voices arose from unseen 
 spectators, which might have thrilled stouter 
 hearts than those of the armed myrmidons of 
 power. The march was again resumed ; there 
 appeared to be no farther passage through the 
 everlasting barrier that rose beyond the village, 
 and the Sieur de Montrevel led his men back 
 through the defile he had descended so quietly 
 an hour before. But at a sudden turn in the 
 road, his quick eye discerned -the figures of 
 several mountaineers, vanishing behind the trees 
 and rocks ; and he halted, that his men, already 
 panting from the fatigue of climbing the steep, 
 might take breath before encountering the next 
 and still more precipitous ascent. It was a sud- 
 den and fortunate pause ; the next minute a fear- 
 ful sound was heard breaking the solemn still- 
 ness ; his men's eyes turned wildly in every 
 direction, not knowing at first whence it pro- 
 ceeded ; but presently a tremendous rock came 
 thundering and crashing down the precipice on 
 2 
 
14 THE REBEL OF 
 
 their right, bearing earth, stones, and trees be- 
 fore it ; and dashing into the centre of the road, 
 with a weight and fury which would have crushed 
 to the dust the leader and front rank of the par- 
 ty, had they not halted at the moment they did. 
 Disappointed in their purpose, the peasants now 
 appeared armed with ru MS of every de- 
 
 scription, and fast and heavy caino down showers 
 of stones upon the soldiers, as they obeyed their 
 commander, and hastened to scramble over the 
 fallen rocks and rubbish. Not a shot was lired 
 till Montrevel espied two figures, which mi^ht 
 well arrest his attention, even in such a tiunncnl 
 as this. On a cliff which overlooked the sc< -m , 
 and from whose railed side it was plain that the 
 rock had been hurled, knelt a female in an at- 
 titude of earnest and almost frantic supplication ; 
 her bare arms thrown wildly up, her hands 
 clasped, her hair and scarlet drapery stream- 
 ing on the wind, her eyes fixed on the blue 
 sky. She was apparently heedless of the con- 
 fusion below ; and, above all the din, her shrill 
 but unintelligible accents could be plainly dis- 
 tinguished. By her side stood a slight but grace- 
 ful young man leaning with perfect composure 
 on his hunting-spear, and occasionally giving di- 
 rections with his voice and gestures to his rude 
 followers. He was clad, like many of them, in 
 a white tunic ; but a single eagle-feather in his 
 
THE CEVENNES. 15 
 
 cap marked him as the youthful leader of the 
 Camisards, the celebrated Cavalier. No sooner 
 did Montrevel behold this apparition, than a cry 
 burst from his lips : " They are there ! to the 
 chase ! to the chase ! " and in a moment the 
 soldiers were climbing the rough sides of the 
 pass, driving the peasants before them in the 
 sudden onset, firing and reloading continually. 
 The prophetess, La Grande Marie, as she 
 was termed, was dimly seen through the 
 smoke still on her knees and immovable, while 
 the sounds of the musket-shots came nearer and 
 nearer. Cavalier, confident that more than 
 earthly power would defend the being he thought 
 supernaturally gifted, had rushed to direct the 
 operations of his scattered followers. To his 
 amazement, however, she remained in her 
 ecstatic trance, till a ball whizzed by her; 
 and then, rising slowly, she looked around 
 with an eye from which gleamed the light 
 of insanity. It seemed as if a consciousness 
 of her danger then crossed her mind, for 
 she glanced with some eagerness to the right 
 and left, as if examining her means of escape ; 
 and, as two French soldiers sprang upon the 
 ledge she occupied, she made an effort to throw 
 herself down to a yet more narrow and hazard- 
 ous spot. But their motions were too quick for 
 the poor lunatic ; and, as the infatuated peasantry 
 
16 THE KEHF.L OF 
 
 saw their prophetess rudely seized, her power- 
 less hands bound with leathern belts, while 
 her head sunk despairingly on her breast, they 
 uizuin sent forth a howl, which startled the wolves 
 in their dens. It was in vain that Cavalier now 
 e to rally the undisciplined insurgents ; 
 astounded, panic-stricken, at an event so unex- 
 pected as the capture of La Grande Marie, they 
 lifted not a hand against the triumphant soldiery, 
 but hovered along the precipices above the road 
 and gazed in stupid amazement at their progress. 
 When Cavalier reminded them that she had the 
 power to save herself yet from the hands of the 
 destroyer, and would undoubtedly put it forth in 
 some unlooked-for miracle, a gleam of hope 
 brightened their rugged faces; but they only 
 watched the more intently for the anticipated 
 exhibition of superhuman power. Montrevel 
 and his party at length disengaged themselves 
 in safety from the passes where alone their ene- 
 mies could annoy them, and marched down 
 with floating banners and gay music upon the 
 green plains. The mountaineers still kept them 
 in view from the nearest heights, striving with 
 sad and wishful eyes to distinguish the form of 
 the prophetess. Instead of proceeding with 
 rapid steps to the white town, which glittered in 
 the sunshine at a few miles distance, Montrevel 
 no sooner found himself on level ground, safe 
 
THE CEVENNES. 17 
 
 from the assaults of hill-warfare, than he halted 
 near a solitary tall tree, which stretched its 
 branches abroad, as if to invite the heated travel- 
 ler to its shadow. There was a pause ; the sol- 
 diers were taking breath after their hurried 
 march ; there was a bustle ; but they did not 
 disperse, nor sit down on the grass to rest their 
 weary limbs ; and in a few minutes more, their 
 march was resumed with increased speed. As 
 they cleared the ground under the large tree, 
 the distant spectators caught sight of a fearful 
 object. It was the well-known scarlet drapery 
 it was the body of their prophetess sus- 
 pended from one of the lower branches of the 
 oak. No cry burst now from their lips ; not 
 daring to believe their own eyes, they strained 
 their gaze, then looked in each other's faces 
 with blank and speechless horror. Still doubt- 
 ing, still hoping, Cavalier was the first to 
 rush down to the place of execution, while the 
 sound of martial music yet came on the breeze, 
 and the cloud of dust raised by the troops, who 
 had now reached a high road, was still in view. 
 La Grande Marie was dead. Her body was yet 
 warm, but the spirit had forsaken it ; and never 
 more should the bold accents of her prophecies 
 kindle the souls of the Camisards against their 
 oppressors. With reverent hands they bore her 
 remains away to a cavern among their remote 
 2* 
 
18 THE REBEL OF 
 
 fastnesses ; for in the minds of some, there lin- 
 gered even now the hope of a miracle more 
 stupendous than any hitherto performed by their 
 departed friend. Upon the brow of Cavalier, 
 however, a cloud had settled, such as that open 
 placid countenance had never yet worn. It was 
 not despair which brooded on his heart ; but a 
 profound sorrow, and a feeling that all now de- 
 pended on his own unaided and desperate ef- 
 forts. It is only on the unreflecting, that a sense 
 of increased responsibility falls lightly. 
 
 It was scarce high noon, when the party of 
 royalists encamped in safety near the town of 
 
 N , after their merry morning's work, lie- 
 
 fore nightfall, Cavalier had scoured the moun- 
 tains in the neighborhood ; and, either in person 
 or by his emissaries, had drawn together a large 
 and furious body of peasants. As the sun sunk 
 towards the west, black clouds gathered round 
 his couch, and, glowing like fire at his approach, 
 soon shrouded the blazing orb in premature twi- 
 light. The wind howled among the hills with 
 those portentous sounds which, to the practised 
 ear, foreboded a sudden and violent storm ; and 
 Cavalier smiled triumphantly as he looked at the 
 gloomy heavens, and hurried over the rocks to 
 the place of rendezvous. A voice calling him 
 by name arrested him on his way, and, ere he 
 had time to answer the call, a boy scarce fifteen, 
 
THE CEVENNES. 19 
 
 clad in the ordinary dress of a shepherd, sprang 
 into his arms. 
 
 " My brother ! my Philip ! " exclaimed the 
 young leader, " why are you here ? why have 
 you left the upper mountains ? " 
 
 " I have come to fight, with you," cried the 
 lad. 
 
 " My child," returned Cavalier, " you know 
 not what you say. With that beardless cheek 
 and feeble hand, what should you do in these 
 fierce battles ? " 
 
 " I have fought with the wolves, and I can 
 fight a soldier," said the boy ; u let me go with 
 you ; I cannot stay there among the women and 
 children." 
 
 "But you must, till you are a man," said 
 Cavalier ; " who will tend our flocks, if our 
 boys neglect their charge ? " 
 
 " Let the women watch sheep, or let the 
 wolves eat them," answered the lad ; I am old 
 enough, and strong enough, and bold enough, 
 t to fight these robber-soldiers ; and if you will 
 not let me go with you, brother, I will fight them 
 alone. People say they have taken La Grande 
 Marie ; they have hung her on a tree ! Is it 
 true ? " 
 
 Cavalier's countenance, which had brightened 
 as he looked on his brave young brother, grew 
 sad as he whispered, " It is too true ; God and 
 
20 THE REBEL OF 
 
 his angels left her, we know not why, un- 
 less that we might revenge her murder." 
 
 " Then let me go, let me go ! " cried Philip, 
 vehemently, as the blood rushed into his face ; 
 and he strove to drag his brother forward. 
 
 u Nay," returned Cavalier, calmly, " hear 
 me, Philip. You and I are alone in the world. 
 We have no parents to love us, no brothers, no 
 sisters. This day they have taken away the 
 only other earthly being for whom I cared, and 
 cut deep into my heart. If 1 lose you 
 too, you are but a child, Philip ; a noble but 
 a feeble boy, and your arm could not ward oil* 
 the death-stroke aimed against you. 1 should 
 behold some ruthless sword drinking your life- 
 blood, and the sight would palsy my own right 
 arm. Go back, dear Philip ! you are too young 
 and weak for these bloody encounters." 
 
 " But you are scarce twenty," rejoined the 
 boy, " and you have not the stout limbs of a 
 mountaineer ; yet men say, God has given you 
 such a wise head and bold heart, that you can 
 lead them to battle. I only ask to follow after 
 you." 
 
 " In time, Philip, in time ! Do you love me, 
 my dear brother ? " 
 
 The younger Cavalier looked up in the speak- 
 er's face with amazement, and then throwing his 
 
THE CEVENNES. 21 
 
 arm round his neck, exclaimed, " You know 1 
 do, Louis ! " 
 
 " Then go back to the heights, and take care 
 of your precious days, Philip ; for I tell you, 
 that, if you are in this conflict to-night, my 
 thoughts will not be my own. I have more 
 need of the clear head than of the strong hand, 
 to guide yonder brave but undisciplined men, 
 and will you add to my perplexities, Philip ? " 
 
 The boy's bright color faded, and his head 
 drooped, as he said dejectedly, " I will do as 
 you bid me, brother." 
 
 Cavalier pressed him to his heart : " That is 
 well, my noble boy ! I love you all the better 
 for your bold purpose, and better still that you 
 can submit to disappointment. God knows if 1 
 do not love you too well, for I feel that to lose 
 you would almost break my heart. Away, then, 
 to the upper hills ! it grows late." So saying, 
 he disengaged himself hastily from the lad, and 
 rushed down the rocks. As he looked back 
 IIMU and then through the deepening twilight, he 
 discerned Philip still standing in a melancholy 
 attitude, and repeatedly waved his hand to him 
 to depart. But it was not till Louis had entirely 
 vanished from his sight, that the gallant boy 
 turned, with a heavy sigh, and with lingering 
 steps began to ascend the mountain. 
 
 Cavalier's plans had been wisely laid. He 
 
22 THE REBEL OF 
 
 aware, that a blow must be immediately 
 struck, to revive the drooping spirits of the in- 
 surgents. He knew that reinforcements for 
 Mon: revel's party were on the march, and would 
 probably arrive the next day ; and that no time 
 was to be lost. Before midnight, the storm 
 commenced, as if in league with the oppressed ; 
 it was accompanied by a violent wind, and, in 
 the midst of its fury, his followers, divided into 
 parties, approached the camp of Montrcvcl un- 
 perceived, from three quarters, and burst upon 
 the bewildered soldiers, while the thunder roared 
 their heads, and the hurricane whirled their 
 light tents into the air. Flushed with success, 
 the assailants piked their victims without mercy, 
 and pursued them into the outskirts of the town. 
 Cavalier alone was cool in the midst of the 
 general confusion ; and his ear was the first to 
 catch the sound of drums beating to arms within 
 the town. He divined the truth instantly. See- 
 ing the approach of the tempest, the officer sent 
 to the aid of Montrevcl had hurried forward, 
 and had quartered his troops among the inhab- 
 itants, not two hours before the attack of the 
 Camisards ; and now it required the utmost pow- 
 ers of the young leader to bring together his 
 scattered and raging adherents, and draw them 
 off in good order to the mountains. He suc- 
 ceeded, however ; and by turning occasionally 
 
THE CEVENNES. 23 
 
 to face his antagonists, then flying as if in con- 
 sternation, tempted them on from the plains, into 
 the broken soil at the baae of the mountains. 
 Before this was accomplished, the brief fury of 
 the tempest had spent itself; the clouds were 
 breaking away ; and the moon, nearly full, 
 looked out at times, from her quiet chambers in 
 the sky, on the scene with unwonted brilliancy. 
 Encouraged by this circumstance, the hot-headed 
 young officer who commanded the fresh troops 
 of the royalists, suffered himself to be lured 
 among the hills ; and then, soon finding his error, 
 endeavored to fight his way back with a bravery 
 worthy of the sons of freedom themselves. The 
 slaughter among his followers was great; and 
 they might perhaps have been utterly cut to pieces, 
 had Cavalier retained the same presence of mind 
 which had marked him throughout the night. But, 
 while he was engaged in superintending the mo- 
 tions of his troops, he suddenly perceived a con- 
 flict going on, upon the very edge of a cliff at no 
 great distance, which made his blood run cold. 
 It was a boy, sword in hand, fighting most 
 gallantly with a young royalist officer. His cap 
 was off*, the moon shone full on his face, 
 it was Philip ! Cavalier sprang towards him, 
 but at the same moment he was himself set upon 
 by two soldiers, and compelled to fight for his 
 own life. Still he glanced continually at the 
 
24 THE REBEL OF 
 
 rock beyond ; he saw that Philip was unaware 
 of the precipice behind, that his antagonist 
 gained upon him, that the boy was yielding, 
 retreating, but still parrying the thrusts aimed 
 at his body ; Cavalier uttered a warning cry, but 
 it was unheard, and in an instant more, as Philip 
 again stepped back to avoid the desperate lunge 
 of his foe, he disappeared! A mist came 
 over the eyes of Cavalier ; he fought like a 
 blind man ; and, had not some of his own 
 friends come to his rescue, that night would 
 have seen two of the boldest spirits of the 
 Cevennes for nguished. As it was, 
 
 his faculties seemed benumbed; and, deprived 
 of his wise command, the mountaineers suili red 
 the soldiers to extricate themselves from their 
 perilous position, and march back with some 
 show of order to their quarters, under the gray 
 dawn. 
 
 This was but one of a thousand conflicts, 
 which those unhappy regions beheld. But, 
 whether in defeat or victory, from that night the 
 private and profound sorrows of Cavalier found 
 no utterance. The gravity of premature man- 
 hood was on his brow ; and having but one ob- 
 ject for which to live, his energies were wholly 
 absorbed in the cause of freedom. The unedu- 
 cated son of a peasant, he had naturally imbibed 
 those superstitions, which had led him to yield al- 
 
THK CEVEMNES. 25 
 
 deference to the claims of the maniac prophetess ; 
 and many a time, in the dead watches of the 
 night, did he groan in spirit as he remembered her 
 murder ; many a time did the tears gush from 
 his eyes in those solitary hours, as he recollected 
 the heroic boy, the darling of his heart, whom 
 he had seen dashed in pieces, as it were, before 
 his face. The fortunes of the fight had led him 
 far from the dreadful spot before daylight ; and 
 no funeral rites had honored tho object of such 
 fond affection ; but his early virtue, his precious 
 courage, and sad fate, were treasured in the 
 bosom of his brother. 
 
 For weeks and months the weary contest 
 went on. The valor and cool judgment of 
 Cavalier had exalted him to supremacy above 
 the other leaders of the Camisards ; his fame 
 had spread far and wide ; and, when he had 
 succeeded in cutting off a large detachment of 
 the royal troops near Martinargue, Montrevel 
 was recalled ; and a general of no less reputa- 
 tion than Marshal Villars was sent against the 
 once despised rebels of the Cevennes. In a few 
 months more, Villars himself came to the con- 
 clusion, that the warfare must be interminable ; 
 it was possible to harass and distress, but not to 
 conquer. So indomitable was the spirit of the 
 enemy, so impregnable the fastnesses of their 
 mountains, that all hope of putting an end to the 
 3 
 
26 THE REBEL OF 
 
 war by force of arms was abandoned by this 
 able leader. And in the heart of Cavalier, who 
 beheld the incessant sufferings of the peasantry 
 from fatigue and famine, there also arose a se- 
 cret longing for the return of peace to their val- 
 leys. Fearful was this conscientious young 
 man, however, lest the voice of inclination 
 should drown the commands of duty ; he scarce- 
 ly dared trust his own judgment ; and it was not 
 till he ascertained, that ten thousand rein-Is 
 would lay down their arms if fitting conditions 
 should be offered, that he consented to hold an 
 amicable parley with the enemy. 
 
 An interview first took place between Cava- 
 lier and Lalande, an officer of high rank mid. r 
 Marshall Villars. Lalande surveyed the worn 
 garments and pale cheeks of the young hero, 
 whose deeds had reached the ear and troubled 
 the mind of Louis the Fourteenth, in the midst 
 of his mighty foreign wars ; he looked upon the 
 body-guard of the rebel chief, and saw there, 
 too, signs of poverty and extreme physical suf- 
 fering ; and believed that he understood how to 
 deal with men in such a condition. After a few 
 words of courtesy, he drew forth a large and 
 heavy purse of gold, and extended it towards 
 Cavalier. The mild eye of the youth rested on 
 it a moment with surprise ; he looked in the offi- 
 cer's face, as if unable to comprehend his mean- 
 
THE CEVENNES. 27 
 
 ing ; then, composedly folding his arms and step- 
 ping back, he shook his head, with an expression 
 of countenance so cold, resolute, and dignified, 
 that Lalande blushed at his own proffer. Glanc- 
 ing at the poor fellows who stood behind Cavalier, 
 with ready address he intimated that the sum was 
 but intended for a free gift to relieve their dis- 
 tress, and scattered the glittering coin on the turf 
 before them. Their eyes rested on it wishfully, 
 as they thought of their half-famished wives and 
 children ; but, so perfect was the subordination 
 into which they had been brought by their ex- 
 traordinary chief, that not a man stirred hand or 
 foot, till, after a brief conference, Cavalier sig- 
 nified his pleasure that they should accept the 
 donative. That was not till he had made satis- 
 factory preliminary arrangements with Lalande, 
 and a final interview had been appointed be- 
 tween Lalande and himself. 
 
 It was on the 6th of May, 1704, that the re- 
 nowned French marshal, the antagonist of 
 Marlborough, descended into the Garden of 
 the Recollets, at St. Cesaire, near Nismes, to 
 discuss peace and war with the son of a moun- 
 tain peasant He first reached the appointed 
 spot ; a grass-plot surrounded by formal gravel- 
 walks and trim hedges, bright with the verdure 
 of spring. He stood musing by a fountain, 
 careless of the songs of a thousand birds ; for 
 
28 THE REBEL OF 
 
 the interests of his master were at his heart ; 
 and he was eager to terminate a contest, most 
 annoying in the present crisis of the monarch's 
 affairs. Cavalier approached him with a brow 
 equally perturbed ; for, though the sufferings of 
 his countrymen had made him resolve on peace, 
 if it could be honorably obtained, yet the forms 
 of his departed friend and brother had haunted 
 his dreams through the past night. His own 
 wrongs swelled in his bosom ; and he felt, that 
 Peace, with her sweetest smiles, could not bring 
 back the murdered to cheer the loneliness of 
 his lot. Sad, therefore, were the tones of his 
 voice, and melancholy the aspect of his coun- 
 tenance, as the conference opened between him 
 and his noble adversary ; and Villars looked on 
 him with a deep admiration and sympathy. He 
 knew, from common report, what had been the 
 keenest trials Cavalier had ever experienced ; 
 and judged rightly, that, as the season of the 
 year returned, which had been marked by 
 events of pain, the jocund voices of spring 
 could bring no gayety to a heart so full of bitter 
 associations. For a time, he spoke of the ob- 
 jects for which they had met, but with a military 
 frankness, calculated to place the uncourtierlike 
 Cavalier at his ease, questioned him of himself 
 ,and his career; and gave just praises to the 
 .roops he had formed from raw mountaineers. 
 
THE CEVENNES. 29 
 
 At last the feelings uppermost in the heart of 
 Cavalier could no longer be suppressed, and he 
 broke forth : " My countrymen are born free and 
 fearless, and from their tenderest years can de- 
 fend themselves against oppression. I had a 
 brother, General " 
 
 He could not go on, but Villars did not wait. 
 u I know you had ; a hero of fifteen ; the tale 
 of that gallant boy's fate has reached me since 
 I came into these parts. You might well be 
 proud of him." 
 
 Cavalier's eyes were swimming in tears, as 
 he repeated, in a stifled voice, " Proud of him ! 
 I prized him while he was mine, and, when he 
 was gone, I thought I had never prized him 
 enough, noble, loving, beloved Philip ! " 
 
 u Were you satisfied, perfectly satisfied, that 
 he perished in the pass of Montluc ? " 
 
 " Alas ! he disappeared ; I saw him pressed 
 over the brink of a precipice ; I knew it was 
 not possible for flesh and bones to be dashed on 
 the rocks below without destruction." 
 
 " Yet, if you remember, torrents of rain had 
 fallen scarce an hour before ; at least, so they 
 tell me ; and a deep basin of water had been 
 formed under the cliff* whence he fell." 
 
 Cavalier looked wildly in the Marshal's face, 
 but spoke not. " If," continued Villars, " he 
 should have escaped death, should have fallen 
 3* 
 
30 THE REBEL OF 
 
 into the hands of our troops, what ransom would 
 you pay for such a prisoner ? " 
 
 "Myself, my liberty, my life ! I have 
 naught else ! " cried the young man. 
 
 Villars turned away, a benevolent smile light- 
 ing up his war-worn features, and raised his 
 sword ; the party of soldiers, who were drawn 
 up at a little distance in a hollow square, opened, 
 and there stood the slender stripling, Philip ; in 
 another moment, he had bounded like a moun- 
 tain deer into the arms of his astonished brother, 
 whispering, as he clung round his neck, " Will 
 you forgive me, Louis ? " 
 
 " He is yours," resumed the Marshal, dash- 
 ing the tears from his eyes; "we demand no 
 ransom for those that wear no beards, even 
 though taken sword in hand, as this young goose 
 was, ten minutes after he came dripping and 
 dizzy out of the water. The swords of our 
 dead Frenchmen were scattered too plentifully 
 about him. Carry him off, or I shall steal him ; 
 and teach him loyalty, I pray you ; for five years 
 hence he will match us all. And now for busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Briskly indeed the business went on. The 
 cloud had vanished from the brow of Cavalier, 
 the load had been lifted from his heart, and, 
 both parties having the same object honorably in 
 view, a friendly arrangement was speedily con- 
 
THE CEVENNES. 31 
 
 eluded, in which the interest of the monarch and 
 of the long-oppressed subject were alike con- 
 sulted. 
 
 It was not till many years after, that the 
 Governor of Jersey, the veteran of Alman- 
 za, the trusted servant of the English crown, 
 quietly departed this life of shadows in the or- 
 dinary course of nature, leaving behind a high 
 and unblemished reputation. That honored 
 officer was Louis Cavalier, once the rebel peas- 
 ant of the Cevennes. 
 
HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY THE GOTHIC 
 PEASANTRY. 
 
 BY G. P. B. JAMES. 
 
 SLOW, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy 
 
 rest, 
 
 Thy course of beneficence done ; 
 As glorious go down to the ocean's warm 
 
 breast, 
 
 As when thy bright race was begun, 
 For all thou hast done, 
 Since thy rising, O sun ! 
 May thou and thy Maker be blest. 
 Thou hast scattered the night from thy broad 
 
 golden way, 
 Thou hast given us thy light through a long 
 
 happy day, 
 Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast 
 
 wakened the flowers, 
 
 To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours. 
 Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy 
 
 rest, 
 
 And rise again, beautiful, blessing and 
 blest. 
 
HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN. 33 
 
 Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest, 
 
 Yet pause but a moment to shed 
 One warm look of love on the earth's dewy 
 
 breast, 
 
 Ere the starred curtain fall round thy bed, 
 And to promise the time, 
 Where, awaking sublime, 
 Thou shalt rush all refreshed from thy 
 
 rest. 
 Warm hopes drop like dews from thy life-giving 
 
 hand, 
 Teaching hearts closed in darkness like flowers 
 
 to expand ; 
 Dreams wake into joys when first touched by thy 
 
 light, 
 
 As glow the dim waves of the sea at thy sight. 
 Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy 
 
 rest, 
 
 And rise again, beautiful, blessing and 
 blest 
 
 Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy 
 
 rest, 
 
 Prolonging the sweet evening hour ; 
 Then robe again soon in the morn's golden 
 
 vest, 
 
 To go forth in thy beauty and power. 
 Yet pause on thy way, 
 To the full height of day, 
 
34 HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 For thy rising and setting are blest. 
 When thou com'st after darkness to gladden our 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Or departest in glory, in glory to rise, 
 May hope and may prayer still be woke by thy 
 
 rays, 
 And thy going be marked with thanksgiving and 
 
 praise. 
 Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy 
 
 rest, 
 
 And rise again, beautiful, blessing and 
 blest. 
 
35 
 
 THE ONE-HANDED FLUTE-PLAYER 
 OF ARQUES IN NORMANDY. 
 
 I WOUND my way up the eminence on which 
 the old towers totter to decay, and passing under 
 the broken archway which received the tri- 
 umphant Henry after his victory, and then trac- 
 ing the rugged path which marks the grand ap- 
 proach, I got on the summit of the mound which 
 forms the basement of the vast expanse of 
 building. The immense extent of these gives 
 a fine feeling of human grandeur and mortal 
 littleness ; and the course of reflection is hur- 
 ried on as the eye wanders over the scenery 
 around. This may be described in one sentence, 
 as the resting-place on which a guilty mind 
 might prepare for its flight to virtue. 
 
 While I stood musing " in the open air, where 
 the scent comes and goes like the warbling of 
 music " and neither wished nor wanted other 
 melody, the soft sounds of a flute came faintly 
 towards me, breathing a tone of such peculiar 
 and melting expression, as I thought I had never 
 before heard. Having for some time listened 
 in great delight, a sudden pause ensued : the 
 strain changed from sad to gay, not abruptly, 
 
36 THE ONE-HANDEC 
 
 but ushered by a running cadence that gently 
 lifted the soul from its languor, and thrilled 
 through every fibre of fed inn;. It recalled to 
 me at the instant the fables of Pan, and every 
 other rustic serenader, and I thought of the pas- 
 sage in Smith's u Nympholet," where Amaryn- 
 thus, in his enthusiasm, fancies he hears the 
 pipe of the sylvan deity. 
 
 I descended the hill towards the villagr at a 
 pace lively and free as the measure of the 
 music which impelled me. When 1 readied 
 ihe level ground, and came into the straying 
 t, the warbling ceased. It seem'-;! as 
 though enchantment had lured me to its favor- 
 ite haunt. 'The gothic church, on my right, 
 assorted well with the architecture of the houses 
 around. On every hand a portico, a frieze, 
 ornaments carved in stone, coats of arms, and 
 fret-work, stamped the place with an air of 
 antiquity and nobleness, while groups of tall 
 trees formed a decoration of verdant yet solemn 
 beauty. 
 
 A few peasant women were sitting at the 
 doors of their respective habitations, as mis- 
 placed, I thought, as beggars in the porch of a 
 palace ; while half-a-dozen children gambolled 
 on the grass plot in the middle of the open place. 
 I sought in vain among these objects to discover 
 the musician ; and, not willing to disturb my 
 
FLUTE-PLAYER. 37 
 
 pleased sensations by common-place question- 
 ings, I wandered about, looking, in a sort of 
 semi-romantic mood, at every antiquated case- 
 ment. Fronting the church, and almost close 
 to its western side, an arched entrance caught 
 my particular attention, from its old yet perfect 
 workmanship, and I stopped to examine it, 
 throwing occasional glances through the trellis- 
 work in the middle of the gate, which gave a 
 view of a court-yard and house within. Part of 
 the space in front was arranged in squares of 
 garden, and a venerable old man was watering 
 some flowers : a nice young woman stood 
 beside him, with a child in her arms ; two 
 others were playing near him : and close at 
 hand was a man, about thirty years of age, 
 who seemed to contemplate the group with a 
 complacent smil<-. His figure was in part con- 
 cealed from me, but he observed me, and im- 
 mediately left the others, and walked down the 
 gravel path to accost me. I read his intention 
 in his looks, and stood still. 
 
 As he advanced from his concealed position, 
 I saw that his left leg was a wooden one his 
 right was the perfect model of Apollonic grace. 
 His left arm was wanting. He was bare- 
 headed, and his curled brown hair showed a 
 forehead that Spurzheim would have almost 
 worshipped. His features were all of manly 
 4 
 
38 THE HNK-HANDED 
 
 beauty. His musuiehios, military jacket, and 
 light pantaloons with red edging, told that he 
 had not been " curtailed of man's fair propor- 
 tions" by any vulgar accident of life ; and the 
 - of honor suspended to his button-hole, 
 finished the brief abstract of his history. 
 
 A short interlocution, consisting of apology 
 on my part and invitation on his, ended in my 
 accompanying him towards the house ; and as 
 I shii , his l.-t't to his right side to oll'rr 
 
 one of my arms to his only one, 1 saw a smile 
 on the e< pivtty Wife, and 
 
 limli' d. ^e 
 
 entered the hall, a large bl-ali ant -room, \\ i:h 
 
 or lour old portraits mouldering on the 
 
 i other by a cobweb tapestry, 
 
 and una d by any othi-r ornament. 
 
 \\ e then pa>scd to the right into a spacious 
 chamber, which was once, no doubt, the gor- 
 geously decorated withdrawing-room of some 
 proudly-titled occupier. The nobility of its 
 nt tenant is of a different kind, and its 
 furniture confined to two or three tables, twice" 
 .any chairs, a corner cupboard, and a secre- 
 taire. A Spanish guitar was suspended to a 
 hook over the gothic mantel-piece ; a fiddle lay 
 on the table ; and fixed to the edge of the other 
 was a sort of wooden vice, into which was 
 
FLUTE-PLAYER. 39 
 
 screwed a flute of concert size, with three finger 
 holes and eleven brass keys, but of a construc- 
 tion sufficient to puzzle Monzani. 
 
 It is useless to make a mystery of what the 
 reader has already divined : my one-legged, 
 one-armed host was the owner of this compli- 
 cated machine, and the performer on it, whose 
 wonderful tone and execution had caused me so 
 much pleasure. But what will be said when I 
 tell the astonished and perhaps incredulous 
 public, that " his good right hand " was the sole 
 and simple one that bored and polished the 
 wood, turned the keys and the ivory which 
 formed the joints, and accomplished the entire 
 arrangement of this instrument ! 
 
 Being but an indifferent musician and worse 
 mechanic, I shall not attempt to describe the 
 peculiarities of the music, or tho arrangement 
 of the flute, as the maker and performer ran 
 over, with his four miraculous fingers, some of 
 the most difficult solos in Vernes and Berlinger's 
 compositions which lay on the table before him. 
 
 This extraordinary man is a half-pay colonel 
 in the French service, though a German l.y 
 birth. His limbs received their summary am- 
 putation by two quick-sent cannon balls at the 
 battle of Dccrden (I believe) : since he was 
 disabled he has lived in his present retirement, 
 ** passing rich on thirty pounds a year," and 
 
40 THE ONE-HANDED 
 
 happy for him that nature endowed him with a 
 tasteful anil mechanical mind, rare combina- 
 tions! while art furnished him with knowledge 
 of music, without which his mind would have 
 heen a burden. 
 
 With regard to his flute-playing, lie actually 
 brought tears into my eyes by his touching 
 manner. 
 
 It needs not to be told he was an enthusiast 
 in music, and when he believed himself thus 
 deprived of the last enjoyment of his life, he 
 was almost distracted. In tin- feverish slrrp 
 snatched at intervals from suilering, he 
 constantly to dream that he was listening to 
 delicious concerts, in which he was, as he was 
 wont, a principal performer. Strains of more 
 than earthly music seemed sometimes floating 
 round him, and his own flute was ever the 
 leading instrument. 
 
 Frequently, at moments of greatest delight, 
 some of the inexplicable machinery of dreams 
 went wrong. One of the sylphs, the lovely 
 imaginings of Baxter's fanciful theory, had 
 snapped the chord that strung his visioned joys. 
 He awoke in ecstacy,the tones vibrated, too, for 
 a while upon his brain ; but, recalled to sensa- 
 tion by a union of bodily pain and mental 
 anguish, his enefficient stump gave the lie direct 
 to all his dreams of paradise, and the gallant 
 
FLUTE-PLAYER. 41 
 
 and mutilated soldier wept like an infant for 
 whole hours. 
 
 He might make a fortune, I think, if he 
 would visit England, and appear as a public 
 performer; but his pride forbids this, and he 
 remain^ at Arques to show to any vial'tor un- 
 usual proofs of talent, ingenuity, ind philosophy ' 
 
THE POET'S PEN. 
 
 PROM THE GREEK OF MENECKATES. 
 
 I WAS a useless reed ; no cluster hung 
 
 My brow with purple grapes ; no blossom flung 
 
 The coronet of crimson on my stem ; 
 
 No apple blushed upon me, nor (the gem 
 
 Of flowers) the violet strewed the yellow heath 
 
 Around my feet ; nor jessairine's sweet wreath 
 
 Robed me in silver : day and night I pined 
 
 On the lone moor, and shivered in the \vinu. 
 
 At length a poet found me. From my side 
 
 lie smoothed the pale and withered leaves, and 
 
 dyed 
 
 My lips in HELICO^T. From that high hour, 
 I SPOKE ! my words were flame and living power! 
 All the wide wonders of the earth were mine ; 
 Far as the surges roll, or sunbeam's shine ; 
 Deep as earth's bosom hides the emerald ; 
 High as the hills with thunder-clouds are 
 
 palled ; 
 
 And there was sweetness round me, that the dew 
 Had never wet so sweet on violets blue. 
 To me the mighty sceptre was a wand ; 
 The roar of nations pealed at my command. 
 
PEN. 4J 
 
 To mo the dungeon, sword, and scourge were 
 
 vain, 
 
 I smote the smiter, and I broke the chain ; 
 Or, towering o'er them all, without a plume 
 I pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom, 
 Till blazed th' Olympian glories on my eye, 
 Stars, temples, thrones, and gods infinity. 
 
41 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 EVENING THE GLEANER. 
 
 THE shadows stalk along the western verge ; 
 
 The orient sleeps, already wrapped in night ; 
 
 The fitful fire-fly trims his tiny light, 
 
 .lie owl awaki-s her solemn dirge. 
 
 The dusky night-hawk swoops from sky to sky ; 
 
 The whip-poor-will attunes his husky note ; 
 
 O'er the still pool contending circles float, 
 
 As whirling round the hcctle-boatmcn ply. 
 
 Closed are the labors of the toil-worn day ; 
 
 The evening Sabbath reigns o'er all the scene ; 
 
 With dewy feet across the meadow green, 
 
 The gentle gleaner homeward wends her way. 
 Peace to her guileless heart and unpretending 
 
 hearth ! 
 
 Peace seeks the humble home but shuns the 
 great of earth ! 
 
THIS GIL KAN Eli 
 
45 
 
 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 WITH one of my schoolfellows, whose father 
 was clerk to an eminent barrister, I paid occa- 
 sional visits to the courts in Westminster Hall. 
 I was with him, also, one day at the bar of the 
 House of Lords during the arguing of an ap- 
 peal case. We were not unfrequently, likewise, 
 in the Old Bailey during the sessions. From 
 thenceforward my imagination was filled with 
 nothing but a vision of wigs and gowns. Many 
 a time have I astounded an Old Bailey jury, 
 badgered a witness in the Common Pleas, and 
 even broken jokes with " my lords " the judges. 
 I have been hand and glove with the Lord Chan- 
 cellor himself, and (for my imagination exer- 
 cised its ubiquitous privilege, and flew as it 
 pleased between common law and equity), I 
 have leaned familiarly over the bar of the House 
 of Lords, addressing the woolsack and empty 
 benches on some intricate case on which I had 
 been retained with a fee of a thousand guineas. 
 
 My decision was made my profession was 
 chosen I should be a lawyer. My father, a 
 plain, hard-working man, learned the decision 
 with a kind of contemptuous carelessness, but 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 finding me persist, it made him somewhat un- 
 JT. Once on a time, he said, he had done a 
 little business with lawyers himself, and had 
 i tin-in a precious pack of scoundrels. Ilr 
 V cordially, and he had a reason 
 fr it. Thr reason was this. He had fancied 
 that he had a claim to a property which wanted 
 lie hud spent some trifle of money 
 in trying to establish his claim. But other and 
 much nearer claimants than he had started up, 
 and from that time he never could forgive the 
 \Vr seldom heard the story when he 
 r; but when lie came home tipsy 
 (which, to do him justice, was not frequently), 
 sure to get the whole history and mys- 
 tery of this property, and perhaps it was but the 
 second edition for that evening, if he had got 
 auditors in the parlor of the Rose and 
 Crown. My mother used to call him an old 
 fool, and desire him to go to bed, which he 
 would do very good-humoredly, but as he sank 
 to sleep he still kept muttering about how the 
 
 rs had cheated him out of his property. 
 My father resisted my inclination to be a law- 
 he would far rather, he said, see me at 
 some honest, trade. With my mother I had 
 more success ; I told her I had a turn and taste 
 for the law, and she believed that I had ; I 
 affirmed that I would rise in the law, and sho 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 47 
 
 believed that I would. I at last caught my father's 
 consent by a manoeuvre which had some cunning 
 in it and some real enthusiasm. He was harp- 
 ing one evening on the old string of his property, 
 when I exclaimed that if / were but a barrister, 
 I would drag the unlawful holders of the property 
 through every court in the kingdom, and com- 
 pel them to disgorge perhaps if I were a 
 barrister, father might have the property to keep 
 him in his old age. He looked at me for a mo- 
 ment ; then taking his pipe out of his mouth, 
 and laying it on the table, he vowed that I slwuld 
 be a lawyer. 
 
 Hut how to become a lawyer was now the 
 consideration. At last my mother bethought 
 her of a very distant relation who was a clerk in 
 an attorney's office the result of her applica- 
 tion to him was, that I was taken into the office, 
 and the attorney promised that if I proved as 
 sharp and apt as I looked, he would take care 
 of nu . 
 
 About a year afterwards a young barrister, 
 who had just taken possession of his chambers, 
 and was beginning to get some business, pro- 
 posed to me that I should become his clerk. . 1 
 jumped at the proposal. The attorney, however, 
 was somewhat offended by my leaving him, and 
 spoke disparagingly of my ability. There was 
 no engagement, however, and the barrister had 
 
4$ A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALK. 
 
 conceived a fancy for me. Therefore did I 
 become the barrister's clerk. 
 
 Now was I happy ! I had surmounted one 
 obstacle ; and if I could but accomplish the task 
 fing my way through an Inn of Court, 1 
 might become a barrister, and have, one day, a 
 t, and chambers to myself. My employer 
 well connected, (what can a professional 
 man do in London without a good connexion?) 
 and was one of thos, who 
 
 in common life are known as lucky individuals, 
 hing he took in hand BOOCOeded 
 with him. There was a buoyancy about him, 
 ...incd with almost perfect suavity of man- 
 ner, and a large portion of cleverness, which 
 in swimmingly. He never knew what 
 it \\; >r doubt the possibility of his suc- 
 
 cess in life, and therefore he was equally free 
 from the hesitation of a timid nature, and the 
 bull} ardness of a vulgar one. The 
 
 word gentleman sums up his character. He 
 knew his own position, kept it, never went under 
 it or over it, and, as a natural consequence, was 
 to allow to others full deference and ac- 
 knowledgment, without the fear that lie was 
 thereby detracting from himself. He was, in- 
 deed, a kind-hearted, open, candid gentleman ! 
 
 Business flowed in upon him. No Jew in 
 disposition, he raised my salary as he filled my 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 49 
 
 time with work as his fees increased, so did 
 mine, By the time I had shot up from the shape 
 and thoughts of a mere youth into the look and 
 consequence of a young man, I was in the re- 
 ceipt of an income of about 200Z. yearly, and 
 it promised to increase still more. My employer 
 would undoubtedly rise in his profession, and I 
 would rise with him. He might become attorney- 
 general he might be made a judge! My 
 prospects were far better than that of many a 
 briefless barrister ; I scorned to desert my em- 
 ployer, and abandoned all thoughts of anything 
 but being his clerk for life. " Well, Bill," said 
 my father, one day, as I handed him some 
 money to pay up arrears of rent there was a 
 tear in his glistening eye "I was wrong, and 
 you was right, when you wanted to be a law- 
 yer ! " My mother would sit and look at me, 
 while gratification and pride lighted up her face 
 or she would smile as my sister pulled the 
 ring off my little finger, and placed it on her 
 own, or my younger brother examined the tex- 
 ture of the silver watch-guard, that, like an 
 alderman's chain, decorated my person. I was 
 the great man of the family, and grew great in 
 my own estimation. A bed-room was carefully 
 assigned me my father brushed my boots and 
 shoes, nor would he allow any one else to do it. 
 One night, I took him to tne gallery of the 
 5 
 
50 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 House of Commons. Though fond of a bit of 
 political discussion, especially in his favorite par- 
 lor at the Rose and Crown, his attention was 
 riveted, not on the speaker or his wig, or tin 1 
 the table with their wigs, or the mace, 
 or the members, but on the sergeant-at-arms, 
 and the messengers of the House. He was get- 
 ting tired, he said, of hard work, and he " would 
 just like to be one of them chaps," to sit and 
 hear the speeches, and have nothing to do but 
 order the folks in the strangers' gallery to sit 
 down and be quiet. I promised to use all jmj 
 influence to get him put on the list, and no doubt 
 
 >uld be appointed in due course ! 
 Time wore on; my money was as plentiful, 
 or more so, as ever ; and I became, not a dissi- 
 pated, but a gay, thoughtless young fellow. 1 
 ventured, now and then, into the pit at the opera, 
 occasionally treated my sisters (my mother 
 would never go) to a box at the play, and when 
 " master and I " went on circuit, I drank my 
 wine " like a gentleman." About this time, I 
 smitten by the charms of a pretty, affec- 
 tionate girl, (she is, thank goodness, if not as 
 pretty, at least as affectionate as she ever was,) 
 and we married! Who blames me? My 
 emp 1 - glad to hear of my marriage. 
 
 He said that he would repose greater confidence 
 in me than ever, that he felt he had a greater 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 51 
 
 hold upon me than he had before, that, in fact, 
 I had " given hostages to fortune." I told all 
 this to my wife, and though she did not exactly 
 understand what giving hostages to fortune 
 meant, she thought it must mean something very 
 complimentary, considered my employer a very 
 fine gentleman, wondered he did not take a wife 
 himself, but concluded he had not yet met with 
 the one that was destined for him. 
 
 I look back to the first two years of my mar- 
 ried life as one does to a pleasant vision, which 
 seems to float indistinctly in the memory. They 
 were spent in one round of thoughtless happi- 
 ness. We never dreamed of saving any money, 
 as we might have done. My absences on circuit 
 were at first a source of annoyance, but she be- 
 came used to them, and they were amply made 
 up by our " junkettings " and " goings-on " dur- 
 ing the " long vocation." My wife is an excel- 
 lent creature ; but all (say, if not a//, the greater 
 portion) of young London folks are fond of 
 " seeing some life " ay, and many of the older 
 folks, too. So we ran to Vauxhall, and Ast- 
 ley's, visited the theatres, had supper parties, 
 and sometimes a dinner party, and took excur- 
 sions into the country. A couple of children 
 was but a trifling check upon the buoyancy of 
 our out-of-door habits. We kept, of course, a 
 servant ; and " mother " came of an evening, 
 
:VJ A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 to take care of the young ones when we went 
 out. 
 
 Mv employer suddenly sickened and died, 
 cut him oif in the flower of his 
 manhood at the very time when lie could 
 -nil, "it is well with me, and it is well 
 with the world ! " I was too much stunned to 
 the sorrow I have since felt. Besides, his 
 relations called on me to wind up his affairs. 1 
 K>; and, in a few months, the chambers 
 where I had s; pleasant 
 
 hours, were taken possession of by another bar- 
 rister and another clerk. Truly, man dies, but 
 society li\ ' () t' :i 1IUIU m t ' ie prime 
 
 of life, and in active business, is just as if one 
 threw a stone into the ocean : it caus< 
 ration and a swell in the neighborhood for a 
 moment, and then the surface is the same as 
 
 I could v have got a situation immediately 
 
 afterwards. But the salary offered was very 
 
 small ; and I had received fifty pounds from my 
 
 late employer's relations, as an acknowledg- 
 
 t of my services. So, scorning to " shelf" 
 
 If, as I called it, I resolved to wait till 
 
 something worth my acceptance presented itself. 
 
 I do not know how it was, but I spent three or 
 
 four busy months idling about. I \vaited on 
 
 this person and that person ; spoke of my 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. ' 53 
 
 capalilities and my wants; tried for two or 
 three situations, and began to feel what I had 
 never properly felt before, that the fraternity I 
 belong to, like that of our employers, is a nu- 
 merous one their name is Legion, for they 
 are many. 
 
 One day, in the street, I met a barrister who 
 had been one of the personal friends of my 
 late employer. "Oh, Turner," he said, "I 
 wanted to see you come with me." I went 
 with him to the chambers of a well-known con- 
 veyancer. After being duly introduced, I was 
 desired to wait, and the kind barrister, doubt- 
 less thinking he had effectually served me, went 
 away. Some time afterwards, I was called into 
 the sanctum. " Well, Mr. Turner Turner is, 
 I think, your name, is it not ? " said he, in a 
 voice that made me think him as musty and 
 precise as an old title-deed. I bowed. " With 
 whom did you say you were last, Mr. Turner ? " 
 I mentioned the name. " Ah ! poor fellow, he 
 died as he was getting into a very good business 
 did he not, Mr. Turner?" I replied, of 
 course, in the affirmative. " But you were with 
 a conveyancer before you were with him, were 
 you not, Mr. Turner ? " I said, No but that 
 I was sure I would soon get into the routine of 
 the business. " Ah ! well, I am busy now, Mr, 
 5* 
 
54 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 Turner, but leave me your address, and I will 
 send for you when I want you." I pulled out 
 my card, which the conveyancer told me to put 
 down on the table. Next day the situation was 
 filled up, but not by me. 
 
 I next applied for the head clerkship in an 
 attorney's office, but the attorney wanted an 
 experienced man, and I was amongst the rejected 
 candidates. I heard one night of a vacancy in 
 a barrister's clerkship, and was waiting at the 
 chambers next morning before the barrister ap- 
 peared himself, amongst half-a-dozen young 
 men, who mutually guessed each other's pur- 
 pose but the barrister had been suited tiiv. 
 night before. The question began to occur to 
 what can I do? s I, the father 
 
 of a family, a grown member of an overstocked 
 profession, and all I can really do to earn my 
 family's subsistence, is the copying of legal 
 documents an art that a boy of fourteen can 
 perform as well as a man of forty. Yet, for- 
 sooth ! my shabby gentility must be kept up 
 dig I cannot, and to beg I am ashamed. In the 
 first impulse of the moment, I resolved to sell 
 off all that I had, and emigrate to the Back- 
 woods of Canada. And pray, said I to myself, 
 as I cooled a little, what can you do in the Back- 
 woods of Canada ? You can neither handle 
 the axe, nor the saw, nor the hammer ; hardly 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 55 
 
 know how to plant a cabbage and can barely 
 tell the difference between wheat and oats! 
 
 My father had been ailing, and was at last 
 called away, and I, heretofore the great man of 
 the family, could do nothing towards laying him 
 in his quiet grave. A brother, by trade a black- 
 smith, one whom I had ridiculed for the awk- 
 ward homeliness of his manners, and whom I 
 have more than once avoided in the street, de- 
 frayed the expenses of the funeral, and, being 
 unmarried, charged himself with the mainte- 
 nance of my mother. Yes, the tables were 
 turned. Yet even amid the bitterness of heart 
 which everything was calculated to give me, I 
 have seen me turn out on a solitary walk, and 
 dreaming about a fortune being left me by some 
 unlooked-for and mysterious means ; and how, 
 when I got it, I would astonish, dazzle, or at 
 least command the respect of some who were 
 looking coldly or contemptuously on me. And 
 at this time another baby was born to me, and 
 my awkward brother called, in his greasy jacket, 
 and put a sovereign into its little hand we had 
 only a few coppers, not amounting to a sixpence, 
 in the house, before we received the welcome 
 gold coin. 
 
 My wife suggested that I should try something 
 out of the law, if I could not get something to 
 do in it. What can I do out of the law, I asked. 
 
56 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 " Bless my heart ! " she exclaimed, with more 
 vehemence than she was in the hahit of using, 
 " London is a large place ! " Some further 
 conversation followed ; we grew warm ; she 
 accused me of being a useless, incapable fellow, 
 who, when one mode of subsistence failed, could 
 not turn himself with facility to another. I re- 
 torted, that she was idle, and might do something 
 herself towards the maintenance of the family, 
 (what a cruel insult towards a woman with two 
 young children and a baby, and she, too, whom 
 I had taught never to do anything but attend to 
 the children !) high words followed, I stormed, 
 she wept and upbraided, we mutually wished we 
 had never been married, and at last, in a furious 
 passion, I rushed out of the house. 
 
 I had parted with the silver chain, as well as 
 some other ornaments previously, but the ring 
 kept its place on my little finger. This I now 
 took off, sold for a few shillings, and went and 
 got drunk, like a mean-spirited hound, with the 
 money. Staggering about the streets, and 
 covered with mud from a fall, I was met by the 
 kind barrister, who had not lost his interest in 
 me, and who, but for the circumstance of his 
 having an excellent clerk, would have taken 
 me. He was accompanied by another barris- 
 ter, who had just discharged his clerk for 
 drunkenness and embezzlement, and the empty 
 
 
A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 57 
 
 place had been reserved for me it was a very 
 good one. They both knew me, both spoke to 
 me, and I answered them with a hiccoughing 
 bravado, which, as I learned next morning, un- 
 der a head-ache and a heart-ache, lost me the 
 situation. 
 
 The next night was one of the dreariest I 
 ever spent in my life. I slipped out while my 
 wife was asleep, and began to ramble about the 
 streets, to cool the fever of body and mind. 
 " London is indeed a large place," thought I. 
 There are hundreds in it, ay, thousands, who, if 
 they knew my condition, would pour a suf- 
 ficiency for the present distress into the lap of 
 my family yet a bold, bad, begging-letter 
 imposter, by working on the feelings of the 
 charitable, can sometimes gather pounds while 
 I am destitute of pence. And there are hun- 
 dreds of situations, requiring no greater ability 
 than what I possess, which supply what I would 
 term affluence to their possessors, while I am 
 wandering about like a vagabond, no man offer- 
 ing me aught to do. But the previous night's 
 adventure came back to my recollection, and 1 
 knew I was solacing myself with a lie. It was 
 a bitter night of murmuring, repining, self- 
 accusation, and reproach of the arrangements 
 of Providence. 1 forgot how much of my 
 present condition was owing to my own wilful 
 
58 A LAWYKK'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 misspending O f the time of my youth, and the 
 money acquired in a comfortable situation. 
 
 During that night's ramble, I saw two or three 
 destitute creatures, men and boys, wandering 
 .reels like myself, and a young lad, who was 
 sitting huddled up on the steps of a door, told 
 me his story, which, if it was not true, was told 
 in a very truth-like way. It was a pitiable story 
 of destitution, and made me asliamed of my 
 want of spirit. There was a penny in my 
 pocket, remaining from my previous night's 
 debauch; I gave it to him with hearty goodwill, 
 and returning home, found my wife up, and 
 Ing at the alarming thought of my having 
 abandoned her, but determined, as she said with 
 great spirit, to " scrub her nails off" to earn a 
 subsistence for herself and the children. 
 
 I now thought of trying for a situation in the 
 Post Office. Accordingly, I set to work got 
 up a memorial, and had it signed by a number 
 who knew me, and by a number who did not 
 and sent letters along with it to the Postmaster- 
 General and the Secretary. My hopes rose 
 high about the success of this scheme, for the 
 letters were nicely written, nicely folded, and 
 nicely sealed. I allowed at least ten days for 
 an answer, and did not become impatient till 
 the third week. Then I began to sit each morn- 
 ing at the window, watching the postman, and 
 
59 
 
 biting my nails as he passed. The oldness of 
 the maxim has not abated one jot of its truth, 
 that, " hope deferred maketh the heart sick." 
 The third week passed, and the fourth, and no 
 answer came. In the fifth week, unable to 
 bear the agony of suspense, I sent a note, en- 
 treating an answer, and gently hinting that my 
 application might have been overlooked in the 
 hurry of business. A few days afterwards I 
 got an answer, and broke the official seal with 
 a trembling hand and a beating heart. The in- 
 closure was a note, intimating, in dry, but civil 
 terms, that my application had been laid before 
 the Postmaster-General, but that his list was so 
 full as to prevent all possibility of any hope of 
 employment being held out to me. 
 
 Next day I got, by what appeared almost a 
 mere chance, the situation of clerk to a barris- 
 ter, with a salary of 50/. a year. I had been 
 offered the same sum, with a chance of picking 
 up some fees, immediately after my former em- 
 ployer died, but I was too saucy at that time to 
 take it. Now, however, the tone of my spirit 
 was lowered a little. My new employer had > 
 scarcely any business, and but a small chance 
 of augmenting it for though not lacking ability, 
 he wanted the "turn" the manner, or what 
 you choose to call it, which helps a man along 
 in the -crowded walks ^of the law. But I had 
 
60 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALE. 
 
 not been long with him, when lie negan to throw 
 out hints about his prospects, and his con- 
 He was very we'll connected, and was 
 industriously grubbing about for the roots of an 
 tl appointment. He distinctly gave me to 
 understand that he should provide for me as soon 
 as he was provided for himself. I dare say he 
 would have fulfilled his promise, //"nothing had 
 intervened. 1 \\ able to him; and 
 
 though a consi. mount of pride still sub- 
 
 sisted in my heart, I brought myseii' to act as a 
 valet, as well as a clerk, to a man who 1 could 
 not but see was proud, poor, m- an. and ungen- 
 erous. After two years' service with him, lie 
 got an appointment in one of the colonies, and 
 having one or two relations to provide for, I 
 could not be considered in his u arrangement*.' 1 
 iad not the courage or the honesty to tell me 
 the real cause, but said that my family was the 
 obstacle in the 
 
 1 now longed for an opportunity to " cut " the 
 and wou'd have given all I ever had in the 
 tvorld to any man who would have endowed me 
 vith a faculty of earning my family's subistence 
 different from that of copying a legal document, 
 and making a flourish at the bottom of the page. 
 A little shop was to be let in my neighborhood 
 a kind of compound shop, in which the goods 
 sold came under the class of huckster and 
 
6i 
 
 green-grocer. I knew nothing about buying 
 and selling : but better late than never, thought 
 I, and I resolved to make the experiment. The 
 price of fixtures and good-will was only thirty 
 pounds, but where was I to get thirty pounds ? 
 My worthy blacksmith brother came to my aid. 
 He lent me a few pounds he had saved, and he 
 borrowed a few more ; my old friend the barris- 
 ter, who had long before become reconciled to 
 me, and who had learned that I was not an 
 habitual drunkard, presented me with ten 
 pounds ; and one way and another I raised the 
 thirty pounds, though with a desperate struggle. 
 So I entered on the possession of my little shop ; 
 and it required a good laughing face to hide the 
 scantiness of the stock, and the awkwardness of 
 my motions. My wife, indeed, has served me 
 excellently well ; only for her handy cleverness 
 the shop would have been shut up long ago. 
 Wr are doing pretty well in it, not making a 
 fortune, but eking out a livelihood. Meantime 
 I have got another situation with a Chancery 
 barrister, in which I do not get more than about 
 185. a week, but where the work is light, and I 
 uu not require to go out of town. My wife at- 
 tends to tin- shop during the day, and at night 
 too ; but if the custom of the shop should in- 
 crease, so as to enable us to maintain our family 
 by it, I will " cut " the law altogether ; and acting 
 6 
 
(]'2 A LAWYER'S CLERK'S TALK. 
 
 on my father's maxim, bring up my children 
 to " honest " trades, instead of learning them 
 a shabby gentility, which may make them more 
 helpless in a great city than a Spitalfields or a 
 Paisley weaver. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 HAIL, welcome Spring ! delightful Spring ! 
 
 Thy joys are now begun : 
 Earth's frozen chains are rent in twain 
 
 By yonder glorious sun. 
 The dews of eve, on meadows green, 
 
 And waving blades of corn, 
 Like diamonds set in emeralds sheen, 
 
 Are twinkling in the morn. 
 
 Sweet Spring! 
 
 In thee the snowdrop finds a grave ; 
 
 Meanwhile the primrose pale 
 Grows sweetly on the sunny bank ; 
 
 The daisy in the vale 
 With golden eye looks beautiful ; 
 
 Young trees fresh odors fling, 
 Their incense rises to the skies 
 
 In worshipping the Spring. 
 
 Sweet Spring! 
 
 All living things that life enjoy 
 
 Are now instinct with love : 
 In pairs fond creatures woo on earth, 
 
 In pairs they woo above. 
 
64 SPRINC. 
 
 The echoing woods in music speak, 
 As winded minstrels sing, 
 
 Uniting heaven ami earth with song 
 In welcoming the Spring. 
 
 t Spring! 
 
 Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, all 
 
 Tiirir lesson iv;ul to man, 
 Ami teach him sorrow's not the end 
 Of :it plan : 
 
 may be, 
 :ug, 
 
 Lik< -is they pass away, 
 
 And welcome glorious Spring. 
 
 t Spring ! 
 
FORAGERS. 
 
 THE reader must, we think, have observed 
 among the various classes which compose that 
 curious piece of mosaic work called society, one 
 of a particularly puzzling sort of character. It 
 is composed of persons, and very respectable- 
 looking persons too, who contrive to live, and 
 live well, without any visible or known means 
 of doing so. But there is a means for all that, 
 and we know the trick of the thing. These 
 persons forage : they beat about for a living, in 
 a way which we hope presently to illustrate in a 
 very plain, if not a satisfactory manner. 
 
 In the course of our life we have personally 
 known three perfect specimens of the class of 
 persons we speak of. Three only! but they 
 were splendid geniuses in their several ways. 
 We say in their several ways ; because, though 
 of precisely the same genus, and though pro- 
 ceeding on precisely the same principles, they 
 were somewhat different, both in their character 
 and special modes of operation. 
 
 The first of these we range them accord- 
 ing to the chronological order of our acquaint- 
 ance with them was Dick Spelter, as he was 
 6* 
 
66 FORAGERS. 
 
 iarly called by his coevals; but our ac- 
 quaintance with him having been in our younger 
 m, ami merely through his sons, who were 
 our schoolfellows, we called him, with a respect 
 for our elders becoming our years, Mister 
 Spel: 
 
 -.as at this time somewhere about 
 forty -five years of ugc, was a personage of 
 rather tall stature, but somewhat bent. 1 It- 
 stooped a little a consequence, we before, t 
 ion to the object of cir- 
 cumventing the difficulties of the day. 
 
 was always on the ground, and he was al- 
 ways busied in thought. lie wound his 
 
 through the busiest streets of the city. 
 Neither the bustling nor jostling o: peo- 
 
 ple, nor the perils of coach and carr, could for 
 a moment withdraw him from the profound 
 abstraction by which he seemed always en- 
 grossed. The countenance of this prince of 
 foragers, for so we reckon him, was a peculiar 
 one. It had a startling sinister look ; proceed- 
 ing, chiefly, from a habit he had acquired of 
 gathering a large portion of his optical informa 
 tion by the tail of his eye, by side-long glances 
 This sinister expression was also heightened b} 
 an habitual grin, which he intended, we dar< 
 say, for a smile, and which on any other coun 
 tenance would, perhaps, actually have been 
 
FORAGERS. 67 
 
 such a thing ; but on his it was the most alarm- 
 ing-looking thing imaginable cunning, sly, 
 and roguish. Altogether, Dick's countenance, 
 both in form and expression, bore a strange re- 
 semblance to that of an overgrown cat ; it ex- 
 hibited the same indications of a deep, design- 
 ing, and treacherous nature. But the resem- 
 blance just spoken of held good in other par- 
 ticulars besides. Dick was quiet and demure, 
 spoke little, and made no noise whatever of any 
 kind. His step was slow, deliberate and meas- 
 ured, light and stealthy. He rather glided than 
 walked, and when in motion always carried his 
 hands behind him beneath the skirts of his coat. 
 Thus it was that he might have been seen skip- 
 ping noiselessly, and you would imagine, unob- 
 served, through the streets, but Dick was wide 
 awake. He had all his eyes about him, or, at 
 least, the corners of them, and nothing could 
 escape their vigilance; they were in quest of 
 prey. Dick, in short, was what is called a deep 
 one, and a sly one to boot 
 
 At the time we knew Mr. Spelter, Mr. Spelter 
 was doing nothing ; that is, he was not engaged 
 in any business, nor occupied by any employ- 
 ment : yet Mr. Spelter had no other ostensible 
 means of living, not the smallest; and yet, 
 again, Mr. Spelter and his family lived well 
 and comfortably. They wanted for nothing, 
 
68 FORAGKKS. 
 
 neither food nor raiment. There was a man of 
 talent for you ! Why we, ourselves, while we 
 record the fact, are overwhelmed with admira- 
 tion of his genius of the genius of that man 
 who could rear up a family, a large family, on 
 nothing ! 
 
 When we said that Mr. Spelter, when we 
 knew him, was doing nothing, we will, of course, 
 be understood in a particular and limited sense. 
 He doing nothing! Mr. Spelter was doing an 
 immense deal. He was the .an in the 
 
 busy city to which he belonged ; how else could 
 he have done what he did ? Maintained his 
 family genteelly without the vulgar aid of coin, 
 the resource of your common-place ideal men. 
 Dick's notions were much too sublime for this. 
 He created something, and something substan- 
 tial too, out of nothing, never stooped to in- 
 ferior practice. 
 
 Mr. Spelter, however, although not engaged 
 in any regular business during the time we en- 
 joyed the honor of his acquaintance, had been 
 so at one period of his life ; but what that busi- 
 ness was, when or where he carried it on, we 
 never knew, nor did any body else. No one 
 could tell what he had been, although there was 
 a pretty general though vague idea, that he had 
 been something or other somewhere or some- 
 time. This, indeed, is a never-absent feature in 
 
FORAGERS. 69 
 
 the cases of all his class. They have always 
 started in the world in the regular way, but 
 have, some way or other, always fallen 
 through it. 
 
 It would gratify the reader, we dare say, if 
 we could give him " a swatch o' Spelter's way,' 1 
 if we would give a detailed specimen of his 
 proceedings in the way of foraging; but we 
 must at once declare that we cannot do this. 
 His ways were mysterious ; you only saw results. 
 All that wo can say about the matter is, then, 
 that his house never wanted abundance of the 
 creature-comforts of life : there were hams, 
 cheeses, kits of butter, boxes of candles and 
 soap, everything, in short, necessary to good 
 housekeeping, and in never-failing, never-ending 
 supply. But where they came from, or how 
 obtained, who could tell? we never could, 
 nor could we ever even form a conjecture on 
 the subject. There they were, and that is all we 
 can say about them. We have reason, however, 
 to believe that Dick did sometimes sail rather 
 near the wind in some of his catering expedi- 
 tions ; that is, that some of his transactions had 
 a shade just a shade or so of swindling in 
 th<-ir complexion. We have heard that some- 
 thing approaching to this was the character of a 
 particular rase of a sack of potatoes, which 
 Dick had somehow or other come across. Be 
 
70 FORAGERS. 
 
 tliis as it may, there certainly were some un- 
 pleasant consequences attending this affair. 
 Dick was actually pursued not at law, for no- 
 body ever dreamt of throwing away money in 
 pursuing Dick at law, but in his own proper 
 11, and by the proper person of the owner 
 of the potatoes. On that occasion, Dick, being 
 hard pressed took to the roof of his own house 
 through a skylight ; for the enemy had made a 
 lodgment even in the very heart of his domicile ; 
 and escaped, after exhibiting sundry feats of 
 fearlessness and agility in skipping along steep 
 roofs and scrambling over airily situated rliim- 
 neys, all at the height of some hundred i< -t 
 from the ground. It is said that the potato-man 
 had : ty to give Dick chase over a roof 
 
 or two, but soon abandoned the pursuit, as 
 equally hopeless as dangerous. 
 
 The next in order of our foragers is Sandy 
 Lorimer. Although pursuing the same pecul- 
 iar walk in life, and acting on precisely the 
 same principles as Dick, Sandy was, in other 
 respects a totally different man. He, again, 
 was a stout, bold, noisy personage, with an im- 
 posing presence, and loud, hearty voice. Dick 
 carried his points by circumvention ; Sandy by 
 a coup-de-main. He advanced boldly on his 
 prey, pounced on it at once, and bore it off in 
 triumph. He did the thing by open, fearless, 
 
FORAGERS. 71 
 
 we suppose we must call it effrontery. Sandy 
 had formed a general intimacy, not merely a 
 trading acquaintance, (mark the excellent policy 
 of this,) with a large circle of dealers of all 
 sorts, grocers, butchers, bakers, &c., &c., &c. 
 Being on this footing with these persons, he 
 entered their premises, when on the hunt for 
 provender, with a hearty freedom and familiarity 
 of manner that admirably facilitated his subse- 
 quent proceedings, and altogether deprived them 
 of the power of denial. They could not, in 
 fact, find in their hearts to refuse him anything, 
 even though perfectly conscious at the moment 
 that they would never see a farthing of its value ; 
 his manner was so taking, so plausible, so im- 
 posing. The impudent courage of the man, 
 too, was admirable; beyond all praise. The 
 length of a score, either as to figures or time, or 
 both, never daunted him in the slightest degree 
 He would enter the shop where the fatal docu- 
 ment existed, and face the inditer thereof with 
 as bold and unflinching a front as if the money 
 was due to him ; and that shop he never left 
 without adding something to the dismal record 
 of his obligation. 
 
 His butcher's shop, for instance, where there 
 was, to our certain knowledge, a score against 
 him a yard long, and which had been standing 
 for years, he would enter with a shout, and 
 
72 FORAGERS. 
 
 hilarious roar, slap the butcher on the shoulder 
 with a hearty thwack, and ask him what new* ? 
 lie would then turn round on his heel, and eom- 
 mene of all the tid-bits exposed 
 
 for sale, praising and admiring everything he 
 
 length his well-practised eve sel. 
 choice morsel. 
 
 "There, now, Mr. I'./' ta would say, advanc- 
 ing towards the article in question, " there, now, 
 ill a nice little roast. That 
 docs you credit. What may the . r " 
 
 .'Uteher U il.wn, ami 
 
 '!, ho\\e\, r, \\ith iniieh 
 f.-r he has certain i the 
 
 ct. But Sand minds this, though 
 
 he se ; to he driven from 
 
 purpose by sulky looks. "le?en pounds 
 and a half, Mr. Lorhner," at length says the 
 butc! 
 
 Hoy , 1f says Sandy, addressing a little ragged 
 urchin, who is in waiting to carry forcuston 
 44 take this out to my house ; " and, without giving 
 the butcher time to adopt counteracting i 
 should he have contemplated them, the beef \\as 
 popped into the boy's tray, and despatched from 
 the premises. This is one particular point in 
 the forager's practice. Another is, never to 
 trust to the seller of an article sending it home 
 to you, but always to see it despatched, beyond 
 
FORAGERS. 73 
 
 hope of recall, before leaving the shop vourself. 
 These points Mr. Lorimer always carefully ob- 
 served, and his success was commensurate with 
 his forethought. 
 
 Besides catering for the family, however, Mr. 
 Lorimer picked up a very tolerable independent 
 living of his own ; and this he accomplished by 
 the following process : On entering a grocer's 
 shop, he is particularly struck with the rich look 
 of a cut cheese that is lying on the counter. 
 He openly expresses his admiration of it, being 
 on a familiar footing with the shopkeeper. He 
 takes up the knife that is lying beside it, with a 
 hearty, pleasant freedom of manner; keeping 
 the shopkeeper the while in play by an animated 
 conversation. He cuts off a whacking slice, 
 and despatches it, having probably asked his 
 friend to toss him over a biscuit. Luncheon, then, 
 has been secured, but something is wanted to 
 wash it down. A glass of ale or a draught of 
 porter is in request, but this he cannot with a 
 good grace ask where he has had his cheese. 
 Indeed, there is no such opportunity as would 
 warrant him in asking it. He must catch some 
 one of his numerous friends in the liquor line 
 in the act, in the particular predicament, of 
 bottling; and this a little perseverance, aided by 
 a shrewd guess of the most likely places, ena- 
 bles him to accomplish. He has also acquired 
 7 
 
74 FORAGERS. 
 
 the free entrance (by what means we know not) 
 of a certain range of bonded cellars, where he 
 can, occasionally, pick up a glass or two of 
 choice wine, which, with a biscuit, and perhaps 
 a slice of ham foraged in some other quarter, 
 he can make a pretty substantial passover. 
 
 Such, then, is Mr. Lorimer. 
 
 The next on our list is Major Longson, the 
 civil, polite, well-informed, bowing-and-scruping 
 Major Longson. By we never knew pre- 
 
 cisely how he acquired this same military title, we 
 rather think it was a local-militia honor, for the 
 major's name never appeared in any army-list. 
 Be this as it may, however, major he was a! 
 called, and by no other title was he knoun. 
 
 The major was an elderly man, ^ray-1, 
 and of a grave, thoughtful, and intelligent coun- 
 tenance; mild and pleasant, of speech soft, 
 smooth, and insinuating ; but 1.- most 
 
 determined forager, and a perfect master of his 
 business, which, however, he conducted in a 
 quiet, gentlemanly sort of way. In his mode 
 of proceeding, there was a peculiarity which 
 does not characterize the practice of the other 
 two. The major dealt largely in samples, 
 samples of wine, samples of cheese, samples 
 of tea, samples of everything ; but we suppose 
 we must be more explicit. To be so, then. 
 The major had a habit of making tours among 
 
FORAGERS. 75 
 
 the dealers in the articles named, and all others 
 useful in housekeeping, (the major was a bache- 
 lor, and had therefore no family to provide for, 
 nobody but himself,) and in the most polite and 
 engaging manner possible, requested a sample 
 of some particular commodity. It was at once 
 given him ; and if the article was, say tea, he 
 never failed to go home with at least a pound 
 weight in his pocket ; and so of all the other 
 necessaries of which he stood in need. 
 
 We have oAen been surprised at the singular 
 talent which the major possessed of scenting 
 out edibles, and that in the most unlikely places. 
 He must either have had some wonderful gift 
 of nose, or some strange intuitive guiding power 
 that conducted him to his prey. A friend of ours 
 and an acquaintance of the major's, at whose 
 place of business he occasionally called, once 
 happened to have a small consignment of figs 
 from Smyrna sent to him. Our friend was in a 
 totally different line of business, dealing in 
 nothing that would either eat or drink, but of 
 this consignment he took charge, stowing the 
 drums of figs into a small dark back room, 
 that they might be out of harm's way ; being 
 too tempting an article to keep in an exposed 
 place. But, of all the depredators whom our 
 friend dreaded, there was no one whom he so 
 much feared as the major, whose foraging 
 
76 FORAGERS. 
 
 habits he well knew. When he came, there- 
 fore, the door of the little apartment in which 
 the figs were stored was always carefully closed, 
 and every allusion to the delicate fruit sedulously 
 avoided in his presence. Vain precaution ! 
 Bootless anxiety ! One morning the major 
 entered our friend's counting-house with a pecu- 
 liarly bland countenance, and smiling and bow- 
 ing, said, he had been informed that Mr. S. had 
 got a consignment of figs! If perfectly con- 
 nt, he would like to see them ; he was 
 extremely fond of figs; a fine wholesome 
 fruit, &c., &c. 
 
 We leave the reader to conceive our friend's 
 amazement and mortification on being thus ad- 
 dressed by the major the man, of all others, 
 from whom he was most desirous to conceal the 
 luscious treasure; for he knew that he would 
 not only carry ofF the usual sample for himself, 
 but that he would come day after day, as long 
 as a fig remained, to get samples for his friends, 
 (this, of course, fudge,) in an affected zeal to 
 find purchasers for the consignee. All this 
 accordingly took place, and the major effected 
 an entrance next day ; but, fortunately, the figs 
 had been all disposed of and removed in the 
 interim. Our friend could never conceive 
 where or how the major had obtained his intel- 
 ligence in the case just mentioned ; but it was, 
 
FORAGERS. 
 
 77 
 
 after all, only one of a thousand every whit as 
 mysterious and unaccountable. The major was 
 evidently born with an intuitive talent for finding 
 the depositories of good things, be these where 
 they might : they could not escape him ; for his 
 vigilance was great, his scent unerring. 
 
 Being fond of all sorts of delnctable edibles, 
 fish was, of course, on the major's list ; and he 
 was, fortunately, so situated locally as to put a 
 good deal of enjoyment of this kind in his way. 
 He lived, in the first place, in a village situated 
 on the sea-coast, several of the wealthier inhabi 
 tants of which kept pleasure-boats, with which 
 they went frequently a-fishirig for amusement. 
 Now, the movements of these boats the major 
 watched with a sharp and wary eye, so that they 
 could not land a tail, on returning from a piscatory 
 expedition, without his presence or his know- 
 ledge. Hovering about on the coast, like a huge 
 sea-gull, he pounced on the boat the moment it 
 touched the strand ; having been seen, some 
 time previously, bowing, and scraping, and smi- 
 ling to the party as they approached the shore. 
 " Pleasant day, gentlemen, for your excursion ; 
 excellent sport, I hope some beautiful fish, 
 no doubt. Ah ! there now ! " (the major is 
 now leaning over the gunwale, and pointing out 
 with his cane some of the choicest specimens of 
 the finny tribe which it contains,) " there is a 
 7* 
 
78 FORAGEKS. 
 
 lovely fish : three pound weight, if it's an ounce. 
 There is another beautiful fish, and there 
 and there and there : all these are excellent." 
 The amateur fishermen take the hint, and the 
 major is invited to take a few. He runs up to 
 the house : in a twinkling a servant-girl, with a 
 clean towel or a basin, is at the side of the boat, 
 with the major's compliments to "the gentlemen," 
 and in another twinkling a dozen of the best fish 
 are on their way to the major's kitcheu 1 
 
79 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 'Tis a child of phansie's getting, 
 
 Brought up between hope and fear, 
 Fed with smiles, grown by uniting 
 
 Strong, and so kept by desire : 
 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire, 
 
 Never dying, 
 
 Whose smoak, like incense, doth aspire 
 Howards flying. 
 
 It is a soft magnetick stone, 
 
 Attracting hearts by sympathie, 
 Binding up close two souis in one 
 
 Both discoursing secretlie : 
 'Tis the troe Gordian knot that ties, 
 
 Yet ne'er unbinds, 
 Fixing thus two lovers' eies 
 As wel as minds. 
 
 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmonic 
 Where two skilful hands do strike ; 
 
 And every sound expressively 
 Marries sweetly with the like : 
 
80 WHAT IS LOVE ? 
 
 'Tis the world's everlasting chain, 
 That all things ti'd, 
 
 And bid them, like the fixed wain, 
 Uumov'd to bide. 
 
81 
 
 DELIBERATION; OR, THE CHOICE. 
 
 14 OH ! do come, Mary, into the garden ; it is 
 getting so beautiful. The lupines I sowed the 
 other day are coming up already, and there are 
 so many fresh roses out this morning." 
 
 44 Just now, Jane, I am engaged." 
 
 " Oh ! but I want you to tell me how to trans- 
 plant some of my new flowers." 
 
 " Well, well ; we'll see about it by and by. 
 Why Jane, what is the matter with you ! Tears 
 in your eyes ! " 
 
 44 Hush speak low ! I want to see you 
 alone." 
 
 44 Come, then, into the garden. Now, my 
 dear Jane, what ails you ? " 
 
 44 Read that letter." 
 
 " What my eyes must have long since told you, my 
 lips refuse any longer to conceal. I love you deeply, 
 fervently, everlastingly. Should my fate have such a 
 blessing in store for me as to render me worthy in your 
 eyes, and to give me the most charming of women, 
 it would indeed render mo the happiest of men ! I 
 lay my all at your feet, and count every minute an 
 hour till you bless me with one word of hope." 
 
H'J DELIBERATION ; 
 
 " This is indeed serious, though not otlwi \vise 
 
 than I IA I. Markham loves 
 
 you. ftt, il was but too evident for hia own 
 
 peace of mind, or Maxwell's, who has beheld, 
 
 with no unnatural impatience, this stranger's at- 
 
 'ii to yuti. Well, he must be answered at 
 
 To leave him one moment in suspense 
 
 were unpardonable. You must toll him you 
 
 consider yourself engaged to another : if he be 
 
 an honorable man, you will thus win his respect 
 
 ur trunk avowal, and at once cause him 
 
 to dismiss from his mind all thoughts of further 
 
 solicitation. 11 
 
 "Well, but I mean that is hadn't I 
 better show the letter to pap:, 
 
 " Not for the world, my dear sister. Why 
 would you unnecessarily violate a confidence 
 that a rtf hold sacred? You 
 
 do not answer me. Is it possible that you love 
 this man, and that the noble-hearted being, who 
 .a !) almost idolizes you, is 
 forgotten 
 
 " Well, sister, you are very sudJen in your 
 suppositions. Let us go in." 
 
 " One word first. Do you think I love you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Yet, forgive me this petulance 
 I am very miserable." 
 
 \ay, my dearest, only sister, don't sob so. 
 Here, come into the arbor. Let us now clearly 
 
OR, THE CHOICE. 83 
 
 understand what it is we are to grieve and weep 
 so about. I say we ; for, believe me, whatever 
 touches thy heart is not far from mine. Come, 
 now, you were fond of asking my advice, and 
 O rare virtue ! my sister, generally to fol- 
 low it. Why didst thou do so ? " 
 
 " Because you always understood me, even 
 when we differed ; and your judgment was bet- 
 ter than mine." 
 
 " Well, I will try to understand you once 
 more. So, now your heart mark me, your 
 heart and I will talk together. Do you love 
 this Markham ? " 
 
 " I am afraid to say No, and still more afraid 
 to say Yes." 
 
 " At all events, you like him better for a hus- 
 band than Maxwell ? " 
 
 u ye yes!" 
 
 " How long have you known this stranger? " 
 
 " Three months." 
 
 "And Maxwell?" 
 
 "Thirteen years." 
 
 " Which loves you best ? " 
 
 "Mark 1 don't know." 
 
 " That's my own sister. If we do choose 
 his rival, we'll at least give poor Maxwell fair 
 play. You think Markham handsome ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And I own his rival plain, unless when he 
 
84 DELIBERATION ; 
 
 is sometimes gazing on you, or when you speak 
 suddenly to him. This stranger dresses well, 
 too; his air is polished and gentlemanly, his 
 manners agreeable. Anything more? Oh, 
 1 as Othello says, he 'sings, plays, and 
 dances well. 1 Anything more ? Do you think 
 his judgment good? in portry, for instance." 
 
 " lie loves it dearly." 
 
 " For its own sake or yours ? Well, we will 
 pass that, and believe, as the young god could 
 make a Cymon love, he may accomplish the 
 still harder task, and make a line gi-ntleman 
 poetic 
 
 "Don't you think his dispositio; :it?" 
 
 " As an impulse, yes, but no further ; and 
 therefore, as an impulse, liable to lead him as 
 often wrong as right; to be always impelling 
 him to attempt good and great things, but i 
 rendering him capable of those patient and ar- 
 duous exertions by which alone the -y are accom- 
 plished. But I will tell you something of him 
 that has pleased me. What ! your eyes sparkle 
 at that. Poor old Widow Smith's son fell from 
 a ladder the other day, and broke his leg, and 
 almost at the same time his mother's heart. Mr. 
 Markham happened to be passing at the time, 
 and was indefatigable in his endeavors to get 
 him carefully conveyed to the hospital; and 
 when he left him at the door gave him some 
 
OR, THE CHOICE. 85 
 
 money, having heard, on his way, that his pa- 
 rent was bedridden, and totally dependent on the 
 man's exertions." 
 
 " Well, that was noble of him. Dear me ! 
 Poor old Widow Smith ! I have heard nothing 
 of this before. Who informed you of it ? " 
 
 " One of the neighbors. I went this morning 
 to the hospital, to see if I could do anything for 
 the poor fellow. I found him better than I ex- 
 pected : some one, who had heard of the acci- 
 dent, and knew the impossibility of parent and 
 son seeing e^ch other in their distress, had visited 
 them daily, and oh! the value of kind feel- 
 ings, kind thoughts, and kind words, at such a 
 time ! No medicines like them ! Sitting by 
 ooor Smith's bedside, I found this excellent per- 
 son ; and he it was who told me of Mr. Mark- 
 ham's benevolence." 
 
 " And did he that is, Mr. Markham go 
 to see poor Smith at the hospital ? " 
 
 " I believe not." 
 
 " I wish he had. Who was this admirable 
 man you have been speaking of? " 
 
 " Why, to be sure Mr. Markham's visit would 
 have gratified the sufferer even more than his 
 money ; but to blame him for not doing more, 
 is but an ill return for what he has done. Be- 
 sides, an hospital is not, of all places in the 
 world, the pleasantest to visit ; and the person 
 8 
 
86 DELIBERATION ; 
 
 I have alluded to had done all that was possible 
 and requisite under the circumstances." 
 
 Poor old Widow Smith ! I'll go and see 
 
 lirectly. But who was it that praised .Mr. 
 
 Murkham for his kindness, while so much more 
 
 deserving praise himself? Do you know him ?" 
 
 44 Oh, yes ; he is the best of men. When I 
 first knew him, it was as the friend of him whom 
 but the time is favorable. You shall know 
 now, for the first time, the particulars of that 
 passage of my life you have so often asked me 
 to explain. I could not then. Alas ! I have no 
 longer any moti\ conccalim-nt." 
 
 " My dear sister ! how sadly you speak. 
 Don't tell me now; I have not seen you so 
 moved this long time. Why there's a tear 
 here 
 
 44 Is there ? May it then wash away the un- 
 happy remembrance of his errors ! I may now 
 freely mourn over him in death ; and, sad as 
 that is, it is a relief to what I have endured. 
 Oh, the misery of weeping hopelessly over the 
 living ! I can now trust myself to think of the 
 only man I ever loved." 
 
 Mr. Stewart, you mean ? " 
 
 44 1 do. You know of our early engagement, 
 our sudden unexplained separation. No ! you 
 were too young even to guess at the causes ; 
 and of his history you have hitherto heard so 
 
OR, THE CHOICE. 87 
 
 little, that probably much of what I am about to 
 speak will be new to you. William Stewart was 
 the son of poor parents, and his early years 
 were passed in scenes of daily privation and 
 toil. Would that had been all ! His father 
 was a violent, self-willed, proud-tempered man, 
 who had known better days ; his mother was 
 capable of almost any meanness. It is strange 
 in what uncongenial soils and places the human 
 mind will grow into strength and beauty. When 
 I first knew Stewart, he was a frank, grace- 
 ful-minded, happy-hearted youth, with a touch 
 of ambition that promised to elevate and 
 strengthen his character. Of his mother's dis- 
 position I perceived no traces in him ; of his 
 father's, very little. We wandered together 
 through every part of the broad forest ; we sat 
 together for hours side by side on the river- 
 banks ; we collected plants, mosses, and lichens, 
 which, as he gathered, I explained. I think I 
 see him now climbing one of the loftiest oaks, 
 to fetch me an apple, and shaking the boughs 
 above him, which he could not reach, with such 
 violence that I was alarmed for his safety ; I 
 still hear his clear, ringing laugh, as a bunch of 
 the finest fruit fell at my feet. I was, indeed, 
 but too happy ' We parted ; he began the 
 career we both believed would lead to success, 
 comprising in that one word, honor, wealth, and 
 
DELIBERATION , 
 
 fame. Time nxl we were again to 
 
 but, alas ! the spirit that had so en- 
 thralled me, had lost its brightness. He loved 
 me still he loved his parents ; but all tin 
 of the world appeared only to him a subject for 
 ridicule or hatred. One drop of disappoint- 
 ment had poisoned the whole cup of life ; he 
 had not prospered as he expected. To me 
 there was nothing in this comparative failure but 
 ought to have been anticipated. I saw 1m 
 
 I be less sanguine of immecli.r , hut 
 
 not one jot less hopeful of the future. Alas! 
 his aspirations had no stronger foundation than 
 vanity; they crumbled and fell away at the iirst 
 shock. The seeds of hea : -.!!, which 
 
 an evil education had implanted, and which is 
 but selfishness under another name, a different 
 aspect had now germinated, and threatened, un- 
 less eradicated by a vigorous hand, to cover all 
 that was good in his nature with their baleful 
 luxuriance. He grew better in the few weeks, 
 
 -pent together; became more patient and 
 amiable ; and, when the evil influences were not 
 upon him, I loved him, from the very contrast, 
 better than ever. Again we were severed; 
 he was to write to me continually he wrote 
 seldom. What the world calls love might not 
 in his case have diminished ; but I perceived, 
 with unutterable agony, that my influence over 
 
OR, THE CHOICE. 89 
 
 him ww totally lost. Spare me the shame, the 
 anguish, of recording the evidences of his 
 increasing un.worthiness, which continually 
 reached me : suffice it to say, that the elevation 
 of mind, the purity of heart, that won my love, 
 totally disappeared, I felt, for ever." 
 
 " My dear sister ! " 
 
 " For a long time I saw, though afar off, the 
 dreadful end of all this ; but I hoped until the 
 last I confided till I felt my own self-respect 
 departing from me. Then it was I determined 
 to break the toils that environed me, at all haz- 
 ards. I wrote to him after long and inexpressi- 
 bly painful meditation. I said, 4 Our sympathies, 
 our motives, are no longer in harmony with each 
 other let us part.' I did all I could to soften 
 what I felt would be a blow to him, and at the 
 same time to let him see my decision was final. 
 Anxiously did I pray to Heaven to prepare me 
 for the interview that I knew must follow. He 
 came, and with him the friend I have mentioned. 
 Oh, the agony of that scene ! Prayers and 
 threats prevailed by turns : one moment he de- 
 nounced, in frenzied terms, my inconstancy, 
 and even threw out insinuations as to my 
 motives ; the next he threw himself at my feet, 
 and with streaming eyes abjured his errors, and 
 more, to make himself all that I wished to see 
 him. His friend interfered, and after warmly 
 8 
 
90 DELIBERATION ; 
 
 checking him for his violence, which he saw I 
 last sinking under, persuaded him to leave 
 us awhile. He now proceeded to speak of 
 Stewart in terms admirably calculated to influ- 
 my determination by influencing my judg- 
 ment ; he told me of various instances of his 
 noble impulses, his generosity, of his deep, un- 
 bounded love for me, which he had witnessed. 
 In justice to myself, I explained fully my feel- 
 ings and motives ; I showed him the gradual 
 process of the alienation of our spirits ; whilst, 
 as to his violence of character, his friend owned, 
 with a deep sigh, he could neither deny the 
 charge nor explain it away. In answer I was 
 assured, that although Mr. Stewart was his best, 
 in fact, his only friend, his benefactor, and that 
 he loved him as dearly as it was possible for 
 one brother to love another, I should not be ba- 
 nned, if he could help it, by distressing solici- 
 tation. He ended by conjuring me, for his un- 
 happy friend's sake as well as my own future 
 happiness, to hold out some hope to give him 
 at least the only motive that could redeem him. 
 With broken accents he said, 4 this, at least, for 
 the very life of his friend,' he hoped. I shud- 
 dered ; I could bear no more, but fainted away. 
 When I recovered, I found Stewart and his 
 friend bending over me ; the former uttering a 
 thousand incoherent passionate exclamations. 
 
OK, THE CHOICE. 91 
 
 Dreading a recurrence of the fit, which Stew- 
 art's violence might bring on, his friend with 
 great difficulty drew him away." 
 
 " Oh, this is dreadful indeed ! What could 
 you do ? " 
 
 44 1 had overrated my strength this was too 
 much for me. The still small voice yet whis- 
 pered within, 4 He is beyond your power 
 recovery is hopeless,' but I could not deny him 
 anything that even appeared to influence him 
 for the better. I yielded so far as to agree still 
 to correspond with him, although I could not, 
 would not, now again see him. I knew he 
 would have striven to induce me to make still 
 further concessions, and God knows the anguish 
 that I felt whenever I refused him a request. I 
 knew also that, if any possibility of future hap- 
 piness still existed for us, there was but one way 
 to roach it, and that was, to deepen the impres- 
 sions upon his mind of these painful scenes, so 
 as to make their instruction permanent. His 
 friend mournfully acquiesced in the propriety 
 and necessity of my decision, and left me to 
 inform Stewart of the result, which (must I own 
 the painful truth?) I could not but hope would, 
 on the whole, gratify him. I experienced also 
 a relief, an unutterable relief, when I reflected 
 that he had met a friend to watch over and 
 guard him perhaps to make him again Oh! 
 
92 DELIBERATION ; 
 
 I dared not carry that thought farther. When 
 Stewart was informed of the result of his friend's 
 visit, he was for a time speechless with anguish 
 ami balhYd will ; for hours he would not leave 
 the spot, and was only withheld by force from 
 coming here at midnight. At last mortification 
 prevailed over all other feelings ; he sent me a 
 short note renouncing me for ever, and thus 
 made his selfishness as evident as it was most 
 cruelly ill-timed. I have never heard from him 
 since that hour ! I have been informed, within 
 the last few days, that he is dead. My name 
 was last upon his lips ; he still loved me, and I 
 now know him only as I first knew him. .My 
 buried love ! we may yet meet in another world, 
 wiser and better fur the mistakes and sorrows of 
 this." 
 
 44 Oh, Mary ! that I should know nothing of 
 all this ! I, who have so often thought you cold 
 and insensate ! Can you forgive me, and let 
 me love you better than ever? But this 
 friend " 
 
 44 Ay ; I have only learned by accident that, 
 in consequence of his noble conduct towards 
 me, Stewart and himself were long strangers, 
 and that the latter lost not only a friend but a 
 benefactor ; for, humble as were Stewart's 
 means, he had still been able to assist him in 
 severe and distressing pecuniary anxieties, and 
 
OR, THE CHOICE. 93 
 
 which were incalculably enhanced by the sud- 
 den estrangement. Whatever benefits, how- 
 ever, he had received, he was enabled to repay. 
 Stewart died in his arms ; the last hour of life 
 cheered and solaced by his unwearied affec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! I could indeed love that man." 
 
 " Art sure ? " 
 
 " With all my heart and soul ! that is, if 
 he loved me." 
 
 " Here then, he is now coming towards us." 
 
 " What, Maxwell ! " 
 
 " Even he." 
 
 " Oh ! if he knew my recent feelings, he 
 would despise me now." 
 
 " Well, shall we accept this Markham ? " 
 
 " No, no never ! " 
 
 " Hush, not so loud Maxwell will hear you. 
 What says that blush ? that he may ? He 
 seems agitated ; perhaps he guesses what Mark- 
 ham has done noticed, perhaps, your agita- 
 tion when we withdrew. God bless you then, 
 my dear sister ! you are worthy even of him, 
 the worthiest man I know." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Hush ! don't go away." 
 
 " Pfaith, a good hint. Adieu ! " 
 
94 
 
 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 MY heart had dreams in childhood's hours, 
 And then they wen- the bright and gay, 
 
 Their hauntings were with light and flowers, 
 But soon their brightness passed away. 
 
 And then came visions darkly wild, 
 Dim i ,1 to sec; 
 
 Their presence sadder thoughts beguiled, 
 And dreams became a home to me. 
 
 But now they glad my heart no more, 
 
 Beneath their power its wings are bound ; 
 
 Those dreamings, like the clinging flower, 
 Have withered what they wreathed around. 
 
 The heart upon whose central page 
 The spirit Love hath set his seal, 
 
 Where shall it seek, from youth to age, 
 An image that its death can fill ? 
 
 Amid the altars called his own, 
 What sign can consecrate a sigh, 
 
 Whose incense is not claimed alone 
 By selfishness and vanity ? 
 
THE VISIONARY. 95 
 
 The world, the world, the human world, 
 The darkened stage of toil and strife, 
 
 The war- field where the flag's unfurled, 
 Are those of agony and life. 
 
 Is it amid this jarring scene 
 
 The heart can seek or find its home ? 
 Where hate and suffering have been, 
 
 Can love find aught except a tomb ? 
 
 But earth the bright and changing earth, 
 Whose very strifes are harmony, 
 
 Linked even from his spirit's birth, 
 With all of man that cannot die ; 
 
 The greenwood shade, the river's rush, 
 The gentle flower the mighty sea 
 
 Oh ! these may claim the purest gush 
 Of the heart's vital melody. 
 
96 
 
 THE MARCH OP LUXURY. 
 
 ABOUT thirty years ago there lived, in a 
 retired village fifteen miles from Glasgow, a 
 decent farming couple, tolerably well to do. 
 They were pure specimens of that agricultural 
 genus which flourished in abundance b< 
 steam and machinery began to turn the world 
 upside down sturdy, honest, blunt, lii, 
 woolsey folks, who daily, night and morning, 
 performed their devotions, ate }i\\^>- HH-SSI-S of 
 parritch, and never missed a Sunday at tip- 
 kirk. They had, of course, a large family, 
 stout healthy sons and daur: .in their 
 
 infancy, cut i t ruusin;; 
 
 their parents to lose a win', sand as 
 
 they grew up flourished, like their decent fore- 
 bears before them, on 
 
 "Halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food." 
 
 Various circumstances caused the honest 
 farmer to feel himself getting warmer and warm- 
 he advanced in years. A new road had 
 been cut close by his farm ; the secluded vil- 
 lage began to be more frequented ; a house of 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 97 
 
 " entertainment for man and beast " was estab- 
 lished in it ; increased facility of communication 
 with such a market as Glasgow presented 
 led to more frequent intercourse with it, douce 
 Davie himself venturing there with potatoes, 
 meal, and even sour milk^ until " siller," whose 
 clink had been rather unfrequent in his ears 
 during his young days, became no novelty to 
 him : though, in this instance, familiarity did 
 not breed contempt. 
 
 But though every neighbor knew that Davie 
 and Phemie were a comfortable couple, not an 
 outward indication betrayed it. Duly did they 
 preside at the head of Uieir board ; men and 
 women, boys and girls, delving, with horn 
 spoons, in wooden noggins heaped to the brim 
 with smoking parritch or sowetis. Davie was 
 made an elder of the kirk ; and on Sundays his 
 thoughtful weather-beaten face might be reg- 
 ularly seen, as he stood at the kirk-door watch- 
 ing over the plate : for be it known to you, 
 reader, at the entrance of Scottish kirks are 
 placed metal plates resting upon stools, into 
 which the worshippers, as they enter, chuck 
 their bawbees for behoof of the poor. Phemie 
 and the bairns were sure to be in their pew 
 before the minister entered the pulpit : for 
 though clad in all the gorgeousiiess of a scarlet 
 duffle (Anglice, a hooded cloak or mantle), such 
 9 
 
98 THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 an idea as taking care to be late, in order to 
 attract attention, would never have entered into 
 her head. Thus they went on, from day to day. 
 from week to week, from month to month, from 
 to year ; not an alteration could be seen, 
 nt that Davie and Phemie began to look as 
 if they were sliding into years, and their chil- 
 dren were fast shooting up from " laddies " and 
 u lassies " into " braw " men and women. 
 
 " Changes are lightsome " is a Scottish say- 
 ing, but it depends much on the nature of the 
 changes whether they are so or not. One of 
 the boys grew restless as he grew up ; ho got 
 tired of the monotony of his country life ; and 
 having got hold of a tattered copy of Robinson 
 Crusoe, he preferred it mightily to the cate- 
 chism compiled by the assembly of divines at 
 Westminster, which has been so long in general 
 use in Scotland. Now and again he would talk 
 about the sea ; and his honest father, to divert 
 him from such a purpose, would turn up the one 
 hundred and seventh psalm, which so eloquently 
 describes the dangers of those who " go down 
 to the sea in ships, that do business in great 
 waters ;" how when the storm rises, they " reel 
 to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and 
 are at their wit's end." But though this might 
 silence the recusant landsman, it did not change 
 his rambling resolution ; he was not a fluent 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 99 
 
 debater, and when pressed home, he would carry 
 his obstinacy up to a climax " Weel, I'll gang 
 to Glasgow, and list for a sodger." The young 
 rogue soon found out what a tremendous influ- 
 ence this threat had upon his parents. Probably 
 neither Davie nor Phemie had shed a tear since 
 they passed the period of blubbering infancy ; 
 but the threat of the " graceless callant," that 
 he would " gang and list for a sodger," would 
 often make the tear start to their eyes ; and 
 more than once, the good old souls, on retiring 
 to bed, instead of going off sound asleep, and, 
 as the Irishman said, " paying attention to it," 
 as in all their past lives they had never failed to 
 do, would lie awake and cry like children at the 
 idea of having in their carefully-trained house- 
 hold a " black sheep," who seemed likely to 
 bring their " grey hairs with sorrow to the 
 grave." 
 
 Jock (or to give him the somewhat more dig- 
 nified appellation of Jack) disappeared one day ; 
 and the only tidings which the distressed parents 
 could gather about him were some vague com- 
 munications from neighbors, that he had inti- 
 mated his intention to a few companions of never 
 returning again. " It's a' owre wi' Jock noo," 
 said Davie to Phemie, trying to look stern ; 
 " he's gane his ain gate ; he's made his ain bed, 
 and he may just lie doon in it." But Davie, 
 
100 THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 when lie had uttered this speech, felt something 
 tugging at his heart ; he tried to appear uncon- 
 .i-d, but it would not do ; so, in a choking 
 kind of voice he exclaimed vehemently "The 
 fitle that he is ! " and stalked out of the house 
 as if he were in high dudgeon, but in reality to 
 hide that struggling parental feeling which was 
 melting anger into sorrow. As for Phemie, she 
 sighed, said nothing, sat down on a little stool, 
 patted the floor with her foot, and was then 
 obliged to take off her spectacles, and wipe the 
 glasses, bt ith tears. 
 
 But nothing very romantic resulted from 
 Jock's adventure. lie had gone to Glasgow, 
 and had met with a shopkeeper, who dealt with 
 his father in the articles of meal, potatoes, and 
 butter, and who, from h nee of the un- 
 
 bending integrity of the honest old man, had 
 contracted a warm regard for him. He now 
 showed his friendship by inducing the runagate 
 to reside with him until he could communicate 
 with his father, which ho did without loss of 
 time. When 1 >uvio got the news, he gave a kind 
 of grunting " Humph ! " as if he did not care 
 a button where his son was ; but he set about 
 getting horse and cart ready, and he and Phemie 
 on the road for Glasgow in about an hour 
 afterwards. The old couple had never much to 
 say to each other at any time ; and on the present 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 101 
 
 occasion they probably did not exchange ten 
 words in the course of the slow journey of 
 fifteen miles. The cart at last rumbled through 
 one or two of the streets of Glasgow, and finally 
 stopped opposite a shop in the Gallowgate. 
 Jock saw his father and mother arrive, and re- 
 treated into a little parlor, into which they were 
 immediately afterwards ushered ; and here the 
 parents and son sat for a few minutes without a 
 word of recognition proceeding from either 
 side. At last Davie said, u Weel, Jock, what 
 do you think o' yersel' noo ? " 
 
 "I think naething ava, father," replied the 
 youth, doggedly ; " I dinna think that I ha'e 
 dune muckle that's wrang." 
 
 " Ye're a neer-do-well fellow, that's just what 
 
 ye are gin I had ye at home, I would " 
 
 break your back, he was going to say ; but he 
 wisely checked himself, for it occurred to him 
 that the best way of inducing his refractory son 
 to return home was not by threatening prema- 
 turely. 
 
 The afternoon was somewhat advanced ; and 
 the kind shopkeeper urged this as a reason why 
 the old people should become his guests for the 
 night. There were, however, some difficulties 
 in the way of acceptation. Phemie had never 
 passed a night out of her parents' or her hus- 
 band's house, and there seemed a kind of 
 9* 
 
lO'J THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 undefinable strangeness, amounting almost to 
 fear, at the idea of doing so now. Davie had seen 
 rather more of the world than that : but he had 
 
 r spent more than one night in Glasgow ; 
 and that was during the "fair," held annually 
 1 Msummer, when he had been induced to 
 spend such a large sum on " shows," and pies 
 and porter, as to have left a blister mark on his 
 memory. Davie and Phemie were at last, how- 
 
 , induced to stay; an opportunity occurred, 
 bv which the family at home would be made 
 acquainted that night with the cause of their de- 
 tention ; and so the old couple sat down contented 
 for the evening. 
 
 Tea was introduced. Davie had only tasted 
 tea once before during his lifetime ; and that 
 " taste " induced him always to declare that he 
 would sooner prefer the water in which a few 
 straws had been boiled. But he was now in- 
 duced to try tea once more ; and though he 
 handled the tiny, elegant, china tea-cups, not as 
 if he loved them, but as if he was afraid that 
 they would slip out of his horny hands, and get 
 
 hed, still he managed to drink three cups, 
 and was graciously pleased to say that the stuff 
 
 better than he thought it was. Phemie, 
 /ike a discreet woman, drank hers in matronly 
 silence ; carefully watching her female com- 
 panions, and endeavoring, as well as she could, 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 103 
 
 to brandish her crockery after their approved 
 fashion. 
 
 The shop was shut ; and now the first time 
 in a long series of years did douce Davie 
 spend an evening without a supper of parritch. 
 The Scotch are not a supper-eating race, in the 
 English, or, perhaps, more strictly speaking, the 
 London sense of the word " supper." But, at 
 the time our story Zies, the snug folks of Glas- 
 gow were not indifferent (and the habit has cer- 
 lainly not abated) to the comfort of rounding 
 off their evenings with "just" a crust of bread 
 and cheese, accompanied by a bottle of porter, 
 or a glass of " toddy ; " and therefore our friend, 
 the shopkeeper, amongst other comforts, had 
 adopted this comfort in particular. So, by-and- 
 by, douce Davie and quiet Phemie witnessed in 
 silence the placing of the china punch-bowl on 
 the table, and the display of the pretty-looking 
 cut glass ; they had seen the like before at their 
 minister's, but had always been of the opinion 
 that a godly man might dispense with such 
 superfluity; as for themselves " Gude forgive 
 them ! " they would just as soon think of fly- 
 ing in the face of Providence, as bring the 
 glittering temptations within their walls. But a 
 "Welsh rabbit," and one or two glasses of 
 "toddy," had a most powerful effect on Davic's 
 'aciturnity ; and he was soon in a condition to 
 
104 THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 listen to his friend the shopkeeper's proposal, 
 which was, that Jock should stay with him, and 
 learn the art and mystery of selling butter, 
 I, eggs, and potatoes, by retail. Jock had 
 already given his joyful assent; for a residence 
 in Glasgow, without danger, seemed to him, on 
 the whole, not a bad substitute for a perilous 
 post on the salt seas. The old man's consent 
 was at last obtained ; and Phemie quickly added 
 hers. Another bowl of punch, or rather 
 " toddy," was proposed to be made, to crown the 
 success of the scheme : " Na, na," said the 
 honest, resolute old man, " let us ha'e the books 
 first," and when family worship was over, he 
 and Phemie retired. 
 
 Next morning they were up betimes : break- 
 was soon over; Jock was installed ; and his 
 parents were soon jogging homewards. Davie's 
 emotions were those of a quiet kind of thank- 
 fulness that his son was in good hands. But 
 Phemie, now that all was right with Jock, was 
 brooding upon other thoughts. She was not 
 naturally a narrow-minded woman : but having 
 spent her youth under the humble roof of her 
 parents ; and from thence, having been trans- 
 ferred to the then as humble roof of her nus- 
 band, she walked in his footsteps, with scarcely 
 an idea beyond her earthen kitchen floor. But 
 it so happened, that in her youth she had been 
 
THE t MARCH OF LUXURY. 105 
 
 a companion of the shopkeeper's wife, and who, 
 from being a Glasgow servant, had risen to be a 
 comfortable shopmistress. Phemie was now 
 contrasting her own appearance with that of her 
 once youthful companion. Her imagination, 
 whose wings had been bound, now made some 
 fluttering attempts to fly the tea, the china, 
 the cut glass, the punch-bowl, and " knobs in 
 the lobby for hanging the hats on," all struck 
 her as marvellous nice enjoyments and con- 
 veniences. She had seen some of the young- 
 sters of the family enter, and hang up their 
 hats so " manfully " on these all-interesting 
 " knobs ; " and the idea hooked her fancy. 
 Thus did she muse during her journey, leaving 
 Davie to his own reflections. 
 
 We must now, as the scene-shifters say, sup- 
 pose a period to have elapsed between what has 
 passed and what is to come. Jock, who was 
 not deficient in sense, gradually shook off his 
 country loutishness, and exhibited appearances 
 as if he was capable of receiving a Glasgow 
 polish. He paid one or two visits to home, and 
 then the strong contrast between his father's and 
 hrs master's house became too obvious for him 
 to hold his tongue. His family, also, remarked 
 that Jock was becoming somewhat of a com- 
 parative gentleman ; they began gradually to 
 be proud of him, and to listen to him as an 
 
106 THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 oracle. He used to suggest alterations and im- 
 provements in the domestic concerns ; and his 
 mother, who had never forgot the " knobs,'* 
 would tolerate all his reforming talk, merely try- 
 ing to silence him, now and again, with " Hoot 
 awa, ye daft fallow!" But, still, nobody ven- 
 tured to insinuate any destructive projects to the 
 old man. 
 
 One of Jock's sisters was invited to spend a 
 few days in Glasgow ; and she returned, not 
 only with a very lively impression of the con- 
 nee of " knobs in the lobby," but actually 
 with a pound of tea ! How to break this fact 
 to the old man was a puzzle. The female por- 
 tion of the household at last entered into a regu- 
 lar conspiracy to brave his anger : unknown to 
 him, the minister, and tho minister's wife and 
 daughter were invited, tea-cups were borrowed, 
 and Davie, on his return from the field, was 
 rather startled at the scene. He appeared, 
 however, to take it very good-humoredly ; and 
 condescended to honor his guests by partaking 
 of the tea ; but, scorning to drink it in his own 
 house out of a borrowed vessel, it was served up 
 to him in a brown earthen-ware basin, and he 
 supped it with a horn spoon. Phemie was afraid 
 of the consequences of leaving her husband in 
 solitary singularity, so she caused her tea to be 
 served up in like manner, the daughter being 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY 107 
 
 mistress of the ceremonies, and the spectacle of 
 the two old folks sipping away with horn spoons 
 was, perhaps, as funny an affair as ever occurred 
 in the annals of tea-drinking. 
 
 The ice was broken ; tea was fairly intro- 
 duced into the household ; the old man, with a 
 little grumbling, consented to pay for a tea- 
 service ; and Phemie, who soon found out that 
 the constant use of parritch gave both herself 
 and daughters the heartburn, gradually estab- 
 lished the habitual use of tea for the female por- 
 tion of the family, and occasionally for the 
 men, such as on a Sunday afternoon. The 
 change produced was amazing. The old man 
 was confounded one day by being told that John 
 was coming to visit them on the following day. 
 " Do ye mean Jock ? " said he. Yet, even as 
 he spoke, the difference between Jock and John 
 struck on his own dull ear. He said nothing ; 
 but when Jock arrived, the whole family were 
 delighted by the visible evidence the old man 
 gave of being fairly on the road to refinement 
 for, though yet unable to say JoAn, he hailed 
 his son cordially " Weel, Johnnie, hoo are ye 
 the day?" 
 
 Some time after, a strange rumor ran through 
 the village, that douce Davie was about to pull 
 down his old thatch-covered house, and to build 
 
108- THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 a snug slated habitation in its stead. Wl erever 
 two or three women could be gathered together, 
 the subject was discussed. One pious lady 
 thought she saw a fulfilment of that partible 
 which speaks about the fool whose soul was 
 required of him, whea he pulled down his 
 barns, and bui: Another was eager to 
 
 impress her auditors with a due sense of her 
 far-seeing or prophetic powers, repeatedly 
 filming, tkMi dM had predicted all this from 
 tlx- moment she heard that tea had been intro- 
 duced into -.-. A third remarked how 
 nice and fine the daugh;. r- \\< : . and 
 how thirl: they had become with the mini^ 
 
 uid daughter even Joek himself, whom 
 emembcred as a dirty, barefooted boy, was 
 becoming quite a braw young gentleman. 
 " \Vheest. w|jee<t ! " says a fourth, with a satir- 
 ical lowering of the tone of her voice ; " it's no 
 Jock noo, na, na ! naething will serve their turn 
 but Mister John ! " "Ay," chimed in a fifth, 
 u the auld fule gets nae ither name, even frae 
 Phemie, but Daavid ! what do ye think o 1 
 that ! " " See till him, see till him ! " screamed 
 out a sixth, and, sure enough, in the direction 
 of her pointed finger, douce Davie was seen 
 approaching in all the dignity of a new broad- 
 brimmed hat, and top boots ! The very chil- 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 109 
 
 dren ran to the doors, to gaze on the spectacle. 
 " Gude e'en to ye," said one of the more for- 
 ward of the women, and Davie, returning the 
 salutation, inquired after her health, and that of 
 her companions, with their respective families. 
 While he stood talking with them, the women 
 seemed to vie with each other in showing him 
 an unusual degree of respectful attention : but 
 the moment he set forward in his homeward 
 walk, a tittering ran through the group, one 
 malicious creature hoping he was not touched 
 in the head, and another, " willing to wound, 
 but yet afraid to strike," devoutly trusted that 
 all was right with the " siller " that was gath- 
 ered at the kirk-door for the poor. 
 
 Davie's slated house soon arose, at a short dis- 
 tance from his old cottage ; some nice furniture 
 was brought out from Glasgow to adorn it ; and 
 Jock we beg pardon, Mr. John now felt 
 that he could introduce Glasgow companions to 
 see the modest decency of his father's house. 
 The old man himself began to stir with ambi- 
 tious projects. In conjunction with a Glasgow 
 manufacturer, he built a row of cottages, and 
 introduced into the village the sound of the loom. 
 An entire change came over the aspect of the 
 place. Davie's example was imitated, not in- 
 deed by the old residents, whom the alterations 
 10 
 
110 THE MAKCH OF LUXURY. 
 
 annoyed, but by many of the more modern in- 
 truders the " incomers," as they were con- 
 temptuously styled by those who thought they 
 had a patent right to the exclusive possession ot 
 the place. One of Davie's younger daughters, 
 who had been sent to a Glasgow school, re- 
 turned, and brought a piano-forte with her, 
 though, it must be confessed, if it had been put 
 to Davie whether or not it was only a piano- 
 twenty, he would have found it hard to answer 
 the question. The old minister of the parish 
 was removed to a better living, and the new 
 minister, a young bachelor, married Davie's 
 eldest daughter. John, who had started into 
 business, drove his own gig. And Davie him- 
 self, booted and spurred, might be seen jugging 
 through the main street of the village on a sleek 
 mare : had all this been held up to him in vis- 
 ion a few years before, he would have started 
 back, and exclaimed, "Am I a dog, that I 
 should do such a thing I' 11 
 
 But there is an end of all things ; and there 
 was an end of Davie and Phemie. He died 
 first, fairly and properly dividing his worldly 
 goods amongst his descendants ; and Phemie 
 went to live with her son-in-law the minister. 
 John came to London, leaving his Glasgow busi- 
 ness to a younger brother. Here he has ever 
 
THE MARCH OF LUXURY. 1H 
 
 since flourished ; is a wealthy ship-owner, an 
 influential director in more than one company, 
 
 wears civic honors, and reposes at night oh' 
 
 that the ghost of his father could see it! on 
 a china-posted bedstead. 
 
 
112 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL, THE GOOD, 
 AND THE TRUE. 
 
 BY JOHN PATCH, ESQ. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL ! seek ye the prize 
 In fairy scenes and houris' eyes ; 
 In virtuous woman, lovely as a star ? 
 Deluded one ! seek it not there. 
 
 Dost thou hope to paint the rose, 
 
 Wet with morning dew ? 
 To emulate, with artist hand, 
 The rainbow's irised hue ? 
 To cage the thrilling notes that fire 
 The soul, when music wakes the lyre ? 
 
 Rival Nature wouldst thou, rash one ? 
 
 Make a grain of sand ! 
 Paint the poet's dreams elysian 
 
 Of the spirit-land ! 
 
 The Beautiful ! it lies within thine own con- 
 trol 
 
 Seek earnestly, and thou shalt find it in thy 
 soul. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL, GOOD, AND TRUE. 113 
 
 The Good ! how dare we name it in these 
 
 days, 
 When sectaries monopoly in goodness 
 
 claim ? 
 Our noblest deeds how faulty, blind, and 
 
 lame, 
 If not accordant with their righteous 
 
 ways ! 
 The Good! what is it substance or a 
 
 shade, 
 
 That man should so debase what God so perfect 
 made ? 
 
 To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, 
 
 And forgive an erring brother, 
 This we know is not a shadow ; 
 
 For 'twas taught us by our mothei, 
 When we sat upon her knee, 
 And sang our own sweet lullaby. 
 
 The Good ! it is an auction chattel 
 
 He who bids the highest gets it 
 Fame is loudest in the praise 
 
 Of the purchaser who pays ; 
 And 'tis set to his account 
 Who gives in current gold the largest cash 
 amount. 
 10* 
 
114 THE BEAUTIFUL, GOOD, AND TRUE. 
 
 The True ! God's portrait ! symbol of 
 
 the Holy ! 
 
 The holiest of holies is its shrine 
 Found oftenest in the bosoms of the lowly, 
 
 Like diamonds secreted in the mine : 
 To its attainment dost thy soul aspire ? 
 Look higher and still higher. 
 
 Look upward press onward 
 
 Loiter not upon the way ; 
 When ihou standest on Truth's summit, 
 
 Thou shalt view a boundless sea, 
 And thy soul in that high heaven of fruition 
 SHALL BE FREE ! 
 
115 
 
 COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 DURING two years of a delicious portion of 
 my life, my leisure was devoted to her whose 
 life is now devoted to mine. Three or four 
 evenings each week, and every Sunday, were 
 considered as sacred to each other : we walked, 
 talked, laughed, and whispered in perfect unison ; 
 went to church regularly, and returned, comment- 
 ing on the services of the day. Reposing in one 
 another mutual and entire confidence, and look- 
 ing forward to a " common event " as the nat- 
 ural termination of our present attachment, we 
 had no " lovers' quarrels," no fears, no jeal- 
 ousies ; the course of our " true love " was as 
 smooth as the surface of a placid lake on a 
 Bummer's eve. 
 
 There was but one circumstance which threw 
 a bitter into my gentle girl's cup of happiness, 
 and disturbed the serenity of her temper. In 
 going and coming, we had t6 pass a house 
 which contained a large family of grown-up 
 daughters, and these had the idle habit of per- 
 petually staring out from their parlor window 
 into a quiet little street, whose chief eventi 
 were the passing of the baker, the butcher, the 
 
116 COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 beggar, or the ballad-singer. We, cf course, 
 were conspicuous objects for the " broad stares" 
 of what the Scotch call " tawpies," an ex- 
 pressive word for idle, hoyden girls ; and as the 
 window was scarcely ever without a sentinel, our 
 approach was telegraphed ; " along the line the 
 signal ran," and some seven or eight heads 
 were presently seen bobbing over one another, 
 like fish leaping in the water. Nothing annoyed 
 my companion more than to have regularly to 
 run the gauntlet of observation from these " idle 
 creatures," as she rather bitterly termed them. 
 She could not change a ribbon on her bonnet, or 
 alter a boot-lace, without its being carefully 
 noted. I knew, also, that I was diligently scru- 
 tinized by these diligent observers, who " read 
 off," as the astronomers say, my air, aspect, 
 height, walk, complexion, dress, &c., &c., not 
 without an occasional sneering comparison (what 
 an abominable thing it is for a young woman 
 to sneer ! the almost unfailing indication of a 
 selfish disposition), but I did not mind it or 
 rather I liked the "joke." A coarse or a com- 
 mon mind would have enjoyed the triumph of 
 having an attentive " bachelor" to parade regu- 
 larly before half-a-dozen damsels, not one of 
 whom could boast that a " bachelor " ever en- 
 tered their door ; but Eliza held the faith that 
 all young women should be married, and 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 117 
 
 comfortably married loo ; and therefore she 
 shrank from provoking envy, where no envy 
 should exist. Passing this, however, I may re- 
 peat that these girls were almost the only 
 troublers of our quiet and happy courtship : but 
 so sensitive was Eliza, that, as there was no 
 other way of getting out of the street than by 
 passing the window of the " tawpies," we have 
 frequently sat till it was dark, and thereby lost 
 our evening's walk, rather than go out in day- 
 light and pass under the ordeal of observation. 
 The wedding-day was fixed, and time flew 
 on. We were a u sensible " couple, and re- 
 solved that our wedding should be sober and 
 sedate a quiet breakfast with a few choice 
 friends after the important ceremony, and a still 
 quieter excursion. In fact, being so very " sen- 
 sible," our imaginations vaulted beyond the 
 wedding-day, and sketched out our future do- 
 mestic felicity. Eliza wanted a nice little cot- 
 tage " out of town," where, at the garden-gate, 
 on summer evenings, she would watch for me 
 as I returned fatigued from business ; and I, on 
 my part, saw my own dear wife, the u light and 
 life " of my existence, moving about rny own 
 house, more as an angel than a woman, and 
 making my fireside radiant. Nay, we specu- 
 lated, too, about our prospective family ; and 
 though Eliza blushed, and smiled and laughed, 
 
118 COMMON KV'KNTS. 
 
 her imagination had already dressed up three 
 or four delightful little creatures with " golden " 
 . clear complexions, sparkling eyes, and 
 loud, ringing, merry voices. Then we shook 
 our heads about the awful responsibility of a 
 family ; and we laid down plans about how they 
 were to be brought up, educated, and provided 
 for ; and we resolved to be economical in our 
 expenses, correct in our deportment, and exact 
 in all our doings our prospective children 
 were to become little models for the human 
 race. What a deal of romance there is in the 
 hearts of a fond young couple, to be gradually 
 dissipated by broken china bowls, smashed toys, 
 and a number of little et ceteras, " too numer- 
 ous to mention ! " 
 
 About three o'clock on a dark, dreary, stormy 
 November morning, I was suddenly roused out 
 of a profound sleep by somebody shaking my 
 shoulder and flaring a candle in my face. 
 When very fatigued, as was the case on the 
 present occasion, I am, like some wild animals, 
 difficult to be awakened, and usually stare in 
 I < \\ilderment before comprehension exerts its 
 influence. "You did not hear me," said a 
 voice ; " I knocked first at the door, and then 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 119 
 
 made bold to enter. You had better get up, sir, 
 for mistress is becoming very bad." 
 
 The words of the summons were very indis- 
 tinctly heard, but I knew the cause ; so I 
 drawled out, " Ye-es, I'll get up, immediately." 
 So saying, I sank back in the bed, and was in 
 an instant once more in a sound sleep. 
 
 I do not know whether I slept five minutes or 
 an hour, but I was startled by a sharp clicking, 
 caused by the sudden turning of the handle of 
 the door, and the hasty reentry of my disturber. 
 " Oh, sir, you must get up, you must indeed ! 
 I'll leave the candle, sir, but you must be smart." 
 
 The voice was the voice of one of a privi 
 leged class, who, like the fools of the ancient 
 time, sometimes presume on their prerogative. 
 There was no time, however, for ceremony on 
 the present occasion. " Yes, nurse," I replied, 
 " I'll be up instantly ; " and as at that moment 
 a moan struck on my ear, proceeding from the 
 adjoining bed-room, my heart spoke to my 
 heels; I was on the floor and dressed in a 
 minute. 
 
 The wind blew in gusts, the windows danced 
 in their frames, and the rain splashed against 
 the glass. My poor wife tried to hide her agony, 
 and apologized for raising me, though the apol- 
 ogy was interrupted by a scream. " Oh, my 
 dear, I am so sorry but nurse thinks the doctor 
 
120 COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 should be sent for." The house shook, at 
 that moment, to the very foundations. " Really, 
 William, I cannot think of letting you go out 
 you'll be killed by the falling of some chimney- 
 top send Mary. 1 ' 
 
 Now, I had no particular fancy for going out ; 
 but to let the girl go rather jarred with my sel- 
 fishness. "No, no, my dear, you'll require 
 .Mary yourself I wont be many minutes." 
 
 " Well, William, wrap yourself up ; take care 
 of yourself. Nurse, go down and help him on 
 with his great-coat William, take care 
 oh ! " 
 
 " Poor dear soul ! " said 1 to myself, as I 
 went out ; " thinking of me in the midst of her 
 own suffering. Well, after all, the women are 
 a good set I hope my poor wife will get well 
 over it ! " 
 
 In about ten minutes I was standing at the 
 door of a corner house, with my hand on the 
 brass handle of a bell-pull, round which were 
 engraved the words " Night Bell." It answer- 
 ed my rather vigorous pull with a loud and long- 
 continued reverberation. Meantime I tried to 
 shelter myself within the doorway, for the wind 
 howled round me, and the rain battered and 
 slashed at me, as if it were glad to get a soli- 
 tary victim who could feel its violence. No- 
 body came. I rang again. Nobody answered. 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 121 
 
 The interval might be five minutes, but at that 
 moment I could have sworn in a court of justice 
 that I had stood there half the night. I pulled 
 the third time, and the bell seemed destined to 
 ring for ever, while I made the knocker do the 
 "'trk of a sledge-hammer. At last a footstep 
 shuffled along the passage ; the door-chain rat- 
 tled ; the bolts were withdrawn ; the ke;' was 
 turned, and a head, the front of which must 
 have weighed heavy from the profusion of its 
 papers, projected, like the Irishman's gun, 
 u round the corner." 
 
 "Rouse up Dr. Nugent tell him / want 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, sir, he's out but he left word he 
 should be sent for. Are you from Angel-place, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes where is the doctor ? I 
 will go for him myself." 
 
 "At No. 20, Manchester Terrace just turn 
 round, and " 
 
 The rest of the direction might or might not 
 have been given. I knew whereabouts Man- 
 chester Terrace lay, so off 1 ran, at full gallop, 
 facing wind and rain. 
 
 Arrived at the terrace, I saw a long row of 
 
 houses, every door alike, every knocker alike, 
 
 and every area alike. I began to doubt whether 
 
 or not it were twenty or thirty I had to call at, 
 
 11 
 
2 COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 and I paused to consider. The wind drove me 
 onwards, and I began to get angry with myself; 
 my anger only confused my recollection the 
 more. I was now uncertain whether it might 
 not be thirty-six, or forty-six, or fifty-six. " Drat 
 babies, doctors, nurses, and all ! " I exclaimed ; 
 it the plague brings me here ? " I looked 
 upwards to see if I could discern any symptoms 
 of bustle, or any glimmering indications that 
 human beings wrr< watching the agonies of hu- 
 man beings. Every window and every house 
 seemed dark and silent as the grave. I now 
 looked round for the watchman, or for anybody 
 who by instinct or observation mi^ht help me 
 to detect the presence of a doctor in some one 
 of the u uniformities " of Manchester Terrace. 
 Not a living soul could I see. I knocked at 
 thirty-six no answer. I knocked at forty-six 
 the same result. In a passion I knocked and 
 rang at fifty-six, and presently high above-head 
 I heard the whistling sound of a window thrown 
 up, and a deep voice called out, " Well, sir, 
 what do you want ? " 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I am afraid I 
 am mistaken, but I thought Doctor Nugent was 
 here." 
 
 " No ! " thundered the voice, and the window 
 thundered down after it. 
 
 Drenched with rain, and out of humor with 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 123 
 
 myself, I blamed the flickering lamps for making 
 me forget the number, and then resolved to run 
 back and give the doctor's servant a good 
 " blowing-up," which she would remember for 
 some time. Turning the corner, I came in 
 rather violent contact with a man wrapped in 
 a cloak, and could have throttled him. Shame, 
 however, succeeded to wrath when I discov- 
 ered in my antagonist the " Doctor " I was in 
 search of. 
 
 " Oh, doctor," said I, " this is lucky 1 
 have been seeking for you like a fool, up and 
 down here. Come along." 
 
 We walked for a little way in silence, for 
 the doctor was a thoughtful man and had left 
 a death-bed. I should talk, however. " Well, 
 now, doctor, this circumstance of strangers 
 coming home in the night-time is not very 
 pleasant. I am rather out of humor with the 
 joke." 
 
 " Sir," said the doctor, " your wife at home 
 thinks it no joke, and I fancy she has the 
 worst of the bargain. Do you not think, now, 
 that if your safety, or even your comfort re- 
 quired it, she would go out for you, if it were 
 raining cats and dogs ? " 
 
 I need not record my answer, nor tell 
 whether it were in the affirmative or nega- 
 tive. We shortly arrived at home ; I went 
 
1'Jl COMMON KVENTS. 
 
 down stairs* to dry myself at the kitchen fire, 
 and the doctor went up stairs to his patient 
 I \v;is iiuin^ to say, but that is not exactly 
 tlu- \vord. 
 
 By-and-by, down came the nurse, her looks 
 full of importance, but struggling to maintain 
 ht r professional equanimity. A few orders >vt it- 
 given to Mary, and Mary flew like a mad-cap, 
 evincing by her excited manner how highly she 
 estimated the honor of even a very humble share 
 in the important proceedings. Then, approach- 
 ing the fire, where I was standing, nur>r mut- 
 tered a " Beg your pardon, sir," in a tone which 
 seemed to insinuate that I ought to beg her par- 
 don and get out of the way. I never felt so 
 insignificant in my life. 
 
 Left for some time to myself, I became un- 
 easy, and went on the stairs to listen if " any- 
 body were coming." I heard the bed-room 
 door open, and presently a shrill scream an- 
 nounced the important fact that I was a papa, 
 and the father of a child blessed with excellent 
 lungs. 
 
 Mary now descended, her face as round and 
 as full as the moon, and " wreathed with smiles." 
 "I wish you much joy, sir; you have got a 
 son." " Indeed, I am glad it is a boy." 
 Well then, sir, it is as pretty a baby as I have 
 seen this many a day." I gave Mary half-a- 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 125 
 
 crown. " Thank you, sir well, I'm sure 
 you will quite doat on the little dear it's a 
 fine baby, sir, and so large ! " 
 
 The size of a baby is an essential ingredient 
 in its value. So think the women ; and, reader, 
 if you ever visit on such an occasion, beware 
 how you drop a syllable about the little thing 
 being little, even if you should think it could 
 be immersed in a pint vessel. 
 
 Up went Mary ; and down she came again, 
 to desire me to walk up to see my son. At the 
 door the doctor met me, and we shook hands ; 
 and the nurse, sitting in all the glory of her 
 state, called on me to come over and see what 
 a fine little fellow he was. But I went to the 
 mother first ; kissed her, and she looked up in 
 my face with such an aspect of triumphant af- 
 fection, that I loved her more than ever. Then 
 I went to visit my son. "Take him in your 
 arms, sir," said the nurse ; " isn't he a glorious 
 little fellow ? " 
 
 I had never in my life seen a new-born baby. 
 I was the youngest of my father's family, and 
 circumstances so happened that I had never seen 
 a child younger than three weeks or a month 
 old. I now felt shocked. Had it been any other 
 person's child, I could have philosophised on the 
 matter ; but my child my first-born the child 
 11* 
 
- COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 of her whom I had loved with all the ardor of a 
 youth, and no\v with all the graver yet stronger 
 attachment of a man it was shocking horrible. 
 The little thing seemed so very little, measured 
 by my usual habits of comparison, it seemed 
 so helpless, so miserable, and the skin of its 
 face hanging loosely so like a little old man, 
 and therefore so ugly that I involuntarily 
 turned away. 
 
 " Well now, 1 ' exclaimed the nurse, who had 
 marked the expression of my countenance, 
 11 what's the matter with master ? Isn't it a 
 pretty little dear ? " 
 
 44 No ! " I replied rather fiercely, and walked 
 away. My wife followed me with her eyes 
 she could not divine the cause. Mary and the 
 nurse were in raptures with the child ; both af- 
 firmed it to be so large and so pretty, and the 
 doctor, though not so extravagant in his encomi- 
 ums, still pronounced it to be a very healthy, 
 fine boy. " Are you sorry it is born, William ? " 
 said my wife, gently, while the tears were in 
 h-r eyes. I now felt the necessity of acting 
 the hypocrite, if I did not wish to agitate, per- 
 haps dangerously, her whom I really loved. 
 44 No, no, Eliza, no, no! my feelings were so 
 much excited about you ! " I kissed her again, 
 and went over to look a second time at my son. 
 The features were small and regular, and an 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 127 
 
 experienced eye might easily have prognosti- 
 cated that the child w^nld become a very pretty 
 child. But> er 1 g&xea on it, the face became 
 distorted, preliminary to a scream ; and the idea 
 of its smallness and its ugliness so fastened on 
 me, that I was obliged to retreat from the room, 
 under pretence of faintness and fatigue. 
 
 In truth, it is a great mistake which the wo- 
 men commit in supposing that men generally 
 feel interest in new-born babies. Whenever 
 we hear a happy father chiming in with the 
 chorus "glorious little fellow pretty little 
 dear great, stout, beautiful baby!" we set 
 him down either as partly a fool, or partly en- 
 acting the hypocrite. The feeling of the 
 MOTHER has been growing for months before 
 the stranger makes its appearance, and her in- 
 terest in it is identified with herself. But the 
 feeling of the FATHER cannot properly be stirred 
 till the little eyes begin to beam with intelli- 
 gence, and a smile plays over the face of the 
 child. 
 
 On coming home one afternoon, Mary 
 opened the door, sobbing convulsively. " Oh, 
 sir ! oh, sir ! little Johnny ! " I flew up stairs, 
 and found my darling boy in a fit. He was 
 then about fifteen months old could toddle 
 
128 COMMON EVENTS. 
 
 about the room and was, to my apprehension, 
 a singularly interesting and attractive child. 
 From about the time that he was three months 
 old, he had been gradually gaining on my 
 affections, and now he was enshrined in my 
 u-t of hearts/' He lay on a pillow on his 
 mother's knees ; and the pale and passionless 
 expression of her countenance too plainly told 
 me that the shock had been sudden, and was 
 serious enough to absorb her tears. The doctor, 
 also, was present ; a warm bath had been ad- 
 ministered, and another was ordered. Seizing 
 the doctor by the arm, I led him out of the 
 room, and when out of hearing of the mother, 
 I gasped out, " Tell me, sir, is my child in 
 danger?" 
 
 " Yes," was the firm reply ; " but while there 
 is life, there is hope." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk to me about hope is my 
 child dying ? " 
 
 " Compose yourself, my dear sir, and go 
 down stairs for a few minutes : we arc trying 
 what we can do for him, and you must wait the 
 result children have many lives." 
 
 " Children have many lives ! " I muttered, as 
 I walked away. The idea of the death of my 
 son was quite stupifying. I had left him in 
 apparently robust health in the morning that 
 very day I had been speculating on his growing 
 
COMMON EVENTS. 129 
 
 up, and becoming the little delightful babbling 
 companion of my walks and here he was in 
 the jaws of death ! If I ever prayed in ear- 
 nestness, I prayed now I went out into the 
 garden, and looking up to the sky, prayed in 
 convulsive, silent agony, that God would spare 
 my child ! 
 
 Towards evening he revived, though appa- 
 rently much exhausted, having, in addition to 
 successive warm baths, been copiously bled and 
 blistered. Poor little fellow ! he recognized his 
 father, and stretched out his hands. I took him, 
 in my arms, on his pillow, and walked with him 
 up and down the room. " Are you better, my 
 dear ? " I said, and the little fellow smiled, as 
 if thanking me for the interest I felt on his 
 behalf. How my heart yearned ! I thought 
 it had been impossible for me to feel deep in- 
 terest on behalf of a young child, even if that 
 child were my own. Now, I felt as if I could 
 lay down untold money at the feet of the man 
 who would save him. 
 
 The doctor was gone ; but had left strict 
 orders to be sent for if the slightest change 
 should take place. The child fell into a placid 
 slumber; and his mother and I sat down to- 
 gether, watching him with hope and fear. But 
 towards the middle of the night a change took 
 place he became rapidly worse, and before 
 
130 mom 
 
 morning dawned the " light of my eyes " was 
 
 dead! 
 
 Some days afterwards, I went about my busi- 
 ;sual, and, among others, encountered 
 an individual, with whom I was on intimate 
 terms a hearty, jocular man, and to whom a 
 laugh was far more congenial than a tear. He 
 -srd his sympathy, but in a tone so 
 ludicrous, that I could i. I smile. Mis- 
 
 taking in;. Mince of sorrow, he 
 
 began to joke, and, in what hi; thought a very 
 funny way, told m- From that mo- 
 
 ment ri him ; and, at this 
 
 distance of time, I still regard him as the brute 
 who joked over of my first-born. 
 

W 
 
 
 
131 
 
 THE DEVOTED SON. 
 
 WHY mourn'st thou, Mother ? why has pain 
 Its furrows to thy pale brow given ? 
 Seek not to hold thyself from heaven ! 
 
 'Tis heaven that draws, resign thou, then. 
 
 Yes, banish every futile tear, 
 
 And offer to its source above, 
 
 In gratitude and humble love, 
 The choicest of thy treasures here. 
 
 We murmur, if the bark should strand ; 
 But not, when, richly laden, she 
 Comes from the wild and raging sea, 
 
 Within a haven safe to land. 
 
 We murmur, if the balm be shed ; 
 
 Yes, murmur for the odor's sake ; 
 
 But not, whene'er the glass may break, 
 If that which filled it be not fled. 
 
 He strives in vain who seeks to stay 
 The bounding waters in their course, 
 When hurled from rocks with giant force, 
 
 Towards some calm and spacious bay. 
 
132 THE DEVOTED SON. 
 
 Thus turns the earthly globe ; though o'er 
 His infant's corse a father mourn, 
 Or child bedew its parents' urn, 
 
 Death passes neither house nor door. 
 
 Blest is the mind, that, fixed and free, 
 To wanton pleasures scorns to yield, 
 And wards, as with a pliant shield, 
 
 The arrows of adversity. 
 
133 
 
 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 A TALE OF THE SEA. 
 
 IN the autumn of the year 18 , there 
 
 dwelt in a retired part of the wretched town of 
 Flushing, not far from the sea-side, an English 
 family. The house in which they resided 
 looked mean and solitary ; the upper part had 
 not even the appearance of having been ten- 
 anted for many years. 
 
 It stood by itself, and its gray walls looked 
 dreary and cheerless, like the walls of a prison; 
 a small court-yard separated the building from 
 the road, but it was neglected and overgrown 
 with weeds. The swallow built its nest unmo- 
 lested under the eaves of the house, and the 
 jackdaw seemed disposed to take possession of 
 the chimneys. On the particular day with 
 which my story commences, the window-shutters 
 on the ground floor were partially closed, al- 
 though the sun was yet some degrees above the 
 horizon ; and one or two which had escaped the 
 rusty hold-fasts in the wall, swung backwards 
 and forwards, creaking mournfully on their 
 hinges. Even at midsummer, or upon the 
 12 
 
134 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 brightest day, this dwelling had a cold wintry 
 appearance, and the barking of a fierce wolf- 
 dog whenever a stranger approached, was the 
 only noise to denote that life existed there. But 
 although its external appearance bespoke inani- 
 mate poverty and wretchedness, there were 
 inmates there who, though they cared not to 
 attract the notice of the passers-by, had that 
 knowledge of comfort of which the blazing fire 
 and the neatly-spread table within gave ample 
 proof. 
 
 I have said that the sun was still some de- 
 grees above the horizon so it was ; but the 
 time-piece was the only evidence of that fact, 
 for, bright as it may have shone in other parts, 
 its intense light could not penetrate the rolling 
 clouds which continued since noon to hang 
 heavily over this marshy land. The air was 
 unusually close, heavy, and oppr The 
 
 morning had opened with a dazzling watery sun, 
 but towards mid-day the sky became overcast. 
 The copper tinge in the heavens, and the distant 
 peals of thunder, at first but indistinctly heard, 
 denoted the gathering storm. The cattle gra- 
 zing in the fields no longer cropped the fragrant 
 herbage (although from the recent heavy au- 
 tumnal rains the verdure looked as fresh and as 
 green as in the month of May), and the evening 
 song of the little birds was hushed in silence. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 135 
 
 Towards night-fall, a low cautious tap at the 
 door of the solitary residence attracted the 
 attention of its inmates, who were seated round 
 the fire. Although it was scarcely discernable, 
 from the heavy rain which dashed against the 
 window-shutters, the elder of the family rose 
 from his seat, and approaching the entrance, 
 waited in silence until the knock was repeated. 
 He then raised the latch at a given signal, and 
 a young man in the ordinary dress of a sailor 
 entered the apartment, muttering, in a dissatis- 
 fied indistinct tone, a seaman's anathema against 
 the weather. Without noticing the inmates, most 
 of whom rose on his entrance, he proceeded, 
 very much after the fashion of a Newfoundland 
 dog just out of the water, to shake off the large 
 drops of rain which sparkled like crystals on 
 the shaggy nap of his Flushing jacket, and re- 
 moving his neckerchief, which was nearly satu- 
 rated by the wet trickling down his neck, he 
 seated himself opposite the fire with the air of 
 a man who knew himself to be an intimate, if 
 not a welcome guest. 
 
 " Well, Roderick," said the old man, as he 
 resumed his Dutch pipe within the alcove of the 
 blazing fire, " we have a roughish night of it." 
 
 " Why yes," replied the young sailor, u I 
 guess as how we have a roughish sort of night 
 of it indeed ; that's as be, if the wind blowing 
 
136 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 great guns ami small arms, and the rain batter- 
 about one's ears like marlin-spikes points 
 downwards, can make it so. For my own part, 
 I'm not to say over-nice about the weather at 
 th- best u 1 times ; but one hardly reckons on 
 taken aback, as it were, by a December 
 . a I'M iv the autumn is well over 
 one's head." 
 
 M I'MM. j..,h. Rod. -rick," observed the old man, 
 smilingly ; " never stand about the rain, my 
 boy ; if the gale batters about our heads, why 
 it batters about b of others as well ; and 
 
 there'll be less chance of cruisers in the Chan- 
 nel to-night. Come, Nance, my old girl, let's 
 splice the mainbrace ; Roderick wont refuse to 
 drink the good old toast of * The ship that goes, 
 the wind that blows, and the lass that loves a 
 sailor.' " 
 
 woman thus addressed was the old man's 
 . and the mother of his family. She was a 
 WMinan of superior intellectual endowments, 
 although lowly, meek, and humble ; and she 
 filled the station which Providence had assigned 
 her with feminine care and assiduity. She 
 moved about the apartment with noiseless ac- 
 tivity, the general sweetness of her heart dis- 
 pensed happiness around her, and she was never 
 more cheerful than when providing for the com- 
 forts of him upon whom the fondness of the 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 137 
 
 woman had settled and what can there be on 
 this earth to equal the intensity of a woman's 
 love ? What said the smuggler to this partner 
 of his existence, when his only son died in her 
 arms, and in the intense agony of her grief the 
 world appeared at that moment void of anything 
 that could bring comfort to her mind ? 
 " Nance, thou wert bidden to eat of my bread, 
 and to drink of my cup ; they shall yet be made 
 sweet to thee ; I will give, and thou shalt enjoy 
 be thou yet retained to cheer a blighted 
 home ! " 
 
 The fragrant Scheidam, and a pitcher of 
 spring-water, clear as crystal, were placed on 
 the table. The old man helped himself spar- 
 ingly, for he had not yet had his evening meal, 
 but the young sailor did ample justice to the 
 proposed toast. 
 
 The head of this family was a man in robust 
 health, tall, and of powerful sinew ; age had 
 not yet crippled his manly form, although nearly 
 seventy winters and exposure to a variety of 
 climes, may have varied the once dark color of 
 his hair to an iron grey ; his arms were yet 
 strong and muscular, and it might have been 
 profitable to those who had any dealings with 
 him to count him rather as a friend than an 
 enemy. 
 
 His features were strikingly prominent ; his 
 12* 
 
138 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 forehead, from which his bristly hair was 
 combed back, projected over very large black 
 I, of calm yet dignified expression ; his high 
 cheek-bones were covered to their apex by long 
 wiry whiskers, which united in a thick bushy 
 cluster underneath the chin; the throat and part 
 of the chest were quite bare, and his corn- 
 on might have been sallow, but for the neu- 
 tral tint brtwrrn a red and brown, which had so 
 effectually bronzed it. 
 
 I 1 it though calm and dignified, the traces of 
 an anxious mind were apparent in the sunken 
 eye and furrov k, worn as it were by 
 
 thought and care, rather than by grief or >M 
 age. Yet the hardihood of his manner, the 
 activity <>t < mcnts, and the profession to 
 
 which he appeared to belong, added to his de- 
 termined tone, gave to hi- outline a 
 freedom of action of that elastic character 
 which seemed to promise that he had yet many 
 years of the sands of life to run. 
 
 His dress was simply that of the humble 
 mariner, partaking in part the costume of the 
 Dutch fisherman with that of the Folkstone 
 pilot ; and he looked like a brave man, who 
 although perhaps not easily excited, would, for 
 that reason, be the less easily subdued. 
 
 The life he led, for I cannot designate him 
 by any name a false one I will not, his real 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 139 
 
 one I cannot give him was that of a smug- 
 gler. He had been forced into it by circum- 
 stances of a singular and uncontrollable nature, 
 and although the commencement of such a life 
 may have been repugnant to his feelings, its 
 attractions and the prospect of soon realizing. a 
 fortune dazzled his ardent mind, and in time 
 habit had strongly attached him to it. 
 
 Often, in the anguish of a woman's fears, had 
 his wife hung on his neck with intense feeling, 
 beseeching him, for the sake of those whom 
 Providence had confided to his care, to relin- 
 quish the doubtful, dangerous, indefensible trade 
 of a contrabandist ; and strongly did she urge 
 those long restless nights of misery, when, in 
 the stillness of feverish repose, the image of 
 her husband has haunted her in a thousand 
 frightful forms ; at one moment betrayed into 
 the hands of a watchful enemy, or, at another, 
 driven upon the rocks, and carried from her 
 grasp by the receding surge into the deep 
 waters ; but hitherto her efforts had been una- 
 vailing. 
 
 The smuggler was a native of Cornwall, and 
 in early life commanded a fine trading sloop 
 which his father had bequeathed him. He told 
 me himself (poor fellow !) that she was the 
 pride of his heart, and a tighter built craft had 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 never sailed from Fowey. He had made three 
 prosperous trips in her, when a continued storm 
 drove him off the land, and for nine days he 
 beat about the narrow channel, without a single 
 glimpse of sun or star to tell him where he was. 
 On the morning of the tenth day it blew a hur- 
 ricane ; his little sea-boat labored in the trough 
 of the heavy sea, and although he could not 
 show a stitch of canvas, he had hope of weath- 
 : the storm, when the mist suddenly cleared 
 away, and he found himself upon a lee-shore, 
 drifting rapidly towards the ru-ks. An enemy's 
 port lay within his reach ; by prompt and ener- 
 getic management he \\ rather the 
 breakers, and round the light-house at 
 ern extremity of the harbor; but then he must 
 surrender himself, his vessel, and his cargo, and 
 become a prisoner of war to endure, perhaps, 
 years of wretched confinement. However, he 
 had not even time to dwell upon the misery of 
 such an alternative ; the moment was critical, 
 and by instant decision could he alone hope to 
 rescue himself and his crew from the perils of 
 the deep. Quick in his resolve, he ordered the 
 only sail he had left to be hoisted the little 
 vessel dashed through the foamy water, and in 
 half an hour from the moment he discovered 
 the land, he and his exhausted crew were con- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 141 
 
 signed to the custody of the gendarmes, and all 
 the property he possessed in this world was lost 
 to him for ever. 
 
 He then became the agent of a smuggling 
 concern, from which he progressively merged 
 into that of a principal, and afterwards removed 
 to Flushing, where he was joined by his wife 
 and family. 
 
 Having given this short sketch of the early 
 life of the smuggler, which it is perhaps as well 
 the reader should know, we now return to the 
 solitary dwelling. 
 
 " Well, Roderick," inquired the smuggler, 
 " have you got all the bales on board ? " 
 
 " Ay, master," answered Roderick, who was 
 the mate of the vessel in question, " the last 
 bale was snug under hatches and well battened 
 down afore I put my foot ashore ; and as for 
 that lubberly-looking rascal who has been back- 
 ing and filling in my wake the whole of this 
 blessed day, I only wish I had the chap in blue 
 water, and if I would'nt show him the tilting 
 end of a plank, my name's not Bill Roderick." 
 
 " Poh, poh," said the smuggler, " you and I 
 have lived too long in a wood to be frightened 
 by an owl, Roderick ; and as for the matter of 
 that dodging scoundrel, why let him do his best 
 I know him well, the sneaking hypocrite ! 
 All he can say. now will hardly reach the other 
 
- THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 side of the water, if we once get this night's 
 breeze well under the stern of the little Scadrift. 
 
 With our pockets well lined, why our lives shall bo 
 
 mended, 
 The laws of our country we ne'er will break more." 
 
 Although the skipper of the Scad rift quoted 
 the outrage on the laws of his country, when he 
 sang this fragment of Dibdin's well-known song, 
 men thought less lightly of the guilt at- 
 tached to it than he did. 
 
 her this proceeded from a singular ab- 
 sence of that mom. inch tells a man the 
 distinction bet\ : and wrong, or whether 
 the smuggler < limself justified in doing 
 that for his livelihood which, hud he abstained 
 from when the opportunity offered, hundreds of 
 other men would have embarked in, 1 cannot 
 pretend to say ; but as his was a cool reflecting 
 mind, I should rather attribute it to the latter 
 B, although in the first onset of his bold 
 career the risk he incurred might have brought 
 the first home to his untutored feelings. How- 
 ever that might be, habit and prosperous voyages 
 had so far effectually banished such qualms of 
 conscience from the breast of the hardy mariner, 
 that he now considered it as much a pan of his 
 duty to defend, at the risk of his own lite and 
 regardless of the sacrifice it might cause of 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 143 
 
 others, his contraband property, as strenuously 
 as, on the other hand, he would have fought to 
 recover it for the revenue of his country, had 
 the duties of a custom-house officer devolved on 
 him. 
 
 When the clock struck eight, a warm supper 
 was placed before the skipper of the Seadrift 
 and Roderick. Some excellent Dutch herrings, 
 a fine piece of Hambro' beef, and a savory 
 omelet, comprised the repast, on which the 
 smuggler asked a blessing with becoming so- 
 lemnity, and the family sat down and partook of 
 the meal ; but it was not a cheerful one. There 
 were around that table conflicting feelings which 
 forbade mirth. The head of the family was 
 upon the eve of another departure from his 
 home ; and although he promised that this 
 voyage should be his last that he would not 
 again tempt that Providence which had hereto- 
 fore been kind to him, and that having run this 
 cargo, he would turn the Seadrift over to Rod- 
 erick, and remove from his present dismal abode 
 to a less gloomy habitation, yet, upon such a 
 night the rain dashing against the shutters, 
 and the storm almost shaking the house to its 
 foundation what pledge could wholly remove 
 the anxious forebodings of an attached wife ? 
 In another short hour he would be tossed about 
 on the fearful billow, and every fresh blast of 
 
144 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 wind throughout the night would too surely recall 
 to her distracted mind. 
 
 There was another also present, of whom 
 mention has not yet been made. She was a 
 dark-haired girl, of surpassing loveliness ; her 
 form was light and graceful, and her tiny foot 
 - on the sand, as she had often 
 boun -ird, on the arrival of her lover, to 
 
 him. She was not above the middle height 
 of woman, but her figur lisitely round- 
 
 ed. Her complexion was dark, like that of her 
 father, and her luxuriant hair black as tin- ra- 
 ven's wing. Her sparkling eyes were shaded 
 by long and silken and yi-t those eyes, 
 
 brill. jht. She 
 
 sat n 
 eldest daughter. 
 
 To say th mind was free from the 
 
 disquietude which at this moment pervaded 
 others of the family group would be a manifest 
 injustice to the feelings she entertained, with all 
 the fervency of a first attachment, towards one 
 of the party ; and the intense anguish with 
 which she had raised her dark expressive eye, 
 when her father announced his intention of 
 making over to Roderick the little Seadrift after 
 this voyage, spoke her feelings with silent elo- 
 quence. 
 
 One other person sat upon the right hand of 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 145 
 
 the smuggler. He was a fine boy, and from 
 the lineaments of his features, a stranger would 
 have said that he sprung from gentle blood. 
 The name he went by was Henry Trevillian. 
 No one could say whether that was his patrony- 
 mic or not, for little was known of his history 
 before he became an inmate, and to all appear- 
 ance a member, of the smuggler's family. It 
 was conjectured that he had been confided to 
 the paternal care of the smuggler under peculiar 
 circumstances ; the youth himself regarded the 
 old man as his father. 
 
 The boy sat on the right hand of the smug- 
 gler, looking up to him with alternate feelings 
 of hope and fear ; for he had that morning 
 pleaded hard to be taken on board the Seadrift 
 this voyage. The idea of being a sailor-boy 
 had caught the lad's fancy ; to be tossed about 
 on the mountain wave, in the beautiful little 
 .vessel he so often visited when in harbor, was 
 something so novel and delightful to his young 
 imagination, that the moment their frugal meal 
 was finished, and while Roderick was soothing 
 the dark-eyed maid with a sailor's benediction, 
 the boy rose suddenly from his seat, threw him- 
 self with convulsive energy into the embrace of 
 the old man, and declared his determination to 
 accompany him. 
 
 " Well, well, Harry, be it so, my boy ; 'twill 
 13 
 
MG THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 only be for a few days ; you'll soon wish your- 
 self under the old lady's wing again." And 
 with this observation the smuggler rose from his 
 chair, and, with a powerful effort to subdue the 
 feelings of the husband and parent, hastily 
 <sed his children, pressed to his bosom the 
 mother of his ofl'spring, and, followed by Rod- 
 erick and the boy, hurried from the only scene 
 of enjoyment he had in this world, into the 
 gloom of night, to resume his dangerous calling, 
 with sensations of a better kind than the world 
 
 given the outlaw credit for. 
 ss than half an ! harbor was 
 
 cleared, and the little Si-adrift was on tin- wing, 
 cart-- id of canvass, 
 
 i bore IHT rapidly from the spot win-re- 
 Roderick's heart lay. 
 
 beautiful little Scad rift sailed like a 
 witch. Her owner boasted that nothing he had 
 ever seen could touch her ; and she had had 
 some sharp trials in her time with some of our 
 small cruisers. It was said that she could dis- 
 guise herself* and baffle the wits of our lynx- 
 eyed revenue men, with singular facility ; at 
 one moment floating on the water as light and 
 as gracefully as a Columbine, and the next as 
 heavy and as sluggish in her appearance as a 
 clumsy coasting sloop. 
 
 It is, however, our privilege to sail even faster 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 147 
 
 than the Seadrift ; for on the same autumnal day 
 which witnessed her departure from Flushing, 
 we beg to introduce the reader to an English 
 frigate which has just cast anchor in an unfre- 
 quented roadstead on the western coast of Ire- 
 land, after having narrowly escaped those dan- 
 gerous rocks in the Mai bay which run hidden 
 a long way into the Atlantic, and on which a 
 portion of the proud Armada of Spain was 
 totally destroyed in 1588. 
 
 The sea around the lonely isles of Arran, and 
 for some miles along the rocky shore from Gal- 
 way to the entrance of the river Shannon, pre- 
 sented one continued sheet of living foam ; for 
 the equinoctial gales had this year set in before 
 the expected time, and with unusual severity. 
 
 Happy were they, who, having a clear offing 
 and plenty of sea-room, could lay their vessel 
 to under her storm -staysails, and quaff their 
 three-watered grog in conscious security, as 
 their well-trimmed bark rose on the billow, like 
 the stormy petrel which followed in her wake. 
 
 There was not, at the period I am speaking 
 of, that bright revolving light which is now ex- 
 hibited on the central isle of Arran, as a friendly 
 beacon to ships of every nation, to tell them of 
 their affinity with the hidden dangers of Mai 
 bay ; and many a brave mariner, driven by the 
 tempest from tho broad bosom of the Atlantic, 
 
148 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 perished under the shade of the long win- 
 gloomy night, on the rocks which guard 
 this dreary, thinly-inhabited, iron-girt shore, 
 unseen and unheard of! 
 
 The frigate which found so welcome a shelter 
 in the raivly-visitcd roadstead alluded to, was 
 
 : -it'll early in the morning by a few poor 
 
 rmen to the northward of the high cliff of 
 Baltard. She appeared to tremble beneath the 
 pressure of her storm-sails, as she struggled to 
 
 her a reef of rocks which ran out from a 
 low island ; and keenly did those iishi rim -n 
 watch with intense interest the progress of the 
 noble vessel, calculating the portion of plunder 
 that would fall to the lot of each individual, if 
 unhappily she failed to weather the 1m :!. 
 But Providence on this occasion interposed be- 
 
 n the gallant crew and the lawless designs 
 of the marauding fishermen. The frigate 
 proudly sustained the character she had borne, 
 of being one of the best sea-boats in h 
 ty's service ; and the heartless pillage of the 
 shipwrecked mariner was reserved for the sub- 
 sequent disasters which befel the less fortunate 
 crew of the Martin, on that very coast. 
 
 It is a beautiful sight at any time to see a fine 
 man-of-war come to an anchor, under all the 
 majesty of her noble bearing on the water ; and 
 especially so when it blows a gale of wind. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 149 
 
 The frigate, on approaching the anchorage, 
 gradually shortened sail to her close-reefed top- 
 sails, furled her courses, and braced her yards, 
 so that, when she dropped her anchor, they 
 would be pointed obliquely to the wind. Final- 
 ly, she furled her last remaining sail, and the 
 moment the fluke of her ponderous best bower 
 took firm hold of the ground, she swung round 
 with her head majestically to the gale. 
 
 In a few minutes everything seemed as tran- 
 quil on board as if she had lain there from the 
 commencement of the storm, and the disap- 
 pointed fishermen hastened along the brow of 
 the cliff to the little cove at the head of the 
 roadstead, to examine their boats, which lay 
 snugly moored under the shelter of a natural 
 breakwater. 
 
 Towards evening the gale moderated, but 
 not sufficiently to induce the captain to attempt 
 a landing. The weather still bore a gloomy 
 aspect ; mares'-tails were floating wildly in the 
 unsettled sky, blown about by the contending 
 winds aloft into a thousand fantastic forms ; 
 and the setting sun too surely indicated, by its 
 fierce angry glare, a continuation of the equi- 
 noctial gale. The little birds called by seamen 
 Mother Carey's chickens, skimmed along the 
 surface of the water, gracefully tipping the 
 very edge of the waves with their extended 
 13* 
 
150 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 wings, and then descending into the hollow of 
 the sea, would rise again, and struggle to stem 
 the already freshening breeze, until, no longer 
 able to fly to windward, they wheeled round on 
 the \viii with graceful curvatim:, and darted 
 along the margin of the deep with the swiftness 
 of the swallow ; while the larger birds balanced 
 themselves in the wake of the ship, watching 
 for the particles of food which floated astern. 
 
 The small bower anchor was dropped under 
 foot ; the shee - and prepara- 
 
 tions were made for obtaining a supply of 
 'water the following morning. Tin- anchor- 
 watch was then called ; and at 9.30 the captain 
 delivered his night-order book to the officer of 
 .-itch. 
 
 The ship might now be said to be in : 
 of profound repose ; the lights of the crew had 
 been extinguished at eight o'clock, which, in 
 the autumnal and winter seasons of the year, is 
 the curfew-bell of the service. The officers 
 who had their turn of night-duty to take had 
 retired to their cots or hammocks ; and the 
 anchor- watch were permitted to lie down on 
 the main-deck, where, upon the oak-plank, and 
 each affording the other his uppermost hip for a 
 pillow, their deep sleep might have been envied 
 by many of the nobles of the land. All was 
 quiet and noiseless, save the wind rattling 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 151 
 
 mournfully through the cordage, and the meas- 
 ured, thoughtful walk of the officer and quarter- 
 master on duty. 
 
 As soon as the feeble light had ceased to 
 glimmer underneath the folds of the tarpaulin 
 which covered the skylight of the captain's 
 cabin, and when the drowsy skipper was al- 
 lowed a reasonable time to sink into forgetful- 
 ness of the past and present, the cautious lieu- 
 tenant called his next in command over to his 
 side of the deck, and ordering him to keep a 
 sharp look-out for squalls to keep his eye on 
 the lead-line which was over the gangway and 
 above all, his attentive ear on the captain's bell, 
 he descended to his cabin, and, throwing himself 
 on his cot, soon ceased to think of the skipper 
 or the night-order book. When the mate of the 
 watch had walked over the captain's head with 
 the measured tread of the lieutenant, and thought 
 he had given the latter time enough to join the 
 commander in his slumbers, he, in his turn, con- 
 signed the care of the frigate to the midshipman 
 of the watch ; but instead of transferring to him 
 the admonition of the lieutenant, he threatened 
 to give him a precious good cobbing if he pre- 
 sumed to leave the deck a threat which the 
 middy was quite sure would be carried into 
 effect, if he was caught napping ; but often as 
 the youngster had been punished for similar 
 
152 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 transgessions, no sooner had the mate coiled 
 himself away in the topsail-haulyard rack, like 
 a hi: \ foundland dog, enveloped to the 
 
 rim of his tarpaulin hat in a thick Flushing coat, 
 than he made over his post of honor to the bluff* 
 old quarter-master, under whose more faithful 
 charge his Majesty's frigate was left to ride out 
 the gale. 
 
 It continued to blow hard during the night, 
 but with less steadiness than the day before ; the 
 squalls were therefore the mure sudden and 
 severe. Towards the morning watch, the neck 
 of the gale was fairly broken, and when the sun 
 rose it was a perfect calm. Tin- aspect of the 
 surrounding objects dillered as much from that 
 which they exhibited tin- evening he lure as the 
 beautiful and evt-r-varying effects of light and 
 shade could make them. The c then 
 
 almost shrouded in the drizzling mist of the 
 gloomy storm, the rocky boundary of the iron- 
 girt shore presented one unvaried line of bleak 
 and barren sterility, against which the waves 
 dashed with frightful violence : but now, as the 
 cheerful morning broke into the glorious light 
 of day, the dense vapor ascending from the 
 earth spread itself gradually, until it lay over 
 the frigate like a dark canopy, extending its cir- 
 cular ridge to within twenty degrees of the 
 horizon, and leaving the beautiful and lofty 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 153 
 
 mountains of Cunnemara reposing underneath, 
 in the clear blue atmosphere of a lovely morn- 
 ing. The headlands protruded their bold fronts 
 into the sea, and seemed but half their actual 
 distance from the ship. The smallest patches 
 of the greensward which grew in the interstices 
 of the rocks were visible, and threw out the 
 dark-colored granite which formed the dreary 
 boundary of the coast into bold relief ; and the 
 verge of the horizon was a perfect circle of 
 light, clearly indicating the approach of a warm 
 day. 
 
 At one bell after four, the hands were turned 
 up to shorten-in cable. The small bower, which 
 had been dropped under foot as a precautionary 
 measure the night before, was released from its 
 holding-ground ; and it was well for those who 
 had slumbered on their watch that the second 
 anchor was down, for the ship had drifted during 
 the night so far as to alter the bearings taken by 
 the master the evening before very considera- 
 bly. But who could say at what hour she 
 drifted ? it might have been during the first 
 watch, after the ship was consigned to the gruff 
 old quarter-master, who might have gone, when 
 his officers left him, to smoke his pipe in the 
 galley ; or it might have been during the middle 
 watch, when the squall, which caused the ship 
 *o tremble again, came rushing down the ravine 
 
i "> I THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 at the head of the roadstead : at all events, the 
 atlair passed off in quietness, because the de- 
 linquency was not attended by any serious 
 
 bells, the sheet-cable was coiled 
 away, yards squared, and sails loosed to dry. 
 The lighter spars were again pointed to the 
 zenith, the decks well holy-stoned ; and then 
 the first lieutenant -d to his cabin, to 
 
 purify the outer man with a wash and a shave. 
 At eight o'clock, the boatswain piped to 
 
 which dawned with such singu- 
 lar brilliancy on the frigate found the little 
 Seadrift rolling about in the Channel, a consid- 
 erable distance from the land ; for she had had 
 what the smuggler called a glorious run during 
 the night. II hich had done her good 
 
 e when the T: now hung helplessly 
 
 from the yards, flapping backward and forward 
 with the reciprocal motion which the vessel gave 
 ;. The smuggler, who seldom took oft' his 
 clothes from the time of his departure until he 
 had run his cargo, had already plunged his head 
 into a bucket of seawater, .and was vigorously 
 scrubbing himself with a very coarse canvass 
 towel, when poor Harry made his appearance 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 155 
 
 up the companion-hatch, looking as all people 
 look, whether male or female, when under the 
 infliction of sea-sickness, pitiably pale and 
 wretchedly miserable. Harry made a desperate 
 effort to grasp the tiller-rope ; but the vessel at 
 that moment gave a tremendous lurch the poor 
 little fellow lost his hold, and rolled into the lee- 
 scuppers, overcome by that horrid dizziness fa- 
 miliar to the minds of steam-packet voyagers. 
 
 " Hallo ! Harry, my lad ! " shouted the smug- 
 gler ; " why you haven't got your sea-legs 
 aboard this morning. Come, rouse up, you 
 young dog ; you'll be a man now afore your 
 niotlwr, if you do but look sharp. Nelson, they 
 say, \vas always sea-sick when he first put out 
 of port." 
 
 "Ay, master," replied the old helmsman, who 
 had lashed the tiller and hastened to Harry's 
 relief; " but Nelson didn't lie in the lee-scuppers 
 every time he put out on a cruise, with his pre- 
 cious skull fractured, like this poor boy." 
 
 The smuggler was at Harry's side in an in- 
 stant, and bore him down to the cabin ; for he 
 was insensible. The application of restora- 
 tives soon recovered him ; a little adhesive 
 plaster covered the slight wound which the 
 helmsman called a fracture ; and the smuggler 
 returned to his canvass towel and bucket of 
 sea-water. 
 
156 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 A light breeze had now sprung up, which the 
 already wet canvass soon caught, and steadied 
 the vessel as she crept gently through the 
 water. 
 
 41 Them 'ere men-of-war's men don't keep 
 their skylights open," observed the helmsman, 
 44 or they'd have disturbed our rest last night, 
 master." 
 
 44 Ay, that they would," said the smuggler; 
 for they were closer to the little Seadrift than 
 she bargained for." 
 
 '.usiT ! " responded the helmsman ; " why, 
 bless your heart, master, they were almost 
 within boat-hook's length of us. I could have 
 jerked a biscuit on board as easy as I'd turn 
 the quid in my mouth." 
 
 44 She was so close as that was she ? " in- 
 quired the smuggler. 
 
 44 Close ! " echoed the helmsman ; 44 why, 
 the sleepy lubbers need only have put their 
 helm down when first we saw them on our lee- 
 bow, and they'd have shot aboard us afore you 
 could have said 4 Jack Robinson.' " 
 
 44 Ay, but you kept all quiet, Jack didn't 
 you ? " asked the smuggler. 
 
 44 Ay, ay, master, that we did ; you might 
 have heard a mouse run up the swifter when 
 their bell struck eight, and their look-out men 
 called out 4 All's well ! ' Look-out men indeed ! 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 157 
 
 I'm blessed but the king's men want the cob- 
 webs rubbed off their sleepy peepers. How- 
 som'dever, we got clear this time that's sar- 
 tain ; and with your leave, master, we'll drink 
 success to the next." 
 
 "Very well," said the smuggler, ordering 
 the helmsman a strong nor'wester. " Go you 
 to your berth, and sleep that off. We sha'nt 
 want you until the dogwatch ; and as we near 
 the land, we'll lower our sails for the night 
 the cruisers may be about." 
 
 " Well, master, " observed the helmsman, as 
 he hitched up his trousers over his hips, " only 
 let's have fair play a good rattling breeze, 
 plenty of sea-room, and no favor we'll show 
 them what use the little Seadrift can make of 
 her heels." 
 
 The smuggler then descended to his break- 
 fast, and the helmsman to his hammock. The 
 smuggler found Harry lying on his bed ; his 
 sleep was feverish, and in his unquiet slumber 
 he spoke of home. The hardy smuggler bent 
 over the sleeping boy with an anxious expression 
 of sympathy. He lay partly on his left side, 
 with his face towards the light ; his left arm was 
 bent under his cheek, and formed a substitute 
 for a pillow, and his hair fell in ringlets over his 
 pale forehead. The smuggler continued in the 
 14 
 
158 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 same position, gazing steadfastly on the face of 
 the sleeping child. 
 
 " .Mama, mama, the Seadrift's coming in ! I 
 see papa ! " exclaimed Harry in his sleep. 
 
 " Do you, my boy ? " asked the smuggler, in 
 the soft tone of a parent. 
 
 ^ s, that I do ! " said the boy, stretching 
 forth his amis ; " look, mama. there he is I " 
 and suddenly awoke by his energy, he started 
 at the objects around him, for they were not 
 iar to his eye ; but the paternal embrace 
 of the smuggler soon restored the poor boy to 
 the consciousness of the rocking vrssrl in which 
 he \\ :, and ho again fell back on the 
 
 bed, overcome by the dizzy sickness under 
 which he was sulU-r 
 
 t Sailors are proverbial for the accuracy of 
 their predictions respecting the weather, and well 
 may be, for it forms an essential feature 
 in their nautical acquirements. I have known 
 a pilot on the western coast of England foretell 
 a storm, when there was but a single speck 
 visible in the horizon, so small and insignificant 
 as to escape the casual notice of persons less 
 experienced in those matters. On the other 
 hand, I once knew an instance I rejoice to 
 say, but one of the kind, wherein a gallant 
 young officer was dismissed from the naval ser- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 159 
 
 vice of his country, and thrown friendless on 
 the sympathy of the world, at the moment he 
 expected his well-earned promotion, because he 
 miscalculated the force of a sudden gust of 
 wind, which, unfortunately for him poor fel- 
 low ! carried the foretop-mast over the vessel's 
 side. In this casuality, as the result was un- 
 favorable, the delinquency was punished. 
 
 The aspect of the weather had undegone o 
 total change when tne captain of the frigate, in 
 all the majesty of his official dignity, ascended 
 the companion-ladder that morning. The vapor 
 which hung sullenly over the earth gradually 
 melted away into a broad circle, and settled in 
 the form of a dark impenetrable wall on the 
 extieme verge of the horizon. The distant 
 objects which nature had before so distinctly 
 pencilled in the wild landscape, were now ob- 
 scured by the heavy fog bank, while the sky 
 overhead was as bright and as clear as the bril- 
 liant sun could make it ; so that the vessel lay, 
 as it were, in a large basin surrounded by a cir- 
 cular barrier, which, closing in gradually upon 
 all sides, soon united into a cold drizzling mist, 
 which was not dispelled until the sun had crossed 
 the meridian. 
 
 The mist had scarcely dispersed when the 
 captain again made his appearance on deck, and 
 as he anxiously swept the horizon with one of 
 
160 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 Dollond's best telescopes, he called for the 
 
 T of the watch, and sent him for the 
 
 first lieutenant and the master, both of whom 
 
 iissinjj the merits of a glass of grog, 
 
 when the squeaking voice of the little middy 
 
 summoned them to the august presence of their 
 
 commander. 
 
 In those days a captain of a frigate was a 
 great man. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Logship," asked the captain, 
 addressing the mastrr, " what think you of the 
 
 " 1 .'ship, " very fine ; 
 
 the haze beyond," pointing to the fog which still 
 lingered in the offing, " is all for heat. \Vo 
 shall have the sea-breeze creeping along the 
 water, like a shoal of young mackerel, pres- 
 ent; 
 
 41 1 hope so," said the captain, thoughtfully, 
 " for the glass is falling." 
 
 The idlers and, to enlighten the reader, I 
 mean by that term the fat surgeon, the lean 
 purser, and the nondescript marine officers 
 were projecting an excursion among the huts of 
 the wild natives, when the skipper made his 
 appearance. " There's something in the wind," 
 observed the surgeon in a subdued tone , " I 
 know it by the bristly hairs on the tip of the 
 skipper's smelling-bottle ; for they always pro- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 161 
 
 ject at right angles with the mizen-mast when 
 his mind is anxious. I don't see much chance 
 of your getting on shore to-day." 
 
 This announcement lengthened the visage of 
 the marine officers ; the last of the wardroom 
 stock had been consumed a week before, and 
 the officers were now upon their scanty ship's 
 allowance. They had had a surfeit of lobscouse 
 and dog's body ; and the portly doctor was 
 urging the first lieutenant to press the necessity 
 of sending on shore for a supply of water, or 
 holystones and sand, or, in fact, for anything his 
 ingenuity could suggest as being required for 
 the use of his Majesty, when the captain again 
 made his appearance. 
 
 " What cable have we out, Mr. Logship ? " 
 he abruptly demanded, casting his anxious eye 
 along the rocky boundary of the roadstead, 
 against which the surf was still breaking with a 
 hollow kind of noise, although the sea was as 
 calm as a millpond. 
 
 " Half a cable on the best bower, sir," ans- 
 wered the master. 
 
 " I don't know what to make of it," observed 
 the commander, with a perplexed air and in an 
 under-tone, as if speaking to himself, yet loud 
 enough to be heard by his officers. " That 
 barometer never yet deceived me ; it is one of 
 Troughton's best, and although the aspect of 
 14* 
 
Iti'J THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 the weather is so favorable, the quicksilver con- 
 tinues to fall, and has already fallen consider- 
 ably below * Stormy/ I don't know what to 
 make of it." 
 
 Logship did not reply, for his reliance on the 
 barometer almost equalled that of the captain, 
 and he dreaded to offer a dissenting opinion, lest 
 the instrument might be correct; and he would 
 then lose the character he had long sustained of 
 being the best living mercury in the ship for 
 measuring the changes in the weather. 
 
 Williamson, the captain, was not the man to 
 r upon a case of emergency ; on the con- 
 trary, he was remarkable for the quickness as 
 well as the accuracy of his decision ; but upon 
 this occasion he was at fault. In a tropical clime 
 he would have understood it. 
 
 He descended once more to his cabin, but as 
 quickly reappeared, and glancing his sharp eye 
 around him, exclaimed, " The glass is still fall- 
 ing ! Mr. Fearnought, turn the hands up up 
 anchor." 
 
 Logship now quietly slipped down to take a 
 peep at the barometer, for, as the weather had 
 so settled an appearance, he, as well as the first 
 lieutenant, and of course the idlers, began to 
 question the sanity of their commander. The 
 doctor was commencing what he intended should 
 be a rather learned disquisition on the disorders 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 163 
 
 of the mind, and the variety of cases which had 
 fallen under his notice, when the little master 
 returned from the cabin, with as much astonish- 
 ment and anxiety depicted in his weather-beaten 
 countenance as the captain's exhibited. "It's 
 below 4 Very Stormy,' sir," shouted Logship, 
 " and the sooner we get the ship out of this 
 rascally roadstead the better for all hands." 
 
 At this moment, a wild-looking subject of his 
 Majesty came paddling up to the side of the 
 frigate, in a wretched-looking cockle-shell of a 
 canoe, which the natives dignified by the title of 
 a boat. A greasy-looking letter was handed up 
 the gangway, addressed to the " captain or 
 commanding officer of any of his Majesty's 
 cruisers on the coast ; " and after passing through 
 the different gradations prescribed by the eti- 
 quette of a man-of-war, it was delivered to the 
 captain, who, thinking only of his barometer, 
 and the importance of getting the ship under 
 weigh, cheered the men at the capstan, and 
 thrust the letter into his pocket, without looking 
 at the superscription or breaking the seal. 
 
 Captain Williamson, of his Majesty's ship 
 Palmyra, was not what the ladies would have 
 called a pretty fellow, for he had nothing effem- 
 inate in either his person or manner. He was 
 a fine dashing-looking sailor, not more than 
 thirty years of age, with the exterior of a gen- 
 
164 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 tleman, and the bearing of a man accustomed 
 to command, yet free from the slightest particle 
 of hauteur. His projecting forehead overhung 
 a pair of sharp gra i hich twinkled rest- 
 
 lessly beneath loni: shaggy eyebrows ; his aqui- 
 line nose was so pliant, that it almost bent witli 
 nt of his features, and when he 
 smiled it was curved like the beak of an ea^le. 
 It has already been observed that nature had, 
 strangely enough, placed upon the very tip of 
 this proboscis a little clump of long black hair, 
 which, sensible of the slightest passion of his 
 i, projected like the quills of the fretful por- 
 cupine; and at such moments it wa 
 advisable by those who knew him well to give 
 him a clear berth. His mouth was well formed, 
 though rather small ; and a professed advertising 
 dentist would have placed some value on the 
 head of the noble captain for the sake of his 
 teeth. II- was tall, and, unlike sailors in gen- 
 eral, he did not stoop ; on the contrary, he held 
 his head as erect as a life-guardsman. His 
 bronzed complexion denoted the ever-varying 
 climes to which he Had been exposed ; and, like 
 most people who have good teeth, he contracted 
 a habit of laughing, which threw into his features 
 a kind of continual smile, as if the mind within 
 was all sunshine. 
 
 At length the anchor was hove a short stay 
 
THE 'SMUGGLER. 165 
 
 peak , the topsails were sheeted home, and the 
 yards were braced contrariwise to swing the 
 ship. Thecapstan was again manned, and the 
 commander descended once more to look at the 
 weather-glass. The quicksilver had fallen to a 
 startling degree. Even Torricelli, the inventor 
 of barometers, might have been himself puzzled 
 on the occasion. 
 
 At length the frigate was under weigh, and 
 stretched out to sea under a light breeze, and 
 with all sail set. Williamson and the master 
 looked at each other, and then at the sky, which 
 was now beautifully bright, and then at the hori- 
 zon, which was clear and serene ; and the dis- 
 trust in their features was manifest and amusing. 
 As soon, however, as Fearnought could absent 
 himself from the quarter-deck, he descended 
 the companion-ladder, and made straight for the 
 captain's cabin, where the first object that at- 
 tracted his notice was a very small bright speck 
 on the side of the deck, which upon further 
 examination was discovered to be quicksilver ; 
 and underneath the ball of the barometer he 
 perceived a small hole, thrown which the min- 
 eral fluid had gradually and imperceptibly oozed. 
 Fearnought returned to the quarter-deck with a 
 broad grin, which startled the commander al- 
 most as much as the barometer had done, until 
 the cause was explained ; and never was any 
 
1G6 Tin: SMUGGLER. 
 
 man more delighted at a fracture, which at any 
 other time, and under any other circumstances, 
 would have very much annoyed .the gallant 
 
 tin. 
 
 It is a common saying and, generally 
 .king, a true one that sailors can turn 
 their hands to anything ; and there is one pecu- 
 liar feature in their professional career, which, 
 if accurately noted, will in no small degree ac- 
 count for the ingenuity thus observable in their 
 character. On shore we ha\ in instruc- 
 
 tor at our elbow, or a means of arriving at o 
 solution of our difficulties ; but on board ship 
 we are cut off from any such aid, and when left 
 to ourselves, w<- naturally turn inwardly, as it 
 were, to our own resources, and thus acquire 
 by degrees a habit of contrivance, by which we 
 ;n to surmount any little difficulty 
 that may impede our progress. From this habit 
 
 iso derive self-confidence, I do not mean 
 self-conceit, which enables us to face diffi- 
 culty, instead of shrinking from it. Mental 
 energies are often called forth, which might 
 have otherwise laiff dormant; and although the 
 events that led to their development might be 
 trivial, the mind was prepared in a measure to 
 contend with more important casualties here- 
 after. I once knew a young midshipman, who 
 upon one occasion, by his persevering ingenuity, 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 167 
 
 eventually overcame an obstacle which at one 
 time threatened to conquer him ; and this single 
 instance so delighted his commander as to pro- 
 duce a feeling which had a considerable influ- 
 ence on the future destiny of the young aspirant. 
 
 Williamson descended to his cabin, and found 
 the quicksilver rolling along the deck in a thou- 
 sand particles, as the ship careened to the wind. 
 His little middies soon gathered it together, and 
 as Williamson was a mechanic in his way for 
 he could take a watch to pieces, and put it to- 
 gether again, build a ship upon a scale of an 
 inch to a foot, mend a lock as well as the ar- 
 morer, hoop a cask as well as the cooper, or 
 apply a tourniquet or open a vein as well as the 
 doctor of course he could mend his own 
 barometor ; and so he did. 
 
 At a little before dusk that afternoon, Wil- 
 iiamson, in drawing his handkerchief from his 
 pocket, drew along with it the greasy letter to 
 which we have elsewhere alluded, and it was 
 nearly blown overboard. The midshipman on 
 watch picked it up, and handed it to him. Wil- 
 liamson smiled at his own* forgetfulness, but 
 looked very grave when he read the letter : it 
 ran thus 
 
 " A noted smuggler, schooner-rigged, with a 
 tanned topsail, will leave Flushing on or about 
 the 25th instant, with a cargo of spirits and 
 
168 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 tobacco, and may be expected on the western 
 coast of Ireland to-morrow night. She is 
 painted black, with a patch of brown canvass in 
 her mainsail. She may be turned into a sloop 
 or a lugger, and is provided with a narrow strip 
 of painted canvass to represent port-holes. 
 She has fifteen hundred bales of tobacco on 
 board, and her ground tier consists of hollands 
 and brandy. It is expected that she will at- 
 tempt a landing in the Mai bay, near Mutton 
 Isian 
 
 Williamson read the letter to his flrst lieuten- 
 ant and to the officer of the watch, and the 
 I hailed the man at the mast-head to keep a 
 sharp look-out ; while the signal midshipman 
 was sent aloft with a telescope, to sweep the 
 horizon before night came on. The frigate 
 then stood in for the land, and, when within a 
 safe distance from it, she was hove-to under 
 easy sail, with her head off shore. 
 
 Towards midnight the breeze gradually 
 freshened, and if the smiling aspect of the 
 weather on the one hand, and the sinking ba- 
 rometer on the other, had puzzled Williamson 
 that morning, there could be little doubt on the 
 subject now ; for the wind had that hollow 
 mournful sound, as it rattled through the blocks 
 and cordage, which only the accustomed ear of 
 a sailor could truly identify as a certain harbin- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 169 
 
 ger of bad weather. The small drizzling rain 
 that fell served rather to feed the wind, and the 
 squalls which rushed suddenly down the moun- 
 tain valleys kept the anxious eye of the officer 
 of the watch on his weather-beam. 
 
 At daybreak the breeze became more steady, 
 and Williamson, in his short round Flushing 
 jacket, with a gold loop upon each shoulder to 
 denote his rank, went up to the masthead, to 
 reconnoitre with his spyglass the creeks and 
 bays which indented that dangerous part of the 
 coast ; but there was not a vestige of a vessel 
 of any kind to be seen ; and having shared al- 
 ternately with the little master the look-out duty 
 during the night, he ordered a sharp eye to be 
 kept all round, and descending to his cabin, 
 threw himself on his cot, and slept soundly for 
 a couple of hours. 
 
 At eight o'clock, the look-out man at the 
 fore top-gallant mast-head reported " a strange 
 sail on the weather-bow." The captain started 
 from his couch, for the welcome sound had 
 reached his quick ear ; and in an instant every 
 one was in motion. It was known throughout 
 the ship that the letter which the skipper re- 
 ceived conveyed information from the agent at 
 Flushing, that a smuggler would attempt to 
 land upon that part of the coast. The crew, 
 therefore, who were at breakfast, flew up the 
 15 
 
170 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 hatchways ; the captains of the tops were al 
 ready half-way up the rigging ; and even the 
 portly doctor and the marine officers left their 
 hot rolls to join in the excitement of the scene, 
 nong the most nimble of those who ran up 
 the ratlines of the rigging on that occasion was 
 Williamson himself, who was soon perched on 
 the topmast-crosstrees, balancing himself, as the 
 ship heeled over, with one hand for the king 
 and the other for himself. Williamson went 
 aloft, not that he mistrusted any of his officers, 
 but because he was anxious to judge, from a 
 single glance of his own keen eye, what the 
 stranger looked like, how she was standing, and 
 what should be done ; but scarcely had he got 
 his telescope to bear upon her, when a sudden 
 squall obscured her from his view. 
 
 Prompt in his decision, Williamson descended 
 from the mast-head, and calculating that the 
 stranger could have hardly made the Palmyra 
 out before the squall came on, he ordered her 
 to be put on the other tack, and then proceeded 
 to disguise her in the following manner : the 
 fore and mizen top-gallant masts were sent on 
 deck, while the maintop-gallant yard was left 
 across ; the sail loosed, and sheeted home in a 
 slovenly manner. The courses were reefed to 
 make them look shallow ; the quarter boats low- 
 ered to a level with the gunwale ; and the main- 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 171 
 
 deck guns were run in and housed : a long strip 
 of canvass, painted a light brown, and varnished, 
 was then carefully spread over the portholes ; a 
 few trusses of hay were placed in the main- 
 chains ; and the wheels of a carriage, which 
 Williamson kept always ready, were lashed in 
 the fore-chains. After all this was done, the 
 practised eye of even a close observer might 
 have taken his Majesty's ship Palmyra for a 
 homeward-bound West Indiaman or a clumsy 
 transport. 
 
 As soon as the squall passed to leeward, the 
 stranger was again seen on the weather quarter, 
 and the signal midshipman reported her to be a 
 schooner, with only her fore and aft sails set, 
 standing in for Mutton Island, which, with its 
 single small tower, the ruin of a religious tem- 
 ple, lay about nine miles ahead of her. 
 
 " I think we shall do that fellow, if he don't 
 make us out before we can get him well on our 
 weather quarter," observed the captain to little 
 Logship. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," replied the master ; " I 
 don't much like the look of the weather. Last 
 night's moon looked for all the world like a lump 
 of butter in a bowl of burgou. We shan't want 
 for wind when the flood makes " 
 
 " So much the better," sharply answered 
 Williamson, who. sanguine in all things, was 
 
172 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 MOU- impatient with Logship, who had the name 
 of being a croaker in the ship ; " the devil's in 
 the dice if the Palmyra can't outcarry that little 
 cockle-shell yonder, let us but once get in be- 
 n him and the land. You know of old 
 what our frigate can do, especially when she 
 gets a foot or two of the main-sheet." 
 
 Logship was muttering something in reply, 
 but in so subdued a tone that only detached 
 words could be caught, such as " allowing that 
 blows hard soon dark if we could ," 
 laving a strong emphasis on the hypothetical 
 particle ; when the little man was startled by 
 the sharp tone in which the captain abruptly 
 inquired, " How is the moon, Mr. Logship ? " 
 
 M Full moon to-night, sir, at ten o'clock." 
 
 "Ha! that's good, at all events, " observed 
 Williamson. 
 
 44 Yes," replied Logship, " provided she shows 
 her face." 
 
 44 Logship," said the captain, turning round, 
 and looking him steadfastly in the face, " will 
 you for once in your life look at the bright side 
 of things ; or if you will not, pray do me the 
 favor to allow the moon to do so." 
 
 Logship was silent. 
 
 Little Logship was exactly four feet eight 
 inches tall, and his extreme breadth measured 
 at least two-thirds of his height ; he had a very 
 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 173 
 
 *arge head, with very small inquisitive eyes, and 
 his cheeks were round and plump, and very 
 rubicund ; but whether the last was caused by 
 the bracing sea-air, or the stiff nor'westers he 
 too frequently indulged in, is scarcely a matter 
 worth speculating on now. Although he en- 
 tered his Majesty's service from a Sunderland 
 collier, he always wore blue cloth pantaloons 
 and Hessian boots with large tassels ; he con- 
 sidered them the distinguishing mark of a gen- 
 tleman. He was also particular in wearing 
 gloves, although his little horny hands had been 
 in former days better acquainted with the tar- 
 bucket than the sextant. Logship was never- 
 theless a thorough-bred seaman, a good plain 
 navigator, as far as plane or Mercator sailing 
 went. He could distinguish the Ursa Major 
 from the Ursa Minor ; and he could steer the 
 Palmyra, when scuddirg in the heaviest gale of 
 wind, within a point of the compass. 
 
 The little master's peculiarities often amused 
 his captain ; they had sailed together for many 
 years, and although the skipper knew that there 
 were times when it would have puzzled Log- 
 ship, even in his Hessian boots, to walk a plank 
 without diverging to his right or left, still he also 
 knew that it was only when the frigate was 
 safely moored in a land-locked harbor that he 
 ever indulged beyond the king's allowance. 
 15* 
 
171 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 The signal midshipman, who was stationed 
 aloft to keep his eye on the schooner, now re- 
 ported that she was shaking a reef out of her 
 mainsail, and setting her g&ftDpMul. 
 
 \Vhat color do you make her gafF-topsail ? " 
 inquired the captain. 
 
 " It's a tanned sail, sir," was the reply. 
 
 " I low is she painted ? " 
 
 Black, sir," answered the midshipman ; 
 " and she has a patch of brown canvass in her 
 mainsail." 
 
 11 Very well," replied the captain. " Now 
 then. Mr. Fearnought, 'l>out ship ; up top-gallant 
 f out ; make all the sail the 
 ship will bear. That fellow has made us out, 
 and we shall have enough to do to get within 
 shot of him before dark. Pipe the hammocks 
 down, and let the chests and shot-racks be triced 
 up underneath them ; give the ship all the elas- 
 ticity 
 
 " Well, Logship," asked the captain, " what 
 do you think of her now ? shall we have her 
 or not ? " 
 
 " Don't know," answered the master ; " those 
 black little devils that lie so low on the water 
 slippery heels, and when they get into 
 smooth water and a steady breeze, 'twould puz- 
 zle a remora to get hold of them." 
 
 "A what? " asked Williamson. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 175 
 
 " A remora, sir," replied Logship, chuckling 
 at the ignorance of the skipper. 
 
 " What sort of animal may that be, Mr. Log- 
 ship ? " asked the captain. 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said Logship, " you have never 
 been in the Mozambique Channel, or you'd 
 know what a remora is. Well, sir, it's a suck- 
 ing fish they bend on to a line ; and then off 
 the little devil starts with the speed of a deep 
 sea-lead, and the moment it twigs a turtle, it 
 fixes itself by its suckers to the calipash, and 
 sticks to it like a leech, until you haul it on 
 board ; and I'm blessed if that a'nt a useful sort 
 of a shipmate to have on board when one's six 
 upon four." 
 
 The chase had now commenced in earnest ; 
 every possible effort that the ingenuity of the 
 officers could invent was resorted to, to make 
 the Palmyra sail ; and at nightfall the schooner, 
 although but a mere speck on the horizon, was 
 near enough to be just visible through the night- 
 glass, but only to one man in the ship that 
 man was the captain. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe (so as to 
 convey an accurate idea to shore-going people) 
 the excitement on board a man-of-war when en- 
 
176 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 in a chase. The quick, loud cry from 
 the masthead of "A sail, a sail ! " is followed by 
 a simultaneous shout along the lower deck ; all, 
 v one, without reference to occupation, 
 age, or rank, rush on deck : for although mer- 
 ry feelings were forgotten at the moment, 
 i rich smuggler was not less an object of 
 importance than the legitimate trader of France 
 or Holland would have been in the war time : 
 and then follow the anxious u What 
 
 does she look like ? Is she large or small 
 square-rigged or fore-and-aft ; does she look 
 lofty?" and the quick eyes of th i mariners 
 scan the horizon, to gather from it how far the 
 stranger may be oil'. \\ C tlu-n come to the 
 active, bustling preparations for the chase. 
 Sails are loosed and spread like magic to catch 
 the welcome breeze ; the cordage flies through 
 the blocks with the rapidity of lightning; and 
 presently the stately ship bends to the favoring 
 gale, and the sailors almost bless their ship be- 
 cause she bears herself gallantly through the 
 water: and then come the alternate moments 
 of hope and fear, varying with the breeze, 
 which at one time favors the pursuer, and at 
 another time the pursued. Thus the naturally 
 buoyant feelings of the man-of-war's men are 
 kept in an almost thrilling state of apprehen- 
 sion and uncertainty -^ onq pf the few instances 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 177 
 
 wherein suspense is the reverse of being 
 painful. 
 
 Williamson had taken his station for the night 
 on the forecastle, and his eye was seldom re- 
 moved from his night-telescope. At one time 
 the Palmyra seemed to gain on the schooner ; 
 at another she seemed to fall astern of the chase. 
 Towards midnight the breeze freshened so much 
 as to require another reef in the top-sails, and this 
 duty was performed with the alacrity of seamen 
 who knew the value of seconds at such a moment. 
 But the yards were scarcely trimmed again, when 
 the wind suddenly changed, and threw the chase 
 three points in the wind's eye of the frigate. She 
 was about six miles off, and had the advantage 
 of smooth water from her affinity with the land. 
 
 " Curse that fellow's luck ! " impatiently ex- 
 claimed Williamson ; " he'd have been ours by 
 daylight : we were coming up with him hand- 
 over-hand." 
 
 " The breeze is unsteady, sir," observed 
 Fearnought. " No higher, my man, no higher ; 
 your jib-sheet is chattering like a monkey it 
 may veer round again more in our favor. I 
 say, Mr. Logship, what is that man about at the 
 nelm ? tell him to keep his sleepy eye on the 
 weather-leech of the mainsail, will you ? " 
 
 In this way Fearnought continued alternately 
 speaking to the captain and directing the steer- 
 
178 THI: SMUGGLER. 
 
 of the ship, which now labored under rather 
 more sail than it was prudent to carry. In a 
 short time she fell off three points more, which 
 threw the schooner on her beam. 
 
 " Now, then, Fearnought," exclaimed the 
 captain, " ready about." 
 
 " She won't stay, sir," said Fearnought. 
 
 " She must stay, sir," said the captain. 
 
 " What, in this heavy chop of a lu>:ul sea, 
 sir ? " asked Fearnought. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Fearnought," replied the captain 
 in a determined tone ; " if you can't make the 
 Palmyra stay, I will ; " and relinquishing his 
 night-glass to the f icutenant, William- 
 
 son walked aft, and took his station on the 
 weather-side of the quarter-deck. 
 
 Every officer and man wore now at their sta- 
 tion ; for their commander's : ice would 
 be of but little avail if they were not prompt in 
 obeying his orders. They had each their own 
 separate duty to perform, while he kept his eye 
 on the ship, watching a favorable moment. 
 
 Upon a sudden the word of command was 
 given, " Hard down helm-a-lee." Away flew 
 the fore and jib-sheets ; and the frigate, released 
 from the pressure of her head-canvass, flew 
 nobly -up into the wind's eye in gallant style. 
 For one anxious moment she remained station- 
 ary, and i* was very doubtful which way she 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 179 
 
 would cant. But her commander was not inat- 
 tentive to the motion of the sea at such a mo- 
 ment ; he had his sharp eye fixed on the 
 weather-leech of the fore-topsail, and by bra- 
 cing to a little, but very little, he gave the ship 
 a fresh impulse, and she swung round with her 
 head once more towards the schooner. 
 
 The noble frigate, under treble-reefed top- 
 sails and courses, rose on the very edge of the 
 waves, and darting along the troubled surface 
 of the ocean, proudly dashed the foamy spray 
 from her bows, as if conscious that the eyes of 
 her commander were on her. Then, after de- 
 scending into the hollow of the sea, and tottering 
 for a moment under the mighty force of the 
 waves which broke over her, she rose again to 
 the margin of the deep, and, under the pressure 
 r well-trimmed canvass, skimmed once 
 along the wide waste of waters, as if rc- 
 1 to sustain at this critical moment the 
 cter she had long borne of being one of 
 ?st sea-boats in the service, 
 r four hours both vessels carried on fa- 
 ly through the gale ; tacking alternately, 
 .bending and straining to the frequent squalls 
 h came off the land. Day was now begin- 
 , to break feebly through the folds of night, 
 the gray mist hung sullenly over the land 
 and almost obscured the dreary coast. 
 
180 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 Williamson stood erect upon a quarter-deck 
 carronade, holding on by the weather-hummock 
 rail, and watching, with calm yet intense inter- 
 i dark squall which was gathering on the 
 leebeam ; for upon the issue of that squall he 
 well knew the fate of the schooner, and possibly 
 that of his own vessel, might depend. The 
 officers and crew, at their respective posts, with 
 well-disciplined silence, steadfastly eyed every 
 motion of their commander with that firm reli- 
 ance his seamanlike skill was calculated to in- 
 spire ; for the\ had NTVed long and happily 
 under his command ; but little could tin 
 this : tbftf from the tranquillity 
 
 Ahetlier the toergy t.f his mind 
 was at all disturbed by the change which the 
 gathering squall den< 
 
 At last the tremendous blast came, " like a 
 mighty rushing wind," with fearful violence. 
 The noble frigate trembled for a moment under 
 the shock of the hurricane, and was thrown on 
 her beam-ends. The tacks and sheets snapped 
 like spun-yarn, the sails flapped about the masts 
 and rigging, and the sudden noise they made 
 resembled the report of cannon. 
 
 In five minutes the squall had passed away. 
 The ship rose again to her bearings, and her 
 crew were actively engaged bending new sails. 
 The rain now came down in torrents, and the 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 181 
 
 hurricane of the moment was succeeded by a 
 dead calm. 
 
 The schooner, who was lost sight of during 
 the squall, appeared again, without a stitch of 
 sail set ; and both vessels lay rolling about in 
 the trough of the sea, almost within gun-shot of 
 each other helpless and partly dismantled. 
 
 In trying moments Williamson always con- 
 sulted his first lieutenant ; and it would be well 
 for some of our young naval commanders if 
 they followed the same prudent example. 
 
 " Fearnought," said the captain, " our cut- 
 ters would reach that fellow in half an hour." 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Fearnought ; " but if 
 in the mean time the breeze should spring up, 
 he will get the start of us while we heave to, to 
 pick up our boats." 
 
 " True," said Williamson with an anxious 
 expression, " I confess I neither like the look 
 of the weather nor our affinity with this rascally 
 coast." Then, turning to the master, he in- 
 quired 
 
 u How is the tide, Mr. Logship ? " 
 
 " Low water at ten o'clock, sir," replied the 
 master ; adding, as if to draw the attention of 
 the captain to the danger, and anxious to be 
 included in the consultation, " Mutton Island 
 bears S. by E. two short leagues." 
 
 It would be difficult to imagine a ship in a 
 16 
 
182 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 much more critical position than that in which 
 the Palmyra was now placed. Williamson, in 
 the eagerness of the chase, had allowed himself 
 to be drawn farther into the Mai Bay than the 
 safety of his frigate justified ; but, in so settled 
 a gale, who could have predicted that so sudden 
 a squall would have sprung up from almost the 
 opposite point of the compass, fearful in its con- 
 sequences ? 
 
 Fearnought would have hinted to Williamson 
 the risk he incurred, but we have seen that he 
 hail already received a rebuff from his captain 
 on the tacking question ; and little Logship re- 
 frained from doing what would have been after 
 all but his duty, under the foolish apprehension 
 of being again jeered at for his croaking pro- 
 pensity. Williamson paced the quarter-deck in 
 a thoughtful mood ; the broken water along 
 the shore was distinctly visible, as it dashed 
 against the bold promontory with a noise re- 
 sembling distant thunder ; the rain still continued 
 to fall in torrents ; and there were now occa- 
 sional flashes of lightning, which, with the in- 
 creasing swell, denoted the coming storm. 
 
 " Fearnought," said Williamson, " keep your 
 eye on the sheets and halyards let good ones 
 be rove and bent we may require them before 
 we sleep." 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," replied the first lieutenant. 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 183 
 
 The schooner was preparing to get her 
 sweeps out, when the dreaded breeze sprung up 
 from the S. S. W., which threw her on the lee- 
 bow of the frigate ; and now the eventful mo- 
 ment to both vessels had arrived. It was possi- 
 ble that they might weather the island. The 
 frigate had the better chance, being a little more 
 to windward. At any other time of tide, the 
 schooner could have run betwen the island and 
 the main, for although the channel was intricate, 
 her captain knew every rock in it ; but now he 
 had no such alternative. Both vessels were 
 again under as heavy a press of sail as the al- 
 ready increasing gale would permit them to 
 carry, and the crew almost held in their breath, 
 as every succeeding wave carried the ship 
 nearer to the lee-shore. The gallant frigate 
 plunged again into the hollow of the sea her 
 very timbers shook under the pressure of her 
 canvass and her noble commander stood 
 erect and resolute at his former station, with his 
 eye calmly fixed upon the breakers under the 
 lee-bow, over which the sea broke in long suc- 
 cessive waves of mountain height. 
 
 And now the. schooner approached so near 
 the island as to appear from the frigate to be 
 almost in the midst of the breakers. 
 
 " That fellow," exclaimed Williamson, " car- 
 
184 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 ries through it in gallant style ; he deserves 
 better fate than to be wrecked or captured." 
 
 The officers and crew appeared to participate 
 
 in the feelings of their commander ; for every 
 
 was turned towards the schooner, and their 
 
 own critical position seemed to be almost lost 
 
 sight of in the interest which she excited. 
 
 " Sharp work, Mr. Fearnought," said Wil- 
 liamson to his first lieutenant, as a white spray 
 dashed against his face and drenched him to 
 the skin. " The old craft is resolved to give 
 us a sprinkling this morning." 
 
 14 Not the first time, sir," answered Fear- 
 nought, laughingly, for he had already had 
 forty such seas over him ; "it shows the old 
 lady is walking through it, sir." 
 
 44 Yes," observed Williamson ; " but I wish 
 the old lady would keep her favors to herself: " 
 then addressing the helmsman, "Luff! my 
 man, lufF! mind your steerage! I'll tell you 
 what, Mr. Fearnought, if that fellow yonder 
 don't weather the island, we have no business 
 here. If he but once touches the ground in 
 such a sea as this, he'll be to pieces in five 
 minutes. Have all ready for wearing round 
 at the moment." 
 
 Fearnought had scarcely time to answer, 
 when Williamson exclaimed, " She's struck ! " 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 185 
 
 All eyes were instantly directed towards the 
 schooner, who appeared to be in the midst of 
 the breakers, with the sea breaking over her, 
 and at that moment on her broadside, but she 
 rights once more, and weathers the threatened 
 danger. 
 
 It was very beautiful to see the small sylph- 
 like schooner, at this instant so fragile-looking, 
 and to all appearance so helpless, forcing her 
 way through the breakers, at one moment lifted 
 with the apparent lightness of a feather to the 
 very top of the wave, and at another suddenly 
 sunk into the hollow of the sea and wholly ob- 
 scured from view. There were times when 
 only a portion of the white sail of the tiny 
 craft was visible, and then it might have been 
 easily mistaken for the wing of the stormy pe- 
 trel, so light and beautiful did it appear on the 
 troubled surface of the ocean. 
 
 The vessels were now within a mile of each 
 other, and the schooner had already weathered 
 the low reef of rocks which ran out from the 
 island. The frigate, like an angry leviathan, 
 eager and impatient, dashed the broad foam 
 from her bows, under which the broken water 
 almost bubbled. "Luff! my boy, luff!" 
 exclaimed her commander to tho helmsman ; 
 and "Luff it is, sir," was tho quick reply. 
 " Luff again to the galo ! " continued the cap- 
 16* 
 
186 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 tain ; " a point another point ! Hold on 
 good tacks and sheets, full and by, my lad 
 full and by," again exclaimed Williamson ; and 
 well did the anxious helmsman discharge his 
 arduous duty. The rocks were on the lee- 
 beam ; another anxious, trying moment, and 
 the danger was cleared the bow lines were 
 checked the main-sheet was eased off and 
 the stately vessel, grateful for being released 
 from the pressure of her canvass, then sailed 
 gallantly onward in pursuit of her chase and 
 towards the haven she had only left the day 
 before. 
 
 The moment the danger was passed, William- 
 son ordered the bow-guns to be cleared away ; 
 and when ready, a shot was dropped to leeward 
 of the chase, and the small storm ensign of St. 
 George was hoisted at the peak. But the 
 schooner did not heed it or show any flag in 
 return. Williamson then ordered the shot to 
 be fired over her. " Do not," said he to Fear- 
 nought, " strike her hull, but rather cripple the 
 masts and rigging, if we can." 
 
 The Palmyra was now nearly within musket- 
 shot of the chase. The deck of the latter 
 seemed deserted, save by one man, who took 
 his station at the helm ; and there he stood 
 alone, erect and undaunted, steering his little 
 vessel through the danger that encompassed him, 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 187 
 
 with a countenance as free from fear as it was 
 singularly placid and determined. He did not 
 once alter his position, nor did he make a single 
 effort to discern whether the frigate was closing 
 on him or not. There the old man stood, a 
 conspicuous solitary mark for the small arms of 
 the marines. 
 
 The frigate was now obliged to yaw about to 
 avoid running over the schooner, who still held 
 on her course, though hailed repeatedly to 
 shorten sail. The marines were firing volleys 
 into her, but still there stood the solitary helms- 
 man, after each succeeding volley, as erect and 
 as undaunted as before. 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed the captain, impa- 
 tiently, " is there no one can knock that stub- 
 born fellow on the head ? " 
 
 At that moment a shout from the crew an- 
 nounced the fatal reply; a bullet had done its 
 duty ; it had pierced the back of the skull. 
 The old man sprang upwards from the deck, 
 and then fell dead at the wheel of his little 
 vessel. 
 
 On the following morning the sea was as 
 tranquil as if it had never been disturbed ; the 
 sky was clear and serene ; the waters seemed 
 refreshed by the tempest ; and the frigate, with 
 her little prize, lay in apparent sluggishi 
 
188 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 though they were reposing from their previous 
 labors. 
 
 At the head of the roadstead lay a small 
 fishing hamlet, which, in that day, consisted of 
 only a few humble dwellings, so rudely'con- 
 structed as to resemble strange-looking mounds 
 of earth rather than the wretched tenements of 
 human beings ; a small river, after winding its 
 course from the neighboring mountain through 
 a deep valley or ravine, clothed on either side 
 with the wildest verdure, emptied itself into the 
 Atlantic a little below the village, and a small 
 cove inside the rude breakwater before spoken 
 of afforded a welcome asylum for the boats of 
 the fishermen. 
 
 The margin of the sea was sprinkled with 
 many of those picturesque-looking little vessels 
 which had emerged with the first gray streak 
 of morning twilight from the creeks wherein 
 they had sheltered themselves during the storm. 
 Some were creeping along the land with a light 
 partial breeze, which barely rippled the water ; 
 while others lay at a distance upon the broad 
 bosom of the smooth Atlantic, with their white 
 sails glittering in the brilliant rays of the morn- 
 ing sun. 
 
 The stirring events of the previous day left 
 those on board the frigate sufficient to engage 
 the attention of both officers and men. The 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 189 
 
 fore-works of the ship were much strained 
 from the heavy press of sail that had been car- 
 ried on ; it was even feared that the gammoning 
 and quick-work was injured ; and the bowsprit 
 was discovered to be slightly sprung between 
 the knightheads. 
 
 Fearnought was discharging the responsible 
 duties of a first lieutenant with his usual sea- 
 manlike activity. The little master was super- 
 intending the sails ; the fat doctor and marine 
 officers were on shore scouring the huts of the 
 natives for something in the shape of proven- 
 der ; and the only idlers on board the Palmyra 
 that day were the unfortunate smugglers, who 
 gazed about them in dogged silence, stung to 
 their heart's core at having been captured when 
 within an hour's sail of their destined beach. 
 
 Towards the close of that day preparations 
 were made for committing to the deep the 
 corpse of the smuggler. The crew of the first 
 cutter were dressed in their Sunday suit, and 
 the smugglers were permitted to take a last sad 
 view of their brave but ill-fated leader, as he 
 lay partly sown up in a hammock. 
 
 But who is that curly-headed boy who throws 
 himself across the body of the smuggler, and 
 in silent yet convulsive agony presses his warm 
 lips against the cold clammy features of the 
 dead ? 
 
190 THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 This, reader, was the adopted child of our 
 departed friend, the boy he had sheltered in 
 liis bosom, and to whom he had been as a 
 father. It was Hurry Trcvillian. 
 
 Oh ! how beautiful, and yet how sorrowful, it 
 was to see that friendless boy, unknown to all 
 around him, cling to the lifeless body of the 
 only protector lie had ever known in this world, 
 and sob in all the bitterness of agonizing, heart- 
 rending grief, as he cried, in a broken voice, 
 44 Kiss me, dear papa." 
 
 And where was then the spirit of him who 
 had looked upon that dear child with all the 
 love and pride of a parent ? where the san- 
 guine tone of confidence with which he had told 
 the anxious wife that this trip, if well ended, 
 should be his last ? Last, did he say ? yes, 
 he said, 44 This shall be my last voyage." 
 Little did the old man then foresee that his 
 swollen corse might probably be thrown in, 
 after the ninth day, on that very beach where 
 he intended to run his cargo ! 
 
 As the sun's disk was sinking into the horizon, 
 the body of the smuggler was cautiously low- 
 ered into the boat ; and the only persons per- 
 mitted to enter her were Roderick, the mate of 
 the smuggler, and Harry Trevillian. 
 
 The assembled officers and crew stood in 
 meek silence uncovered on the quarter-deck of 
 
THE SMUGGLER. 
 
 191 
 
 the frigate, and the captured smugglers were 
 ranged along the gangway. The crew of the 
 boat destined to tow that which contained the 
 dead, lay on their oars abreast of the ship. 
 The body rested upon gratings, with the union 
 flag of England spread over it. 
 
 The captain then read the beautiful and 
 solemn service for the burial of the dead, and 
 the boat pulled silently away from the ship to 
 a considerable distance. There was not at that 
 moment a passing cloud in the studded canopy 
 of heaven, all around was hushed in the 
 silence of midnight, the tint which the set- 
 ting sun had left was still faint in the western 
 horizon. The body was consigned to the 
 waters of the Atlantic, while the stars twinkled 
 in countless myriads overhead, and sparkled 
 like diamonds on the broad dark surface of tho 
 grave of THE SMUGGLER. 
 
192 
 
 TO MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 WHAT household thoughts around thee, as their 
 
 shrine, 
 
 Cling reverently! of anxious looks beguiled, 
 My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine, 
 Each day were bent ; her accents, gravely 
 
 mild, 
 
 Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
 Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
 To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers 
 
 wild, 
 
 Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play, 
 Some secret nest : yet would the solemn 
 
 Word 
 At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 
 
 Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be 
 A aeed not lost ; for which, in darker years, 
 O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 
 Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 
 

 REAPIHG THiE 
 
193 
 
 THE DREAMER TO HIS DAUGHTER 
 
 BY GEORGE FLETCHER. 
 
 BUT little of thy life, my child, is told ; 
 The future lies before thee a wild 
 
 dream ; 
 And, like a flower whose petals teem with 
 
 gold, 
 Thy looks, hope-tinted, greet life's opening 
 
 beam. 
 
 Reckless of sorrow, how thy sparkling eyes 
 In laughter flash then, mild as even- 
 calm ; 
 
 Thy arms are round my neck ; my world- 
 wrung sighs 
 
 Die, as I feel thy sweet lips' honey-balm. 
 Thy voice's gentle music, as the call of Spring, 
 Steals o'er thy parent's ear like May-dew 
 freshening. 
 
 Wilt thou be beautiful in after years, 
 
 And fair as thy dear mother ? Even now 
 Thy father feels a parent's darkling fears, 
 To think that sin may shade that snowy 
 brow. 
 17 
 
94 THE DREAMER TO HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Thy mother's smile, her eyes, her graceful 
 
 neck, 
 And her light laugh, thou hast in thy young 
 
 glee: 
 The unsealed book of Time thou dost not 
 
 reck, 
 Although each page may bear a grief for 
 
 thee. 
 
 I look through years, and see thy forehead fair, 
 \nd woman's looks of love flash 'ncath thy 
 lustrous hair. 
 
 Those speaking '-yes bright stars in Beauty's 
 
 sky- 
 May flash (but, ah ! I shudder at the 
 
 dream) 
 
 With all that woman's love or fame can dye 
 A barque of crime launched forth on 
 
 Folly's stream ; 
 
 And Virtue pale with pity at thy name 
 Dear child, thou'rt smiling in thy father's 
 
 face : 
 
 Can guilt inhabit such a gentle frame, 
 Or thy dear brow wear vice's purple 
 
 trace ? 
 
 Why should I muse upon thine early morn ? 
 A flower, unfolded now, thou art a sun 
 veiled by the dawn. 
 
THE DREAMER TO HIS DAUGHTER. 195 
 
 Why should I muse? Thy father yet is 
 
 young. 
 Perhaps for him there may be length of 
 
 years. 
 
 Be his the task to woo, by deed and tongue, 
 Thy worship to the shrine chaste Virtue 
 
 rears. 
 
 Oh, sweet the task ! and richly overpaid, 
 To see thy virtue grow with growth of 
 
 years : 
 
 A modest, meek, and unassuming maid 
 The picture, fancy drawn, has woke my 
 
 tears. 
 
 Thou might become all that my bursting heart 
 E'er fondly hoped as good as fair thou art ! 
 
 Perhaps, blest time, I may, in after days, 
 See thy dear children round me fondly 
 
 come : 
 Thou the bright star ; and those thy kindred 
 
 rays 
 The gentle love-light of a good man's 
 
 home. 
 
 Perchance they'll climb their aged grand- 
 sire's knee ; 
 
 And pat his cheek ; and stroke his time- 
 bleached hair. 
 I hear in fancy now their infant glee, 
 
196 THE DREAMER TO HIS TAUGHTER. 
 
 Or, with thy dulcet notes, blending, at 
 
 ^per-prayer : 
 Thy husband's manly voice joining the swelling 
 
 hymn : 
 
 Oh ! such u scene is half divine alt portrait- 
 ure is dim ! 
 
 Then, sweet the thought, as life's dim shadow 
 
 flies 
 My eyes grow weak my pulse wax faint 
 
 and dull 
 Thou and thy loving mate may watch my 
 
 dying eyes, 
 
 Upturned to heaven home of the beau- 
 tiful ! 
 
 And if that one, who gave thee life and love, 
 Shall stay behind me, from the tomb of 
 
 death, 
 
 Then be thy joy a daughter's love to prove : 
 That hope shall cheer me though my 
 
 parting breath 
 
 May bless my wife, yet on thy duteous head, 
 With her sweet love will fall, a blessing of 
 the dead. 
 
 My dream is o'er. Thy mighty will be done, 
 Eternal God! all power, all fate, is 
 thine ! 
 
THE DREAMER TO HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 197 
 
 Into thy care receive this gentle one ; 
 
 And be the soul that haunts this infant 
 
 shrine 
 As pure in after years, as now, without a 
 
 sin, 
 (For can she err till sin's dark power is 
 
 given ? ) 
 She clings about my neck, a father's love to 
 
 win, 
 
 Felt only greater by her sire in heaven. 
 Oh, in the human heart, the streams that lie 
 Of love, parental love, with life are only dry ! 
 
198 
 
 THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 A HIGHLAND STORY. 
 
 " NORMAN," said one of the sons of the 
 laird of Kinallan to his brother, " do you in- 
 tend going to Soonart's party to-night ? " 
 
 " Most certainly, Hector. Don't you ? " re- 
 plied the other. 
 
 44 Are you aware that Kilmoran is to be 
 there ? " rejoined Hector ; answering his 
 brother's question by asking another. 
 
 44 Perfectly," replied Norman ; 44 but what 
 of tha 
 
 44 Why, of that, Mw," said Hector, fiercely : 
 44 that I would as soon throw myself from the 
 top of Dunavarty as enter the same house 
 much less sit down at the same table with Kil- 
 moran. I have sworn to be his death, and 
 therefore will not break bread at the same 
 board with him. You have sworn a similar 
 oath, Norman. How can you reconcile it with 
 your conscience to sit down in pretended peace 
 with the man ? " 
 
 44 Fair and softly, brother," replied Norman, 
 in his usual quiet tone ; 44 you are hot-headed 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 199 
 
 you are rash, Hector. It is not tbe most dan- 
 gerous dog that barks most. If I keep a fair 
 side to Kilmoran, it is that I may make the 
 more sure of my revenge when the fitting op- 
 portunity presents itself." 
 
 " And how long do you propose waiting for 
 that opportunity ? " said Hector, impatiently, 
 and with a slight expression of contempt, which 
 he could not suppress, for his more cautious 
 brother's tardiness in executing their common 
 vengeance. 
 
 " Till it comes," replied Norman, calmly 
 but emphatically. " You know that we dare 
 not attack him openly ; otherwise, we should 
 give mortal offence to the duke, and thereby 
 bring down ruin on ourselves. We must, 
 therefore, * bide our time.' " 
 
 " Umph ! " rejoined Hector, turning on his 
 heel, and, without further remark, quitting the 
 apartment in which the conversation took place. 
 
 Availing ourselves of the opportunity which 
 this incident presents, we will here introduce a 
 word or two of explanation concerning the par- 
 ties whom we have, rather abruptly perhaps, 
 just introduced to the reader, and of the circum- 
 stances in which they stood with regard to each 
 other. 
 
 The two brothers, Hector and Norman M'Dou- 
 
200 THE FATAL REVENGF 
 
 gal, were the sons of Alexander M'Dougal, of 
 Kinallan, a gentleman of considerable property 
 in the West Highlands ; they were neither of 
 them very young men, both being considerably 
 ubove thirty. As may, in part, have been 
 gathered from what lias been already said, the 
 brothers, although agreeing in the atrocious re- 
 solve which forms the subject of our tale, were 
 of very different dispositions. Hector was 
 fierce, irascible, and outspoken, and although 
 capable of entertaining the most deadly hatred 
 against those who offended him, was incapable 
 of concealing it ; all the savage nature of the 
 man was expressed in his bold and determined 
 countenance. It was otherwise with Norman ; 
 equally vindictive with his brother, he was more 
 cautious and guarded ; quiet and reserved in 
 his manners, slow and deliberate in his proceed- 
 ings, it was not easy to discover whom he liked, 
 or whom he disliked. Nor so carefully did 
 he conceal his resentments were the objects 
 of his hatred always aware of the enmity he 
 bore them : on the contrary, deceived by his 
 civil speech, his ready smile, and apparently 
 placid temperament, they often knew not of 
 their danger, till circumstances having, by some 
 sudden turn, put them in his power, they felt 
 the sting which he had hitherto so carefully 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 201 
 
 concealed. He never struck until sure that his 
 blow would not only find, but tell upon his 
 victim. 
 
 Kilmoran, again, we adopt the Highland 
 custom of distinguishing persons by the name 
 of their property or place of residence, was 
 a neighboring laird, with whom the family of 
 the M'Dougals had been long at feud, and who 
 had recently added to his offences by securing, 
 through his influence with the Duke of Argyle, 
 with whom he was in great favor, a certain farm 
 which the M'Dougals had made some strenuous 
 efforts to obtain. 
 
 Soonart, again, or the Laird of Soonart, as 
 he was called, was also a neighbor, although 
 not a very near one, his residence being about 
 five miles distant from those of the M'Dougals 
 and Kilmorans, which were within a quarter of 
 a mile of each other. 
 
 Having mentioned these particulars, we pro- 
 ceed with our tale. 
 
 Agreeably to the resolution which he had 
 expressed to his brother, Norman, shortly after 
 the conversation with the former, which we re- 
 corded at the outset of our story, mounted his 
 horse, and set off for Soonart; the merry- 
 making to which he had been invited, and to 
 which we formerly alluded, being to take place 
 
202 THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 on the afternoon of the day on which our talo 
 
 Soonart, or Castle Soonart, as it was soinc- 
 - called, although scarcely deserving so 
 dignified a title, was an ancient building in the 
 style of the sixteenth century, turreted and bat- 
 tlementecl, with steep gray roofs and deeply- 
 iiulented ledges. It stood on the summit of a 
 rugged, precipitous cliff, whose base was washed 
 by the sea ; its white-crested waves, in stormy 
 :icr, howling around, and leaping upon the 
 majestic rock, like a flock of hungry wolves. 
 On the land side, however, the house was of 
 easy access, being connected with the main land 
 by a broad natural mound or isthmus. In an- 
 cient times, this neck of land was intersected by 
 a deep moat at a short distance from the build- 
 ing ; but it had been allowed to fill up, and was 
 at the time of which we write but just discern- 
 ible by faint outlines. 
 
 The greater number of the party invited to 
 Soonart had already arrived, when Norman 
 M'Dougal presented himself in the large dining- 
 hall of the mansion : and among those assem- 
 bled there was Kilmoran. On Norman's en- 
 trance, the latter, who was a good-natured, 
 kind-hearted man, and who had always anxiously 
 desired to be at peace with his neighbors, the 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 203 
 
 M'Dougals, instantly made up to him, and 
 offered him the hand' of friendship. It was 
 readily accepted by his treacherous enemy, and 
 apparently with as much cordiality as it was 
 given. The ready but quiet smile of Norman 
 replied to the half-jocular, half-serious remon- 
 strances of Kilmoran on the subject of their 
 ancient enmity ; and a significant shrug of the 
 shoulders, accompanied by words of kindness, 
 expressed or were meant to express his 
 perfect willingness to entertain Kilmoran's pro- 
 posal that they should forget the past, and live 
 in friendship for the future. 
 
 Soon after, the guests having all assembled, 
 the party sat down to table, to partake of the 
 good things provided for them by their host. 
 Leaving them thus agreeably employed, we 
 shall return for a time to the residence of the 
 M'Dougals, and take up the part about to be 
 enacted by Hector in the tragical drama of the 
 evening. 
 
 Brooding over the grudge he bore Kilmoran, 
 and which had been stirred into fresh activity by 
 the incident of their common invitation to Soon- 
 art, and in part also by the late conversation he 
 had had with his brother on the subject, Hector 
 M'Dougal was suddenly struck with one of 
 those atrocious ideas that so frequently present 
 thenaselves to desperate and revengeful men, 
 
201 THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 and fill the world with crime. He determined 
 on that very night to waylay and murder Kil- 
 moran on his return from Soonart, which he 
 calculated would be about midnight. Having 
 come to this hellish resolution, he armed himself 
 with his rifle with which he was an unerring 
 shot, as the deer of his native mountains knew 
 by fatal experience, and hasted away to seek 
 a favorable situation for executing the dreadful 
 deed he contemplated. 
 
 Stealing secretly out of the house, and after- 
 wards taking a quiet and circuitous route, h<- 
 made for a certain copse on the face of a rising 
 ground, that overlooked the road by which Kil- 
 moran must return home ; this road lying be- 
 tween the rising ground alluded to and a beau- 
 tiful lake that slept in the hollow of the hills. 
 Entering the copse, M'Dougal pushed through 
 it until he reached the skirt nearest the way by 
 which Kilmoran would pass, and which brought 
 him to within fifty or sixty yards of it. Here 
 concealing himself among the thick underwood, 
 and with a paling in front on which to lean his 
 rifle, M'Dougal awaited the appearance of his 
 victim. It was a bright moonlight night, and as 
 the horse Kilmoran always rode was a very light 
 gray, approaching almost to white, and in this 
 respect somewhat remarkable, there would be 
 no difficulty in at once recognizing him. 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 205 
 
 Leaving the assassin thus watching for his 
 prey, we shall return to Soonart, to see how the 
 evening was passing with the festive party there 
 assembled. It was passing pleasantly ; the 
 banquet-room of the old mansion rung with the 
 burst of hilarious merriment which the facetious 
 jest and humorous song were ever and anon 
 eliciting, and the wine-flagon was pacing it 
 merrily round the festal board. 
 
 The time came, however, when the jest and 
 song were heard more rarely, and when the 
 wine-flagon began to make its rounds with a 
 more tardy motion. It was getting late ; the 
 spirits of the party were flagging, and a general 
 movement among the guests to break up the 
 party was the result. It did bre'k up ; when, 
 hurrying out of the apartment in merry and 
 somewhat obstreperous confusion, the guests 
 sought the stables for their horses, all of them 
 having como from a distance. Kilmoran was 
 among the party who sallied out in quest of 
 their steeds, but it was merely to see his friends 
 mounted he accompanied them, as he had been 
 prevailed upon by his host to remain with him 
 all night, in order to pin him in a hunting-party 
 which had been made up for an early hour of 
 the following morning. This was altogether an 
 unexpected circumstance on the part of Kil- 
 18 
 
206 THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 moran, who had originally intended to return 
 home that night. 
 
 On the party reaching the stable, it was found 
 that Norman M'Pougal's horse was dead lame 
 in two of his logs, and consequently unable to 
 walk a single step. How this had happened 
 could not be at the moment ascertained ; some 
 sinews strained, it was supposed, or some injury 
 sustained in ti lut whatever might be 
 
 h the animal, or in whatever way he 
 might have come by his injuries, it was clear he 
 was quite unable to carry his master home that 
 night. Seeing this, Kilmoran,in the same spirit 
 in which he had made up to M'Dougal on his 
 first arrival at Soonart, pressed him to take the 
 use of his horse ; adding, good-humoredly, that 
 if he did not think he could presume to take a 
 horse of his to his father's house, seeing the 
 ancient enmity that was between them, he might 
 ride him to Kilmoran, leave him there, and walk 
 home, a distance of only about half a mile. 
 
 M'Dougal would have refused to accept the 
 proffered kindness ; but, besides his own wish 
 to deceive Kilmoran with regard to his feelings 
 towards him, there were too many witnesses 
 present for him to feel safe in exhibiting any, 
 the slightest, symptom of the dislike he bore 
 that person ; and his rejection of his offered 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 207 
 
 civility on the present occasion, he feared, 
 might be looked upon in that light, and be re- 
 membered afterwards if anything should happen 
 to Kilmoran. Reasoning thus, and reasoning 
 as quick as thought, M'Dougal, with many ex- 
 pressions of thanks, accepted the offer of Kil- 
 moran's horse, mounted him, and rode off*. 
 Fifteen minutes' smart riding brought him to 
 the margin of the lake formerly alluded to ; a 
 few minutes more saw him enter on and pro- 
 ceed along the road that skirted it. 
 
 Unconscious of peril, M'Dougal rode on, and 
 had attained somewhere about half the length 
 of the lake, when the sharp report of a rifle 
 rung in the copse, and in the same instant Nor- 
 man M'Dougal fell from his horse a dead man 
 a rifle-ball having passed right through his 
 head. Deceived by the horse he rode, his 
 brother had directed against him that shot which 
 he intended for Kilmoran. 
 
 Unaware of the dreadful mistake he had 
 committed, M'Dougal hastened home, and, un- 
 perceived by any one, entered the house and 
 retired to bed. Morning came, and with it 
 much surprise to the midnight assassin that his 
 brother had not returned. Leaving his couch, 
 on which he had spent but a restless night, he 
 approached the window of his bedchamber to 
 look abroad on the morning. He had not done 
 
208 THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 so for many seconds, when he saw a crowd of 
 people slowly approaching the house, and bear- 
 ing along what appeared to be a heavy burden. 
 In a few minutes he made out that it was a 
 human body they were carrying, and, not 
 doubting that it was the corpse of Kilmoran, he 
 summoned his utmost resolution to meet the re- 
 port of that gentleman's murder with as un- 
 moved and unconscious a manner as possible. 
 But why bring the body of the murdered man 
 to his house ? Why not take it to Kilmoran ? 
 The proceeding confounded him, and filled his 
 guilty bosom with a thousand indefinable ter- 
 rors. In the mean time, the persons bearing 
 the corpse approached ; they passed beneath 
 the window at which M'Dougal was standing, 
 and in the livid and ghastly upturned face of 
 the murdered man he recognized the face of 
 his brother. Suspicions of the dreadful truth 
 flashed across his mind, and ho sank into a 
 chair, powerless and all but insensible. 
 
 In a few minutes, one of the men who had 
 brought the body home entered his apartment, 
 and with a sorrowful countenance and not 
 aware that he had seen the body pass in- 
 formed him that his brother had been killed. 
 
 " How ? " said M'Dougal, in a sepulchral 
 voice. 
 
 " Shot through the head," replied the man. 
 
THE FATAL REVENGE. 
 
 209 
 
 " Where was the body found ? " again asked 
 ATDougal, with white, parched, and quivering 
 
 UP. 
 
 " By the side of the loch, near Clachan- 
 more," answered the man. 
 
 All that day M'Dougal kept his apartment, 
 and would neither himself come forth, nor 
 would he allow any one to enter. When the 
 morning came, he was missing ; he had disap- 
 peared through the night, and none could then, 
 or ever after, tell whither he had gone. It was 
 supposed by some that he had thrown himself 
 into the lake ; by others, that he had left the 
 country and gone abroad : this last rumor being 
 followed up by a report, some years after, that 
 he had fallen in the American war it was 
 said, in the battle of Bunker's Hill 
 18* 
 
210 
 
 LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 BY MISS JAMESON. 
 
 As sounds of sweetest music heard at eve, 
 When summer's dew weeps over languid 
 
 flowers, 
 And the still air conveys each tone, 
 
 i.iint, and bears it to the ear 
 With a distinct and thrilling sound, which 
 
 leaves 
 
 Its memory long within the 'raptured soul, 
 Even such thou art to me ; and thus I sit 
 And feel the harmony that round thee lives 
 And breathes in every feature. Thus I sit, 
 And when most quiet, cold, or silent, then, 
 Even then, I feel each word, each look, each 
 
 tone. 
 
 There is not an accent of that tender voice, 
 There is not a day-beam from those sun-bright 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Nor passing smile, nor melancholy grace, 
 Nor thought half-uttered, feeling half-betrayed, 
 Nor glance of kindness no, nor gentlest 
 
 touch 
 
LOVE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Of that dear hand, in amity extended, 
 That e'er was lost to me that, treasured well, 
 A.nd oft recalled, dwells not upon my soul 
 Like sweetest music heard at summer's eve. 
 
212 
 
 WITHERED VIOLETS. 
 
 REED. 
 
 LONG years have passed, pale flowers, since you 
 Were culled, and given in brightest bloom, 
 
 By one whose eyes eclipsed your blue, 
 Whose breath was like your own perfume. 
 
 Long years but though your bloom be gone, 
 The fragrance which your freshness shed 
 
 Survives, when memory lingers on, 
 
 When all that blessed its birth have fled. 
 
 Those hues and hopes will pass away ; 
 Thus youth, and bloom, and bliss, depart ; 
 
 Oh ! what is left when these decay ! 
 The faded leaf, the withered heart I 
 
213 
 
 A STEAM VOYAGE ON THE 
 MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 DURING the month of June, 1838, I was de- 
 tained some time at Marseilles, waiting the 
 arrival of a friend who had engaged to accom- 
 pany me to the Levant. At length, when I 
 had almost determined to retrace my steps to 
 Paris, and ascertain the cause of delay, a letter 
 came : my friend's arrangements had been 
 suddenly upset ; and he could not leave Paris. 
 It was Saturday, and it still wanted some hours 
 of sunset, so I instantly began -to inquire the 
 best method of proceeding to Malta. There 
 were several vessels in the harbor, bound for 
 the island, the skippers of which each assured 
 me that his vessel was sure to sail next day, or 
 the day after at the farthest ; but I knew them 
 too well to believe a word they said, so, hav- 
 ing satisfied myself from appearances that not 
 one of them would leave the harbor for at least 
 ten days, I gave up the idea of proceeding in a 
 sailing vessel, and determined to try a steamer. 
 The French government-steamers were, I soon 
 found, the only ones plying between Marseilles 
 and Malta, and I was informed that the Sesos- 
 
214 A STEAM VOYAGE ON 
 
 tris would sail on Monday, at four, P.M. I 
 therefore returned to my hotel, and made the 
 necessary preparations for the voyage. 
 
 Next day I paid a visit to a friend who had 
 had some experience in Levantine steamers, to 
 ask his advice regarding what part of the vessel 
 I should sail in, also regarding provisions, &c. 
 The weather had been extremely sultry for 
 some weeks, and no rain had fallen in the south 
 of France for more than a month ; conse- 
 quently a voyage on the Mediterranean at that 
 time, was likely to be a warm one. 
 
 My friend, after inquiring concerning my 
 travelling wardrobe, pronounced it sufficient, 
 come sun, come rain, and advised me strongly 
 to take a deck-passage. The first cabin, he re- 
 marked, was very expensive, both as regarded 
 the passage-money and provisions, the latter 
 the passenger being obliged to pay for, whether 
 he partake or not ; but his principal objection 
 was the intolerable heat arising from the sun, 
 joined to that caused by the fire and vapor of 
 six or seven days' steaming. The second 
 cabin was moderate in price, but in it also the 
 passengers must pay exhorbitant prices for pro- 
 visions, whether partaken of or not, while it 
 was as hot as the first cabin. The deck, on 
 the contrary, my friend assured me, could be 
 tolerated during the day, as there were plenty 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 215 
 
 of opportunities of sitting in the shade, while it 
 was not too cold during the night : there was 
 another point too, and a very important one to 
 an Englishman in a French boat ; deck- 
 passengers were allowed to carry their own 
 provisions with them, or purchase from the 
 steward, according as they felt inclined. Hav- 
 ing listened to all these considerations, and seri- 
 ously weighed the matter in my own mind, I 
 determined on taking a deck-passage. 
 
 On Monday forenoon I repaired to the proper 
 authorities, and had my passport inspected. I 
 then directed my steps to the British Consul, 
 and, having got the necessary papers, proceeded 
 to the office of the steamer, and producing all 
 these documents, left them in the hands of the 
 clerk, paid my passage-money, and received a 
 ticket containing the rules and regulations to bo 
 observed on embarking and during the voyage. 
 They were very strict, but, as I found after- 
 wards, u more honored in the breach than in 
 the observance." 
 
 After my luggage was all packed, I sum- 
 moned "boots," and consulted regarding the 
 proper provisions for the voyage : the result 
 was, that we both sallied out together, and ic- 
 turned with the following, which, with the addi- 
 tion of water, we judged sufficient for one man 
 during a week: Two loaves of bread, each 
 
216 A STEAM VOYAGE ON 
 
 eighteen inches long, four pounds of biscuit, 
 one pound of Parmesan cheese, two pounds of 
 boiled beef, a pound of loaf-sugar, and two bot- 
 tles of brandy. The steamer was to sail ut four, 
 and I left my hotel at three, dressed in summer 
 style. We had about fifteen minutes' walk to 
 the place of embarkation. On leaving the 
 hotel, the sun was oppressively warm, and the 
 white dust blowing through the streets in dense 
 clouds; but ere we had gone a hundred yards 
 the rain began to pour, and long before we 
 bad the quay, it fell in torrents; my 
 cloak was ut hand, however, and wrapping it 
 rout)' -ugratulatrd myself that long be- 
 
 fore its well-lined cloth was wet through, the 
 sun would be as bright in the heavens as ever. 
 On arriving at the quay, we found an immense 
 number of little boats, the inmates of which 
 were very solicitous for our favor, and having 
 embarked in one which had an awning to pro- 
 tect us from the sun, I was soon on board the 
 steamer with my luggage. The moment I was 
 on board, an officer demanded my ticket, and 
 referring to a bundle of papers, said I was all 
 right. It was within a few minutes of the time 
 of sailing, and passengers were arriving in 
 great numbers, all of whom were asked for 
 their tickets, and a reference made to the bun- 
 dle of passports, ere they were let out of the 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 217 
 
 immediate surveillance of a warrant-officer 
 armed with sword and pistol. So uniformly 
 regular did every one's passport appear to be, 
 that I began to think it was only a form to in- 
 spect them, until the officer, turning around to 
 % German student who had just appeared, de- 
 manded his bill of health. The student said it 
 had been left with the clerk, along with his 
 other papers, when he engaged his passage. 
 The officer called him " a liar," and said that 
 he had never had one. An official from the 
 land now stepped forward, and stated that there 
 had been more passengers engaged than bills 
 of health taken, and that he attended in conse- 
 quence, as the steamer could not clear out until 
 this matter was rectified. On referring to the 
 bills of health furnished, the German student's 
 name was not there, and in great wrath, swear- 
 ing in French, German, and Italian, he was 
 obliged to pay three francs and a half to have 
 his according to rule. 
 
 At four o'clock the post-office boat came 
 alongside ; some letter-bags and five small 
 casks of silver money were put on board in 
 charge of an officer, the large bell was rung, 
 and all those for the shore were ordered to quit 
 the vessel. The cry through the vessel now 
 was 1 " L'appe2 y Vappel," (the calling of the 
 names,) and several petty officers were em- 
 19 
 
218 A STEAM VOYAGE ON 
 
 ployed in gathering the passengers from every 
 part of the vessel to the quarter-deck. As soon 
 as the first lieutenant had been informed that 
 unconnected with the vessel was now 
 on the poop, the commissariat began calling out 
 the list of passengers, each answering to hi 
 name, and passing to another part of the vessel. 
 \Vhrn the list was finished, the commissariat 
 informed the first lieutenant that everything was 
 right; the side-ladders were drawn up, and in 
 a few minutes we were out of the basin of 
 Marseilles, and steaming through the blue wa- 
 :-;mean. During the bustle 
 attending our departure tin- ram poured with 
 unabated fury, and continued to do so until two 
 o'clock next morning, whi-n il stopped at sun- 
 rise. It was soon pretty evident that the clothes 
 : on would not protect me during the night; 
 so the cloak was laid aside until I put on over 
 my coat, a surtout, pilot-coat, and mackintosh. 
 The cloak was then put above all, and I again 
 congratulated myself on being fully waterproof, 
 as my mackintosh was of the great-coat form, 
 and reached considerably below the knee. 
 
 When we were fairly at sea, one of the 
 warrant-officers got each of the passengers to 
 point out his luggage, which was stowed away 
 in different places, in order that no mistake 
 might occur in the various ports at which we 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 219 
 
 were to touch : by the time this was accom- 
 plished, the deck was covered with passengers, 
 who, finding their berths too hot, preferred the 
 wet of the decK to the heat of the cabin. In 
 the first cabin there were about twenty passen- 
 gers for Leghorn, four for Civita Vecchia, one 
 for Malta, and two for Athens. In the second 
 cabin there were, an Italian singer proceeding 
 to some one of the theatres on the Adriatic, a 
 good-natured merry sort of fellow, who was 
 never loth to enliven the company with a song ; 
 five Italian refugees proceeding to the Papal 
 states for protection ; two merchants of and for 
 Leghorn ; two cooks proceeding by way of 
 Alexandria to the establishment of Lord Elph- 
 instone in India ; a very old Italian on his way 
 to the holy sepulchre ; and several attendants 
 belonging to parties in the first cabin. We of 
 the deck were more select. There were four 
 German students (Burschenschaft) returning 
 from Paris to Austria ; one Fanaariole returning 
 from London to Constantinople, and the writer. 
 We, the deck-passengers, were soon acquainted, 
 and amber pipes and cigars were passed from 
 one to another ; at last the store of provisions 
 was alluded to, we gathered round a large 
 barrel-head and displayed our edibles. The 
 other five had many things I could not boast of 
 but I had one advantage, with my brandy ; 
 
220 A STEAM VOYAGE ON 
 
 one of the bottles was produced and a flask of 
 r : our carousal-bowl was an old tin jug, 
 our table-cloth a late number of" Le National," 
 our table a barrel-head, while the rain poured 
 down in torrents, and wo wore obliged to put an 
 umbrella over our good things ; nevertheless, 
 11 made a hearty meal the various stores 
 were free to all, ami we laughed and talked 
 over the idea of happiness having much to do 
 with outward things. When the repast was fin- 
 ished, each wrapped up his stores, and a good 
 glass of brandy-and-water, pipes and cigars, 
 songs and anecdotes, kept us merry, and I had 
 almost forgotten that it rained, when the in- 
 creased weight of my cloak recalled my atten- 
 tion ; it was now ten o'clock at night, and the 
 cloak was as wet as if it had been tossed in the 
 sea since we left Marseilles. None of us felt 
 much cold during the night. A gentleman and 
 his lady slept in their carriage on deck ; a sec- 
 ond carriage was occupied by two footmen who 
 had it in charge; two first-cabin and one 
 second-cabin passengers kept the deck all night ; 
 the remainder of the passengers preferred to 
 be stewed below. At last the morning broke, 
 dry and brilliant ; our wet clothes were hung 
 up here and there, boots and shoes were kicked 
 from our feet, and ere six o'clock we were as 
 merry as crickets, sitting on the dry deck en- 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 221 
 
 joying our breakfast, which we accompanied by 
 a small glass of brandy, and a large one of 
 good wine, a flask of which some one drew 
 from out his haversack. 
 
 Before noon, every appearance of the former 
 night's rain had vanished ; our clothes were 
 dry and so, I am sorry to say, were my two 
 bottles. The day was a remarkably beautiful 
 one ; nobody was sick, but all enjoying them- 
 selves, by either joining or passively looking at 
 the sporting, leaping, wrestling, and quarter- 
 staff, which occupied the attention of the crew 
 as well as passengers for the greater part of the 
 day. The porpoises, too, seemed to join in the 
 fun, as they sported in hundreds before, under, 
 and on each side of our vessel ; while the water 
 was so transparent, that on looking over the 
 bows, these merry fish could be seen far, far 
 down in the water. In the afternoon, we passed 
 the island of Corsica, towards which, as long as 
 it was in sight, all eyes were directed ; and 
 many were the curses I heard vented forth 
 against the English nation, for their treatment 
 of the once obscure native of that little isle 
 (Napoleon) " and one who, if he had lived," 
 said one of the passengers, u would have made 
 Paris the capital of Europe." In the evening 
 there were several card-parties formed but 
 whist was not one of the games played. Thus 
 19* 
 
2*22 A SlliA.M VuYAiiK ON 
 
 the time passed away, and as the shades of 
 night were drawing around, I picked out the 
 "softest plank," and, with " a reefing block" 
 lor my pillow, lay down and fell asleep. 
 
 I imagine the night must have been a very 
 quiet one, as, when 1 was awakened, I found the 
 sun had the start of me. In a few minutes all 
 ;<1 confusion, passengers running 
 hither and thither, tumbling and 
 
 ropes, with both of which the dirk was again 
 covered. We Win "il" the port of Leghorn, 
 where a great many passengers, two cli 
 and an imm< !!>; <juantity of luggage had to be 
 landed ; altho .- d doubtful if 
 
 passengers and luggage could be landed, and 
 not at all doubtful that the carriages could not, 
 on account of the heavy swell setting in from 
 the east. It was now six in the morning, and 
 the captain said he should remain eight hours 
 , but would not go into the harbor unless 
 compelled. As soon as this determination was 
 known, tl. ;i to form themselves 
 
 into parties, who elected one to make a bargain 
 with a boatman. In less than ten minutes from 
 the time our anchor was let go, there could not 
 be less than thirty boats alongside, each having 
 from four to six men. Watermen are the same 
 all the world over, consequently there was much 
 wrangling before a bargain was struck. The 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 223 
 
 ladder was at last let down, and the first party 
 began to descend ; but it was a task sufficient 
 to try the nerves of the most hardy, as the boat 
 was one moment drawn from the ladder with 
 great velocity, and the next dashed up against it. 
 One man was rather shy of letting go his hold, 
 and he was hauled out of the boat again after 
 his feet had been in it, immersed up to the 
 middle in water ; and had it not been for the 
 two sailors who manned the foot of the ladder 
 instantly hauling him in, he would have been 
 much hurt, if not killed, between the ladder and 
 the boat : as it was, he appeared neither hurt 
 nor frightened, and when the boat approached 
 again, he leaped from the ladder at once into 
 the bottom. After receiving the proper number 
 of passengers, each boat dropped astern, where 
 it held on until the luggage was lowered by 
 ropes. In this manner, and in about two hours, 
 all the passengers and their luggage were safely 
 disembarked. The last boatful was an English 
 diplomatic gentleman, his wife, and a man and 
 maid servant. The man-servant at once got 
 into the boat ; but the maid stood on the lower 
 step screaming at the pitch of her voice, and no 
 entreaty could make her put her foot in the 
 boat : at last a sailor took her in his arms, and 
 stepping in with her, laid her safely down in the 
 bottom of the boat, where she began to roar 
 
224 A STEAM VOYAGE ON 
 
 more lustily than ever, screeching that she was 
 a drowned woman. The lady now appeared on 
 the last step ; a sailor handed her in, and laid 
 her also jdown in the boat. I never certainly 
 saw two women so terrified in my life but the 
 outward language of their fear was totally 
 different. The servant screamed and beat the 
 boat with her hands, while the tears ran from 
 her swollen eyes down her inflamed che-ks. 
 - dreadfully pale, perfectly quiet, 
 and, to all appearance, almost unconscious of 
 everything around. 
 
 After the passengers were all dispn- 
 the attention of the CP .n-ctcd to the 
 
 .iagcs, one of which n slung, and a 
 
 large boat prepared to receive it ; but after 
 many vain attempts to place it in the boat, the 
 design was abandoned, and rather than run the 
 risk of losing the carriages, the anchor was or- 
 dered to be weighed, and we stood for the har- 
 bor. That the reason of the captain's unwil- 
 lingness to approach the harbor was a quarrel 
 of some sort was evident, as the harbor-officers 
 would not allow any of the warps to be fastened 
 to the shore, which caused a great deal of 
 abuse from all parties. At last our steamer was 
 safely moored alongside of a large Swedish 
 vessel ; and as it still wanted five hours of the 
 time appointed for sailing, four of us joined 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 225 
 
 together, and, hiring a boat, went ashore. No 
 one prevented our landing ; no one asked for 
 our passports even on entering the town ; and 
 if they had, we could not have given them, as 
 they were in the hands of the commissariat. 
 The streets were burning hot, and glared un- 
 pleasantly to the eye. The cafes were filled 
 with smokers and drinkers : we wandered up 
 one street and down another for several hours 
 smoked our pipes, drank our coffee and iced 
 punch bought each a bottle of rum and a 
 pipe head shaped as a bust of Napoleon, and 
 repaired on board our steamer in good time. 
 At two P.M. the mail-bags came on board, the 
 anchor was weighed, and we steamed out of 
 the port. 
 
 At Leghorn we had left the greater part of 
 our passengers ; all the deck ones but the Fa- 
 naariote and myself were gone. The steamer 
 was not so crowded nor so merry, but the day 
 was as hot as ever; and towards evening it 
 blew a capful of wind. All the passengers but 
 Georgidas and myself were sick : we, Robinson 
 Crusoe-like, constructed of tarpaulins a sort of 
 tent, and Georgidas having an oriental coverlid, 
 we stretched it under its shade and soon fell 
 asleep. 
 
 At four next morning we were awakened by 
 hearing the anchor drop, and on turning out, 
 
A STEAM VoVACi: ON 
 
 foun oil' Civita Vecchia. In a short 
 
 time we were surrounded by boats, but no one 
 to approach, as one or two boats, 
 with the Papal Hag in the stern, pulled round 
 and round the steamer. It appeared that we 
 were deemed in quarantine, and must await ex- 
 amination of the bills of health before any com- 
 munication with the shore could be held. It 
 It was the 14th of June, a solemn festival day, 
 and we could easily discern moving along the 
 shore, a long procession of priests, friars, sol- 
 diers, crosses, crosiers, banners, and other ec- 
 astical appendages, as also immensely-large 
 lighted candles, although it was good daylight. 
 At ten o'clock we got permission, and went 
 ashore : the procession was filing its intermina- 
 ble length through the streets, while every head 
 was uncovered and every knee bent before it. 
 In the procession there could not have been 
 fewer than ten thousand soldiers and about five 
 thousand priests : some of the latter were car- 
 ried on cushioned seats, borne on men's should- 
 ers, and shaded by a canopy supported on long 
 poles by four men ; others walked under a can- 
 opy but these were dignitaries. The great 
 mass of the priests were of course on foot; 
 some of them wore shoes, others sandals, but 
 at least one-third walked barefoot. After the 
 procession had passed, we went up to the town 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 227 
 
 where we found all the shops shut, and flags 
 suspended from many of the windows. At the 
 corners of a great many streets pavilions were 
 erected, in which were crosses and candles 
 burning. Before these the pious Catholic might 
 be seen on his knees, crossing himself and say- 
 ing his prayers. At last we found a traiteur's, 
 where we had an excellent dinner ; washed it 
 down witK half a bottle of the wine profanely 
 called LachrymcB Christi ; entered some of the 
 churches ; visited the holy well which is said, 
 and I think with truth to contain the finest 
 water in Europe ; took each a bottle of it with 
 us, and repaired on board. At noon the mail- 
 bags came alongside, and we held on our 
 course, leaving the island of Sardinia on our 
 starboard-quarter. The day, as usual, was fine ; 
 various games and sports amused us ; and at 
 night, the tent being again constructed, the 
 Greek and myself turned in. At sunrise on 
 Friday morning the volcano Stromboli was seen 
 puffing as if it were smoking a cigar. At eight 
 A.M. we anchored in the Bay of Naples ; but 
 none save the mail-boat was allowed to commu- 
 nicate with the shore a regulation which 
 raised the choler of the many watermen pad- 
 dling around us, who abused the officers in no 
 measured language, and were answered with 
 equal warmth. 
 
228 A STEAM VOYAGE. 
 
 At ten the mail-boat returned ; the anchor 
 was weighed, and we steered down towards the 
 Straits ot . During the afternoon the 
 
 coast of Sicily appeared in sight ; and at sun- 
 on Saturday morning we were in sight of 
 :.t .Etna, covered with snow. It continued 
 visible nearly the whole day, and long after the 
 coast of Sicily had disappeared. At sunset no 
 land was to be seen ; but at two o'clock on 
 Sunday morning the steamer dropped anchor in 
 the harbor of the island of Malta. 
 
229 
 SONG. 
 
 BT O. F. R. JAMES. 
 
 SING to me in the days of spring-time, be- 
 loved ; 
 
 In those days of sweetness, oh, sing to me ! 
 When all things by one glad spirit are moved 
 
 From the sky-lark to the bee. 
 
 Sing to me in the days of summer-time, dearest ; 
 
 In those days of fire, oh, sing to me, then ! 
 When suns are brightest, and skies are clearest, 
 
 Sing, sing in the woods again. 
 
 Sing to me still in the autumn's glory ; 
 
 In the golden fall-time, oh be not mute : 
 Some sweet, wild ditty from ancient story, 
 
 That well with the times may suit. 
 
 Sing to me still in the hours of sadness, 
 When winter across the sky is driven ; 
 But sing not the wild tones of mirth and glad- 
 
 ness 
 
 Then sing of peace and heaven. 
 20 
 
230 
 
 THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 ON removing, some time ago, to a new quar- 
 ter of the town, where I was an entire stranger, 
 one of my first businesses was to look out for a 
 respectable grocer, with whom we might deal 
 for family necessaries. With this object in 
 , I, one day, shortly after our settlement in 
 our new domicile, sallied out on an exploring 
 dition, through our own and some of the 
 adjoining streets, in order, in the first place, to 
 see what like the general run of shops in our 
 neighborhood were. The result of this tour 
 to narrow the matter of selection to three 
 shops of respectable appearance ; which of 
 these, however, I should eventually patronize, I 
 did not at the moment determine, as I always 
 like to do things deliberately. This delibera- 
 tion, then, rendered another tour of observation 
 necessary. 
 
 On this second excursion, seeing nothing, 
 even after a very careful survey, in the exter- 
 nals of either of the three shops to decide my 
 "'* final choice, I resolved, in the conceit of a 
 pretty ready appreciation of character, on being 
 guided by the result of a glance at the general 
 
THE USEFUL FAMILY. 231 
 
 personal appearance of the respective shop- 
 keepers. On pretence, then, of examining a 
 certain box of Turkey figs that lay in the win- 
 dow of one of the shops in question, I took a 
 furtive peep of the gentleman behind the 
 counter. I didn't like his looks at all ; he was 
 a thin, starved, hungry-looking fellow, with a 
 long, sharp, red nose, and, I thought, altogether, 
 a sort of person likely to do a little business in 
 the short- weight way with those who dealt with 
 him. I thought, too, from the glance I took of 
 his head, that there was a deficiency in his 
 bump of conscientiousness. Him, therefore, I 
 struck off the list, and proceeded to the next. 
 
 This man was, in all personal respects, the 
 very opposite of the other ; he was a fat, gruff, 
 savage-looking monster, from whom I did not 
 think much civility was to be expected ; nor did 
 I like the act in which I found him, when I 
 peeped through the window this was throw- 
 ing a loaded salt basket at the head of his ap- 
 prentice. Probably it was deserved, but I did 
 not like the choler it exhibited so I passed on 
 to the third. Here was a jolly, pleasant, 
 matronly-looking woman for shopkeeper. I 
 was taken with her appearance, so in I popped, 
 and we soon came to an understanding. I 
 opened negotiations by the purchase of a couple 
 of pounds of tea, a proportionable quantity of 
 
THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 sugar, and several other little odds and ends, 
 for which I had a commission from my wife. 
 found the articles excellent, our worthy, 
 jolly groceress civil and obliging; and all, there- 
 fore, so far as this went, was right. 
 
 The grocer, howrvi-r, although a most con- 
 venient sort of personage, cannot supply all the 
 h of a family ; there is another, still more 
 essential, inasmuch as he is necessary not only 
 to our comfort, but almost to our existence 
 the baker. \Ve still wanted a baker ; having 
 hitherto bought our bread in a straggling sort of 
 way. What we wanted, then, was a regular 
 baker ; and not knowing well where to look for 
 one, we applied to our obliging groceress. The 
 worthy woman seemed delighted with the in- 
 quiry wo wondernl why; she thus solved 
 the mystery. " Why, sir," she said, " my 
 son's a baker : his shop is just a little further 
 on. He will be very happy to supply you, and 
 I undertake to warrant his giving you every 
 satisfaction." 
 
 Well pleased to find that our little expendi- 
 tures would at least so far as the addition of 
 bread went be still kept in the family, we 
 proceeded forthwith to the shop of the baker. 
 It was a very respectable-looking one, and the 
 baker himself a civil, obliging fellow ; so we 
 settled matters with him on the instant. 
 
THE USEFUL FAMILY. 233 
 
 It was, I think, somewhere about three weeks 
 after this, that our servant-girl brought, along 
 with a quantity of butter for which she had 
 been sent to Mrs. Aikensides the name, by 
 the way of our worthy groceress a very 
 handsome card, which ran thus :- 
 
 " Miss Jane Aikenside begs to intimate to her 
 friends and the public, that she has begun busi- 
 ness in the millinery and dress-making line, and 
 that every care and attention will be bestowed 
 in the execution of all orders with which she 
 may be favored." At the bottom of the card 
 " Availing herself of this opportunity, Miss 
 Mary Aikenside takes the liberty of announc- 
 ing, that she continues to instruct young ladies 
 in music, on the terms formerly advertised, 
 namely, two guineas per quarter, of three les- 
 sons per week." 
 
 " Aikenside ! " said I, on perusing the card ; 
 " who are they, these Misses Aikenside ? " 
 
 44 Relations of our grocer's, I dare say," said 
 my wife. We inquired, and found they were 
 her daughters. 
 
 44 Very fortunate," said my wife ; u I was 
 just at a loss where I should go with the girls' 
 new frocks and my own gown. We can't do 
 better than give them to Mrs. Aikenside's 
 daughters." 
 
 I thought so too, and, moreover, said so ; but, 
 20* 
 
234 THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 being a matter not within my province, I inter- 
 
 1 no further in it. My wife, however, lost 
 no time in calling on Miss Aikenside, who ear- 
 on her business in her mother's house, 
 
 li was immediately over the shop. The 
 inten -factory to both parties. My 
 
 \vas much pleased with both the appear- 
 ance and manners of Miss Aikenside, and with 
 the specimens of work which she submitted. 
 The children's frocks and the gown were, there- 
 fore, immediately put into her hands. The 
 work was well done ; my wife said she had not 
 seen more accurate fits for a long time ; so, 
 from this date, Miss Aikenside got all our milli- 
 nery to do. 
 
 The intercourse which this brought on be- 
 iiule members of the two families 
 afforded my wife and daughters an opportunity 
 ofht -s Mary Aikenside's performances 
 
 on the piano for she, too, resided with her 
 mother with which they were all delighted ; 
 she was, they said an exquisite performer ; my 
 wife adding, that as it was now full time that 
 our two eldest girls had begun music (of which, 
 indeed, we had been thinking for some time 
 previously), we might just send them at once to 
 
 Aikenside. I offered no objection, but, on 
 the contrary, was very glad that we could yet 
 further patronize the very respectable familj 
 
THE USEFUL FAMILY. 235 
 
 whose services we had already found so useful ; 
 so to Miss Mary Aikenside our two daughters 
 were immediately sent, to learn music ; and 
 very rapid progress they subsequently made 
 under her tuition. 
 
 It was only now that is, after my two girls 
 had begun music with Miss Aikenside that I 
 began to perceive the oddity of the circum- 
 stance of having so many of our wants sup- 
 plied by one family ; for I may as well add, 
 the baker, who was unmarried, also lived with 
 his mother. But this was an oddity to be ren- 
 dered yet more remarkable. 
 
 " Mrs. Aikenside, my good lady," said I, 
 on dropping one day into the shop, " you were 
 good enough, besides furnishing us with what 
 you dealt in yourself, to tell us where we could 
 be supplied with what you did not deal in. 
 You told us where to find a baker ; now, can you 
 tell us where we shall find a shoemaker a 
 respectable shoemaker ? " 
 
 Mrs. Aikenside laughed. "My husband, 
 sir," she said, " is a shoemaker, and will be 
 much obliged to you for any employment you 
 may be pleased to put in his way." 
 
 I now laughed too ; for the idea was becom- 
 ing, I thought, exceedingly amusing. " A 
 shoemaker, is he ? " said I ; " that's odd, but 
 
236 THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 fortunate too. Where is his shop ? where does 
 lie work ? " 
 
 " Oh, he has no shop, sir ; shop-rents are so 
 
 high. He works up-stairs in the house; he has 
 
 ..all room set apart for the purpose. Will 
 
 you walk up and see him, sir, if you please ? " 
 
 1, pointing to an inside stair, which 
 
 conducted from the shop to the story above. 
 
 I did so ; and found Mr. Aikenside, a very 
 respectable-look i tig man, hard at work in the 
 midst of two or three journeymen and appren- 
 tices. He had seen me several times in the 
 shop before, so he knew me. 
 
 ' Mr. Aikc-nside," said I, " I want a little 
 work done in your v 
 
 44 Must happy to serve you, sir," said Mr. 
 Aikenside. 
 
 41 It is but a small matter, though hardly 
 worth your attention, I doubt ; but better things 
 will probably follou 
 
 " Don't matter what it is, sir don't matter 
 how trifling. Glad and ready to do anything in 
 my way, however small ; always thankful for 
 employment." 
 
 41 Then, sir, we shall deal," said I. " There's 
 a parcel of my youngsters' shoes at home that 
 stand in need of repairing." 
 
 Send them over, sir, and they shall be done 
 
THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 237 
 
 to your satisfaction ; or I'll send one of these 
 lads for them directly." 
 
 Here was an active, prompt, thorough-going 
 tradesman, then one who seemed to know 
 what he was about, and who, I had no doubt, 
 would do his work well ; just, in short, such a 
 man as I wanted. 
 
 I was altogether much pleased with the man, 
 and could not help laughingly remarking to him 
 the oddity of my finding so many of the wants 
 of life supplied by one family. u There," said 
 I, " is the grocer, the baker, the milliner, the 
 teacher of music, and the shoemaker, all in one 
 family all living together." 
 
 " Ay, but you have forgot one there's 
 another still to add," said Mr. Aikenside, ap- 
 preciating the humor of the thing. " We can 
 furnish you with a tailor, too ; and as good a 
 hand, I will say it, though he be my own son, 
 as any in town, be the other who he may." 
 
 " Bless my soul, a tailor, too ! " said I ; 
 " where is this to end ? Pray, where does he 
 hang out ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, in the next room ; " and he 
 went to the door, and called out, " Jim, Jim, 1 
 say, come here a moment." 
 
 Jim came a smart, and, although in the 
 loose deshabille of his calling, genteel-looking 
 lad. 
 
238 THE USEFUL FAMILY. 
 
 u Here," continued Mr. Aikenside, address- 
 ing his son " here is a gentleman, whp 
 doesn't say he wants anything in your way 
 just now, but who may, probably, do so by- 
 and-! 
 
 Jim bowed politely, and not ungracefully, 
 and saying he would be proud of any little 
 share of my employment which I should think 
 fit to afford him, put a handsomely embossed 
 into my hand, with his name- and other 
 particulars relative to his business. 
 
 io children's she- sent to the 
 
 father ; they were promptly and well done, 
 and the consequence was, that we henceforth 
 employed him both to make and mend for us. 
 
 The < \ of a suit for one of my 
 
 boys was soon after made of the son's skill as 
 a workman ; it factory more than sat- 
 
 isfactory. He, therefore, was instantly dubbed 
 our tailor, and from this time given all our work, 
 both old and new. 
 
 So, good reader, there we are. This single 
 family of the Aikensides, one way and another, 
 get at least three-fourths of our entire income ; 
 and right welcome are they to it, for they give 
 full and fair value in return. 
 
239 
 
 WE MET WHEN LIFE AND HOPE 
 WERE NEW. 
 
 BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 
 
 WE met when life and hope were new, 
 
 When all we looked on smiled, 
 And Fancy's wand around us threw 
 
 Enchantments, sweet as wild ! 
 Ours were the light and bounding hearts 
 
 The world had yet to wring ; 
 The bloom that, when it once departs, 
 
 Can know no second spring ! 
 
 What though our love was never told, 
 
 Or breathed in sighs alone ; 
 By signs that would not be controlled, 
 
 Its growing strength was shown : 
 The touch, that thrilled us with delight ; 
 
 The glance, by art untamed ; 
 In one short rnoon, as brief as bright, 
 
 That tender truth proclaimed ! 
 
 We parted, chilling looks among ; 
 My inmost soul was bowed ; 
 
VMO WE MET WHEN LIFE 
 
 And blessings died upon my tongue, 
 I dared not breathe aloud : 
 
 A pensive smile, serene and bland, 
 One thrilling glance how vain 1 
 
 A pressure of thy yielding hand : - 
 We never met again ! 
 
 Yet still a spell was in thy name, 
 
 Of magic power to mi', 
 That bade me strive for wealth and fame, 
 
 To make me worthy tli 
 And long, through many an after-year, 
 
 When boyhood's dream had flown, 
 With nothing left to hope or fear, 
 
 I loved, in silence, on ! 
 
 More sacred ties at length are ours, 
 
 As dear as those of yore ; 
 And later joys, like autumn flowers, 
 
 Have bloomed for us once more ! 
 But never canst thou be again 
 
 What once thou wert to me ; 
 I glory in another's chain 
 
 And thou'rt no longer free. 
 
 Thy stream of life glides calmly on, 
 A prosperous lot is thine 
 
 The brighter, that it did not join 
 The turbid waves of mine ! 
 
AND HOPE WERE NEW. 241 
 
 Yet, oh ! could fondest love relume 
 
 Joy's sunshine on my brow, 
 Thine scarce can be a happier doom 
 
 Than I might boast of now I 
 21 
 
ZELICA. 
 
 BV THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 FOND maid ! the sorrow of her soul was such, 
 Even reason sunk, blighted beneath its touch; 
 And though, ere lonir, her sanguine spirit rose 
 Above the first dread pressure of its woes, 
 Though health and bloom returned, the delicate 
 
 chain 
 
 Of thought, once tangled, never cleared again. 
 Warm in youth's happiest day, 
 
 The mind was still all there, but turned astray ; 
 A wandering bark, upon whose pathway shone 
 All stars of heaven, except the guiding one ! 
 Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled, 
 But 'twas a lustre strange, unreal, wild; 
 And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 
 
 I like the notes, half ecstacy, half pain, 
 The bulbul utters, ere her soul depart, 
 When, vanquished by some minstrel's powerful art, 
 She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her 
 heart ' 
 
ZELICA. 
 
 243 
 
 Such was the mood in which that mission found 
 Young Zelica, that mission, which around 
 The Eastern world, in every region blessed 
 With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest, 
 To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes 
 Which the Veiled Prophet destined for the skies : 
 And such quick welcome as a spark receives, 
 Dropped on a bed of Autumn's withered leaves, 
 Did every tale of these enthusiasts find 
 In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. 
 All fire, at once the maddening zeal she caught; 
 Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ! 
 Predestined bride, in heaven's eternal dome, 
 Of some brave youth ha ! durst they say " of 
 
 some ? " 
 
 No of the one, one only object traced 
 In her heart's core too deep to be effaced ; 
 The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined 
 With every broken link of her lost rnind ; 
 Whose image lives, though Reason's self be 
 
 wrecked, 
 Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect! 
 
SONG. 
 
 THERE is a joy in outward things 
 That comes not near the heart; 
 
 There is a pleasant smile in which 
 The spirit takes no part. 
 
 Bring not to me that surface joy ; 
 
 I care not for that smile : 
 Thou must not cheat me to be gay, 
 
 And thou be sad the while. 
 
 But let me share thine every grief, - 
 Bring all thy sins to me : 
 
 Thy sorrows and thy suffering 
 Come with thy love to me. 
 
245 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 THEHE is a certain atmosphere of gloom and 
 sunshine, of hope and fear, of meek expectancy 
 and impatience, of curiosity and abstraction, of 
 calm and restlessness, which pervades the ante- 
 chamber of a skilful physician, and which never 
 fails to have its effect on the spirits of a visitor. 
 
 Some years ago, circumstances brought me, 
 among many others who were in search of 
 health, into an apartment such as I have alluded 
 to. On entering the room, the stillness which 
 prevailed was almost death-like. I seated my- 
 self on the first vacant chair, and as, happily, 
 the cause of my visit to Dr. D. was not one of 
 absorbing interest, I suffered my mind and my 
 eyes to rove as they listed, and endeavored to 
 while away the time by translating, as it were, 
 the characters and feelings of my companions. 
 Sometimes a whisper of slight impatience met 
 my ear ; sometimes a sigh from a solitary indi- 
 vidual, who appeared ashamed of the weakness, 
 and whose short cough betrayed his nervous 
 sensations. Opposite to me sat an interesting 
 girl, of about eighteen, attended by a lady, who 
 watched her young charge with an anxiety truly 
 21* 
 
'2 16 THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 maternal. The hectic flush which mantled on 
 the fair chock of the youthful invalid bespoke 
 that cruel disease, consumption. When the 
 summons came for them to go to the physician's 
 private room, the face of the elder lady hecume 
 
 , and her voice trembled as the words 
 "Come, my love," passed from her lips. 
 
 I was ui;isinu r on the early doom that seeim-d 
 to await this iicntle maiden, when she and her 
 companion returned. The bright smile of hope 
 illumined both their connvnaix-.-s, and they ap- 
 peared unconscious of any witnesses of their 
 feelings. " I >r. 1). considers me much better, 
 dearest aunt ; so now you must not be uneasy 
 any longer," said the younger lady. Her 
 aunt looked at her fondly, and replied that her 
 mind was greatly relieved that she felt quite 
 happy. " God grant that thou mayest be 
 spared, since thou art so much loved ! " ejacu- 
 lated I mentally, as the fair girl quitted the 
 room. 
 
 My attention was now directed to the solitary 
 person whose stifled sighs had told me that his 
 sufferings were real, and patiently borne. He 
 
 scarcely in the prime of life, but his cheeks 
 sunk and wan. His eyes were too bright 
 and sparkling for one whose image was so 
 mournful ; his apparel hung loosely on his at- 
 tenuated limbs. He sat there, waiting his turn, 
 
THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 247 
 
 without -peaking to any one, absorbed appa- 
 rently in his own thoughts. " Has he no moth- 
 er, no sister, no wife ? " said I to myself ; for 
 with the idea of illness, that of a female com- 
 forter seems always associated. But the door 
 opened the invalid slowly tottered towards it, 
 and before it closed again, an aged man, whose 
 garb, though extremely clean, bespoke penury, 
 walked meekly into the room, and sinking down 
 into a chair close to the door, he held his worn 
 hat between his knees, casting his eyes down to 
 the ground. A few white locks strayed over 
 his broad, high forehead, and the expression of 
 his face was full of intelligence. It was evident 
 that he was not an invalid himself, but was anx- 
 ious about some one who was. I saw him put 
 his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and take 
 from it a very small paper parcel ; he looked at 
 it, pressed it between his fingers, as if to ascer- 
 tain that its contents were safe, and then re- 
 placed it in his pocket. " It is the physician's 
 fee," thought I ; " but Dr. D. will not take it 
 from one so poor as thou." 
 
 Near to this venerable man sat a young 
 mother and her infant child. How tenderly she 
 pressed the little sufferer to her heart, and how 
 sadly she seemed to gaze on its fair counte- 
 nance ! Ever and anon she parted the sunny 
 locks that waved with natural grace over its 
 
248 THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 snowy forehead, and frequently her lips moved, 
 as she raised her tear-filled eyes to Heaven. 
 She was praying for her child. 
 
 There was little to be remarked in the re- 
 maining individuals who were waiting the doc- 
 tor's summons. Some carelessly turned over 
 the leaves of the books that were lying on the 
 table ; some examined the paintings that deco- 
 rated the apartment ; and all seemed impressed 
 with a solemn consciousness that they were sur- 
 rounded by suffering humanity. 
 
 By degrees the room became cleared, and I 
 found myself alone with the old man whom I 
 have before described. When the summons 
 came for me, I perceived a flush pass across his 
 venerable face ; he half-rose from his seat, 
 pressed his hand to the corner of his waistcoat 
 pocket, then sat down again, and his features 
 resumed their former patient expression. I could 
 not resist the impulse I felt to speak to him. 
 " You are, perhaps, more pressed for time than 
 I am," said I ; " pray go now to Dr. D., and 
 say that I can wait. Give him this card, and he 
 will attend to you first." 
 
 "Heaven reward you, sir!" replied he. 
 " My only child, the sole joy of my old age, 
 lies dangerously ill, and I am told that Dr. D. is 
 very skilful ; so I am come to consult him. It 
 is a long distance to my home, and my poor 
 
THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 249 
 
 boy will have no rest while his father is absent." 
 The old man's voice faltered, and I felt an un- 
 easy sensation in my throat, which made me 
 afraid to risk saying more than " Well, lose no 
 time, go at once." 
 
 As soon as he was gone, I began to hum a 
 tune and yet I was in no merry mood ; but 
 often, when my spirit has been sad, some old 
 air has pertinaciously rung in my " mind's " 
 ear, and to get rid of it, as a humorous friend 
 of mine would say, I have sung it My melo- 
 dious powers, however, soon received a check, 
 for a double rap at the street-door announced a 
 fresh visitor. I heard the servant say, " It is 
 past twelve, sir ; Dr. D. cannot receive any 
 more patients to-day." " I will not detain him 
 five minutes," replied a deep, clear, manly 
 voice. " Pray tell your master that this is a 
 case of great importance." 
 
 The servant was evidently reluctant to go, but 
 I concluded the speaker had prevailed upon him 
 to do so, as I heard his retreating steps in the 
 hall ; and presently the parlor door opened, and 
 a trio entered which immediately attracted my 
 attention. The party consisted of a lady in a 
 widow's dress, and her son and daughter, who 
 were in deep mourning. The lady was appa- 
 rently about five-and-forty years of age, and 
 seemed very ill. Her duteous and anxious 
 
THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 children were so completely engrossed by their 
 attentions to their suffering parent, that they did 
 not appear to perceive me. They carefully 
 supported her to the sofa, ami then in a voice 
 whose silvery tones I shall never forget, the 
 young lady said, " Well, sweet mother, you 
 borne this fatigue bravely ; and surely that 
 is an earnest of future good." 
 
 " Bless thee, my child ! " faintly answered 
 the invalid ; and as she raised her head, I had 
 an opportunity of seeing her beautiful eyes, 
 which were of the deepest blue, and shaded by 
 long, dark, silken lashes. Her complexion was 
 lair and transparent ; her nose and mouth most 
 delicately formed ; and there was an angelic 
 sweetness of expression in her countenance, 
 which I have never seen surpassed seldom 
 equalled. Disease had indeed weakened the 
 fragile frame, but it had not marred the lovely 
 visage, nor destroyed the graceful form. Tho 
 young man strongly resembled his mother in 
 features and expression ; but his complexion 
 and hair were dark, his forehead lofty and finely 
 formed. His sister had the softest dark eyes 
 imaginable ; and her hair was of that beautiful 
 glossy black that is so seldom seen, and which 
 requires no art to give it lustre ; her figure was 
 fairy-like and graceful, and her small foot and 
 hand were the very perfection of beauty. And 
 
THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 251 
 
 there they sat the brother and sister one 
 on either side of their patient mother, watching, 
 with all the touching earnestness of filial affec- 
 tion, for the slightest intimation of her wishes. 
 . They did love her, they did revere her ; she 
 was their joy, their treasure, their idol, and they 
 thought not that she could die. 
 
 I was now again summoned to attend my 
 good friend, Dr. D. ; and as my visit was merely 
 one of dismissal, I soon put an end to the sub- 
 ject of my own health, and told the physician 
 how deeply interested I felt in the party who 
 had just arrived. Dr. D. smiled in his usual 
 benevolent way. He had known me from a 
 child, and was aware that I was somewhat of an 
 enthusiast and a castle-builder. How delighted I 
 used to be when I was permitted to listen to 
 that excellent man's discourse ! his language 
 was so flowing and elegant, so illustrative of his 
 superior tone of thought. Often have his pa- 
 tients forgotten their complaints while he dilated 
 on Nature's beauties, or on the Creator's good- 
 ness. Never did he prescribe for their suffer- 
 ing bodies without directing their hearts and 
 minds to Him who alone could bless the means 
 used for their recovery. If all physicians re- 
 sembled Dr. D., how many a dying pillow 
 would be rendered smooth! how many a mourner 
 would be comforted ! 
 
252 THE PHYSICIAN'S LEVEE. 
 
 When I took my leave of the doctor, I did 
 not quit the house. It was not an impertinent 
 curiosity that influenced my stay, but an undcfin- 
 able anxiety to know more of the group I had 
 left in the parlor : so I reentered the room as 
 they quitted it, and tried to persuade myself 
 that I had forgotten something which I ought to 
 said to my physician. 
 
 The young man assisted his mother to the 
 private apartment, and then returned. We con- 
 versed together for half an hour, and were be- 
 ginning to forget at least / was that our 
 acquaintance was so recent, when the son \v;is 
 called to attend his parent. 1 watched them 
 fn.ni the window ; how gently hr MWSted th<- 
 poor sufferer into the carriage ! then handed his 
 sister in, and shutting the door, he bade the 
 coachman drive slowly on ; then returning into 
 the house, he went to the doctor's room, and 
 remained with him some time. 
 
 a the being we hold most dear is the suf- 
 ferer, it requires no small degree of firmness to 
 ask the direct question, " Is there any danger? " 
 There is a breathless anxiety for the answer, 
 which none but those who have experienced it 
 can have an idea of. Hope and fear struggle 
 for the mastery ; and if the response be un- 
 favorable, the questioner feels stupified, and 
 even the meek spirit of the most resigned 
 
THE PHYSICIAN S LEVEE. 
 
 253 
 
 Christian is bowed by grief too intense to be 
 described. 
 
 When the affectionate son for such he evi- 
 dently was reentered the antechamber, his 
 manly countenance was expressive of strong 
 and painful emotion. As he drew on his gloves, 
 he said " No hope ! no hope ! " and a deep 
 sigh followed the involuntary exclamation. My 
 heart bled for him : I, too, had lost an adored 
 mother ; I knew what it was to be a mourner. 
 But I could not speak sympathy is often 
 silent : I held out my hand to him ; he grasped 
 it with the frankness of an old friend. Sorrow 
 frequently prepares the way for friendship ; it 
 did in this instance. Three months after this 
 our first meeting, the brother an^l sister and I 
 were assembled in a small, tastefully fitted-up 
 drawing-room ; but she for whom it had been 
 decorated was no more ! We were all three 
 mourners, but we did not u sorrow as those who 
 have no hope ; " we loved to talk of the de- 
 parted, and we looked for a reunion with them 
 in a " better land.' 
 
THE EVENING FIRE. 
 
 BY S. MULLEN. 
 
 THE wintry blast howls fierce and loud, 
 
 Wild whistling through the leafless wood ; 
 With surly haste, the heavy cloud 
 
 Rolls darkly on, o'er field and flood : 
 i 
 
 Have borne him far through mud and mire, 
 Now longs to find a pleasant seat 
 
 Before some country evening fire. ^ 
 
 When blasts of poverty assail, 
 
 And, stripped of fortune and of friends, 
 You see the homeless orphan quail, 
 
 one by one each comfort ends ; 
 And chilly night comes darkly on, 
 
 While cold and want awake desire, 
 Oh, kindly bid his fears begone, 
 
 And cheer him by your evening fire ! 
 
 From yonder coast behold the sea, 
 Impetuous, dash wild waves on high, 
 
 When Boreas, with his blusterers free, 
 Roams wildly o'er the frighted sky : 
 
THE EVENING F1RR, 255 
 
 The sailor, on the ocean tossed, 
 The blinding storm yet raging higher, 
 
 By adverse winds unkindly crossed, 
 Would laugh before your evening fire. 
 
 The lonely prisoner, long confined 
 
 In dismal dungeon, damp and drear, 
 Feels all that sickness of the mind 
 
 Which darkens hope and feeds his fear ; 
 When harshly sounds the grating key, 
 
 And slow the turnkeys gruff retire, 
 How joyous would his feelings be 
 
 To rest before his evening fire. 
 
 'Tis joyful, when the cares of day 
 
 Are hushed to silence and repose, 
 To bid the wheel of labor stay, 
 
 And see the screening shutters close ! 
 And then to meet a knot of friends, 
 
 While social joys each breast inspire ; 
 And cark, and care, and sorrow ends 
 
 Around the cheerful evening fire. 
 
CELESTINA, A SPANISH STORY. 
 
 BY F LOR I AN. 
 
 CELESTIN.A, in !i year, was the 
 
 Granada. She was an orphan, 
 and the heiress of a large fortune ; and lived 
 under the guardianship of her uncle AUur/o, an 
 old and avaricious man, who occupied his days 
 in counting his ducats, and 1. :n silenc- 
 
 ing the serenades with which his i ach 
 
 evening*: ; . He designed lor her his 
 
 only - D I l<n: ;;</. a notorious dunce. The 
 beauty of Celestina - 'hat almost all 
 
 the young cavaliers of (Iranada wert in love 
 with her ; an<i 
 
 cept at mass, the church which si. 
 crowded with - Don 
 
 Pedro, a young man of :nl captain in 
 
 a troop of horse, was preeminent. Handsome, 
 gentle, witty, the eyes of all the ladies of Gran- 
 ada were attracted by him, while among them 
 all he saw only Celestina ; and she, who could 
 not avoid perceiving this, felt herself gradually 
 influenced by the dumb eloquence of his eyes, 
 and could not help replying by soft glances. 
 
CELESTINA. 257 
 
 Thus passed a month, when Don Pedro found 
 means to convey a letter to his mistress, inform- 
 ing her of what she already well knew. As 
 soon as she had read this epistle, the cruel Ce- 
 lestina sent it back to Don Pedro in great indig- 
 nation. But she had a remarkably retentive 
 memory, and did not forget a word of what she 
 had read, and eight days afterwards was able to 
 give a distinct reply to every paragraph. But 
 Don Pedro had perseverance, and Celestina had 
 charity, and at length consented to talk to him 
 at her window, according to the Spanish fashion, 
 where windows are of more service by night 
 than by day, and are the old established meeting- 
 places of impassioned lovers. There, when 
 the street is deserted, the lover appears, gliding 
 cautiously along, muifled in his cloak, and his 
 faithful sword in his hand. He approaches the 
 window, defended with strong bars on the out- 
 side and shutters within. But the shutters are 
 gently unclosed, and the lovely Spaniard ap- 
 pears : her trembling voice awakes the low 
 echoes of the night in a murmured inquiry if 
 none is waiting beneath her window ; her lover 
 answers, vows are exchanged, and even kisses 
 pass between the envious gratings. But the day 
 is breaking they must part : an hour is spent 
 in breathing forth their passionate adieus ; and 
 22* 
 
258 CELESTINA. 
 
 separate, eaving unsaid a niultituclc of 
 essnry to hi- imparted. 
 
 .(low was at tin 1 back of the 
 
 house, and looked upon a piece of waste ground, 
 
 ml which \v poor ill-built houses 
 
 belonging to the lowest class of people. Don 
 
 /s old nurse happened to live in a room 
 
 immediately opposite to CYKstitufs window. 
 
 1 to seem- nt to his 
 
 nurse, an uning himself for having so 
 
 long neglecteil -nsisted on removing her 
 
 to his ov. The poor woman, allected 
 
 even to tears by th<- of her foster-son, 
 
 refused his o:i ; but, at length giving 
 
 . she left her old apartments to his care, 
 
 and was installed at Don 1 >use. 
 
 Never was king more happy at taking pos- 
 session of a throne, than was Don Pedro when 
 he found bin ailed in the miserable 
 
 apartment abandoned by his nurse. He spent 
 the day in watching the mov> his mis- 
 
 tress, and the night in conversing beneath her 
 window ; but this happiness was suddenly inter- 
 rupted by the arrival of Henriquez, the intended 
 husband of Celestina, who made his appear- 
 ance bearing in his hand a declaration of love, 
 written for him in Latin by his, tutor. 
 
 That night an earnest consultation was held 
 
CELESTINA. ^ 259 
 
 at the window, and meantime the contract of 
 marriage was in preparation, and the marriage- 
 day was fixed. A flight to Portugal was deter- 
 mined on as the only means to avoid so direful 
 a catastrophe, and it was settled that they should 
 get married as soon as they should reach Lis- 
 bon, and make terms with her guardian after- 
 wards. Celestina was to provide herself with a 
 casket of jewels which had been left her by her 
 mother ; this was of considerable value, and on 
 its proceeds they were to support themselves 
 until their affairs were settled. Nothing was 
 needed but the key of the grating, which Ce- 
 lestina undertook to procure. Eleven o'clock 
 the next night was fixed 1 for the escape. Pedro 
 was to provide horses outside the gates, and was 
 to meet Celestina at that hour, assist her in her 
 descent, and fly with her to Portugal. Never 
 was there a better-planned elopement. 
 
 Don Pedro employed all the next day in mak- 
 ing preparations for his departure. Celestina 
 arranged and rearranged her jewel-box twenty 
 times over, and was particularly careful not to 
 forget a beautiful emerald which her lover had 
 presented to her. Celestina and her casket were 
 quite ready by eight o'clock, and it was not 
 quite ten when Pedro, who had sent his carriage 
 forward, approached the rendezvous. 
 
 As he drew near, he heard a voice calling 
 
260 ^ CELESTINA. 
 
 for help, and perceived t\vo men attcked by live 
 
 bruvos, who, armed with swords and bludgeons, 
 
 I on the point of overpowering them. 
 
 uural bravery would not allow him to 
 
 j'urty undefended : he drew 
 
 and rushed to their assistance ; he 
 
 quickly wounded two of the assailants, and the 
 
 others took to flight. What was his surprise in 
 
 reco_ men he had pivserved no 
 
 others than Dun Al<n/<> and h:s son 1 Ienri<iuex ! 
 
 The young cavaliers of the town who wi-iv 
 
 enamored of Celcslina, and were aware that 
 
 she was about to be married to llrnricmc/, had 
 
 been base enough to hire assassins 1< 
 
 :, but for the bravery of Don Pedro, 
 would have succeeded in th :i. Pedro 
 
 did I 
 
 acknowledgments, but llfuriijut-/., who prided 
 -elf on having acquired politeness at 
 
 him home and ! 
 
 ing him there all night. Pedro was in despair, 
 for the clock had already struck eleven. Alas ! 
 he did not even guess the extent of his misfor- 
 tune 
 
 One of the bravos who ran from the fray, 
 passed muffled up in his cloak beneath Celes- 
 tina's window. It was a dark night ; and the 
 anxious girl, who had opened the grating, per- 
 ceived him, and mistaking him for Pedro, called 
 
 ._ I 
 
 
CELESTINA. 261 
 
 gently to him, and full of joy and impatience 
 handed him the casket. " Take these diamonds, 
 Don Pedro," she said, " and Hold them for me 
 while I descend." The bravo, hearing these 
 words, eagerly snatched the casket, and made 
 off without speaking a word ; and while Celes- 
 tina was getting out, he had already fled to a 
 distance. What was the terror and surprise of 
 poor Celestina when she found herself alone in 
 the street, and could nowhere perceive him 
 whom she had mistaken for Don Pedro ! Her 
 first idea was that he had gone forward for fear 
 of exciting suspicion by standing beneath tlu> 
 window, and she followed the way she supposed 
 him to be gone, calling him softly as she hast- 
 ened along. No answer was returned, and she 
 was seized with terror. What should she do ? 
 Should she return to her uncle's house, or should 
 she leave the city and endeavor to find the ser- 
 vants who were waiting for Don Pedro ? She 
 balanced these doubts in her mind, but could 
 not determine. Still she walked onward : she 
 soon became bewildered, and knew not where 
 she was. Presently she met a man, and in- 
 quired of him if she was near the city gate. 
 He pointed out the way to her. This gave her 
 courage : she hastened onwards, and soon was 
 beyond the walls of Granada, but she could not 
 discover any one in waiting. She had no thought 
 
CEI.EST; 
 
 
 of blaming or misdoubting her lover : she hoped 
 bringing her nearer to him ; 
 ami ;ed llic highway, trembling at each 
 
 bush, and calling on Don Pedro at every step. 
 But the farther sin- went, the farther was she 
 iVuin tin: right track. She had left the city by 
 the gate directly o, the road to For- 
 
 tugal. 
 
 'ould not dis' 
 
 nini r'ume/. and his father. They 
 
 would not quit him, and ahsolu: i him 
 
 to enter the house with them ; and Pedro, hoping 
 that Celesiina wuuld hear of his arrival, reluc- 
 tantly complied. Alonzo went directly to his 
 niece's room, to tell her of the danger from 
 winch her intended husband had so fortunately 
 escaped. He called, but received no answer : 
 he entered, and was horrified when he beheld 
 the open window. His cries soon brought the 
 servants, and the alarm was given all over the 
 house. Pedro, in despair, declared he would 
 run to seek her ; and Henriquez, thanking him 
 for his friendly sympathy, prepared to accom- 
 pany him. But Pedro avoided this by proposing 
 that they should take different roads ; and not 
 doubting that Celestina had taken the road to 
 Portugal, he offered to seek her in that direction, 
 and proposed that Henriquez should pursue the 
 opposite path. 
 
CELESTINA. 263 
 
 
 
 The unhappy Celestina was on the road to 
 the Alpuxaras, when she thought she heard the 
 sound of horses' feet. Her first thought was 
 that Don Pedro was seeking her, but her second 
 was the fear of travellers or brigands ; and, 
 trembling with terror, she crept behind a bush 
 by the road-side, from whence she beheld Hen- 
 riquez and several attendants pass by. Dread 
 ing to fall once more into the power of Alonzo, 
 she turned from the high road, and plunged into 
 the surrounding wood. The Alpuxaras are a 
 chain of mountains extending from Granada to 
 the sea ; they are inhabited only by shepherds 
 and laborers. An arid and stony soil, a few 
 chestnut-trees scattered here and there, torrents, 
 and roaring waterfalls, and a few goats wander- 
 ing among the summits of the mountains, were 
 the objects beheld by Celestina in the first light 
 of the morning. Worn out with grief and fa- 
 tigue, and her feet wounded by the rough stones, 
 she seated herself on a rock, beside which 
 trickled a little rill. The silence of the place, 
 the wild country around her, the sound of 
 many waterfalls subdued by distance, and the 
 murmur of the rill falling into the basin it had 
 worn, all united to remind poor Celestina of her 
 unhappy fate abandoned in a desert by all 
 the world. Her tears fell fast as she reflected 
 on her situation, but she thought more of Don 
 
j<; i 
 
 >. " It was not to him," thought she, " that 
 
 ,.. the iliumon : was it tlwt I could 
 
 Ah ! why did not my heart warn 
 
 I know he is seeking 
 
 in me, and 1 shall 
 
 r auay from him ! " 
 
 .mournful thou. suddenly inter- 
 
 rupted by the sound of a flute, and presently 
 
 iieard a sweet hut uncult/ 
 a rustic air, in which the fleeting pK 
 lovo are deplored, and the inon>;an>-y of a 
 lover was complained of. Celestina rose to dis- 
 cover the musician, and at no great dis 
 discovered a young goatherd, sitting beneath a 
 willow, watching with tearful eyes the v 
 that flowed at his feet : he held a flute in his 
 hand, and by his side lay a stick and a small 
 bundle wrapped up in a goat-skin. 
 
 " You seem to be abandoned and cast off, " 
 said Celestina to the strong ' pity on 
 
 one who, like yourself, is so also. Direct me, I 
 beg of you, to some house or village among 
 these mountains, where I may find, not repose, 
 that, alas ! is impossible, but food." 
 
 " Alas, madam ! " replied the goatherd, " I 
 would with pleasure conduct you myself to 
 Gadara, which lies behind these rocks ; but you 
 would not desire me to return, if you knew that 
 my mistress is to be married this day to my ri- 
 
CELEST1NA. 
 
 265 
 
 val. I am about to leave these mountains, never 
 more to return ; and I carry nothing with me 
 but my flute, a suit of clothes in this bundle, 
 and the remembrance of my lost happiness." 
 
 These words inspired Celestina with a new 
 design. " My friend," said she, "you have no 
 money, and you will need it. I have a, few 
 pieces of gold, which I will divide with you, if 
 you will give me the dress in your bundle." 
 The goatherd accepted her offer. Celestina 
 gave him twelve ducats, and, after receiving 
 direction^ as to the road to Gadara, took leave 
 of the goatherd, and, retiring among the rocks, 
 put on the dress she had purchased. 
 
 Thus equipped, she took the road to the vil- 
 lage, and, entering the market-place, inquired 
 of the peasants she found assembled there, if 
 none of them wanted a farm-servant. They 
 gathered round her, and looked at her with sur- 
 prise : the young girls especially admired her 
 beautiful fair hair, which flowed over her should- 
 ers ; her mild, sparkling eyes, modestly cast 
 down ; and her light, slender figure. Nobody 
 could imagine where this beautiful young man 
 could have come from. One supposed it was a 
 great lord in disguise ; another, that it was a 
 prince who had fallen in love with a shepherd- 
 ess ; and the magistrate assured them that it 
 23 
 
CELESTINA. 
 
 Apollo, who had returned a second time lo 
 take care of their sheep. 
 
 Celestina, who had taken the name of Mar- 
 celio, was not long in finding a master ; no 
 other than the old alcade of the village, who 
 regarded as the most worthy man in all the 
 country. This good farmer (for the alcades of 
 the villages are not of higher rank) soon con- 
 :;dship for Marcelio. Before 
 a month 1 took him from the care 
 
 of his flock, and put all his huusehold under his 
 charge ; and acquitted himself with 
 
 such mildness and fidelity as to be beloved by 
 both master and servants. At the end of six 
 months, the alcade, wh<> .- than eighty 
 
 years old, left care of his property to 
 
 Marcelio ; he even consulted him on the causes 
 which came before him for his decision, and he 
 had never made such just cl< since ho 
 
 had been directed by Marcelio. Marcelio was 
 the pattern and the delight of the village ; his 
 mildness, his grace, his wisdom, gained all 
 hearts. *' Behold," said the mothers to their 
 sons, " behold this handsome Marcelio : he 
 is always with his master : he is unceasingly 
 occupied in making his old age happy, and 
 does not, like you, leave his work to run after 
 the village girls." 
 
I 
 
 CELESTINA. 267 
 
 Thus two years passed away. Celestina, 
 whose thoughts were always occupied with Don 
 Pedro, had secretly sent a shepherd, on whom 
 she could rely, to make inquiries at Granada 
 concerning her lover, Alonzo, and Henriquez. 
 The shepherd reported that Alonzo was dead, 
 that Henriquez was married, and that nothing 
 had been heard of Don Pedro for two years. 
 Celestina now lost all hope of ever seeing him 
 again, and endeavored to accustom herself to 
 her lot, and to find happiness in the peace and 
 friendship she enjoyed in the village. The old 
 alcade at length fell dangerously ill. Marcelio 
 paid him all the attention of the most affection- 
 ate son, and the old man behaved like a grate- 
 ful father, and at his death left all his property 
 to his faithful Marcelio. 
 
 All the villagers mourned their alcade, and, 
 after rendering him the funeral honors with 
 more tears than pomp, they assembled to elect 
 his successor. In Spain, certain villages pos- 
 sess the privilege of electing their alcades, 
 that is to say, the magistrate who judges all 
 suits, takes cognizance of all crimes, causes the 
 guilty to be taken into custody, examines them, 
 and delivers them over to the superior jurisdic- 
 tion, which generally confirms the sentence 
 passed by the alcade, 
 
 The assembled villagers unanimously elected 
 
JOS CI:LESTINA. 
 
 him whom the old alcado had designed for his 
 successor. The old men, followed by all the 
 youngsters of the village, went in formal pro- 
 cession to carry the ensign of his dignity, a 
 white wand, to Marcelio. Celestina accepted 
 
 with this testi- 
 mony of the aflection of these honest people, 
 she resolved to c- hrr lite, formerly 
 
 destined for love, to their happiness. 
 
 Leaving the new ale. with the cares 
 
 of oiV return to the unfjrtnnatr Pedro, 
 
 left galloping on the road to Portugal, 
 
 and at each step increasin nice from 
 
 his bclovi 
 
 reached Lisbon without obtaining any in- 
 telligence of Celestina. 11- retraced his steps, 
 and made every possib!< i, and returned 
 
 again to Lisbon with no better fortune. After 
 six months of fruitless inquiry, he felt satisfied 
 that Celestina had not returned to Granada, and 
 he resolved to go to Seville, where he knew she 
 had relations. He found, on his arrival, that 
 they had just sailed in the Mexican fleet ; and, 
 doubting not that there he should recover his 
 long-lost mistress in Mexico, he hastened on 
 board the last vessel in the fleet, which was on 
 the point of sailing. He arrived safely, discov- 
 ered the relations of Celestina, but they knew 
 nothing concerning her. He returned to Spain : 
 
CELESTINA. 269 
 
 the vessel encountered a storm, and was wrecked 
 on the coast of Granada. Don Pedro and some 
 others of the passengers escaped, and, proceed- 
 ing into the mountains in search of shelter, 
 were led by chance or Cupid to Gadara. 
 
 Don Pedro and his companions went into the 
 first inn they came to ; and they were congrat- 
 ulating each other on their escape, when a dis- 
 pute arose between one of the passengers and 
 a soldier, concerning a casket which the soldier 
 had saved and the passenger claimed as his 
 property. Don Pedro, who endeavored to 
 settle the quarrel, proposed that the passenger, 
 in order to prove his claim, should state what 
 the box contained ; which was done, and the 
 box opened to ascertain if what was said were 
 true : but what was the surprise of Don Pedro 
 when he recognized Celestina's jewels, and 
 among them the emerald he had given her ! 
 
 " How did you come by these jewels ? " he 
 demanded of the passenger, in a voice of fury. 
 
 " What is that to you ? " replied the pre- 
 tended owner, " it is enough that they belong 
 to me ; " and so saying, he attempted to 
 snatch them from Don Pedro, who repulsed 
 him, and both drawing their swords, they fought, 
 and after a few passes the passenger fell 
 wounded. Don Pedro was seized and hurried 
 to prison, and the master of the inn sent his 
 23* 
 
'-'70 CELESTINA. 
 
 to fetch the cure to attend the dying man, 
 
 while lie himself ran with the casl*et to the al- 
 
 cade, and informed him of what had happened. 
 
 What was the surprise, the joy, the terror of 
 
 Celestina, on recognizing her diamonds, and 
 
 challenged by the 
 
 gentleman who was in custody ! She went at 
 once to the inn where the cure had already ar- 
 : ; and i: d man, who hrlir\rd 
 
 elf dying, affected by h. : ions, ac- 
 
 knowledged to the alcade that, two years before, 
 as he was passing at night through a strc< 
 Granada, . at a window gave him the 
 
 casket, telling him to hold it while she came 
 
 :th the jewels, and 
 
 he begged pardon of God for the robbery. Ce- 
 lestina hastened to the prison : how her heart 
 beat as she went ! She quickened her steps : 
 .tiling proved that it was Don Pedro whom 
 she was about to behold, \>ui she feared being 
 recognized by him. She pulled her hat down 
 over her eyes, muffled herself in her cloak, 
 and, preceded by a turnkey who carried a 
 light, she entered the dungeon. 
 
 She was scarcely at the foot of the stairs 
 when she recognized Don Pedro. Joy almost 
 took away her senses. She leaned against the 
 wall ; her head declined on her shoulder, and 
 the tears flowed down her cheeks. By a great 
 
CELESTINA. 271 
 
 effort she repressed her emotion, and forcing 
 herself to speak boldly, she approached the 
 prisoner. " Stranger," said she, in a feigned 
 voice, and often pausing to take breath, " you 
 have wounded your companion, it is feared to 
 death. What have you to say to excuse such 
 an action ? " After speaking these words she 
 could no longer support herself, but, sitting 
 down on a stone, covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 " Alcade," replied Don Pedro, " I have com- 
 mitted no crime ; it was but an act of justice ; 
 but I desire death, for death alone can end the 
 misfortunes of which that wretch was the first 
 cause." He said no more, but the name of 
 Celestina was heard upon his lips. 
 
 Celestina trembled when she heard him pro- 
 nounce her name : she was no longer mistress 
 of her transport; she rose, and was on the 
 point of throwing herself into the arms of her 
 lover, when the presence of the gaoler re- 
 strained her. She turned away her eyes, and, 
 stifling her sobs, desired to, be left alone with 
 the prisoner. She was obeyed. Suffering her 
 tears of joy to flow more freely, she now ap- 
 proached Don Pedro, and taking him by the 
 hand, she said, in a voice interrupted by her 
 sobs, " You still love her, who lives but for 
 you ? " 
 
272 CELI 
 
 At that voice, at those words, Pedro raised 
 his head, and scarcely dared to believe his 
 s : " Oh, heaven, is it you ? is it my Celes- 
 (ina, or an angel who takes her figure ? Ah, t 
 is thee ! " cried he, pressing her in his arms, 
 and bathing her with his tears : " it is my wife, 
 my friend all my misfortunes are ended." 
 
 And it was so. As the wounded man proved 
 likely to recover, Celestina had power to re- 
 store Don Pedro to liberty, and, assembling all 
 the villagers, she publicly declared her sex and 
 her s ami resigned her office; and 
 
 presenting Don Pedro to them as her intended 
 husband, requested the cure to complete her 
 happiness by uniting them. But now one of 
 the old villagers stepped forth. " Oh, stranger, 1 ' 
 said he, 1 you take from us our al- 
 
 cade ? his loss we cannot repair. Condescend 
 to remain with us ; be yourself our alcade, our 
 master, our friend. In a great city, the cow- 
 ardly and the wicked, who have the same rank, 
 will think themselves your equals; here, 
 each virtuous inhabitant will look upon you as 
 a father." 
 
 Pedro, whose wanderings had made him well 
 inclined to rest, and who loved the people by 
 whom his Celestina was so honored, consented. 
 Two days after, the lovers were married, and 
 never was a bridal feast celebrated more 
 
CELESTINA. 273 
 
 blithely. Pedro paid one more visit to cities, 
 and then bade adieu to them for ever. He vis- 
 ited Granada, and, after a tedious process, suc- 
 ceeded in recovering his wife's fortune from 
 Henriquez : he then retired to Gadara, where 
 he and Celestina lived long, well, and happily. 
 They were mourned for by those who looked 
 upon them with love and veneration, and their 
 memory is revered to this day. 
 
274 
 THE ARAB MAID. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 FaoM the dark and sunless caverns 
 \Vh n dwell; 
 
 By the palm-trees of the desert, 
 Springeth forth ;i i 
 
 S Jll the shadow of its birth-place 
 Ml upon t;. 
 
 Haunted with ancestral darkness, 
 From its central c 
 
 Aiiow the sunshine, 
 Dark it is and deep ; 
 
 iis at noontide 
 Do the planets sleep. 
 Round it lies the sculptured marble 
 
 Of some ancient town, 
 Lonii since, with its towers and temples, 
 To the dust gone down. 
 
 Yet it shareth with the present ; 
 
 For the winds that pass 
 Catch its freshness, and around it 
 
 Grows the pleasant grass. 
 
THE ARAB MAID. 275 
 
 Over it the fragrant tamarind 
 
 Sheds its early leaves ; 
 And the pelican's white bosom 
 
 From it life receives. 
 
 Not alone to the far planets, 
 
 When the sun is bright, 
 Does it serve a clear, dark mirror, 
 
 For their haunting light : 
 But a dream of human beauty 
 
 Lingers on its tide ; 
 Never yet were stars so lovely 
 
 As the eyes beside. 
 
 4 
 
 Lovely is the Arab maiden, 
 
 Leaning thoughtful there ; 
 While the languid gale of evening 
 
 Lifts not her black hair. 
 Purple is her broidered caftan ; 
 
 And the golden band 
 Tells she is a chieftain's daughter 
 
 In that eastern land. 
 
 Scarcely has she left her childhood, 
 
 Yet a deeper trace 
 Than our first and careless summers 
 
 Is upon her face. 
 On that youthful cheek is paleness ; 
 
 For the heart's repose 
 
276 THE ARAB MAID. 
 
 Is disturbed by dreams and fancies 
 That deny the rose. 
 
 Touched with tender melancholy 
 Is the youth of love. 
 
 Of its clouds abu 
 Doth her heart call up one image, 
 
 Unavowed how d 
 For acknov 'oo timid, 
 
 Yet too fond : 
 
 Will the stately dark-i-vr.! warrior 
 
 Bear her to his tent ? 
 
 ;ning of her lover, 
 
 What sad thoughts are blent ! 
 When they fling the veil, rose-colored, 
 
 O'er the parting bride ; 
 Not alone does it hide blushes 
 
 w V8" V V H 
 
277 
 
 FEMALE DEVOTEDNESS. 
 
 EVENTS, which are sometimes to be found in 
 the records of history, are not unfrequently as 
 strange, as dark, and as tragical, as the most 
 sombre fictions of romance. In the reign of 
 Francis I. there served in the armies a gentle- 
 man of the island of Corsica, named Sampietro 
 Bartelica ; he was more known and esteemed 
 for his valor than for his fortune, or the great- 
 ness of his family ; he always manifested an 
 attachment to France, and by his fidelity, dis- 
 played a striking contrast to the conduct of the 
 Genoese, who were masters of Corsica, and 
 who, without any apparent reason, were con- 
 stantly revolting against the power of France. 
 Sampietro was present at numerous sieges and 
 engagements, in which he had always greatly 
 distinguished himself. After the death of Fran- 
 cis I., in 1546, he returned to Corsica, where he 
 married Vannina, daughter and only heiress of 
 Francisco d'Ornano, whose family was one of 
 the most noble and most ancient of the isle. 
 His reputation alone procured him this impor- 
 tant alliance. His popularity among his country- 
 24 
 
FEMALE DEVOTEDNESS. 
 
 rendered him formidable to the Genoese, 
 who resolved on his destruction. Giovanni 
 
 I Spinola, the governor of the island, sent 
 an order for him to repair, with his father-in-law, 
 to the citadel of Bas'.ia, where there is every 
 reason to bel it uild have been put to 
 
 i, but for the powerful intercession of the 
 :, Henry II. Sampietro d a grate- 
 
 ful recollection of this service, and at tho same 
 time conceived a deadly hatred to the Genoese, 
 with ardent thirst for vengeance. War having 
 broke out in Italy, in 1551, he served in the 
 campaign, and his assistance was found to be 
 very valuable by Octavio Farnese, whom the 
 King of France had taken under his protection. 
 Sampietro then instigated the French Govern- 
 ment to attempt the subjugation of Corsica. In 
 this expedition he accompanied M.de Thermos, 
 subsequently a ; irshal, and was accom- 
 
 panied by some of the bravest of the islanders, 
 who were attracted by his renown, and were 
 discontented with the Genoese : the latter were 
 driven from the principal town. Sampietro was 
 recalled to France, and returned, in September, 
 1 .").">">, to Corsica, where he continued to carry 
 on the war. The peace of Chateau Cambreses, 
 in 1559, and the fatal death of Henry II., in- 
 duced him to take other measures. He resolved 
 
FEMALE DEVOTEUNESS. 279 
 
 to proceed to Constantinople, to demand assist- 
 ance there ; as the Genoese had confiscated all 
 his property, and had set a price upon his head, 
 he determined to drive them to extremities. 
 During his absence on this mission, he was in- 
 formed that Donna d'Ornana, his wife, whom 
 he had left at Marseilles, had resolved to pass 
 over to Genoa ; this intelligence nearly rendered 
 him desperate : he sent Antonio de San Fior- 
 enzo, one of his followers, to prevent her : she 
 had been persuaded, that she might obtain her 
 husband's pardon from the Republic, and her 
 anxiety on this subject induced her to take this 
 resolution. Sampietro, on his return, found his 
 wife at Aix ; lie accompanied her back to Mar- 
 seilles, and coldly informed her that she must 
 prepare to die. Vannina obeyed with calmness, 
 and asked but one favor of her husband, that 
 as no man but himself had ever laid hands on 
 her, that she might have the same privilege at 
 that moment, and might die by his hands ! It 
 is said that Sampietro dropped on his knees, 
 called her his love, asked her forgiveness, and 
 then strangled her with a napkin. So atrocious 
 an action greatly tarnished the reputation of 
 Sampietro, who returned to Corsica in 1564, 
 effected an insurrection throughout the whole 
 island, although he had but five and twenty men 
 
230 fKMALE DEVOTEDNKSS. 
 
 with him when he first arrived : he was suc- 
 cessful in several actions, and took many cities 
 and fortresses from the Genoese, who instigated 
 Vitelli, one of his captains, to assassinate him, 
 in the month of January, 1567. 
 
'JPON THY TRUTH RELYING. 
 
 BY T. H. BAYLY. 
 
 THEY say we are too young to love 
 
 Too wild to be united ; 
 In scorn they bid us both renounce 
 
 The fond vows we have plighted. 
 They send ihee forth to see the world, 
 
 Thy love by absence trying ; 
 Then go ; for I can smile farewell 
 
 Upon thy truth relying. 
 
 I know that pleasure's hand will throw 
 
 Her silken nets about 1hee ; 
 [ know how lonesome I shall find 
 
 The long, long days without thee. 
 But in thy letters there'll be joy ; 
 
 The reading the replying : 
 ''II kiss each word that's traced by thee- 
 
 Upon thy truth relying. 
 
 When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by, 
 
 In silent rapture gazing ; 
 And, oh ! how proud of being loved 
 
 By her they have been praising ! 
 24* 
 
28*2 UPON THY TRUTH RELYING. 
 
 But should detraction breathe thy name, 
 
 The world's reproof defying, 
 Til love thce Uiud tliee trust theo still 
 
 Upon thy truth relying. 
 
 KYn those who smile to see us part 
 
 Shall sec us meet with wonder ; 
 Such trials only make the heart 
 
 That truly loves grow fonder. 
 Our sorrows past shall be our pride, 
 
 \Vli*n with each other vying, 
 Thou wilt confide in him, who lives 
 
 Upon thy truth relying. 
 
283 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 ** "I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense si_blime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling was the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 
 And the blue SKV, and in tne mind of man." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE day was closing in, and as I sat watching 
 the scarcely moving foliage of a neighboring 
 elm, my mind gradually sank into a state of 
 luxurious repose, amounting to total uncon- 
 sciousness of all the busy sights and sounds of 
 earth. 
 
 It seemed to me as if I were seated by a 
 calm, deep lake, surrounded by graceful and 
 breezy shrubbery, and listening to most delicious 
 music. The landscape differed from anything 
 I had ever seen. Light seemed to be in every- 
 thing, and to emanate from everything, like a 
 glory. Yet I felt at home ; and could I see a 
 painting of it, I should know it as readily as the 
 scenes of my childhood. And so it is with a 
 multitude of thoughts that come suddenly into 
 the soul, new as visitants from farthest Saturn, 
 
284 THOUGHTS. 
 
 yet familiar as a mother's voice. Whence do 
 they come ? Is Plato's suggestion something 
 more than poe;r\ . ; I I;ivc we indeed formerly 
 lived in a luminous and shadowless world, where 
 all things wear light as a garment ? And are 
 our bright and beautiful thoughts but casual 
 glimpses of that former state ? Are all our 
 hopes and aspirations nothing but recollections? 
 Is it to th< :s of memory's broken mirror 
 
 we owe the thousand fantastic forms of grand- 
 eur, or of loveliness, which fancy calls her 
 
 own 
 
 And the gifted ones, who now and then blaze 
 upon the world, and " darken nations when 
 they die," do they differ from other mortals 
 only in more cloudless reminiscences of their 
 heavenly home ? 
 
 Or are we living separate existences, at one 
 and the same time ? Are not our souls wan- 
 dering in the spirit-land while our bodies are on 
 earth ? And when in slumber, or deep qui- 
 etude of thought, we cast off " this mortal coil," 
 do we not gather up imagies of reality, that 
 seem to us like poetry ? Might not the restless 
 spirit of Byron have indeed learned of " arch- 
 angels ruined " those potent words, which, like 
 infernal magic, arouse every sleeping demon 
 in the human heart ? 
 
 Are dreams merely visits to our spirit-home ; 
 
THOUGHTS. 285 
 
 and are we in sleep really talking with the souls 
 of those whose voices we seem to hear ? 
 
 As death approaches and earth recedes, do 
 we not more clearly see that spiritual world, in 
 which we have all along been living, though we 
 knew it not ? The dying man tells us of at- 
 tendant angels hovering round him. Perchance 
 it is no vision they may have often been with 
 him, but his inward eye was dim, and he saw 
 them not. What Is that mysterious expression, 
 so holy and so strange, so beautiful yet so fear- 
 ful, on the countenance of one whose soul has 
 just departed ? Is it the glorious light of at- 
 tendant seraphs, the luminous shadow of which 
 rests awhile on the countenance of the dead ? 
 Does infancy owe to this angel crowd its pe- 
 culiar power to purify and bless ? 
 
286 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 BY SOUTHEY. 
 
 MAN hath a weary pilgrimage 
 
 As through the world he wends ; 
 On every stage from youth to age 
 
 Still discontent att- 
 With heaviness he casts his eye 
 
 Upon the road before, 
 And still remembers with a sigh 
 
 The days that are no more. 
 
 To school a little exile goes, 
 
 Torn from his mother's arms, 
 What then shall soothe his earliest woes, 
 
 When novelty hnth lost its charms ? 
 Condemned to suffer through the day 
 Restraints which no rewards repay, 
 
 And cares where love has no concern, 
 Hope lengthens as she counts the hours, 
 
 Before his wished return. 
 From hard control and tyrant rules, 
 The unfeeling discipline of schools, 
 
 In thought he loves to roam : 
 And tears will struggle in his eye 
 
KEMEMBRANCE. 287 
 
 While he remembers with a sigh 
 The comforts of his home. 
 
 Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life 
 
 Torment the restless mind ; 
 Where shall the tired and harassed heart 
 
 Its consolation find ? 
 Then is not youth, as fancy tells, 
 
 Life's summer prime of joy ? 
 Ah no ! for hopes too long delayed, 
 And feelings blasted or betrayed, 
 
 The fabled bliss destroy ; 
 And youth remembers with a sigh 
 The careless days of infancy. 
 
 Maturer manhood now arrives, 
 
 And other thoughts come on ; 
 But with the baseless hooes of Youth 
 
 Its generous warmth is gone ; 
 Cold calculating cares succeed, 
 The timid thought, the wary deed, 
 
 The dull realities of truth ; 
 Back on the past he turns his eye, 
 Remembering with an envious sigh 
 
 The happy dreams of youth. 
 
 So reaches he the latter stage 
 Of this our mortal pilgrimage, 
 
289 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 With feeble step and slow ; 
 New ills that latter stage await, 
 And old experience learns too late 
 
 That all is vanity below. 
 Life's vain delusions are gone by, 
 
 Its idle hopes are o'er, 
 Yet age remembers with a sigh 
 
 The days that are no more. 
 
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