Mnpw(«www»*... ,*r^.r."zyii)^r. :-NRLF ;-»*«**.-«'i^--«4Fj?'<»*-r?^vv'''**^'''-^!nww''''- If^^ ^■' .iy .' "^•^■^^'■'^ ._^.y(|R^«^/'/.*\,^ ■ - X? V .^'- / •// <7f/ / /'■ ■ >^/ --^Mi % ^ ^m^^ i. \\\ ., ■- ...^w I'i//.,'^' *. ^: y^^^^^^ i^Ai^^^-^^^€^:::^ f^J^ ■■■:■: c < c t < < < c t t «-f c c c ( < etc .<' t C ( ( t rvmr^ '.-.fpfj 4€/ /^ie^. C^CffTl^ yO, t li - ... aw r ?i.: 'it >;" vr THE SNOW FLAKE: 1^ OJElIlIST]VrA-S, N^EW^ YI1IAJR5 AND smsSIfflA^ ®M% NEW YOEK: LEAVITT Ali B ALLEN, 879 BKOADWAY. I ^ m i <^ IS^SU^flAflOI^. AFFECTION'S TEAR - PRESEIiTATION PLATE - MUSIC ... - THE YOUNG MOTHER - LAKE GEORGE - BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR PAOB FRONTISPIECE BEFORE TITLE 30 72 136 187 M TABLE OF CONTENTS. f\aa THE MAGNOLIA S IMPROMPTU , 10 BOYS ON THE ICE 11 THE DEATH OF SOTO. By the Author OP "The Brothers"... 14 THE CONQUEROR — a Dream 24 TO AN OSTRICH FEATHER 28 MUSIC 30 ODE TO JAMESTOWN. Bt J. K. Paulding, Esa 31 LOGOOCHIE. By the Author op '• Guy Rivers," Atalantis," and " The Yem asseb" 36 SONG 71 THE YOUNG MOTHER. By Grenville Mellen, Esu. 72 MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL. By the .Author of "A Year in Spain" 77 THE RESCUE 35 THE PRAYER OF THE LYRE. Bythb Author of -'Atalantis," '■ The Ye.m assee." &c 93 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. By the Author of "Allen Prescot". i05 STANZ.VS 135 LAKE GEORGE. By E, F. E 136 DEATH OF GALEAZZO SFORZA 138 AMY CR ANSTOUN. By the Author c p " Redwood," and " Hope Leslie" 146 r rONTENTS. PAcn A S£A J'ICTURE By OnENVtLLE Mellen, Esq ... ... 1T7 TIIP; HARMONY OF NATURE 154 Tilt; IJltlDE or I.AMMKKMOOR 187 DiCK MOON, liv \\m. L. Sihnb, Esii fSS GREEN'S POM) 214 PRE?!ENTI,M[-,NT By A I) Paterson, Estt 217 KAATSKII.1 249 WASHINGTON 251 ISOLATED AFFECTION -253 A LIVING POET 257 US N O ( . E N Z A 258 THE MAGNOLIA. Not in the autumn pale and cold^ When flowers of frailer beaut v fade,-»»=» When sombre hues the woods unfold, And violets oroop beneath their shade- Sweet flower ! thou bloom' st in lonely grac® But Avhen at radiant summer's call Her bright ones woo the wind's embrace, Thou shinest, the loveliest of them all. The wild rose rears its glowing head Beside thee, emulous, but in vain ; Soft leaves and buds their odors shed— But thou art sweetest of the train ! No rival 'neath the summer heaven, Majestic flower! thine empire shares j And thus the bard to thee hath given A deeper meaning far than theirs. THt; MAGNOLIA. This volume, too, amid the throng That shine with evanescent grace, In the gay garb of smiLe and song — Would, claim, like thee, the brightest place. Yet wouid not droop like thee away. When days of light grow dark and chill ; But, like the truth thy leaves display, ' Re" tTagraiU and unfading still I M P R O M P 1' U T O , IN RETUKN FOK A FLOWBB/ For the sweet flower thou giv'st me, So beautiful and rare, Thou has', fond maid, my friendly thought. Thou hast my fondest prayer. Thou giv'st me, with thy pleasant flower, Sweet words, that gently thrill ; [ pray, 'ti3 all that I c^ do. That thou may'st keep them still M BOYS ON THE ICE, Moi HER, where art thou now — fond mother, where? Busied perchance about the cottage hearth; — Or tendino;, with soft hand and woman care, The grandsire's pillow; — or with innocent mirth Carolling old sweet melodies of home; — Shaping the while — with love's unwearied skill That waits not, wanes not, though the truants roam, Some homespun garb, to fence frore winter's chill From those loved little ones — those sireless boys — In whom is fixed thine all, of fears — affections — joys! Mother, where art thou now — sad mother, where? — Noontide hath chimed on every village bell — A damper breath is on the evening air, Windingthrough woodlands hoar its mournful shell ; The short-lived sun hath neared the western hill-^ Yet hath no sound appeased thine anxious ear, Of frolic shout — or childish laughter shrill — Or prattling tongues, unfathomably dear! — No joyous yelping, by his playmates' side, Of him, at night their guird — their friend by day an 1 sfuide I 12 BOYS ON THE ICE Mother, where art thou now — dear mother, where? There is a voice beside the frozen shore — A voice, would bid thy \vidow-heart despair — A voice which heard — thou would'st hear riever more — Nor see, nor hope, nor pray ! — No — not for heaven ! — A cry for succor — "Succor, or we perish O'er the blind waters to destruction driven! — " Blest that thou see'st them not — that so dost cherish — The frail ice drifting to the ocean wide, J'heir frail, yet sole support, upon the wheeling tide! — Mother, where art thou — hapless mother, where? Thy babes are pleading to the earless deep For mercy! — mercy from the waves, that iie'or. Save once, heard voice of man, and sank to sleep! — And there is no helj)! — none! — and thoy must fall — So bright, so innocent, and oh so brief — And thou. — thou must survive thy last — thine all; Survive — in solitary hopeless grief — Better it were — oh better far — to share Their fate — thou so dost love — for whom thou so didst bear I Hope mother j'et — imconscious mother, hope I TTe, who bade hush the roar on (lalilee. And walked the waters, tTiat their crests did slope Tamo at his word and powerless — may noi \\z. BOV.S ON THE ICE 13 Or doth he lack the will again to save? — Pure vows are soaring to the throne of might — High hearts, strong hands, are battling with the wave — And the bark rushes, swifter than the flight Of Indian arrow, gurgling through the spray, That chides, but may not check, her fleet and fearless way. Bliss, mother, now — grateful mother, bliss! Thy babes are sheltered in thy wild embrace — Earth has no moment that may vie with this — The eye, devouring each familiar face, — The straining arms — the fierce and hurried kiss— The brief pure blessing — the reproachful zeal — The penitence for mother's care remiss — , The rapturous anguish none but mothers feel! Oh — who shall say that life has aught below Of tears unmixed with smiles, or joy undimmed by wol £ HE DEATH OF SOTO. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BROTHERS." But wind me in a banner bright — A banner of Castile — And let the war-drums round me roll, The trumpets o'er me peal ! — And bury me at noon of night, When gone is Ihe sultry gleam — At noon of night — by torches' light- In the Mississippi stream. Old Ballad. It \vas the evening of a sultry day, sultry almost beyond endurance, although the season had not advanced beyond the early spring-time; the sun, though shrouded from human eyes by a dense veil of moist and clammy vapor, was pouring down a flood of intolerable heat upon the pathless cane-brakes, the deep bayous, haunts of the voracious and unseemly alligator, and the forests, steaming with excess of vegetation, through which the endles^^ river rolled its dark current. On a steep bluflf^ projecting into the bosorn of the waters, at the confluence of some nameless tributary and the vast Mississippi, stood the dwelling of the first whitfe- man that ever trod those boundless solitudes. — It was a rude and shapeless THE DEATH OP SDTO. 15 edifice of logs, hewn from the cypresses and cedars of the swamp, which lay outstretched for a thousand miles around, by hands unused to aught of base or menial labor ; — yet were there certain marks of comfort, and even of luxury, to be traced in the decorations and appliances of that log-cabin ; a veil of sea-green silk was drawn across the ajjerture, which perforated the massy timbers of the wall ; a heavy drapery of crimson velvet, decked with a fringe and embroidery of gold, Avas looped up to the low lintels, as if to admit whatever breath of air might sweep along the channel of the river. Nor were these all — a lofty staff was pitched before the door, from which drooped, in gorgeous folds, the yellow banner, rich with the castled blazonry of Spain ; and beside it a tall warrior — sheathed from head to heel in burnished armor, with gilded spur, and belted brand — stalked to and fro, as though he were on duty upon some tented plain, in his own land ot chivalry and song. At a short distance in the rear might be observed a camp, if by that name might be designated a confused assemblage of huts, suited for the accommodation of five hundred men; horses were picqueted around ; spears, decked with pennon and pennoncel and all the bravery of knightly warfare, were planted beforo the dwellings of their owners ; sentinels in gleaming mail paced their accustomed rounds. But in that strange encampment, there was no mirth, no bustle — not even the low hum of con- verse, or the note of preparation. — The soldiers glided to and fro, with humbled gait and sad demesanor ; the 16 THE DEATH OF SOTO. very chargers drooped their proud heads to the ground, and appeared to lack sufficient animation to dash aside the swarms of venomous flies, that battened, as it seemed, upon their very life-blood ; the huge bbod- hounds, those dread auxiliaries of Spanish warfare, of which a score or two were visible among the cabins, lay slumbering in listless indolence, or drag- ged themselves along, after the heels of their masters, with slouching crests, and in attitudes widely different from the fierce activity of their usual motions. Pesti- lence and famine were around them — on the thick and breezeless air — on the dark waters — in the deep morass, and in the vaults of the pine forest, the seeds of death were floating — avengers of the luckless tribes, already scattered or enslaved by the iron arm of European war. Oh — how did they pine for the clear streams of Guadalquivir, or the viny banks of Xeres — for the breezy slopes of the Alpuxarras, or the snoAV-clad summits of their native Sierras — those fated followers of the demon gold- How did their recollections doat upon the waving palms, and orange-groves, the huertas and the meads of fair Granada ! In vain — in vain ! — ~*f all those gallant hundreds, who had leaped in confidence and hope from their proud brigantines upon the glowing shores of Florida, glittering in polished steel, and "very gallant with silk upon silk,"* who had travers- ed the wild country of the Appalachians, who bad seen the gleam of Spanish arms reflected from the ♦ Bancr^'t's History of the United Sta'es, vol. i. p. 4£ THE DEATH OF SOTO 17 b.ack Jtreanis of Alabama, who had made he bound- less prairies of Missouri ring with the unechoed notes of the Castilian trumpet, who had spread the terrors of the Spanish name, with all its barbarous accompaniments of havoc and slaughter, through wilds untrod before by feet of civilized man. — Of all those gallants hundreds, but a weak and wasted moiety was destined to reach the shores of their far fatherland; and that — not, as they had fondly deem- ed, in the pride, the exultation, and the wealth ot conquest, but in want, and weariness, and wo. The arrows of the savage, and the yet fiercer arrows of the plague, dearly repaid the injuries that they had wreaked already on the wretched natives — dearly repaid too, as it were by anticipation, the wrongs that their children, and their children's chil- dren, should wreak in long prospective on the forest- dwellers of the west. There, in that lonely hut — there lay the proudest spirit — the bravest heart — the mightiest intellect — the favorite comrade of Pizarro — the joint-conqueror of Peru ! — There lay Hernan de Soto — his fiery energies, even more than the hot fever, wearing away his mortal frame; his massive brow clogged w:th the black sweat of death ; his eye — that had flashed the more brilliantly the deadlier was the f eril — dim and filmy ; his high heart sick — sick and fearful, not for himself, but for his followers ; his hopes of conquest, fame, dominion, gone like the leaves of autumn! There he lay, miserably perishing by inches, the .: -.-;;^n- IKa^!^^ "Sx-i 13: 1H> mas^ aat' iwr : Tisacr ss*i» "ws: Ton: :hk- tsens js It idfe- iffiujasBsc jsals v. . . .. :. mser lis .>fc. cii-.. - Twa^. 2aail ite- ., ,^- tter ^'ik-a . ..-...'.^ t T43 TT*T"T -t-y ?«?T* ■» X -w^ W«tt Vf 1«^? * c^ TITir" liT.T? n--'— M'r HOtrr:. -— T VJil EI ^BUL "^rrr Tff^ Si TftF" TTIlTTr TeSlBt ITT TVT IW" «ibe?r :a»fSg arr jet -ss ' ' — f -iX I B^Jsae i:^' — TT-tfi ire flaerr masritc. i. -i::: — m THE DEATH OF SOTO. make proclamation!" A moment or two elapsed, and the wild flourish of the trumpets was heard with- out, and the sonorous voice of the heralds making proclamation — they ceased — but there was no shout of triumph or applause. " Ha, by St. Jago! ' — cried the dying chief — "Ha! by St. Jago — but this must not be — 'tis ominous and evil! — Go forth, thou, Vasco — and bid them sound again, and let my people shout for this their loyal leader." It was done, and a gleam of triumphant satisfaction shot across his hollow features. He spoke again, but it was with a feebler voice — " I am going" — he said — "I am going, whence there is no return! — : Now, mark me — by your plighted word 1 do command )'ou — battle no farther — strive with the fates no farther — for the fates are adverse! — -Conquer not thou this region — for I have conquered it — and it is mine! Mine, mine — though dying! — Mine it shall be though dead! — March to the coast as best ye may — build ye such vessels as may bear ye fi m the main, and save this remnant of my people! — Wilt thou do this — as thou hast pledged thyself to do it, noble Moscoso?" " By all my hopes, I will !" " Mr, then, me shall ye bury thus ! — Not with lamentations — not with womanish tears — not with vile so.Tow — but with the rejoicing anthom — with the blare of the trumpet, and the sforniy music of the drum! — Yo shall sheath nie in my mail — wit!i uiy 'n'liuit (III II V lii'ad and my -spur on niv Iwcl ' THE DEATH OP SOTO. 21 A^ith my sword in my hand shall ye bury me — and with a banner of Castile for my shroud ! — In the depths of the river — of my river — shall ye bury me ! with lighted torch and volleyed musketry at the mid hour of night ! For am I not a conqueror — a con- queror of a world — a conqueror with none to brave my arm, or to gainsay my bidding? Where — where is the man, savage or civilized — christian or heathen — Indian or Spaniard — who hath defied Hernan de Soto, and not perished from the earth ? — Death is upon me — d^ath from the Lord of earth and heaven ! — To him I do submit me — but to mor- tal never !" Even as he spoke, a warder entered the low door- way, and whispered a brief message to Moscoso. Slight as were the sounds, and dim as waxed the senses of De Soto, he marked the entrance of the soldier, and eagerly inquired the purport of the news! "A messenger" — was the reply — "an Indian runner — from the Natchez !" "Admit him — he bears submission — admit him, so shall I die with triumph in my heart!" The Indian entered — a man of stern features, and of well-nigh giant stature. — His head, shaven to the chivalrous scalp-lock, was decked with the plumes of the war-eagle, mingled with the feathers of a gayer hue — his throat was circled by a necklace, strung from the claws of the grizzly bear and cougar, fearfully mixed with tufts of human hair — his lineaments were covered with the black w^ar-paint — in one hand he bore the crimson war-pipe, and in the other 22 THE DEATIT OF SOTO. the well-known, emblem of Indian hostility, a bundle of shafts bound in the skin of the rattlesnake! — -With a noiseless step he crossed the chamber, he flung the deadly gift upon the death-bed of De Soto — he raised the red pipe to his lips — he puffed the smoke — and then, in wild accents of his native tongue, bore to the Spaniards the defiance of his tribe, concluding his speech with the oft heard and unforgotten cadences of the war-whoop ! — As the dying leader caught the raised tone of the Indian's words — his eye had lightened, and his brow contracted into a writhing frown ! He k^.ew the import of his speech, by the modulations of his voice — his lip quivered — his chest heaved — his hands clutched the thin coverlid, as though they were grap- pling to the lance or rapier. The wild notes of the war-whoop rang through his. ehrs — and in death — in death itself, the ruling passion was pi-evalont — - manifestly, terribly prevalent ! He sprang to his feet — his form dilating, and his features flashing with all the energy of life — "St. Jago" — he shouted — " for Spain ! — for Spain ! — Soto and victory !" — and with an impotent cflbrt to strike, he fell flat upon his face at the feet of the Indian, who had provoked his dying indigHiition ! — They raised him — but a flood of gore had gushed from eyes, mouth, ears — he had burst some one of the larger vesfels — and was already lifeless, iTe he struck the ground ! — The sun had even now sunki^low the horizon — and, ere the preparations for his fniunl Ii.id been THE DEATH OF SOTO. ^ completed, it was abeady midnight. Five hundred torches of the resinous pine tree flashed with their crimson reflections on the turbid water, as the barks glided over its surface, bearing the warrior to his last home. A train of cowled priests, with pix and crucifix and steaming censer, floated in the van, making the vaulted woods to echo the high notes of the Te Deum, chanted in lieu of the mournful Miserere over the mortal part of that ill-fated warrior. But as the canoe came onward in which the corpse was placed — seated erect, as he had ordered it, with the good sword in the dead hand, the polished helmet glancing above the sunken features, and the gay ban- ner of Castile floating like a mantle from the shoulders — the pealing notes of the trumpet, and the roll of the battle-drum, and the Spanish Avar-cry — " St. Jago for De Soto and for Spain" — and the crash of the volley- ing arquebuses might be heard, startling the wild beasts, and the wilder Indians, of the forest, for leagues around. There was a pause — a deep, deep pause — a sullen splash — and every torch was instantly extinguished. — " The discoverer of the Mississippi slept beneath its waters. He had crossed a large part of the conti- nent in search of gold, and found nothing so lemarka* ble as his burial place. " — * * Bancroft's History.— Portuguese Relafion, THE CONaUEROR. A DREAM. I saw a vision in my sleep, Tliat gave my spirit power to sweep Adown tlie gulf of time. Campbblu Methought I Stood near to the gates of Paradise. Above my head towered those amethystine ramparts, which had laughed to scorn, ages before the birth of time, the menaces of Lucifer and his rebellious crew. Before me,' within the opeh portals, was a flood o! glory — a sea of brilliant, everlasting, spirit-dazzling lustre, and amid the empyrean were angelic shapes, winged and beautiful, yet magnificent withal, and fearful. And I heard a voice, as of ten thousand silver trumpets, cry — " Place for the Conqueror!" — And there was a atir among the multitudes, that crowded the vast ar !a before the gates — for myriads of shadowy forms stood there, waiting the fiat of their destiny, — men — old, and in the prime of power, and in the golden flush of youth, — matrons, and maids, and infants, — some pale and conscience-stricken, cringmg like hounds beneath the lash, — others serenely joyous, calm in tha chastened ecst;isy of hope, that doubtcth not nor feareth. THij; CONaUEKOR. 2b * Aiiu a shape stood forvvard at the summons ; — « shape, proud, and majestic, and most rich in all those attributes, that bow men down before their fellow mortals. On his brow there was the likeness of an imperial crown, woven with leaves of the green bay tree — his eye, bold as the eagle's, seemed to gaze around in the vain hope to find a rival — his lip was wreathed with an exulting smile. But on the brow, beneath the crown, were furrows — deep blight- ed furrows, dug by the burning ploughshare of the passions ; and on the green leaflets vv^ere broad gouts of blood ; and in the eagle eye there was a glance of restlessness and of distrust, of aspirations never to be realized, of ambition unquenched, unquenchable ; and on the smiling lip, there was a curl of melancholy scorn, and at times a quiver, as of inward agony. And he answered, with tones deep as the lion's roar when the deserts are hushed in terror — " Lo, I am here!" — And the voice cried again, from within the gates — "Truly thou art a conqueror — thou man ol blood, thou reaper of the harvest of death, thou scourge of thine ill-fated race, — truly thou art a conqueror, and for thee is there a place made ready — but not here!' And the shape vanished, but I saw not how, noi whither — and there was silence. And again the voice cried — " Place for the Conqueror!" — And a shape stood forward at the summons; — but most unlike the former. — The countenance, though high and noble, was emaciate, and pale, and mourn- ful; and the locks, although unmixed with gray, 3 « THE CONQUEROR. weve thin and scattered ; and the frame wes I ent, and the limbs feeble. Yet on those mournful features there played a smile of more than earthly sweetness ; and in the eye, the full dark eye, was a wild glance, now melting into the liquid depths of tenderness, now- flashing with ineffable fire — and the gaze of that dark eye was upward — still upward! — For the laurel crown btneath his feet was withered, and the sweet strings of the lyre in his hand were "jangled, out ol tune, and harsh," and the jeer and the scoff" and the envy of the cold world were in his ears, and in his soul I — And with a high yet melancholy smile, as though he knew of his own worth, yet doubted its reception, he said likewise — "Lo, I am here!" — And again the voice Avas heard, crying — " Truly, thou also art a conqueror ! — The conqueror of time and place — the ruler of the young fresh heart — the soother of want and weariness and wo — the lord of language and of love — the conqueror of the soul, even as he was conqueror of the body ! Truly, thou, art a conqueror, and for thee also there is a place made ready — a place here — among, though not itself, the highest!" — And the shape vanished, but I saw not how, or whither — and there was silence. And again the voice cried — " Place for the Conqueror !" — And a shape stood forward at the summons; — a shape, not beautiful with the beauty of men, nor gorgeous with the trappings of rank, nor rich with the endowments of genius. — But over the homely form, and over the humble features, there was a glow THE CONQUEROR. « of pure and pious radiance — anc beneath the feet of the shape lay wealth immeasurable — crowns of dig- nity, and scrolls of fame — rejected, though not disdained — and the homage of men, anc the love ot women — doubted, but not despised! — and around him, there we^'e slaves with tlieir fetters broken, now slaves no longer, with uplifted arms, and voices — and widows calling on him to behold the orphans he had rescued — and men won from the vainness, and the wilfulness of their own imaginations — and nations blessing the benefactor of the poor, the enemy of the oppressor, and the friend of the most High ! And the humble shape stood forward — confident, as it seemed, and fearless — and the lips moved — perchance in prayer, for no words went forth, nor any answer to the summons. And again, from within the portals, the voice cried — "Truly thou art the conqueror — thcu holy one! The conqueror of fear and fa.sehood — of sin and despair I — The conqueror of the passions — ol the world — and of thyself! Stand forth! — Stand forth, thou conqueror ! — For thee is the place made ready — highest and nearest to mine own — enter, thou conqueror." And amidst the greetings of the angelic hosts, sweeping from immeasurable distann., a cataract oi living harmony — and amid the mingled melody ol harps and halleluiahs, that shape passed through the everlasting portals. — And as he passed, I woke, and lo, it was a dream ! H. TO AN OSTRICH FEaTHER, IN A LADY'S HEAD-DRESS.* Frailest and fairest of the things of earth, — ?Tloved by each breezy wing that fans the depth Of the blue vault — yea! sullied by a touch, That had not soiled the pure and virgin snow — What or whence art thou — so to be advanced Pre-eminently — so to kiss the cheek, Bask in the smile, and revel on the lip. Of one, to whose least pleasure kings might bow, Casting their coronals, and palmiest state. Before her feet, mosf happy so to win One favoring glance of those immortal eyes. Fraught with the hue, the I'ght, tlie love of heaven ?- Child of the lone and solitary wastes Of red Sahara, by the desert ship Cast as a triJjute to the hot simoom, That fills her surgy vans, what time elate She lifts herself on high, and scorns the might Of steed and rider! — The one living thing, That loveth not her young, nor folds thorn close Beneath her Aving, nor guards them with her life! - ♦ See Frontispiece- The White Plume. T,0 AN OSTRICH FEATHER. 2:) The giant bird — to which God gave nor sense, Nor natural instinct, to preserve her race ! — Oh ! hadst thou speech — what scenes 'twere thinfl to tell, Of steeds Arabian, and of scorching sands Watered with innocent gore, when thou perchance Didst deck the swarthy robber's turbaned brow, Waving from far, the signal of despair. To the worn pilgrim, fainting in the sun ! — And thence of argosy, or caravel. And ocean marvels, which thou didst survey — Beyond the straits Herculean, and the isles Once titled of the blest — stemming the surge Of mightier seas than lave thy parent shore ; — Where erst broad Atalantis, with her crown Of palmy forests, and savannahs green, And mountains bathing their snow-circled heads In the mid azure, courted the rent sail Of storm-tossed mariner — submerged now, And lost in gulphing waves, that thence did win Its name Atlantic for the western main ! Thrice happy thou, to fall on latter days. And shores Columbian — thou that mightst hura shone, In the dark centuries of the middle time, A thing of slaughter, on the steely crest Of Prince or Paladin — a standard-plume, A nd rallying point, above the dust and din, The hellish uproar and the trumpet's yell ! 3* •80 MUSIC. More glorious now, and happier far, to float [n the rich atmosphere of beauty's breath — A. thing of love — a cynosure of hearts — A fleecy cloud, veiling, but shadowing not, A starry constellation of twin eyes, Brightest and best ol all the lights m heaveti f MUSIC. Tender, and soft, and slow, The solemn numbers flow, Like the low cadence of the tranquil sea ; My spirit feels her own Each simple moving tone, More dear than aught of strange sublimity f Oh ! if, in yonder sky. The breast's glad melody Finds utterance in music such as ours, May not the once loved strain There breathe, at times, again. Bringing sweet memories )fvar>sh'd hours? — SiGNORINA. e « c c, c ,. c e ''c • ' c e € C C r t c C C C C • « < « » c c c c o c t ODE TO JA.MESTOWN. By J. K. PAULDING. Old cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling awhile, 'ere she unfurl' d. Her gallant wing and soar'd away. All hail ! thou birthplace of the glowing west,- Thou seem' St the towering eagle's ruin'd nest ! What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As wand' ring these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound The wonders of an age combin'd In one short moment memory supplies, They throng upon my waken' d mind, As time's dark curtains rise. The volume of a hundred buried years, Cc^dens'd in one bright sheet, appears. 82 ODE TO JAMESTOWN. 1 hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little barque Scudding along the crested wave, Freighted like old Noah's ark, As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd, With the forefathers of another world. I see u. train of exiles stand. Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The darmg pioneers of fate, Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth, And gave a boundless empire birth. I see the gloomy Indian range His woodland empire, free as air ; I see the gloomy forest change. The shadowy earth laid bare, And, where the red man chas'd the bounding d<^r, The smiling labours of the white appear. I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, As the pale faces sweat to raise Their scanty fields of corn. While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hairbrain'd rapine, wins his food. A moment, and the pageant's gone ; The red men are no more ; The pale fac'd strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore ; And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain' d, Finds but a bloody grave, where once he reign'd. ODE to JAMESTOWN. 33 The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy \yoodman's axe; Th3 earth receives the white man's yoke. And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields. Then growing hamlets rear their heads. And gathermg crowds expand. Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land. Till what was once a world of savage strife, Teems with the richest gifts of social life. Empire to empire swift succeeds. Each happy, great, and free ; One empire still another breeds, A giant progeny. To war upon the pigmy gods of earth. The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth. Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place, And find it, these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found. Their names have been forgotten long : The stone, but not a word, remains ; They cannot live in deathless song, Nor breathe in pious strains. Yet this sublime obscurity, to me More touching is. than poet's rhapsody. M O D E TO J A M R S T O W N . They live in millions that now breathe; They live in millions yet unborn, And pious gratitude shall wreathe As bright a crov a as e'er was worn, And hang it on t^he g:een leav'd bough. That whispers to the nameless dead below. No one that inspiration drinks ; No one that loves his native land ; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear. Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder hern. The mighty shade now hovers round — Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career, Is written on this sacred ground In letters that no time shall sere ; Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, And founded Christian Empires in the new. And SHE ! the glorious Indian maid, The tutelary of this land. The angel of the woodland shade. The miracle of God's own hand. Who join'd man's heart, to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race. Sister of charity and love. Whose life blood was soft Pity's tide, Dear (Joddess of the Sylvan grove. Flower of the Forest, nature's prid«, He ia no man who does not bend the knee, And she no voman who is not like thee ! OI)i: TO JAMESTOWN. 3B Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock, To me shall ever sacred be — I care not who my themes mc.v mock Or sneer at them and me. I envy not the brute who here can stand, Without a prayer for his own native land. And if ttie recreant crawl her eaitli, Or breathe Virginia's air. Or, in New England claim nis oirth, From the old Pilsfrim's there. He is a bastard, if he dare to mock. Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock L :'» G O O C H 1 E OR, THE BRANCH OF SWEET WATER k LEGEND OF GEORGIA. ■T THE AUTHOR OF QTi RiVBRS, ATA.LANrit>, AND TUK TBMAf>8aa riiese woods have all been haunted, and the power Of spirits still aliides in tree and Uowor ; They have their tiny elves that dance by night, When the leaves sparkle in the moonbeam's light; And the wild Indian often, as he flew Alon«: llieir water in his birch canne, Beheld, in the soft light of suipfner eves. Strange eyes and faces peering ihrutiu'li tlie leaves; Nor, are they vanisli'd yet. — The woodman sees. Even now, wild Ibruis thai lurk behind the trees; And the pine forests have a chanted song, The Indians say, must linger in them long. I WiiH the approach of the white settlers along th» wfld but pleasant banks of the St. Mary's river, in ihe state of Georgia, the startled deities of Indian mythology began to meditate their departure to forests more secure. Tribe after tribe of the abori- gines had already gone, and tbe uncouth gods ol their idolatry, presided, in numberless instances, only over their deserted habitations. The savages had car- ried H'ith them no guardian divinities — no hallowed I LOGOOCHIE. . 3? household altars — cheering them, in their new places of abode, by the acceptance of their sacrifice, and with the pronjiseof a moderate winter, or a successful hunt. In depriving them of the lands descended to them in trust from their fathers, the whites seemed also to have exiled them from the sweet and mystic influences, so aptly associated with the \'ague loveli- ness of forest life, of their many twilight superstitions. Their new groves, as yet, had no spells for the hunts- man ; and the Manne3rto of their ancient sires failed to appreciate their tribute offerings, intended to propitiate his regards, or to disarm his anger. They were indeed outcasts; and, with a due feeling for their exiled worshippers, the forest-gods themselves determined also to depart from those long-hallowed sheltering places in the thick swamps of the Okephanokee, whence, from immemorial time, they had gone forth, to cheer or to chide the tawny hunter in his progress through life. They had served the fathers faithfully, nor were they satisfied that the sons should go forth unattended. I'hey had consecrated his dwellings, they had stimu- lated his courage, they had thrown the pleasant waters along his path, when his legs failed him in the chase, and his lips were parched with the wanderings of the long day in summer; and though themselves overcome in the advent of superior gods, they had, nevertheless, prompted him to the last, in the protracted struggle which he had maintained, for so many years, and with such various successes, against his pale invaders All that could be done for the feather-cro ivned and wolf-m?ntled warrior, had been done, by the divinities 4 d8 LOGOOCHIE. He worshipped. He was overcome, driA^en away from his ancient haunts, but he still bowed in spirit to the altars, holy still to him, though, haplessly, without adequate power to secure him in his possecsions. They determined not to leave him unprotected in his new abodes, and gathering, at the bidding of Satilla, the Mercury of the southern Indians, the thousand gods of their worship — the wood-gods and the water- gods — crowded to the flower-island of Okephauokee. to hear the commands of the Great Manneyto. II. All came but Logoochie, and where was he? he. the Indian mischief-maker — the Puck, the tncksiest spirit of them all, — he, whose mind, like his body, a creature of distortion, was yet gentle in its wildness. and never suffered the smallest malice to mingle in with its mischief The assembly was dull without him — the season cheerless — the feast wanting in provocative. The C4reat Manno^-to himself, with whom Logoochie was a favourite, looked impatiently on the approach of every new comer. In vaui were all his inquiries — where is Logoochie? who has seen Logoochie? The question remained unan- swered — the Great Manneyto ujisatisfied. An.xious search was instituted in every direction for the discovery of -the truant. They could hear nothing of him, and all scrutiny proved fruitless. They knew his vagrant spirit, and felt confident he was ,n;*>ne upon some mission of mischief; but they also knew iiow far beyond any capacity of their's to detect, was hi? LOGOOCIIIK. , 99 to conceal himself, and so, after the first attempt at searcli, the labour was given tip in despair. They could get no tidings of Logoochie. lil. The conference vent on without him, much to the dissatisfaction Df a. parties. He was the sjice of the entertainment, the spirit of all frolic; and though sometimes exceedingly annoying, even to the Great Manneyto, and scarcely less so to the rival power of evil, the Opitchi-Manneyto, yet, as the recognized joker on all hands, no one found it wise to take offence at his tricks. In council, he relievea the dull discourse of some drowsy god, by the sly sarcasm, which, falling innocuously upon the ears of the victim, was yet readily comprehended and applied by all the rest. On the journey, he kept all around him from any sense of weariness, — and, by the perpetual practical application of his humour, always furnished his companions, whether above or inferior to him in dignity, with something prime, upon which to make merry. In short, there was no god like Logoochie, and he was as much beloved by the deities, as he was honoured by the Indian, who implored him not to turn aside the arrow which he sent after the bounding buck, nor to spill the Avater out of his scooped leaf as he carried it from the running rivulet up to his mouth. All these wire tricks of the playful Logoochie, and by a thousand, such as these, was he known to the Indians, CO LOO jocniE. IV. Where, then, was the absentee when his brother divinities started after the outlawed tribes? Had he not loved the Indians — had he no sympathy with his associate gods — -and wherefore went he not upon the sad journey through the many swamps and the long stretclies of sand and forest, that lay between the Okephanokee, and the rapidly-rushing waters of the Chatahoochie, where both the aborigines and their rude deities had now taken up their abode. Alas! for Logoochie! He loved the wild people, it is true, and much he delighted in the association of those having kindred offices with himself; but, though a mimic and a jester, fond of sportive tricks, and perpetually practising them on all around him, he was not unlike the memorable buffoon of Paris, who, while ministering to the a^nnusement of thousands, possessing them with an infinitj' of fun and frolic, was yet, at the very time, craving a precious mineral from the man of science to cure him of his confirmed hypochondria. Such was the condition of Logoochie. The idea of leavmg the old woods and the waters to which he had been so long accustomed, and which were associated in his memory with a thousand instances of merriment, was too much for his most elastic spirits to sustain; and the summons to depart filled him with a namele«s, and, to him, a hitherto unknown form of terror. His organ of inhabitive- ness had undergone prodigious increase, in thw."ii:any exercises which his mind and mood had pr>iciiseJ upon the banks of the beautiful Branch of SweO LOGOOCHIE. 41 Water, where his favourite home had been chosen by a felicitous fancy. It was indeed a spot to be loved and dwelt i.pon, and he, who surveyed its clear and quiet waters, sweeping pleasantly onward, with a gentle murmur, under the high and bending pine trees that arched over and fenced it in, would have no wonder at its elfect upon a spirit so susceptible, amidst aJl his frolic, as that of Logoochie. The order to depart made him miserable; he could not think of doing so: and, trembling all the while, he yet made ihe solemn determination not to obey the command; but rather to subject himself, by his refusal, to a loss of caste, and, perhaps, even severer punishment, should he be taken, from the other powers having guardian- ship with himself over the wandering red men. With the determination came the execution ■)f his will. He secreted himself from those who :. ought him, and in the hollow of a log lay secure, even vhile the hunters uttered their conjectures and surmises under the very copse in which he was hidden. His arts to escape were manifold, and, unless the parties in search of him knew intimately his practices, he could easily elude their scrutiny by the simplest contrivances. Such, too, was the suscepti- bility of his figure for distortion, that even Satilla, the three-eyed, the messcHger of the Indian divinities, the most acute and cunning among them, was not unfrequently overreached and evaded by the truant Logoochie. He too had searched for him in vain, though having a shrewd suspicion, as he stepped over a pine knot lying across a branch, just about dusk 4' «3 LOGOOCHIE. that it was something more than it seemed to be, yel passing on without examining it, and leaving the breathless Logoochie, for it was he, to gather himself up, the moment his pursuer was out of sight, and take himself off in a more secluded direction. The back of Logoochie was, of itself, little better than a stripe of the tree-bark, to those who remarked it casually. From his heel to his head, inclusive, it looked like so many articulated folds or scales of the pine tree, here and there bulging out into excrescences. The back of his head was a solid knot, for all the world like that of the scorched pine knot, hard and resinous. This knot ran across in front, so as to arch above and overhang his forehead, and was crowned with hair that, though soft, was thick and woody to the eye, and looked not unlike the pktes of the pine-bur when green in season. It rose into a ridge or comb directly across the head from front to rear, like the war tuft of a Seminole warrior. His eyes, small and red,- seemed, occasionally, to run into one another, and twinkled so, that you could not avoid laughing but to look upon them. His nose was flat, and the mouth was simply an incision across his face, reaching nigh to both his ears, which lapped and hung over like those of a hound. He was short in person, thick, and strangely bow-legged ; and, to complete the uncouth figure, his arms, shooting out from under a high knot, that gathered like an epaulette upoiVeach shoulder, possessed but a single though rather fong bone, and terminated in a thick, squab, bur-like hand, having fingers, themselves inflexible and but of sinLfJc LOGOOCHIE. 43 'Oints, and tipped, not with nails, but with cl.iws, Boniewhat like those of the panther, and equally learrul in strife. Such was the vague general out- .me which, now and then, the Indian hunter, and, aicer him, the Georgia squatter, caught, towards evennig, of the wandering Logoochie, as he stole suadenly from sight into the sheltering copse, that ran along the edg-es of some wide savannah. The brother divinities of the Creek warriors had gone after their tribes, and Logoochie alone remained upon the banks of the S^veet Water Branch. He remamed in spite of many reasons for departur(;. The white borderer came nigher and nigher, with every succeeding day. The stout log-house started up m the centre of his favourite "groves, and many families, clustering Avithin a few miles of his favourite stream, formed the nucleus of the flourishing little town of St. Mary's. Still he lingered, though with a sadness of spirit, hourly increasing, as every hour tended more and more to circumscribe the haunts of his playful wandering. Every day called upon him to dep.ure the overthrow, by the woodman's axe, of some well-remembered tree in his neighbourhood ; and though he strove, by an industrious repetition of his old tricks, to prevent much of this desolation, yet th*^ Hivinities which the Avhite man brought with him were too potent for Logoochie. In vain did he gnaw Dv night the sharp edge of the biting steel, with which the squatter wrought so much desolation. Alas , tiie whi*e man had an art given him by his God bv "-hich he smoothed out the repeated gaps, <4 LOGOOCHIE. and sharpened it readily again, or found a new op , for the destruction of the forest. Over and over again did Logoochie think to take the trail of his people, and leave a spot in which a petty strife n* this nature had become, though a familiar, a painful practice ; but then, as he thought of the humiliating acknowledgment which, by so doing, he must offer to his brother gods, his pride came to his aid, and he determined to remain where he was. Then again as he rambled along the sweet waters of the branch, and talked pleasantly with the trees, his old acquaint- ance, and looked down upon little groups of Indian" that occasionally came tu visit this or that tumulus of the buried nations, he felt a sweet pleasure m the thought, that ' though all had gone of the old possessors, arid a new people and new gods had come to sway the lands of ]As outlawed race, he still should linger and watch over, with a sacred regard *^" few relics, and the speechless trophies, which tlip >gotten time had left them. He determined to emain still, as he long had been, the presiding genius of the place. VI. From habit, at length, ;t rnme to Logoochie to serve, with kind offices, the white settlers, just as nt< had served the red men before him. He soon saw that in many respects the people dwelling .n trie woods, however different their colour and origen. must necessarily resemble one another. They were in some particulars equally wild and equally simpie LOGOOCHIE. 46 He s )()» discovereu too, that, ho^^•ev(?r much they might profess indifference to the superstitions of the barbarous race they liad superseded, they were not a whit more secure from the occasional tremors which followed his own practices or presence. More than once had he marked the fright of the you"iQ;' wood- man, as, looking towards nightfall over his left shoulder, he had beheld the funny twinliling eyes, and the long slit mouth, receding suddenly into the bush behind him. This assured Logoochie of the possession still, even with a new people, of some of that power which he had exercised upon the old ; and when he saw, too, that the character of the white man was plain, gentle, and unobtrusive, he came, after a brief study, to like him also ; though, certainly, in less degree, than his Indian predecessors. From one step of his acquaintance with the new comers, to another, Logoochie at length began to visit, at stolen periods, and to prowl around the little cottage, of the squatter ; — sometimes playing tricks upon his house- hold, but more frequently employing himself in the analysis of pursuits, and of a character, as new almost to him as to the people whose places they had assumed. Nor will this seeming ignorance, on the part of Logoochie, subtract a single jot from his high pretension as an Indian god ; since true philosophy and a deliberate reason, must long since have been aware, that the mythological rule of every people, has been adapted, by the superior of all, to their mental and physical condition ; and the Great Man- neyto of the savage, in lis primitive state, was 16 LQGOOCEIE dL-ubtless, as Wise a provision for huTi then, as. ir. our lime, has been the faith, which we proudly assume to be the close correlative of the highest point of moral liberty and social refinement. VII. In this way, making new discoveries daily, and gradually becoming known himself, though vaguely, to the simple cottagers around him, he continued to pass the time win something more of satisfaction than before ; though still suffering pain at every stroke of the sharp and smiting axe, as it called up the deploring echoes of the rapidly yielding forest. Day and night he was busy, and he resumed, in extenso, many of the playful humours, which used to annoy the savages, and comj)el their homage. It is true, the acknowledgment "of the white man was 3ssentially different from that commonly made by the Indians. When their camp-pots were broken, their hatchets blunted, their bows and arrows warped, or they had suffered any other sach mischief at his hands, they solemnly deprecated his wrath, and offered him tribute to disarm his hostility. All that Logoochie could extort from the bordeier, was .i sullen oath, in which the tricksy spirit was identified with no less a person than the devil, the Opifchi- Manne^'to of the southern tribes. This — a*' Loijoo- chie well knew the superior rank of that personage with his people — he esteemed a comp'iment ; and its utterance was at all times sufficiently t^ratefii! in Jiis ears to neutralize his spleen at the moment. In L O H O O C H 1 £ . . n addition to this, the habit of smoking more frequently and freely than the Indians, so common to the white man, contributed ■wonderfully to commend him to the favour of Logoochie. '1 he odor in his nostrils was savory in the extreme, and he consequently regarded the smoker as tendering in this way, the deprecatory sacrifice, precisely as the savages had done before him. So grateful, indeed, was the oblation to his taste, that often, of the long summer evening, would he gather himself into a bunch, in the thick branches of the high tree overhanging the log-house, to inhale the reeking fumes that were sent up by the hali oblivious woodman, as he lay reposing under its grateful shadow. VIII. There was one of these little cottages, which, for this very reason, Logoochie found great delight in visiting. It was tenanted by a sturdy old farmer, named Jones, and situated on the skirts of St. Mary's village, about three miles from the Branch of Sweet Water, the favorite haunt of Logoochie. Jones had a small family — consisting, besides himself, of his wife, his sister — a lady of certain age, and monstrous demure — and a daughter, Mary Jones, as sweet a May-flower, as the eye of a good taste would ever wish to dwell upon. She was young — only sixteen, and had not yet earned a single one of the thousand arts, which, in making a fine coquette, spoil usually a fine woman. She thought purely, and freely siiiu all that she thought. Her old father loved her — lu r i8 LOGOOCIIIE mother loved her, and her aunt, she loved ler too, and proved it, by doing her own, and the scolding of all the rest, whenever the light-hearted Mary said more in her eyes, or speech, than her aunt's conven- tional sense of propriety deemed absolutely necessary to be said. This family, Logoochie rather loved,— whether it was because farmer Jones did more smok ing than any of the neighbours, or his sister more scolding, or his wife more sleeping, or his daughter more loving, we say not, but such certainly was the fact. Mary Jones had learned this latter art, if none other. A tall and graceful lad in the settlement, named Johnson, had found favour in her sight, and she in his ; and it Avas not long before they made the nmtual discovery. He was a fine youth, and quite worthy of "the maiden; but 'then he was of an inquir- ing, roving temper, and though not yet arrived at manhood, frequently indulged in rambles, rather startling, even to a people whose habit in that resp(.'ct is somewhat proverbial. He had gone in his wander- ings even into the heart of the Okephanokee Swamp, and strange were the wonders, and wild the stories, which he gave of that region of Indian fable — a region, about which they have as many and ns beau- tiful traditions, as any people can furnish from the store house of its primitive romance. This disposi- tion on the part of Ned Johnson, though productive oJ much disquiet to his friends and flimily. tliey hoped C to overcome or restrain, by the proposed union with Mary Jones — a connexion seemingly acceptable to all parties. Mary, like niost other good young ladies, LOGOOCHIK. 49 had no doubt, indeed, of her power to control her lover in his wanderings, when once they were man and wife ; and he, like most good young gentlemen in like cases, did not scruple to swear a thousand times, that her love would be as a chain about his feet, too potent to suffer him the slightest indulgence of his rambling desires. IX. So things stood, when, one day, what should ap- pear in the Port of St. Mary's — the Pioneer of the Line — but a vessel — a schooner — a brightly painted, sharp, cunning looking craft, all the way from the eastern waters, and commanded by one of that dar- ing tribe of Yankees, which will one day control the commercial world. Never had such a craft sho\\Ti its face in those waters, and great was the excitement in consequence. The people turned out, en masse, — men, women, and children, — all gathered upon the sands at the point to which she was approaching, and while many stood dumb with mixed feelings of won- der and consternation, others, more bold and elastic, shouted with delight. Ned Johnson led this latter class, and almost rushed into the waters to meet the new comer, clapping his hands and screaming like mad. Logoochie himself, from the close hugging branches of a neighbouring tree, looked down, and wondered and trembled as he beheld the fast rushing progress toward hm of Avhat might be a new and more potent God. Then, when her little cannon, ostentatiously large for the necessity, belched forth its 5 60 LOGOOCHIE. thunder's from her side, the joy and le terrror was universal. The rude divinity of the red men leaped down headlong from his place of eminence, and bounded on without stopping, until removed i'rom the sight and the shouting, in the thick recesses of the neighbouring wood ; \\'hile the children of the squat- ters taking to their heels, went bawling and squalling back to the village, never thinking for a moment to reach it alive. The schooner cast her anchor, and her captain came to land. Columbus looked not more imposing, leaping first to the virgin soil of the New World, than our worthy down-easter, commencing, for the first time, a successful trade in onions, potatoes, codfish, and crab-cider, with the delighted Georgians of our little village. All parties were overjoyed, and none more so than our young lovef. Master Edward Johnson. He drank in Avith willing ears and a still thirsting appetite, the narrative which the Yankee captain gave the villagers of his voyage. His long yarn, be sure, was stutfed with wonders. The new' comer soon saw from Johnson's looks how greatly he had won the respect and consideration of tlie youthful wanderer, and, accordingly, addressed some of his more spirited and romantic adventures purposely to him. Poor Mary Jones beheld, with dreadful anticipations, the voracious delight which sparkled in the eyes of Ned as he listened to the marvellous narrative, and had the thing been at a I possible or proper, sbe would have insisted, for t le better control of the erratic boy, that old Parson Collins should at once do his duty, and give her Icga. authority to say to her LOGOOCHIE.' CI lover — " obey, my dear, — stay at home, or,'' etc. She went back to the village in great tribulation, and Ned — he stayed behind with Captain Nicodemus Doo- little, of the "Smashing Nancy." X. Now Nicodemus, or, as they familiarly called him, " Old Nick," was a AvonderfuUy 'cute personage ; and as he was rather slack of hands — was not much of a penman or grammarian, and felt that in his new trade he should need greatly the assistance of one to whom the awful school mystery of fractions and the rule of three had, by a kind fortune, been developed duly — he regarded the impression which he had obviously made upon the mind of Ned Johnson, as promising to neutralize, if he could secure him, some few of his own deficiencies. He addressed himself, therefore, particularly to this end, and was successful. The head of the youth was. now filled with the wonders of the sea ; and after a day or two of talk, in which the captain sold off his notions, he came point blank to the subject in the little cabin of the schooner. The captain sat over against him, with many papers before him; some were grievous mysteries; one in particular, which called for the summing, up, consecu- tively, of numerous items of sale, in which the cross currency of the different states worked no small increase of difficulty in his already bewildered brain. To reconcile the York shilling, the Pennsylvania levy, the Georgia thrij), the Carolina fovrpence, the Ijouisiana hit and pickaiune, was a task rather beyond 92 LOGOOCHIK. thf ordinary powers of Captain Doolittle. H" cross ed his rio-ht le^r over his left, but still he faileu to prove his sum. He rever-^^-^d the movement, and the left leg now lay problematically over the right. The product was very hard to find. He took a sup of cider and then he thought things began to look a little .ilearer ; but a moment after all was cloud again, and at length the figures absolutely seemed to run into one another. He could stand it no longer, and slapped his hand down, at length, with such empha- sis, upon the table, as to startle the poor youth, who, all the while, had been dreaming of plunging and wriggling dolphins, seen in all their gold and glitter, three feet or less in the waters below the advancing prow of the ship. The start which Johnson made, at once showed the best mode to the captain of extrica- tion from his difficulty. " There — there, my dear boy, — take some cider- only a little — do you good — best thing in the world — There, — and now do run up these figures, and see how Ave agree." Ned was a clever lad, and used to stand head of Iii.=- class. He unravelled the mystery in little time- reconciled the cross-currency of the several sovereign states, and was rewarded by his patron with a hearty slap upon the shoulder, and another cup of cider. It vv'ns not difficult after tliis to agree, and half fear- ing that all the v.'hile he was not doing right by Mary Jones, bedashed his signature, in a much worse hand than he was accustomed to write, upon a printed paper which Doolittle thrust to him acro.ss the table LOGOOCHIE. 53 " And now, my dear boy," said ;he captain, " you are my secretary, and shall have best berth, and place along with myself, in the ' Smashing Nancy.' " XL The bargain had scarcely been struck, and the terms well adjusted with the Yankee captain, before Ned Johnson began to question the propriety of what he had done. He was not so sure that he had not been hasty, and felt that the pain his departure would inflict upon Mary Jones, would certainly be as great in degree, as the pleasure which his future adventures must brine: to himself Still, when he looked forward to those adventures, and remembered the thousand fine stories of Captain Doolittle, his dreams came back, and witli them came a due forgetfulness of the hum-drum happiness of domestic life. The life in ihe woods, indeed — as if there was life, strictly speak- ing, in the eternal monotony of the pine forests, and the drowsy hum they keep up so ceaselessly. Wood- chopping, too, was his aversion, and when he reflected upon the acknowledged superiority of his own over all the minds about him, he felt that his destiny called upon him for better things, and a more elevated employment. He gradually began to think of Mary Jones, as of one of those influences which had sub- tracted somewhat from the nature and legitimate exercises of his own genius ; and whose claims, therefore, if acknowledged by him, as she required, must only be acknowledged at the expense and sacrifice of the higher pursuits and purposes for 6* M LOGOOCHIE which the discriminating Providence had designed him. The youth's head was fairly turned by his ambitious yearnings, and it was strange how sub- timely metaphysical his musings now made him. He began to analyze closely the question, since made a standing one among the phrenologists, as to how far particular heads were intended for particulai pursuits. General principles were soon applied to special developments in his own case, and he came to the conclusion, just as he placed his feet upon the threshold of Father Jones's cottage, that he should be contending with the ahu of fate, and the original design of the Deity in his o\%.i creation, if he did not go with Captain Nicodemus Doolittle, of the Smashing Nancy." XII. " Ahem ! Mary — " said Ned, finding the little girl conveniently alone, half sorrowful, and turning the whizzing spinning wheel. "Ahem, Mary — ahem — " and as he brought forth the not very intelligible introduction, his eye had in it a vague indeterminateness that looked like confu- sion, though, truth to speak, his head was high and confident enough. "Well, Ned—" "Ahem! ah, Mary, what did you think of ihe beautiful vessel. Was n't she fine, eh?" "Very — very fine, Ned, though she was so large, and, when the great gun was fired, my heart beat sc — I Mas frightened, Ned — that I was.'^ I.OGOOCHIE. 6b ", Frighte led^ — why what frightened you, Mary,'' exclaimed Ned proudly — "that was grand, and as soon as we get to sea, I shall' shoot it off myself.'' " Get to sea — why Ned — get to sea. Oh, dear, why — what do you mean?" and the bewildered girl, half conscious only, yet doubting her senses, now left ihe wheel, and came toward the contracted secretary of Captain Doolittle. " Yes, get to sea, Mary^ What ! don't y^ou know I'm going with the captain clear away to New- York ?" Now, how should she know, poor girl ? He knew that she was ignorant, but as he did not feel satisfied of the propriety of what he had done, his phraseology had acsumed a somewhat indirect and distorted complexion. " You going with the Yankee, Ned — you don't say." " Yes, but I do — and what if he is a Yankee, and sells notions — I'm sure, there's no harm in that; he's a main smart fellow, Mary, and such wonderful things as he has seen, it would make your hair stand on end to hear him. I'll see them too, Mary, and then tell you." "Oh, Ned, — you're only joking now — you don't mean it, Ned — you only say so to tease me — Is'nt it so, Ned — say it is — say yes, dear Ned, only say yes." And the poor girl caught his arm, with all the confidinq- warmth of an innocent heart, and as the- tears gathered slowly, into big drops, in her eyes, and 66 LOGOOCHIE. they were turned appeal! .igly up to his, the heart of the wanderer smote him for the pain it had inflictea upon one so gentle. ■ In that moment, he felt that he would have given the world to get off from his bargain with the captain , but this mood lasted not long. His active imagination provoking a curious thirst after the unknown ; and his pride, which sug- gested the weakness of a vacillating purpose, all turned and stimulated him to resist and refuse the prayer of the conciliating affection, then beginning to act within him in rebuke. Speaking through his teeth, as if he dreaded that he should want firm- ness, he resolutely reiterated what he had said ; and, while the sad girl listened, silently, as one thunder struck, he went on to give a glowing description of the wonderful discoveries in store for Rim during the proposed voyage. Mary sunk back upon her stool, and the spinning wheel went faster than ever ; but never in her life had she broken so many tissues. He did his best at consolation, but the true hearted girl, though she did not the less suffer as he pleaded, at least forbore all complaint. The thing seemed irrevocable, and so she resigned herself, like a true woman, to the imjicrious necessity. Ned, after a while, adjusted his plaited straw to his cranium, and sallied forthwith a due importance in his strut, but with a swelling something at his heart, which he tried in vain to quiet. LOGOOCHIE' 5/ XIII. And what oi poor Mary — the disconsolate, the deserted and denied of love. She said nothmg, ate her dinner in silence, and then putting on her bonnet, prepared to sally forth in a solitary ramble. " What ails it, child," said old Jones, with a rough tenderness of manner. "Where going, baby?" asked her mother, half asleep. " Out again, Mary Jones — out again," vociferously shouted the antique aunt, who did all the family scolding. The little girl answered them all meekly, with- out the slightest show of impatience, and proceeded on her walk. The " Branch of Sweet Water," now knoAvn by this name to all the villagers of St. Mary's, was then, as it was supposed to be his favourite place of abode, commonly styled, " The Branch of Logoochie." The Indians — such stragglers as either lingered behind their tribes, or occasionally visited the old scenes of their home, — had made the white settlers somewhat acquainted with the character and the supposed presence of that playful God, in the region thus assigned him; and though not altogether assur- ed of the idleness of the superstition, the young and innocent Mary Jones had no apprehensions of his power. She, indeed, had no reason for fear, for Lo- goochie had set her down, long before, as one of his favorites. He had done her many little services, ol which she was unaware, nor was she the only mem 68 LOGOOCHIE. ber of her family indebted to his ministering good will. He loved them all — all but the scold, and many of the annoyances to which the old maid was subject, arose from this antipathy of Logoochie. But to return. It was in great tribulation that Mary set out for her usual ramble along the banks of the " Sweet Water." Heretofore most of her walks in that quarter had been made in company with her lover. Here, perched in some sheltering oak, or safely doubled up behind some swollen pine, the playful Logoochie, himself unseen, a thousand times looked upon the two lovers, as, with linked arms, and spirits maintain- mg, as it appeared, a perfect unison, they Avalked in the shade durinc" the summer afternoon. Tliouffh sportive and .mischievous, such sights *were pleasant to one who dwelt alone ; and there were many occasions, when, their love first ripening into expres- sion, he would divert from their path, by some little adroit art or management of his own, the obtrusive and unsympathising woodman, who might otherwise have spoiled the sport which he could not be per- mitted to share. Under his unknown sanction and soi- vice, therefore, the youthful pair had found love a rap- ture, until, at length, poor Mary had learned to reoard it as a necessary too. She knew the necessity from the privation, as she now rambled alone ; her wan- dering lover meanwhile improving his knowledge by some additional chit-chat, on matters and things in general, with the captain, with whom he had that day dined heartily on codfish and potatoes, a new dish to LOGOOCHIE. • 63 young Johnson, which gave him an ad.litional idea of the vast resources of the sea. XIV. Mary Jones at length trod the hanks of the Sweet ^Vater, and footing it along the old pathway to where the rivulet narrowed, she stood under the gigantic tree which threw its shelterinof and concealing- arms completely across the stream. With an old habit, rather than a desire for its refreshment, she took the gourd from the limb whence it depended, pro bono publico, over the water, and scooping up a draught of the innocent beverage, she proceeded to drink, when, just as she carried the vessel to her lips, a deep moan assailed her ears, as from one in pain, and at a little distance. She looked up, and the moan was repeated, and with increased fervency. She saw nothing, however, and somewhat startled, was about to turn quickly on her way homeward, when a third and more disunct repetition of the moan, appealed so strongly to her natural sense of duty, that she could stand it no longer; and with the noblest of all kinds of courage, for such is the courage of humanity, she hastily tripped over the log which ran across the stream, and proceeded in the direction from whence the sounds had issued. A few paces brought her in sight of the sufferer, who was no other than our soli- tary acquaintance, Logoochie. He lay upon the grass, doubled now into a knot, and now stretching and writhing himself about in agony. His whole ap peauirce indicated suffering, and there was nothing &'. LOGOCCHIE. equivocal in the expiession of his moanings. The astonishment, not to say fright, of the little cottage maiden, may readily be conjectured. She saw, for the first time, the hideous and uncouth outline of his person — the ludicrous combination of feature in his face. She had heard of Logoochie, vaguely; and without giving much, if any, credence to the mysterious tales related by the credulous -woodman, returning home at evening, of his encounter in the forest with its pine-bodied divinity; — and now, as she herself looked down upon the suflering and moaning monster, it would be difficult to say, whether curiosit}^ or fear was the most active principle in her bosom. He saw her approach, and he half moved to rise and fly; but a sudden pang, as it seemed, brought him back to a due sense of the evil from" which he was sufTcring, and, looking towards the maiden with a mingled expression of good humor and pain in his countenance, he seemed to implore her assistance. The poor girl did not exactly know what to do, or what to conjecture. What sort of monster was it before her. What queer, distorted, uncouth limbs — what eyes, that twinkled and danced into one another — and what a mouth. She was stu pified for a moment, until he spoke, and, stranger still, in a language that she understood. And what a musical voice, — how sweetly did the words roll forth, and how soothingly, yet earnestly, did they strike upon her ear. Language is indeed a God, and powerful before all the rest. His words told her all his misfortunes, and the tones were all-sufficient LOG JOCHIE. ' 61 to inspire confidence in one even more suspicious than our innocent cottager. Besides, humanity was a principle in her heart, while fear was only an emo- tion, and she did not scruple, where the two conflict- ed, after the pause for reflection of a moment, to determine in favour of the former. She approached Logoochie — she approached him, firmly determined in her purpose, but trembling all the while. As she drew nigh, the gentle monster stretched himself out at length, patiently ext3nding one foot towards her, and raising it in such a manner as' to indicate the place which afiiicted him. She could scarce forbear laughing, when she looked closely upon the strange feet. They seemed covered with bark, like that of the small leafed pine tree ; but as she stooped, to her great surprise, the coating of his sole, flew wide as if upon a hinge, showing below it a skin as soft, and white, and tender, seemingly, as her own. There, in the centre of the hollow, lay the cause of his sufl^er- ing. A poisonous thorn had penetrated, almost to the head, as he had suddenly leaped from the tree, the day before, upon the gun being fired from the " Smashing Nancy." The spot around it was greatly inflamed, and Logoochie, since the accident, had vainly striven, in every possible way, to rid himself of the intruder. His short, inflexible arms, had failed so to reach it as to make his fingers available ; and then, having claws rather than nails, he could scarce have done any thing for his own reliel, even could they have reached it. He now felt the evil of his isolation, and the danger of his seclusion from 6 83 LOGOOC31E. nis brother divinities. His case was one, indeed, of severe bachelorism; a*^.'., doubtless, had his condhion been less than that of a deity, the approach of Mary Jones to his aid, at such a moment, would have pro- duced a dreaded revolution in his domestic economy. Still trembling, the maiden bent herself down to the task, and with a fine courage, that did not allow his uncouth limbs to scare, or his wild and monstrous features to deter, she applied her own small fingers to the foot, and carefully grappling the head of the wound- ing thorn with her nails, with a successful effort, she drew it forth and rid him of his encumbrance. The wood-god leaped to his feet, threw a dozen antics in the air, to the great terror of Mary, then running a little way into the forest, soon returned with a hand- ful of fresh .leaves, which he bruise^j between his fingers, and applied to the irritated and wounded foot. He was well in a moment after, and pointing the astonished Mary to the bush from which he had taken the anointing leaves, thus made her acquainted with one item in the history of Indian pharmacy. XV. "The daughter of the white clay — she has come to Logoochie, — to Logoochie when he was suffering. •' She is a good daughter to ^jogoochie, and the green spirits who dwell in the foiests, they love, and will honor her. " They will throw do^\Ti the leaves before her, they "« :\\ spread the branches above her, they will hum a LOG ^OC HIE.' 68 sweet song m the tree !op, when she walks under- neath it. " They wiJl watch beside her, as she sleeps in the shade, in the warm sun of the noon-day, — they will keep the flat viper, and the war rattle, away from her ear. " They will do this to honor Logoochie, for they know Logoochie, and he loves the pale daughter. She came to him in his suffering. " She drew the poison thorn from his foot — she fled not away when she saw him. " Speak, — let Logoochie hear — there is sorrow in the face of the pale daughter. Logoochie would know it and serve her, for she is sweet in the eye of Logoochie." XVI. Thus said, or rather sung, the uncouth god, to Mary, ad, after the first emotions of his own joy were over, he beheld the expression of melancholy in her countenance. Somehow, there was something so fatherly, so gentle, and withal, so melodious, in his language, that she soon unbosomed herself to him, telling him freely and in the utmost confidence, though without any hope of relief at his hands, the history of her lover, and the new project for departure which he had now got in his head. She was surprised, and pleased, when she saw that Logoochie smiled at the narrative. She was not certain, yet she had a vague hope, that he could do something for her relief; and her conjecture was not in vain, He spoke — " Wh> M L03OOCHIE. should the grief be in the heart and the cloud on the face of the maiden? Is not Logoochie to help her? He stands >eside her to help. Look, daugiiter of the pale cla}' — look! There is a power in the leaf that shall serve thee at the bidding of Logoochie; — the bough and the branch have a power for thy good, when Logoochie commands ; and the little red-berry which I now pluck from the vine hanging over thee, it is strong with a spirit which is good in thy work, when Logoochie has said in thy service. Lo, I speak to the leaf, and to the bough, and to the berry. They shall speak to the water, and one draught from the branch of Logoochie, shall put chains on the heart of the youth who would go forth with the stranger." As he spoke, he gathered the leaf, broke a bough from an overhanging tree, and, with ^a red berry, pulled from a neighboring vine, approached the Branch of Sweet Water, and turning to the west, muttered a wild spell of Indian power, then threw the tributes into the rivulet. The smootli surface ol the stream was in an instant ruffled — the offerings were whirled suddenly around — the M'aters broke, boiled, bubbled and parted, and, in another moment, the bough, the berry, and the leaf, had disappeared from their sight. XVII. Mary Jones was not a little frightened by these exhibitions, but she was a girl of courage, and hrwing once got over the dread and the novelty of contact wi«h a form sr monstrous as that of Logoochie, th<* LOGOOCIIIE. 61 after efToYt was not so great. She witnessed the incantations of the demon without a word, and when they were over, she simply listened to his farther directions, half stupified with what she had seen, and not knowing how much of it to believe. He bade her bring her lover, as had been the custom with ihein hitherto, to the branch, and persuade him to drink of its waters. When she inquired into its effect, which, at length, with much effort she ventured to do, he bade her be satisfied, and all would go right. Then, wita a word, which was like so much music — a word she did not understand, but which sounded like a parting acknowledgment, — he bounded away into the woods, and, a moment after, was completely hidden from her sight. XVIIL Poor Mary, not yet relieved from her surprise, was still sufficiently aroused and excited to believe there was something in it ; and as she moved off on her way home, how full of anticipation was her thoughts — pleasant anticipation in which her heart took active interest, and warmed, at length, into a strong and earnest hope. She scarcely gave herself time to get home, and never did the distance between Sweet Water Branch and the cottage of her father appear so extravagantly great. She reached it, however, at last; and there, to her great joy, sat her lover, along- side the old man. and givinsf him a sflowing account, such as he had receivsd from the Yankee Captain, of the wonders to be met with in his coming voyage. ee LOO oocHiE. Old Jonei listened patiently, puffing' his pipe, all the while, and saying little, but now and then, by way ol commentary, uttering an ejaculatory grunt, most comrnonh of sneering disapproval. " Better stay at ~ home, a d — d sight, Ned Jolinson, and follow the plough." Ned Johnson, however, thought diflerently, and it was not the farmer's grunts or growlings that was now to change his mind. Fortunately for the course of true love, there were other influences at work, and the impatience of Mary Jones to try them was evident, in the clumsiness which she exhibited while passing the knife under the thin crust of the corn hoe-cake that night for supper, and laying the thick masses of fresh butter, between the smoking and savory-smell- ing sides, as she turned them apart. The evening wore, at length, and, according to an old familiar habit, the lovers Avalked forth to the haunted and fairy-like branch of Logoochie, or the Sweet Water. It was the last night in which they were to be together, prior to his departure in the Smashing Nancy. That bouncing vessel and her dexterous Captain were to depart with early morning; and it was as little as Ned Johnson could do, lo spend that night with hi.< sweetheart. They were both melancholy enough, depend upon it. She, poor girl, hoping much, yet still fearing — for when was true love without fear — she took his arm, hung fondly upon it, and, without a Avord between them for a long while, inclined him, as it were naturally, in the required direction. Ned reaily loved h^r, and was sorry enough when thf LOGOOCHIE, 6} -A^ug-ht came to him, that this might be the last night of their association; but he plucked up courage, witli the momentary weakness, and though he spoke kindly, yet he spoke fearlessly, and with a sanguine temper, upon the prospect of the sea-adventure before him. Mary said little — her heart was too full for speech, but she looked up now and then into his eyes, and he saw, by the moonlight, that her own glistened as with tears. He turned away his glance as he saw it, for his heart smote him with the reproach of her desertion. XIX. They came at length to the charmed streamlet, the Branch of the Sweet Water, to this day known for its fascinations. The moon rose sweetly above it, the trees coming out in her soft light, and the scatterings of her thousand beams glancing from the green polish of their crowding leaves. The breeze that rosealonof with her was soft and wooing as herself; while the besprinkling fleece of the small white clouds, cluster- ing along the sky, and flying from her splendors, made the scene, if possible, far more fairy-like and imposing. It was a scene for love, and the heart ot Ned Johnson grew more softened than ever. His desire for adventure grew modified ; and when Mary bent to the brooklet and scooped up the water for him to drink, with the water-gourd that hung from tlie bough, wantoning in the breeze that loved to play over the pleasant stream, Ned could not help thinking she never looked more beautiful. The water trickled 18 I.OGOOCHIE from the gourd as she handed it to him, falling like droppings of he moonshine again into its parent stream. You should have seen her eye — so full of hope — so full of doubt — so beautiiul — so earnest, — as he took the vessel from her hands. For a moment he hesitated, and then how her heart beat and her limbs trembled. But he drank off the contents at a draught, ana gave no sign of emotion. Yet his emotions were strange and novel. It seemed as if so much ice had gone through his veins in that moment. He said nothing, however, and dipping up a gourd full for Mary, he hung the vessel again upon the pendant bough, and the two moved away from the water — not, however, before the maiden caught a glimpse, through the intervening foliage, of those two queer, bright, little eyes of Logooehie, with a more delightful activity than ever, dancing gayly into one. XX. But the spell had been effectual, and a new nature filled the heart of him, who had heretofore sighed vaguely for the unknown. The roving mood had entirely departed ; he was no longer a wanderer in spirit, vexed to be denied A soft languor overspread his form — a weakness gathered and grew about his heart, and he now sighed unconsciously. How soft, yel hov full of emphasis, was the pressure of Mary's hand iipon his arm as she beard that sigh ; and liow forcibly did it remind the youth that she who walked beside him was his own — his own forever. With tlie LftGOOCHIE. . 69 thought came a sweet perspective — a long vista rose up before his eyes, crowded with images of repose and plenty, such as the domestic nature likes to dream of. "Oh, Mary, I will not go with this Captain — I will not. I will stay at home with you, and we shall be married." Thus he spoke, as the crowding thoughts, such as we have described, came up before his fancy. "Will you — shall wt''- Oh, dear Edward, I am so happy." And the maiden blessed Logoochie, as she uttered her response of happy feeling. " I will, dear — but I must hide from Doolittle. I have signed papers to go with him, and he will be so disappointed — I must hide from him." " Why must you hide, Edward — he cannot compel you to go, unless you please; and you just to be married." Edward thought siie insisted somewhat unnecessa- rily upon the latter point, but he replied to the first. "I am afraid he can. I signed papers — I don't know what they were, for I was rash and foolish — • but they bound me to go with him, and unless I keep out of the way, I shall have to go." "Oh, dear — why, Ned, where will you go — you must hide close, — I would not have him find you for the world." " I reckon not. As to the hiding, I can go where all St. Mary's can't finu me; and that's in Okepha- nokee." TO LOGOOCHIE. • Oh, don't go so far — it is so dangerous, for some of the Seminoles are there !" " And what if they are ? — I don't care that for the Seminoles. They never did me any harm, and never \vi 1. But, I shan't go quite so far. Bull swamp is close enough for me, and there I can watch the "Smashing Nancy" 'till she gets out to sea." XXI. Having thus determined, it was not long before Ned Johnson made himself secure in his place of retreat, while Captain Doolittle, of the "Smashing Nancy," in great tribulation, ransacked the village of St. Mary's in every direction for his articled seaman, for such Ned Johnson had indeed become. Doolittle deserved to .lose him for the trick wbich, in this respect, he had played upon the boy. His search proved fruitless, and he was compelled to sail at last. Ned, from the top of a high tree on the edge of Bull swamp, watched his departure, until the last gleam of the white sail flitted away from the horizon; then descending, he made his way back to St. Mary's, and it was not long before he claimed and received the hand of his pretty cottager in marriage. Loo-oochie was never seen in the neighbourhood afler this event. His accident had shown him the necessity of keeping with his brethren, for, reasoning from all nnaloo-v, gods mu.st he social animals not less llinn men. But, in d-'partinof, he forgot lo take the s;>ell away \\-hich he \(\ put upon the Sweet Water Branch; and to t^- iy, the strangei, visiting St. Mary's, is \varne(l .OGOOCHIE. • 71 not to drink from the stream, unless he proposes to remain; for still, as in the case of Ned Johnson, it binds the feet and enfeebles the enterprise of him who partakes of its pleasant waters. SONG. O ! why do ttiey say that affection is vain, Brings wo while it lasts, ana '=!Oon closes in pain ; That changes and death on our friendships will steal, That 'tis folly to love, and but sorrow to feel ? ris true that our friendships may change and decay ; But do we jor that cast the flowers away ? And will not the falsehood of many a loved name, Make dearer the few who are ever the same? For death, ^vhich they say puts an end to our love, Sets it safe from all change, in its own home above' Then cherish affections, for happiness given. For changsless, and endless, they flourish in heaveu 1 SiGNORINA, THE YOUNG MOTHER BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. Heaven lies about us in our infancy. WoRDSWOBTB. I. A f OTTNo and gentle mother, She bows above her boy, And a tear is in her downcast eye, But 'tis the tear of joy — Of one whose few fair summers On golden wings have sped, Like childhood's dreams of Paradise, Above her sainted head. Loved, ere her life's flush morning Had kindled into day. And worshipped, as she wooed the flowcA That bloomed around lior way, By one whose warm afTections On her wondrous beauty hung, And their first taintless tribute gave To the shrine to which they clung f IT'GflE YOQJW'a RC(n)¥S]ES^ THE YOUNG MOTHER. U 11. A young and gentle mother — Still beautiful, but pale With sleepless but unwearied watch Alike through joy and wail. A mother ! — yet believing Life's duties scarce begun — Whose childl.o'jd seemed of yesterdav, In its unciouued sun; So early had the story Of idol Love been told — So early had her virgin heart Been gathered to its fold ! III. And he who won her — where is he. In this her day of pride, When every hope she claimed before By this grew dim and died! So priceless was the treasure Her throbbing bosom bore. So centered was her spirit now On one she could adore ! Where is he ! — Ah ! her vision Is of shadowy ships and seas — And /or him the unuttered prayer Is poured on bended knees. Each day in thought she follows His stormy ocean track, And every dreamy midnight still Her pillow brings him back. THE vol NO M(JTilER. For he — for distant regions Torn early from her side, — Had parted, with his heart in tears, From that outsobbing bride. IV. Long time afar he lingered, And oft the message came Of fadeless love — and of cruel fate The tale was still the same. Years fled — and still he wandered — In one long dream of home, And prattling voices round its hearth — An exile, doomed to roam V. At length her leaping, spirit Its pramisc'd bliss had found, And she heard its pulses quick and louii Beat to the welcome sound. He on the bounding waters Had cast himself once more. To greet that home, and hearth, and brido. That rose above their roar Like lights amid a tempest — Bright beacons of the land. Where all we love shall hail us soon, A joy-mspiring band ! THE YOUNG MOTHER VI. 'Tuas then I s^w that mother, And babt -vi Jth silken hair, And all a mo:her's pride and hope, " Just dashed with fear, was there. Her head upon his temple Was stooped in pensive rest, Minffling- its liafht, uncumbered locks With those that veiled her breast. Her eye, just dropped in shadow, Looked melancholy down. And me tear that glittered from its deptl)S Was not of grief alone — But the still look of thankfulness That o'er her features fell, Lem twen to the tears a beam That told you all was well ! One arm around her idol Protectingly was flung, The other, as of one in dreams, Beside her aimless hung. — VII. O Innocence and Beauty? — And Youth, with all its flowers, When they together round us come, What a heritage is ours ! Who ever dreams a sepulchre O'er such can darkly close, » THE YOVNC; MOTHER Of the heart's sim e'er set in clouds. That robed in lustre 'ose I * * * * • VIII. Alas! that gentle mother — I saw her not again, Till, in my village wanderings, I joined th" burial train. They told mi , as we silent wheeled Among the verdant graves, That he, her first — last hope on eartn. Was snatched into the waves ! — And, ever after, that her cheek. Like her infant's eye, grew dim. And her waning life was but a praver. Or quiet, lonely hymn. — And thus her passing spirit Beheld her infant's go, 'Till all that lit her pilgrimage Was shattered at a blow. Then, pointing to the tomb, her late Began their faltering way Through earth's last farewell faded 3loom. lb Immorialiiv! MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL. BY THB AUTHOR OP A YEAR IN SPAIN. It was my fortune to be in Madrid during the whole month of February, 1834. For years the hard hand of despotism had borne heavily on the peo- ple of that brilliant capital, dooming them to a state of quiescent dulness unsuited to their character. The theatre and the bull-fignt were the only pastimes permitted by a jealous government uncertain of its stability, and suspicious of any reunions that might minister to the designs of conspirators against the Altar and the Throne. The theatre, of course, under a searching censorship, might easily be prevented from becoming a school of insubordination. There was little danger of the audience extracting from the entertainment, which was there provided for them, any such lessons of disloyalty as might have been dra\vn from the representations of tragedies like the Philip of Alfieri. Their religious feelings were kept alive, on the contrary, by the spectacle of Pelayo. 7* 78 MUERTEENGARROTEVii,. Struggling in defence of the faith; or of the CataoliC kings administering the death blow to Paganism in the vega of Granada ; their loyalty was nourished by the contemplation of how thai truly Spanish virtue was honored in the achievements of the Cid, of Guz man, and of Garei Perez de Vargas ; whilst in order not wholly to weary with the tame spectacle of good- ness creatures born with all the evil propensities that man is heir to, and to cultivate a sentiment natural to the soil, which might be turned advantageously against all liberals, free-masons, and enemies to the ancient customs of Spain — that of which a Spaniard thinks when he exclaims with such a proud energy — nuestros antiguos cosiumhres! — The sentiment of stern hatred was kept alive in their bosoms, by the frequent exhibition of such scenes as abound in the ' Secret Revenge to a Secret Injury,' or, ' Vengeance ta the Death;' the merciless imaginations of that Calderon, who had a double claim to be vindictive, in being both a soldier and a priest. The bull-fight, the never failing spectacle of death to man or beast, and not unfre- quently to both ; the tragedy, in which all the blows are real, and the blood, the warm current in whivh life pours itself forth, was well suited, by brutalizing the minds of the common people, to accomn odate them to the c'espotism under which they lived. In those days, each carnival camo and wont unat- tended with rejoicings, beyond the discharge of sugar- plums at a passing acquaintance, from a fair haJid behind a balcony or veran.iah. There we"e no public balls, and even person? of distinction, wishing to MUERTEENGARBOTEVIL 7!« nonof the season, by a festive reunion, within the domestic citadel, and sanctuary of their own homes, could with difficuhy obtain permission to do so from the Prefect of Police. Now-, however, all was changed. The government had passed into the hands of the liberals ; unrestrained license had succeeded to watch- ful oppression ; balls and maskings became the busi- ness of life; and a whole population, abandoning itself to a mad spirit of gayety, sought to concentrate, into one month of revelry, the amusements which should have been spread over the past years, during which despotism had suppressed them. Theatres, cafes, and Uverns, were extemporized into ball-rooms. There were diversions for the high and for the low ; for those who had great means, and those who had little. Maskers paraded the streets in the most grotesque costumes, music broke from each house, and the tinkling guitar of the serenader was heard under every balcony. It was not easy to be in the midst of such scenes without being dra^vn into the universal whirl. Though there Avas nothing in all this round of dissi- pation congenial to my hnbits, or in harmony with my tastes, I yet found myself almost nightly going, in company with my associates, to one or more o^^ these scenes of festivity Fond of early hours and of a quiet life, each morning saw me retracing my steps to my lodgings, serenaded by the first crowing of the cock, and the howl of the lazaroni dogs, Avhich forage disowned in the streets of the capital. I had been one night at the most bril iiant ball that so MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL I had ever seen in Madrid. It was at the palace of an illustrious ambassador, and brought together an e'egant assemblage of ministers of stale, diplomats, the choice of the nobility, and whatever was most distinguished in the capital. The collection of beauty- was most dazzling; the eyes, the forms, the feet, the ankles, such as could only be seen in Spain ; the dresses were imitated from all that is most graceful in the costumes of the world, and the supper such as to do no discredit to a host who was there with a salary, which, done into Spanish reals, would have made somewhat more than a million. With such temptations, and with people to talk to, whom I had, knovvn and valued years before, it was easy to find the time slipping away, and to discover, as I retraced my steps homeward, that the hour was an unusually late one. 1 made as I went, for the thousandth time, the reflection, that after all, the most agreeable part of the most agreeable ball, is the moment when one escapes from observation, constraint, and suffocation, to solitude and the open air, — to communion with the serene heavens, and with himself I longed for the day when the carnival should at length be over, and Catholic Spain return from masquerades to masses; — when sermons, listened to in the dim and darkened naves of Gothic temples, should sujjplant the flippant discourse of jaded intriguers ; — the solemnly resound- ing thunder of the organ, the soft and sober tones of bassoons and viols, the mellow harmony of human 'oicfs, proceeding ir angelic nalN'luiah.s from the MUERTE EN GARUOTE VTF f?l unseen recesses of the chantry, should repla: e the 'smi rk- ing gallope and the mazurka; -when the gaudy mirrors, reflecting the already offensive glare of so many lus- tres, should be replaced by a sober twilight, revealing and mellowing i crucifixion of Espanolelo, or a Santa Madre of Murill, ; when the dark daughters of Spain should give over iheir parti-colored tinsel, their mere- tricious smiles, and heartless gayety, to resume the sober mantilla and basquinia in which they first won upon my boyish heart, and which so harmonize with the habitual expression of their pale, thoughtful, and melancholy countenances, and full languid eyes. The next morning I rose weary, feverish, unrefresh- ed, and melancholy. I went to my balcony as I Avas wont, to breathe the fresh air, take the sun instead ol the less agreeable heat which a brasero afforded, look down upon the ever gay and animating spectacle pre- sented by the Puerta del Sol, which lay before me, and exchange my morning's salutation with an old and well-beloved acquaintance, whose balcony was beside mine. By common consent, growing out of a sympathy of tastes, we were both in the habit of com- ing forth at the sound of the music of one of the regi- ments of the grenadiers of the royal guard, on its way to relieve the detachment performing duty at the palace. After the platoon had turned the angle of the gate of the Sun, and the music ceased to delight us with its animating strains, we were wont to exchange the usual courtesies of the land, to inquire for each other's health, how each had rested, and to recount all the adventures that had been crowded into the interval S2 MUFRTK TN (;.\nROTR VIL. sin .e the last meeting, or, in default of other subjects, to criticise whatever might be curious in the groups below. On this occasion, my attention was called to the tinkling bell of a member of the Paz y Caridad, who, in a solemn voice, was inviting all charitable souls to join in interposing with such humble alms as they were pleased to contribute, to smooth the parting hour, and redeem from purgatory, by means ol masses, the soul of the unhappy brother whose life was that day to be required of him. He had before him a square box, having a hole to receive the alms of the charitable, surmounted by a figure of the cruci- fied Savior, calculated at once to awaken a devotional feeling in the bosom of the Christian, and to call to mind the recollection that He, like the unhappy cri- minal who was that day to expiate his offences, had died — though innocently and for our propitiation — the death of a felon. There was, then, to be an execution. It was sure to be a spectacle full of horror, and painful excite- ment ; yet I determined to witness it. I felt sad and melancholy, and yet, by a strange perversion, I was willing to feel more so. With the customary cho- colate and omelette, the good dame. Dona Lucrttia, my landlady, brought me the Diario. I turned at once to see what was said about the execution. Among the orders of the day, was the (bllowing — " Having to suffer this day, at eleven in the morning, in the square of Cebada, the pain of death on the vile garrote. to wliich he was sentenced by th« MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL. S3 military comraission of this province, Juan Lopez Solorzano, alias the Birdcatcher, a native of Las Altas Torres, in La Mancha, thirty-eight years of age. a bachelor, late a grenadier of the disbanded royalist volunteers of this capital, accused of having been one of the first aggressors in the rebellion of October last, on the occasion of disarming that corps ; to aid in this execution, a detachment of the Provincial Regiment of Granada, and another of the Cuirassiers of the Royal Guard, will repair to the place ot execution at half past ten, whilst at the same hour, another detachment of the aforesaid regiment of Granada, and of the Light Horse of Madrid, will report to the Corregidor, at the prison, in readiness to guard the prisoner to the scaffold, leaving a cor poral's guard to protect the body after justice is consummated, until the Paz y Caridad shall come to withdraw it." Such was the succinct and sententious information giv^en me by the Diario. I learned, in addition, from Dona Lucretia, that the Pajarero, or Bird- catcher, was so called, because he had for same years lived by selling doves and singing birds in the square of the Holy Cross. He had been a turbulen', quarrelsome fellow, had killed a number of persons at various times, for all which misdeeds he had found protection in being a royalist volunteer, and a regular attendant at mass and the confessional. In the late disbanding of the royalist volunteers, those janizaries of the Spanish hierarchy, he had ■taken an active part in the revcH, killi» o- with his S4 MUERTE EN CAR ROTE VIL. own hand one of the partizans of the queen, ni the square of the Angel. During fifty-three days he had been concealed by persons friendly to the old order of things ; but had at last been sold by some mercenar} Judas, and betrayed into the hands of justice. It had chanced that I had attended the court- martial on the day of his trial, and I was not a little struck with the peculiar vein of eloquence, in which the fiscal devoted him to damnation ere yet he had been produced before the court. — "Soon will this vile assassin present himself before you. The tribu- nal will then see his detestable soul painted in liis countenance, and will need no other evidence to discover the atrocious image of a regicide." Such, alike under despotism and in the hands of liberals, is the vindictive character of Spanish retribution. Perhaps, however, it may be just to add, that of seventy-three royalists condemned to death for a revolt, with the alleged intention of murdering the queen, the Birdcatcher was alone selected, as the most infamous, for execution. The rest were taken from prison in the dead of the succeeding night, and being manacled, were marched off under a stnmg escort for Ceuta. One of them, in an excess of despair, dashed his brains out against the postern of the prison. The scene in the neighborhood was represented to me as having been most deplorable on the following morning. The news of the departure of these prisoners had spread to the obscure barriers of the capital, and their families had gathered round ill an agony of bereavement. Mothers, wives, an*' MIJERTE EN GAnitOTC V 1 1. . M .ove. ,jre their hair, and rent the air with shri(;ks, and exclamations of wo ; whilst the children, thus suddenly left fatherless, looked on with a dumb amazement — an indistinct sense of some great cala- thity — scarcely less painful and heart-rending. There were fifty wives who found themselves thus suddenly reduced to liopeless widowhood, whilst more than twice that number of children looked round, and saAv that they were fatherless. Divesting the mind of all fanaticism, whether in favor of liberty or despotism, the offences of these men will not seem so eqi>^l to their fate as to close the heart against every sentiment of pity. They were victimrj of tneir fidelity to an order of things which but a few months before received the adhesion ot the king, the court, the army, was acquiesced in by the whole nation, and still had the sympathy of a vast irtajority of the Spanish people. Oh ! Americans ! whilst you pity the land in which liberty is unknown, and unappreciated, learn to value the blessings which you enjoy, and cultivate an ever increasing admiration and love for that birthright ot freedom which has been bequeathed to you. I took my way through the gate of the Sun to the noble front of the prison of the court. I had been permitted to visit it a few days before, by means of a royal order furnished me by Burgos, the then minister of Fomento. On that occasion the Pajarero had been pointed out to me as the greatest curiosity of the place My readers may not be aware that among the common people of Spain, villanous 8 i6 MUERTE EN GaRROTE VIL. distinction of any sort, as that of a foot-pad, or inur derer, alwaj'S entitles the possessor to a species of war-name; thus, El Gato, or Cat, was the formidable and dreaded appellation of a Valencian robber, who flourished a few ) ears since, • enacting a fearfu. tragedj' in my presence, and who was noted for the tiger-like and ferocious certainty with which he was wont to pounce upon his prey ; El Cacaruco was the droll cognomen of a scarcely less distinguished worthy, by whom I had once been most courteously plundered in the plains of La Mancha ; whilst the famous Jose Maria, was graced with the more compli- mentary title — a tribute, at once, to his power and his magnanimity— of el SeH r del Campo. The Pajarero was a name of inferior note. When his crimes were recoimted to me. I felt little inclina- tion to pity him. Whatever sympathy I had at my command, had already been bestowed upon the more pitiable objects which met my sight in that mansion of despair. There seemed, moreover, to be a sort of poetical justice in the shutting up of an individual, .who, whilst he had been a monster to his fellow-men, had passed his life in making war against the liberties of those winged inhabitants of the air — those happy oensioners of nature — whose capacities barely fit them to enjoy liberty, and to lan^-iiish and pine away when deprived of it. He was, besides, a most ill- favored and ferocious looking mat aiul the fiscal would do\il)tless have been borne out by Lavater m his assertion, that it was easy to see " his detestable fcoul painted in his countenarre." MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL '87 The prison- was already surrounded by a dense crowd. The escort, v/liich was to conduct the prisoner to the place of execution, Avas at its post, and squadrons of cavalry patrolled the streets leading to It, keeping the way open, and beating back the crowd v\'ith their saores, and trampling upon them with the armed hoofs of their horses, much in the same manner as if the government had still been that of the Absolute King, and the felon a false-hearted liberal. It was expt-cted, and earnestly reported, that there was to be a popular tumult among the serviles, and an attempt by the disbanded volunteers to rescue their heroic ci'mrade. The government, unwilling to betray any weakness, did not however increase the detachment of troops on immediate duty beyond what Avas usual. Yet preparations were secretly made to pour forth an overwhelming military force. The troops of the garrison were ready to marrh at a moment's warning, and individual cava- li( r>- of the body guard, in their gay uniforms and antique casques, were seen at each instant spurring away on their fleet barbs, of the caste of Aranjuez, to carry to the palace the anxiously received intimva- tion that all was still well. I did not look with any particular complacency upon these military youths, notwithstanding their gay uniforms and handsome persons. To be sure, I had once claimed as an intimate and valued friend, a noble young Andalusian — noble not less in the real than in the accepted sense — who belonged to this corps. In general, however, they are neld i^ 98 MUERTK EN OAIUIOTE VII.. little estimation, and never in less than at that moment; f:r, but a few clays before, one of them was detected, by the waiter of a restaurant, in the act of concealing twa silver forks in the capacious receptacle of his trooper's boots, which, however constructed with other motives, were not il.-adapted to the purpose of quiet and unobserved abstraction. After all, there was nothing so strange in this, when one looked at the short distance from the top of the yawning- boot to the tempting cover, a few niches distant on the edge of the table; reflecting, at the same time, that the youth had to support all tlie dignity of a nobility, unsullied on four sides by any mingling of base blood, upon the paltry stipend of tAventy dollars a month. " Viren los chocolalerosT — cried the crowd, as they spurred along, that bfeing the vulgar cognomen applied to them, because choco- late is the only refreshment served to them from the royal kitchen, when on duty at the palace. At length the prisoner was brought forth, tie was dressed in a penitential robe of yellow ; on his head was a cap of the same color, faced by a white cross. His face was pale, less apparently from fear than long confinement, for his frame was not con- vulsed, and his hands trembled not as he grasped before him a paper from which he chanted a prayer, uttered with an earnestness proportioned to the little time that remained to him to make his peace with heaven, and the conviction that he was about to enter on an eternity of bliss or misery, the common belief of a land in which, though there mav be much crimt\ MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL. 89 Jiere is as yet but little infidelity. A dark beard, which was of many days' growla, augmented the ghastliness of his expression. At his side was a friar of the order of Mercy, m a wliitL' habit and a shaven crown, who held before the unhappy man a crucifix, bearing an image of the Savior, through whose intercession he might yet, by repentance, be saved. With one arm the holy man embraced the prisoner, whispering in his ear words of consolation and comfort, and accompa- nying him as he faltered in his prayers. He was seated on a white ass, his legs bound below ; and the patient unconsciousness of the docile animal of the errand on which it was going, contrasted singularly with the interest and irresistible sympathy, which all there felt in the fate of a fellow man, about to enter on the unknoAvn regions of eternity. The brotherhood of Peace and Charity, each mem- ber bearing a torch, gathered closely around the victim, whom, from a sentiment of humanity, and in fulfilment of their solemn vow, they had comforted with their society and aided with their prayers ; for his sake they had become mendicants through the public streets, collecting sufficient alms from the charitable to supply with comfort and decency the last wants of nature; and, when justice should have wreaked its necessary vengeance upon his body, they were to withdraw it from its place of ignomi- nious exposure consign it w th careful decency tb the tomb, and offer prayers and masses for the fc-oul which had taken its flight. 90 MUEKTE EN nARIlOTE VIL So soon as all had reached the street, the soldiers ga- thered round, their serried bayonets seeming to shut out all hope of rescue, and the nuifflod drum biiatins^a monotonous andmournful measure, the procession set forward to the scene of death. The singular combina- tion of this group — the criminal, the ass, the cowled friar in his white robe, the torch-bearing brothers of the Paz y Caridad, the stern and mustachioed warriors who guarded the law's victim, offered to the eye a singular spectacle, whilst the chanting of the criminal and of the compassionating spirits who joined in his prayers, mingling strangely with the hoarse drum, and the measured tramp of the soldiers, bringing nearer al every footfall the moment of the catastrophe — all tended to impress the beholder with a gloomy and terrible interest. *• It was expected, that if there were any riot or attempt at rescue, it would take place in the street of Toledo, before the portal of the Jesuits's Church of San Isidro. Not many weeks later, indeed, an insur- rection did occur there. The population of the adjoining quarter broke forth into mutiny and rebel- lion; liberals and royalists jomed in deadly conflict, churchmen and friars were immolated in the streets, and the pavement was strewed with corpses, and crimsoned with Spanish blood, shed by the hands of Spaniards. But the spirit of rebellion so lately repressed, was not yet ripe for a new e.xplosion. San Isidro was passed without commo.ion of any s <rt, and the procession af. length reached the Plaza. '1 he Didinary avocations, of which it is the daily scene. MUERTE tN GAMROTE VIL. 91 had ceased. It was filled with a crowd of curious spectators. Cloaked men, and women in mantillas, as if arrayed for mass, occupied the whole square, whilst the sheds and the gratings of die surrounding windows were covered with clambering and ambi- tious urchins, each anxious to contemplate, from the highest elevation, the scene which so great a crowd had collected to behold. The balconies were filled with well-dressed people, and from not a few, beauty, — hardened to painful spectacles by the tortures of the arena, — was seen to gaze with curious earnestness. At one of the balconies I noticed the towering and " ilitary figure of the brave colonel of the Madrid Light Horse, to whom I had the honor of being known. I entered the house, and, presenting myseli at the door of the no less doughty countryman of the doughty Dugald Dalgetty, was received most cor- dially, and welcomed to a station in his balcony. I was at once absorbed by the pamful interest which attracted my attention to the person of the culprit. The colonel, on the contrary, was filled with delight, at the spirited manner in whic his horsemen kepi the way open; beating back the more pressing intru ders, by frequent and forceful blows wi\h the flat ot their long Toledo sabres, and reining their steeds most unceremoniously backward upon them. Tim colonel was a fierce liberal. He was delighted witli the way in which his brave fellows routed the rabble mob, and, being armed from cap to rowel, would doubtless have been delighted to have ar. .jpport-.ijity, is indeed he soon afterward? had, ot heading h's 92 MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL squadron, who were drawn up in readiness in the neinhbo)-ing- barrack, and riding down all opposition. The .nstrument of execution was different from what I had been .accustomed to see in Spain. It was the garrote, which the liberals, actuated by the spirit of improvement, exercising itself first as in revolu- tionary France, in a more ingenious method of putting people to death, had substituted for the gallows. The form of it wis very simple. A single upright post was planted in the ground, having attached to it an iron coLar, large enough to receive the neck of the culprit, but capable of being suddenly tightened to much smaller dimensions^ by means of a screw which played against the back of the post, and had a very open spiral thread. A short elbow projected at right angles from the upright post, for the crimimal to sit on, the screw being attached to the post at a distance above, suited to the height of his body. When the procession had arrived at the foot of the gallows, the Bir4catcher was unbound and removed from the ass, and seated upon the projecting elbow of the garrote, which looked towards the east. His legs were again bound securely to the post on which he was sealed, and his arms and body to the_ upright timber at his l)ack. Here he made his last confession at the foot of the scaffold. The friar chanted the prayers which the Church has set apart for the closing scene of life's latest hour. The criminal repeated his responses fervently and audibly. Ho was now convinced that there was to be no reprieve und no rescue. Each moment was more precious Mi/nuTK n; N cari'ote vil. 93 to the salvation of his soul than worlds of treasure. He remembered that the penitent thief had been forgiven at his latest hour — Why might he not hope, being also penitent, to claim that precious promise — "To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise?" The friar whispered words of consolation. He pronounced the promise of absolution, and covering the unhappy man with the folds of his ample robe, thereby signified that he was a pardoned because a repentant sinner, and as such admitted into the bosom of the Church. The scene at this moment Avas one ot awful interest. The eyes of that vast crowd, filling the square, and clustering on gratings, balconies, and house-tops, were fixed with intensely excited gaze on the one object of attention. The battalion of infantry formed an impenetrable phalanx around the scaffold. Behind it, mounted on powerful coal black horses, a squadron of cuirassiers, wdth drawn sabres, and clad in panoply of steel, were drawn up ready for instant action, yet as motionless as death. The glorious sun of.a Castilian heaven, shining through an atmosphere yet more brilliant and unclouded than our own, was sent back in brisfht reflection from cuirasses embla- zoned with its own gorgeous image, glancing from antique casqaes, and flickering round the points of sabres and bayonets. Still for a moment the man of God covered, with his garb of sanctity, the figure of the criminal. And now it is withdrawn, and the executioner w^ith dex- trous art quickly and stealthily adjusts the iron collar to the neck of his victim. A hand is on either end 0/ W MUERTE EN GARROTE VIL. the powerful lever which works the tightening- screw. Liie has reacheii its extremest limit, time is dropping his last sand ; ere y«5t it is quite fallen, one prayer of supplication is uttered for mercy in that eternity which begins. Quick as lightning the motion is given to the fatal lever; a momentary con\'ulsion agitates his frame, and horribly distorts his counte- nance, and the sinner is Vvith his God. The bell of the neighbor-.ng church tolls a mournful requiem from, the top of its tower ; lips are seen to move in muttered prayer to speed the parting soul, and ten thousand breasts are signed together with the cross of reconciliation. A fleet horseman darts away at a gallop to announce to the alarmed inmates of the palace, that justice has not been robbed of its victim, and that its consummation is complete. Thus ignominously died Solorzano, surnamed El Pajarero. His sins to his fellow men upon earth were exfiated; let us hope that he may find mcrcv in •leaven. P(;ace to his soul ! THE RESCUE. Portine jr rather the good foresight of Anne Burras, at .ength trouglij Ihem to a little basin, sunic a few feet into the ground, at the bcttom o/ which bubbled a clear spring, almost the only one in that sandy region. Here, Fenton, who led the van, approaching with the silent caution of a cat, discovered his little Inst sheep. The Indians liad kindled a fire to cooit a piece of venison, and sat quietly smoking their long pipes. Just as they were taking aim, the boy passed suddenly between them and the Ir. Jians. Foster shuddered, and dropped the muzzle of his piece. Again he raised his deadly rifle, and again, just at the actual moment, the boy glided between t>><^ savages and death. — Old Times in the new World, i. K. Pauldino. There was a fountain m the wilderness, A small lone basin, undefiled and bright, Beneath the shadow of the forest king". The immemorial oak — whose giant form. With gnarled trunk, and tortuous branches old, And wreathed canopy of moss and vines, • Filled the transparent mirror. From its depth Of limpid blackness leaped the living spring, A gush of silvery gems, that rose and burst, Studding, but ruffling not, its glassy sheen. It was the height and hush of summer nooii'-- There was no warbling' in the air, ncr hum Of bird or bee, — the very breeze was dead, That evermore amid the vocal leaves Is blithe and musical, — the brooklet's flow Through the dank herbs was voiceless, — and the speli 96 THE RESCUE Of silence brooded, like a spirit's wing, O'er the pure fountain and the giant tree. Worn with the heat, the burthen, and the toil. They rested them beside the lucent marge, The maiden and her captors. — Stern and stil. The tawny hun. ;rs sate, — the thin blue smoke Upcurling from the tube, that steeped their souls In opiate dreams of apathy, — the glare Of the red firelight flashing broad and high On their impassive features, shaven brows, And scalp-locks decked with the war-eagle's plumt Beside them, yet aloof, their delicate prize, The forest damsel lay — the forest flower, Untimely severed from its parent stem. Blighted yet beautiful. Her fair young head Bowed to the earth, her pale cheek wet with wo, And those sweet limbs, that wont to fix all eyes, Wounded and weary ! Yet her heart was strong In glorious confidence ; her calm clear eye Soared upward ; and, although tiie lips were mute Heart-orisons arose, — more fragrant far Than vapory perfumes, — sweeter than the peal Of choral voices, — when some cloistered pile Thrills to the organ's diapason deep In pomp sublime of regal gratitude. And he, the seedling gem, that nestled there In that pure bosom — never more, perchance, Oh ! never more — to glad a parent's soul With beaming smiles and sportive innocence. — No! they were not deserted ' — Hagar found THE RESCUE. » In the salt wilderness a living well ! And Hezekiah saw, at dawn of day, The shouting myriads of Sennacherib Stretched — horse and rider — on the b oodless plain By angel-swords of pestilence divine ! — if ea ! on the cursed tree the perishing thief, At the tenth hour, received the word of gract\ When hope itself was hopeless ! — Who believes Shall never be forsaken — never fall ! — She heard them rustling in the tufted brake — The snapping boughs beneath their cat-like tread — The leaves that shivered, though the clouds aloft Hung motionless, betrayed them ! — They were nigh — Her friends — her rescuers ! — She did not spring In frantic joy to meet them ! — Eye — hand — tongue. With more than Roman hardihood of heart Were still and silent. Yet she marked the range Of the bright rifles, and she dragged him down, — Down to her bosom — in the living chain Of her white arms, that trembled not, spell-bound By agonizing hope vnore keen than fear. Rang the report ! — The stream of vivid fire Swept o'er her, and the bullets hurtled near, Fearfully near, yet harmless. — She is free Clasped in a father's, in a, lover's, arms ! — And they, their brief career of conquest run, The red men sleep, no more the yell to raise Of fiendish Avar, or light the pipe of peace. h. THE PRAYER OF THE LYRE. BY THE AUXnOR OP '' ATALANTIB," " THE TEMASSEB." <fcC. "Sweet accord, — The stars, and whispers of the air, that swells Along the waters. 'Tis * spirit tiuie, And harmony its lanjjiiage. Hear its strain, As of old voices, when the crowding hills Leaned forward, willi l)oguiled ear, to catch The fitful mnniiur, and, with pliant mood, Requited it in echoes, softer far, ind, to the ear, as sweet." I. Calm, beautiful, the night — Sweetly the silvery light Btrews its gay gleams along the slumbering sea: While roving far and near, On fitful wing, the air Brings to the sense a wild strange -.nelody II. And silent is the crowd, The voices, vexed and loi;d. THE PRAYER OF THE LIRE. 99 That had been- death to these SAveet spells around — Oh, let us seek yon beach, Where, full of solemn speech. The billows wake our thoughts to themes profound. III. Night is Thought's minister. And we, who rove with her, Err not to seek her now m scene so bright — Scene .hat too soon departs, Yet meet for gentle hearts. And, like the truth they pledged, lovely in Heaven's own sight. IV. 'Twas in such hour as this. That roused to heaven-wrought bliss, The ancient bard's quick spirit moved the lyre; And, harmonizing earth, Then Music sprang to birth, •And claimed, so sweet her form, a God to be her sire Then the wild man grew tame, And from the hill tops came The shaggy-mantled shepherd with his flocks,— - And, as the minstrel sung. Old Fable found his tongue. And raised a glittering form on all his rocks Kin THE-PRAVnR OF THE LYRE. VI. Is there no hope again. For that high-chanted strain, That streamed in beauty thcin o'er mount and valley wide ; When from each hill and dell, Down brought by Minstrel spell. Bounding, the Muses came, in joy from every side, VII. When, taught by spirit's choice, Each forest-thronging voice Made music of its own for thousand listening ears ; When every flower and leaf Had its own joy and grief. And wings descending came from the less-gifted spheres. VIII. Shall the time never more The old sweet song restore, That made the stern heart gentle ; and to all, The vicious as the good, The kind of heart or rude, B -^Dught spells that swayed each soul in sweetest thrall IX. The sacred groves that then Showed spirit forms to men, # THE PRAYER OF TJIIi, LY^E. lOl And crowned high hopes, a.\iu l,ed to, e?x:l'. i^osCloJij siirine, — The oracles that wore Rich robes of mystic lore, And taught, if not a faith, at least a song, divine, — X, Still silent — will they keep In a cold deathlike sleep. Nor minister to man, nor soothe him, as of old, — Witniing him from his stye. To immortality. Making each feeling true, making each virtue bold,— XI. Oh, will they not descend, Sweet spirits, to befriend, Bring back the ancient Muse, bring back the olden Lyre, Teach us the holier good, Of that more pliant mood, When Self untutored came to light affection's fire, — XII. When — yet untaught to build, In some more favored field, His cheerless cabin far from where the rest abode, — He had no thought so free. But his heart yearned to be Bowed down, with all his tribe, to each domestic God? 9* 10? Tfc'E 'P'K.AVF*R. OF THE LYRE. X.IW. Still keeps the sky as fair, The pleasant Moon still there, And the winds whisper still, as if upon tl em borne Spirits came still to earth, Happy, as at its birth, To rove its shadoAvy walks, now crowded and forlorn XIV. 'Tis man alone is changed — The shepherd — he that ranged O'er the wild hills, a giant in the sun — His soul and eye aloft, His bosom strong, but soft, With spirit, that fresh joy from each new season won.~ XV. Look on him now, the slave i Since that sad knowledge gave The restless thirst that mocks at happy quietvide ; The innocent joy no more, That the old forests wore. Nor yet the charm of song, may soothe his sleepless mood. XVI. Power's proud consciousness, — Ho IV should it ever bless. « THE PRAYER OF THE LVRE. 103 When still it "prompts a dark and sleepless strife, — A sleepless strife to sway, And bear that spoil away, Had been the common stock in his old shepherd life. XVII. Ah, me ! would time restore The ancient thirst, the lore, That taught sweet dreams, kind charities and love, Soothing the spirit's pride, Bidding the heart confide, Lifting the hope until its eye grew fixed above. XVIII. Once, once again, the song. That stayed the arm of wrong, — Once more the sacred strain that charmed the shep- herds rude ; Send it, sweet spirits ye, Who lift man's destiny, — Once more, oh, let it bless our solitude. XIX. Teach us that strife is wo, The love of lucre low, And but high hopes and thoughts are worthy in our aim; Teach us that love alone, Pure love, long heavenward floAvn, Can bring us that sweet happiness we claim. .01 THE PRAYER OF THE LYRE. XX. Ana with that sacred lore, The shepherd loved, once more Arouse the frolic beat of the hope-licensed heart, — When gathering in the grove, Young maidens sung of love, And no cold bigot came to chide the minstrel's art. XXI. Then were these teachers still — This moon, yon quiet hill. The sea, and more than all, the swelling breeze that brings With every hour like this A dream of life and bliss. With healing to the sad heart on its wings. — XXII. Then avouM the chaunted strain. Of the old Bard again, Bring cheerful thoughts once more around the even- ing fire ; Then would the pure and young, Such as the minstrel sung. Once more rejoice to hear, the yriung earth's holy lyre. THE YOUNG 3EV OTEF, BY THE AUTHOR C f AliEN PKEBC-JT. Agnes Callender returned from her evening walk with a glow upon her cheek, not the effect oi exercise, for her step was languid — but of some emotion, proofs of which were still visible in the tears that she wiped from her eyes, as she entered her fathers door. She had been to visit the grave of her mother, who died two months before. When that event happened, she felt herself suddenly reduced to an appalling emergency, for which the previous circumstances of her life, and, as she thought, her peculiar character, entirely unfitted her. — The young vine, torn from its prop, is not more helpless ; nor the shoot, severed from the parent stem, more effectually deprived of the source and nutriment of its young life. To live without my mother ! she would exclaim in bitterness of spirit — O that i should have been brought to this • Being naturally timid, sensitive, and reserved, she was of course distrustful of herself — and her mother was the only friend to whom she ever poured out a full heart — the only one on whose protection and encouragement she constantly relied, or with whom she shared her secrel; soul. lOfi THE YOr vG DEVOTEE. Mr. Callender, although what is commonly called a good-hearted man was severe in his judimients of others — even of thoiie who, being nearly allied to him, might suppose themselves, on that account, entitled to a peculiar degree of indulgence. Having no tolera tion, even of slight imperfections, he was, of course, more apt to blame, than to praise even the praise- worthy. He was, in other respects, an eccentric man, a term which, when predicated upon the master of a family, implies such a deviation from the customs ' and habits that ordinarily make part of the domestic economy, as seriously to interfere with the conve- nience and comfort of all its members. Agnes had a strong sentiment of filial duty, in which she had been carefully trained by her mother — but with that, there mingled another, which shoulc> be forever excluded from the relation of parent and child — it was fear. Her father loved and respected her — but he little knew what treasures of love, locked up in her heart, might have been at his disposal, had not his manners kept her at such a distance from him. At the time I have spoken of, she passed hastily by him, as he stood in the door, and was going up stairs. " Here, Agnes," said he, " stay a moment. I am surprised at this habit you have fallen into of late walks, which are very improper for a young ladj'. Besides, do you know, I have taken my tea alone, and that stupid Phebe gave me green tea — for which I shall pass a sleepless night — a favor I must thank THE YOUNG DEVOTEE 107 you for. — It is strange that young people wi be always about something else, rather than their own proper duties at home." " I am very sorry, Papa," replied Agnes ; " I gave Phebe charge, before I went out, to go and see whether Mr. Stoddard had opened a new chest of black tea — and if not, to get some more of the same that you had before. — I did not think, when I went away, of being out so late." "Then the bread is poor again — Miss Agnes — too close. It is just as easy to have fine bread as any other, and it is a pity to have such a blessing as good bread converted into a curse by mere want of attention. — That's all, now — that's the whole of it — just a little attention would save all this trouble." Agnes ventured modestly to suggest, that Sally, the cook, was much more practised than herself in the art of bread-making, and seldom failed of entire success. " But it is a house-keeper's business to see that every thing is done well — there is no difficulty about it — none at all." — " Papa, shall I read to you now," said Agnes, wishing to change the subject. — " Yes, child, my eyes are unusually weak to-night, and there is an article upon the tariff in that news- paper, which I should like to hear rery much." This duty poor Agnes performed with exemplary patience. Her manner of reading was one thinn with which he seldom found fault. When she bid finished he thanked ner, savin^. 108 THE VOL' NO DEVOTEE. that, in his opinion, there were very few young women of her age, who would have sense enough to read, ijpon such subjects, and attend to them with the interest which she manifested. She could not dis- claim the unmerited praise; because, by so doing^ she must necessarily have revealed to her father, a fact which she preferred carefully to conceal — viz., that she had no share in the pleasure, which she thus afforded him. Agnes was one of those persons who do every thing well from principle. — She devoted herself to the difficult and responsible duties, which devolved upon her in consequence of her mother's death, with untiring zeal and assiduity — and to have satisfied her father would have been to her a sufficient reward. — But since the most trifling deficiency, omJssioit irregularity, or imperfection, in the details of her domestic arrangements, escaped neither his obserA'a- tion nor his censure — and ho rarely bestowed any commendation — it was impossible for her to suspect, what was nevertheless true — that, in his secret heart, he regarded her as one of the best daughters, and most accomplished house-keepers, that a widowed father was ever blessed with. Many a time has she thought within herself — "Oh, if I could 1 ear again my mother's sweet approving tone!" and wept, that it was for ever silenced. A sweet solace always awaited Agnes at the close of the day, which refreshed her after it's wearying cp.res, and imparted to her slumber a tranquillity ol ^hich it was rarely deprived. She had a little sister, THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. 100 Lucy, only four years of age, who was her bedfellow and who, without giving any other symptom ol consciousness, would always kiss Agnes, seeking her lips as she laid do\Mi by her side, and place her hand too on Agnes' cheek, pressed closely to hers. — Agnes assumed the entire charge of this child from the moment of her mother's death — this was the one indulgence — the chief pleasure of her life. Mr. Callender had a degree of sensitiveness upon the subject of order and neatness, which Doctor Rush wo\ Id probably have denominated a species of insanity. It was not uncommon for him to throv/ out upon the floor, and consign anew to the wash-tub, a whole drawer-full of shirts and cravats, on account of a wrinkle in one, a spot upon another, a slight shade of yellov/ on a third, or the wrong folding, of a fourth. An accidental soil upon the table-clotn would deprive all others at the table, if not himself, of the accustomed meal; — and pet as she was, even with him, little Lucy was occasionally banished from the parlor for a day, because her frock slipped off at the shoulder. One morning he took from a bureau, to which he had access, some articles of dress that had belonged to his wife, which he intended to distribute among her friends. — After arranging thern upon the btid, he called in Agnes to assist hirn in their appropria- tion. Not being at all aware of the reason of the summons, she obeyed it with her usual alacruy. Her uniform "Yes, Papa," was heard in responi-.o, and directly she was in his rooi . to ilO THE YOUNG DEAOTEE. Her light step was suddenly arrested as her eye fell upon the gai nents spread before her — and, then, by an irresistibL*. impulse, sh» threw herself at full length upon the bed, as if to embrace the sacred relics, and burst in^o tears. "Whj^ my daughter," exclaimed Mr. Callcnder, in manifest horror — "do you not see what mischief you are doing? Get up, directly." She arose instantly — but her agitation increased, her lips trembled, her sobbing became convulsive, and as she sank into a chair, her knees smote together. Mr. Callender had never witnessed any thino- of the kind in her before — he became alarmed, and rang violently for assistance. He then took her up and laid her gently on the same bed from which he had so rudely ejected her — loosened her clothes — «■ administered restoratives-^ and when he found her, by degrees, regaining her composure, he sat down by her side, and soothingly stroked back the hair which had fallen over her face. When Agnes looked up in grateful recognition of this kindness, and perceived that tears were stream- incf down his cheeks — "she drew him down to her and kissed him. From that moment much of the re- serve, which she had huherto felt towards him, melted away, and there was a softening of his maimers to- wards her — a careful abstaining froi i what niiglit wound or grieve her, for which she lifted up her heart to God in fervent gratitude. Lit;le Lucy was the pet lamb — the darling of the whoU family — and notwithstanding the occasionaJ THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. HI rebuffs which she receh^ed from her father — she was so much indulged and caressed by him — as to regard him without any of the fear that he usually inspired. She was more free than any one else in her inter- course with him, and this very circumstance, without his being aware of it, increased liis fondness for her — and her influence over him — an influence often ex- ercised in softening Agnes' grievances. Mr. Callender was fond of society, and practised unbounded hospitality. The death of his wife check- ed, for a time, his habits in this respect — and Agnes was not called upon for any extraordinary exercise o. her household skill, until she had had the experience of some months in perfecting it. Then, when some public occasion was expected to draw a large con- course of strangers to the town — her father sio-nified to her that on a certain day she must provide a dinner for some ten or twelve gentlemen. This was an event in her life which filled her with solicitude — for besides the responsibility which she felt in regard to the dinner — the idea of presiding over it at table, was very formidable. The efforts to please her father, however, proved successful. The servants were all exceedingly at- tached to her, and for her sake, rather than his, did their best on the occasion. Nothing was too much or too little done — there were no oily gravies — every dish was very nicely served up — not a knife or fork was dropped or rattled by the waiters — not a particle of any thing spilled. The pastry was exquisitely white and flaky — the sweetmeats and jellies admiia 112 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE ble — the apples beautifully polished — th ? nuts crack- ed in the most approved manner — the order of the entertainment, too, was perfect; — in short, every thmg was right, and Mr. Callender felt proud and gratified. Agnes began to breathe more freely in saying tc herself, "It's almost over' — when a toast was pro- posed, which her father sc^id must be pledged in his last remaining bottle of a peculiar kind of wine, whicl he valued particularly. As he raised the glass to' his lips, Agnes, whose eye met his, saw that something was wrong. " How's this, my daughter?" said he somewhat impatiently — "the wine is not pure — here's some mistake." The poor girl felt her cheeks crimson all over, at an appeal which drew upcn her the attention of every one present. She frankly owned, however, that the bottle not being quite full, she had supplied the defi- ciency from another, whose contents were exactly si milar in color and appearance. " I did not know^ that you were such a novice, child" — he replied. Mr. Callender was particularly sensitive upon the subject of his wines, and Agnes knew that this single mistake was sufficient to mar, in his eyes, the whole entertainment. One of the gentlemen present, wishing to relieve her evident embarrassment, politely remarked, that some accident of the kind was almost necessary to convince them that there had not been magic in the preparation of such an erivertainnient by so young a housekeeper. THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. liS Lucy had been introduced just as this unlucky mistake was detected. She went up to her f'atlier, and in the eagerness to get his attention, and beg hina not to make ''sister blush," she jostled his arm, and caused him to upset his glass ^ — "O never mind, Father," said she, " you will have less to drink, now, of that bad wine. But let me taste, and see if it really is spoiled." She put the glass to her lips, and smacked them. " Why, it is very good, 1 am sure, Father ; I don't believe sister could spoil any thing if she should try." "Unless it be you, perhaps, Lucy." Her vivacity and fondness for her sister, excited a general smile, whose contagion infected Mr. Callender himself Her voice was to him what the harp of David was lo the monarch of Israel. As Lu :y passed to the other side of the table to join Agnes, she was arrested by a young gentleman who sat next her, and who, Agnes told her, was Mr. Linwood. He took her into his lap and kissed her. " Has not my sister given you a nice dinner?" — said she — " I helped some — I helped rub the apples " "And who rubbed and polished your cheeks?" " O, sister does that — and this morning, when I held some of the red apples to my cheeks to see which were the prettiest, she said she liked my cheeks the best, a great deal. Isn't that queer ? I guess it is because she can kiss them." "Kiss them — can't she 1 iss an apple's cheeks too?" 10* tU THE YOUNG DEVOTEE " Kiss an apple's ch^-^ks ! apples were not made to kiss." " Why not ? they are very pretty." "But they don't know any thing — they don't love you." " But you love them." "Oh, poh! that's not her kind of love — the way 1 love an apple, is not the way I love sister." Agnes' desire to stop Lucy's loquacity, determined her no longer to delay what she had been for some time trying to make up her mind to — the formidable retreat from table. She took Lucy by the hand and rose to depart. Mr. Linwood, seeing her extreme embarrassment, thought to relieve it by offering his arm to conduct her to the door. He half rose — then hesitated — as if doubtful whether he might not increase rather than relieve it — but at length escorted her. It was then that she perceived the cause of his hesitation in the mal-formation of one of his feet; but this discovery did not destroy the agreeable impres- sion she had previously received from, his fine coun- tenance, pleasing manners, and evident intelligence ; for, in spite of the pre-occupation of her mind, he had, during dinner, drawn her into conversation. Mr. Linwood was a young man who had recently brought letters of introduction to Mr. Callonder — for although the son of an old friend and class-mate — his father's death, which occurred when he was quite young, had suspended all intercourse between the families. THE yOUNG bEVOTEE. lift Nature, in bestowing upon him the richest enoow- rnents of mind, and a good degree of personal beauty, had denied him a perfect physical confornjation. When such a misfortune is inflicted upon a persaa whose nature is sensitive — it modifies, in some way, his character. It probably made Lord Byron a misanthrope. Henry Linwood, on the contrary, felt for all his race a warm and kindly sympathy, \^hich he believed could never be fully extended towards him. This idea made him neither sour nor melan- choly, but it led him to regard himself as, in some respects, an isolated being — and produced a subdued tone of feeling incompatible with any elation of spirits — though he had too much of true Christian philo- sophy ever to repine. It was a perpetual trial, attended, in his case, with those purifying effects which rare and occasional afflictions are sometimes observed to produce upon those who are capable of deriving " sweet uses from adversity." ■ Having inherited a patrimony sufficient to place him above the necessity of consulting his pecuniary interests rather than his tastes, he determined, after completing the course and term of study necessary to invest him with the prerogatives of a professional man, to establish himself in the country. He was a passionate lover of nature, and had a more intimate communion with her, perhaps, from regarding him- self as, in some aegree, severed from man's fellowship. It is, too, in the circumscribed society of a country village, that exists the simplest state of manners rigistent with refinement — and there are no artifi- 116 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. cial observances to repress the full glow of the heart, that he fancied he should bring himself into nearer relation with those among whom he dwelt. He became, of couTse, a frequent visiter at Mr. Cal- lender's, who cultivated his acquaintance, not onljf for his father's sake, but because he found him a most delightful acquisition to his somewhat limited circle. Agnes, insti^'ud of being less disposed to make herselt agreeable to him on account of his personal blemish, was stimulated by a feeling of compassion, to do all in her power towards his entertainment, whenever he was witli them. She was thus induced, when perhaps every other motive would have failed, to throw aside her usual reserve, and be, Avhat some of her friends would have pronounced impossible, under any cir- cum>tance.s, positively sociable. Virtuous effort in another's bel::^lf always brings a reward — and so it proved in her case. Her improvement in that most desirable art, the art of conversation, was rapid and striking. Time rolled on, and Agnes' character gained daily fresh strength. There 'S nothing like the effect of circumstances which impose upon young persons high and responsible duties, in developing and elevating' the character. She gradually acquired confidence in herself, which relieved her of much of ihe suffering and embarrassment to which she had previously been subjected. By degrees, ^he obtained an ascendency over her father's mind ; — she was not unfreqnently his coimsellor, — and he felt a respect fur her which oflen checked his impatience. She even sometimes ventured THE YOUNG DSr.OTEE. IJa gently to suggest that he was not quite reasonable, and found him docile to reproof. On one occasion, when he left home, quite suddenly, for a journey which required considerable preparation, and she was oblig ed to pack his trunk in the least possible time, she accidentally left out a single article of no great import- ance. He did not fail, upon his return, to mention this omission. " Why, Papa," said she, " if that was the only thing you missed, I wonder you do not rather commend me, considering how you hurried me." . " True, my daughter, you are right." There was much speculation among Agnes' ac quaintance upon the wisdom of her course. If she ' were not half as devoted to her father, was the general sentiment, he would not be half as exacting. Mr. Linwood, who being a constant visiter at Mr. Cal- lender's, and now well known in the village, Avas often appealed to on the subject, was accustomed to reply — that in his opinion the best rule, and one which he believed governed Miss Callender in all things, was to perform in the most thorough and devoted manner whatever duties arose out of one's peculiar station. There are few topics of conversation in a village -— and of course Mr. Linwood was frequently discussed. The young ladies thought him agreeable and gentle- manly, and admitted that but for his deformity — he would be a great favorite. "But for his deformity," Agnes would sometimes repeat to herself— "how can that have any other 118 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. effect, than to heighten the interest excited 1 y his fine character, and gifted mind ?" Yet Agnes was not in love, nor did she belong to the class of young ladies most apt to fall in love. Life to her had important duties — noble aims. Devoted to her father and to Lucy — and pursuing, diligently, the course of literary culture and self-improvement commenced under the auspices of her mother, she had not the need, Avhich girls of seventeen sometimes feel, of love, as a pastime, to relieve "her from the ennui ol a vacant mind. Had such a sentiment inspired her in the com- mencement of her acquaintance with Mr. Linwood. she never would have so far overcome her natural reserve in her intercourse with him — nor would he have penetrated the veil sufficiently to discover what it concealed. He was a great admirer of the sex, but considered himself as doomed to celibacy — and this he thought the severest privation connected with his peculiar misfortune. When he perceived that Agnes appeared more animated and agreeabh' in his society than in any other, — when he found her, as olten happened, refusing to dance in their little village parties that she might be at liberty to chat with him, while all the rest were engaged in the favorite anniseinent of youth — he did not think of referring her kindness to any other than the true cause, and gratitude and admirat on were the (et'lings which it inspired. '= 1 declare," said Mr. Callender, as he ynine in one day to dinner, "a few siu-h fiiir CcllDns as lli.u THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. 119 Lin wood, would create a new state of things in a country village like this. I met him this morning, with a Avhole troop of boys at his heels, going in search of stones, insects, flowers any thing they can find for his cabinets, or his herbarium. There is not one oi them who would noi rather spend a holiday in his service than in any other manner. By way of reward, he calls them all into his office every now and then and entertains them with experiments, or in familiar lectures. They will become quite a set of philosophers. In two years time they will know the name and history of every specimen belonging to three depart- ments of natural history — that can be found in this vicinity. Nature did well to disqualify such a man for marriage, that he might devote himself to his race." " But how is it, that his profession does not absorb him ! I have heard the law termed -^ mistress who would tolerate no rival." " I don't know — he must have uncommon industry. When I found that his new office was to be divided into two apartments — one properly his office, and the other fitted up as a mineralogical and entomological cabinet, and furnished too, with some chemical appa- ratus, I thought it was quite out of the question that he should ever become distinguished in his profes- sion — and yet he is rising very fast. " Sister," said Lucy, as she finished her afternoon lessons, " there is one reason why I should rathei go to the district school than to yours, because, then, you know, Mr. Liuwood might perhaps take me, with the other children to get specimens for his cabinets. I will just g-o m\ in llic garden, and see if I can't find a pretty bug for liim now." Just as she was returning with that familiar and favorite acquaintance of all children, a lady-bird, in her hand, Mr. Linwood came in. "01 am glad to see you," she exclaimed — "I have just found some* thing for your cabinet — here it is — my favorite little lady-bird. I should think you would like to have something there that you could call lady." " Thank you, Lucy, your lady shall be installed there with becoming honors." " Ml/ lady — no, not vip lady — for ot?/ lady is sister -she is my mother, and my nurse, and my sister, and my teacher, and my governess, and besides all these, she's my lady — she's my every thing." "But I w^as talking about the lady-bird," said Lin- wood, not appearing to perceive Agnes' embarrass- ment. " I never expect to have any other lady in my cabinet," — and he sighed. "And why not? Don't you like ladies? — would not you like to have a wife ?" " O yes, I should like very well to have a wife, but no lady would like a limping husband, you know." This was the first time that Agnes had ever heard him allude to himself in this way, — and she felt distressed to a degree that made her almost gasp for breath. She was relieved, however, by the entrance of her father, bringing a book which Linwood had ca led to borrow, and, upon receiving which, he immediately took his leave. His remark aw\Tkenei' a new train of reflection in THE Y n I' N G E ^ O T E E . 12l Agnes' mind. She had never before suspected the existence of such a feeling in his. That same evening they met again in a little party. Among other amusements, proposed in the evening, was that of impromptu mottoes. There were one or two married ladies present, known to be gifted with rhyming powers. The mottoes were rolled up, and thrown as fast as they were produced into a box. A person was appointed to read them, and they were appropriated by vote. Among others, there appeared the following: — "For her, who, as a miser's chest, With jealous care, locks up her breast; Find but the key, the sterling gold Is inexhaustible — untold." This was given by acclamation to Agnes, who, blushing, slipped it inside of her glove. It is not to be supposed that she had so little 0/ girlish nature, as not to examine and read it over after she returned home. At the first glance she recognized the hand-writing of Linwood, and a disin- terested observer would have vmderstood, better than she did, the feeling that led her carefully to lock it up in her work-box. " What is that little bit of paper you keep so care- fully, and will never let me touch ?" said Lucy one day, to whom it was something new to have her rummaging privilege curtailed. " Nothing but a motto which I brought home from tMrs. Elmwood's party." " But what makes you so choice of it ?" a J22 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE " Because it is a very pretty motto," and Lricy'? curiosity was allayed. O the fatality which almost inevitably attends a secret ! A few days after, when Linwood was showing to Lucy, who sat on his lap, an exquisite little print, which he would not suffer her to touch with her fingers ; she exclaimed, " Why, you ar^^ as choice of this picture as sister is of the motto which she got at Mrs. Elmwood's party." A flush of pleasure sufTused the face of Linwood. Had he ventured to look at poor Agnes, he would have pitied her notwithstanding. Lucy -was now suffered to handle the print as she pleased; nor was her pricking all round it, to make what she called a pretty border for it, observed by either oT her com- panions. Henceforth life was a new existence to Henry Linwood. It was possible that, in spite of all, Agnes Callender might regard him with a sentiment capable of being cultivated into a permanent attachnient. Her now altered and embarrassed manner tended to confirm liis hopes ; yet it was a long time before he ventured to presume upon them, and just as he had determined to cast his all of lio]ie and happiness upon a single die, something occurred which induced him to delay the important step. Since her mother's death, Agnes 'eceived repeated invitations from a friend of hers, Mrs. Scott, who resided in Boslon, to pass some n onths with her, accompanied by Lucy; but ootwithstanding that lady's 'irguments, in regard to the .mportanoe of ar occ isiona' THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. Sfl residence in toA\Ta to a country girl, and the various attractions of such a visit, which she failed not to set forth in the most glowing colors, Agnes preferred remaining at home. Now, however, Mr. Callender, who had been for sc ne time subject to a severe asthma, having determined to pass the winter in a milder climate, it was arranged that Mrs. Scott's invitation to his children should be accepted. Linwood did not hasten, as others perhaps would have done in like circumstances, to secure his prize, if possible, from the threatened danger of rival com- petitors. He attributed the interest with which he believed, or rather hoped, to have inspired Agnes, in part to compassion ; and with his love there mingled a sentiment of gratitude, which led him magnani- mously to resolve that he would not take selfish advantage of any power which he might thus have acquired over her affections. She had seen but few young men, and she had been almost exclusively limited to the circumscribed society of a country villa o-e. In a more enlarged intercourse v.'ith the world, she might discover that she iiad bestowed her preference prematurely, and, introduced into a state of society where greater importance is attached to circumstances, merely adventitious, she miglit find that she had too much disregarded the obstacle, for such it would commonly be considered, to a union with him. We have never spoken of our neroine's personal appearance, nor did the omission occur to us, until about to introduce her -nto town life, we were remind iM IIIE YCtlNf; DEVOTEE. ud that It is regarded as an item of great inipoi ai,ce when a young lady, in technxal language, makei hei debut. Though educated almost excmsively in the country, she had a natural grace and propriety about her — an essentially lady-like air, which stamps the true gentlewoman. She was tall and well-formed ; her eye, hair and complexion, were beautiful ; and the sweetness and intelligence of her face made you forget that her features were not perfectly regular. She had, besides, a very nice taste in dress, as unerr- ing as instinct itself, which led her to array herself always becomingly. Her style of dress was suited to her character — a style of simple elegance. The incidents ot a young lady's first visit to town, are usually of a monotonous character, that is, they belong to a single class. Mrs. Scott was a woman of fashion, very much in society ; and, persuaded that this was the most important winter of her young friend's life, determined that she should improve it to the utmost, in a continual round of gay amuse- ments. Occasionally, and for a limited period, such a mode of life has charms for most young persons, whatever may be their peculiar tastes or genera! habits. Agnes felt herself excited by it, but still ])reserved her old habit of a systematic distribiition of her time, and kept up, in some degree, her devo- tion to Lucy. She had a fine talent for music, wliich slic hiid already cultivated successfully, with very little iiistrnction ; and in the absence of more serious occMipations, she ;leteriuined to make the most nl liei present oppnrtntr y for no(|u:'riiig thai accomplishmeni THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. .25 inore perfectly — how far Linwood's fondness for sweet sound stimulated her to persevere, in spite of obstacles neither few nor small, in devoting two hours every day to the piano, we cannot say — then one hour of each day was given to Ijucy, in examin- ing the progress she had made at her school during the day, and assisting her in the next day's lessons. Mrs. Scott was quite satisfied with the success of her young iHend. She received a degree of admiration sufficient to have invested her with the rank and distinction of a belle, had it not been that there was something in her general air and manner, which seemed decidedly to disclaim and reject all such pretensions. The SAveet Lily of the Valley could as soon be suspected of aspiring to reach the height, and emulate* the showy coloring of the tulip, in whose neighborhood it chanced to groAV. Among other admirers of Agnes, was Frank Frazier, a nephew of Mr. Scott, a young man of fortune and accomplishment, and particularly distin- guished for his personal attractions. Being on a footing of intimacy at his uncle's, he had an opportu- nity of seeing Agnes in points of view, divested of that enchantment which distance lends, and found r.hat her charms increased just in proportion as he approached her more nearly. In short, he fell in love, and was the most devoted of her train. Mrs. Scott was delighted, for she nad no doubt of the result of his suit ; and flattered herself that, in technical phrase, she had made the match ; a merit which man^- of her sex, in like circumstances, have 126 THE YOUNG DRVOTEE. been eager to claim, without considering what fear- ful responsibuily such an interference must ever involve. Meanwhile, Linwood who had been elected to represent the village of in the state legis- lature, arrived in Boston. Having called when Agnes was out, he missed seeing her until they met at a brilliant party given by Mrs. Frazier. Though he had been in town but a single day, the report, already current, of Agnes' engagement, did not fail to reach his ears through a young lady of his acquaintance who often met her in society ; and though he did not implicitly believe it, he felt that it was but too p'obab!(\ He was impatient to see her, and judge for himself; and when his eye first fell upon her, she was stand- ing np in a dance with her reputed lover by her side. Struck Avith his elegant appearance, and mistaking the flush and the glow, which in Agne.s were merely the effect of the exhilarating exercise, for the anima- tion of joy and hope, he believed that he saw with his own eyes, a confirmation of the report which had so much agitated him. " How deadly pale you are, Linwood," exclaimed a young man of his acquaintance, who observed his sudden change of countenance. " It must be the fume of these vile lamps that affects you so disacree- ably." At that moment the dance broke up, and it chanced chat Agnes' partner conducted her to a seal near THE Y O TJ N (J D E V O T E E . I"7 ■.vliicli Linwood stood. Glowing as her cheek already was, a deeper hue suffused it as they exchanged a joyful recognition. The diamond is the common illustration of a bright eye. That of Agnes always reminded me of the unrivalled gem, whenever any thing occurred that gave her peculiar pleasure. Then it flashed, and shot a brilliant gleam, such as the diamond emits when a bright ray of light kindles its magic blaze.. And thus it flashed as it encountered that of Litt- wood ; but he thought it was only natural that she should be excited by seeing, after such an unwonted absence from home, one who was associated with ail its cherished remembrances. Her animated conver- sation connected with those remembrances, occupied them until supper was announced, when Frank offered her his arm, and escorted her to the table. " Who is that unfortunate piece of deformity,"' he asked, " upon whom your smiles are so readily bestowed ?" and looking down with complacency upon his own finely turned leg, he added, " they should be reserved for those to whom nature has not denied a claim to them." " He is a young man," replied Agnes, " from whom nature, in lavishly bestowing upon him her richest gifts, was obliged to withhold one which, though desirable, is certainly of far inferior value to the rest, lest she might be suspected of departing from that system of compensation, by which she has the credit of being guided in all her operations." It was the first time in her life that Agnes had 128 THE VOUNG DEVOTEE, spoken so boldly, or with so much implied srrri- rily. She had but lately begun to believe, notwith- standing Mrs. Scott's hints and insinuations, that Frazier was really enicting the suitor. Being tired of him, she was desirous that he should discover her indifference as soon as possible : and her indignation at the coarse and unfeeling manner in which he spoke of Linwood, roused her to say that in behalf of the latter, which would have touched him in his weakest point had he been more sensitive. He had, however, sufficient conceit to save him from any personal application of this speech ; nor did the possibility that he might find, " in that piece of deformity," a rival, occur to him. It is impossible to say, whether Agnes would have been more sorry or glad had she known that her words reached Linwood's ear, as, in passing to the other end of the table, his progress was interrupted for two or three moments just by her chair. He was at no loss to apply them, although he had not heard the observation that called them forth. " Noble girl," he inwardly exclaimed, and yet he doubted whether she felt for him any thing more than a senti- ment of high esteem. Two weeks passed away, after these incidents occurred, during which delicacy compelled Agnes to play an equal part between her lovers. • She scrupu- lously avoided receiving from Frank any attentions which might be supposed to proceed from other motives than politeness; nnd, as Linwood had never ■.leclared himself, she felt not at all sure that therv THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. \Jf) existed, on liis part, a fender sentiment towards lier. She therefore carefully guarded, almost from herselt! and still more from nmi, the secret of a latent prepos- session in his favor — which under favorable circum- stances might be fully elicited. Her intercourse with both, howe 'er, was completely suspended for some weeks, oy the illness of Lucy, suflering under a severe attack of scai.et fever. The physician did not hesitate to pronounce that her life depended upon the most careful nursing; and by no argument or intreaty could Agnes be induced to leave her a moment, except to take some slight refreshment in an adjoining apartment. Even after the child was pronounced convalescent, the fear of a relapse retained Agnes at her post. Fmding that she still refused to lea\-? Lucy, Frank became impatient, and determined no longer to delay a formal declaration of his sentiments. A less confi- dent lover might have thought that such an exposure to open rejection had been already rendered unnecessary. Having selected an exquisite little sheet of note paper, with an embossed edge, and inscribed with a specimen of his most elegant penmanship — he carefully folded it — sealed it with a cameo seal, and slipping it inside of a letter which he had just brought for her from the post-office, sent it up to her room. The letter was from her father, from whom she had not heard for several weeks, and by the time she had read it through, the note, which had accidentally fallen on the floor, was entirely forgotten, until Lucy directed her attention ;o it. i30 THE YOUNG DEVOTEE. Its 'mport was to this effect — that he had nt /er before experienced so severe a privation as the loss, for so long a time, of her society ; that such a trial was not necessary to convince him of what he had previously discovered, that she was indispensable to his happiness — and that nothing but an acknow- ledgment, on her part, that these sentiments were reciprocated, could reconcile him to a lonjer separa- tion. Agnes replied, thanking him for his professions of regard, and added, that in responding to them, she must limit herself to terms of common friendship. A few days after this, Linwood, who, besides longing to see Agnes once more, really began to entertain serious fears for the effect, upon her health, of such prolonged confinement, called to inquire about her and Lucy. He requested that Mrs. Scott would do him the favor to carry a message to Miss Callender, entreating that she would consent to walk out and take the air. Lucy, who had never before been willing that Agnes should leave her a moment, joined in the request; but bade Mrs. Scott tell Mr. Linwood, that she would not have spared her sister to any one but him. They had proceeded but a few steps, when they met Frank Frazier, who passed them with a slight touch of the hat. Linwood knew instantly from his manner, that an explanation, unfavorable to his suit, must have taken place between him and Agnes; and the joy excited by this discovery, was visible in the TilE VOUNG DEVOTEE. TJI uncommon vivucity of his spirits during the whole WLllk. Just as they were returning, " Tell me, Agnes," said he, " for I will not longer bear this uncertainty, shall I, in formally declaring what must have been apparent to you, doom myself to the fate which I see you have inflicted upon our friend?" " I could not find it in my heart to inflict upon you, a fate that you would regard as evil," replied Agnes, in some confusion. At that moment the door was opened. " An revoir" said Lin wood, as, pressing her hand, he bade her good morning, and she passed up to her room. A long communication which she that day received, to which a text had been furnished by the above conversation, met a different reception from that which had been given to Mr. Frazier's note. " What does make you read that ^etter over, and over, and over, sister ?" asked Lucy. . As Mr. Callender was supposed to be about this time on the point of returning home, Linwood thought it useless to apply to him, by letter, hi- his sanction to theoe important measures. He had received so many and such unquestionable proofs of Mr. Callender' a iMitire confidence and respect, not to say personal attachment too, that the possibility of any objection on ills part, to bestowing upon him his daughter, had n 3ver occurred to him. Pie left Boston a week or two after the eventful ijii THE VOliNG ULVOTEE. explanation had taken place, and was soon IbllowrJ by Mr. Callender and his children. As the enerag^ement had not become known to Agnes' friends, and she was too modest to speak of it to her father, he remained in utter ignorance of the whole affair, until it was announced to him by Linwood himself, when, contrary to all expectation, he expressed the most positive and entire disapproba- tion of it, gfivinaf as a reason that which Linwood had feared might constitute an obstacle with the daughter, without suspecting that it could affect the mind of the father. This was a blow from which it was not easy to recover, and many days passed before he emerged again from the seclusion of his own solitary apart- ment. Meanwhile her father did not fail to inform Agnes of the result of Linwood's application, and to give her his whole mind upon the subject. She was like the lamb led to the slaughter, whi:h opens not its mouth, until he had exhausted a.l he had to say; when she simply replied, " Thei, henceforth, sir, I devote my life to you." " I don't know about that, child ; these young hearts are amazingly susc-ptible — impressions are easily made and easily efTiiced." Mr. Calleiuler had not derived the benefit to liis health, from his voyage ami winter residence, which he PKpected. He had mistaken the nature of the climate ho had sought in supposing it suited to his omplaint, T HE \0 V N (. I) t. V o 1 E E . 133 whici. iL /either aggravated than allayed. He had many severe attacks in the course of the summer, and Agnes devoted herself to him with untiring assiduity. When so ill that he was obligud to sit up all night, as not unfrequently happened, she would not leave his room ; but threw herself upon a sofa, whence she often rose to see if he did not require some attention. She even gave up, very much, the care of Lucy, and sent her to a school in the neighborhood. She hardly saw Linwood, for Mr. Callender's ill health, being of a kind particularly to unfit him for conversation, served him as a pretext for staying away ; and he felt that to meet often would be painful both to himself and Agnes. Occasionally, however, when admitted by particular request of the invalid to his sick room, he gazed at Agnes' altered appearance with a look of the most tender solicitude. "'Tis true, Linwood," said Mr. Callender, replying one day to his companion's looks, not his Avords — " 'tis ii-ue, the poor girl is suffering much from this unremitting attendance upon me. But what is to be done? she will not leave me, and I -—I am very dependent upon her." As he finished speaking his eyes filled with tears. Three or four months passed away, and Mr. Callender began to experience a sensible mitigation of his complaint. As he became again capable of enjoying society, he was eager as ever for that ol Linwood; who, in spite of the estrangement of feeling produced by what he considered unjust and unreason- r.ble conduct or his part, retained too sensible a 12 Hfi THE VOL NG DEVOTEE. remembrance of former obligations, and folt too conscientiously the duties which persons in hcahh owe to the sick, to withhold what seemed to give him sc much pleasure. , At first it was Agnes' custom to escape from the room soon after he entered ; but, by degrees, she found herself quietly retaining her accustomed seat, and listening to his conversation with more pleasure, than any thing else, saving always Luc}-'s fond caresses, could now afford her. And why was not Mr. Callender afraid of this continued intercourse? How could he hope that Agnes' affections would be weaned from Linwood when they were thus continually supplied M'ith fresh food? He did not analyze his feelings upon the subject, and, had he done so, he would have been at a loss, perhaps, to answer these inquiries. Agnes' great Qv"otion to him had made him doubt the reason- ableness of his conduct towards her, and he was perhaps willing to follow, as chance might le:^, to a retrieval of his error. One evening, as she was performing some little service for him, when Linwood was present, he said to her, "My child, you have long been doing all in your power for me; 'tis time that I should do some- thing for you. I am going to my room to write a letter, and will leave you to consult with Mr. Linwood on the choice of your reward." He advanced as far as the door, then returned — "My dear friend," said he, addressing himself t) Linwood, and taking him by th(i hand — "I am aeeply indebted to you both. TMU VOUNO DEVOTEE. 135 Assuriie each my debt to the other, and pay it as you best may. IVIy long sickness has rid me I hope of some follies, and among others, that of thinking that there is any reasonable bar to the union which you both desire." He then rcireated, leaving the 1< vers to quaff together the delicious cup thus unexpectedly present- ed to their lips. STANZAS. Still haunted, wheresoe'er I fly, Yet doomed for aye to fly alone — I cannot live, yet may not die, Still seeking what is still unknown. Hear thou, who wi^' not leave me free. Hear but the prayer I now prefer — The dream of love thou'st taught to me, Unteach n, quite, or teach to her. LAKE GEORGE. Not in the bannered castle — Beside the gilded throne — On fields where knight'ly ranks hav^ itroac In feudal halls ^— alone — The spirit of the stately mien, Whose presence flings a spell Fadeless, on all around her. In empire loves to dwell ! Gray piles, and moss-grown cloistert Call up the shadows vast. That linger in their dim domain — Dreams of the visioned past! As sweep the gorgeous pageants >>y, We. watch the pictured train. And sigh that aught so glorious Should be so brief and vain. But here a spell yet deeper, Breathes from the woods, the sky ; Proudlier these rocks and waters speak Of hoar antiquity. ' 3 J > 3 J 3'V 3 3 J t c f « C ' c , .c t cc « « • « « « LAKE GE0RC;E. Here nature built her ancient realm, While yet the world was yoiing; Her monuments of grandeur Unshaken stand, and strong. Here shines the sun of Freedom Forever, o'er the deep Where Freedom's heroes, by the shore. In peaceful glory sleep. And deeds of high and proud emprize In every breeze are told — The ever^.asting tribute To hearts that now are cold ! Farewell, then, scenes so lovely! If sunset gild your rest, Or the pale starlight gleam upon The water's silvery breast — Or morning on these glad green isles In tremblmg splendor glows, — - A holier spell than beauty Hallows your pure repose? 12 37 DEATH OF GALEAZZO SFORZA. Galeazzo, Duke of Milan, wa 5 assassinated A. D. 1476, on St. Stephen's day, while entering the church, by three young men, — Lainpognano, Viscor.ti. a>ul Olgiato ; who, in addition to their hatred of his public career, were irritated against liiiu by private injuries. The first two were im- mediately killed by the guards, but Olgiato made his escape. Being refused shelter and su.stenanie by ail his friends, except his nioiiier, he wai afterwards taken and executed on the scafifold. His last words were,— ■' Mors actrba, Jama perpetua ; stabil vetus mcmoria facii." 'TwAS morn; the sun upon a throne of- light, Poured forth his golden smile, unclouded, bright — From Alpine hills the moon was seen to rise. Shaping" from earth a pathway to the skies. The song u! streams was heard in joyous sweep And nearer still, the murmurs low and deep Of human tones. A mighty city lay In the warm light — where shone the awakened day On burnished roof, and towers, and glittering spires, Whose kindling peaks shone all with nnswering fires It was a holy day — and many a bell Pealed out its summoning tones in solemn swell; And all obeyed. The priest in robes of white. Which seemed to enfold the consecrated light, Passed slowly on — and meekly in his train The crowd that sought his 'vords of life to gam. The peasant, there, his labours ceased tiwhilp. DliATH OFGALEaZZU SFORZa. 13 And passed with brow composed and thoughtful smile; The noble, too, forgetful of his pride, With his unemulous serf walked side by side; The stately knight dreamed not of victories won, And waved no glittering falchion in the sun , But passed with humble port to worship Him, In whose high sight the deeds of earth grow dim. Yet passed a few amid the silent throng, Whose bosoms burned with passions cherished long ; With high resolves, matured and hid in night. Yet in the hours of darkness gathering might, Like the pent torrent, struggling with its chain, With deadlier rage to desolate the plain. They, too, passed on — with step subdued, and mien Humblest of all that in the crowd were seen ; Yet oft the lip comprest — the glancing eye. Whose quick keen look would scan each visage nigh, Marked them as strange, — perchance for men ol crime Stained with remorse, unsoothed by changing time ; And one by one, the multitude, in fear, Shrank from their side. Oh ! long the moment near, By those stern spirits, had been Avished and sought ! Where'er their steps had been, a single thought Had fired each breast — stern, restless, mastering stil! Each weaker passion, and each selfish will. They saw their place of birth, iheir fathers' land Sunk 'neath the pressure of an iron hand. They heard the sighs, a mighty nation poured - The deep curse, breathed upon its tyrant lord — - A.nd, pledged to vengeance, swore that from her chain. ,'0 DEATH OF GALEAZZO SFORZA. Their country should arise to life again, ' Though the stern blow for which the sword they drew To free tlieir land, should crush her champions too ! The hour was come; — they reached the lofty gate; The archway frowned in proud and sculptured state, Fit entrance to such temple ! — " 'Tis thv' spot Appointed — and the hour — why comes ho not?" — Within, a solemn strain of music rose, Breaking the silent temple's rich repose; And as the anthem swelled upon the ear, Without, the tramp of hastening feet they hear; And dark eyes flashed — as proudly to their sight, [n gorgeous robes, with many a chosen knight Ranged at his side, the haughty sovereign came. Fresh blessings from insuUed Heaven to- claim ! Nor deemed that righteous vengeance, long delayed. Watched for her prey beneath the sacred shade. He strode yet on — he stood beside the door — His step that tlireshold shall profane no more! " God and St. Ambrose!" — Starting at the cry. Their consecrated weapons gleamed on high ! — " God and St. Ambrose !" answering to the sound. Their swift blows felled the tyrant to the ground ! A moment — and 'twas o'er — prosuate he lay, A hundred death-wounds gaping to the day — While darkly on his brow, of life bereft, Her seal of pride the parting spirit left. In wild amazement stood his menial train; — And could no tongue awake the shout again? Burst there no voice of rapture, to proclaim Their country tree to liail her cliampions' name? DEATH OF G\I,EAZZO SFORZA. ]41 Were there no hearts whose burning wrongs called loud For such revenge, in all that wondering crowd? There were ! hut pan -, chilled each throbbing breast, Where thoughts of daring had no longer rest! They dared not strive for freedom ! And they saw. Panting to aid, but quelled by slavish awe, Those fated men, whose crime had been to biave Untimely death, their bleeding land to save, Hewn down by numerous swords ; — they heard t .e groan. They saw the desperate struggle, as alone, Unsuccored, two already sunk to die — The third then flung his reeking blade on high, And sought escape by flight. On every side The multitude in silent fear divide, And as he vanished from their bafiied sight, Half uttered benisons pursued his flight. ******** The scene was changed : — the slow and solemn tread Of mingled crowds, and anthems for the dead, Were heard, low swelling to the cloudless sky; — And near, the frowning scaflbld rose on high ; While he who Avas to pour his life-blood there, Came forth with haggard brow, and bosom bare, Led by the ministers of royal hate. Who scowled exulting o'er their victim's fate. Yet in his dauntless mien, and bearing high. And the proud anger of his scornful eye. He bore what quelled his foes, and from his name Rack on their conscious bosoms turned the shame I 42 DEATH OF CALKAZZO SFORZA. Bound, and with step that faltered but with pain. He stood upon the scaflbld ! I'hrough the train Which thronged the space around, a murmur passed Low, deep, and universal, — like the blast That scuds through forest boughs, a stirring thrill, Bowing their tops — and all again was still. Was it expiring freedom's latest cry? He knew not — cared not — hither brought to die, What recked it that his undeserved fate Should rouse their pity ? It was now too late ! Who — when from tyrant vengeance he had fled, The price of princely murder on his head. And sought in vain, throughout his native land, A spot for refuge — Avho, in all that band Which stood to watch his death, had dared to give A sheltering home, and bid the wanderer live? None — none ! all shrunk in terror from his touch ; Priest — soldier — father — brethren ! 'Twas too much< The sufferer from patrician wrath to hide — And all the boon of sustenance denied ! How oft, in shelter of some Alpine wood, The brute his comrade, and wild herbs his food, Lone had he roamed, when stars were in the sky, Or lh(; wild storm careered through clouds on high, '^Vo snatch a look at scenes beloved in vain, Which his sad step might never tread again ! How often had he cursed, with bitter hi art. 'I'he coward souls which shuiuied to bear their part In the liigh deed that might have made all free, Had such been formpil to cherish liberty! Y^et was there one — \ s one — wlio would have given DEATH OF UALEAZZO SFORZA. 143 tier hearts last drop to save him. — wou\i hav,- striven Singly 'gainst earth and heaven ! She alone Received him, to all love besides unknown! — She, only, Avatched, with daily, hourly care, And poured for him the agonizing prayer ! — His mother ! Now, when all the timid throng Retreated, to the scafTolds foot she clung. And wept alone. Oh ! prou-.:ly he had borne The rabble's pity, and patrician scorn. — But this — the bitterness of death was here! He turned away, and checked the gushing tear ; While coldly on his sickened sense, a knell To hope and life, the deadly summons fell. They took his chains away — and free once more, The life-warm tide, so checked and chilled before Burst in bewildering vigour on his brain, And nerved him to forgotten joy again. He saw afar beneath the smiling skies, His native hills in pencilled beauty rise He saw, through vallies bright with summer g-ee^ The Po sweep on to join the distant sea; The lines of sunset in their bland repose. He saw recline on gleaming Alpme snows; While o'er the humbler woodland's sloping swell, Calm, mild, and rich, the golden glory fell ; And near, the stately city stood in pride — Alas ! fair land ! 'twere rapture to have died For thee, if in thy breast the martyrs doom Could light one spark, to banish slavery's gloom! Wildly toward Heaven his arms unchained he threw-- 144 DKATH OI-- n A I.K A 7. /ri >IO!!/.A. "'Tis not" — he proudlj' cried — "'tis not for you, " Degraded race, who meekly trembling, tread " Your fatiiers' land, and shame the glorious dead.— "My sentence to record! — Yon hills, which stand " The everlasting guardians of this land — " Yon river's ancient tide — the eternal sky — " These are my witnesses ! — -here must I die — " But these — which saw my treason, and behold "The guerdon ye bestow on hearts too bold — " When no dark art of malice can prevail, " To future years shall tell the impartial tale! " My death is bitter, but from no true heart " The memory of my wrong shall e'er depart I " The deed is fixed, and ages yet unborn "Shall know on ichom to hurl the sh.aft of scorn." He said, — and glanced one brief and farewell look; Then bowed his neck, that knew no yoke to brook, One moment high the unshadowed weapon gleamed — The next in crimson tide life's current streamed! A cry was heard — 'twas not from him who bled. — But full of startling anguish, wild and dr-jad. Woman's heart-broken shriek — such as c.Aild pour C*ite breast a.one, when its last hope ^^■AS o'er ! AMY cranst:un. BY THE ACTHOB OP REDWOOD, HOPS LESLIB, BTC The famous Indian war, which endec in the destruction of the chieftain of Mount Hope and his adherents, broke out just a hundred years before our revolutionary war; a circumstance which Ave leave for the speculation of those who believe that certain periods of time have a mysterious relation and depen- dance, while we use it merely to fix the date of a domestic story, some important portions of which have been omitted on the page of history, rather we should hope fi-om its fitness for a cabinet picture, than from its insignificance. Madam Cranstoun, at that period, resided at Provi- dence, and was, we believe, the wife of the governor of Providence Plantations. If we are mistaken in his official dignity, we are not in the fact, that he is set down in history as a "notable gentleman." There was living with Mrs. Cranstoun, a dependant on her bounty, an orphan niece of her husband. Amy Crans- toun. Amy had the figure of a nymph, and a face that expressed a freedom and happiness of spirit that even dependance, that most restricting and acidifying of all states, could never subdue nor sour ; and an 13 rt6 AMY C RAN ST O I N. innocence and open-henrtedness, Avithout fear, and without reproach. It cannot be denied that the elderly persons of the strict community in 'which she lived, looked upon her as a very unapproveahle and unedifying damsel : still she had the miraculous art to open a fountain of lo\e in their hard bound bosoms. She had the irrepressi- ble gayety of a child. Her elastic step seemed t(> keep time with the harmonious springs of youth ana joy. At ill times and seasons, and, it must be confessed, without any very reasonable relation to persons or circumstances, her musical voice would break forth in song, or bursts of laughter — " That without any contiul, But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung frOni her soul." Poor Amy often offended against the rigid observances of her contemporaries. She would gape, and even smile in the midst of the protracted Sabbath-service, and that in spile of the bend of her uncle's awful brow, her aunt's idmonitory winks, and the plummet and rule example of her cousins — maiden ladies, some fifteen years older than Amy, who were so pfjrpendicular and immoveable, that our gay little friend sometimes suspected that the process of petri- faction had begun about the vital region of their hearts. Amy had a wonderful facility in committing to memory "ungodly ballads and soul-enslavincr songs," but a sort of intellectual dyspepsia when she attempted to digest sacrc: literature. She iu;ver repeated an answer accurately in the assembly'? AMY CRANs. OITN 147 catechism ; and though she did not, as is reported of those "afflicted by the Salem vv'itches;' J'abi.l at the reading of that precious little treatise entitled, •' Cotton's Milk for Babes," she was sure tc fall asleep over it, the very opposite effect to that intended by the author of this spiritual food. She reached the age of eighteen w^ithout acquiring the current virtues of her day ; but hor beauty, spirit, or sweet temper, or all of them imited, attracted more suitors than her exemplary and well-proportioned cousins could boast through their long career. Among the rest came one Uriah Smith, the son of Deacon Smith, a precious light in Boston. Uriah was a fair, sleek, softly looking youth, grave and deliberate, and addicted to none of the " fooleries and braveries" of the coxcombs of the day. So said Madam Cranstoun to Amy, for Uriah had not, like young Edwin, "only bowed," but had told his love — not to the niece, but most discreetly to the aunt. Madam Cranstoun, amazed at the wonder-working Providence, as she was pleased to term it, that had set before her niece the prospect oi such a "companion," communicated, to Amy, Uriah's proposition, Vv'ith all the circumlocution and emphasis a prime minister might have employed to announce a royal bounty ; but most ungraciously did Amy receive it. She sat the while calmly drawing with her pencil on the blank leaf of a book, her face unmoved, except that now and then a slight but ominous smile drew up the corners of her mouth. " Cousin Amy ! cousin Amy !" exclaimed her aunt, " give m.e that book, and let" me hear you testify your thankfulness ;^;« AMY CRANSTOrN. for a favor of which, sooth to say, you are abnnuaiitly unworthy." " Well, there is the book, aunt Cranstoun, and let ii speak for your ' unwprthy' niece." One glance at the pencilled page sufficed. Amy had delineated there a striking resemblance of the overgrown angular Rosinante, on which Uriah had rid to his wooing, and for the rider she had portrayed the form of Uriah, and the face of a monkey! "Shame! shame to you, Amy!" exclaimed her aunt, " daic you thus to trifle with so serious a subject ?" " The subject is too serious, I confess, aunt, to be trifled with, and therefore, being an incorrigible trifler, I must decline it altogether." Madam Cran- stoun stared in dumb astonishment. " I am in earnest, aunt," continued Amy, "Master Uriah must seek a more suitable helpmeet than your foolish niece." " Foolish! — both foolish and wicked. Amy." Ma- dam Cranstoun lost her self-command. " Yea, wicked, withoui. leave, counsel, and consultation, from and with those who have given you -shelter, food, and raiment from your cradle, blindly and scofiingly to reject this little-to-be expected, and most umnerited provision for your protection and maintenance through life." Amy's frivolity, if it must bo called V/ so hai'sh a name, vanished, while half indignant and hal) subdued, her cheeks burning, and tears gushinp from her eyes, slic said — "For food, raiment, and shelter, and for every kindly-spoken word, ann* AMY CRANSTOUN. 149 Cranstoun, the only child of your husband's sainted sister thanks you, and will, please God, testify her gratitude lor your past bounty by every act of duty and devotion to you and yours. But I implore you, in the name of the God of the fatherless, not to drive me from the house of dependance to a house of bondage — the vilest bondage, service without love, fetters on my affection — joyous would they be in a voluntary service, but rebellious and improfitable in a compelled one." Madam Cranstoun's heart was touched. She perceived there was reason as well as feeling in Amy's appeal. " Well — well, child," she said, " you know I do not wish to put a force upon you. I do not, nor ever did, feel you to be a heavy burden on us ; I only ask you to take the proposition of Master Uriah into consideration, and try to love him, as it becometh a virtuous maiden to love a worthy suitor." " Oh, aunt, ask me to do any thing else, but indeed there is no use in trying to love. I did try, and for one of whom, I confess, I was not m any sort worthy ; and whom, beforehand, I should have deemed it right easy to love, but the more I tiied the more impossible I found it." " And for whom, I pray you, did you make this marvellous trial?" Amy was silent. "Not, I am sure, for Master James Chilton ? — nor Nathaniel Goodeno ?" Amy shook her head. " And you woul . not. Amy," continued her aunt with a more scrutinizing glance, "you would not try io love that lawless young spark — I will not mention his name, 1 15C AMY (• i; A N STf)l N . since your uncle has forbidden it to be spoken within his doors." Amy felt her face and neck flushing and burning, and to avert the risfht inference from her treacherous blushes, she did what may be most pithily expressed by a vulgar proverb, 'jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.' " No, no, aunt,'' she said, " he to whom 1 allude is far — far away, and has I trust forgotten me." "Surely — surely, Amy, you do not mean "VVick- liffe Wilson ?" " I do, aunt," replied Amy, with an irrepressible smile that abated the virtue of her humble tone of voice. " Oh, Amy !" exclaimed her aunt, in a voice of sorrow and rebuke, " you amaze and distress me. I knew you to be giddy and trifling to a degree, but I never before thought you senseless and hard- hearted." She paused, and then added, as if a sudden light had broken upon her, "Ah, I see it all now! Little did I think when Wicklifte was spending his precious time, day after day, in teaching you thf tongues, that Satan was spreading a snare for him. How could the learned and pious youth sufler his afTections to be wasted upon such a piece of laughing idlesse ! WicklifTe Wilson, the honored son of an honored sire! the gifted youth! the hope of the plantation ! Amy, Amy, was it for tnat his eye lacked its lustre, his cheek became sunken and pale, and !;is heart waxed faint! — love of ?/»//, Aniv, that has sent him forth from his father's linuse. AMY CRANSTOtlN. IB\ ana from his native land, and without one accusing word or lo )k ?" Amy burst into tears. " He was most generous." she said, " I would have done any thing to manifest my gratitude to him, and as I truly told you, aunt, 1 did try in earnest to love him." "O pshaw, child! — I see through it all. Yju could not choose hut have loved him, had not your unbridled aflfections strayed another way. The sooner vou recall them the better, for never — r:ever shall you wed with Lovell Reeve — a foil, a cjntrast truly lo the worthy youth WicklifTe!" Thus pursued, Amy turned and stood at bav. " Aunt Cranstoun," she said, " worthy and noble as WicklifTe may be, and I grant him so, Lovell Reeve, in all gentlemanly points, in all high sentiment and right feeling, is his equal — his equal in every thing but yours and my uncle's esteem ; and I have long believed, without the courage to tell you so, that some one has traduced him to you." " Nay, Amy, his own ill deeds dispraise hiu). Did he not join the galliards of Boston, in their assemblings fo; dancing and other forbidden frolics ? Did he not aid and abet — nay, was he not the sole instigator and agent in conveying dame Hyslop beyond the Massachusetts, after it was well nigh proven that *he was the confederate and vowed servant of Satan, in bewitching Levi Norton's children? — and was not Lovell Reeve foremost, ard ringleader of those ungodly youths, who discredited the right of the assistants, and openly opposed tln' i52 A M Y C R A N S T O C S . driving forth of the Quakers, and the extirpation of their blasphemous heresy? ' " I believe, aunt, he has done all this." " And still you dare to even him with one, who is in full communion and fair stan ling with the church, and whose walk has been, like pious Samuel's, even from his youth, in all godliness." " Oh, aunt, the Scripture says there be divers gifts ; WicklifFe's are not Lovell's, neither, under favor I say it, are Lovell's, Wickliffe's. And now," she continued, throwing herself on her knees before her aunt, and clasping her hands, " Now, my dear aunt, that I have boldly foregone maidenly modesty, and spoken, in some measure as I feel, of my true-love, let me plead with you, by all your care for my well- being — by all your gentle, womanly thoughts and memories — by that pure and interchanged affection which Lovell and I have plighted before God, I beseech ye let me follow the biddings of my heart, and profess before the world what I have revealed to you, instead of hiding it like a guilty passion in the depths of my heart — you do feel for us ! — you cannot help it — Oh speak to my uncle." Amy had skilfully touc led a powerful spring. Her aunt was affected by her lialf voluntary confi- dence ; but though the long congealed sources of sympathy were softened, thi-y were not molted, and when Amy mentioned her uncle, the subject, in Madam Cranstouii, reverted to its old light. " Rise, my child," she said, "it i.l becomes you to put your'jclf in the posti've of a si ly damsel of romnnre AMY CRANSTOUN. MS Your uncle and I cannot rectde from a decision made after due and prayerful deliberation. I nou- perceive that you an- apprised of the youth liOvell having applied to us — not as he should have done before communins with you, — for leave to make suit to you, to which Ave answered with a full negative., and stated our reasons therefor, which, were he of a right temper, would have been satisfactory. We have fully warned him not to urge you to an act of disobedience and secured his compliance by inform- ing him that any marriage bounty, which your uncle might purpose, would be withheld in case of your failure in duty due." " You mistake his spirit — he spurned the threat, and urged me to forfeit my uncle's gift ; and by my troth, aunt, it was not in the wealth of the Indies to hold me back, but I did fear to violate my duty to you, and I hoped you would grant my prayer svhen I dared to make it to you." " Never, Amy, never. I commend you in as far iS you have acted wisely in the past ; and for the future I command you to dismiss Lovell Reeve from your mind." " I cannot. I may control the outward act, but how eradicate the image blended with every thought and affection?" "This is girlish talk. Amy. Be humble and teachable, child. Remember that youth ever errs in judgment. Be guided by those, who are both wise and experienced; and then, Amy, if you should still be privilegen with the favor of worthy Master Wick' J54 AMY CRANSTOUN. liffe's love, you may yet be mated to our acceptance and your own profit." " Heaven forbid," thought Amy. Her aunt proceed- ed, " I see that thou ,art self-wdlled, but take heed — the judgment of Heaven may light upon thee — consider duly — go to thy apartment, and commune wilh thy heart." Amy obeyed with alacrity ; for in these commun ings she found the only indulgence of an affection, which neither her conscience nor her judgment forbad. Amy's conscience, though it did not act in obedience to the laws Madam Cranstoun would have Ijrescribed, was a faithful monitor, and Amy was obedient to its monitions. Clandestine proceedings were abhorrent to the integrity of her character Every delicate woman instinctively revolts from an elopement and a secret marriage. Amy had maintain- ed a firm negative to liOvell's entreaties. With the confidence of her most happy temper she believed that some favorable circumstance would occur, some influence come, she knew not whence, to shift the wind in her favor. But — when she had put aside her pride and her maidenly reserve, and freely confessed her love to her aunt, and found her unrelenting, and resolved to maintain her power in its utmost rigor — Amy felt a spirit of insurrection rising in her heart, that probably, but for the strange events that followed, would soon have broken out into opeii reb<'llion. There were throbbings at her heart at the thoutrht o( escape from thraUlom; when, at this treacherous moment, a servant taj)ped nt the door to announcf AMY CRANSTOUN. 156 ■•that Wimple, the Boston Pedlar, was jn the hall with his box full of nick-nacks, that he was sure won d pleasure Miss Amy's eye." '• Tell him," said Amy, in a tone that indicated nothing could pleasure her at that moment, " tell him I want nothing." " Pray do not send him that Avord, Miss Amy ! — Madam has huffed him already ; and Miss Prudence and Miss Tempv have bought nothing but knives and Avhalebones. They were sharp and stiff enough already! — and besides, Wimple bade me tell you he has a violet ribbon, just the color of your eyes." Perhaps curious to ascertain the color of her eyes, or it may be, like most frail mortals, not deaf to flattery. Amy descended to the hall. She found her aunt and cousins, attracted by the pretty assortment of merchandise, still hovering about the pedlar's box, inquiring prices, cheapening the articles they meant to buy, and vouchsafing a few grains of praise to such as they did not want. " Ah, my service to you. Mistress Amy,"' said Wimple, " it would be ill luck to my box to leave the plantations without seeing you." " And ill fortune to me. Wimple. But where is the ribbon Judith told me of!" " The ribbon ! — what ribbon, my young lady? — ah, I remember," added Wimple, as the luring message he had transmitted recurred to him, "it should be here — or here — it was of the violet dye, young lady — the flower — and something else Tve seen — looks as if a drop from the blue sky ha6 A.MV CR A.N ST OCX fallen ii... it — the ribbon is clean gone, but here is a pair of gloves, a nice fit for you." " They are just the color I have been looking for, lor a full half hour to no purpose," said M^ss Prudence, " so it is but fair I should have th • firs) trial." Wimple looked disconcerted — " Indeed, iny young lady," he said, with a discreet emphasis on youngs noi enough to imply sarcasm, and just enough to seem earnest, " indeed, my young lady, they are a thoughl too small for you," and suiting the .iction to the word, he adroitly measured the glovf against the back oi Miss Prudence's broad, sinruy hand ; she turned away satisfied, or piqued. Wimple, too politic to leave a shadow on the :;i;nd of a customer, added, " I will suit you. Miss Trudy, next time, for one of my brethren in the walking line, is expected from Acadie with French nackcries, and he'll be sure to briny gloves; — such as these with pretty devices are much sought after, by me Boston gallants, for love-tokens.' " Let me look at the gloves before you purchase,' mterposed IVladam Cranstoun, whose ear was oflx^ndeo by WimpU'S professional vaunt; "I do not approvt these braveries that feed vanity, and draw truant eyes It meeting." Wimple adroitly exchanged the gloves desicfned for Amy, for a pair embroidered with a iiKunnneiita! device, saying, "Madam Cranstoun \\\\\ crrt.iinly approve the wholesome lesson wisely wrought here." Madam Cranstoim returned the gloves with a ool:l remark, that she believed they would do no harm; AMY CRANSTOUN. 15» and Wimj le unsuspected slipped the rigat pair into Amy's hand, contriving as he did so to let her see the corner of a note within the glove. " Never mind the pay this time, Mistress Amy," he said. Amy under- stood him, dropped a silver penny in his hand, and quickly disappeared. She then returned to her room, bolted her door, •'Tid kissing the gloves, — those fated gloves — she read the following note: " My beloved Amy; and yet how mine, since your own cruel sentence makes those barriers impassable which tyranny has erected ? Still you are mine by your own most precious confession : by vows registered i Heaven, and which not all the power of all t t uncles and aunts in Christendom can make void. 1 have something to communicate that I cannot trust to paper — meet me, I beseech you, on Tuesday the 5th, at 7 o'clock, P. M., under the elm tree, just beyond the cove. If you refuse me this boon, I shall fear the freezing atmosphere in which you live has chilled the warm precincts of your heart. At seven, dear Amy, — remember, 7 P. M. of Tuesday the 5th — farewell till then." " Tuesday the 5th" had come, and " 7 P. M." drew nigh, when Amy put on the memorable gloves, which were wrought with a bunch of forget- me-nots, tied with a true-love knot; and shelter- ing herself in a dark silk cloak and hood, she eluded all the argus eyes about the mansion, and reached the place of rendezvous. " He is not here !" felie exclaimed, as her foot touched the spot; " here is •jet one minute to spare," she added, looking at Iut Ib8 AMYCRANsrOUN. watch ; " yet it should have been Lovell, not I, whc came the minute too soon — next time," she conchided, drawing off one of her gloves, " Lovell shall wear the forget-me-not." ■ Poor Lovell! he would not have broken the thousandth part of a minute in his appointment ; but the most faithful are not exempted from the cross accidents of life. His horse, in passing a treacherous causeway, had broken his leg. Lovell did not hesi- tate to abandon him, and hurried on whh all the speed that vigorous and agile limbs, and a most impatient spirit, could supply ; but even love cannot travel like a sound horse, and when Lovell reached the cove it was a quarter past seven. There was still enough of twilight left, for him to discern the print of Amy's little foot on the white sand. He bent and kissed it, then sprang up the bank and onward to the elm-tree — she was not there! He thought that in the spirit of a sportive retaliation for his delay, she might have hidden in some shaded recess. He explored every recess, penetrated every possible hiding-place, he pronounced, and imploringly repeated, her name, but all in vain. " She must have been here!" he exclaimed, " I could not mistake the print of any other foot for her's — Oh Amy, could you not wait one quarter of an hour for me! — Can any thing have happened to her? — She may have been followed hither by some evil-minded person!" Apprehens'ons accumulate most rapidly where the safety of a defenceless object, and the dearest one in life is at stake. Lovell reiterated Amy's name in a AMY CRANSTOTTN. 159 voice ol agony ; he looked over, again and again, the places he had already thoroughly searched ; he then returned to the cove, there was no mark there of a returning footstep; she could not then have gone back that way. He remounted the bank, intending to extend his search farther up the river. After passing some willows, the shore was rocky, and jusf beyond the rocks was a thicket of saplings, and tangled bushes that led to the water's edge. "She could not have passed here," he said. Something caught his eye at the bottom of the rock. He descend- ed, and just on the margin of the river he found one of Amy's gloves, one of the pair which he had sent by Wimple, and on the sand was imprinted the mark of a small foot, that must have been recently there. His head became giddy v/ith terrific apprehensions, and now, as he looked up the rock, he saw the fibrous plants that grew from their fissures had been freshly uprooted, and appeared as if their insufficient aid had been resorted to. The mind will not at once surren- der itself to despair. It was barely possible that some acquaintance had been sailing on the river, and that, to avoid surmises. Amy had returned to town in the boat. But there was the glove! — Amy would not have carelessly dropped his love-token — and the uprooted plants ! Still there was a ray of hope, and in one half hour Lovell burst int© Governor Cran- stoun's parlor, and darting his eye around the formal circle, he explained its glance by asking in one breath, "Is Amy here? — has she returned? — has no one seen her?" The family all rose, startled at 160 A M Y C P. '. N ,■? T O U N . his wild appearance. " Is the youth crazy ?" asked Madam Cranstoun. " This intrusion is unlooked for, and manifestly indecorous !" said the governor. " Will no one answer me?" exclaimed Lovell, and snatching a hand-bell fiom the table, he returned to the hall and rang it furiously. The servants, alarmed, obeyed the summons. " Have any of you seen Mistress Amy?" he a'=^ked, "and when? — and where?" All looked amazed, none answered. " For the love of Heaven speak, — go to her room — search every where." " Hold, young man !" said Governor Cranstoun, " you are mad." " Mad ? — I shall be mad ! — she is lost ! — it may be, murdered." The last word, articulated as it was in a broken and suppressed voice, penetrated to every heart, and instantly every mouth was opened, every room was searched, and every corner of the mansion in an uproar and confusion. " I saw her before tea," said onv, " I saw her go out the side gate!" said another. " Yes," said Miss Prudence, "and I saw her from my window, and thought then she was going on a wild goose chase." The alarm soon spread from the governor's family to the town ; alarm-bells were rung, and the men in separate and small bands went out on a scout m every direction. The se:;rch was continued for days, and not relmquished til neither reason nor hope heW AMY CRANSTOriN. Ill out the slightest probability of success. But after the people had returned to their usual occupations, and .4my'.' disappearance had become an old story, it continued to be as acutely felt by Lovell Reeve, as at the first terrible moment of conviction that she was gone. He abandoned his ordinary pursuits, forsook his accustomed haunts ; and worn and wasted wander- ed over the country, seeking and inquiring, but finding nothing to feed his hopes, which were only kept alive by the undying fires of love. Amy's disappearance was just about the period of the death of the heroi-c Indian, king Philip. A few of his old comrades still maintained a feeble resistance to the English. Lovell sometimes encountered their parties in the fastnesses of the savage forests. They answer- ed his questions patiently, and treated him kindly ; probably his wild and haggard aspect impressed them with the belief that he was suffering from one of those visitations of Heaven, which elicit far more tenderness and respect from the savage than the civilized man. On one occasion, at late twilight, he had thrown himself down in a little nook made by the turning of a brook that ran rambling past it, and wearied and exhausted he had opened his wallet, when he heard some one striding down the rocky hill above him. From the dimensions of the figure he mistook it for that of a man, but as it approached nearer, he perceived it to be a young Indian woman. Her head was thrown back, her brow painfully contracted, and her eye fixed, and indicating a mind abstracted from all outward things. She threw 14- ,62 AMY ORANSTOUN. herself on the ground, almost at the feet of Loveii, without seeing him. Her cheek was hollow, ano her limbs tremulous ; but she seemed as if some passionate grief obscured the sense of corporeal wants. Lovell spoke to her; asked her whither she came? where she was going? to which she replied, in such imperfect English, that she conveyed no mean- ing to Lovell. One word alone he understood, and that was the name of the famous Annowon, the Indian chieftain, who had been the companion of Philip's father, the tried and trusted associate of Philip himself, and who, still unsubdued, though hunted like a beast of prey, maintained his national independance in the gloomy depth of a forest — all that was left of the wide domain inherited from his fathers. Lovell offered the woman a portion of his evening meal; she took it eagerly, devouring it ravenously, and then drawing her blanket over her head, she pillowed it on the rock, and was soon lost in deep sleep. Poor Lovell envied her short oblivion, and continued, hour after hour, watching the stars on their courses, till at last nature overcoming his sense of misery, he too fell asleep. When he awoke in the morning, the Indian woman had disappeared. On the crushed grass where she had lain there was something that quickened Lo veil's pulses. He sprang forward, seized, and examined it — it was Amy's glove. The mate he had worn in his bosom, from the fatal hour of her disappearance. But alas! the woman who had possessed this clew had gone. Ho shouted, he ran hither and yon. calling in th»' AMY CRANSTOUN. ICB most supplicating voice, but he was only answered by the forest echoes. He had, however, obtained some light ; and vague, and feeble as it was, it might prove a guiding beam over the weary waste that had encompassed him. Annowon either did possess the secret of Amy's fate, or could command it. This conclusion made, Lovell instantly conceived a project, and set forward to execute it. We return to where we left our little friend Amy. She was startled from her mental reproaches of her lover by the plash of oars, and, turning, she saw a canoe rowing through the cove^ and stealthily close into the shore. There were two Indians in the canoe, but as there were many friendly natives in the vicinity of Providence, she was not alarmed till the canoe, having turned the ledge of rocks and disap- peared, she saw the Indians coming up the bank towards her. Escape was impossible. The one was an old man, the other a youth. The young man asked her to come with them. The elder, without ceremony, seized her arm and dragged her forward. She resisted with all her might, shrieking the name of Lovell, and vainly hoping he might be near enough to hear her voice, but that hope soon vanish- ed. She was thrust into the canoe, and it Avas rapidly rowed down the stream to a swampy landing-plac •', where the Indians disembarked, drew their canoe up into the thicket, and beo-an their scramble throug-b 164 AMY CRANSTOUN. the morass. In the short time that had passed since Amy had relinquished the hope of a rescue, she had, with her strong native good sense, surveyed her position, and made iip her mind a? to her mode ol conduct. In carrying her resolve into execution she was sustained by an unconquerable, a Heaven- inspired cheerfulness of spirit, that like a clear .neridian sun brightened even the darkest objects. Poor girl ! she needed all its power. The Indians were amazed to see her, instead of lagging, press forward without a word or sigh of complaint. The elder of her captors she soon ascertained to be the far-famed Annowon, now verging to old age, but still retaining many of the attributes of vigorous manhood, a fiery eye, an upright person, and a firm step ; the younger was Mantunno, a young man of two and twenty, an exception to, rather than a specimen of his race. His aspect was that of a man of peace and gentleness. His voice was sympathetic, as he ever and anon cheered on his captive, and where the passes were most difficult he carried her, sinking to his knees in the bogs, till he reached a firm foot-hold. Thus they proceeded till they approa> nea a place, which .still, after the passage of more than a century and a half, retains the name of " Annowon^ s rock.^' This rock, or rather ledge of rocks, for it extends from 70 to 80 feet, was then inaccessible except from one point, being nearly surrounded by a morass, which before the land was drained, was covered with water. Near its base th.' rocks hare deep recesses and shelving places, ant' being well hedged in \vitJ» AMY CRANSTOUN. T«5 felled trees and dried bushes, they afforrled a sort of sheltering nest for these wild denizens of the woods. A. beacon-light had penetrated through the tangled wood, guiding Amy's step over the slippery rocks and trembling mosses, but the way suddenly became more difficult; the poor girl's heart of grace failed, and exhausted she sunk down and burst into tears. The old Indian muttered, " Telula cry? — never." " Telula no woman," replied the young man, and taking our poor little friend in his arms, he strided on through bush and through brake, till emerging suddenly, they camt upon the access to their wild resting-place, and as the now unimpeded light stream- ed cheerfully up from it and shone on Amy's face, Mantunno saw there a tolerably successful effort at a smile of gratitude, which went very near to his heart. Refreshed by her rest in the Indian's arms, and encouraged by his kindness, and perhaps too, stimu- lated by the wildness and novelty of the scene, — for Amy's was a somewhat romantic and most buoyant spirit, — she descended the ledge of rocks, sometimes upheld by Mantunno, sometimes sustain! ig herself on a foothold that seemed scarcely qualified to afford sup- port for a bird, and sometimes holding fabt by branches of the trees that here and there had forced themselves through the crevices of the rocks. Thus she reached safely the broad base of the ledge, and looking around her at various distances, and imperfectly, as the fire- light glanced athwart them, she saw small groups of Indians. Near her a bright fire was burnmg under a caldron, frtm which issued fumes so savory m AMY CRANSTOtTN. that considering the gross appetites of which commcn souls are compounded, they would have been mucli more like, than those strains the poet magnifies, to "create a soul under the ribs of death." Tending this caldron was a tall, bony Indian girl; her features were large, and expressive of turbulent passions, but without a particle of the feminine softp~=*! that is common to young women of all hues. She looked like a vulture, eager to grasp a dove in its talons, as she fixed her eyes on poor little Amy. Some broken sentences she spoke to the youth, in her native tongue, complaining of his protracted absence and her wearisome solitude, and then turned her eye again on Amy, as if she longed to know, but would not ask, why that little garden-blossom had been Drought to their wild home. Mantunno neither heeded her words nor her looks. He was busied in making a bed of dry mosses and leaves for his captive, and forming a bower for her, by interweaving branches of the hemlocks and cedars that were growing in abundance around them. Annowon called loudly fo: supper, and Telula served it, but without eating herself or ofiering a portion to Amy till bidden by Annowon, when sh- filled a wooden trencher and set it before her, :ind Amy, in pursuance of her resolution to sustain her strength and spirits by all human means, and we suspect befriended by an honest appetite; ate as heartily as if she had been at her uncle's table — the best in ' Providence Plantations.' After she had finished her singular meal, shi thanked Mantunno AMY CRANSTOUN. 167 for the bed he had spread for her, bade him " good night," in the sweetest tone of her sweet voice, and crept into her little bower, where, after commending herself to God, she fell asleep, pondering over the chances of reunion to Lorall Reeve. Oh, what lessons may be learned from those who act according to the dictates of wise nature ! Mantunno laid himself down at a little distance from Amy's bower, and long into the watches of the night Telula observed his wakeful eye fixed on it, as a miser watches the casket that contains his treasure. But when at last his senses were locked in sleep, Telula drew near the old man, who, as he sat leaning against the rock, looked like a portion of it, so rigid were his features, so sharp and immoveable the outline of his bony figure. " Father," asked Telula. in her own language, " is this Yengee girl yours, oi Mantunno's captive?" " Mine." " My father is wise ! — " said Telula, in that tone which converts an affirmation into a negative. " And why am I not wise, Telula." " Was I not wretched enough yesterday?" " And why more wretched now?" " Did he ever pile the mosses for my head to rest upon? — Did he ever weave a curtain around my bed? — Did he ever watch my sleep as the eagle watches its nestling? Mantunno's soul is as the pale-faces ! He would fain mate with them.'"" " What mean you, Telula f" tbS A >! y C R A N s r O U N . "This girl! — this girl! — why did ye bring hel hither?" The vehement tones of Telula's voice, and the flood of tears she poured out, seemed, rather than her words, to have conveyed her meaning to the old man. He fixed his eye oi her and said, " Ye would not surely wed your mother's sistei's son ?" " / would}' " This is worse than all ! — I charge ye, Telula, as you love your life, never to speak — never to think of this again." " I cannot obey you." Both reverted to silence ; but the subject was for ever fixed in the minds of both. The marriage of cousins was regarded as an abomination by some, if not by all the Indian tribes, and their strict adherence to the Hebrew law in this particular is urged by some of our antiquaries as among the proofs of their descent from the ten lost tribes. Annowon had met with losses and miseries m every shape. His wives were dead — his children had gone like flowers from the hill-side — his people tiad vanished — his brother Philip had been slain in battle, and his body hacked in pieces by the sacrile- gious knives of the Yengees — and some fifty followers, and this barren rock on which the sun shone, and the showers fell in vain, was all that was left of his tribe and their wide domain ; and now this unlawful passion of the last of his race seemed to him to fill up the measure of his sorrows. He had seized Amy from an impulse of hostility to her race; he had learned from her lur high con AMV CRANSTOUN Ifib nexions, and he now purposed eithe: vO make lier a victim of his vengeance, or an instrument in obtaining his own terms in the treaty that, in his moments of despair, he contemplated making with the English. In the mean time, if Amy could be made to subserve the purpose of extinguishing Telula's hopes and affection, so much the better ; — her hopes, she might ; her affection, as it proved, could outlive hope. When Amy awoke, she felt, as every one does in coming out of the kind oblivion of sleep, the full weight of her calamity. She seemed translated to a new world. Every object around her was savage, and the Indians themselves seenied, not creatures of her kind, but meet offspring of the rocks and tangled forest. But as the morning advanced her courasfo returned. As she felt the cheering influence of the sun, and heard the notes of familiar birds — the voices of old friends — her spirit revived, and she came forth from her bower so serene, bright, and beautiful, that Mantunno exclaimed, in his own language, " The morning star !'' Telula's jealous ear caught the words, and she darted a glance first at Amy, and then at him, that made her recoil, and filled him with alarm. He was aware of Telula's strong passions, he was aware of her love for him, and that one look had revealed to him what she might feel towards a rival. Day after day passed on, and he never left the rock save when he was sure that his grandfather's presence secured Amy's safety. Te'ula saw his distrust, and it sunk deep into her soul. When he was 13 70 A M Y C R A N S T O i: N . pri-sent, his eye continually rested on Amy u'hnn he was absent, it was plain his heart still linpjred v/ith her. The brilliant feathers of birds, their curious eggs, wild flowers,' and every pretty treasure of the forest, were laid at her feet, and Mantuiino was sufficiently rewarded with a kindly beam of Amy's blue eye, or a faint smile from her bright lip, when Telula felt that she would have given life for one such proof of his love. The miserable girl's jealousy was inflamed in everj?^ way. The old man permitted and encouraged Mantunno's devotion, and Air y, believing, from her own experience, love to be he most generous of all sentiments, cherished ii by smiles and kindness. Telula neither ate nor slept. Her form wasted, and her face became so hagGfnrd, that Amy shrunk from her as from some blighting demon. One evening, just at twilight, Mantunno and Amy were alone together. It was a rare chance, and Amy eagerly seized it to urge a suit she had long medi- tated. She entreated the young Indian, by all his love of his own people and kindred — by all his friend.ship for her, to izuide her back to her home. "But," ho tendei.y remonstrated, "you have neither father nor mother, sister nor brother — they make home." Amy wept bitterly. " Oh!" he con- tinued, in the universal language of loving nature, •' let my home be thy home, ind my people thv people !" Amy was rather sUiniicd liy tliis proposition. 3he soon recovered her self-po.ssession, 'ind replied AMY CRANSTOriN. Ui .^onrag-eously, " Mantunno, I have not, it is true, father nor mother, sister nor brother, but there is one dearer to me than all these, and I am his promised bride." The Indian threw himself on the groimd and wished he were dead. At this moment Telula, returning from a half frenzied wandering, had let herself down the rocka her eyes fixed on tliern, but unseen and unheard by them. She heard Amy say, as she approached near them, " Oh rise, my good friend, I shall always love you for your kindness" Telula did not wait to hear her out. One word only, love, of which she felt the full import, penetrated to her brain. She instantly resolved on a project, to which, though most abhorrent to her national feel- ings, she was stimulated by her resentment towards Annowon, and by the maddening passions of love and jealousy. She sprang towards Amy, tore apart a ribbon, by which was suspended the glove, Lovell's precious gift, and thrusting it into her own bosom, mounted the rock like a wild-cat, and went forth 'brooding on her purpose, in her better mind dismiss- ing it, and then again goaded on by her insane passion, seeking the means of its execution. Old Annowon was afflicted and soured by Telula s protracted absence. He became sullen and crabbed, and wreaked his bitter feelings on poor Amy. He imposed domestic offices on her, compelled her to bring water, and feed the fire. Mantunno saw her fragile form bending under ourdens ; he felt, like thf lover in the play, that " suci. baseness ne'er had likf iTi AMY CRANSTOUN. executor,'' and fain would he have givt i the sire iij;esl proof of love a savage could give, by performing these ignoble, womanly offices himself; but the old man harshly forbade him, and asked him '• when it was he served Telula?" Poor Amy's heart sunk as her hopes abated. She was yet far from despairing, but each day seemed an age to her. Mantunno's kindness was undiminished, but now her soul revolted from it ; even the crabbed ness of the old man was more tolerable to her. Stil- save in the tears that would unbidden now and thei steal from her eyes, she did not betray the sadness of her heart. Two weeks had elapsed, and nothing was yet heard of Telula, though Annowon had sought her in all the forest haunts of his dispersed and hunted tribe. He returned one niglit, wearied, and more sad than sullen, threw himself on his mat. Amy heard him groaning, and at intervals repeating the same words, " What says he?" she asked of Mantunno. He repeats, " my people ! my children ! Telula ! all gone!" With the instinct of her sex, Amy tried to comfort him. She offend him his favorite drink, unbidden prepared his evening meal, and. witli earnest words, prayed him to take it. He declinod her kindness, but he seemed touched by it, and drawing her towards him, he said, "Ah, child, bright days are written on thy smooth brow, and the promise of friends and lovers stamped on thy beautiful face." "Oh, tlien," said Amy, eagerly availing herself of the rlrst auspicious moment, " restore me to niv AMY CRANSTOUN. 173 frii?nds — do not make me Avear out my life in bondage and do ng strange tasks. I shall soon die if I hear not the voices of my kindred! — Oh, think how hard it must be not to hear the language of your own people ! ■not to sit to eat with those of your own color ! to live on without a smile, and die without one to mourn you." "Amy! Amy!" exclaimed Mantun no involuntarily. The exclamation seemed to dry the fountain ol pity that Amy had opened in the old man's bosom. "Ye are the child of my enemies," he said, "and like all the pale-faces, ye have misery and ruin in your track — go to your bed, child — go to your bed." Amy crept into her little bower, and in the anguish of her heart she mentally reproached her lover. "Ah!" she thought, "had I been Lovell, and he been me, I would not have rested till every white man in the colonies was on foot, till every den in the forest was searched ; but, alas ! alas ! men do not love as we love!" Far into the night she revolved these bitter thoughts, but finally, true to herself and true to Lovell, she fell asleep, alleging very good reasons why Lovell could not have found her. While all around him slept, Annow^on was awake, gloomily pondering the past, more gloomily the future. The evening fire had gone out. The moon looked down smilingly, just as she had looked in his happiest days, on the stern home of the old warrior. Her silvery beams fell on the branches as they waved in the 1 ght breeze; shone on the flowers that, project- ing fro 1 the crevices, hung over the rocks ; penetrated 16" L74 AMY (Mt AN^TOUN. even to the recess where Annowon's trusty followeis were sleeping; defined Mantunno's graceful figure as he lay near Amy's bower, dreaming of the lovely form within it; fell on that form modestly wrapped in a cloak, and played over her fair cheek and bright hair — '.he fairest and brig» test that ever rested on a leafy pillow in the wild world. Annowon was suddenly startled from his abstraction, and looking up, he saw Telula creeping slowly and cautiously down the rocks. Annowon, as soon as he had recovered from his first joyful sensation of surprise, perceived the sliadow of some person follow- ing her cast back upon the rock, and then another, and another, but these shadows were so confounded with that of a large basket that Telula carried, and constantly shifted from arm to arm, that they convey- ed no definite information to Annowon ; and he, as little expecting treachery from Telula as from his own soul, was not alarmed, till an Indian, instantly followed by others, grasped the branch of a tree, swung down the last descent, and round an angle of the rock, and darting into the recess where Anno- won's followers were sleeping, butchered them. At the same moment the old chief himself was seized. Telula rushed past him, rent open the bower as if it were but a spider's web, drew a hatchet from beneath her blanket, and raised her arm over Amy ; Mantun- no sprang forward and inter]iosed his person in time to save Amy — by the sacrifice of his own life! As his body fell at her feet, Telula recoiled, then ngarn raising her arm and floiirishinsr 'h(> hatchet in AMY CRANSTOJIN. I7» tk, ail, she purposed surer aim at the " Yengee girl," but Amy was already far up the rock, in the arms o. Lovell Reeve ! Telula gazed after her, she felt Mantunno's warm blood dripping from her hatchet on her arm, and sunk senseless beside his body. It had all passed like a flash of lightning, that uproots and tears asunder that which was fast rooted and bound together. Annowon turned his eye from the bloody tragedj^ and saw himself in the hands of Captain Church, the famous vanquisher of King Philip. He then, as history records, took from hii bosom two most curious bits of Avampum, and som^ other consecrated trifles, that had been a portion of Philip's royal insignia, and kneeling, surrendered them to Church, with the ceremony and feeling with which a faithful follower yields the banner of his chief- tain. He then simk down, and covered his face with his hands, saying, "I have done — I am the last of my people !" We have not space to relate Annowon' s fate. It fills one of those pages that we could wish expunged from the history of christians. It is not necessary to detail the particulars that led to the catastrophe we have described. We have faintly intimated them. The curious reader will find ' them at large in the contemporaneous histories. Wfi have added some circumstances not there recorded, and we have learned from thai veracious source, " the best authority," that Telula was afterAA'ards seen on the shores of the blue Ontario, where, among the wild ire AMY CRANSTOtJN. people who confound inspiration with insanity, she was reverenced and cherished. Lovell Reeve, with his rescued betrothed, proceed- ed forthwith to (iovernor Cranstoun's, and no one thenceforth opposing his right to hsr, it was soon confirmed by the solemn ceremonial of marriage. The only exception to the general kindness lavished on Amy, was a remark from one of her discreet cousins, — on whom a wedding seems not to have had its usual benign influence, — "that young ladies must expect to pay dearly for evening assignations with ciandestiae lovers." 4 SRA-PICTURE BY GRENVILLE MELLEN. Come — sit wi.h me, here by these dark old rocks, Where, as they heave in, you may dip your feei Into the gurgling waters. This while shaft 'Gainst which we lean — the beacon to these seas — Whose sleepless eye looks ever through the storm And beauty of the night, undimmed — the same — I've seen lashed, to its lantern, by the surf Of this mad ocean, when the winds were up In their loud revel. I remember me, While yet a boy, I gloried in the scenes Of these sea-tempests — and I oft-times sought These gray rocks, to look ou> upon the sky. When the waves mounted to it, as to meet The stooping clouds. Once, when the year was dim, And the heavens curtained with the coming storm, So deep, and so lik- night, that men had pass'd 78 \ sr.v iMcxr r e. Into their homes, and barred their very doors, As against something fearlul — 1 had crept, Full of that young but terrible delight That mastered me in those days, to these clifis, And in a shelter'd nook, far over us, fat down To watch the mustering spirits of the gale. Far out on the 4iorizon 1 beheld One lone ship — on its darkening arch relieved, As some huge white-winged bird, just quivering Its pinions o'er the billow it had spurned In its uprising. — As I looked, it grew Upon my vision, till a stately hark, With its unmastered canvass, through the foam, Right on the stormy pathway of my eye, Came plunging on. — The tempest now was loud — And its far voice, from crest to crest of waves. Was calling through the deep — in that stern sound. The everlasting anthem of the sea. When storm stirs all its music — and here — here — Upon these iron rocks it threw itself, Like leaping thunder, till I felt my sea- Quake under me, as though the frighted earth Moved on its great foundations ! She came on — Helmless and masterless — yet I could see From my far aerie there — where I was held, As by some wand that spelled me into stone, Stirless and tonguelesf 'mid the wild uproar — Thedi idi'ckcrowde. —and could trace faint forms— A SEA PICTURE. 179 A.nd ?ome in white robes, flashinf? throusfh the dull And dizzy air the thundering waves threw up, Till the mist bathed my brow. I heard no sound From the upheaving vessel — though I saw Forms multitudinous, with arms upflung, And faces lifted to the pouring sky — For such was the hoarse bellowing of the tide, And the commingled roaring of the wind, That the scared sea-bird, as his dripping wing Flapped in my face upon his circling flight, Passed with his shriek unheard. I saw her now, Tumbling beneath me. But no hope was there ! Already half a wreck, the noble bark Had struggled Avith the storm, through drifting cloud And measureless abyss ; till, tired and torn. She bent despairingly, before the gale. Seeking a quick destruction. — I could see — Perched on that roaring pinnacle, how blind And aimless she swooped through the tossing foam, With rudder racked — rent mast — and shattered sail But one mast staggermg stood — and at its peak A black flag, through the thin and hurrying clouds, Stream'd to the troubled air; — ^beneath it clung To the mad, rocking spire, with naked arm, A lone, drenchec sea-boy, with his reeking hair, Now in the rain:loud dashed, and now in foam' Oft on the giddy yar' where yet the sail I 180 A SEA-PICTURE. Flared with its lashing- remnant to the sky 1 saw the crouching sailor In impotent essay. at seme wild grasp, His thought had whispered in those intervals Of light, that flash on life's extremities — For hope is ever handmaid to despair ! Yet nearer ! — and 1 saw the straggling ropes Flung on the rattling gust — and a rent flag Was shivering from the shrouds — but nothing there To tell the story of its land. Then as she rose Upon some mountain billow, 1 could see A quick smoke darting through the scattering foam, Belched from some signal gun, that a mad hand Had touched, in desperation — but no sound Boomed through the waters, and the roaring wind. At length she struck — and I could see the crew Leap at the quick revulsion — and uplifting Their arms, as if in gladness, that an end Had come upon their agony — as if They shouted o'er the yawning sepulchres That they had dreamt of, with a wilderin* hope Of some last strange salvation — as though now They hailed their very graves, with the quick eye And babbling madness of despairing hearts, When the dark leap must come. TIiHin the side Of the lurched ship stood one, whose convulsed aiui 8traine«l to 1 'r b som something, that it held A SEA- PICTURE. I8l With an unearthly energy — that grasp Which Nature owns its strongest! — her lank hair Part to the tempest streamed, and part her breast Received to veil her offspring, and to dull Its faint dies for lost sustenance. One glance Told me the tale. — The mother and the child Passing, unparted, to a common grave ! 1 look d — and they were gone — and in their place Stood tv o — gazing the last time into eyes That Wore the only language of their hearts. In that last hour of agony. — I saw Them, hand in hand, approach the reeking side Of the rent bark — and looking the last time Into each other's faces, and then down Into the gulphing waters, they did leap, With fingers yet entangled — to the waves! And hearts unseparate — defying there, In love's undying unison, the pall That death would cast round their fidelity! Again — upon the parting deck stood one — An old man — with w^hite hair — and terror-struck. He was a miser — and each palsied hand Clutched the just bursting bag, as though he felt That he might bribe death with such glittering coin. To pass such meagre prey — or, if he died. The pang would be less bitter with his gold! But ah! no purchase from that sentence came — I saw the sweltering sea leap over him. And snatch his treasures to its sunless caves. 16 182 A SEA- PICTURE. The throng had pat^sed, as it seem'd, under me, Into one grave. Some laiu them down and died, In their own iear'5 intensity — and some, Folding rude cloaks around them, bowed their heads, And turned their cringing backs upon the sea, That smote them to their death — as though, thus cowled, And bending, to escape the billow's wraih. And now upon the desolated deck But two remained — one was a dark-brown man,— A son of Solitude, like those that roamed Once through these sounding woods. He stood aione;^ His red arms folded on his stalwart breast. And his bronzed face bent down, with moveless gaze, Upon the hurrying waters. — At his side, Went to and fro a madman, with his hands Flung out in supplication, and, anon, Tearing with frenzy at his knotted hair, To give it to the winds ! — With leaping step He traversed the last timbers — and at times Waved round his head, e.vulting, the remains Of the last tattered flag. The Indian's gaze, Unchanging, as himself, upon the gulph Still rested — as of a charmed statue's eye! He saw no terror in the passage. 'Twasto him Hut a wild journey to the spirit land, Where he should meet h s lathers. A 8EA-PICTITUE. But enough — My vision, as enchanted, still glared down Upon these ringing ana insatiate rocks. The storm still howled — and as the rattling rain Beat in my face, my sight, yet more intense Grew 10 liie groaning ship — till she went down, And the wide sea poured in, in victory, Shouting and trampling o'er her sepulchre I l:'^ THE HARMONY OF NATURE, AND SOVEREIGNTY OF MAN. There is joy among the icebergs, when ends the polar night, And their mighty crystals flash in the newly waken- ed light ; There is joy in shouting Egypt, when through its valleys wide, Pours the fountain of her harvests its renovated tide ; Through each zone that belts the earth, Nature sings a gladsome song. In numbers sweetly simple or magnificently strong; By the well-spring in the desert, beneath the spread- ing palm. Her voice rings sweet and holy th-ough an atmos- phere of balm ; Where Niagara the burthen of liis congrrgaled springs Hurls down the y iwning chasm, liow gloriously she sings, THE HARMONY OF NATURE. IT, Afar in leafy forests, where the axe hath never swung, Where the Indian roams sole monarch, and the panther rears her young ; In meadows of the wilderness, where proudly in the air, The elk his antleis tosseth, and the bison makes his lair; From heights, where the strong eagle sways his pinions on the cloud, And valleys, where the vine's bright leaves the blush- ing clusters shroud ; From the teeming lap of Ocean, where rest the sunny isles. And white winged barks are laden with their rich and mellow spoils ; With trumpet-tongued sublimity, or low and silvc voice. Nature swells the mighty anthem, whose burthen is, — Rejoice! Oh! life sustaining Air. bounding Ocean, verdant Earth. The universe is ringing with the music of your mirth; Yet wide as is your empire, and A'^ast as is your plan, Ye are but vassal servitors, that minister to Man ; Tis true, in fierce rebellion, there are moments when ye rise. And crush the weak defences he hath labored to levise ; Yet past your burst of anger, again ye ovm his sway Ye come to him with trib ate, ye hear him and obey, 16- 180 THK ITAIOKJNV or NATURE. He heweth down and rendeth the patriarchs of the woods, He fashions them' to palaces, that bear him on the floods ; Next the boundless realms of air must be subject to his pride, And lo! the startled eagle beholds him at his side. On earth a mighty agent propels him with a speed, That mocks the fleetest gallop of the desert-nurtured steed ; Intelligence his sceptre, his weapon, and his shield, Who shall limit the results, that his enterprise may yield. How glorious is hu heritage, how loud should be his praise. When even things inanimate, a song of gladness raise: The bounteous gifts of Providence for ever round him shower, For him the wild birds carol, and for him the burst- ^ ing flower, From the jewellec arch of heaven, to the daisy-check- ered sod. Is one continued I inquel for the m ister-piece of Gou J. B. 1 HE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR. Hardly had Miss Ashlon dropped the pen, when the door of the apartment flew open, and the Master of Ravanswood entered. * # # * « He planted himself full in the middle of the apart- ment, opposite to the table at which Lucy was seated, on whom, as if she had been alone in the cham- ber, he bent his eyes with a ming-led expression of deep grief and indignation. His dark-colored riding cloak, displaced from one shoulder, hung around one side of his person in the ample folds ol the Spanish mantle. The rest of his rich dress was travel-soiled and deranged by hard riding. He had a sword by his side and pistols in his belt. • « » * • The matted and dishevelled locks of hair, which escaped from under his hat, together with his fixed and unmoved posture, made his head more resembl« a marble bust than that of a living man. He said not a single word, and there was a deep silence in the company for more than two minutes. It was broken by Lady Ashton, who in that space partly recovered her natural audacity. She demand- ed to know the cause of this unauthorized intrusion Sir Waller Scott. — Bride of Lammermnai , ch. xxiiJ, DICK MOJN. THE PEDLAR; OB, THE YANKEE TRICK. BY WILLIAM L. STONB. '^^ hath ribands of all colors i' the rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers In Bohemia can learnedly li;indlp ; though they came to him by llie gross ; initios, caddices, caniLi ics, lawns : Why, he sln;;.s them over, as (hey were gods and goddesses ; he so chants to the sleeve-l)and, and the work about the square on't. Shakspeare. Well; if I be served another such trick, I'll have my brains la'cn and buttered, and given to a dog for a new-year's gift. Idem. " Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thmst upon tliem," is a proposi- tion of Master Shakspeare's, which may or not be illustrated in the course of the present narrative. Richard Moon — or rather Dick Moon — lor he was always called Dick in Connecticut — was the fourtn of the sever sons of Ezra Moon, Esq., of Pettypaug, a parish in the town of Saybrook, memorable for the g^allunt deftnce made by its inhabitants against the I n I r K M o n \ , T ri E P E D L A R . 189 Britisli forces, during the late war. I am thus parti- cular in the outset, and have introduced my hero to the reader thus early, in compliance with the recom- mendation ol' Doctor Watts, that in writing biography, every thing should be placed in the precise order in which it occurred. Dick Moon, then, as it has just been remarked, was the son of Ezra Moon, a very worthy and estimable man, a stanch supporter of Jefferson, and of course a warm and efficient friend of General Hart, of Saybrook, for whom he annually voted for governor, until the decease of that faithful, but always unsuccessful, candidate for the executive honors of Connecticut. Too wise, however, to meddle with politics to the detriment of his fortune, 'Squire Moon so well managed his temporal affairs, as not only to provide comfortably for his large family, but to add somewhat every year to the small patrimony inherited from his father. His sons, moreover, gave early evidence of activity, industry, and intelligence. But of all the number, Dick was the shrewdest in getting money, the most successful in its keeping, and the most fortunate in providing for its steady accu- mulation. The craniological theories of Gall and Spurzheim had only been heard of from afar, when Dick Moon was in his childhood, and the bumps upon the heads of young and old, were in those days left unexamined, save when arising from an accident, or a quarrel ; but had the world then been blessed with those scientific itinerants, who read character in the os fron- tis or the occiput instead of the eyes, and judge of m DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. propensities by feeling the head, instead of studying the heart, our hero's organ of acquisitiveness would doubtless have been declared very strongly develoj^'cd. The acquisition of money was indeed a passion with him, and from the moment he began to understand its value, his principal study was how to obtain it — at first by solicitation, but as soon as he had been induct- ed into the mysteries of exchange, by traffic and barter. Indeed, had Richard Moon grown up with as little principle as Hugh Audley, so well did he understand the art of making money multiply itself, that he might have equalled that great Shylock of England, who flourished through the reigns of the first two of the Stuarts. An anecdote will here at once illustrate his pc7i- chant for money even in his childhood, and his ingenuity in the pursuit of his object. At a very early age he had contracted the habit of asking every visiter at his father's house to give him a cent. The request being so moderate, was of course never denied when copper change was at hand, and Dick was careful to stow away every penny. His parents, being, as we have already seen, thrifty farmers, and " well to do in the world," as the practice contiiuu'il, began to feel no small degree of mortification upon the subject — often remonstrating with their little son against his conduct, biit to no jiurpose. Although he might promise reformation, yt't on the .■i|)peiir;ince of the next visiter, he would he sure to watch for an opportunity to ask for another cent. His parents at length determined upon a decisive course of conduct b DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. m HI the premises, and Dick was solemnly admonished, and threatened with positive and severe chastisement in the event of his repeating the oflence. The appearance of the next visiter was a severe trial to the urchin. He was observed to be unusually exercised m his mind, and fidgetted about with great uneasiness. Once or tv/ice he seemed almost upon the point of speaking out his accustomed request, when a stern glance from his father checked the words ere they had quite dropped from his tongue. But Yankee ingenuity is often an overmatch for any thing, and Dick at length triumphed. Edging up towards, the stranger, cunningly attracting his attention by a significant leer md at the same time casting a min- gled look of arcnness and terror upon his father, in the legitimate dialect of " down east," he said, " 1 guess you don't know nobody who would be willing to lend me a cent, do you!" His victory was com- plete, for instead of a rebuke, a burst of laughter followed alike from the 'Squire, and those who had observed the workings of the mind of little Dick, and his evasion of the letter of the command. Still, although so thoroughly intent upon money- Slathering-, it must be observed in justice to Dick, that he was not prompted thereunto by avarice, for there was nothing of meanness in his composition. It was never known, either in the days of his juve- nility, or of his manhood, that he resorted to unfair or dishonorable means to gratify his favorite passion of " putting money in his purse/' but in ihe way oi trade and barter, where both parties were supposed to J« DICK MOON, IHK PF.DLaK. have their eyes open, he thought it not wrong tc practice upon the maxim, that A thing Is worth as much as it will bring: And never was son of Adam, young or old, more prolific in expedients to turn a penny with success. He was full of good humor, adroit in his little schemes of traffic and gain, and persuasive with his tongue — and hence a general favorite, not only among his own brothers and sisters, but in the neigh- borhood, and among his school-fellows, — for 'Squire Moon was careful to give his family the advantage of the best schools in Pettypaug. These characteristics, it may be thought, were not altogether in keeping with Dick's ardent pursuit of the root of evil ; but it must be remarked, that at no period of his life did h^e ever exhibit a solitary token of the miser's disposition. On the contrary, he displayed a thousand generous traits and amiable qualities. Possessing always a fine flow of spirits, ready in repartee, and quick in his perceptions of the ludicrous — abounding in humorous anecdote, as he approached the age of manhood, he was always, boy and man, the life of the circle in which he chanced to mingle. But in all matters of trade, he was wide awake — keen as a briar. No sooner did he find that one of his brothers, or other comrades, had become possessed of a " nine- pv-^nce lawful," or, perchance, a pistareen, but he set hia Avits at work to gain it; and he generally su:c«^ded by offering some tempting crticle in barter, DICK MCON, TH."] VEDI. A.K. )>3 and persuading them of the advantages they would derive from the purchase. The consequence was, that on the semi-annual returns of election holy-days, a " general training/' and thanksgiving, when money was wanted by his brothers and others for the pur- chase of election-cake or ginger-bread, and to defray the expense of turkey-shootings, Dick, who Avas sure to hold " the deposites," was called upon to furnish the loans necessary for each occasion. This he was ever ready and prompt to do, but always exacting some sufficient pledge for security, and never failing to regain his oavti " with usury." Foremost in the amusements and jollifications incident to those festive days, moreover, it was nevertheless rare indeed that they were indulged at the expense of his own cash. Not that he escaped his share of the reckoning by stinginess — not he; but he had great readiness in devising tricks of legerdemain, and in acquiring hints for the performance of the simpler experiments of strolling jugglers. Trifling wagers upon his suci^essful feats of dexterity, therefore, were always sufficient to pay his proportion, his associates were more than compensated by the exhibition of his powers, while the elderly buxom lasses were delighted with his skill, and the matrons of the parish pro- nounced him " eena-most a witch." It would be useless to recount the almost countless devices to which Dick resorted for driving a profitable internal commerce among his playrnates during his boyhood Suffice it to say, that he was always ready for a trade — even to the swopping of his hat, ot 1/ IM DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. ex^hati^^ing pocket knives " unsight unseen," which was formerly a frequent mode of " dickering" among the lads at the country schools of Connecticut. Lucky dog that he was, he was ever sure to have the best of the bargain. The invasion of Pettypaug by the British forces landed from the ships of Commodore Hardy, then lying ofT the estuary of the Connecticut river, during the last war, has been adverted to in rather a back handed way in the opening of our story. It is needless to recapitulate the history of that memorable exploit. Suffice it to say, the people of that rather sequestered parish could hardly have anticipated a visit from the enemy, at least not until after the more attractive parish of Saybrook should have' received the honor. Jjiit it so fell out that the rich booty of General Hart's large mercantile establishment was passed by unheeded ; and early one morning, as the good people of Pettypaug were brushing the poppies from their eyes, and ere the sun-beams had chased away the saffron hues of Aurora, to their infinite surprise they discovered that a column of red-coats were enjoying their morning parade in the midst of their principal street! Of course the old ladies, with and without petticoats, were suitably frightened, while those who would willingly have made fight if they could, were precluded therefrom by the peculiar circumstances of the case, having" been taken com pletely unawares, alike unarmed and undressed! For Dick Moon, htr.vever, ready and quickwitted in any •mergei.'cy, it was a golden morning. As DICK MOON, THF. I'Cni.AR. 110 if by insiinct, and before the other villagers had recovered from their surprise, he struck up a trade with the strangers, and by exchanging whatever of butter and eggs, vegetables and poultry, he could lay his hands upon, fur the king's money — for so that the metal was good, he cared not for the stamp — Dick amassed enough to supply a snug little exchequer. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good ; and while the fleet of merchantmen which had been moored thus far up the river for safety, were blazing away as though Copenhagen Jackson were there himself, Dick Moon was laying the foundation of his future fortunes. Money grew every day scarcer during the con- tinuance of the war, and Dick Avas consequently enabled to make his own terms in occasional and not unfrequent loans of small sums to those in want — always receiving a pledge of more than ample value, as security for the repayment on a certain day. Most commonly the pledge was a watch, as being at once the most convenient, and the most readily converted into cash. It was amusing at times to see the number of silver chronometers hanging in his bedroom ; and with him there was no " three days' grace." If the money did not come at the time stipulated, a rigid for- feiture of the pledge was exacted. But as he dealt ex- plicitly and honorably with every one, and was withal remarkable for his conciliating manner, notwithstand- ing his exactness in claiming and receiving his own, he made no enemies by his scrupulous adherence to the exact rules of his bank; and having taken the l36 D1''K MOON, THE PEDI. AR tide of fortune at its flood, he was drifted successfully onward. The consequence was, that the close of the war found Dick Moon just one-and-twenty, with ready money sufficient wherewith to purchase a fine horse, and a substantial and capacious pedlar'c cart, with tin ware, and other " notions," enough to fill it. Thus furnished and provided, without owing a cent in the world, our hero sallied forth, as thousands of this itinerant race of merchants had done before him. But it may readily be supposed, from the character we have sketched of him, that he A\as not of the common order of pedlars. Although possessing a full share of the characteristic shrewdness and humor of the tribe, he was, ne ■ Ttheless, above practising the tricks which have won an unenviable fame for the order ; and he dealt not in wooden clocks that became tired of ticking before sundown, or in tortoise shell combs made of glue and molasses, or in horn- gun-flints and artificial indigo. Setting his face toward the far south, he traversed the " ancient dominion," and the Carolinas, year after year, bring- ing back golden returns, and every where leaving a good character. To be sure, he sold at a profit, and was certain never to exchange commodities to a disadvantage. It was his business to do so ; but he was guilty of none of the peculiar cunning and trickery in)puted so universally to tliose of his calHng: and was never afraid to traverse the same roiitr' a second tnne — a fact wliich could not be predic!> : of most jiedlars. Indeed, wherever Known. DICK MOON, THE PET LAR. m the presence of Dick Moon vas always welcome, biiice he was not only a man of uitelligence, but ol agreeable address, and "most excellent fancy" — full of good humor and native drollery, without the too frequent accompaniments of coarseness and vulgarity. The hospitality of our southern fellow-citizens is p/overbial. C4ood inns, in that country, are few and far between; and even indifferent ones are not very numerous. The broad domains of the opulent plan- ters, moreover, necessarily throw their mansions a goodly distance asunder. Of society, beyond their own immediate family circles, they see but compara- tively little, save when they go abroad in quest of it. The consequence is, that they are frequently as much favored by the company of an intelligent stranger- guest, as the latter is by an unexpected invitation, and a cordial reception. This explanation prepares the way for the relation of another important incident in the life of our hero. It happened on one occasion, that Dick found himself chaffering in the way of trade with the mistress of a large but isolated mansion, in the lower part of Virginia, at a rather late hour in the even- ing. The lady disputed his prices, and examined so many of his wares and other notions, as ladies are wont to do, that the shades of night were drawing on before he was ready to resume his journey. Added to which, a massy pile <^f dark clouds in the west threatened a tempest. Under these circumstances, and in consider- ation, moreover, of the pedlar's intelligence and agree- able address, he was invited to remain for the night. When the lord of the mansirn came in, on beinp ir tS8 DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. made acquainted with the circumstance, ; e was evidently not altogether pleased with the arrangement He was a republican who at the hustings could talk- eloquently of liberty and equality, while at home more than a hundred slaves trembled at his presence. He was proud of his caste, and thought that nothing was equal to old Virginia, because, at that time, he had never travelled beyond it. The Yankees, of all men, he had been taught to despise as a miserly race, who never wept but when weeding their onions, nor blushed, but -^■vhen plating their tin — and the Yankee pedlars were the objects of his particular abhorrence. And vet there were many excellent points in the character of Major Dinwiddle. Among his equals there were few possessing greater intelligence, or more amiable and generous qualities than he, unless his judgment had been warped, or his feelings wrought upon by prejudice. But, on the whole, it needed not half the penetration possessed by the pedlar, to discern that he was not altogether as welcome a guest as probably would have been one of the Gholsons or the Ranilolplis. Not many words had been inter- changed, before the planter indicated still more intelligibly his half-dif satisfied humor, by askine abruptly — " Well, brother Jonathan, T reckon you've brought along a power of notions to please tbe Virgininns, di ! What have you ?" " Pretty much every thing, I gues?; tin-ware, pins and pepper, drums, needles and shuttle-cocks, fiddles, doD? warming-pans, mouse-traps, and other sweet-meats-- DICK MOON, TIIK PEDLAR J90 "Togetlicr with a heap of wooden nuuTiefifs, I reckon — how do they sell?" 'Why, sax-a-lax* sell pretty lively yet, but white oak don't go very well of late." The planter was by no means insensible to the ludicrous ; and the promptness of the pedlar's replies, the peculiar cast of gravity with which they were uttered, and their oddity withal, soon dissipated the prejudice v.hicli had c.iilled his welcome, and placed Dick Moon at once upon a different footing for the evening. Major Dinwiddle discovered that he was entertaining a very clever fellow, albeit a pedlar; and after sipping a cheerful julep together, the Virginian sunk the aristocrat, and conversed as freely of his tobacco crop, his negroes, his horses, and his hounds, as though talking with one of the' Drom gooles or Merriwethers of his own county. He made many inquiries of the pedlar respecting matters and things in Yankee land, and in the course of the evening was very inquisitive on the subject of thi-? " Yankee tricks," of which he had heard so much. The pedlar, on his part, sustained the conversation very creditably, for himself, his country, and his calling. In regard to the peculiar " tricks," for the practic»; of which his countrymen were enjoying such unen visi- ble notoriety at the South, he disclaimed, and truly, any practical knowledge of them himself, while engaged in his itinerating commercial intercourse with the plantation states, nor did he acknowledge them to be exclusively characteristic of tne Yankees. Therp * The provincial pronunc.ation of Sassajras. ion DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. were tricks m all trades and occupations, ar > tricicy men in all countries. The adroitness with \A>iiich they were practised, would of course depend u^ ..i 'he shrewdness of the artist — not upon his parentage, «r the place of his birth ; and he was greatly mistaken if Virginia horse jockeys could not be found equalling any wooden clock vender that ever came from Connecticut. But the planter was incredulous. He had heard so much of the tricks of the Yankee pedlatb, that he could not divest himself of the idea that the study of the art was a part of their profession. Hence he supposed them to be a sort of roving brotherhood — bound by a mystic tie like the freema- sons — with the art of working tricks by a process known only to their own hopeful fraternity, — and so curious was he to behold a legitimate Yankee trick, that he be^ofed of his guest to work one for his own special gratification. Our hero had no desire to gain notoriety in that way, and he repeatedly begged to be excused, modestly alleging his inability to perform any such exploit, either of dexterity, or of wit. Importunity, hoAvever, at length prevailed over resolution; and as the family separated for the night, Dick promised to show the Major a trick before he took his departure in the morning. An ebony damsel, lustrous from very blackness, iightod Dick to his chamber, and pointed him to a high bed, into which, when 1 e threw himself, he sunk as into n sea of down, so light and livelj*^ were the feathers. The sheets were sweet and clean, and over n\] was snrfiil a superb Marseilles counternann. DICK MdON, THE PEDLAR. 9>I beautifully wrought in delicate figures, as if the needle-woHf of some fairy fingers, and rivalling thu driven snow in whitene'^s. The pedlar awoke with 'he lark from a glorious slumber, and was dressed before a single inmate of the mansion was on the move. Having completed his toilet, in regard to which he was always somewhat more attentive than is usual with his profession, he took the counterpane from the bed, folded it carefully as though just taken from a bale of merchandise, attach- ed a commercial mark to the fringe, and carried it out in the gray of the morning, before any of the family had risen, and placed it in his cart. The wants of his faithful horse were next consulted, an 1 after measuring to him an ample supply of provender, he regained his apartment, yet unperceived, and in due season presented himself below with the family, In the country, where time is employed according to the design of the Creator — where the night is taken for repose, as the day was ordained for labor — and where it is thought no mark of disrespect to rise before the sun, — breakfast is truly a morning meal, AcconS- ingly, it was found smoking upon the table, as the pedlar descended into the parlor, where, in a moment afterward, he was joined by the hos/itable major and hi? lady. Of course the morning repast, inviting and bountiful to an excess, according to southern ?-;is- tom, was not to be declir^ed, and Dick gave practical testimony that he was not afflicted by the dyspepsia In due season, and without unnecessary delay, thn pedlar's horse Avas in harness, and he was ']vM am »IC\ irtOC N, THE PEDLAR. preparing vo ascend hi- box to depart, when, .s tnongli sudden!}' recollecting .limself, he called to the lady, and informed her that he had in lis box one article, and only one, which he was exceedingly desirous she should possess. It was a splendid Marseilles counterpan ;, wrought exactly after a pattern which had been drawn for the Duchess of Berri, and in consideration of the kindness with which he had been entertained, she must have it. He thereupon brought it forth from his cart, and opened it to the admiration of the whole family. It wis so fine, so beautiful, so much handsomer than any thing of the kind they had ever seen, that the vote v as unanimous that it must be purchased. And then, it was so cheap — only torty dollars! "My dear," said Mrs. Dinwiddie to the Major — "How lucky! It is just the thing that I was wanting for the blue chamber, against Mr. Calhoun comes along on his waj'- to congress !" And so the counterpane was purchased. The pedlar pocketted the money, bade them good morning, and mounted his cart. " But stay a moment, Mr. Moon," en lied u e Major, as the pedlar began to raise his whip for a flourish: " Where is the Yarkce trick you promised to show me before your departure?" "Never mind," replied Dick, "you will find it out soon enough!" and with a crack of his whip, he drove off at a ri'piJ gait — more after the pattern of Je lu, than he had ever driven before. The denouement followed in due season, as a matter of -ourse- bi". the ped:'ir was far aw:iy, and there DICK MOON, THE EULAR. 205 A-as no remedy. And besides, to a in< a jf Major Dinwiddle's pretensions and pride, having been caught -in a trap of his own setting, the less said about it in public the better. The story was too good, however, long to be kept ; and it may well be suppos- ed that the merriment created at his expense, was nol calculated to increase his affection for the venders of tin-ware from Connecticut. Years rolled on, and the wheels of Dick Moon's cart meantime rolled over almost every state in the Union — each revolution adding to his temporal stores, and of course increasing his investments ; for our hero was not the man to leave either, at loose ends, or idle. And here, though not without great reluctance, his biographer must take leave of him for the present. It was just at night-fall, one day, in the autumn oi 1832 — the fatal year in which the scourge of India, the cholera, made its appearance, and swept with fearful mortality through the land, from the Gulf o the St. Lawrence to the Delta of the Mississippi — that a well mounted gentleman, somewhat fatigi ed, however, and having the appearance of one upon a long journey, rode up to an indifferent looking inn about midway between the parishes of East and West Feliciana, in the neighborhood of Baton Rouge, on the Mississippi. This is by far the pleasantest district of Louisiana. Having traversed alone, and on horse- hack, from New-Orleans, a distance of nearly tw 204 DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. nundred miles, over a dead level, diversifiec. oi. y betAveen the plantations by pine woods and swamps, alluvions and quaking prairies, it wa-5 an agreeable change for the traveller, to find himself in a country breaking into hills and valleys, the former covered with laurel, and the latter with rich plantations. The foliage of the trees was assuming those rich and varied hues, which impart so much beauty to the autumnal drapery of the American forests, and the stranger had moreover refreshed himself repeatedly in the course of the afternoon, by plucking and eating of the rich fox and muscadine grapes, that hung in ripe and luscious clusters, descending, at times, almost over his head — and too inviting in appearance and taste to be resisted. The landlord, w^ith rubicund visage, more strongly illuminated, probably, by the beams now glancing horizontally upon his shining nose from the setting sun, stood in the portal of his somewhat dilapidated tenement — a chateau, as it had been called in its better days, when owned and occupied by a relation of the Marquis Maison Rouge. " Stran-ger,^' said the traveller to the publican "can I get to stay with you to night?" "Well, I reckon," was the affirmative reply, in the Red River dialect. Whereupon the horseman dis- mounted, and the proper directions we'e given to the Bable ostler. " Caesar, hang the Slran-ger^s horse finent the spring, and when he gets cool, wash hini and rub him down, and give him a smart chance of roughness. DICK MOON, THE J> K.) I, A R . 206 Hack, now, and draw a bee-line quick : and, here, .Tube, tote in the s^ran-ger's phmder : — Come, patter along." While these arrangements were making, some little conversation ensued betw^een the publican and guest. " From the up-country, I reckon ?" inquired the 'brmer. " From Old Virginia." " Smart sprinkle of niggers there yet ? though a power of them has been brought to Orleans, and up to Bayou-Sarah, within a few years past. This sugar- making does the business for a heap of 'em every year. The cholera cuts 'em off this fall most ban- daciously. Mr. L'Amoreaux, at the last plantation back, which you passed, has had a touch, and is powerful weak yet." The traveller, who was rather less sociable than the publican, and who was, in fact, making an over- land journey homeward from New-Orleans, whither he had been to dispose of forty or fifty of his sla^'es, uttered some indifferent reply, and was turning to enter the house, when he discovered the cart of a New England pedlar, standing under a shed a short distance from the door. " This universal Yankee nation !" he exclaimed, " you find them every where. I reckon they Avould go to Tophet to sell a pistauen's worth of mamnioth pumpkin seeds, if they could clear four-pence by it. I say, landlord, I think you should keep a quick eye upon the sharpers who ride upon carts like that. No honest man is safe against their tricks, and for a keen 6hav( I rcrkon < Id Rriin.-toh.' hiin.«elf conld'nt beat 18 M6 DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. them. Indeed, I believe he's in partnership with most of 'em." "Never mind, me for that," replied the landlord. " I never seed a. Yankee yet, from Mike Fink, the boatman — and he wa? a rip-ronrer, you know, — down to the slickest peilar that -^ver found his way to Baton Rouge, who was up to Bill Mackintosh — and that's my name, Stran-ger, to your sarvice." " So I should think : But what sort of a man has carted himself hither upon that box?" " I don't mind that I ever seed him afore ; but he is a likely looking chap, and his horse swings a fine tail. He's gone over the hill to find an old neighbor of his, by the name of Dudley, who toted himself into these parts about fifteen years ago, and has made himself richer without any niggers, than any of the rest of us who have fifty on 'em. I don't reckon that Dudley will now let on that he ever know'd ihe pedlar." " Well, I advise you to keep a look out for him, that's all. These Yankee tricks — " " Oh, never fear : Should he play any of his tricks upon Bill Mackintosh — you see that are rifle? — he'd soon find himself obscpiattulatod, and a streak of day- liglu shining through him." I'he stranger had entered the house before the last words w<re spoken, and Boniface turned to swear at his negroes for not stirring more briskly in closing up their chores. In the course of the nighf, the proprietor of the New England vehicle A-'hich had occasior^d a portion DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. 207 of the preceding colloquy, was aroused from his bed by a terrible commotion in the chateau. The land- lord was swearing at the poor servants, whose negro gibberish fell upon the pedlar's ear, mingled with groans, as of a person in a situation of severe suffer- ing. "Out, out with him!" gruffly exclaimed the land- lord. " I keep a tavern, and not a cholera hospital.'' " But oh, Massa, de gemman so sick ! He can move 'um — he die for sartin ! Me nebber see white man look so brack and brue." " Take him out to the shed, you cantankerous black rascals!" roared Boniface. " I wish-ee Massa den be sick heself — turn out pjor ting in sich-ee debble of a passhun. Poor nigger more compasshuns den dat," soliloquized the humane African, in an under tone; — whereupon the trembling bevy of slaves set about executing the brutal order. The pedlar had been an auditor, though not a spectator, of the scene, and being a humane man, he threv.' on his clothes as quickly as possible, and hastened to the relief of the sick gentleman, whose case, from the language he had heard, and the circum- stance that the cholera Avas at that time rajjincf in the Valley of the Mississippi, he already understood. To see a fellow being thus inhumanly cast out of the house, a stranger, perhaps, far from home and kindred, to die with the brutes, was shocking to his feelings, and it was his purpose, at all hazards, to prevent th'^ execution of the savage mandate he had 106 DICK MOON, TIIK PEDLAR. heard. But ere he Avas able to join the sable group who had the sick man in charge, they had crossed the street, and wer already entering the shed, an apartment of which was in truth almost as comforta- ble as the ruinous chateau. " And is this the fashion after which j'ou treat christian men in these parts?" exclaimed the pedlar. " Wliere's the landlord?" he d'^manded. "By the hokey !" he continued — " If I could get hold of him just at this moment, I'd knock him into a cock'd hat in a jiffey." " Oh, Massa awful man," replied one of the snow- balls. " He mak'ee smell brim-stone he hear'ee !" " He may be an airthquake," replied the pedlar, "for what I care, but he'll never shake me, I guess." Boniface, however, fearful of the pestilence, had slunk away, and was already mixing camphor with his nocturnal julep, as a preventive to the disease he was inviting by the potation. The pedlar had amply provided himself for any emergency of the kind, by purcha> "ing and studying Reese's Treatise upon Cholera, and laying in a small store of suitable medicines, under the direction of a physician in Philadelphia, before he commenced his present journey. He therefore ordered lights, and proceeded to examine the sick man — whom, by the way, he recognized as having seen somewhere before. There was no mistake, however, as to the cliavucter of the disease. The stranger had probalily contract- ed the oriental malady several days j)revious, and the wild graph's which he had been so plentifully eating DISK MOON, THE PEDLAR. 209 the day before, had brought it upon him with tremend- ous severity. Indeed, its progress had been so rapid, that his count "nance was already assuming thai livid mahogany color, which indicates the near approach of the blue stage. His tongue was becoming cold, and his skin began to corrugate. No time was to be lost. Following the direction of the author already men tioned, he breathed a vein with his pen-knife, and after a copious bleeding, gave him a full dose of calomel, of which he had several provided. The negroes were all activity and attention. Mustard poultices were applied to his body, and as he continually begged for water, one of the negroes was dispatched to the ice-house of Mr. Dudley, whence he Avas speedily forth-coming with a good supply. Before it was time for the calomel to take effect, the patient had sunk into that perfect state of composure which indi- cates an approaching collapse. The pedlar, however, who had witnessed the treatment of several cases in the New-York hospitals, did not despair, although he watched him for some hours with trembling appre- hension — not leaving the bed of straw on which he had been placed for a moment. Feeding him plenti- fully with ice, and renewing the mustard applications as occasion required, before noon of the following day, the pedlar had the satisfaction to find all things working well. A few hours more, anrf the change was s") manifest as to afford strong confidence of a recovery. It is one of the peculiarities of this dread- fill scourge, that restoration is frequently as rapid as the progress of the disease. On the second dav 18* 210 1 ICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. therefore, the pedlar saw his patient so far resto.i J to health, as to feel safe in leaving him. With a thousand thanks for his kindness and humanity, and the offer of a liberal compensation in money, which he rejected, the pedlar took his departure — slipping into the hands of one of the negroes a note, to be delivered to the sick gentleman, after he was gone, ot which the following is a copy : — 'Regions of Inhuvianity, Nov. 25, 1832. " Dear Sir, " As I calcTilate you are now safe to do, I have concluded to start this afternoon, and get quit of this pesky place as soon as possible — especially as 1 am obleeged to be in Orleans next i\eek, before the brig Snap-Dragon sails for Vera Cruz. You have had a pretty tight squeeze on't, or I'm mistaken. Your face was about as thin as a hatchet when old Hardscrabble turned you out-of-doors, and if it hadn't been for the Yankee pedlar, I think you'd have twisted yourself into a corkscrew in an hour more, I make no merit of what I have done, and I only hope that hereafter you'll believe that all Yankees are not so unfeeliu!.,'- that they cannnt weep except when they are cutting up oniois; and as I have scorned to receive your money, I guoss you may also admit that it's not every pedlar who is so greedy for gain, as to skin flints and shad-scales to get it. The niggers have all done what they could for you, and if you cqin give them a Ccw notions, without letting the old alligator in the house know it, I calculate it wmi'i DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. 811 come amiss. Enclosed I leave you a dose or two of marcury, and Doctor Reese's receipt, which, if you have a relapse, you can swallow for yourself — not the receipt, I don't mean, but the calomel. But mind you don't eat any more grapes, or drink any juleps, until the cholera's gone. Enclosed I also send you a forty dollar note of 'Squire Biddle's bank — which, for your use, I guess is pretty considerably better than specie — being the amount which you paid me fifteen years ago for Mrs. Dinwiddle's counter- pane. If you'll look close, I gu^^^s you'll find the bill is an old acquaintance. It's the same I look on you, whether or no. Howsomever you have forgotten me, though I expect you don't forget to remember the " Yankee trick." I had tho'ts of putting in the interest ; but as it was a trick of your own axing, I conclude you may lose that much, for knowing more than you did before. But I must be stirring. " Your obedient, " RICHARD MOON. " To Maj. Dinwiddle, of Virginia. " P S. I hope you'll not forget to remember ti present my best compliments to Mrs. Dinwiddle and tell her she must not lay that matter up agin me I expect I saw your son on parade at West Pint in September — his mother all over. His eyes are as bright as a button, and h' walks as trim and straighi as a corn-stalk.'' 2ia DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. From the date of this letter, until a kw weeks since, the biographer has had no direct inttlligence from Dick Moon, excepting a vague rumor that soon after reaching New-Orleans, he had drawn for all his spare funds in the hands of Prime, Ward & King, and had invested them in a mining company in Mexico. His friends in Saybrook and Pettypaug, and even the knowing ones in Wall-street, shook their heads upon this intelligenc «. as much as to say, " it's a long road that never turns, and Dick has doubt- less missed a figure at last." Put taking up a Mexi- can paper in August last, what was the delight of the biographer as he glanced his eye upon the followiriq; paragraph : — De la Catarata de la Libertad Mejicana, Junio 30, 1835. Tenemos el placer de anunciar que el Condiicta 4Ue dejo esta Capital para Vera Cruz, el 26 de Mayo, llego sin novedad a Xalapa el 16 del corriente. Se acordaran que entre la propriedad encargada a este conducta fue un cantidad grande de Carras de plata perteneciente al Senor Don Ricardo de la Lvna, de una de las mas ricas minas de Guanajuato, de las cuales dos anos hace vino a ser proprietario principal aquel caballero. Ha inventado una maquina asom- brosa para trabajar la niina, quo promete do por cierto scr de mucho valor para toda ( lase do minas de esta ropublica ronaciente. Cuando estuvo en esta capital cl Sofior R. Luna estaba tan contonto con la hormosura do su situacion, la saliid dol clinia. v la* DICK MOON, THE PEDLAR. 213 encantadoras vistas, en medio de las cuales se encuen tia la ciudad de Montezuma, que comprb la deliciosa mansion — antiguamente la propiedad del alcalde real — como nuestros lectores saben, de porfiro y de amygdaloide, situada ca la parte occidental de la alamo- da directamente fronteriza a la fuente. i-REE TRANSLATION. " From the Cataract of Mexican Liberty, June 30, 1835, " We have the pleasure of announcing that the conducta which left this capital for Vera Cruz, on the 26th of May, arrived at Xalapa without accident, on the 16th of the present moi^th. It will be remem- bered that among the merchandise etitrusted to this conducta, was a large quantity of silver bullion, belonging to Richard Moon, Esq., from one of the richest mines of Guanajuato, of which two years ago that gentleman became the principal proprietor. He has invented an ingenious machine for working the mine, which promises to be of great value in the mining operations of this rising republic. When Mr. Moon was in this capital, he was so much pleased with the beauty of its situation, the healthiness of the climate, and the glorious scenery, in the midst of which stands the city of Montezuma, that he pur- chased the delightful mansion, formerly the property of the royal Alcalde, constructed, as our readers may well know, of porphyry and amygdaloid, situated on the western side of the Alameda, directly fronting the fountain." ORtHiN'S POND I BLESS thee, native shore ! Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparVinf; clear 'Tis like a dream once more The music of thy thousand waves to hear, As murmuring up the sand With kisses bright they lave the sloping lend. The gorgeous sun looks down, Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray, And o'er thy headlands brown With loving light the tints of morning play. The whispering breezes fear To break the calm so softly hallowed here. Here, in her green domain, The stamp of Nature's sovereignty is found; With scarce disputed jeign She dwells in all the solitude around. And here she loves to wear Till' r(>gal garl) that ?nits a queen so fair. GREEN'S POND. 213 Oh, oft my heart hath yearned For thy sweet shades, and vales of sunny rest ! Even as the swan returned, Stoops to repose upon thine azure breast, I greet each welcome spot, Forsaken long — but ne'er, ah! ne'er forgot Twas here that memory grew — Twas here that childhood's hopes and cares wore \*.s early freshness too — Ere droops the soul, of its best joys bereft. Where are they? — o'er the track Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back ! They must be with thee still ! Thou art unchanged — as bright the sunbeams play; From not a tree or hill Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away: Unchanged alike should be The blessed things so late resigneu to thee ! Give back — oh smiling deep! The heart's fair sunshine, and the dreams ot youth, That in thy bosom sleep — Life's April innocence, and trustful truth I The tones that breathed of yore In thy lone murmurs, once again restore ' Where have they vanished all ? Only the heedless winds in answer sigh — m GREEN'S POND. • Still rushing at thy call With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by I And idle as the air, Or fleeting stream, my pining spirit's prayer ' Home of sweet thoughts — farewell! Where'er through changeful life my lot may oe, A deep and hallowed spell Is jn thy waters and thy woods for me! Though vainly fancy craves Ite chi dhood with the music of thy waves ! PRESENTIMENT. A TALE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. BT A. D. PATBRSON, ESQ, ' Ifeei the touch of a brother's hand near my heart, and it coea me good." Joanna Baillie. Whoever would see the great vivifier of nature appear, under his most gorgeous circumstances, and surrounded by the most splendid expanse, should be sailing on the Mediterranean ; and should rise betimes, if he would indeed behold the whole mao-nificent scene. The young morning peeps forth, modestly clad in sober gray, but as he advances he rapidly changes his hues, each being richer and brighter than that which preceded it, and seeming, as he increases in importance, to be the harbinger of the glorious orb which is to shed so wondrous and universal an influ- ence over the face of creation. Gradually the rapt beholder becomes entranced with the view of still accumulating beauties, until at length the sun himself emerges from his ocean-bed, in one unclouded flood of light and splendor while in his train corr;e <:miles and 19 i 218 PRESENTIMENT. beauty, sweetness and plenty. The soul of the beholder seems exalted above itself, and he rises from admiration of the scene to adoration of its great Creator. The shores of the Mediterranean have an aspect peculiar to themselves, produced in a great measure by the quality of the atmosphere in that region ; the eminences there have a finer gray, the valleys a deeper purple, in their tinge; while the light and elegant vessels, propelled by sails adapted to those waters, seem to glide fairy-like from point to point, or make excursions over the broad and smooth sea, as if they were natives of the element and "instinct with life." It is admirable to perceive Avith what sagacity as well as -readiness man accommodates circumstances to his necessity or convenience ; in marine inventions this is perhaps more remarkable than in most others. The peculiarities of the climate, of the sea, and even the indentations of the shores, render it proper to adapt certain modes of propelling, as well as of keep- ing securely, vessels under sail, which would suit no other region. Hence the seaman, who has always his full share of national vanity at his heart, can look with complacency and delight upon the building and rigging so differeiu from those of his own country, for his practised eye informs him that there is no comparison to be instituted. The American mariner in particular, feels no diminution of pleasurw in remembering the beautifiil cutters which skim along the waters m the bay of New- York, or in the vicinity of Sandy Hook, no humiliating sensation as he casts (•RESENTIMENT. «18 Beck the glance :»f his mind, upon some Baltimore clipper, which on the broad Atlantic could " Walk the waters like a thing of life ;" but sees, in the light felucca which swiftly glides across the bays, being urged by skilful oarsmen, — in the lateensaW of the market-coaster, which elegantly bends to the breeze and rises in rebomid — in the xebec and polacre with rigging so constructed as to catch the lofty airs, yet so manageable as to be taken in with the swiftness of thought — all being adapta- tions to light airs and sudden squalls, to which the Mediterranean is peculiarly obnoxious. The scenery and the objects which we have described, derive additional beauty from the opening hues of a summer morning, from about an hour before sunrise till an hour after it. Visions of glad- ness and of splendor are before us, and holy thoughts are awakened within us ; we seem to rejoice in our existence, and are ready to bless the Almignty hand Vv^hich has created so much of beauty, and given so much of good. It was on such a morning, and at such an hour that an American vessel was seen v/ith her head to the westward, nearly midway between the Algerine and Spanish coasts, but mclining rather to the shores of Africa. She was homeward bound from Genoa to New-York, her name the Clinton, so called from that of a public-spirited and able governor of that state ; her burthen about 350 tons, her condition and appear- ance of a very superior order, and her force sufficiently « I ^20 PRESENTIMENT. effective to protect her against the ordinary iiiaitiuders from the Barbary shores. The commander of the Chnton was a po.werful looking man, of the middle age, with a complexion which appeared to be the result of much hardship, and an intimate acquaintance with climate in all its varieties. Like the generality ^f the American commanders, he possessed a degree of intelligence and refinement superior to those of his rank and profession in the old world. This, which was the result of a plain but solid education, had kept his mind clear of many an absurdity in opinion, and many a credulity for which the sons of the ocean have, time out of mind, been remarkable. One pecu- liarity of feeling was however his ; but how it had found place in his bosom it would be difficult to trace. This was a belief in presentiment. It had developed itself in him while a child, and years had only served to strengthen his faith. Strange to say — the belief had never been confirmed by practical effects, but on the contrary he adhered to it against all experience ; sometimes receiving from it the consolations of hope, at others experiencing the bitter pangs of disappoint- ment. Still, however, he clung to it; and at the moment in which our story opens, this powerful feel- ing was exerting an influence o\er him greater than usual. It was a little before four o'clock that Captain Thayer ascended the companion ladder, and having looked first aloft aiul then in the binnacle, he put his "•lass to his eye, and rapidly but carefully swept the hori?.v)ii to the southward Afti-r he h;\d repeated PRESENTIMENT. 1S1 fhis examination two or three times, he threw the glass across his arm, and continued leaning, as in thought, against the larboard gangway. From this reverie he was shortly disturbed by the deep voice of the first mate, whose watch it was upon deck, calling out to the helmsman " Port, sir, port, do you want to run the African coast aboard?" Captain Thayer immediately stepped back to the binnacle again, and looked at the compass ; then, turning to the mate, he said, " I should like just to make the land on the south shore ; let them square away the yards a little, and keep her head about S. S. W." " I guess we are not far from the land now, sir," replied the mate, " and if we should let the wind die away upon us, the current may drive us farther in than you would wish ; and those cut-throat Algerines would make a fine haul of us, if it came to boarding." The captain was leaning upon the carriage of a gun, as the mate made his remark, and as he patted the breech with his hand he smiled and replied, " No fear, Simson, we are no prize for a corsair ; but to confess a truth, I am anxious to get in with the iand; I have continually a presentiment concerning it, which weighs upon me beyond endurance." " Of that," replied the mate " I am not ignorant This you may remember is my third year with yoi up the Straits ; and I recollect that in all the forme) voyages you hau.^d in for the south side hereabouts I was not tl en in a condition to ask your reasons foi keeping a course which is not generally considered 19- ■Sa PRESENTIMENT. safest ; but now that I am placed in my presen-' situation, perhaps you may feel inclined to inform me.'' " It is, perhaps, too ridiculous to be confessed," said the former, " yet 1 cannot shake it off; nor would I wish to be without the hope to which it gives birth. It is true, as you say, that I am following a naviga- tion neither usual nor approved in this part of our voyage; — what is more, I have steadily done the same thing during eight voyages before the present one ; still more, I have confined myself to this trade, notwithstanding my capital, my connexions, and my experience, would enable me to come to permanent moorings ashore, much sooner than the line we are in could possibly do. — But it is all in vain," he add- ed after a pause, "here I return again and again ; my hopes constantly defeated, but never discouraged. I dwell on the cause of my anxiety continually. I satisfy myself that my pursuit is like chasing the Flying Dutchman, yet still with dogged perseverance I return, in the forlorn hope that my constancy may be at length successful." Simson was a plain honest seaman, who did not understand the secret workings in his commander's heart. He could perceive the more obvious results of any particular kind of conduct, and could judge with tolerable accuracy of the probabilities in the train of human events; but his presr7itimcnfs went no farther, and he could not help considering this feeling ir. Captain Thayer as one of the weaknesses to wJiich human nature is prone, and from which no man is entirely free. He was, however, strongly attni lu-d to PRESENTIMENT. 2£ Thayer under whom he had sailed during the last three 3'ears, and who had gradually brought him forward, from before the mast to the station of first mate of the Clinton. When, therefore, he heard the order repeated, he obeyed with alacrity. " Forward there ! round in the larboard after braces, and then come aft and square the head yards. Cooper, starboard your helm ; kt her fall off to S. S. W., and keep her there." This was done, the watch was changed, but Captain Thayer remained walking the deck with apparent inquietude, frequently applying the glass to his eve, and always directing it to the southern shores. The mate could not avoid perceiving that his com- mander was, that morning, more than usually moved; he therefore resolved not to retire to rest. So slip- ping below to perform his ablutions, and making some change in his dress after the night watch, he began to move about the ship, regulating various little matters, and giving sundry orders. It was some time ere Captain Thayer perceived him to be still on deck, so much was he absorbed in his own contem- plations; but at length he cried, "how now, Simson. don't you turn in this watch?" " No, sir," replied the mate, " I don't feel inclined to sleep, and would rather be on deck to catch the land-fall." " Ah, you are groaning in spirit like the timbers of an old ship in a head sea. You are thinking or corsairs, and underwriters, — and home — and proba- bly love, Simson. Well, you need not look so like f Dl PRESENTIMENT. lubbei, man ; there is nothing in those things that a brave man need be ashamed to own." " Captain Thayer," replied the other, " I care as little about self as any man that ever trod a plank ; but I do care much {ox you; (' thank' ee, Simson, I am well aware of that;') and you will excuse me if I remind you that in the event of loss or damage, you will have to account for running out of your course, and towards manifest difficulties. Underwriters are hard men in these cases, and if " "Pooh, man," said Thayer, with an air of con- scious security and triumph, "the Clinton is no game for the corsair; — and if she were, — she is half my own, and the other half I could pay. — And I see," he added eagerly, " there is the land, yonder is Cape Tenis on the larboard bow." His glass was elevated, and again he carefully swept the southern horizon with attentive eye. The mate touched his elbow as he stood absorbed m his investigation, and said, " excuse me, Captain Thayer, you have settled the affiiir of the ship and cargo, but you have not calculated the loss of liberty to the people, nor the difficulty of procuring your own liberty, if we should be taken. Nay, sir," he added, seeing the flush of anger rising, and observing the hasty sparkle in the captain's eye, " be not offended, but it is well known tliat ships as well provided against attack as this is, have fallen into tiie hands of superior numbers ere now, and once under the power of the infidels, our fate may remain for years unknown; so that "' PRESENTIMENT. TJa "True, true," exclaimed Thayer hastily, as if stung by a sudden recollection ; " brace up the yards. men; — luff, luff, bring her to the wind." He paused a moment, and then added, " and yet I have at this moment a presentiment too strong to be resisted, that it will come to pass this morning. I must try it a little longer. Simson, put her about, and laij her to on the other tack, she will thus forge ahead, off shore, and I will keep h«r so but one hour longer. Again his watch upon the African shore became intensely fixed. In the mean time the sun had risen, and the warmth of his beams was already beginning to diffuse a languor over the frames of the mariners, when suddenly the captain called out " mast-head there ! Do you see any thing on the starboard quai ,er ?" The man who was stationed there replied, after a pause, that a small boat was apparently pulling out from the land. The captain waited to hear no more, but gave the command " ready about." The manoeu- vre Avas quickly performed, once more the ship Avas going large on the other lack, and was standing in the direction of the distant object. " Get the boats out," said Captain Thayer, " and tow them astern ; Ave may want them by and bye. — "What all, sir?" returned the mate. "Yes, long boat and all. Get the tackles up, and hoist her out as quickly as possible. Boy, bring the small arms from be.ow, and lay them beside the companion " "I'll have all ready, at least," said he. " Oh, if it shoulil indeed b; irue!" The hop^ seemed to produce au t2£ PRESENTIMENT. ecstasy of feeling over him, and he passed from side lO side, urging dispatch, and every moment taking a glance at the object of his pursuit. As Captain Thayer hastily pased the deck, he muttered in agitated tones, " Avill it indeed come to pass at length ? — Are my hopes to be realized after the long suspense which I have endured? But I am a fool !" he cried in the next moment, "the chances are a million to one against me. Why am I so continually tormented with hopes which have no foundation in probability? — If I should be disappoint- ed this time," said he, with an air of resoliition, " I will abandon such fallacious expectations for ever, and strive to make up my mind to the loss. — But if it should turn out to my wish!" he exclaimed, and his eyes sparkled with delight, while his weather- beaten countenance displayed a rapture almost incom- patible with its ordinary rugged expression; — he said no more, but with his glass he steadily searched the distant boat. " A large row-galley is in the wake of the small boat," exclaimed the look-out at the mast-head ; " he seems to gain on the chase." The Captain went aloft himself; he soon assured himself that the first boat contained one or more fugitives, and tliat tlie latter was in pursuit. It was also probable that the galley would be up with the chase before the ship could interfere. He lutstiiy descended to the deck; all equanimity seemed to have forsaken him : with a hoarse and agitated voice he gave orders to jret out studding-sails and make all sai' PRESENTIMENT. 227 in the direction of the strange objects. ' I'l run him do^vTl, the heathen dog," he exclaimed bitterly, and unconscious of hearers, " if -s hundred men were in his charge." Some of the seaman were startled at his vehemence, but obedience at sea is almost an instinct ; the mate, however, again advanced and remonstrated. " Capt. Thayer," said he, " let me beg of you to beware what you do : a hasty and fatal proceeding may make this a national affair, depriving you at once of honor, happi- ness, and property." "My brother — my brother!" exclaimed Thayer, with uncontrollable emotion, " my very soul informs me that my brother is endeavoring to escape in the small boat. Oh God," said he, in deep and heart- searching tones, " if my expectations are defeated now, I shall never live to see my native shore. — Ply the men, Simson, my good fellow, for I have neither sense nor observation but for the chase." Accordingly, every stitch of canvass was put upon the vessel, but the airs were light, and in the mean- time the sweeps of the galley Avere bringing her rapidly up with the small boat. It was evident that the latter could not e.scape them. " Load the larboard forecastle gun with canister, and run her out of the bow port," said the captain. It was done. The two boats neared. The captain ran forward, trained the gun under his own eye, seized the match, — and just as the two boats were on ;he rerge of touching, he lodged the contents of the IBS PRESENTIMENT charge into the larger. The galley con ained at least forty men, and the spread of the canister shot did great execution among them. In the next instant the captain's glass was again applied to his eye, and hardly had he levelled it, ere he shouted with a voice of thunder, " it is he, it is he! Put arms in the boats and man them. My brother, my own brother ! — I knew it, I was sure of it I — in, men, in; I will go in the cutter myself" The men seemed to enter at once into his feelings, and the boats were manned with an incredible alacrity. Ashe was getting over the side, he turned to the mate and said, " Simson, keep your eye on that heathen dog, but do not fire unless you are sure our own men are secure from the spread. If he attempt to escape, — toith my brother on board, pour it into him. God will protect his own. If he offers resistance after we have rescued his prey, ruv him down, sir.'^ The most discordant passions seemed to have possession of his breast as he uttered these words: the most unbounded fraternal afl^ection, and the exces- sive desire of revenge, swayed his soul. He went into the boat, and the force rowed with all speed towards the Algerine. If may be necessary here to inquire as to the cause of this uncommon emotion on the part of the worthy commander, and explain the nature of that brotherly affection which was now manifested in so exquisite a degree. To do this properly, some account of the broihers in the earl'er period of their lives, will PRESFNTIMENT. S2S furnish the elucidation, and the account may with most convenience be given here, while the expedition is advancing upon its pjrpose. Robert Thayer was the son of a respectable agn culturist, who cultivated a large farm of his o\vn clearing, in the vicinity of P ne Plains, near the borders of the mighty Hudson. The father was an honest and well-meaning man, but weak of purpose, and subject to the prejudices and opinions of his contemporaries in general, who were at that period but very imperfectly educated ; the mother, however, made large amends for the infirmities and insuffi- ciency of her husband's domestic management. She was a strong-minded prudent Avoman, of genuine piety, rigid morality, and great firmness. It was the anxious care of this good parent to extract the weeds of error from the soil of her son's understanding, before it should take too deep root, yet so prudently was this performed, as to leave no trace of disrespect for her husband's peculiarities in the eyes of her offspring. There was one weakness, nevertheless, which the credulous but kind father indelibly fixed upon the mind of young Robert. It was a principle in which he himself had implicit belief, and to confirm which, he was in the habit of twisting and distorting every circumstance that ci'ossed the line of his creed. It vf as presentiment ; and occasions on which that feel- ing was presented to his mind, being sometimes the harbingers of subsequent facts, were the never- ceasing themes of the father's discourse. It fastened upon the sanguine heart of the boy, and no lessons of 30 laO PRESENTIMENT. his mother, not even the frequent failures in exp< ela- tion, could remove the impression. We find it ojiera- ting in full vigor, both in manhood, and in advancing age. What might have been tbj results of perseverance in that exemplary mother can be only conjectured. Robert had the misfortune to lose her when he was only nine years of age. Not indeed before a good foundation was laid, and good seed was sown, bxU before it i juld spring up, or entirely resist the weeds whi.'h too readily choke it. The boy was sent to school, Avhere the influence of early habits, and a tender remembrance of his mother's lessons, did more for him, than could the preceptor with all his lore ; yet that was much, for " 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too, Lands he could measure, terin.s and tides presage. And i.'en the story ran that he coukl gauge; And still /oWs gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all he knew." Hitherto, with the exception of the loss of his mother, which he had been too young fully to appre- ciate, the days of young Thayer had been of a halcyon kind. But the clouds began to lower. The elder Thayer, in the death of his amiable wife, discovered that he had lost not only an invaluable partner, but a manager of his household, and a contributor to his domest'c comforts, for which nothing could atone. He tried manfully to bear up under it, but no resources frotn within, nor varieties from without, could satisfy him. At length, b? was heard to close a jeremiad ol PRESENTIMENT. S31 complaint with the following expression : " I have a strong presentiment that I shall shortly follow my poor Rachel, or else — marry again." The latter branch of his foresight was correct enough, for the week after it was uttered, he brought home from New- York a buxom ^irl, some years younger than himself, the daughter of a Dutch provision-merchant in Water-street, whom he had taken " for better, for worse." It was, however, more worse than better, both for her husband and her son-in-law. With regard to the former, she was continually upsetting his schemes, and ridiculing his presentiments, both of which were his weak or rather his strong points ; for che more he was opposed the better he liked them, the more she endeavored to lower them the higher they were raised in his esteem. But like all men without internal strength, he gradually succumbed to a noisy shrew, who soon exercised unlimited sway in the family. Of course, Robert soon fell in for a full share of the good dame's dislike ; for, besides the hereditary cause, that, namely, of his being a step-son, he was fond of his ather, to whom he behaved always with aflfectionate regard and duty, and he deeply revered the memory of his mother, of whom he spoke more highly and more frequently than was agreeable to the ears of her successor. She therefore resolved mosTL piously to mar a happiness in which she had no share, and even to rid the house of an "expensive boy. who was none of hers." In this she was, of course, successful. Unde? 432 PRESENTIMENT. pretence that lie was old enough to assist on ^he farm, she caused him to be taken from scliool ; and then, by finding fault with every thing he did, she made him feel his home to be any thing but what the word implies. His father saw it all witli regret, but the shackles were upon his own energies, and all that he could do for their mutual relief, was to take his son with him, from time to time, to New- York, when he went with a sloop-load of butter, cheese, or flour, for the market there. The boy had a double reason to hail the periods of these excursions. They brought him into the busy haunts of men, where he saw commerce with her anxious face, pleasure with her witching smile, and variety in all her charms ; he felt, besides, that he was for the present beyond the sphere of a tyrannical step- mother, and needed not to guard his words or hide his delight. But his attention was chiefly engaged by the shipping ; and he often longed to make a voyage, to see foreign parts, and to be " lord of him- self" These desires became stronger at each visit, and were always the highest when he was about to return home. At length Mrs. Thayer found herself " as ladies wish to be who love their lords ;" and Robert, now fifteen years of age, was more than ever disagreeable in her sight. His father's house was no longer an endurable home, and upon the next journey to New- York, he declared his anxious wish to go to sea. " Father," said he, " I have long wished to make a (rial, and / ha.ve a presentiment that you will see me PRESENTIMENT. 2H a rich and fortunate man, — able, and I am sure you believe, willing, to make your old days happy " The father was loth to part with his son, but the 'presentiment was unanswerable. Arrangements were made, clothes and necessaries were bought, and all things were concluded, except the ceremony of asking Mrs. Thayer's conseni, in which neither of them dreamed of a refusal ; and here, without a presenti- ment, they Avere right. After a feigned anger and appearance of sorrow, but real delight, at the boy's apparent wilfulness, she consented to let him " feel the difference between a safe and comfortable home, and a life of hardship among strangers in distant lands." He was therefore equipped, and in due time set sail upon a long voyage to the western shores of America. From this time his lot in life was fixed. He became a seaman ; he loved his profession and soon excelled in it ; he was quickly discovered to be a youth of superior parts and manners, and it required no presentiment to see that if he escaped the ordinary dangers of human life, and those peculiar to his own department in it, he would rise to eminence and wealth. On his return to New- York after any voyage, his father always came down to visit him, as his duties prevented him from going up to Pine Plains. He learned that his mother-in-law had miscarried, and had with difliculty recovered ; but with sorrow he also learned that this catastrophe, instead of softening her into affection towards the young sailor, had only faise^ a feeling of env\ in her soul, and she wa* 20- m PRESENTIMENT continually prognosticatirg evil in her husband's ear, against the heartless young ingrate, " Avho could ramble the world over rather than stay to comfort the declining years of his parents." All this, however, fell harmles?, for the meek husband had it all tc himself, and he had taken on the yoke so easily, that he hardly felt its weight. But the presentiment ol his boy was ever before him ; it became his stay and comfort. Upon Robert's return from another voyage round Cape Horn, he again found his father waiting to receive him, but wearing the badge of a mourner. "Robert, my son," said he, "poor Sally is gone, and has left the child of her wishes as soon as he saw the light. Come home with me, and embrace i/om brother.^' Robert's heart leaped within him at the sound. The tie was a new one, and his affectionate disposition led him to cherish it with even a woman's ardor. " Father," said he, " / have a presentiment, that this boy will be a comfort and a blessing to us both." Poor lad! his divinations were erroneous, and their futility was quickly demonstrated. Robert's heart clung to his infant brother. It was a new feeling, and was rather like that of a parent for his offspring tlian that of fraternal affection. Too soon he had indeed to become a second parent to the child, for his own sickened and died Avithin a few days after his son's return to the paternal mansion Robert was now alone in the world, save this tie. which had been mysteriously conjured up to receive the full tide of kindness, and to bind bini to social PRESENTIMENT 235 life. He determined to watch over the boy's life and happiness, and to derive his own greatest comfort from contributing to that of his orphan brother. At this time he was about eighteen, and was on the eve of a voyage to the Mauritius, as mate of a ship. He therefore carefully but speedily put the infant Henry into the hands of a kind nurse, and left his own affairs, including the paternal inheritance, in the charge of an honest but distant relative. Things continued thus during several voyages, in the course of which Robert Thayer attained to the command of a vessel. At each return his first care was to visit the child of his adoption, the brother of his affection, and all his resources were bent to the desire of contributing to the boy's happiness and welfare. On the part of Henry, as he grew up, his love for his brother seemed more and more to respond to that which was bestowed upon him, and in short it might be said that there was but one sentiment between them, save that it was pure fraternal love on the part of Robert, and love increased by gratitude on the side of Henry. Henry Thayer had attained his fifteenth year, when the first personal misfortune in the professional careei* of his brother befel him. Captain Thayer had taken a cargo for London ; from thence he had taken in a valuable freight for Malaga, and brought back returns in wine and fruits for his native port. At London, the crew had deserted him ; some from that restless disposition so peculiar to the generality of sea-faring men, and others from the hope of advantages, such as 836 PRESENTIMENT. the American seaman, above all others, can obta « n the maritime world. In short, he had to ship an almost entirely fresh crew, and they turned out to be of a very nferior description. Nothing particular happened in the voyage to Malaga; but on the return across the Atlantic, in the month of January, they encountered bad weather, and many of his lubberly crew betook themselves to their hammocks. With the few men who continued at their duty, he continued to work the ship, but, unfortunately, just as they were entering the gulf-stream, a sudden squall carried away two of his topmasts. It was night when this disaster took place, and, together with the reduced force under his command, he ran imminent risk of damage in two ways ; first, in his upper works, by the dashing about of broken yards and masts as they hung by the rigging, and serondly, in his hull, after the wreck was cut over- board. Poor Thayer was unfortunate in both cases. While using his utmost endeavors with his remnant of a crew to get the wreck cut overboard, the maintop gallant yard-arm struck him on the head with such violence, as to cause a severe contusion. He was borne insensible to his cabin, and a most important assistance was thus cut off! The rigging and wreck, in falling afterward overboard, fell over to leeward, and, before it could be cut entir(>ly away, had damaged the vessel under the bows so greatly, that it became necessary to keep the hands to the pumps. It was now no longer necessary to urge the skulk- ers to their duty. Self-preservation will furnish an PRc'ENTIMENT. 997 argument which indolence herself cannot resist. The misfortune which faithfulness and alacrity might pro- bably have prevented, necessity enabled them m some degree to remedy ; though at the expense ol greatly increased labor, and unlooked-for danger. Of the latter, however, there was more in store. In the crippled state of the upper works, and the all but water-logged condition of the vessel, she sailed heavily and was steered with difficulty. At length, however, the welcome lands of Neversink were presented to their view, and they began — ah, too prematurely — to congratulate each other, that their toils were at a close. Heavily they neared Sandy-Hook, and hove to for a pilot ; hours passed, and no pilot appeared, while the experienced head and eye of her commander, which could have directed her through the intricacies of the small remaining navigation, were unhappily withdrawn through the severity of his wounds and bruises. Evening arrived, and i.o pilot. The mate, there- fore, reluctantly resolved to stand out to sea-ward during the night, and hoped for better success on the morrow. That evil, most to be dreaded on our coasts, a sno.v-storm, came on: the wind gradually shifted until the ship's head was lying northwest, and bearing directly towards the Long-Island shores. It became necessary to wear round, but by this time the running rigging was as stiff as icicles; the few men able to work could neither stand, by reason of the s.ipperi- ness of the deck, nor exert themselves from the exces- sive severity of the cold, and constant fall of sleet m PREfiENTIMENT. which benumbed all their limbs. The rope? would not render through the blocks, and to crown all, the ship would not answer her helm. What was to be done? Human strength and human wisdom could no more. It was in vain that inward sentiments of remorse struck some of the lately indolent crew. The energies produced by despair were too late for action. On she drove, until at length a harsh grating was perceived under her bows, a jumping, beating sensa- tion followed as the vessel was forced upon the sand, — one sudden shock, a heel to one side, — and she was a wreck upon the shore. Happily, no lives were lost. — In the morning intelligence was transmitted to New- York of the calamity which had befallen the ship, and Captain Thayer, half dead with shame and weakness, was carried to the city. A long series of good fortune and success furnishes but an indifferent school of fortitude under subsequent misfortune. As inferior officer, and as commander, Thayer had hitherto brought his voyages to a prosperous issue; now, a sense of so fatal a reverse preyed upon his thoughts, and tended greatly to retard his recovery. His affectionate brother was howe'er by hi? bedside, watching every look, preveiitii^g every wish, imd striving, by a thousand assiduities, to smooth the siclf bed, and to restore his mind to composure. It is only when the soul is under the influence of remorse that such endeavors fail, and accordingly the genial effects of brotherly kindness, and of his own wiser thoughts, now begr. •. to appear. He recovered PRESENTIMENT. ^ but his regards had so fastened upon the boy, that, when the latter proposed to accompany his brother in his next voyage, although Captain Thayer had des- tined hin for another and more brilliant lot in life, he had not the resolution to deny him. He had his reward, for his profession, to which he was always attached, now became doubly delightful. Every occasion was laid hold of to instruct his brother in the duties of a seaman, and pains and expense were lavished, during the brief intervals of their being in port, to make him an able navigator and scientific man. Five years had thus passed over, when one morn- ing at breakfast, in London, the younger Thayer, with some hesitation, addressed the elder to the follow- ing effect. " Brother Robert, I have somewhat to propose to you, — and yet I know not how to begin it, — such has been your uniform kindness to me, that no parent could have gone beyond you; — but I feel it due to us both, to lay my wishes before you ; and I think — I hope — that is, I .link you will accord with me, that the step should be taken." "Well, Harry, what is it? — Speak out, man, never stammer thus, but, if it is fit to be heard, tell your story boldly. Am I not your brother?" " Oh, yes, Robert, more than that ! brother and father in one; — but, I fear that even your affection will thwart the proposal I wish to make." " It must be very unreasonable then, Harry — but, once more, out with it." Henry after ? slight and ao-itated indecision, ■<>iO PRESENTIMENT. proceeded. " You know, my dear Robert, that the sea is now decidedly my profession, and it behoves me to know it welj in all its bearings. I ought to be acquainted with the best and with the worst of it, with the practice of foreign nations, as well as with that of our own, and above all, I ought to know how to be left to my own resources. Now, hitherto, your tenderness has warded off from me many a difficulty and hardship, to which the life of a seaman is ob- noxious. It has been all calms and sunshine with me, and I know not how I should act in a sudden emergen- cy. I would propose therefore — not that we should separate long," he added, speaking rapidly, " but — that I should make a voyage or two in British or other foreign bottoms, and then I will return, and either sail with you or for you ; for it will be fit that you should begin to take some repose after your labors." Captain Thayer was utterly confounded. He had never for a moment contemplated the possibility of a separation ; but happy in the present posture of affairs, he had gone on from voyage to voyage, from year to year, seeing his young and sprightly brother accumu- late knowledge, and strength, acquiring the love o< the var.ious crews, by whom he was from time to time surrounded; and in the continued feeling of eacJi succeeding hour had never dreamed of change. It was put to him now however, with plain good sense, to which his own responded ; but lie would fain have combated his own judgment in favor of private regard. The younger Thayer persevered, and finally caTied PRESiiNTiMENT. 2*. fie day. With a heavy heart, and with a presenti- ment of ill-fortune, Captain Thayer accompanied his brother among the merchants and shipmasters, in order to procure for him the office of second mate of a West-Indiaman ; for, though fully capable to taking the superior charge of first mate, in which capacity he had sailed two voyages, yet in pursuance of his purpose he determined for the lower grade. He obtained it without difficulty; and with strong feelings of regret, but with unalterable regard, the brothers parted, after arranging a steady and punctual corres- pondence. For many a day they were doomed to be separated. Many an anxious, many a painful hour was the result of this separation. That which in the pride of human foresight had been considered laudable and w-ise, was the prolific source of misfortune and anxiety, and should teach mankind, in the midst of ambitious projects, to " Walk humbly then — with trembling pinions soar." The vessel m which Henry Thayer was embark- ed, was returning from Barbadoes, at the time that the expedition under Lord Exmouth was fitted out for Algiers. They were boarded by one of the ships of the squadron, and young Thayer was impressed. In vain he urged that he was an American citizen, and not liable to such a forcible seizure. In vain, also, the captain of the merchantman protested against the violence. In both cases it was believed, as was sometimes the case, that the reasons were assumed to 21 iAS. PRESENTIMENT. save the man, particularly as young Thayir hal not his credentials to produce. Moreover there was probably an additional reason in secret, that [i he were really American, they might be able to retain him from the difficulty of conveying information, or of any one stirring in his behalf Be that as it might, he was impressed, and his first sensations were those of the most unqualified indignation. He soon found, however, that in the arbitrary proceedings of a man of war, the only refuge is a present submission, and he resolved to do the duties which were imposed upon him cheerfully. This was a wise resolution ; he acquired by it the regard of his officers, and if he could have determined to pursue his profession in that line, he would probably have met the ' fullest encouragement. But this was not to be. The squadron reached its destination, the bombard- ment took place, and the Algerines were for the movienl humbled. Young Thayer, who had been made coxswain of one of the boats, was coming off from the shore with his officer. It was evening, and somewhat later than usual. They were carrying a press of canvas, in order to reach the vessel before dark, when suddenly they were upset by a squall. The people were presently in the boat again, and it was righted; — but the coxswain was missing. He had been thrown clear of the sails, and was picked up py a small boat, in which were three fishermen. They immediately pulled away with him, in a direc- tion to the westward of the city, and landed liim in an obscure creek, where there were other boats of n PRESENTIMENT. 843 similar description to their own. Deeply resenting the humiliation to which their city had been subject- ed by the British commander, and their revenge being farther whetted by the consideration that it was " Christian dogs" who had inflicted the injury, their first impulse was to put him to death. Cupidity, however, triumphed even over revenge ; or rather, they thought of enjoying a double revenge, by selling their victim into captivity. They departed with him, therefore, several miles into the interior, and found no difficulty in disposing of him ; where he was kept to hard labor, for which his compensation was starva tion, insult, and stripes. It was now that the young man regretted his fancied sagacity, and wished that he had listened to his brother's remonstrances. But it was too late to repine, and his elastic spirits were sustained by the hope of escape. To this object he bent all his ener- gies, and this end he never ceased to have in view ; but the state of a christian slave in Algiers is one of such unmitigated rigor, and the poor wretches are vmder such a perpetual surveillance, that month after month, and year after year, passed away without offering him an effectual opportunity. He had, indeed, made some progress in an acquaintance with an English renegado, who acted in the capacity of superintendent; but Thayer was slow to make a conndant of one who had renounced his faith. By degrees, however, he was induced to think better of the man, who protested that he had never swerved in heart from the relicion o^ Christ, but imagined that 214 PRESENTIMENT ne might dissemble for the sake of relaxation, and the hope of ultimate liberty. Thayer admitted the plea in extenuation, as coming from one whose prin- ciples had not been perfectly fortified, but failed not to urge upon him the insult he had offered, and the want of confidence he had sho^ATi to the God in whom he professed to trust. They gradually became assured in each other, and a plan was concocted of making their way to the sea-side, seizing a boat, pulling oflf into the wide Mediterranean, and then trust to Provi- dence to be taken up by some friendly vessel. They did so, but were missed from the mansion of their patron sooner than they had expected. A large boat was launched in pursuit of them; whilst they, know- ing that liberty or death were before them, strained every nerve to escape. In the meantime. Captain Thayer became acquaint- ed with the impressment of his brother, and imme- diately a process Avas instituted for his restitution. An order was sent out for the prompt discharge of Henry Thayer ; but, by the earliest returns, a report was brought that the young man had perished by the upsetting of a boat in the bay. The detail of the circumstances left an impression on the mind ot Thayer, that his brother had not perished, but was among the Algerines. He would not give way to a contrary belief, but rather fortified himself in his opmion, by all kinds of delusive reasoning. His fresentiment grew stronger and stronger, the farther it was removed from probability ; and ho immediately changed his line of inding to a permanen Alediterra- PRESENTIMENT. 84E nean voyage, in the forlorn hope that his brother woull break from his restraint, aiad that he should have the' satisfaction to bear him away. — Constantly, ir going up or coming down that sea, he edged towards the southern shore, and always kept the flag of his country displayed. But hitherto without success. At length, how extravagant soever they might be, the visions of his hope seemed on the eve of realiza- tion. He saw the boats, he prepared himself for the interesting result, and they were now coming to the issue. The scattering shot from the ship, as has been already observed, wounded two or three persons in the large boat, and caused a momentary confusion. This was succeeded by rage and fury, and presently fresh way was given towards the devoted fugitives. They approached, they nearly touched, — when the long-boat of the American shot in between, and m the same instant Captain Thayer, standing up in the stern-sheets, knocked overboard the moor in the bow of the adversary. In the same instant two shots were heard from the infidel vessel, one of which grazed Thayer's left shoulder, and the other caused a piercing shriek from the flying boat. He hastily turned, and beheld his half rescued brother covered mth gore that was streaming from his forehead. Maddened at the sight, he sprung into the boat which contained him, exclaiming to his men, *' kill, kill the dogs; — no quarter — my brother — my pool murdered Harry " The word operated like magic 246 PRESENT MENT. on his people — they fought like desperadoes, — andU say truth, so did the Algerines; but the vessel was Hearing them, and though foaming with rage, impo- tent rage, at the loss of their captives, and the destruc- tion among their own people, they were obliged to retreat. In the mean while Captain Thayer was holding his bleeding brother to his breast, calling him by all the endearing names that fervent affection and agitated spirits could suggest. " Harry," he cried, " my own boy, my brother Harry ; — live, live, oh live, and bless your poor Robert's old days as you promised. — You are rescued, you are free, my Harry. Here, men," he cried to his people who had now ceased fighting, " let the dogs go, lay hold of the painter, and tow us alongside as quickly as possible. — Harry, look al me — show me, only by your eyes, that you know me, and I shall be satisfied." The poor young man slowly lifted up his languid eyes, and a faint smile indicated that he was sensible as to who held him. " That will do, that will do, my boy, my own boy — don't speak now, don't speak. Pull away, boys, for dear life. Give way, my hearties. — I'll make the fortune of every man of ye.' He again hung over the sufferer, with mingled anguish and delight, stanching the blood with his handkerchief, and con- tinually forbidding him to stir or sjieak. They arrived at the ship. The careful mate, who had seen all that passed, had got n whip and a chair rigged, and in one minute more he was on board and PRESENTIMENT. 247 m llic cabin. — Vain cares, vain hopes ; A few heavy groans were uttered by the sufferer, each of which went to his brother's heart; — presently afterwards, he articulated faintly, " Robert — my dear Robert." "Here, Harry, here — here is Robert — be -^uiet. and take rest, my dear lad." " Dear Robert — " whispered the dying man — "so — happy — to see you — once — again." After a pause, he again faUered — "dying — Robert — Lord, be merciful — God bless you — my brother." — He was no more. It was a few moments ere Captain Thayer could believe the reality of his loss When convinced that he was gone, he remained a short time as in a stupor of grief; but by degrees his brows knit, his face was suffused with blood, the veins of his temples swelled. He rushed on deck, where he found the breeze fresh- ening towards a gale. " Set the foresail, haul aft the lee clew of the main- sail." It was done. " Away aloft, and let out every reef Clap on all sail. Go you, sir," added he, with a dark and mysterious expression, to the helmsman, " lend a hand, I'll take the helm meanwhile." The seamen were aloft; — the keen eye of Thayer marked the track of the retreating boat; — he steered right into her wake, and regardless of the cries of the wretched Moors, and of his own crew, — he went clear over them, destroying every man. Looking over the taffrail, he viewed with his own eyes the destruction he had committed, he gloated over it, as a most acceptable sacrifice, and uttering a lauglr of the most 34t PRESENTIMENT. horrific sound, he sank exhausted on the deck. He was taken below, Avhere after some time he recovered to life, — but not to reason. His employment from henceforth was to talk of, or to his deceased brother, and so much Avas he wrap- ped up in the corse, that it was found difficult to inter the latter in the deep waters. But the health of the crew required it, and opportunity was taken, whilst the po' ' .iianiac slept, to consign the unfortunate yoT'.> man to his watery tomb. — But their precau- *■' -, were fruitless. At the very moment, the aAA'ful .noment, when the body was launched over the gang- way, a sudden rush was heard, a splash followed, and it was found that, even in death, poor Thayer would not be divided from the child of his hopes and afTections. KAATSKILL. ——"Like the bird, just 'scaped Prom the close caging of some gentle dame> <Showing its freedom's consciousness in song Not less th<in flight" When to tie city's crowded streets The fiercer spells of summer come, Then, for thy calm and cool retreats. Sweet Kaatskill ! may the wanderer loam. Then may he seek thy guardian haunts. Thy quiet stream, thy shady tree. And, while the world around him pants, From all oppression find him free. Ahove him towers thy giant form. Rock-heaved, and rising like a king ; Around him rides thy summer storm. With cooling freshness on its wing ! 8B0' KAATSKILL. Below him — what a scene is there! The hallowed, sweet repose of home , The sheltered green, the waters clear. And, snugly small, the cottage dome Gatherinfif above, the thickening clouds The sun's intenser beams would chide, In quiet, but cummiugling crowds, Down-bending to the unbroken tide. See, where the boatman speeds his barque As sped the Indian chief of old, Bound on some errand, wild and dark, Whose story is as yet untold. Proof of the sacred, sweet repose, The farmer's cattle seek the place, And, as the waters round them close, Give to the scene an added grace — The grace of home, the charming cot, Domestic peace, imbroken joy. Known only to the humble lot — Dreamed only by the enthusiast boy. Yet, not alone his dream, since here Nature has nobly done hor pan ; And, ill her colors, prompt and clear, A kindred triumph comes from art KAATSKILL. 261 Thus, to the city, well transferred, The painter's pencil bears the scene — And there the streamlet, there the bird, The forest, and the summer's green. There glides the barque, there lies the tree — The quiet cottage heaves in sight, Until each form, again, I see. That once could give my heart delight. Clauee. WASHINGTON And the Genius of Death, with his brow bound about with the gloomy hemlock, and bearing in his hands a living, but a leafless, cypress, stood beside the couch where Washington lay : " I will quench this light," said the Genius — " I will overcome this lofty spirit, which, forgetting me, mankind delights to honor." "Thou quench this light, — thou overcome this spirit !" — replied the Genius of Eternal Fame, stand- ing also beside the couch of the sleeping Father; — " Oh, fool, that thou art! — ^he hath given thee immor tality in dying at thy hands." ISOLATED AFFECTION. " True love, still born of heaven, is bless'd with winga, And, tired of earth, it plumes them back again, And so we"iose it." I. Deep in the bosom of a southern forest, thee grew a beautiful flower, the sweetest flower in thid lonely region. Its leaves were of the purest white, for the first time unfolding to the world around them, and reveal- ing, as they did so, the fine and delicate droppings of violet and purple, which before, like so much hidden wealth, had lain in its bosom. Its odor was fresh and exquisite, and no flower in all that forest, could come near it for sweetness or for beauty. In excel- lence as in condition, it was equally alone, II. But it was not destined to be alone always. There came to it one morning in May, a golden butterfly — a rover among the flowers — an ancient robber of their sweets. Gayly he plied his flight tinoughout the forest, now here and now there, sporting about in a sort of errant unconsciousness. It was not long Before he inhaled the odor — it was not long before ISOLATED AFFECTION. 253 he saw the pure white leases, and looked down, with a yearning eye, upon tl i rich droppings of purple and violet which nestled in the bosom of the flower. III. Flying around in mazy but still contracting circles, he gazed upon the loveliness of the flower, and grew more and more enamoured at each moment of his survey. " Surely," he thought, "this is a flower by itself — love's own flower — dwelling in secret — ■ blooming only, and budding, for his eyes, and denied to all beside. It is my good fortune to have found it — ■ I will drink its sweets — I will nestle in its bosom — I will enjoy its charms as I have enjoyed a thousand others." IV. Even with the thought, came the quick resolution, and another moment found him lying — lying close and pressed upon the bosom of the flower. There was a slight effort to escape from the embraces of the intruder — the flower murmured its dissent, but the murmur died away into a sigh, and the sigh was inhaled, as so much honey, by the pressing lips of the butterfly. He sung to the flower of his love — he, the acknowledged rover — the unlicensed drinker of sweets — the economical winner of aflfect ons, with which he did not share his own — he sunsf to the flower a story of his love ; and, oh ! saddest of all the young flower believed hiin. 2a HIA ISOLATED AFFECTIOW. V. And day after day he came to the stolen embraco, and day after day, more fondly than ever, the lovely flower looked forth to receive him. She surrendered her very soul to his keeping, and her pure white leaves grew tinged with his golden winglets, while his kisses stained with yel.ow the otherwise delicate loveliness of her lips. But she heeded not this, so long as the embrace was still fervent — the kiss still warm — the return of the butterfly still certain. VI. But when was love ever certain ? — not often where the lover is a butterfly. There came a change over the fortunes of the flower, for there came a change over the habits of the butterfly. He gradually fell ofl^ in his attentions. His passion grew cool, and the ease of nis conquest led him to undervalue its acqui- sition. Each day he came later and later, and his stay with the flower grew more and more shortened at every return. Her feelings perceived the estrange- ment long before Her reason had taught her to think upon or understand it. VII. At length she murmured her reproaches — and the grievance must be great when love will venture so far. " Wherefore," she said, " Oh, wherefore ha.st thou lingered away so long. Why dost thou not now, as before, vie witli the sunlight in thy advances? I have looked for thee from the dawning yet 1 have ISOLATED AFFECTION. 255 looked for thee in vain. The yellow beetle has been all the morning- buzzing about me, but I frownea upon his approaches. The green grasshopper had a song under my bush, and told me a dull story of the love which he had for me in his bosom; and, more than once, the glittering humming bird has sought my embraces, but I shut my leaves against him. Thou only hast been slow to seek me — thou whom, only, I have looked to see." VIII. Gayly then the butterfly replied to these reproaches, nor,- as he spoke, heeded the increasing paleness of the flower: "Over a thousand forests I've been flying, each as beautiful as this — on a thousand flowers I've been 'tending, none less lovely to the sight than thou. How could'st thou dream that with a golden winglet, broad, and free, and beautiful, like mine, in a single spot I still should linger, of the world around unknow- ing aught ? No, no — mine is an excursive spirit ; for a thousand free affections made ; — wouldst~^hou have me, like a groping s-pider, working still to girdle in myself?" IX. It was a murmuring and a sad reply of the now isolated flower, and she lived not long after she had made it: "Ah, now I know mine error — my sad error — having no wings myself, to mate with the lover who had. Alas ! that I have loved so fondly and foolishly, for while thou hast gone over a thousand 156 ISOLATED AFFECTION. forests, seeing a thousand flowers, I have on^y known, only looked, only lived for, a single butterfly." X. The false one was soon away, after this, to another forest; for his ear loved not reproaches, and he had sense, if not feeling enough, to know that they were uttered justly. The flower noted his departure, and Its last sigh was an audible warning to the young bud which it left behind it. The wood-spirit heard the sigh and the warning ; and when the bud began to expand in the pleasant sunshine, he persuaded the black-browed spider to spin his web, and frame his nest, in the thick bushes that hung around it- and many were the wanton butterflies, after this, who, coming to prey upon the ninocent affection, became entangled, and justly perished in the guardian net- work thus raised up to protect it. A LIVING POET. Ok ! gaze not, with sarcastic smile. Upon his foppish gait and air ; Nor deem poetic feeling all Mere fancied mockery, false as fair ' He was not always what he is ! — His boyish years, his early youth. Saw him an ardent worshipper Of beauty, purity, and truth. His heart was like an echoine deil : The moaning brook, the mother's voice. Each wild unwritten melody, Cowld make it murmur, or rejoice. He searched for April violets ; He lingered in the moonlit air, To gaze upon the sky of June, To praise and bless the dweller there. Then the full tide of visions high, Of holy love, of swelling bliss. Burst forth in fresh and heartfelt song; Oh ! then he was not what he is 22* A LIVING POET. Alas ! that beauty e'er should cause Her fond idolater to fall ! Why did he leave her peaceful haunts To seek her in the crowded haL . In thai cold, uncongenial clime, His better nature drooped and died ; His fancy stooped, his purpose failed, His heart was cnilled, his faith denied. Oft, when the winds have sunk to sleep, The sea still rolls its billows blue; Thus, still he sings; — but sings past thoughts, And feelings such as once he knew. And the affected verses show The pallid hues, the sick perfume, Of buds, wnich, gathered in the grove, Hftv**. openea m a heatea room. SicNruvA. INNOCENZA, Thou art not a being of upper air — Though thy form be as slenaer, thy beauty as rare Nor a daughter of the bounding sea — Though thy smile be as sunny, thy bosom as free i Thou art not the Dryad's woodland child — Though the glance of thine eye be as timidh wild Nor nymph on the margin of haunted rill — • Nor fairy that circles the moonlit hill. Spirits are these — but of humbler birth, Than the heavenly soul of a child of earth . Spirits are these — that must fade and die — But a spirit art thou of eternity. For a christian mother o'er thee did raise A prayer of hope, and a hymn of praise — That thou mightst pass, when life be spent, Pure to thy maker, and innocent. Sadly she soothed thy plaintive wail. Till the rosy hues of her cheek grew pale Wearily watching thine infant bed, While sleep from her heavy eyelids fled. 260 INNOCENZA. And fondly she looked, that a brighter day Those sorrowful hours should well repay — A day of long and brilliant years, Full of promise, and free from tears. — And she trembles now with a fearful delight, As she gazes on thee, thou blossom bright — Oh ! may no breath of sin or slight Steal o'er thy flowerets, to banish their light ! The ills — that must be to all our race — Ma vest thou bear with patience, and humble grace; Brighter, and better, and happier still. Till liiy years shall have passed the brow of the hii. Then — when thy path shall be downward turned. And heaven desired, yet earth not spurned — To tny long home pass, in calm content, Ihire as thou now art, and innocent ! /am:. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. 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