THE WITHERED ROSE.

‘Had I the height to reach the poleOr meet the ocean with my span,I would be measured by my soul—The mind’s the standard of the man.’

‘Had I the height to reach the pole

Or meet the ocean with my span,

I would be measured by my soul—

The mind’s the standard of the man.’

“There, gentlemen of the jury; if that be true, I opine that the tallest man in the crowd is now addressing you. But, I forget. I am a Pawnee.

“Brothers: The tall grass of the prairies is swept by the fire, while the flint endureth the hot flames of the stake. The loftiest trees of the forest snap like a reed in the whirlwind, and the bird that builds there leaves her eggs unhatched. The highest peak of the mountain is always the bleakest and barest—in the valley are the sweet waters and the pleasant. Damn it,” said he, speaking in his proper person, for he began to forget his personation, “why do we value the gem—

‘Ask why God made the gem so small,And why so huge the granite?Because he meant mankind should setThe higher value on it.’

‘Ask why God made the gem so small,

And why so huge the granite?

Because he meant mankind should set

The higher value on it.’

“That’s Burns—an illustrious name, gentlemen. When I was minister abroad, I stood beside the peasant poet’s grave, and thanked God that he had given me the faculties to appreciate him. Suppose that he had been born in this land of ours, sirs; all we who think ourselves lights in law and statesmanship, would have seen our stars paled—paled, sirs, as the fire of the prairie grows dim, when the eye of the Great Spirit looks forth from the eastern gates—damn it, that’s Ossian and not Pawnee—upon it in its fierceness.

‘Thou, the bright eye of the universe,That openest over all, and unto allArt a delight—thou shinest not on my soul.’

‘Thou, the bright eye of the universe,

That openest over all, and unto all

Art a delight—thou shinest not on my soul.’

“That’s Byron—I knew him well—handsome fellow. ‘Thou shinest not on my soul’—no, but thou shinest on the prairie.”

“The usher—Dogberry—let’s have Dogberry,” called out several of the students.

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, ha! He’s Goldsmith’s village teacher, that caused the wonder

‘That one small head could carry all he knew.’

Dogberry—Dogberry—but that sounds Shakspearian. ‘Reading and writing comes by Nature.’ That’s certainly not his sentiments; were they, he should throw away the usher’s rod and betake himself to something else; for if these things come by nature, then is Dogberry’s occupation gone. Yes, he had better betake himself to the constableship. Come, my little friend—come, son of the Pawnee, and we will arouse the pale face.”

Stepping by the side of Mr. Patterson, we ascended to the little platform in front of Dogberry’s door, at which we rapped three times distinctly. “Who’s there?” cried out a voice from within. Dogberry must of course have been awake for at least half an hour.

“Pale face,” said the Pawnee chief, “thou hast not followed the example of the great chief of the pale faces; the string of thy latch is pulled in. Upon my word, this is certainly the attic story,” he continued in a low voice.

“I am not very well to-night, gentlemen, unless your business is pressing.”

“Pressing! Pale face, the Pawnees have lit their council fire, and invite thee to drink with them the fire-water and smoke the pipe of peace.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, I never drink,” responded Dogberry, in an impatient tone.

“Never drink! Pale face, thou liest! Who made the fire-water, and gave it to my people, but thee and thine? Lo! before it, though they once covered the land, they have melted away like snow beneath the sun.”

“I belong to the temperance society,” cried out Dogberry from within.

“Dogberry,” exclaimed Patterson—whose patience, like that of the crowd below, who were calling for the usher as if they were at a town meeting, and expected him to speak, was becoming exhausted—“Dogberry, compel me not, as your great namesake would say, to commit either ‘perjury’ or ‘burglary,’ and break your door open. You remember in Marmion, Dogberry, that the chief, speaking of the insult which had been put upon him, said,

‘I’ll right such wrongs where’er they’re given,Though in the very court of Heaven.’

‘I’ll right such wrongs where’er they’re given,

Though in the very court of Heaven.’

Now I will not say that I would make you drink wherever the old chief would ‘right his wrongs,’ but this I will say, that wherever I, Burbage Patterson, get drunk, I think you can come forth and take a stirrup cup with him; he leaves for the Supreme Court to-morrow.”

“Mr. Patterson,” said Dogberry, coming towards the door, “your character can stand it—it can stand anything—mine can’t.”

“There’s truth in that,” said Mr. Patterson aside to me. “Gentlemen, let us leave the pedagogue to his reflections; and now it occurs to me that we had better not uncage him, for, boys, he would be a witness against you; more, witness, judge, jury and executioner—by the by, clear against law. Were I in your place, I would appeal, and for every stripe he gives you, should the judgment be reversed, do you give him two.”

Here a sprightly fellow, one of the scholars, named Morris, from Long Green, ran up the steps and said to Mr. Patterson,

“Do, sir, have him out, for if we get him into the frolic too, we are as safe, sir, as if we were all in our beds. He has seen us all through some infernal crack or other.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, in a low tone to Morris, “he has been playing Cowper, has he—looking from the loopholes of retreat, seeing the Babel and not feeling the stir?”

“Yes sir, but he’ll make a stir about it to-morrow.”

“He shall come forth, then,” said Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, open the door; they speak of removing Sears, and why don’t you come forth and greet your friends? We have an idea of getting the appointment for you.”

This flattery took instant effect, for we heard Dogberry bustling to the door, and in a moment it was opened about half way, and the usher put his head out, and said, but with the evident wish that his invitation would be refused, “Will you come in sir? Why, William Russell!” to me, in surprise.

“Pale face, this is a youthful brave, whom I want the pale face to teach the arts of his race. Behold! I am the Charming Serpent. Come forth and taste of the fire-water.”

As Mr. Patterson spoke, he took Dogberry by the hand, and pulled him on to the platform. The usher was greeted with loud acclamations and laughter by the crowd. He, however, did not relish it, and was frightened out of his wits. He really looked the personification of a caricature. His head was covered with an old flannel nightcap, notwithstanding it was warm weather, and his trousers were held up by his hips, while his suspenders dangled about his knees. On his right leg he had an old boot, and on his left foot an old shoe, and was without coat or vest. As Mr. Patterson held up the light, so that the crowd below could see him, there was such a yelling as had not been heard on the spot since those whose characters the crowd were assuming had left it.

Dogberry hastily withdrew into his room, but followed by Mr. Patterson and myself, each bearing a light. When we entered, the crowd rushed up the steps.

“For God’s sake, sir, for the sake of my character and situation, don’t let them come in here.”

“They shall not, if you will promise to drink with me. Pale face, speak, will you drink with the Pawnee?”

“Yes sir,” said Dogberry, faintly.

The Charming Serpent here went to the door, and said,

“Brothers, the Charming Serpent would hold a private talk with the chief of the pale faces. Ere long, he will be with you. Let the Big Bull (one of the lawyers was named Bull, and he was very humorous,) pass round the fire-water and the calumet, and by that time the Charming Serpent will come forth. Brothers, give unto the Charming Serpent some of the fire-water, that he may work his spells.”

A dozen handed up bottles of different wines and liquors. The Charming Serpent gave Dogberry the candles to hold, took a bottle of Champaigne, and handed me another. Then shutting the door, he said,

“This is the fire-water that hath no evil in it. It courses through the veins like a silvery lake through the prairie, where the wild grass waves green and placid, and it makes the heart merry like the merriment of birds in the spring-time, and not with the fierce fires of the dark lake, like the strong fire-water, that glows red as the living coal. Brothers, we will drink.”

Dogberry’s apartment was indeed an humble one. Only in the centre of it could you stand upright. Over our heads were the rafters and bare shingles, formed exactly in the shape of the capital letter A inverted, or rather V. Opposite the door was a little window of four panes of glass, and under it, or rather beside it, in the corner, was a little bedstead, with a straw mattrass upon it. A small table, with a tumbler and broken pitcher, and candle in a tin candlestick on it, stood opposite the bed. A board, nailed across from rafter to rafter, held a few books, and beside it, on nails, were several articles of clothing. There were besides in the apartment two chairs, and a wooden chest in the corner, by the door.

“Come, drink, my old boy,” exclaimed Patterson.

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, your character can stand it, I tell you, but mine can’t.”

“Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,” reiterated Patterson, offering Dogberry the glass.

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, I would not choose any,” said he.

“You can’t but choose, Dogberry; there is no alternative. Do you remember what the poet beautifully says of the Roman daughter, who sustained her imprisoned father from her own breast?—

‘Drink, drink and live, old man; Heaven’s realm holds no such tide.’

Do you remember it? I bid you drink, then, and I say to you, Hebe nor Ganymede ever offered to the immortals purer wine than that. Drink! here’s to you, Dogberry, and to your speedy promotion,” and Mr. Patterson swallowed every drop in the glass, and re-filling it, handed it to the usher.

Without much hesitation, he drank it. He now filled me up a glass nearly full, and I followed the example of my preceptor, he the while looking at me with astonishment.

“How do you like the letter, Mr. Dogberry?” asked Mr. Patterson of the pedagogue.

“What letter, sir? Mr. Patterson, I must say this is a strange proceeding. I don’t know, sir, to what you allude.”

“Don’t know to what I allude! Why, the letter wishing to know if you would take the academy at the same price at which Sears now holds it.”

“Sir, I have received no such letter. I certainly, sir, would, if it was thought that I was—”

“Was competent. Merit is always modest; you’re the most competent of the two, sir—take some.”

So saying, Mr. Patterson filled up the tumbler, and Dogberry swallowed the compliment and the wine together, and fixed his eye on the rafters with an exulting look. While he was so gazing, the lawyer filled his glass, and observed, “Come, drink, and let me open this other bottle; I want a glass myself.” Down went the wine, and, with a smack of his lips, Dogberry handed the glass to Mr. Patterson.

“Capital, ain’t it, eh?”

“Capital,” re-echoed Dogberry. The wine and his supposed honors had aroused the brain of the pedagogue in a manner which seemed to awake him to a new existence. While Mr. Patterson was striking the top from the other bottle, Dogberry handed me the candle which he held—the other he had put in his candlestick, taking out his own when he first drank—and lifting the tumbler, he stood ready.

Again he quaffed a bumper. The effect of his potations on him was electrical. He had a long face, with a snipe-like nose, which was subjected to a nervous twitching whenever its owner was excited. It now danced about, seemingly, all over his face, while his naturally cadaverous countenance, under the excitement, turned to a glowing red, and his small ferret eyes looked both dignified and dancing, merry and important. “So,” exclaimed he, “I am to be principal of the academy; ha, ha, ha! oh, Lord! William Russell, I would reprove you on the spot, but that you are in such distinguished company.”

Whether Dogberry meant only Mr. Patterson, or included himself, I do not know, but as he spoke he arose, and paced his humble apartment with a proud tread, forgetting what a figure he cut, with his suspenders dangling about his knees and his nightcap on, and forgetting also that his attic was not high enough to admit his head to be carried at its present altitude. The consequence was that he struck it against one of the rafters, with a violence that threatened injury to the rafter, if not to the head. He stooped down to rub the affected part, when Mr. Patterson said to him,

“ ‘Pro-di-gi-ous,’ as Dominie Sampson, one of you, said, ain’t it? Come, we’ll finish this bottle, and then go forth. The scholars are all rejoiced at your promotion, and are all assembled without to do you honor. They have made complete saturnalia of it. They marvel now why you treat them with so much reserve.”

“Gad, I’ll do it,” exclaimed Dogberry, taking the tumbler and swallowing the contents.

“Just put your blanket around you,” said Patterson to him. “Let your nightcap remain; it becomes you.”

“No, it don’t indeed, though, eh?”

“It does, ’pon honor. That’s it. Now, pale face, come forth; the eloquence of the Charming Serpent has prevailed.”

So speaking, Mr. Patterson opened the door, and we stepped on to the platform.

The scene without was grotesque in the extreme. In front of us, I suppose to the number of an hundred persons, were the frolickers, composed of lawyers, students and town’s-people, all seated in a circle, while Mr. Patterson’s client from the West, dressed in costume, was giving the Pawnee war dance. This client was a rough uneducated man, but full of originality and whim. Mr. Patterson had gained a suit for him, in which the title to an estate in the neighborhood was involved, worth upwards of sixty thousand dollars. The whole bar had believed that the suit could not be sustained by Patterson, but his luminous mind had detected the clue through the labyrinths of litigation, where they saw nothing but confusion and defeat. His client was overjoyed at the result, as every one had croaked defeat to him. He gave Mr. Patterson fifteen thousand dollars, five more than he had promised, and besides had made him a present of the splendid Indian dress in which, as a bit of fun, before the frolic commenced, he had decked himself, under the supervision of his client, who acted as his costumer, and afterwards dressed himself in the same way. The client had a great many Indian dresses with him, which he had collected with great care, and on this occasion he threw open his trunks, and supplied nearly the whole bar.

The name of Mr. Patterson’s client was Blackwood, and the admiration which he excited seemed to give him no little pleasure. Most of the lawyers in the circle had something Indian on them, while the boys, who could not appear in costume, and were determined to appear wild, had turned their jackets wrong side out, and swapped with each other, the big ones with the little, so that one wore his neighbor’s jacket, the waist of which came up under his arms, and exhibited the back of his vest, while the other wore a coat the hip buttons of which were at his knees.

On the outskirts of this motley assembly could be seen, here and there, a negro, who might be said at once to contribute to the darkness that surrounded the scene and to reflect light upon it, for their black skins were as ebon as night, while their broad grins certainly had something luminous about them, as their white teeth shone forth.

We stood about a minute admiring the dance, when it was concluded, and some one espied us, and pointed us out to the rest. We, or rather I should say Dogberry, was greeted with three times three. I have never seen, for the size of the assembly, such an uproarious outbreak of bacchanalian merriment. After the cheers were given, many of the boys threw themselves on the grass and rolled over and over, shouting as they rolled. Others jerked their fellows’ hats off, and hurled them in air. Prettyman stood with his arms folded, as if he did not know what to make of it, and then deliberately spreading his blanket on the ground, as deliberately took a seat in the centre of it, as if determined to maintain the full possession of his faculties, and, like an amateur at a play, enjoy the scene. Morris held his sides, stooped down his head, and glanced sideways cunningly at Dogberry, throwing his head back every now and then with a sudden jerk, while loud explosive bursts of laughter, from his very heart, echoed through the village above every other sound.

“A speech from Dogberry!” exclaimed Prettyman.

“Ay, a speech!” shouted Morris, “a speech!”

“No, gentlemen, not now,” exclaimed Richardson, the proprietor of one of the hotels; “I sent down to my house an hour ago, and have had a collation served. Mr. Patterson, and gentlemen and students all, I invite you to partake with me.”

“Silence!” called out Mr. Patterson. All were silent. “Students of the Belle Air Academy and citizens generally, I have the honor to announce to you that my friend, Mr. Dogberry, is about to supersede Mr. Sears. We must form a procession and place him in our midst, the post of honor, and then to mine host’s.” So speaking, Mr. Patterson descended, followed by Dogberry and myself. The students gave their candles to the negroes to hold, joined their hands, and danced round Dogberry with the wildest glee, while he received it all in drunken dignity.

When I have seen since, in Chapman’s floating theatre, or in a barn or shed, some lubberly, drunken son of the sock and buskin enact Macbeth, with the witches about him, I have recalled this scene, and thought that the boys looked like the witches and Dogberry like the Thane, when the witches greet him:

‘All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!’

The procession was at length formed. Surrounded by the boys, who rent the air with shouts, with his nightcap on his head and his blanket around him, with one boot and one shoe, Dogberry, following immediately after the judges, proceeded with them to Richardson’s hotel. Whenever there was the silence of a minute or two, some boy or other would ask Dogberry not to remember on the morrow that he saw them out that night.

“No, boys, no, certainly not; this thing, I understand, is done in honor of me. I shan’t take Sears in even as an assistant. Boys, he has not used me well.”

We arrived at Richardson’s as well as we could, having business on both sides of the street. His dining-room was a very large one, and he had a very fine collation set out, with plenty of wines and other liquors. Judge Willard took the head of the table and Judge Nolan the foot. Dogberry was to the right of Judge Willard and Mr. Patterson to the left. He made me sit beside him. The eating was soon despatched, and it silenced us all a little, while it laid the groundwork for standing another supply of wine, which was soon sparkling in our glasses, and we were now all more excited than ever. It was amusing to see the merry faces of my schoolmates twinkling about among the crowd, trying to catch and comprehend whatever was said by the lawyers, particularly those that were distinguished.

Songs were sung, sentiments given, and Indian talks held by the quantity. Dogberry looked the while first at the boys and then at the lawyers and then at himself, not knowing whether or not the scene before him was a reality or a dream. The great respect which the boys showed him, and Patterson’s making an occasional remark to him, seemed at last not only fully to impress him with the reality, but also with a full, if not a sober conviction of his own importance.

“A song!—a song!” was shouted by a dozen of the larger students; “a song from Morris. Give us ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears.’ Hurrah for old Dogberry—Dogberry forever.”

“No,” cried out others, “a speech from Mr. Patterson—no, from the Pawnee. You’re fineable for not speaking in character.”

Here Prettyman took Mr. Patterson courteously by the hand, and said something to him in a whisper.

“Ah ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “so shall it be; I like Morris. Come, my good fellow, sing us the song you wrote; come, Dogberry’s star is now in the ascendant. ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears’—let’s have it.”

Nothing loth, Morris was placed on the table, while the students gathered round him, ready to join the chorus. Taking a preparatory glass of wine, while Mr. Patterson rapped on the table by way of commanding silence, Morris placed himself in an attitude and sang the following song, which he had written on some rebellious occasion or other:

SONG.You may talk of the study of imperial power,And tell how their subjects must fawn, cringe and cower,And offer the incense of tears;But I tell you at once, that there’s none can compareWith the tyrant that rules o’er the lads of Belle Air,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down,Down with the pedagogue Sears.The serf has his Sunday—the negroes tell o’erTheir Christmas, the Fourth, aye, and many days more,When they feel themselves any man’s peers;But we’re tasked night and day by the line and the rule,And Sunday’s no Sunday, for there’s Sunday school,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down, &c.So here’s to the lad who can talk to his lass,And here’s to the lad who can take down his glass,And is only a lad in his years:Who can stand up and act a bold part like a man,And do just whatever another man can,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down,Down with the pedagogue Sears—

SONG.

You may talk of the study of imperial power,And tell how their subjects must fawn, cringe and cower,And offer the incense of tears;But I tell you at once, that there’s none can compareWith the tyrant that rules o’er the lads of Belle Air,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down,Down with the pedagogue Sears.

You may talk of the study of imperial power,

And tell how their subjects must fawn, cringe and cower,

And offer the incense of tears;

But I tell you at once, that there’s none can compare

With the tyrant that rules o’er the lads of Belle Air,

So down with the pedagogue Sears.

(Chorus,) Down, down,

Down with the pedagogue Sears.

The serf has his Sunday—the negroes tell o’erTheir Christmas, the Fourth, aye, and many days more,When they feel themselves any man’s peers;But we’re tasked night and day by the line and the rule,And Sunday’s no Sunday, for there’s Sunday school,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down, &c.

The serf has his Sunday—the negroes tell o’er

Their Christmas, the Fourth, aye, and many days more,

When they feel themselves any man’s peers;

But we’re tasked night and day by the line and the rule,

And Sunday’s no Sunday, for there’s Sunday school,

So down with the pedagogue Sears.

(Chorus,) Down, down, &c.

So here’s to the lad who can talk to his lass,And here’s to the lad who can take down his glass,And is only a lad in his years:Who can stand up and act a bold part like a man,And do just whatever another man can,So down with the pedagogue Sears.(Chorus,) Down, down,Down with the pedagogue Sears—

So here’s to the lad who can talk to his lass,

And here’s to the lad who can take down his glass,

And is only a lad in his years:

Who can stand up and act a bold part like a man,

And do just whatever another man can,

So down with the pedagogue Sears.

(Chorus,) Down, down,

Down with the pedagogue Sears—

“Hip, hip, hurrah—once more,” shouted Morris. “Now then”—

Down, down,So down with the pedagogue Sears.

Down, down,

So down with the pedagogue Sears.

While the whole room was in uproarious chorusing, who should enter but Sears himself. He looked round with stern dignity and surprise, at first uncertain on whom to fix his indignation, when his eye lit on Dogberry, who, the most elated and inebriated of all, was flourishing his nightcap over his head, and shouting, at the top of his voice,

“Down with the pedagogue Sears.”

As soon as Sears caught a view of Dogberry, he advanced towards him, as if determined to inflict personal chastisement on the usher. At first Dogberry prepared again to vociferate the chorus, but when he caught the eye of Sears, his voice failed him, and he moved hastily towards Mr. Patterson, who slapped him on the shoulder, and cried out,

“Dogberry, be true to yourself.”

“I am true to myself. Yes, my old boy, old Sears, you’re no longer head devil at Belle Air Academy. You’re no devil at all, or if you are, old boy, you’re a poor devil, and be d—d to you.”

“You’re a drunken outcast, sir,” exclaimed Sears. “Never let me see your face again; I dismiss you from my service,” and so speaking, he took a note book from his pocket, and began hastily to take down the names of the students. The Big Bull saw this, and caught it from his hand.

“Sir, sir,” exclaimed Sears, enraged, “my vocation, and not any respect I bear you, prevents my infliction of personal chastisement upon you. Boys, young gentlemen, leave instantly for your respective boarding houses.”

During this, Patterson was clapping Dogberry on the shoulder, evidently endeavoring to inspire him with courage.

“Tell him yourself,” I overheard Dogberry say.

“No, no,” replied Patterson, “it is your place.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you at once, Sears, you’re no longer principal of this academy; you’re dished. Mr. Patterson, sir, will tell you so.”

“Mr. Patterson!” exclaimed Sears, now for the first time recognizing, in the semblance of the Indian chief, the distinguished lawyer and statesman. “Sir, I am more than astonished.”

“Sir,” rejoined Patterson, drawing himself up with dignity, “I am a Pawnee brave; more, a red man eloquent or a pale face eloquent, as it pleases me; but, sir, under all circumstances, I respect your craft and calling. What more dignified than such? A poor, unfriended boy, I was taken by the hand by an humble teacher of a country school, and here I stand, let me say sir, high in the councils of a great people. Peace to old Playfair’s ashes. The old philosopher, like Porson, loved his cups, and, like Parr, loved his pipe; but, sir, he was a ripe scholar and a noble spirit, and I have so said, sir, in the humble monument which I am proud, sir, I was enabled, through the education he gave me, to build over him.

‘After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.’

Yes, as some one says, he was ‘my friend before I had flatterers.’ How proud he was of me! I remember well catching his eye in making my first speech, and the approving nod he gave me had more gratification to me than the approbation of bench, bar and audience. Glorious old Playfair! Mr. Sears, you were his pupil too. Many a time have I heard him speak of you; he said, of all his pupils, you were the one to wear his mantle. And, sir, that was the highest compliment he could pay you—the highest, Mr. Speaker, for he esteemed himself of the class of the philosophers, the teachers of youth. Sir, Mr. Sears, I propose to you that in testimony of our life-long respect for him, we drink to his memory.”

This was said so eloquently, and withal so naturally, that Sears, forgetful of his whereabouts, took the glass which Mr. Patterson offered him, and drank its contents reverently to the memory of his old teacher.

“Sir,” resumed Patterson, “how glorious is your vocation! But tell me, do you subscribe to the sentiment of Don Juan?—

‘Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,I pray ye flog them upon all occasions—It mends their morals—never mind the pain.’ ”

‘Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,

Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions—

It mends their morals—never mind the pain.’ ”

The appropriate quotation caused a thrill to run through the assembled students, while they cast ominous looks at each other. For the life of him, Sears could not resist a smile.

At this Mr. Patterson glanced at us with a quiet meaning, and turning to Mr. Sears, he continued: “The elder Adams taught school—he whose eloquence Jefferson has so loudly lauded—the man who was for liberty or death, and so expressed himself in that beautiful letter to his wife. Do you not remember that passage, sir, where he speaks of the Fourth being greeted thereafter with bonfires and illuminations? His son, Johnny Q., taught school. My dark-eyed friend Webster, who is now figuring so gloriously in the halls of Congress and in the Supreme Court, taught school. Judge Rowan, of Kentucky, a master spirit too, taught school. Who was that

‘Who passed the flaming bounds of time and space,The living throne, the sapphire blaze,Where angels tremble as they gaze:Who saw, but, blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night’—

‘Who passed the flaming bounds of time and space,

The living throne, the sapphire blaze,

Where angels tremble as they gaze:

Who saw, but, blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night’—

Who was he? Milton, the glorious, the sublime—who, in his aspirations for human liberty, prayed to that great spirit who, as he himself says, “sends forth the fire from his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleaseth”—Milton, the schoolmaster.

‘If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,Milton appealed to the avenger, Time:If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs,And if the word ‘Miltonic’ mean ‘sublime,’He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,Nor turn his very talent to a crime;He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.‘Thinkest thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,Like Samuel, from the grave, to freeze once moreThe blood of monarchs with his prophecies,Or be alive again—again, all hoarWith time and trials, and those helpless eyesAnd heartless daughters, worn, and pale, and poor—’

‘If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,

Milton appealed to the avenger, Time:

If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs,

And if the word ‘Miltonic’ mean ‘sublime,’

He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,

Nor turn his very talent to a crime;

He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

‘Thinkest thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,Like Samuel, from the grave, to freeze once moreThe blood of monarchs with his prophecies,Or be alive again—again, all hoarWith time and trials, and those helpless eyesAnd heartless daughters, worn, and pale, and poor—’

‘Thinkest thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,

Like Samuel, from the grave, to freeze once more

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,

Or be alive again—again, all hoar

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes

And heartless daughters, worn, and pale, and poor—’

Would he not be proud of his vocation, when he reflected how many great spirits had followed his example? The schoolmaster is indeed abroad. Mr. Sears, let us drink the health of the blind old man eloquent.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Patterson, but before my scholars, under the circumstances, it would be setting a bad example, when existing circumstances prove they need a good one. Sir, it was thought that I should not return from Baltimore until to-morrow, and this advantage has been taken of my absence. But, Mr. Patterson, when such distinguished gentlemen as yourself set the example, I know not what to say.”

“Forgive them, sir, forgive them,” said Patterson, in his blandest tone.

“Let them repair to their homes, then, instantly. Mr. Patterson, your eloquent conversation had made me forget myself; I don’t wonder they should have forgotten themselves. Let them depart.”

“There, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “I have a greater opinion of my oratorical powers than ever. Be ye all dismissed until I again appear as a Pawnee brave, which I fear will be a long time, for ’tis not every day that such men as my western client are picked up. But, Mr. Sears, what do you say about Dogberry? He must be where he was; to-morrow must but type yesterday. Dogberry, how is Verges?”

“I don’t know him,” said Dogberry, doggedly.

“Why, sir, he is the associate of your namesake in Shakspeare’s immortal page. Let this play to-night, Mr. Sears, be like that in which Dogberry’s namesake appeared—let it be ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’ ”

Sears smiled, and nodded his head approvingly.

“Then be the court adjourned,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson. “Dogberry, you and my friend Sears are still together, and you must remember in the premises what your namesake said to Verges, ‘An’ two men ride of a horse, one man must ride behind.’ ”

Giving three cheers for Mr. Patterson, we boys departed, and the next day found us betimes in the academy, where mum was the word between all parties.

THE WITHERED ROSE.

———

BY ALEX. A. IRVINE.

———

Thou pale withered flower, oh! once thou wert fair,But now ev’ry leaf has been nipped by a blight—Dost thou pine for the bosom, its fragrance to share,Whence I won thee, sweet nestler, at parting one night?How beauteous thy head, as it modestly stoop’dIts blushes to hide in her bosom of snow—How sweetly above thee her fair tresses droop’d—How pure was the heart beating stilly below!Oh! sweet was her smile as the first blush of Eve,And soft was her voice as the low summer wind,When she gave thee away, half reluctant to leave,Like an angel from heaven sent down to mankind.I have cherished thee since as if never to part,Thou remindest me so of that fair girl away;—But, ah! can I banish the blight from thy heart,Or save thee from withering day after day?And thus, oh! how often, the ones we love best,Drop away from our sides like the roses in June—But why should we weep? since they pass to their rest,And if parted awhile, we shall follow them soon.

Thou pale withered flower, oh! once thou wert fair,

But now ev’ry leaf has been nipped by a blight—

Dost thou pine for the bosom, its fragrance to share,

Whence I won thee, sweet nestler, at parting one night?

How beauteous thy head, as it modestly stoop’dIts blushes to hide in her bosom of snow—How sweetly above thee her fair tresses droop’d—How pure was the heart beating stilly below!

How beauteous thy head, as it modestly stoop’d

Its blushes to hide in her bosom of snow—

How sweetly above thee her fair tresses droop’d—

How pure was the heart beating stilly below!

Oh! sweet was her smile as the first blush of Eve,And soft was her voice as the low summer wind,When she gave thee away, half reluctant to leave,Like an angel from heaven sent down to mankind.

Oh! sweet was her smile as the first blush of Eve,

And soft was her voice as the low summer wind,

When she gave thee away, half reluctant to leave,

Like an angel from heaven sent down to mankind.

I have cherished thee since as if never to part,Thou remindest me so of that fair girl away;—But, ah! can I banish the blight from thy heart,Or save thee from withering day after day?

I have cherished thee since as if never to part,

Thou remindest me so of that fair girl away;—

But, ah! can I banish the blight from thy heart,

Or save thee from withering day after day?

And thus, oh! how often, the ones we love best,Drop away from our sides like the roses in June—But why should we weep? since they pass to their rest,And if parted awhile, we shall follow them soon.

And thus, oh! how often, the ones we love best,

Drop away from our sides like the roses in June—

But why should we weep? since they pass to their rest,

And if parted awhile, we shall follow them soon.

THE REEFER OF ’76.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”

———

We had now been several months at sea, and, although our stores had been more than once replenished from the prizes we had taken, our provisions began to grow scarce. The skipper accordingly announced his intention of going into port. We bore up, therefore, for Charleston, that being the most convenient harbor.

My emotions on approaching the place where Beatrice resided, I shall not attempt to describe. A full year had passed since we had parted, and in all that time I had heard of her but once. Might she not now be married to another? The proverbial fickleness of her sex; the known opposition of her family to my suit; her uncertainty whether I still continued to care for her, or whether even I was yet alive; and a thousand other reasons why she might be unfaithful to me, rose up before me to torture me with doubts. But most of all, I reflected on our different situations in society. She was rich, courted, allied to rank—I was poor, unknown, and a rebel officer. Many a night as I lay in my solitary hammock, or trod my silent watch on deck, the fear that I might find Beatrice the wife of another, filled my soul with agony. And yet could I doubt her faith?

At length we entered Charleston harbor, and with a gentle breeze floated up towards the town. It was a moonless night, but the sky above was spangled with a thousand stars, and the low outline of the city before us glittered with myriads of lamps. The wind just ruffled the glassy surface of the bay, fanning us, as it swept by, with a delicious coolness. Here and there, on either shore, a light from a solitary house flickered through the darkness, while occasionally a sheet of summer lightning would play along the western firmament, where a low belt of clouds skirted the horizon, and hung like a veil above the city. Everything reminded me of the night when I had sailed up this same harbor with Beatrice. What had I not witnessed since then! The shipwreck, the battle, the hurricane, fire and sword, danger in every shape, almost death itself—I had endured them all. During that period where had been Beatrice? A few hours would determine.

With a beating heart, the next morning I sought the residence of Beatrice’s uncle. How my brain swam and my knees tottered when I came in sight of the mansion which contained the form of her whom I loved! I had understood that the family, except one or two of the ladies of it, was out of town, and I burned with impatience to ascertain whether Beatrice was among the absentees. Yet my heart failed me when I came in sight of the residence of her uncle. I recollected the terms on which I had parted with Mr. Rochester, and I scarcely thought myself allowable in intruding on his hospitality in any shape. But, then, how else could I obtain an interview with Beatrice? Again and again I approached the door, and again and again I changed my mind and retired; but at length remembering that my conduct was attracting attention, and unable longer to endure my suspense, I advanced boldly to the portal, and knocked at the hall door. It was answered by a strange porter. With a fluttering heart I inquired for Miss Derwent. I felt relieved from a load of fear when informed that she was in town, and hastily thrusting my card into the man’s hand, I followed him eagerly into the drawing-room. He disappeared, and I was alone.

Who can forget his emotions, when, after a long separation from the object of his love, he finds himself under the same roof with his mistress, awaiting her appearance? How he pictures to himself the joy with which the announcement of his arrival, especially if unexpected, will be received! He fancies every look that will be exchanged and every word that will be said at the moment of meeting. As the moments elapse, he imagines, however short the time may be, that the appearance of his mistress is unavoidably delayed, and a hundred fears arise, vague, unfounded, and but half believed, that perhaps her affection has grown lukewarm. Each successive instant of suspense increases his doubts until they amount almost to agony; and as a light footfall—oh! how well remembered!—breaks upon his ear, he almost dreads to meet her whom but an hour before he would have given worlds to behold. So was it now with myself. As minute after minute elapsed, and still Beatrice did not appear, my fears amounted almost to madness; and when at length I heard her light tread approaching, my heart began to beat so violently that I thought I should have fainted. Anxious to resolve my doubts, by observing her demeanor before I should be seen myself, I sprang into the recess of a window. As I did so, the door opened and Beatrice entered hurriedly, looking, if possible, more beautiful than ever. Her cheek was flushed, her step was quick and eager, and her eyes shone with a joy that could not be affected. She advanced several steps into the room, when, perceiving no one, she gazed inquiringly around, with a look, I thought, of disappointment. I moved from the recess. She turned quickly around at the noise, blushed over brow, neck and bosom, and, with a faint cry of joy, sprang forward, and was locked the next instant in my arms.

“Beatrice—my own, my beautiful!”

“Harry—dearHarry!” were our mutual exclamations, and then, locked in each other’s embrace, for a moment we forgot in our rapture to speak.

At length we awoke from this trance of delight, and found leisure for rational conversation. Sitting side by side on the sofa, with our hands locked together, and our eyes looking as it were into each other’s souls, we recounted our mutual histories since our separation. With mine the reader is already acquainted. That of Beatrice was naturally less chequered, but yet it was not without interest.

I have said that an alliance had been projected between Beatrice and her cousin, and that Mr. Rochester had placed his whole soul on the consummation of this project. The consciousness of my interest in the heart of Beatrice had induced their conduct towards myself, under the hope that if once separated from her, I would be eventually forgotten by Miss Derwent. Time, however, proved how false had been this hope. Instead of prospering in his suit from my absence, every day only seemed to make the success of her cousin more problematical. In vain her uncle persuaded; in vain he expostulated; in vain he lavished all his scorn on me as a beggar and a rebel—Beatrice continued unmoved; now defending me from every imputation, and now with tears giving up the contest, although unconvinced. The letter she received from me, by acquainting her with my projected cruise, prepared her for the long silence on my part which had ensued; and although reports, no doubt originating with her persecutors, were circulated respecting my arrival in port, and the disreputable life I was said to lead, she remained faithful to me amid it all. Oh! what is like woman’s love? Amid sorrow and joy; in sunshine or storm; whether distant or near; in every varied circumstance of life, it is the solace of our existence, the green spot amid the arid deserts of the world. Nothing can change it—nothing can dim its brightness. Even injury fails to break down the love of woman. You may neglect, you may abuse her, if you will; but still, with a devotion not of this earth, she clings to you, cheering you in distress, smiling on you in joy, and amply repaid if she only win in return one kind word, one look of approval. Thank God! that, fallen as we are, there is left to us that link of our diviner nature—the pure, deep, unchanging love of woman.

With what joy did I hear that Beatrice was still mine, wholly mine, and how ardently did I press her to my bosom, invoking her again and again to repeat the blessed words which assured me of her love! Hours passed away as if they had been minutes. And when at length I rose to depart, and, imprinting another kiss on her but half averted lips, took my leave with a promise to return again the ensuing morning, my astonishment passed all bounds to learn that noon had long since passed, and that the evening was almost at hand.

During the short time that we remained in port, I was daily with Beatrice, and when we parted she pledged herself to be mine at the end of another year, come what might. My heart, I will admit, reproached me afterwards for winning this promise from her, and inducing her to give up wealth and luxury for the bare comforts an officer’s pay could afford; and yet her love was such a priceless gem, and she looked up to me with such unreserved devotedness, that I could not regret a vow which ensured me the right to protect her from the cold tempests of the world. Besides, we were both young and full of hope, and I trusted some fortunate event might occur which would yet allow us to be united with the concurrence of her friends.

“Uncle is suspected and watched by the colonial authorities,” said Beatrice, as we parted, “and I fear me that he is linked in with some of those who have designs against the state. I tremble to think what might be his fate if detected in any conspiracy to restore the king’s authority.”

“Fear not, dearest,” I replied, “I will interest Col. Moultrie in his favor, and besides, your uncle must see the danger of any such attempt at present.”

“And yet I have fearful forebodings.”

“Cheer up, sweet one, he has nothing to dread. But now I must go. God bless you, Beatrice!” and I kissed her fervently.

She murmured something half inaudibly, returned my parting embrace with a sigh, and, while a tear stood in her eye, waved a final adieu with her kerchief. In an hour the schooner had sailed.

We had been at sea but a few days, having run down the Bahamas in that time, when we spoke a French merchantman, and obtained from him the intelligence that an English ship, with a valuable cargo and a large amount of specie, was then lying at the port of ——, in one of the smaller islands. She was well armed, however, and carried the crew of a letter of marque. But the skipper instantly determined on attempting her capture. Accordingly, we bore up for the island within an hour after we had spoken the merchantman, and having a favorable breeze to second our wishes, we made the low headlands of the place of our destination just as the sun sank behind them into the western ocean. Not wishing to be detected, we hauled off until evening, spending the intervening time in preparing for the adventure.

The night was fortunately dark. There was no moon, and a thick veil of vapors overhead effectually shrouded the stars from sight. The seaboard was lined with dusky clouds; the ocean heaved in gentle undulations; and a light breeze murmured by, with a low soft music in its tone, like the whisper of a young girl to her lover. As the twilight deepened, the shadowy outlines of the distant land became more and more indistinct, until at length they were merged in the obscurity of the whole western firmament. No sound was heard over the vast expanse as we resumed our course, and silently stretched up towards the island.

It was nearly midnight when we reached the mouth of the harbor. All within was still. The town lay along the edge of the water, distinguishable by its long line of flickering lamps; while a dark mass on the left of the harbor betrayed the position of the battery guarding the port. One or two small coasting vessels were moored at the quay, and, a few cables’ length out in the harbor, rode at anchor the merchantman. He was in part protected by the guns of the fort; but other means of defence had not been forgotten, for his nettings were triced up, and he swung at his anchor as if springs were on his cables. A solitary lantern hung at his mast-head, throwing a faint radiance around the otherwise shadowy ship. Not a sound arose from his decks. Occasionally a low murmur would float down from the far-off town, or the cry of a sentry at the fort would rise solemnly on the still night air; but except these faint sounds, at long intervals apart, a deep, unbroken silence buried the whole landscape in repose.

“Pipe away the boats’ crews,” said the skipper, when, everything having been planned, we had steered our craft under the shadow of the huge cape, and now lay to in our quiet nook, hidden from observation.

The boatswain issued his summons almost in a whisper, and the men answered with unusual promptness. In a few minutes the boats were manned, and we were waiting with muffled oars for the signal. We lingered only a moment to receive the last orders of the captain, when, with a whispered “give way,” the gallant fellows bent to the oars, and we shot from the schooner’s side. In a few moments she was lost in the gloom. I watched her through the gathering night, as spar after spar faded into the obscurity, until at length nothing could be seen of her exquisite proportions but a dark and shapeless mass of shadow; and at length, when I turned my eyes in her direction again, after having had my attention for a moment called away, even the slight outline of her form had disappeared, and nothing but the gloomy seaboard met my eye.

The night was now so dark that we could scarcely see a fathom before us; but, guided by an old salt who had been brought up on the island, and knew the harbor as accurately as a scholar knows his horn book, we boldly kept on our course. As we swept around the headland, we perceived that the town, so lately alive with lights, was now buried in a profound darkness. The solitary lantern, however, still burned at the fore-peak of the Englishman, like a star hanging alone in the firmament, to guide us on our way. Every eye was fixed on it as we rapidly but noiselessly swept up towards the merchantman. The fort was buried in gloom. The other vessels in the harbor lay hidden in the palpable obscurity ahead. No sound was heard, no object was seen, as we moved on in our noiseless course. At length the huge hull of the merchantman began to be indistinctly visible upon our starboard bow, and, lying on our oars for a moment, we held a short, eager consultation on our future course. It was soon, however, terminated. As yet we had remained undiscovered, and as the slightest accident might betray us, not a moment was to be lost if we would surprise the foe. It had been arranged that I should dash into the larboard side of the Englishman, while the two other boats should attack him simultaneously on his starboard bow and quarter; and accordingly, as my companions sheered off, I gave a whispered order to my men to pull their best, and the next instant we were shooting with the rapidity of an arrow right on to the foe.

The instant preceding the attack is always a thrilling one. You know not but that in a few minutes you may be in eternity, and as yet you are not carried away with that reckless enthusiasm which, in the heat of the contest, makes you insensible to every thing but the struggle. On the present occasion I felt as I had never felt before. The odds against us were fearful, for the ship was admirably defended, and we had every reason to believe that her crew outnumbered our own. As I looked around on my men, I saw more than one hardy veteran cast an uneasy glance at the foe. But it was no time now to pause. We had scarcely pulled a dozen strokes, and were yet some distance from the ship, when the sentry from her quarter cried out, “Boat ahoy!” and then perceiving that we still advanced, he fired his piece and gave the alarm. I saw the moment for action had come. Disguise was now useless. Instantaneously I forgot the feelings which had just been passing through my mind, and, like a war-horse starting at a trumpet, I sprang up in the stern sheets, and waving my sword aloft, shouted,

“Give way, my lads—give way, and lay us aboard the rascals—with a will, boys—pull!”

As if fired with an enthusiasm which nothing might resist, my gallant fellows sprang to their oars with renewed vigor at my words, until the oaken blades almost snapped beneath their brawny arms; and we were already within a few fathoms of the ship’s quarter when a volley from the merchantman hit the stroke-oarsman in front of me, and he fell dead across the thwart. The boat staggered in her course. I could hear our companions surging but a short distance behind, and I burned to be the first to mount the enemy’s deck.

“On—on!” I shouted; “pull for your lives, my lads—pull, pull!”

A thundering cheer burst from the brave veterans, as they bent with even redoubled power to their task, and with a few gigantic strokes sent us shooting upon the quarters of the foe. Waving my sword above my head, I sprang at once up the ship’s side, calling on my crew to follow me. They needed not the invocation. The boat had scarcely touched the vessel before every man, cutlass in hand, was clambering over the side of the foe; and in an instant, with one simultaneous spring, old and young, officer and men, we tumbled in upon the enemy. And like men they met us. It was no child’s play—that conflict! Fearfully outnumbering us, apprised of and ready for our onset, fighting on their own decks too, and knowing that succor was at hand from the fort even in case of defeat, the crew of the Englishman met our attack with an unbroken front, giving back blow for blow and shout for shout. Short, wild and terrific was the conflict. Conscious of the vicinity of the other boats, the enemy wished to overcome us before we could be succored; while we struggled as desperately to maintain our footing until aid should arrive. But our efforts were in vain. Pressing on to us in dense, overpowering numbers, and hemming us in on every quarter but that by which we had boarded the ship, they seemed determined to drive us into the ocean pell-mell, or slaughter us outright. No quarter was asked or given. Man after man fell around me in the vain attempt to maintain our footing. Already I had received two cutlass wounds myself. Our ranks were fearfully thinned. Yet still I cheered on my men, determined rather to die at bay than surrender or retreat. But all seemed in vain. Several men had already fallen before my arm, and the deck was slippery with the blood of friend and foe; yet the enemy did not appear to lessen in numbers. As fast as one man fell, another filled his place. Despair took possession of us. I saw nothing before us but a glorious death, and I determined that it should be one long after to be talked of by my countrymen. All this, however, had passed almost in a minute. Suddenly I heard a cheer on the starboard bow of the enemy, and as it rose clear and shrill over all the din of the conflict, I recognised the Fireflies clambering over the ship’s side in that direction.

“Huzza! the day’s our own!” I shouted, in the revulsion of feeling. “Come on, my lads, and let us hew the scoundrels to the chine!” and, with another wild huzza, I dashed like a madman upon the cutlasses of the foe. My men followed me with the fury of a whirlwind. Wild, terrible, overpowering was that charge; fierce, desperate and relentless was the resistance. The scene that ensued eternity will not eradicate from my memory. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought, each man striving with his opponent, conscious that life or death depended on the issue: while swords clashed, pistols exploded, shouts rent the air, and blood flowed on every hand as if it had been water. Now the foe yielded, and now we retired in turn. Swaying to and fro, striking around pell-mell, thrusting, parrying, hewing, wrestling in the death-grip, or hurling the fallen from our path, now clearing our way by main force, and now breaking the enemy’s front by a deceptive retreat, we succeeded at length in driving the foe back in a broken mass on their assailants from the bow. Then they rallied, and, with the fury of tigers at bay, returned to the charge. If ever men fought like demons, they did. As they grew more and more desperate, they fairly howled with rage. Their curses were terrific. God help me from ever witnessing such a sight again! I saw that it only needed another vigorous charge to complete their defeat, and rallying my little band around me once more, though every man of them was wounded, we dashed on to the foe, determined to cut our way through to our friends, or drive the enemy down the hatchway.

“Once more, my boys, once more—huzza for liberty!—on!”

“Come on, ye rebel knaves!” growled the leader of the British, and striking at me with his cutlass, to challenge me to single combat, he roared, “Take that, ye hell-hound.” One of my men sprang to my aid.

“Back—back!” I shouted, “leave him to me.”

“Ay, God’s curse be on you—” but his words were lost in the clash of the conflict. For a moment I thought he was more than my match, but his very rage overreached itself, and failing to guard himself sufficiently, he exposed his person, and the next instant my sword passed through his body. He fell backwards without a groan. His men saw him fall, and a score of weapons were pointed at me.

“Down with him—hew him to the ground,” roared the British.

“Hurrah for Parker!—beat back the villains!” thundered my own men, and the contest, which had paused during the combat between the fallen chief and myself, now raged with redoubled frenzy, the whole fury of the enemy being directed against myself. I remember shouts, curses, and groans, the clash of cutlasses and the roar of fire-arms, and then comes a faint memory of a sharp pain in my side, succeeded by a reeling in my brain, and a sensation of staggering, as if about to fall. After that all is blank.

When I recovered my senses, I was lying on the quarter deck, while the cool night breeze swept deliciously over my fevered brow, and my ears were soothed with the gentle ripple of the waters as the ship moved on her course. A solitary star, struggling through a rent in the clouds overhead, shone calmly down on me. I turned uneasily around.

“How are you, Parker?” said the voice of the lieutenant, approaching me. “We are nearing the schooner rapidly, when you’ll have your wound attended to—I bandaged it as well as I could.”

“Thank you,” I said, faintly. “But have you really brought off the prize?”

“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “we got off, although they hailed cannon balls around us like sugar-plums at a carnival in Rome. Never before did I run such a gauntlet. But the sleepy fellows did not get properly awake until we had made sail—had they opened their fire at once, they might have sent us to Davy Jones’ locker in a trice.”

“And the enemy’s crew?”

“All snug below hatches, every mother’s son of them. They fought like devils, and came within an ace of beating us. But, faith, yonder is the old schooner. Ship, ahoy!”

We were soon aboard. My wound proved a serious, though not a dangerous one, and for several weeks I was confined to my hammock.

Back to Index Next