He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold,
And heaps of pearl. He stretched his hands
He hears a voice—“Ill man withhold!”
A pale one near him stands.
Dana.
It was near night-fall when the Swash anchored
among the low and small islets mentioned. Rose
had been on deck, as the vessel approached this
singular and solitary haven, watching the movements
of those on board, as well as the appearance
of objects on the land, with the interest her situation
would be likely to awaken. She saw the light and
manageable craft glide through the narrow and
crooked passages that led into the port, the process
of anchoring, and the scene of tranquil solitude that
succeeded; each following the other as by a law
of nature. The light-house next attracted her attention,
and, as soon as the sun disappeared, her eyes
were fastened on the lantern, in expectation of beholding
the watchful and warning fires gleaming
there, to give the mariner notice of the position of
the dangers that surrounded the place. Minute
went by after minute, however, and the customary
illumination seemed to be forgotten.
“Why is not the light shining?” Rose asked of
Mulford, as the young man came near her, after
having discharged his duty in helping to moor the
vessel, and in clearing the decks. “All the light-houses
we have passed, and they have been fifty,
have shown bright lights at this hour, but this.”
“I cannot explain it; nor have I the smallest notion
where we are. I have been aloft, and there
was nothing in sight but this cluster of low islets,
far or near. I did fancy, for a moment, I saw a
speck like a distant sail, off here to the northward
and eastward, but I rather think it was a gull, or
some other sea-bird glancing upward on the wing.
I mentioned it to the captain when I came down,
and he appeared to believe it a mistake. I have
watched that light-house closely, too, ever since we
came in, and I have not seen the smallest sign of
life about it. It is altogether an extraordinary
place!”
“One suited to acts of villany, I fear, Harry!”
“Of that we shall be better judges to-morrow.
You, at least, have one vigilant friend, who will die
sooner than harm shall come to you. I believe
Spike to be thoroughly unprincipled; still he knows
he can go so far and no further, and has a wholesome
dread of the law. But the circumstance that
there should be such a port as this, with a regular
light-house, and no person near the last, is so much
out of the common way, that I do not know what to
make of it.”
“Perhaps the light-house keeper is afraid to show
himself, in the presence of the Swash?”
“That can hardly be, for vessels must often enter
the port, if port it can be called. But Spike is as
much concerned at the circumstance that the lamps
are not lighted, as any of us can be. Look, he
is about to visit the building in the boat, accompanied
by two of his oldest sea-dogs.”
“Why might we not raise the anchor, and sail
out of this place, leaving Spike ashore?” suggested
Rose, with more decision and spirit than discretion.
“For the simple reason that the act would be
piracy, even if I could get the rest of the people to
obey my orders, as certainly I could not. No, Rose,
you, and your aunt, and Biddy, however, might land
at these buildings, and refuse to return, Spike having
no authority over his passengers.”
“Still he would have the power to make us come
back to his brig. Look, he has left the vessel’s side,
and is going directly toward the light-house.”
Mulford made no immediate answer, but remained
at Rose’s side, watching the movements of
the captain. The last pulled directly to the islet
with the buildings, a distance of only a few hundred
feet, the light-house being constructed on a rocky
island that was nearly in the centre of the cluster,
most probably with a view to protect it from the
ravages of the waves. The fact, however, proved,
as Mulford did not fail to suggest to his companion,
that the beacon had been erected less to guide vessels
into the haven, than to warn mariners at a distance,
of the position of the whole group.
In less than five minutes after he had landed,
Spike himself was seen in the lantern, in the act of
lighting its lamps. In a very short time the place was
in a brilliant blaze, reflectors and all the other parts
of the machinery of the place performing their duties
as regularly as if tended by the usual keeper. Soon
after Spike returned on board, and the anchor-watch
was set. Then everybody sought the rest that it
was customary to take at that hour.
Mulford was on deck with the appearance of the
sun; but he found that Spike had preceded him, had
gone ashore again, had extinguished the lamps, and
was coming alongside of the brig on his return. A
minute later the captain came over the side.
“You were right about your sail, last night,
a’ter all, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, on coming aft.
“There she is, sure enough; and we shall have her
alongside to strike cargo out and in, by the time the
people have got their breakfasts.”
As Spike pointed toward the light-house while
speaking, the mate changed his position a little, and
saw that a schooner was coming down toward the
islets before the wind. Mulford now began to understand
the motives of the captain’s proceedings,
though a good deal yet remained veiled in mystery.
He could not tell where the brig was, nor did he
know precisely why so many expedients were
adopted to conceal the transfer of a cargo as simple
as that of flour. But he who was in the secret left
but little time for reflection; for swallowing a hasty
breakfast on deck, he issued orders enough to his
mate to give him quite as much duty as he could
perform, when he again entered the yawl, and pulled
toward the stranger.
Rose soon appeared on deck, and she naturally
began to question Harry concerning their position
and prospects. He was confessing his ignorance
as well as lamenting it, when his companion’s sweet
face suddenly flushed. She advanced a step eagerly
toward the open window of Spike’s state-room, then
compressed her full, rich, under-lip with the ivory
of her upper teeth, and stood a single instant, a
beautiful statue of irresolution instigated by spirit.
The last quality prevailed; and Mulford was really
startled when he saw Rose advance quite to the
window, thrust in an arm, and turn toward him with
his own sextant in her hand. During the course of
the passage out, the young man had taught Rose to
assist him in observing the longitude; and she was
now ready to repeat the practice. Not a moment
was lost in executing her intention. Sights were
had, and the instrument was returned to its place
without attracting the attention of the men, who
were all busy in getting up purchases, and in making
the other necessary dispositions for discharging the
flour. The observations answered the purpose,
though somewhat imperfectly made. Mulford had
a tolerable notion of their latitude, having kept the
brig’s run in his head since quitting Yucatan; and
he now found that their longitude was about 83°
west from Greenwich. After ascertaining this fact,
a glance at the open chart, which lay on Spike’s
desk, satisfied him that the vessel was anchored
within the group of the Dry Tortugas, or at the
western termination of the well-known, formidable,
and extensive Florida Reef. He had never been in
that part of the world before, but had heard enough
in sea-gossip, and had read enough in books, to be
at once apprised of the true character of their situation.
The islets were American; the light-house
was American; and the haven in which the Swash
lay was the very spot in the contemplation of government
for an outer man-of-war harbor, where fleets
might rendezvous in the future wars of that portion
of the world. He now saw plainly enough the signs
of the existence of a vast reef, a short distance to the
southward of the vessel, that formed a species of
sea-wall, or mole, to protect the port against the
waves of the gulf, in that direction. This reef he
knew to be miles in width.
There was little time for speculation, Spike soon
bringing the strange schooner directly alongside of
the brig. The two vessels immediately became a
scene of activity, one discharging, and the other receiving
the flour as fast as it could be struck out of
the hold of the Swash and lowered upon the deck of
the schooner. Mulford, however, had practiced a
little artifice, as the stranger entered the haven,
which drew down upon him an anathema or two
from Spike, as soon as they were alone. The mate
had set the brig’s ensign, and this compelled the
stranger to be markedly rude, or to answer the compliment.
Accordingly he had shown the ancient
flag of Spain. For thus extorting a national symbol
from the schooner, the mate was sharply rebuked
at a suitable moment, though nothing could have
been more forbearing than the deportment of his
commander when they first met.
When Spike returned to his own vessel, he was
accompanied by a dark-looking, well-dressed, and
decidedly gentleman-like personage, whom he addressed
indifferently, in his very imperfect Spanish,
as Don Wan, (Don Juan, or John,) or Señor Montefalderon.
By the latter appellation he even saw
fit to introduce the very respectable-looking stranger
to his mate. This stranger spoke English well,
though with an accent.
“Don Wan has taken all the flour, Mr. Mulford,
and intends shoving it over into Cuba, without
troubling the custom-house, I believe; but that is
not a matter to give us any concern, you know.”
The wink, and the knowing look by which this
speech was accompanied, seemed particularly disagreeable
to Don Juan, who now paid his compliments
to Rose, with no little surprise betrayed in
his countenance, but with the ease and reserve of a
gentleman. Mulford thought it strange that a smuggler
of flour should be so polished a personage,
though his duty did not admit of his bestowing much
attention to the little trifling of the interview that
succeeded.
For about an hour the work went steadily and
rapidly on. During that time Mulford was several
times on board the schooner, as, indeed, was Josh,
Jack Tier, and others belonging to the Swash. The
Spanish vessel was Baltimore, or clipper built, with
a trunk-cabin, and had every appearance of sailing
fast. Mulford was struck with her model, and,
while on board of her, he passed both forward and
aft to examine it. This was so natural in a seaman,
that Spike, while he noted the proceeding, took it in
good part. He even called out to his mate, from
his own quarter-deck, to admire this or that point in
the schooner’s construction. As is customary with
the vessels of southern nations, this stranger was
full of men, but they continued at their work, some
half dozen of brawny negroes among them, shouting
their songs as they swayed at the falls, no one
appearing to manifest jealousy or concern. At
length Tier came near the mate, and said,
“Uncle Sam will not be pleased when he hears
the reason that the keeper is not in his light-house.”
“And what is that reason, Jack? If you know it,
tell it to me.”
“Go aft and look down the companion way, maty,
and see it for yourself.”
Mulford did go aft, and he made an occasion to
look down into the schooner’s cabin, where he
caught a glimpse of the persons of a man and a boy,
whom he at once supposed had been taken from the
light-house. This one fact of itself doubled his distrust
of the character of Spike’s proceedings. There
was no sufficient apparent reason why a mere
smuggler should care about the presence of an individual
more or less in a foreign port. Every thing
that had occurred looked like pre-concert between
the brig and the schooner; and the mate was just
beginning to entertain the strongest distrust that
their vessel was holding treasonable communication
with the enemy, when an accident removed all
doubt on the subject, from his own mind at least.
Spike had, once or twice, given his opinion that the
weather was treacherous, and urged the people of
both crafts to extraordinary exertions, in order that
the vessels might get clear of each other as soon as
possible. This appeal had set various expedients
in motion to second the more regular work of the
purchases. Among other things, planks had been
laid from one vessel to the other, and barrels were
rolled along them with very little attention to the
speed or the direction. Several had fallen on the
schooner’s deck with rude shocks, but no damage
was done, until one, of which the hoops had not been
properly secured, met with a fall, and burst nearly
at Mulford’s feet. It was at the precise moment
when the mate was returning, from taking his glance
into the cabin, toward the side of the Swash. A
white cloud arose, and half a dozen of the schooner’s
people sprang for buckets, kids, or dishes in order
to secure enough of the contents of the broken
barrel to furnish them with a meal. At first nothing
was visible but the white cloud that succeeded the
fall, and the scrambling sailors in its midst. No
sooner, however, had the air got to be a little clear,
than Mulford saw an object lying in the centre of the
wreck, that he at once recognized for a keg of gunpowder!
The captain of the schooner seized this
keg, gave a knowing look at Mulford, and disappeared
in the hold of his own vessel, carrying with
him, what was out of all question, a most material
part of the true cargo of the Swash.
At the moment when the flour-barrel burst, Spike
was below, in close conference with his Spanish, or
Mexican guest; and the wreck being so soon cleared
away, it is probable that he never heard of the accident.
As for the two crews, they laughed a little
among themselves at the revelation which had been
made, as well as at the manner; but to old sea-dogs
like them, it was a matter of very little moment,
whether the cargo was, in reality, flour or gunpowder.
In a few minutes the affair seemed to be
forgotten. In the course of another hour the Swash
was light, having nothing in her but some pig lead,
which she used for ballast, while the schooner was
loaded to her hatches, and full. Spike now sent a
boat, with orders to drop a kedge about a hundred
yards from the place where his own brig lay. The
schooner warped up to this kedge, and dropped an
anchor of her own, leaving a very short range of
cable out, it being a flat calm. Ordinarily, the trades
prevail at the Dry Tortugas, and all along the Florida
Reef. Sometimes, indeed, this breeze sweeps across
the whole width of the Gulf of Mexico, blowing
home, as it is called—reaching even to the coast of
Texas. It is subject, however, to occasional interruptions
everywhere, varying many points in its
direction, and occasionally ceasing entirely. The
latter was the condition of the weather about noon
on this day, or when the schooner hauled off from
the brig, and was secured at her own anchor.
“Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, “I do not like the state
of the atmosphere. D’ye see that fiery streak along
the western horizon—well, sir, as the sun gets nearer
to that streak, there’ll be trouble, or I’m no judge of
weather.”
“You surely do not imagine, Capt. Spike, that the
sun will be any nearer to that fiery streak, as you
call it, when he is about to set, than he is at this moment?”
answered the mate, smiling.
“I’m sure of one thing, young man, and that is,
that old heads are better than young ones. What a
man has once seen, he may expect to see again, if
the same leading signs offer. Man the boat, sir, and
carry out the kedge, which is still in it, and lay it off
here, about three p’ints on our larboard bow.”
Mulford had a profound respect for Spike’s seamanship,
whatever he might think of his principles.
The order was consequently obeyed. The mate
was then directed to send down various articles out
of the top, and to get the top-gallant and royal yards
on deck. Spike carried his precautions so far, as to
have the mainsail lowered, it ordinarily brailing at
that season of the year, with a standing gaff. With
this disposition completed, the captain seemed more
at his ease, and went below to join Señor Montefalderon
in a siesta. The Mexican, for such, in truth, was
the national character of the owner of the schooner,
had preceded him in this indulgence: and most of
the people of the brig having laid themselves down
to sleep under the heat of the hour, Mulford soon
enjoyed another favorable opportunity for a private
conference with Rose.
“Harry,” commenced the latter, as soon as they
were alone; “I have much to tell you. While you
have been absent I have overheard a conversation
between this Spanish gentleman and Spike, that
shows the last is in treaty with the other for the sale
of the brig. Spike extolled his vessel to the skies,
while Don Wan, as he calls him, complains that the
brig is old, and cannot last long; to which Spike
answered ‘to be sure she is old, Señor Montefalderon,
but she will last as long as your war, and
under a bold captain might be made to return her
cost, a hundred fold!’ What war can he mean, and
to what does such a discourse tend?”
“The war alludes to the war now existing between
America and Mexico, and the money to be
made is to be plundered at sea, from our own merchant
vessels. If Don Juan Montefalderon is really
in treaty for the purchase of the brig, it is to convert
her into a Mexican cruiser, either public or private.”
“But this would be treason on the part of Spike!”
“Not more so than supplying the enemy with
gunpowder, as he has just been doing. I have ascertained
the reason he was so unwilling to be
overhauled by the revenue steamer, as well as the
reason why the revenue steamer wished so earnestly
to overhaul us. Each barrel of flour contains
another of gunpowder, and that has been sold to this
Señor Montefalderon, who is doubtless an officer of
the Mexican government, and no smuggler.”
“He has been at New York, this very summer, I
know,” continued Rose, “for he spoke of his visit,
and made such other remarks, as leaves no doubt
that Spike expected to find him here, on this very
day of the month. He also paid Spike a large sum
of money in doubloons, and took back the bag to his
schooner, when he had done so, after showing the
captain enough was left to pay for the brig, could
they only agree on the terms of their bargain.”
“Ay, ay; it is all plain enough now, Spike has
determined on a desperate push for fortune, and
foreseeing it might not soon be in his power to return
to New York, in safety, he has included his designs
on you and your fortune, in the plot.”
“My fortune! the trifle I possess can scarcely be
called a fortune, Harry!”
“It would be a fortune to Spike, Rose, and I shall
be honest enough to own it would be a fortune to
me. I say this frankly, for I do believe you think too
well of me to suppose that I seek you for any other
reason than the ardent love I bear your person and
character; but a fact is not to be denied because it
may lead certain persons to distrust our motives.
Spike is poor, like myself; and the brig is not only
getting to be very old, but she has been losing
money for the last twelve months.”
Mulford and Rose now conversed long and confidentially,
on their situation and prospects. The
mate neither magnified nor concealed the dangers
of both; but freely pointed out the risk to himself, in
being on board a vessel that was aiding and comforting
the enemy. It was determined between
them that both would quit the brig the moment an
opportunity offered, and the mate even went so far
as to propose an attempt to escape in one of the
boats, although he might incur the hazards of a double
accusation, those of mutiny and larceny, for
making the experiment. Unfortunately, neither
Rose, nor her aunt, nor Biddy, nor Jack Tier had
seen the barrel of powder, and neither could testify
as to the true character of Spike’s connection with
the schooner. It was manifestly necessary, therefore,
independently of the risks that might be run by
“bearding the lion in his den,” to proceed with great
intelligence and caution.
This dialogue between Harry and Rose, occurred
just after the turn in the day, and it lasted fully an
hour. Each had been too much interested to observe
the heavens, but, as they were on the point of
separating, Rose pointed out to her companion the
unusual and most menacing aspect of the sky in the
western horizon. It appeared as if a fiery heat was
glowing there, behind a curtain of black vapor; and
what rendered it more remarkable, was the circumstance
that an extraordinary degree of placidity prevailed
in all other parts of the heavens. Mulford
scarce knew what to make of it; his experience not
going so far as to enable him to explain the novel
and alarming appearance. He stepped on a gun,
and gazed around him for a moment. There lay
the schooner, without a being visible on board of her,
and there stood the light-house, gloomy in its desertion
and solitude. The birds alone seemed to be
alive and conscious of what was approaching. They
were all on the wing, wheeling wildly in the air,
and screaming discordantly, as belonged to their
habits. The young man leaped off the gun, gave
a loud call to Spike, at the companion-way, and
sprang forward to call all hands.
One minute only was lost, when every seaman
on board the Swash, from the captain to Jack Tier,
was on deck. Mulford met Spike at the cabin door,
and pointed toward the fiery column that was booming
down upon the anchorage, with a velocity and
direction that would now admit of no misinterpretation.
For one instant that sturdy old seaman stood
aghast; gazing at the enemy as one conscious of his
impotency might have been supposed to quail before
an assault that he foresaw must prove irresistable.
Then his native spirit, and most of all the effects of
training, began to show themselves in him, and he
became at once, not only the man again, but the resolute,
practiced and ready commander.
“Come aft to the spring, men—” he shouted—“clap
on the spring, Mr. Mulford, and bring the brig
head to wind.”
This order was obeyed as seamen best obey, in
cases of sudden and extreme emergency; or with
intelligence, aptitude and power. The brig had
swung nearly round, in the desired direction, when
the tornado struck her. It will be difficult, we do
not know but it is impossible, to give a clear and accurate
account of what followed. As most of our
readers have doubtless felt how great is the power
of the wind, whiffling and pressing different ways,
in sudden and passing gusts, they have only to imagine
this power increased many, many fold, and the
baffling of the currents made furious, as it might be,
by meeting with resistance, to form some notion of
the appalling strength and frightful inconstancy with
which it blew for about a minute.
Notwithstanding the circumstance of Spike’s precaution
had greatly lessened the danger, every man
on the deck of the Swash believed the brig was gone
when the gust struck her. Over she went, in fact,
until the water came pouring in above her half-ports,
like so many little cascades, and spouting up through
her scupper-holes, resembling the blowing of young
whales. It was the whiffling energy of the tornado,
that alone saved her. As if disappointed in not destroying
its intended victim at one swoop, the tornado
“let up” in its pressure, like a dexterous wrestler,
making a fresh and desperate effort to overturn
the vessel, by a slight variation in its course. That
change saved the Swash. She righted, and even
rolled in the other direction, or what might be called
to windward, with her decks full of water. For a
minute longer, these baffling, changing gusts continued,
each causing the brig to bow like a reed to
their power, one lifting as another pressed her down,
and then the weight, or the more dangerous part of
the tornado was passed, though it continued to blow
heavily, always in whiffling blasts, several minutes
longer.
During the weight of the gust, no one had leisure,
or indeed inclination to look to aught beyond its effect
on the brig. Had one been otherwise disposed,
the attempt would have been useless, for the wind
had filled the air with spray, and near the islets even
with sand. The lurid but fiery tinge, too, interposed
a veil that no human eye could penetrate. As the
tornado passed onward, however, and the winds
lulled, the air again became clear, and in five
minutes after the moment when the Swash lay
nearly on her side, with her lower yard-arm actually
within a few feet of the water, all was still and placid
around her, as one is accustomed to see the
ocean in a calm, of a summer’s afternoon. Then
it was that those who had been in such extreme
jeopardy could breathe freely and look about them.
On board the Swash, all was well—not a rope-yarn
had parted, or an eye-bolt drawn. The timely precautions
of Spike had saved his brig, and great was
his joy thereat.
In the midst of the infernal din of the tornado,
screams had ascended from the cabin, and the instant
he could quit the deck with propriety, Mulford
sprang below, in order to ascertain their cause. He
apprehended that some of the females had been
driven to leeward when the brig went over, and
that some of the luggage or furniture had fallen on
them. In the main cabin, the mate found Señor
Montefalderon just quitting his berth, composed,
gentleman-like, and collected. Josh was braced in
a corner nearly gray with fear, while Jack Tier still
lay on the cabin floor, at the last point to which he
had rolled. One word sufficed to let Don Juan
know that the gust had passed, and the brig was
safe, when Mulford tapped at the door of the inner
cabin. Rose appeared, pale, but calm and unhurt.
“Is any one injured?” asked the young man,
his mind relieved at once, as soon as he saw that
she who most occupied his thoughts was safe; “we
heard screams from this cabin.”
“My aunt and Biddy have been frightened,” answered
Rose, “but neither has been hurt. Oh,
Harry, what terrible thing has happened to us? I
heard the roaring of—”
“’Twas a tornado,” interrupted Mulford eagerly—“but
’tis over. ’Twas one of those sudden and
tremendous gusts that sometimes occur within the
tropics, in which the danger is usually in the first
shock. If no one is injured in this cabin, no one is
injured at all.”
“Oh, Mr. Mulford—dear Mr. Mulford!” exclaimed
the relict from the corner into which she had been
followed and jammed by Biddy, “Oh, Mr. Mulford,
are we foundered, or not?”
“Heaven be praised, not, my dear ma’am, though
we came nearer to it than I ever was before.”
“Are we cap-asided?”
“Nor that, Mrs. Budd; the brig is as upright as a
church.”
“Upright!” repeated Biddy, in her customary
accent—“is it as a church? Sure, then, Mr. Mate,
’tis a Presbyterian church that you mane, and that
is always totterin’.”
“Catholic, or Dutch—no church in York is more
completely up and down, than the brig at this
moment.”
“Get off of me—get off of me, Biddy, and let me
rise,” said the widow, with dignity. “The danger
is over I see, and, as we return our thanks for it, we
have the consolation of knowing that we have done
our duty. It is incumbent on all, at such moments,
to be at their posts, and to set examples of decision
and prudence.”
As Mulford saw all was well in the cabin, he
hastened on deck, followed by Señor Montefalderon.
Just as they emerged from the companion-way,
Spike was hailing the forecastle.
“Forecastle, there,” he cried, standing on the
trunk himself as he did so, and moving from side
to side, as if to catch a glimpse of some object
ahead.
“Sir,” came back from an old salt, who was
coiling up rigging in that seat of seamanship.
“Where away is the schooner? She ought to be
dead ahead of us, as we tend now—but blast me if
I can see as much as her mast-heads.”
At this suggestion, a dozen men sprang upon guns
or other objects, to look for the vessel in question.
The old salt forward, however, had much the best
chance, for he stepped on the heel of the bowsprit,
and walked as far out as the knight-heads, to command
the whole view ahead of the brig. There he
stood half a minute, looking first on one side of
the head-gear, then the other, when he gave his
trousers a hitch, put a fresh quid in his mouth,
and called out in a voice almost as hoarse as the
tempest, that had just gone by,
“The schooner has gone down at her anchor,
sir. There’s her buoy watching still, as if nothing
had happened; but as for the craft itself, there’s not
so much as a bloody yard-arm, or mast-head of her
to be seen!”
This news produced a sensation in the brig at
once, as may be supposed. Even Señor Montefalderon,
a quiet, gentleman-like person, altogether
superior in deportment to the bustle and fuss that
usually marks the manners of persons in trade, was
disturbed; for to him the blow was heavy indeed.
Whether he were acting for himself, or was an
agent of the Mexican government, the loss was
much the same.
“Tom is right enough,” put in Spike, rather coolly
for the circumstances—“that there schooner of
yourn has foundered, Don Wan, as any one can see.
She must have capsized and filled, for I obsarved
they had left the hatches off, meaning, no doubt, to
make an end of the storage as soon as they had
done sleeping.”
“And what has become of all her men, Don
Esteban?” for so the Mexican politely called his
companion. “Have all my poor countrymen
perished in this disaster?”
“I fear they have, Don Wan; for I see no head,
as of any one swimming. The vessel lay so near
that island next to it, that a poor swimmer would
have no difficulty in reaching the place; but there
is no living thing to be seen. But man the boat,
men; we will go to the spot, Señor, and examine
for ourselves.”
There were two boats in the water, and alongside
of the brig. One was the Swash’s yawl, a
small but convenient craft, while the other was
much larger, fitted with a sail, and had all the appearance
of having been built to withstand breezes and
seas. Mulford felt perfectly satisfied, the moment
he saw this boat, which had come into the haven
in tow of the schooner, that it had been originally
in the service of the light-house keeper. As there
was a very general desire among those on the
quarterdeck to go to the assistance of the schooner,
Spike ordered both boats manned, jumping into the
yawl himself, accompanied by Don Juan Montefalderon,
and telling Mulford to follow with the
larger craft, bringing with him as many of the females
as might choose to accompany him. As Mrs. Budd
thought it incumbent on her to be active in such a
scene, all did go, including Biddy, though with great
reluctance on the part of Rose.
With the buoy for a guide, Spike had no difficulty
in finding the spot where the schooner lay.
She had scarcely shifted her berth in the least, there
having been no time for her even to swing to the
gust, but she had probably capsized at the first blast,
filled, and gone down instantly. The water was
nearly as clear as the calm, mild atmosphere of the
tropics; and it was almost as easy to discern the
vessel, and all her hamper, as if she lay on a beach.
She had gone down as she filled, or on her side, and
still continued in that position. As the water was
little more than three fathoms deep, the upper side
was submerged but a few inches, and her yard-arms
would have been out of the water, but for the
circumstance that the yards had canted under the
pressure.
At first, no sign was seen of any of those who had
been on board this ill-fated schooner when she went
down. It was known that twenty-one souls were in
her, including the man and the boy who had belonged
to the light-house. As the boat moved slowly over
this sad ruin, however, a horrible and startling
spectacle came in view. Two bodies were seen,
within a few feet of the surface of the water, one
grasped in the arms of the other, in the gripe of
despair. The man held in the grasp, was kept beneath
the water solely by the death-lock of his companion,
who was himself held where he floated, by
the circumstance that one of his feet was entangled
in a rope. The struggle could not have been long
over, for the two bodies were slowly settling toward
the bottom when first seen. It is probable that both
these men had more than once risen to the surface
in their dreadful struggle. Spike seized a boat-hook,
and made an effort to catch the clothes of the nearest
body, but ineffectually, both sinking to the sands beneath,
lifeless, and without motion. There being
no sharks in sight, Mulford volunteered to dive and
fasten a line to one of these unfortunate men, whom
Don Juan declared at once was the schooner’s captain.
Some little time was lost in procuring a lead-line
from the brig, when the lead was dropped alongside
of the drowned. Provided with another piece
of the same sort of line, which had a small running
bowline around that which was fastened to the lead,
the mate made his plunge, and went down with
great vigor of arm. It required resolution and
steadiness to descend so far into salt water; but
Harry succeeded, and rose with the bodies, which
came up with the slightest impulse. All were immediately
got into the boat, and away the latter
went toward the light-house, which was nearer and
more easy of access than the brig.
It is probable that one of these unfortunate men
might have been revived under judicious treatment;
but he was not fated to receive it. Spike, who
knew nothing of such matters, undertook to direct
every thing, and, instead of having recourse to
warmth and gentle treatment, he ordered the bodies
to be rolled on a cask, suspended them by the heels,
and resorted to a sort of practice that might have
destroyed well men, instead of resuscitating those
in whom the vital spark was dormant, if not actually
extinct.
Two hours later, Rose, seated in her own cabin,
unavoidably overheard the following dialogue, which
passed in English, a language that Señor Montefalderon
spoke perfectly well, as has been said.
“Well Señor,” said Spike, “I hope this little accident
will not prevent our final trade. You will
want the brig now, to take the schooner’s place.”
“And how am I to pay you for the brig, Señor
Spike, even if I buy her?”
“I’ll ventur’ to guess there is plenty of money in
Mexico. Though they do say the government is
so backward about paying, I have always found you
punctual, and am not afraid to put faith in you
ag’in.”
“But I have no longer any money to pay you half
in hand, as I did for the powder, when last in New
York.”
“The bag was pretty well lined with doubloons
when I saw it last, Señor.”
“And do you know where that bag is; and where
there is another that holds the same sum?”
Spike started, and he mused in silence some little
time, ere he again spoke.
“I had forgotten,” he at length answered. “The
gold must have all gone down in the schooner, along
with the powder!”
“And the poor men!”
“Why, as for the men, Señor, more may be had
for the asking; but powder and doubloons will be
hard to find, when most wanted. Then the men
were poor men, accordin’ to my idees of what an
able seaman should be, or they never would have
let their schooner turn turtle with them as she
did.”
“We will talk of the money, Don Esteban, if you
please,” said the Mexican, with reserve.
“With all my heart, Don Wan—nothing is more
agreeable to me than money. How many of them
doubloons shall fall to my share if I raise the
schooner, and put you in possession of your craft
again?”
“Can that be done, Señor?” demanded Don Juan
earnestly.
“A seaman can do almost any thing, in that way,
Don Wan, if you will give him time and means.
For one half the doubloons I can find in the wrack,
the job shall be done.”
“You can have them,” answered Don Juan,
quietly, a good deal surprised that Spike should
deem it necessary to offer him any part of the sum
he might find. “As for the powder, I suppose that
is lost to my country.”
“Not at all, Don Wan. The flour is well packed
around it, and I don’t expect it would take any
harm in a month. I shall not only turn over the
flour to you, just as if nothing had happened, but I
shall put four first rate hands aboard your schooner,
who will take her into port for you, with a good
deal more sartainty than forty of the men you had.
My mate is a prime navigator.”
This concluded the bargain, every word of which
was heard by Rose, and every word of which she
did not fail to communicate to Mulford, the moment
there was an opportunity. The young man heard
it with great interest, telling Rose that he should do
all he could to assist in raising the schooner, in the
hope that something might turn up to enable him to
escape in her, taking off Rose and her aunt. As
for his carrying her into a Mexican port, let them
trust him for that! Agreeably to the arrangement,
orders were given that afternoon to commence the
necessary preparations for the work, and considerable
progress was made in them by the time the
Swash’s people were ordered to knock off work for
the night.
After the sun had set the reaction in the currents
again commenced, and it blew for a few hours
heavily, during the night. Toward morning, however,
it moderated, and when the sun re-appeared
it scarcely ever diffused its rays over a more peaceful
or quiet day. Spike caused all hands to be
called, and immediately set about the important
business he had before him.
In order that the vessel might be as free as possible,
Jack Tier was directed to skull the females
ashore, in the brig’s yawl; Señor Montefalderon, a
man of polished manners, as we maintain is very
apt to be the case with Mexican gentlemen, whatever
may be the opinion of this good republic on the
subject, just at this moment, asked permission to be
of the party. Mulford found an opportunity to beg
Rose, if they landed at the light, to reconnoitre the
place well, with a view to ascertain what facilities
it could afford in an attempt to escape. They did
land at the light, and glad enough were Mrs. Budd,
Rose and Biddy to place their feet on terrâ firmâ
after so long a confinement to the narrow limits of a
vessel.
“Well,” said Jack Tier, as they walked up to the
spot where the buildings stood, “this is a rum place
for a light’us, Miss Rose, and I don’t wonder the
keeper and his messmates has cleared out.”
“I am very sorry to say,” observed Señor Montefalderon,
whose countenance expressed the concern
he really felt, “that the keeper and his only
companion, a boy, were on board the schooner, and
have perished in her, in common with so many of my
poor countrymen. There are the graves of two
whom we buried here last evening, after vain efforts
to restore them to life!”
“What a dreadful catastrophe it has been, Señor,”
said Rose, whose sweet countenance eloquently expressed
the horror and regret she so naturally felt—“Twenty
fellow beings hurried into eternity without
even an instant for prayer!”
“You feel for them, Señorita—it is natural you
should, and it is natural that I, their countryman and
leader, should feel for them, also. I do not know
what God has in reserve for my unfortunate country!
We may have cruel and unscrupulous men
among us, Señorita, but we have thousands who are
just, and brave, and honorable.”
“So Mr. Mulford tells me, Señor, and he has been
much in your ports, on the west coast.”
“I like that young man, and wonder not a little at
his and your situation in this brig—” rejoined the
Mexican, dropping his voice so as not to be heard
by their companions, as they walked a little ahead of
Mrs. Budd and Biddy. “The Señor Spike is scarcely
worthy to be his commander or your guardian.”
“Yet you find him worthy of your intercourse and
trust, Don Juan?”
The Mexican shrugged his shoulders, and smiled
equivocally; still, in a melancholy manner. It would
seem he did not deem it wise to push this branch of
the subject further, since he turned to another.
“I like the Señor Mulford,” he resumed, “for his
general deportment and principles, so far as I can
judge of him on so short an acquaintance.”
“Excuse me, Señor,” interrupted Rose, hurriedly “—but
you never saw him until you met him here.”
“Never—I understand you, Señorita, and can do
full justice to the young man’s character. I am willing
to think he did not know the errand of his vessel,
or I should not have seen him now. But what
I most like him for, is this: Last night, during the
gale, he and I walked the deck together, for an hour.
We talked of Mexico, and of this war, so unfortunate
for my country already, and which may become
still more so, when he uttered this noble sentiment—‘My
country is more powerful than yours, Señor
Montefalderon,’ he said, ‘and in this it has been more
favored by God. You have suffered from ambitious
rulers, and from military rule, while we have been
advancing under the arts of peace, favored by a most
beneficent Providence. As for this war, I know but
little about it, though I dare say the Mexican government
may have been wrong in some things that it
might have controlled and some that it might not—but
let right be where it will, I am sorry to see a
nation that has taken so firm a stand in favor of
popular government, pressed upon so hard by another
that is supposed to be the great support of
such principles. America and Mexico are neighbors,
and ought to be friends, and while I do not,
cannot blame my own country for pursuing the war
with vigor, nothing would please me more than to
hear peace proclaimed.’ ”
“That is just like Harry Mulford,” said Rose,
thoughtfully, as soon as her companion ceased to
speak. “I do wish, Señor, that there could be no
use for this powder, that is now buried in the sea.”
Don Juan Montefalderon smiled, and seemed a
little surprised that the fair, young thing at his side
should have known of the treacherous contents of
the flour-barrels. No doubt he found it inexplicable,
that persons like Rose and Mulford should, seemingly,
be united with one like Spike; but he was
too well bred, and, indeed, too effectually mystified,
to push the subject further than might be discreet.
By this time they were near the entrance of the
light-house, into which the whole party entered, in
a sort of mute awe at its silence and solitude. At
Señor Montefalderon’s invitation, they ascended to
the lantern, whence they could command a wide
and fair view of the surrounding waters. The reef
was much more apparent from that elevation than
from below; and Rose could see that numbers of its
rocks were bare, while on other parts of it there
was the appearance of many feet of water. Rose
gazed at it, with longing eyes, for, from a few remarks
that had fallen from Mulford, she suspected
he had hopes of escaping among its channels and
coral.
As they descended and walked through the buildings,
Rose also took good heed of the supplies the
place afforded. There were flour, and beef, and
pork; and many other of the common articles of
food, as well as water in a cistern, that caught it as
it flowed from the roof of the dwelling. Water was
also to be found in casks—nothing like a spring or
a well existing among those islets. All these things
Rose noted, putting them aside in her memory for
ready reference hereafter.
In the meantime the mariners were not idle.
Spike moved his brig, and moored her, head and
stern, alongside of the wreck, before the people got
their breakfasts. As soon as that meal was ended,
both captain and mate set about their duty in
earnest. Mulford carried out an anchor on the off
side of the Swash, and dropped it, at a distance of
about eighty fathoms from the vessel’s beam. Purchases
were brought from both mast-heads of the
brig to the chain of this anchor, and were hove upon
until the vessel was given a heel of more than a
streak, and the cable was tolerably taut. Other purchases
were got up opposite, and overhauled down,
in readiness to take hold of the schooner’s masts.
The anchor of the schooner was weighed by its
buoy-rope, and the chain, after being rove through
the upper or opposite hawse-hole, brought in on
board the Swash. Another chain was dropped
astern, in such a way, that when the schooner came
upright, it would be sure to pass beneath her keel,
some six or eight feet from the rudder. Slings were
then sunk over the mast-heads, and the purchases
were hooked on. Hours were consumed in these
preliminary labors, and the people went to dinner
as soon as they were completed.
When the men had dined, Spike brought one of
his purchases to the windlass, and the other to the
capstan, though not until each was bowsed taut by
hand; a few minutes having brought the strain so
far on every thing, as to enable a seaman, like Spike,
to form some judgment of the likelihood that his
preventers and purchases would stand. Some
changes were found necessary to equalize the strain,
but, on the whole, the captain was satisfied with his
work, and the crew were soon ordered to “heave-away;
the windlass best.”
In the course of half an hour the hull of the vessel,
which lay on its bilge, began to turn on its keel,
and the heads of the spars to rise above the water.
This was the easiest part of the process, all that was
required of the purchases being to turn over a mass
which rested on the sands of the bay. Aided by
the long levers afforded by the spars, the work advanced
so rapidly that, in just one hour’s time after
his people had begun to heave, Spike had the pleasure
to see the schooner standing upright, alongside
of his own brig, though still sunk to the bottom.
The wreck was secured in this position, by means
of guys and preventers, in order that it might not
again cant, when the order was issued to hook on
the slings that were to raise it to the surface. These
slings were the chains of the schooner, one of which
went under her keel, while for the other the captain
trusted to the strength of the two hawse-holes, having
passed the cable out of one and in at the other,
in a way to serve his purposes, as has just been
stated.
When all was ready, Spike mustered his crew,
and made a speech. He told the men that he was
about a job that was out of the usual line of their
duty, and that he knew they had a right to expect
extra pay for such extra work. The schooner contained
money, and his object was to get at it. If he
succeeded, their reward would be a doubloon a man,
which would be earning more than a month’s
wages by twenty-four hours’ work. This was
enough. The men wanted to hear no more; but
they cheered their commander, and set about their
task in the happiest disposition possible.
The reader will understand that the object to be
first achieved, was to raise a vessel, with a hold
filled with flour and gunpowder, from off the bottom
of the bay to its surface. As she stood, the deck of
this vessel was about six feet under water, and
every one will understand that her weight, so long
as it was submerged in a fluid as dense as that of
the sea, would be much more manageable than
if suspended in air. The barrels, for instance,
were not much heavier than the water they displaced,
and the wood work of the vessel itself, was,
on the whole, positively lighter than the element in
which it had sunk. As for the water in the hold,
that was of the same weight as the water on the
outside of the craft, and there had not been much to
carry the schooner down, beside her iron, the spars
that were out of water, and her ballast. This last,
some ten or twelve tons in weight, was in fact the
principal difficulty, and alone induced Spike to have
any doubts about his eventual success. There was
no foreseeing the result until he had made a trial,
however, and the order was again given to “heave
away.”
To the infinite satisfaction of the Swash’s crew,
the weight was found quite manageable, so long as
the hull remained beneath the water. Mulford,
with three or four assistants, was kept on board the
schooner lightening her, by getting the other anchor
off her bows, and throwing the different objects
overboard, or on the decks of the brig. By the time
the bulwarks reached the surface, as much was
gained in this way, as was lost by having so much
of the lighter wood-work rise above the water. As
a matter of course, however, the weight increased
as the vessel rose, and more especially as the lower
portion of the spars, the bowsprit, boom, &c., from
being buoyant assistants, became so much dead
weight to be lifted.
Spike kept a watchful eye on his spars, and the
extra supports he had given them. He was moving,
the whole time, from point to point, feeling
shrouds and back-stays, and preventers, in order to
ascertain the degree of strain on each, or examining
how the purchases stood. As for the crew, they
cheered at their toil, incessantly, passing from capstan
bars to the handspikes, and vice versa. They,
too, felt that their task was increasing in resistance
as it advanced, and now found it more difficult to
gain an inch, than it had been at first to gain a foot.
They seemed, indeed, to be heaving their own vessel
out, instead of heaving the other craft up, and it
was not long before they had the Swash heeling
over toward the wreck several streaks. The strain,
moreover, on every thing, became not only severe,
but somewhat menacing. Every shroud, back-stay
and preventer was as taut as a bar of iron, and the
chain-cable that led to the anchor planted off abeam,
was as straight as if the brig were riding by it in a
gale of wind. One or two ominous surges aloft,
too, had been heard, and, though no more than
straps and slings settling into their places under
hard strains, they served to remind the crew that
danger might come from that quarter. Such was
the state of things, when Spike called out to “heave
and pall,” that he might take a look at the condition
of the wreck.
Although a great deal remained to be done, in
order to get the schooner to float, a great deal had
already been done. Her precise condition was as
follows: Having no cabin widows, the water had
entered her, when she capsized, by the only four
apertures her construction possessed. These were
the companion-way, or cabin-doors; the sky-light;
the main-hatch, or the large inlet amid-ships, by
which cargo went up and down; and the booby-hatch,
which was the counterpart of the companion-way,
forward; being intended to admit of ingress to the
forecastle, the apartment of the crew. Each of
these hatch-ways, or orifices, had the usual defences
of “coamings,” strong frame-work around their margins.
These coamings rose six or eight inches
above the deck, and answered the double purpose
of strengthening the vessel, in a part, that without
them would be weaker than common, and of preventing
any water that might be washing about the
decks from running below. As soon, therefore, as
these three apertures, or their coamings, could be
raised above the level of the water of the basin, all
danger of the vessel’s receiving any further tribute
of that sort from the ocean would be over. It was
to this end, consequently, that Spike’s efforts had
been latterly directed, though they had only in part
succeeded. The schooner possessed a good deal of
sheer, as it is termed; or, her two extremities rose
nearly a foot above her centre, when on an even
keel. This had brought her extremities first to the
surface, and it was the additional weight which had
consequently been brought into the air, that had so
much increased the strain, and induced Spike to
pause. The deck forward, as far aft as the foremast,
and aft as far forward as the centre of the trunk, or
to the sky-light, was above the water, or at least
awash; while all the rest of it was covered. In the
vicinity of the main-hatch there were several inches
of water; enough indeed to leave the upper edge of
the coamings submerged by about an inch. To raise
the keel that inch by means of the purchases, Spike
well knew would cost him more labor, and would
incur more risk than all that had been done previously,
and he paused before he would attempt it.
The men were now called from the brig and ordered
to come on board the schooner. Spike ascertained
by actual measurement how much was
wanted to bring the coamings of the main-hatch
above the water, until which was done, pumping
and bailing would be useless. He found it was
quite an inch, and was at a great loss to know how
that inch should be obtained. Mulford advised
another trial with the handspikes and bars, but to
this Spike would not consent. He believed that the
masts of the brig had already as much pressure on
them as they would bear. The mate next proposed
getting the main boom off the vessel, and to lighten
the craft by cutting away her bowsprit and masts.
The captain was well enough disposed to do this,
but he doubted whether it would meet with the approbation
of “Don Wan,” who was still ashore with
Rose and her aunt, and who probably looked forward
to recovering his gunpowder by means of
those very spars. At length the carpenter hit upon a
plan that was adopted.
This plan was very simple, though it had its own
ingenuity. It will be remembered that water could
now only enter the vessel’s hold at the main-hatch,
all the other hatchways having their coamings above
the element. The carpenter proposed, therefore,
that the main-hatches, which had been off when the
tornado occurred, but which had been found on
deck when the vessel righted, should now be put
on, oakum being first laid along in their rabbetings,
and that the cracks should be stuffed with additional
oakum, to exclude as much water as possible. He
thought that two or three men, by using caulking
irons for ten minutes, would make the hatch-way so
tight that very little water would penetrate. While
this was doing, he himself would bore as many holes
forward and aft, as he could, with a two inch augur,
out of which the water then in the vessel would be
certain to run. Spike was delighted with this project,
and gave the necessary orders on the spot.
This much must be said of the crew of the Molly
Swash—whatever they did in their own profession,
they did intelligently and well. On the present occasion
they maintained their claim to this character,
and were both active and expert. The hatches were
soon on, and, in an imperfect manner, caulked. While
this was doing, the carpenter got into a boat, and
going under the schooner’s bows, where a whole
plank was out of water, he chose a spot between
two of the timbers, and bored a hole as near the
surface of the water as he dared to do. Not satisfied
with one hole, however, he bored many—choosing
both sides of the vessel to make them,
and putting some aft as well as forward. In a word,
in the course of twenty minutes the schooner was
tapped in at least a dozen places, and jets of water,
two inches in diameter, were spouting from her on
each bow, and under each quarter.
Spike and Mulford noted the effect. Some water,
doubtless, still worked itself into the vessel about
the main-hatch, but that more flowed from her by
means of the outlets just named, was quite apparent.
After close watching at the outlets for some time,
Spike was convinced that the schooner was slowly
rising, the intense strain that still came from the
brig producing that effect as the vessel gradually
became lighter. By the end of half an hour, there
could be no longer any doubt, the holes, which had
been bored within an inch of the water, being now
fully two inches above it. The augur was applied
anew, still nearer to the surface of the sea, and as
fresh outlets were made, those that began to
manifest a dulness in their streams were carefully
plugged.
Spike now thought it was time to take a look at
the state of things on deck. Here, to his joy, he
ascertained that the coamings had actually risen
a little above the water. The reader is not to suppose
by this rising of the vessel, that she had become
sufficiently buoyant, in consequence of the water
that had run out of her, to float of herself! This
was far from being the case; but the constant upward
pressure from the brig, which, on mechanical
principles tended constantly to bring that craft upright,
had the effect to lift the schooner as the latter
was gradually relieved from the weight that pressed
her toward the bottom.
The hatches were next removed, when it was
found that the water in the schooner’s hold had so far
lowered, as to leave a vacant space of quite a foot between
the lowest part of the deck and its surface.
Toward the two extremities of the vessel this space
necessarily was much increased, in consequence
of the sheer. Men were now sent into the hatchway
with orders to hook on to the flour-barrels—a whip
having been rigged in readiness to hoist them on
deck. At the same time gangs were sent to the
pumps, though Spike still depended for getting rid
of the water somewhat on the augur—the carpenter
continuing to bore and plug his holes as new opportunities
offered, and the old outlets became useless.
It was true this expedient would soon cease, for the
water having found its level in the vessel’s hold,
was very nearly on a level also with that on the
outside. Bailing also was commenced, both forward
and aft.
Spike’s next material advantage was obtained by
means of the cargo. By the time the sun had set,
fully two hundred barrels had been rolled into the
hatchway, and passed on deck, whence, about half of
them, were sent in the light-house boat to the nearest
islet, and the remainder were transferred to the deck
of the brig. These last were placed on the off side
of the Swash, and aided in bringing her nearer upright.
A great deal was gained in getting rid of
these barrels. The water in the schooner lowered
just as much as the space they had occupied, and
the vessel was relieved at once of twenty tons in
weight.
Just after the sun had set, Señor Don Juan Montefalderon
and his party returned on board. They
had staid on the island to the last moment, at Rose’s
request, for she had taken as close an observation
of every thing, as possible, in order to ascertain if
any means of concealment existed, in the event of
her aunt, Biddy, and herself quitting the brig. The
islets were all too naked and too small, however;
and she was compelled to return to the Swash,
without any hopes derived from this quarter.
Spike had just directed the people to get their
suppers as the Mexican came on board. Together
they descended to the schooner’s deck, where they
had a long but secret conference. Señor Montefalderon
was a calm, quiet and reasonable man, and
while he felt as one would be apt to feel, who had
recently seen so many associates swept suddenly
out of existence, the late catastrophe did not in the
least unman him. It is too much the habit of the
American people to receive their impressions from
newspapers, which throw off their articles unreflectingly,
and often ignorantly, as crones in petticoats
utter their gossip. In a word, the opinions thus obtained
are very much on a level, in value, with the
thoughts of those who are said to think aloud, and
who give utterance to all the crudities and trivial
rumors that may happen to reach their ears. In
this manner, we apprehend, very false notions of
our neighbors of Mexico have become circulated
among us. That nation is a mixed race, and has
necessarily the various characteristics of such an
origin, and it is unfortunately little influenced by the
diffusion of intelligence which certainly exists here.
Although an enemy, it ought to be acknowledged,
however, that even Mexico has her redeeming
points. Anglo-Saxons as we are, we have no desire
to unnecessarily illustrate that very marked feature
in the Anglo-Saxon character, which prompts
the mother stock to calumniate all who oppose it,
but would rather adopt some of that chivalrous
courtesy of which so much that is lofty and commendable
is to be found among the descendants of
Old Spain.
The Señor Montefalderon was earnestly engaged
in what he conceived to be the cause of his country.
It was scarcely possible to bring together two men
impelled by motives more distinct than Spike and
this gentleman. The first was acting under impulses
of the lowest and most groveling nature;
while the last was influenced by motives of the
highest. However much Mexico may, and has,
weakened her cause by her own punic faith,
instability, military oppression, and political revolutions,
giving to the Texans in particular, ample
justification for their revolt, it was not probable that
Don Juan Montefalderon saw the force of all the
arguments that a casuist of ordinary ingenuity could
certainly adduce against his country; for it is a most
unusual thing to find a man any where, who is
willing to admit that the positions of an opponent
are good. He saw in the events of the day, a province
wrested from his nation; and, in his reasoning
on the subject, entirely overlooking the numerous
occasions on which his own fluctuating government
had given sufficient justification, not to say
motives, to their powerful neighbors, to take the
law into their own hands, and redress themselves;
he fancied all that has occurred was previously
planned, instead of regarding it, as it truly is, as
merely the result of political events, that no man
could have foreseen, that no man had originally
imagined, or that any man could control.
Don Juan understood Spike completely, and quite
justly appreciated not only his character, but his
capabilities. Their acquaintance was not of a day,
though it had ever been marked by that singular
combination of caution and reliance that is apt to
characterize the intercourse between the knave and
the honest man, when circumstances compel not
only communication, but, to a certain extent, confidence.
They now paced the deck of the schooner,
side by side, for fully an hour, during which time
the price of the vessel, the means, and the mode of
payment and transfer, were fully settled between
them.
“But what will you do with your passengers, Don
Esteban?” asked the Mexican pleasantly, when the
more material points were adjusted. “I feel a great
interest in the young lady in particular, who is a
charming señorita, and who tells me that her aunt
brought her this voyage on account of her health.
She looks much too blooming to be out of health,
and if she were, this is a singular voyage for an
invalid to make!”
“You don’t understand human natur’ yet, altogether,
I see, Don Wan,” answered Spike, chuckling
and winking. “As you and I are not only good
friends, but what a body may call old friends, I’ll
let you into a secret in this affair, well knowing that
you’ll not betray it. It’s quite true that the old
woman thinks her niece is a pulmonory, as they call
it, and that this v’y’ge is recommended for her, but
the gal is as healthy as she’s handsom’.”
“Her constitution, then, must be very excellent,
for it is seldom I have seen so charming a young
woman. But if the aunt is misled in this matter,
how has it been with the niece?”
Spike did not answer in words, but he leered upon
his companion, and he winked.
“You mean to be understood that you are in intelligence
with each other, I suppose, Don Esteban,”
returned the Señor Montefalderon, who did not like
the captain’s manner, and was willing to drop the
discourse.
Spike then informed his companion, in confidence,
that he and Rose were affianced, though without
the aunt’s knowledge. That he intended to marry
the niece the moment he reached a Mexican port
with the brig, and that it was their joint intention to
settle in the country. He added that the affair required
management, as his intended had property,
and expected more, and he begged Don Juan to
aid him, as things drew near to a crisis. The Mexican
evaded an answer, and the discourse dropped.
The moon was now shining, and would continue
to throw its pale light over the scene for two or three
hours longer. Spike profited by the circumstance
to continue the work of lightening the schooner.
One of the first things done next was to get up the
dead, and to remove them to the boat. This melancholy
office occupied an hour, the bodies being
landed on the islet, near the powder, and there
interred in the sands. Don Juan Montefalderon
attended on this occasion, and repeated some prayers
over the graves, as he had done in the morning,
in the cases of the two who had been buried near
the light-house.
While this melancholy duty was in the course of
performance, that of pumping and bailing was continued,
under the immediate personal superintendance
of Mulford. It would not be easy to define,
with perfect clearness, the conflicting feelings by
which the mate of the Swash was now impelled.
He had no longer any doubt on the subject of
Spike’s treason, and had it not been for Rose, he
would not have hesitated a moment about making
off in the light-house boat for Key West, in order
to report all that had passed to the authorities. But
not only Rose was there, and to be cared for, but
what was far more difficult to get along with, her
aunt was with her. It is true Mrs. Budd was no
longer Spike’s dupe; but under any circumstances
she was a difficult subject to manage, and most
especially so in all matters that related to the sea.
Then the young man submitted, more or less, to the
strange influence which a fine craft almost invariably
obtains over those that belong to her.
He did not like the idea of deserting the Swash, at
the very moment he would not have hesitated about
punishing her owner for his many misdeeds. In a
word, Harry was too much of a tar not to feel a
deep reluctance to turn against his cruise, or his
voyage, however much either might be condemned
by his judgment, or even by his principles.
It was quite nine o’clock when the Señor Montefalderon
and Spike returned from burying the dead.
No sooner did the last put his foot on the deck of
his own vessel, than he felt the fall of one of the
purchases which had been employed in raising the
schooner. It was so far slack as to satisfy him that
the latter now floated by her own buoyancy, though
it might be well to let all stand until morning, for
the purposes of security. Thus apprised of the condition
of the two vessels, he gave the welcome order
to “knock-off for the night.”
———
BY LIEUT. G. W. PATTON.
———
A dial in the twilight lay,
Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,
When stealthily two lovers came
And leaned beside its silent frame:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
—But who might trace time’s tangled way
On dials dim with twilight gray?
As brightly now the midnight moon
Rode o’er the starry arch of noon,
To learn the hour of eventide
Again the youth and maiden sighed:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain ray
The shadow pointed still astray.
Unconscious how the moments flew,
(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)
Unto the dial’s line of shade
Once more approached the youth and maid:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
When (how could night so fast have worn?)
The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.
And as they watched the silv’ry face
Where day his hours began to trace,
In morning’s light, now stronger grown,
This motto o’er the circle shown:
“When lovers meet at eventide,
Time marks not how the moments glide:
When lovers part at rosy light
Time counts the ling’ring hours till night.”
OR KATE WILSON’S MORNING VISIT.
———
BY ENNA DUVAL.
———
And now I see with eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.
Wordsworth.
“I have just been visiting Miss Agnes Lincoln,”
said my young friend Kate Wilson to me one morning.
“Truly, Miss Enna, she is the most charming
woman I have ever known—always excepting, of
course, your own dear self. Though no longer
young, she is still beautiful—intelligent, clever,
without the slightest tinge of pedantry; gentle and
loveable. Why is it that she has never married?
She has been a devoted daughter and sister; I have
always felt surprise and regret that she should not
have been a wife.”
The tone of voice told the regret which those
words expressed, and caused me to smile as I
looked at my bright-eyed friend, who, being on the
eve of marriage herself with one she loved very
dearly, thought, of course, the married state the
only true vocation for a woman.
“But, Kate,” I replied, “Agnes Lincoln has always
had duties sufficient to employ her in her
home circle—her heart has been too much occupied
with providing for the comfort of her brothers and
sisters, and nursing a poor invalid mother, to go out
on voyages, in order to seek a fellow heart, or to
attend to the said fellow heart, should it come wooing.
Only unoccupied, free-from-care bodies, like
your sweet self, can find time to fall in love and
marry—”
“Nonsense!” said the blushing Kate, “do not
tease me with such badinage. I wish you would
tell me Miss Lincoln’s history—romantic I have
already determined it is—for those deep, dark eyes
of hers give evidences, by their bright flashings at
times, of the existence of a fount of passion, which,
I am sure, must have welled up and bubbled over
at some period of her life. You have known her
intimately from girlhood, Miss Duval, come, tell me
the tale. See, it is the very time for a long story,
we are certain of being alone, no stupid visiters
will interrupt us, for those threatening, overhanging
clouds are already beginning to let down their
watery contents—the fire snaps and sparkles in a
most sociable manner, and I will spend the whole
day with you in this cheery little room of yours.”
Accordingly she threw aside her bonnet and
shawl—pushed what she called “the troublesome
desk, and still more wearying work-basket,” away
from me, then throwing herself on a low ottoman
beside me, looked most persuasively into my face
for the web of romance she was determined I should
weave, and with the air of one determined not to
be denied.
“Do you deserve, Kate,” I said, “that I should
entertain you, when you seem to think so slightingly
of the mission of my sisterhood? Saucy girl!
are old maids always to be regarded by such
sparkling, merry witches like yourself, as leading
lives useless to both man and womankind?”
“No, no, dear Miss Enna,” exclaimed the lovely
girl, as she gathered her graceful limbs on her
favorite seat beside me, in order to make her dear
little luxurious form still more comfortable, gazing
into my face with her bright dancing eyes, and holding
my hands caressingly, “Heaven knows, I have
had need to bless the sisterhood, for what would I
have been without such a dear, good, kind—” I
stopped her rosy flattering lips with my hand, and
yielded to her request. Kate Wilson promised to
be lenient should my story have less of interest and
romance in it than she expected—will you, my
dear reader, be as merciful and indulgent?
As Kate said, I had known Agnes Lincoln from
girlhood—yes, babyhood—for we had been introduced
by our proud, happy mothers to each other,
in our first long dresses, and had taken infinite delight,
so our nurses had said, in tearing the blue and
pink cockades off of each other’s caps. We were
always warm friends; went to the same schools,
and, as our parents were intimate, when we grew
up visited in the same circles. Agnes’ father was
the senior member of one of the most opulent firms
in the city—his wealth was said to be immense,
and truly they lived in a style of princely magnificence.
She was the eldest of several children.
The three next to her died in infancy, which made
quite a difference between her and the other children
in point of age. Her mother was a woman
of exceedingly delicate frame, and sickness and
the distress she had suffered on losing her children,
weakened still more a mind never very strong. I
always remember her as an invalid—surrounded
by every luxury wealth could purchase; possessing
a doting husband and a family of noble children;
yet always repining and melancholy.
Agnes had been educated by her father with
exceeding great care; and as she grew up was a
most agreeable companion for him. He accompanied
her into society; they studied, rode, drove and
walked together; indeed one could rarely see them
apart. How proud was he of her; and he lavished
every costly gift upon her with an unsparing hand.
She was beautiful—a tall, splendid looking creature—a
fine erect figure, with the bearing of a
queen, and a head fitted for a Zenobia—but the
classic severity of her features was softened by
the most melting, lovely eyes, and the gentle melodious
tones of her voice were bewitching. Beautiful,
rich and young, of course Agnes Lincoln was a
belle. She had been full two years in society, and
to the surprise of her friends she was still disengaged.
“I shall never marry, Enna,” she would
say to me, in answer to my playful reproaches upon
her want of susceptibility—“how could my poor
mother or lonely father spare me?” and at last I
began to think, as many others did, that Agnes was
one of those born to a life of “single blessedness,”
when
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,
Love’s lightening happiness,”
became known to her. Agnes’ choice surprised us all.
Evart Berkely was a young merchant reputed
wealthy, but not at all agreeable or pleasing to my
fancy. He was handsome and tolerably intelligent—had
been well educated and had traveled abroad,
bringing with him from his travels various “foreign
airs and graces,” which did not improve his agreeability
to my taste. He was certainly much inferior
to Agnes in point of intellect; but she loved him
nevertheless. I always thought him a cold, calculating
man, and the passionate love he expressed
for my beautiful friend seemed so unnatural, falling
from his cold unexpressive lips. Mr. Lincoln was at
first as much dissatisfied and surprised at Agnes’
choice as the rest of her friends; but when he discovered
how completely her whole heart was given
up to this infatuation, as he could make no serious
objection to the gentleman, he quickly quieted all
expressions of disapprobation, and only stipulated
that their engagement should be a long one, pleading
his wife’s health and his own lonely state as excuses.
The lover, of course, was impatient at these
obstacles, but Agnes, always alive to her father’s
happiness, steadily refused to shorten the period of
two years, decided upon by her father. Evart was
a devoted lover, and seemed to exist only in the
presence of his mistress; and dear Agnes was so
supremely happy—I fancifully imagined her beauty
increased under this new influence of love.
She had been engaged to Evart Berkely about
a year, when one evening we all met at Mr. Lincoln’s,
on our way to a gay private ball. I had
always gone into society with Agnes and Mr.
Lincoln; for my mother dying while I was quite a
young girl, my father had been so deeply affected
by her death—as she had been to him companion,
guide, and comforter—that he avoided all society,
and sought consolation in close application to his
profession. He had been from boyhood on the
closest terms of intimacy with Mr. Lincoln, and
willingly consented that I should accompany Agnes
on her entrance into society, under Mr. Lincoln’s
care. Accordingly, on the night I allude to, I had
been driven to Mr. Lincoln’s, that I might be one of
their party. I particularize this one evening, for it
was the most eventful night of Agnes’ life—the
turning point in her existence. Events occurred
on that night which gave the stamp and impress to
her future. I remember thinking, as I looked upon
her, after the completion of her toilette, that I had
never seen her so magnificently beautiful. Her
father and lover were rather gorgeous in their
tastes, and to please them Agnes always dressed
with more splendor than accorded with her own
fancy; but the peculiar style of her beauty was well
suited to this manner of dressing. Her tall, full
form could well bear the heavy folds of rich drapery
that always swept around her, and the brilliant
jewels that gleamed and flashed in her dark hair,
and on her snowy throat and arms, were admitted
by even the most fastidious to be in good taste.
She was the daughter of a reputed millionaire,
beautiful and noble-looking—costly garments and
rich gems seemed well fitted for her. It was a
grand ball we were going to, and after spending
the accustomed half hour in Mr. Lincoln’s library,
he gave us into Evart Berkely’s charge. Agnes
entreated her father to accompany her with more
than her customary earnestness; but he pleaded
indolence, and laughingly reminded her that her
lover’s presence should be sufficient. I could not
account for the tinge of sadness that gloomed over
her features; and when Evart and I rallied her on
her absence of mind, during our drive to the ball,
she frankly confessed her feelings were unaccountable,
and said she had been suffering all day from a
vague, indefinable sense of approaching evil. We
cheered her, and attributed her feelings to nervousness;
what evil could one so prosperous and happy
have to fear?
As usual, she was the centre of attraction, and
crowds followed her. Evart hovered around her incessantly,
and her quiet, happy looks, as she received
his attentions, so openly offered, were to me most
fascinating. Her sadness and home yearnings
seemed to melt before the bright light of the ball-room,
and the merry laughter and gay looks of her
friends, put to flight all gloomy thoughts. I thought
I had never heard her voice so melodious, her laugh
more buoyant, nor her dancing so graceful; she appeared
as the embodiment of happiness. During
the course of the evening, I was standing alone by a
window, in a recess, that opened into a conservatory,
almost, if not quite, hidden by the folds of the
drapery, enjoying, in a sort of dreamy state, the
rich odors of the flowers, and the bewitching strains
of the music. The movements of the crowd brought
two old gentlemen directly in front of me, in such a
manner that I could not have moved if I had wished
from my hiding-place.
“Hugh Lincoln’s daughter is a beautiful creature,”
said one to the other.
“She is, indeed,” replied the friend, “and she
dresses like a sultana—look at her magnificent
gems and gorgeous clothing. Hugh Lincoln has
been a fortunate man, and his daughter will be a
rich wife for the one that marries her.”
“May be so, and may be not,” said the first
speaker; “one cannot tell how a man’s estate may
turn out while still engaged in business. Hugh
Lincoln has been a bold, daring merchant; he
always incurs fearful risks, and although he has
hitherto been fortunate, one turning of luck may
sweep all his grandeur from him—for he perils all
on every great speculation.”
“She is engaged,” said the friend, “to young
Berkely, who is so constantly with her. He is a
shrewd, calculating fellow; one might feel certain of
Hugh Lincoln’s wealth by the mere knowledge of
that engagement.”
A movement of the crowd took place, and the
two worldly old croakers, as I deemed them, passed
away. I kept my place, and my thoughts were
filled with Agnes and her future. Vague forebodings
pressed upon me, and all my old dislike and
distrust of Evart returned to me. Low passionate
murmurings of love came next upon my ear.
Evart and Agnes stood beside me with the heavy
folds of the curtain between us, and I became again
an unintentional listener. Evart poured out the
most fervent expressions of love—he besought my
friend to delay their wedding no longer.
“Think, my idolized one,” he murmured, “how
long has been my probation already.”
“No, no, Evart,” replied Agnes, steadily, “do not
urge me. My father, who, from my earliest recollection
has been devoted to my happiness, asks me
to delay my marriage. I will not act against his
wishes. It would be but a poor promise for our
future happiness were I to be thus regardless of my
father’s comfort. Adel is too young to supply my
place to him for a year or two yet. We are together
constantly, and a year will soon pass around.”
“And the coming year may see you wedded to
another,” exclaimed her lover passionately.
“Evart,” said Agnes, reproachfully, “have I not
promised to be your wife?”
“But, Agnes,” replied Evart, in hurried words,
“suppose sorrow were to overtake me—men in
business are daily exposed to ruin—what then could
I depend on? Your father would never consent to
your marriage with a bankrupt; and to my troubles
would be added the fearful necessity of yielding you
up forever.”
“Say not so, dear Evart,” replied Agnes, in
earnest, loving tones; “in the hour of trouble you
would be dearer to me, if possible, than now. I
have promised to be your wife—I hold that promise
sacred, believe me; and, moreover, I know
my father’s generous nature too well to think as
you do—in misfortune he would be kinder to you
than in prosperity. But why talk of misfortune—are
there any clouds on your business horizon?
Come, tell me your troubles, and if you are, indeed,
on the eve of bankruptcy, which Heaven avert,
seek advice from my father; never fear, Evart, he
will willingly assist you; and if it would lighten
your heart in the midst of such affliction, I would be
your wife instantly; in such a case my father would
no longer object—you would need the consoling
society of a wife more than he would need his
daughter;” and Agnes’ face wore a look of mingled
affection and anxiety as she took his hand.
“Truly,” exclaimed Evart, laughing, “I have half
a mind to declare myself a bankrupt, if it would
have that effect. But do not look so anxiously, my
blessed one—my affairs are in a most prosperous
condition. I was wrong to alarm you, yet it proved
to me your love, dearest, which, indeed, I sometimes
am weak enough to doubt. I torment myself
with a thousand fancies. You are so beautiful,
Agnes, so superior—I so unworthy of you, that I am
always fearing a change in your feelings.”
“Now that is really unkind, Evart,” was Agnes’
reproachful answer; “am I prone to changing—who
have I ever loved but you? You should not be thus
suspicious, or you will make me fearful of change,
not in myself but in you.”
Then followed from Evart the most fervent, passionate
declarations, which were interrupted by the
approach of some friends, who came to seek their
assistance in forming a favorite dance; and I
escaped from my hiding-place. I was so intimate
with Agnes—her second self, as she playfully called
me—that I felt no annoyance at having been forced
to play the listener to her love scene; on the contrary,
congratulated myself that no stranger, or mere
acquaintance, had been in my place. I descended
from the steps of the window into the conservatory,
and spent a full hour in examining the beautiful
plants—imagining myself in fairy land. The pure,
beautiful light shed from the alabaster vases, which,
containing lamps, were placed in different parts of
the conservatory; the bewitching tones of music
that came sweeping from the ball-room, and the soft
night air that poured in from the open, outer windows,
all heightened the illusion, and I fancied I
was listening to the divine spirit-melody of the
flower-sylphs, and inhaling their balmy atmosphere.
How every moment of that night is impressed upon
my memory; every word, every change of feeling—all
were treasured up.
I was roused from my delicious reveries by Agnes
and Evart, who came to announce to me it was
time to retire. “As usual,” said Agnes, tenderly
putting her arm around me, “I find you dreaming
waking visions among the flowers. I fear my sad
thoughts, dear Enna, have flown to you. I was so
full of vague forebodings, when I left home, and
now they have all vanished. I am as happy and
light-hearted as I have ever been in my life; every
thing around me seems to wear a fairy, heavenly
hue.”
Thus she chatted away during our drive home.
We bade her good night at Mr. Lincoln’s door, and
the carriage drove away, bearing us to our own
homes—one short half-hour after, and the same carriage
bore me back again to that house in deep
affliction. Agnes, after bidding us good night,
entered the hall, and was proceeding up the stair-case
to her own room, when, as she passed the
library, she saw the library light still burning, which
was to her a notice of her father’s waiting up for her
return. She entered with a light heart and a merry
song. Her father was seated in his chair, leaning
his head forward on his reading-desk, apparently
asleep. She bent over him to awaken him by
gentle caresses, but ere her lips touched his brow,
the expression of his face startled her. She gave
one long, searching look, then uttered a piercing
shriek of agony, which startled the whole house.
He was dead. There, in that solitary room, his
spirit had taken flight, alone, without daughter or
friend beside him to receive his parting words of
love. Poor Agnes! with what agony she leaned
over him—vainly calling on him to speak to her—to
look, if only once more, upon his own Agnes.
It was a sad sight—this beautiful girl bending over
her dead father—her rich drapery falling heavily
around her, and her magnificent hair, which had
escaped from the circlet of gems which bound it,
swept the ground, making her pale face appear still
more pallid, as its heavy, dark masses hung over
her fair shoulders. Her earnest, heart-rending appeals
were terrifying; not a tear flowed from her
dark eyes—they seemed distended with agony; and
the physicians who had been hastily summoned
feared that the shock would deprive her of reason,
if not of life. I at last succeeded in leading her
away from her father, and, exhausted by her intense
grief, she lay for hours in a heavy stupor.
Every means were resorted to, to restore Mr.
Lincoln—but all in vain. The physicians, after an
examination, decided that he had labored under an
affection of the heart, unconsciously, for some time;
that he had been on the brink of the grave for many
months, undoubtedly—he, who had seemed so
healthy; and this it was which had caused his
death, which they thought had taken place some
time before Agnes’ return, and with little or no
suffering, possibly without a consciousness of the
approaching fearful change. Poor Agnes! her sufferings
were intense, but her naturally strong mind,
and strict sense of duty, aided her, when in the
morning, after the heavy stupor of exhaustion had
passed away, the fearful consciousness of her great
sorrow arose vividly before her. She recollected
there were others to suffer, who were weaker to
bear—her poor invalid mother, and fatherless
brothers and sisters. She wept long and bitterly,
when her eyes opened upon my tearful, anxious
face, as I bent over her. I blessed those tears, for I
knew they would relieve her. She at last, however,
bowed meekly to the burden imposed upon
her, and hastened to soothe and comfort her almost
heart-broken mother, and the poor startled, weeping
children.
Everybody grieved for Mr. Lincoln, for he was
much beloved; “but,” said the out-of-doors world,
“how fortunate are his family, possessing wealth in
the midst of their sorrow. Mr. Lincoln has left
them an immense fortune to comfort them in their
affliction;” as if money could compensate for the loss
of loved ones. Agnes would have gladly toiled for
their daily bread to have purchased one look from
those eyes closed in death, one accent of love from
those cold, livid lips. After the funeral, Mr. Lincoln’s
will was opened. It was one made three or four
years previous to his death; and my father was one
of the executors, and sole guardian to the children.
This will had been made previous to Agnes’ engagement;
but in it Mr. Lincoln expressed a wish,
almost a command, that if ever Agnes married, my
father should insist upon having the greater part of
her immense fortune settled upon her.
A week or two passed by, when one evening my
father returned home from his office, later than usual,
and his face wore an anxious, troubled expression.
Some case of more than ordinary misery and sadness,
I thought, has come before him, in which fate
has woven a darker weft of trouble. I hastened to
procure for him the soothing cup of tea, which he
so much loved, and sat beside his chair, as he
silently despatched his light meal, expecting every
moment to hear the new tale of human suffering—but
I was disappointed; my father drank his tea
quietly, and it was not until the tea-service was removed,
and I seated at my sewing-table beside his
large arm-chair, that the good, kind old man broke
the silence.
“Enna, my child,” he said, in gloomy tones, “poor
Agnes Lincoln, her mother and those fatherless
children are penniless.”
“Penniless—impossible!” I exclaimed. “I thought
Mr. Hugh Lincoln was admitted to be immensely
wealthy.”
“His immense wealth,” said my father, “proves
to be a magnificent dream—a shining bubble. He
must have been lamentably ignorant of his own
affairs, for things have evidently been going wrong
for some months past. Such wild, mad-cap speculations
as the house have engaged in, I am sure my
sensible, prudent friend would never have countenanced.”
I now understood the allusions of the old gentleman,
in the first conversation which I had overheard
in the ball-room, the night of Mr. Lincoln’s fearful
death, and I repeated them to my father.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “daring indeed have
been their operations, and not only that, but reckless
and wild in the extreme. I remember now,
although I gave but little heed at the time, noticing
in Hugh Lincoln, for some months past, a heavy,
growing indolence, as I deemed it. It must have
proceeded from his fatal disease, and he has left the
affairs of the concern in the hands of the junior
partners, who have mismanaged not only wildly but
wickedly. Poor fellow! he has been spared the
sorrow, but what is to become of the poor invalid
widow and orphans? Six little helpless creatures
beside Agnes—Adel is not more than fourteen?”
“Scarcely thirteen,” I replied.
“Poor creatures!” exclaimed my father, brushing
a tear aside. “But we must do all that we can
for them. I am a poor man, but what little I
have shall be freely shared with Hugh Lincoln’s
children.”
“You forget, my dear father,” I said, “that Agnes
is engaged to Evart Berkely.”
“True,” replied my father. “But, Enna, I have
very little confidence in him; I only hope Agnes
may not love him too dearly, for I very much fear
that Evart’s love is rather too weak to bear the
present news.”
“Does he know of the insolvency of the firm?”
I inquired.
“Oh, yes,” said my father, “the mere suspicion
of the insolvency of such a firm as Lincoln, Murray
& Co., would of course spread like wild-fire. I
never dreamed of such a thing myself, however,
and heard this morning with great surprise, on
going to my office, from an old merchant, that it had
been rumored for several days. You must break it
to Agnes, poor girl.”
“You think Evart Berkely knows of it?” I said,
after a long silence.
“Oh, yes,” replied my father, “I met him in company
with some other merchants this afternoon, and
he spoke of Mr. Lincoln only as he would of any
other well-known merchant, and united in self
congratulations with some others as to being unaffected,
fortunately, by the failure—not at all in the
tone of one interested in his family.”
The conversation between Agnes and Evart returned
to my memory, and I contrasted his feelings
with hers—how differently would she have acted
had he been overtaken by poverty. “But,” said I
to myself in the morning, when preparing for my
customary visit to Agnes, “it may be but fancy
after all—we may be wronging Evart; he did not
choose to exhibit his feelings before a crowd of
men,” and with this consolatory conclusion, I set
out on my walk.
I ascended the broad steps of Agnes’ noble residence,
and passed through the wide hall and up the
spacious stair-case, noting the magnificence of the
furniture with a sigh. I entered the library, where
I was told I would find Agnes. It was a grand,
noble room, and in its adornments proved that immense
wealth had been guided by the subduing
hand of taste. It was lighted from above; the brick-and-mortar
world without was completely unknown
in that stately room; only the blue sky by day, and
the bright stars by night, could be seen. The soft,
unworldly light gleamed down on beautiful works
of art, rare and costly pieces of sculpture, medals,
gems, and here and there alcoves filled with the
productions of those whom the intellectual world
call Masters.
I paused at the threshold unheard by Agnes, who
was writing at an escritoir—my eyes wandered
over this intellectual Paradise and then rested upon
the Eve. I was struck with the impression of her
face; it bore a more beaming, hopeful look than I
had seen on it since the night of her father’s death.
“Poor girl!” I sighed to myself, “how soon is that
brilliant expression to be dimmed by the care-clouds
of life—not only heart trials, but poverty, privation,
and, worse than all to your noble spirit—dependence.”
I moved forward, but the luxurious carpet told no
tales of my foot-falls, and my hand rested on her
shoulder ere she was aware of my entrance. She
looked up, and her eyes were gleaming with tears—not
tears of sadness—and a bright flush rested on
her hitherto pale cheeks; I looked surprised, and
she noting it said in trembling tones,
“Ah! dear Enna, I never valued the possession
of wealth before. Read this letter, dearest, while I
finish the answer.”
I took from her hands an open letter—it was from
Evart, written the previous night, announcing anticipated
severe and heavy losses, and freeing her
from her engagement—he could not, he said, ask
her to wed a penniless man—and after lamenting
in a fine round period his unworthiness of her, his
misery and wretchedness, concluded with a farewell
forever. After I concluded the note, I felt that my
father was right, my hands dropped before me, and
for a few moments I felt as in a dream—a spell was
over me—I could not tell my poor wronged friend
the real truth—at last she broke the silence.
“Ah! Enna,” were her words, “I bless Heaven
I have enough for both. My share of my poor
father’s princely fortune will fully cover his losses,
and again establish him in life. How unkind and
yet how natural is his note—poor Evart! I can
fancy his wretchedness when releasing me from
my engagement—and he must have known it was
useless—but I cannot censure him—even thus
would I have acted had the loss of fortune happened
to me.”
“Would you, dear Agnes?” said I, throwing my
arms over her beautiful neck caressingly.
“Indeed would I, Enna,” she replied sadly. “It
would have been a hard duty, but steadily would I
have performed it.”
“Agnes,” I said, in low, earnest tones, inwardly
imploring for assistance and strength in my painful
task, “that duty is required of you. You are the
penniless one instead of Evart. He is as prosperous
as ever, but you, my poor friend, are bereft of all—but
friends.”
She gazed wildly at me, then with one low wailing
cry of deep agony became insensible. She was
laid on her couch, surrounded by all the appliances
of wealth so soon to be taken from her, and the
heavy stupor that hung over her spirit the bitter
hours after her father’s death ensued. But I knew
her inward strength, and although I could scarcely
pray for her recovery to such misery as would be
hers, I felt that the helpless ones dependent on her
for consolation would, as in the former dark hours,
sustain her. The heavy clouds passed over, and
she at last aroused her suffering broken spirit.
“Where are the letters?” she murmured in low
tones.
“One I destroyed, dearest,” I replied—“the
other—”
“Destroy it likewise, Enna, and help me to forget.
I have others to think of now,” and with a
quiet look of repressed agony she hastily employed
herself in preparing for their future change of circumstances.
Evart was never alluded to by any
one; and day after day she engaged herself in entering
into the investigation of her father’s affairs,
with the firm, quiet air of a woman of business.
The investigation proved only the painful truth—ruin,
hopeless ruin stared them in the face—every
thing was swept from them. Poor Mrs. Lincoln
had seemed overwhelmed with sorrow at her husband’s
death, but this new grief appeared to her
weak, indolent nature still harder to bear, and she
helplessly implored to be taken from life.
“For myself, dear Mr. Duval,” said my friend, in
a calm voice, but the tones of which showed repressed
suffering, “I care not—I can endure hardships—but
my poor mother, how can she bear the
change?”
“You will all come to us, dear Agnes, and we
will be as one family,” said my kind father, as they
at last ended the careful examination of the affairs.
“You and Enna have always been as sisters, my
poor dead wife loved your mother as a sister. The
income my profession yields you and Enna can
manage so as to supply us all. We will live plainly
but happily, I know. You are both sufficiently well
informed to educate the girls, and Adel will soon be
old enough to assist you. Horace and Frank will
in a few years be able to help themselves, and supply
my place when I grow too old to fill the purse.”
Agnes sat by the table quietly gazing as upon
vacancy, when my dear, good father commenced his
kind plan, and as he proceeded her dark eyes beamed
with childlike fondness on the good old man.
“Surely Heaven will bless you and yours, dear
Mr. Duval, for being thus kind to the widowed and
fatherless,” she exclaimed, as he concluded. “But
I must not accept your kind offer. Your plan, however,
has confirmed me in the scheme I have been
forming for some days past. If I am sufficiently well
fitted to take charge of my sisters’ education, why
not of others? If you will aid me I will open a school.”
The thought was a good one, and my father, finding
Agnes steady in her determination yielded, and
used every endeavor to forward her in her project.
The creditors had refused to accept the costly wardrobe
and magnificent jewels belonging to Mrs. Lincoln
and Agnes. These were disposed of, and the
money arising from their sale was appropriated by
Agnes to the furnishing of her new establishment.
“I take this money only as a loan,” said Agnes
to my father. “If I am spared, and have health
and strength, at some future time it shall be returned.
I never shall feel light-hearted until my father’s liabilities
are all satisfied.”
A house was procured, every thing arranged for
the opening of the school; and it was announced in
society, that the Miss Lincoln who had been “the
glass of fashion and the mould of form,” a few short
months before, was about to enter the work-day
world as a teacher. Much is said and much written
about summer-friends—those who hover around
the favorites of fortune, then flee from them in the
dark hour of sorrow—but truly I have seen but
little of such heartlessness, long as I have lived in
the world. People do not wish to desert those who
are in trouble. There is more of kindness of heart
and sympathy in the world than we are willing to
give credit for. Circumstances and events press
so quickly in this life of change, that when one
amongst us is stricken down, although we grieve,
we are urged on in the stream, and though we
would gladly aid our sinking companion, we are
hurried on unconsciously. But let the stricken one
give signs of life—evidences of aiding itself, then
all are ready to give a helping hand. The race
must be completed—life’s journey accomplished—but
any one exhibiting a desire to unite in the
struggle is willingly assisted. So was it with the
friends of Agnes Lincoln. Had she weakly yielded
to her troubles, and shown no disposition to aid
herself, the world would have felt sorry for her, but
they would have had no time to tarry by the way-side—but
when she appeared amongst them prepared
to take her part in life’s great contest, they
willingly united to help her forward.
Agnes Lincoln’s accomplishments, her elegant
manners—her strong mind, all her good qualities,
were remembered; and mothers and fathers,
who had admired the beautiful girl in society,
hastened to place under her care their own
daughters, asking that she might make them like
her own lovely self, and they would be satisfied.
She entered heart and soul into her new vocation;
and hers became the most popular establishment in
the city. In the course of two or three years the
small house had to be changed, and a residence as
large as her father’s princely mansion taken, in order
to accommodate her large school. The luxurious
comforts, necessary to her mother’s happiness, were
gratified; her brothers and sisters carefully attended
to; but her own wants were few, indeed. She was
most carefully and studiously economical. Every
year she deposited in my father’s hands, a sum of
money, small at first, but gradually increasing, which
she, with a sad smile, called her father’s fund; this
was devoted to the settling off the remaining accounts
against her father.
Noble creature! how every one revered her as
she moved steadily on in the path of her duty.
Hers was not an easy life; hard mental labor, from
morning till night, she endured for many years. At
day-dawn she was up, superintending her household,
and directing the studies of those pupils who
resided with her. The influence she exercised over
those entrusted to her care, was a subject of remark.
Her commands were insisted upon with words of
love, but looks of firmness. Her girls hovered
around her, quietly watching every glance; and in
that whole troop of young, thoughtless creatures,
the most of them the indulged, spoiled children of
fortune, not one but would have dreaded to disobey
the simplest request of their gentle teacher.
We met daily, as formerly, and I still was to her
the confidante and bosom friend I had been in the
days of her wealth. She never spoke of Evart—we
both avoided all allusion to him; and when, a few
years after their separation, he married a wealthy
woman from a neighboring city, and his marriage
was mentioned before her, by those who knew not
of her former connection with him, or else had forgotten
it, a mere acquaintance could not have detected
any trace or evidence of feeling. The marble
paleness of her cheek, the firm closed mouth, and
quiet, but sad look, which told of inward suffering,
betrayed to me, however, that her thoughts were
with the past, and I noticed in her, for some time
after, a closer attendance to her duties—not one
moment, night or day, left unoccupied; and her
brow bore a more serious expression, that told of
self-combatings and heart-struggles.
Year after year passed, and Agnes had the satisfaction
of seeing her sisters growing up charming
women, admired in society, and her two brothers
displaying the good qualities, and honorable, high
spirits of their father. By her exertions they were
educated; and ten years after her father’s death she
paid off his last debt, and had the pleasure of seeing
her eldest brother, Horace, who had just completed
his studies, enter his profession as a partner with
my father. The little Frank, her father’s darling,
would be nothing but a merchant, as his father had
been, and was dreaming seventeen-year-old visions
of future grandeur, such as his father had probably
dreamed at his age, and realized. He would wreath
his mother’s fretful, complaining countenance with
smiles, as he would describe the wealth he intended
to accumulate, and the splendid things that should
once more be hers. Two weddings were celebrated
by Agnes—her two sisters, Adel and Mary, who
married upright and warm-hearted men, prosperous
in business; and Agnes felt almost a maternal pride
as she furnished their houses, and provided the wedding
wardrobes. The world wondered she did not
marry, for her beauty never left her, nor were opportunities
wanting. Many a fond, widowed father
would have gladly persuaded the idolized teacher of
their daughters to share their fortunes; but she
calmly and quietly refused all offers, and seemed at
last to find real happiness in her business.
Fifteen years passed by, and found Agnes still at
her post. One only of those little ones, bequeathed
by a loving father to her care, remained under her
roof—and she was soon to leave Agnes to become
a wife. All were married, happy, and well. The
poor old mother had at last ceased all wailings, and
had laid down to her long rest, when a new care
devolved upon Agnes. Evart Berkely, who had
appeared for years to be a prosperous man, and
thought by many to possess great wealth, suddenly
failed, and in a moment of despair put a violent end
to his existence. His wife had died some five or
six years before, many said of a broken-heart; and
his three children were left upon the world homeless
orphans. Evart left a letter, commending his
children to Agnes, who, he said, had promised to
be a mother to his children, should they ever need
her care. Then was disclosed what Agnes had
kept a secret. A year after his wife’s death, he had
again sought Agnes; but his overtures were indignantly
rejected by her; he continued his addresses
by letters for some time, until Agnes refused to
receive them, returning them unopened, saying,
however, in her final note, that, should his children
ever be left alone in life, she would be a mother to
them; and to her home did she take those helpless
ones, and devoted herself to her business with renewed
energy to provide for their support and future
establishment in life. People shrugged their shoulders,
and called her conduct Quixotic and absurd,
but the good and kind-hearted applauded her.
When my young friend, Kate Wilson, requested
me to relate the history of Agnes, forty-five years
had stealthily crept over her, but even the bitter,
bleak winters of her adversity had failed to whiten
her dark locks, or dim those beaming eyes—time
had dealt gently with her beauty. Evart’s children
have proved as blessings to her, and by them, and
by her brothers and sisters, and by their children,
Agnes is revered almost as a saint.
“Ah, Kate, Kate,” I said, as I arrived at this part
of my “ower true tale,” “has not Agnes Lincoln’s
lot, as an old maid, been quite as useful, and still
more happy, than she would have been as Evart
Berkely’s broken-hearted wife?”
———
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
———
Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
Let no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.
In no stately structures skilled,
What’s the temple we would build?
When its massive walls are risen
Call it palace—call it prison;
View it well from end to end,
See its arching courts extend!
’Tis a prison, not a palace!
Hear the culprit vent his malice!
Hear the mad and fettered fire
Pour the torrent of his ire!
Wrought anon to wilder spells,
Hear him tell his loud alarms,
See him thrust his glowing arms
Through the windows of his cells!
But his chains at last shall sever,
Slavery lives not forever;
And the thickest prison wall
Into ruin yet must fall!
Whatsoever falls away
Springeth up again, they say;
Then when this shall fall asunder,
And the fire be freed from under,
Tell us then what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?
There shall grow a stately building,
Airy dome and columned walls;
Mottoes writ in richest gilding
Shall be blazing through its halls.
In those chambers, stern and dreaded
They, the mighty ones, shall stand;
There shall be hoary-headed
Old defenders of the land.
There shall wondrous words be spoken,
Which shall thrill a list’ning world;
Then shall ancient bonds be broken
And new banners be unfurled!
But anon these glorious uses
In those chambers shall lie dead,
And the world’s antique abuses,
Hydra-headed, rise instead.
But this wrong not long shall linger—
The old capitol must fall;
For behold the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!
Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
Let no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded;
Till the heavy walls be risen
And the fire is in his prison:
Then when break the walls asunder
And the fire is freed from under,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?
There shall grow a church whose steeple
To the heavens shall aspire,
There shall come the mighty people
To the music of the choir.
O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,
There shall sacred waters fall,
While the child’s own angel-brightness
Sheds a halo over all.
There shall stand enwreathed in marriage
Forms that tremble—hearts that thrill;
To the door Death’s sable carriage
Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!
To the sound of pipes that glisten
Rustling wealth shall tread the aisle;
And the poor, without, shall listen,
Praying in their hearts the while.
There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, and bending o’er
’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,
Gazing at the open door.
But these wrongs not long shall linger—
The presumptuous pile must fall,
For behold the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!
Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
Let no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?
Not the dome and columned chambers,
Starred with words of liberty,
Where the Freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free.
Nor the pile where souls in error
Hear the words, “Go, sin no more!”
But a dusky thing of terror
With its cells and grated door!
To its inmates each to-morrow
Shall bring in no tide of joy.
Born in darkness and in sorrow
There shall stand the fated boy.
With a grief too loud to smother,
With a throbbing, burning head—
There shall groan some desperate mother,
Nor deny the stolen bread!
There the veteran, a poor debtor,
Marked with honorable scars,
List’ning to some clanking fetter,
Shall gaze idly through the bars:—
Shall gaze idly, not demurring,
Though with thick oppressions bowed;
While the thousands doubly erring
Shall go honored through the crowd!
Yet these wrongs not long shall linger—
The benighted pile must fall,
For behold the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!
Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
Let no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded;
Till the heavy walls be risen
And the fire is in his prison!
Every dome and church and jail,
Like this structure, soon must fail;
Every shape of earth shall fade!
But the temple God hath made,
For the sorely tried and pure,
With its Builder shall endure!
———
BY DR. JNO. C. M’CABE.
———
I would, oh! gentle lady, that the minstrel’s art were mine,
I’d weave a wreath of poesy as an off’ring at thy shrine;
But my wild and tuneless harp in vain essays its meed to bring,
And the brooding spirit of despair has hushed each trembling string.
In vain, in vain I’ve tried to wake some gentle lay for thee,
But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;
And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,
Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.
There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,
I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;
Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,
Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.
But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,
And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,
With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,
And sought beneath the withered flowers a rest within the tomb;
’Twas then I bade the spell dissolve that chained my soul so long,
And sighed a trembling, sad farewell to all entrancing song;
And though I may not weep that I forsook sweet poesy’s train,
A foolish boy—I sometimes wish I was her child again!
When gentle ones like thee invoke, then, then I feel how dear
The boon I madly forfeited, nor gave one farewell tear;
The gift of song, oh! hallowed gift! Song, bright, entrancing, sweet!
Had I again its rosy wreath I’d fling it at thy feet!
’Tis gone, ’tis gone! I may no more its thrilling impulse feel,
Yet I can pray for thee and thine, when to my God I kneel;
And, gentle lady, well I know thou wilt not, wouldst not, blame,
Instead of song that I should blend God’s blessings with thy name.
May every joy that life can give, around thy path be strewn,
May its young morn to thee foreshow a bright and happy noon;
And when thy last sweet song on earth in lapses faint is given,
Oh may it be a prelude soft to deathless strains in Heaven!
WITH AN ENGRAVING.
We have thought proper, in conducting a magazine of
higher reputation and aim than the usual run of the
light periodicals of the day, to devote a part of the pictorial
department to pictures of American Scenery and Indian
Portraiture, as better fitted to give the work a permanent
value in libraries and on centre-tables, than the ordinary
catch-penny pictures which disgrace a number of the magazines.
Our illustrations of Southern and Western Scenery
have commanded the respect and support of a very large
class of readers; and the constantly growing celebrity and
profit of Graham’s Magazine, indicate that we have judged
wisely and well.
We have engaged the services of Mr. Bird, the author of
“Nick of the Woods,” “Calavar,” etc., to furnish us a
series of articles upon the Indians of America; a writer
whose intimate acquaintance with the subject promises
articles of great interest to our readers. We present our
subscribers this month with an admirably drawn and engraved
plate of Saukie and Fox Indians “on the look
out.” Also, a beautiful view of a Waterfall in Georgia.
Ch. Bodmer pinx. ad. nat. Engd by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch
Saukie and Fox Indians
Poems. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. Boston: James
Munroe & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
We cannot do justice either to the faults or merits of this
singular volume, in a brief notice. The author has one of
the most peculiar and original minds of which we have
any record in literature, and a thorough analysis of his
powers, even if successful, would occupy a large space.
No reader of Mr. Emerson’s works need be informed that
the poems are full of imagination, fancy, and feeling, and
display a great command of expression. For our own part
we prefer those poems in the volume which are least connected
with the author’s system of ethics and metaphysics,
such as “Each and All,” “The Forerunners,” “The
Humble Bee,” and “The Problem.” In many of the
others there is an evident attempt at versifying opinions;
and the opinions are generally of that kind which readers
will either pronounce unintelligible, or false and pernicious.
“The Sphinx,” “Woodnotes,” “Merlin,” “Initial, Demoniac,
and Celestial Love,” “Blight,” “Threnody,”
and many other pieces, though containing many deep and
delicate imaginations, are chiefly remarkable as embodying
a theory of life, and system of religion, whose peculiarity
consists in inverting the common beliefs and feelings of
mankind. Here and there we perceive traces of the leading
idea contained in that aggregation of fancy, sensibility,
blasphemy, licentiousness, plagiarism, and noble sentiments,
going under the name of “Vestus,”—we mean the idea
that there is no essential difference between evil and good.
Thus, in the “pure realm” to which celestial love mounts,
in Mr. Emerson’s theory of love,
“Good and ill,
And joy and moan,
Melt into one.”
Perhaps this opinion is a necessary result of the principles
of pantheism, but it makes as bad poetry as false philosophy.
Indeed, Mr. Emerson’s poems expressive of opinions, are
the harshest in metre, and least poetical in feeling, which
the volume contains; and cannot be compared, in respect
to artistical merit, with the prose statements of the same,
or similar doctrines, in his “Essays.”
Chaucer and Spenser. Selections from the Writings of
Geoffrey Chaucer, by Charles D. Deshler. Spenser and the
Fairy Queen. By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland. New York:
Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo.
Such a work as this deserves an extensive circulation,
and we wish that any advice of ours could impel our
readers to procure it. Here, in a compact and available
form, are some of the finest passages in English poetry.
The selections from Chaucer were evidently a labor of love
to Mr. Deshler, and he has hit upon those portions most
likely to entertain the reader, and awake an affection for
the poet. The life of Chaucer, and the criticism of his mind
and works, is exceedingly genial and truthful.
Mrs. Kirkland has done equal justice to Spenser. Taken
together, these volumes cannot be praised too highly, and
their circulation through the country would do much to
raise the taste of the community. Although these poets
occupy the first rank among English authors, they are
known but imperfectly to the large majority of readers.
The publishers deserve the thanks of the public for issuing
them in a form, at once cheap and elegant, so that the treasures
of thought and imagination they contain can be placed
within the reach of the humblest lovers of poetry.
The Modern Standard Drama: A Collection of the most
Popular Acting Plays, with Critical Remarks, &c.
Edited by Epes Sargent. New York: Wm. Taylor & Co.
4 Vols. 12mo.
This publication has now run to forty numbers, and promises
to be the best of all the various collections of acting
plays. It is edited by Epes Sargent, Esq., a gentleman
whose knowledge of the stage and of English dramatic
literature is very extensive, and who is himself well known
as a fine poet and successful dramatist. To members of
the profession the collection is invaluable, as it contains
directions regarding stage business, costumes, and other
information of much importance. As a work, also, for the
general reader, it has great merits. It is to contain all the
standard plays produced within the last two centuries, and
also the popular dramas of the present day, including those
of Knowles, Bulwer, and Talfourd. Mr. Sargent introduces
each play with a biographical and critical notice,
referring to the great actors who have won renown in its
principal character, and discussing also its intrinsic merits.
The field of selection is very rich and extensive, and includes
much, in tragedy and in comedy, of which no one can
be ignorant, who pretends to have on acquaintance with the
masterpieces of English genius. Down to the middle of
the last century, a large proportion of the best English
poets were dramatic writers. The theatre was the place
where, in fact, the poet was published. Thousands heard
and saw, who never read. A body of dramatic literature,
therefore, on the comprehensive plan adopted by Mr. Sargeant,
will contain a large number of plays which are part
and parcel of English literature.
Letters on Astronomy, Addressed to a Lady, in which the
Elements of the Science are Familiarly Explained in Connection
with its Literary History. With numerous Engravings.
By Denison Olmstead, LL. D. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo.
This is one of the best popular works on astronomical
science which we have seen. It is clear in exposition,
familiar in style, and orderly in arrangement. There is,
of course, nothing of the quackery which disgraces many
works of popularized science. The author is Professor of
Natural Philosophy in Yale College.
Songs and Ballads, by Samuel Lover. Including those
sung in his Irish Evenings, and hitherto unpublished.
New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 Vol. 12mo.
Sam Lover is a name which would sell this book even if
its merits were below mediocrity. Personally, and as a
writer, he has wrinkled with happy smiles the faces of
thousands. The volume, as might be expected, is brimful
of sentiment and fun, gushing out of a true Irish heart and
brain, and instinct with animation and good feeling. Many
of the songs have been sung by himself, at his “Irish
Evenings,” in the principal cities of the Union. The
book could have no better advertisement than the recollection
of the entertainment they occasioned.
The Poems of Thomas Campbell. New York: D. Appleton
& Co. 1 vol. 16mo.
This is the best and most complete edition of Campbell
yet issued in the United States. It contains a handsome
portrait, six fine steel engravings, a racy life of the author
from Frazer’s Magazine, the brilliant essay on his genius
and writings contained in Gilfillan’s “Literary Portraits,”
and all of Campbell’s later productions, including the
melancholy rhymes entitled “The Pilgrim of Glencoe.”
In this volume we see Campbell in the dawn, progress,
and sottish decline of his powers—as the author at once
of the most spirit-stirring lyrics and most beautiful romantic
poems, and as the feeble poetaster, mumbling in
his old age a few verses of polished imbecility, hateful to
gods and men. The greater part of the volume, however,
is, in its kind, of first rate excellence, and will live with
the language. We have only to regret that Campbell did
not write more poetry while his genius was in its prime.
What he has written has passed into the hearts and memories
of his countrymen, to a greater extent, perhaps,
than the poetry of any of his contemporaries, even of those
who were his superiors in the range of their genius. Byron,
Scott, and Moore, are the only modern poets who approach
him in popularity. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley,
are still the poets of a few, in spite of the endeavors of
publishers and critics to make them poets of the million.
We think each of them superior to Campbell in genius, but
we should despair of ever seeing them his equals in popularity.
One element of his success is the moral character
of his writings, and his sweetness and purity of sentiment;
yet all accounts seem to concur in representing him, personally,
as sottish in his habits, coarse in his conversation,
and not without malice and envy in his disposition. Perhaps
his intemperance was the source of many of his errors;
and his intemperance had its source in laziness. Judging
from the records of his conversation, it is fortunate that
the vices of Campbell’s tongue were not the vices of
his pen.
English Synonymes Classified and Explained. By G. F.
Graham. Edited by Henry Reed, LL. D. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
To the student of verbal distinctions this volume will be
an important aid. The author points out the shades of distinction
between apparently synonymous words with an
admirable nicety of criticism. The study of the book will
tend to sharpen the intellect. It is very much better than
the chatty work of Mrs. Piozzi, and the heavy quarto of Dr.
Crabbe, on the same subject. We note some occasional
blunders, such as the distinction drawn between genius and
talent, and understanding and intellect; but these are but
exceptions to the general rule of correctness. Prof. Reed
has furnished on introduction, and apt illustrative quotations
from Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth.
History of the Netherlands; Trial and Execution of Count
Egmont and Thorn; and the Siege of Antwerp. Translated
from the German of Frederic Schiller. By the
Rev. A. J. W. Morrison. New York: Harper & Brothers.
1 Vol. 12mo.
This volume is a fit companion to the “History of the
Thirty Years War,” issued by the same publishers. Both
works are admirable, and place Schiller in a prominent
rank among philosophical historians; but of the two, we
prefer the present. The subject is a noble one, and gives
full exercise to Schiller’s large intellect, and heroic and
humane spirit. The plan of the history is especially excellent,
and we have only to regret that it was never completed.
Hudibras. By Samuel Butler. With Notes and a Literary
Memoir, by the Rev. Treadway Russell Nash, D.D. New
York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 Vol. 12mo.
The publishers have issued this masterpiece of wit in a
form similar to their editions of Dante, Tasso, and Campbell.
The edition is enriched with curious and copious
notes, illustrative of Butler’s time, and contains a well
written biography. It is the only good edition of Hudibras
ever published in the United States, and we hope that
thousands who have never enjoyed its perusal, will be
enabled to do it now. The original work contained so
many allusions to the author’s recondite knowledge, and
to the factions and fanaticisms of his day, that it cannot be
read understandingly without some such commentary as
Dr. Nash has supplied. Butler is the wittiest of the English
poets.
The Book of Anecdotes, or the Moral of History; Taught by
Real Examples. By John Frost, LL. D. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
This is an entertaining volume, and will be especially
acceptable to the young. It is hardly worthy, however, of
being called “the moral of history,” even that moral which
history should teach the boys and girls. The “do-me-good”
air of the narratives, is strangely at variance with
the essential character of some of the events and actors.
The most superficial student will notice in the volume
many incorrect impressions conveyed of historical personages.
The “moral” of the book is about on a level
with the moral of Weems’s lives of Washington and
Marion.
Eclectic Moral Philosophy. Prepared for Literary Institutions
and General Use. By Rev. J. R. Boyd. New
York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.
This work is principally made up of classified selections
from standard writers on ethics. It, of course, lacks unity,
and therefore can hardly be called a system of philosophy;
but it very well answers the purpose for which it was compiled.
Its merit, as a book for schools and general use,
consists in the stringent application of moral principles to
individual conduct. All those actions and states of mind
which clash with morality, are analyzed with much acuteness,
and set forth with great directness.
Ghost Stones: Collected with a View to Counteract the
Vulgar Belief in Ghosts and Apparations. With Ten
Engravings from Designs by Darley. Phila.: Carey &
Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.
The object of this little volume is clearly enough set
forth in the title. It contains twenty stories. The illustrations
are graphic, and add to the interest of the wonders
described. We notice, however, one omission—the Cock
Lane Ghost, in which Dr. Johnson believed. So celebrated
a ghost as that should have had a prominent place among
the other spectral worthies of the volume.
A Progressive German Reader, Adapted to the American
Edition of Ollendorff’s German Grammar: with Copious
Notes, and a Vocabulary. By G. J. Adler, A. B. New
York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
This is an excellent supplement to the German Grammar
issued by the same publishers. It is edited by the Professor
of the German Language and Literature, in the
University of New York. The selections are from some
fifty German writers, and are admirably adapted for their
purpose. The Vocabulary of German words is an important
addition.
Views A-Foot: or Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff.
By J. Bayard Taylor. New York: Wiley & Putnam.
2 Parts. 12mo.
All things considered, we deem this work one of the
most deserving which “Young America” has yet produced.
It is written by a young man just of age, who started for
Europe before he was nineteen, with not more than a hundred
and fifty dollars in his pocket, and for two years
literally walked about Europe. He supported himself by
literature, and at the end of his journey had not expended
more than four hundred dollars. The excellence of the
work comes from its exceeding freshness and spirit. For
every great object of nature and art which the author saw,
he had to suffer some privations; and he accordingly describes
them much better than he would have done had he
possessed the “advantages” of common tourists. Besides,
his mode of traveling made him familiar with the people
of the countries he visited; and he gives many curious
anecdotes of their manners and condition. It is honorable
to human nature, that his impressions of the common
people in England, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, were
of a pleasing character, as he was often placed in relations
to them calculated to draw out their true nature, whether
it were kind or kindless. He was almost uniformly treated
with hospitality, and sometimes even with affection. He
discovered, however, that they were singularly and ridiculously
ignorant of every thing regarding America—its
geography, its government, and its people.
There is one quality in this book which every reader
must feel to be fascinating—we mean the beautiful sweetness
and healthiness of the author’s mind and disposition.
He never brags of the obstacles he surmounted, nor
whines at the privations he endured, but tells the story of
his journeyings with a most bewitching simplicity and
modesty. Youth, and the bright thoughts and sweet feelings
of youth, are on every page, infusing life into the narrative,
and giving picturesque vigor to the descriptions.
The author must bear a brave, serene, and modest heart
under his jacket; and we cordially wish him and his delightful
book all the success which both so richly merit.
Alderbrook: a Collection of Fanny Forrester’s Village
Sketches, Poems, &c. By Miss Emily Chubbuck.
Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 2 vols. 12mo.
No reader of “Graham” will need any advice from us
to procure these elegant volumes, as a large portion of
their contents was originally contributed to this Magazine,
and obtained a wide and deserved popularity. We are
glad to see the admirable stories of the authoress thus collected.
They will take an honorable position in the
department of literature to which they belong. Fanny
Forrester, indeed, is one of the most charming of story-tellers.
She has ease, grace, invention, vivacity, a quick
eye for character and manners, and a fine flexible style.
The interest of the book is enhanced by the present position
of the gifted authoress. As Mrs. Judson, she will devote
her fine talents and beautiful enthusiasm of character to a
new object. The present book, therefore, has almost the
look of a posthumous work. We need not ask for it what
it will be sure to obtain—the attention and the good-will
of the reading public.
Literary Studies, a Collection of Miscellaneous Essays.
By W. A. Jones. New York: Edward Walker. 1 Vol.
12mo.
This elegant volume contains thirty-two essays on a wide
variety of subjects connected with literature and life.
They are the production of a gentleman who has made
literature a study, and who always gives in his essays the
results of his own investigations and reflections. The style
is very condensed; the fault of the diction, perhaps, arises
from the too great desire of the author to cram the largest
amount of thought and observation into the smallest possible
space. This unusual peculiarity of style is the ideal of style
when it is combined with mellowness and vitality; but the
sentences of Mr. Jones are often dry and brittle, as well as
condensed. Bating this defect, the volume is deserving of
great praise. In short essays it takes comprehensive views
of wide domains of letters, and is a good guide to the student
of elegant literature. The literary information which it
contains is very large. We will venture to say that no
man in the country can read it without learning something
which he did not know before.
Amy Herbert: a Tale. By Miss Sewell. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
This work has essentially the same characteristics as the
novel of “Gertrude,” by the same authoress. Miss Sewell
is the daughter, we believe, of an English Episcopal
clergyman of the Oxford school. Her tales inculcate the
piety and morality of practical life; deal with ordinary
cares and temptations, expose the moral dangers which
beset every relation of existence, and evince a clear insight
into the heart’s workings, under the pressure of every day
enticements. The thoughtful cheerfulness of her religious
faith diffuses through her stories a certain beautiful repose
which sometimes almost suggests genius. Her books are
of that kind which are calculated to benefit even more than
to please.
Lucretia, or the Children of the Night. By Sir Bulwer
Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers.
In this strange mass of “crimson crimes,” the author of
“Pelham” has fairly rivaled the French school of novelists.
It displays more morbid strength of mind than any
thing which Bulwer has previously written. Though exceedingly
interesting, and evincing much power in the analysis
of the darker passions, it leaves a disagreeable impression.
The tone of the sentiment is not English. The
novel, indeed, exhibits the characteristic qualities of the
author in a form exaggerated almost to caricature. It
reads like a melo-drama. We may refer to it more at
large in our next number.
The Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind. By George
Moore, M. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol.
12mo.
One of the most important subjects which can engage
human attention is in this work, so treated, that its great
leading facts and principles can be understood by the
common reader. The author has evidently given to each
topic he discusses the most profound attention, and has
produced a work which, if diligently studied by the mass of
people, is calculated to remove a vast sum of that misery
which springs from ignorance.
Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome.
By Various Translators. Edited by William Peter, A. M., of
Christ Church, Oxford. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 Vol. 8vo.
A work like the present has long been wanted, and we
are glad that an American house has had the enterprise to
undertake it. In no other volume, with which we are
acquainted, can the reader obtain so comprehensive a view
of the poetry of the Ancients. Mr. Peter’s biographical
notices are excellent. He has made selections from nearly
two hundred authors—a work of vast labor performed
with great skill and taste.
LE FOLLET
61, Boulevart St. Martin, PARIS
Toilettes de Mme. Mercier, r. Nve. des Petits Champs, 82.—Coiffures de Normandin, passage Choiseul, 19.
Dentelles de Violard, r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.—Fleurs de Mme. Tilman, r. de Menars, 2.
Mouchoir de L. Chapron & Dubois, r. de la Paix, 7.—Eventail de Vagneur-Dupré, r. de la Paix, 19.
Graham’s Magazine.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected
without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of
the originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 145, of the Solway Frith, ==> of the Solway Firth,
page 145, the spacious workship of ==> the spacious workshop of
page 146, and critical eyes, ==> and critical eye,
page 156, yet keep the secret ==> yet kept the secret
page 156, with a pecular relish ==> with a peculiar relish
page 157, person was Sanford. ==> person was Sandford.
page 172, The watchward, “The Oath ==> The watchword, “The Oath
page 172, was suddedly transformed ==> was suddenly transformed
page 175, minister and Mr. Mowbry. ==> minister and Mr. Mowbray.
page 177, the statesque Georgine ==> the statuesque Georgine
page 177, seen the statesque— ==> seen the statuesque—
page 180, of the kaliedoscope. ==> of the kaleidoscope.
page 183, to be forgotton. In ==> to be forgotten. In
page 183, he might thing of ==> he might think of
page 185, “Is an any one ==> “Is any one
page 197, misery and wretchednes, ==> misery and wretchedness,
page 200, ruin shall upsring? ==> ruin shall upspring?
page 203, Coleridge, and Shelly, are ==> Coleridge, and Shelley, are
page 204, obstacles he surmuounted ==> obstacles he surmounted
page 204, the two great desire of ==> the too great desire of
