“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astounding, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, agrotesqueriein horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your fancy?”
I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboringMaison de Santé.”
“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such hair as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from among the tresses remaining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”
“Good God,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most unusual—this is nohumanhair.”
“I have not asserted that it was,” said he, “but before we decide upon this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’
“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, “you will perceive that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is noslippingapparent. Each finger has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt now to place all your fingers, at one and the same time, in the impressions as you see them.”
I made the attempt in vain.
“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again.”
I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”
“Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “read now this passage from Cuvier.”
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.
“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of yellow hair is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.”
“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘mon Dieu!’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to this chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde,’ (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sailors,) will bring him to our residence.”
He handed me a paper, and I read thus:—
Caught—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the — inst., (the morning of the murder,)a very large, tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième.
Caught—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the — inst., (the morning of the murder,)a very large, tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième.
“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”
“I donotknow it,” said Dupin. “I am notsureof it. Here, however, is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its form, and from its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those longqueuesof which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all,I am known. The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the advertisement—get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter has blown over.’ ”
At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.
“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither show them nor use them until at a signal from myself.”
The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up quickly, and rapped at the door of our chamber.
“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.
The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, was more than half hidden by a world of whisker andmustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatel-ish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “I suppose you have called about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,—
“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years old. Have you got him here?”
“Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”
“To be sure I am, sir.”
“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.
“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in reason.”
“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me think!—what reward ought I to have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.”
Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.
The sailor’s face flushed up with an ungovernable tide of crimson. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell back into his seat trembling convulsively, and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a single word. I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.
“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know that I have had means of information about this matter—means of which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing certainly which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess all that you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”
The sailor had recovered his presence of mind in a great measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all gone.
“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “Iwilltell you all that I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe one half that I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, Iaminnocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”
I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative which he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract towards himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.
Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his own bed-room, into which he had broken from a closet adjoining, where he had been, as it was thought, securely confined. The beast, razor in hand, and fully lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in which he had no doubt previously watched his master through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street.
The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand, occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light (the only one apparent except those of the town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, he perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, by its means swung himself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as he entered the room.
The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had strong hopes of now recapturing the ape, as it could scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what the brute might do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the floor. Their backs must have been towards the window; and, by the time elapsing between the screams and the ingress of the ape, it seems probable that he was not immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter they would naturally have attributed to the wind.
As the sailor looked in, the gigantic beast had seized Madame L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of ungovernable wrath. With one determined sweep of his muscular arm he nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood inflamed his anger into phrenzy. Gnashing his teeth, and flashing fire from his eyes, he flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded his fearful talons in her throat, retaining his grasp until she expired. His wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which those of his master, glazed in horror, were just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into dread. Conscious of having deserved punishment, he seemed desirous to conceal his bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an apparent agony of nervous agitation, throwing down and breaking the furniture as he moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, he seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, with which he rushed to the window, precipitating it immediately therefrom.
As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor shrunk aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. He must have closed the window as he passed through it. He was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for him a very large sum at theJardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly released upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at thebureauof thePréfet de police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, in regard to the propriety of every person minding his own business.
“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be acute. There is nostamenin his wisdom. It is all head and no body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has ‘de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas.’ ”
Philadelphia, March, 1841.
Philadelphia, March, 1841.
AN APRIL DAY.
Thespring has come, the low south windIs breathing sweet,—The showers are patt’ring in the wood,Like fairy feet.Hark! in yon silent grove a birdPours out its lay,—Such strains, I ween, have not been heardFor many a day.The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,The sun between,—A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,Upon the green.And such is life—an April morn,A changing sky,—To mingled joy and grief we’re born,And born to die.A. A. I.
Thespring has come, the low south windIs breathing sweet,—The showers are patt’ring in the wood,Like fairy feet.Hark! in yon silent grove a birdPours out its lay,—Such strains, I ween, have not been heardFor many a day.The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,The sun between,—A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,Upon the green.And such is life—an April morn,A changing sky,—To mingled joy and grief we’re born,And born to die.A. A. I.
Thespring has come, the low south windIs breathing sweet,—The showers are patt’ring in the wood,Like fairy feet.
Thespring has come, the low south wind
Is breathing sweet,—
The showers are patt’ring in the wood,
Like fairy feet.
Hark! in yon silent grove a birdPours out its lay,—Such strains, I ween, have not been heardFor many a day.
Hark! in yon silent grove a bird
Pours out its lay,—
Such strains, I ween, have not been heard
For many a day.
The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,The sun between,—A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,Upon the green.
The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,
The sun between,—
A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,
Upon the green.
And such is life—an April morn,A changing sky,—To mingled joy and grief we’re born,And born to die.A. A. I.
And such is life—an April morn,
A changing sky,—
To mingled joy and grief we’re born,
And born to die.
A. A. I.
Philadelphia, March, 1841.
Philadelphia, March, 1841.
TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP.
Saymagic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,Perchance the music of some distant sphere,That faintly echoes on the gales of even,To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,Tripping the dewy world fantastically,To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,A voice, that calleth tremulously low;To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,Far from deluding joys it meets below?Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,A melody, unearthly and unknown;A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,The touching softness of her gentle things;And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.A. F. H.
Saymagic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,Perchance the music of some distant sphere,That faintly echoes on the gales of even,To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,Tripping the dewy world fantastically,To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,A voice, that calleth tremulously low;To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,Far from deluding joys it meets below?Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,A melody, unearthly and unknown;A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,The touching softness of her gentle things;And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.A. F. H.
Saymagic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?
Saymagic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?
Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?
Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,
Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?
Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,Perchance the music of some distant sphere,That faintly echoes on the gales of even,To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?
Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,
Perchance the music of some distant sphere,
That faintly echoes on the gales of even,
To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?
Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,Tripping the dewy world fantastically,To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?
Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,
Tripping the dewy world fantastically,
To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,
Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?
Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,A voice, that calleth tremulously low;To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,Far from deluding joys it meets below?
Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,
A voice, that calleth tremulously low;
To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,
Far from deluding joys it meets below?
Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,A melody, unearthly and unknown;A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.
Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,
A melody, unearthly and unknown;
A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,
Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.
Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.
Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,
The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;
The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,
Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.
Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—
Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,
Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,
Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,
Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—
Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.
Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,
The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;
Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,
That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.
And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.
And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,
Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;
Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,
Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.
Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,The touching softness of her gentle things;And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.
Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,
The touching softness of her gentle things;
And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,
Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.
Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?
Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,
To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;
Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,
That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?
This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.A. F. H.
This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,
To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;
To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,
This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.
A. F. H.
THE REEFER OF ’76.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”
———
Itis scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that celebrated cruize. Success appeared to follow us wherever we went. After our escape from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently learned to be the Solebay, mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran farther eastward, and soon fell in with several prizes. One morning, however, our look-out detected a strange frigate hovering upon the sea-board, nor was it long before we discovered her to be an enemy. We made her out, by the aid of our glasses, to be a light frigate, pierced for sixteen guns on a side. Every rag that would draw was instantly set. With equal alacrity the stranger followed our example, and a running fight was commenced, which lasted nearly the whole day; for our daring leader, finding that we could easily outsail the enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so that, although she maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short. Toward night-fall, however, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and, to the astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in a few hours.
After hauling aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and for some time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen, around the coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than sixteen sail, some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our late exploits, and swept down the coast toward Montauk.
It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as the sun set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a thousand varied dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along the deep, we beheld a small schooner, close-hauled, opening around the northern extremity of the island. In less than a half hour she was close to windward of us. As it was the first friendly craft we had seen for weeks, we were all naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs on land. Paul Jones himself leaped into the rigging and hailed,
“Ahoy! what craft is that?”
“The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low deck of the stranger, “what vessel air you?”
“The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and send a boat aboard.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the same voice, but in an altered tone, and with the ready alacrity of a true seaman, “round her to, boys; but may be,” continued he, again addressing us, “you hain’t heerd the news yet. I calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t to be made slaves of arter all—independence is declared.”
“What!—the Congress declared itself independent of Great Britain?” asked Paul Jones, quickly.
“Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away in a prolonged whistle, as he remembered how unbecoming an oath would be from a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a profound silence, while we gazed into each other’s faces, with mingled wonder, delight, and pride. The news was not wholly unhoped for, though we had scarcely ventured to expect it. A topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every thing in his enthusiasm, he shouted,
“Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—huzza!”
And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering shout, which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that of the schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It was a stirring moment. A universal transport appeared to have seized upon our gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook each other’s hands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile even danced; while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, timed the huzzas of his patriotic crew.
Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and almost the first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy littleFire-Fly. The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not attempt to describe. Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to the narrative of their adventures since our parting, and rehearsed in return my own. My arrival was opportune, for the schooner expected to sail in less than a week, and had I been delayed many days longer, I might have found it impossible to have rejoined her during the war. The little time that we remained in port after my arrival, was spent in a constant round of amusements, such only as a set of gay reckless reefers know how to indulge in. Many a gay song was trolled, and many a mirthful tale related by lips that have long since been stilled in death.
But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear creature had availed herself of one of the rare opportunities which then presented themselves occasionally of communicating with the north, to answer a long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance vessel, we met a few days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what simple, yet nervous eloquence did she assure me of her unabated love, and how sweetly did she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner that I was—whispered respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again and again; I read it over and over a thousand times; I treasured it the more because I knew not when the chances of war would suffer me to hear from her again. I feared not now the influence of her uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that Beatrice was too pure, too self-devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it for lucre. And as I felt this it flashed across me that perhaps she might have heard of my being lost overboard from the merchantman; and who knew but that even now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a brig was now in port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the opportunity, and wrote to inform Beatrice of my safety.
In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my friends on board the Providence, we set sail from Newport. The day was bright and glorious, and the sunbeams danced merrily upon the waves. A light breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song of the sailors from the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and the scream of the sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear blue sky.
As the day advanced, however, a thin, gauze-like vapor gradually spread over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the afternoon watch to an impervious canopy of black, which stretching from pole to pole, obscured the whole firmament, and threw a premature and sickly gloom over the deep beneath. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in irregular puffs, and whitening the surface of the sea in patches over the whole of its wide extent; while occasionally a low, half-smothered murmur, as if arising out of the very heart of the ocean, betokened that the elements of the storm were at work far down in their wild recesses. As the day advanced the sky became even more ominous, until long before night-fall its weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld. By this time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and with every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast whitening billows with an exhilarating velocity that only a sailor can appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on the watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty were soon congregated in our mess-room.
“A wild night,” said the last comer, as he shook the wet from his shaggy jacket, “and I see you’re determined to make the most of it, my boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in passing. Here’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!” rung around the crowded room, as we drank off our bumpers.
“Can’t you give us a toast, O’Shaughnessy?” sung out Westbrook.
“Shure and what shall it be?” said he, with humorous simplicity. A general roar of laughter followed.
“Any thing, my hearty,” said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk into his mouth as he spoke.
“Arrah thin, and ye’ll not refuse to dhrink the memory of our gallant comrade,” said he, looking hard at me, “present this blessed minit, who fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I mane, boys.”
The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like successive peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the schooner off bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of all was the amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to understand this new burst of merriment, looked from one to another, in humorous perplexity. As soon, however, as the company could compose itself, the toast was drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I rose to return thanks.
“Hear him—hear him,” roared a dozen voices. I began.
“Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of,” but here I was interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head through the narrow doorway, said,
“Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it continues.”
The purser was a stiff, starch, precise old scoundrel, with a squint in his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even that of Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest shifts. But this would not have irritated the mess so much, even though he had at one time or another fleeced every member of it, had it not been his constant practice to inform on such of the tricks inseparable to a set of youngsters as came under his notice. He was, in short, a skulking spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a strictness of morals which was more than suspected to be hypocritical.
“And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience?—eh! old plunderer,” said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s head.
“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—”
“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our reckless comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there, O’Shaughnessy.”
Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut, and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of the hurricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and afford us impunity for any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us with punishment. We had a long account to settle with our extortioner.
“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink.
“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me God.”
“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish such immorality?”
“Cob him,” said one.
“Keel-haul him,” said another.
“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third.
“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the draught.
“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you shall—”
“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a shake.
“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his voice.
But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand, he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man, and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence.
“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I proceed to execute your sentence.”
“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.”
But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath, poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of laughter.
“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser, almost choked with rage.
“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook.
The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed until the tears ran out of their eyes.
“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again and again, had finally died away.
“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly dry.”
Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine manly tenor, the following stanzas:
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!With his junk and Jamaica by him,He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.He seeks but the foe to defy him;He fights for his honor and country’s laws,He fights for the mother that bore him,—And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s causeWill quail, like a coward, before him.“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,The heavens their thunders awaken,The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—He smiles at all danger unshaken;With an unblenched eye, and a daring formHe fearlessly gazes before him,Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fairTo greet us from battle returning,With their song and smile to banish each careBy the hearth-fire cheerily burning.Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,For mothers, for grandsires hoary?Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!With his junk and Jamaica by him,He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.He seeks but the foe to defy him;He fights for his honor and country’s laws,He fights for the mother that bore him,—And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s causeWill quail, like a coward, before him.“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,The heavens their thunders awaken,The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—He smiles at all danger unshaken;With an unblenched eye, and a daring formHe fearlessly gazes before him,Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fairTo greet us from battle returning,With their song and smile to banish each careBy the hearth-fire cheerily burning.Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,For mothers, for grandsires hoary?Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!With his junk and Jamaica by him,He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.He seeks but the foe to defy him;He fights for his honor and country’s laws,He fights for the mother that bore him,—And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s causeWill quail, like a coward, before him.“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,The heavens their thunders awaken,The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—He smiles at all danger unshaken;With an unblenched eye, and a daring formHe fearlessly gazes before him,Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fairTo greet us from battle returning,With their song and smile to banish each careBy the hearth-fire cheerily burning.Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,For mothers, for grandsires hoary?Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!With his junk and Jamaica by him,He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.He seeks but the foe to defy him;He fights for his honor and country’s laws,He fights for the mother that bore him,—And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s causeWill quail, like a coward, before him.
“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!
With his junk and Jamaica by him,
He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.
He seeks but the foe to defy him;
He fights for his honor and country’s laws,
He fights for the mother that bore him,—
And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause
Will quail, like a coward, before him.
“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,The heavens their thunders awaken,The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—He smiles at all danger unshaken;With an unblenched eye, and a daring formHe fearlessly gazes before him,Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.
“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,
The heavens their thunders awaken,
The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—
He smiles at all danger unshaken;
With an unblenched eye, and a daring form
He fearlessly gazes before him,
Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,
His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.
“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fairTo greet us from battle returning,With their song and smile to banish each careBy the hearth-fire cheerily burning.Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,For mothers, for grandsires hoary?Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”
“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fair
To greet us from battle returning,
With their song and smile to banish each care
By the hearth-fire cheerily burning.
Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,
For mothers, for grandsires hoary?
Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,
Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”
“Bravo! three times three!” and the triple sound rolled stunningly from our throats.
“Hark! wasn’t that the boatswain’s whistle?” said I, and for a moment we paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the storm drowned everything in its fierce uproar.
“Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” and the cheers were renewed with redoubled vigor.
“Gentlemen, all hands on deck,” said the quarter-master, opening the door at this moment.
“Ay! ay! sir,” was the simultaneous response of every member of the mess, and in less than a minute our late noisy apartment was as quiet as the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is discipline.
The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove at once, all the excitement of our potations off; and we were as calm and collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had kept above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that moment. The rain was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly, however, but slant-wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now it beat fiercely into our faces, and now was whirled hither and thither in wild commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could not see a dozen fathoms in any direction, except where the white crests of the surges flashed through the gloom. These could, however, be detected close under our lee glancing through the darkness, while the dull continued roar in that quarter, betokened our immediate vicinity to breakers. They were in fact, close aboard. Had they not been detected the instant they were, we should have run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul. Happily we had just room to wear. This had been done before we were summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and were endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore.
The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense, for more terrible than death itself, which men experience when the king of terror smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow. As we gazed out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen breakers on our starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous roar as of hounds yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressible awe stole upon our minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet appalling. Who knew but that, before another hour, aye! before a quarter of that time, our mangled bodies might be floating at the mercy of the surge? Every moment deepened our anxiety, for though our little craft breasted the waves with gallant determination, sending the spray as high as her mast head at every plunge, yet there was no perceptible increase in our distance from the shore. Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The surge roared under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the damned; and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare, and then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of doom. At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling in prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and quivered in every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now wallowed in the abyss. The men, grasping each a rope, looked ominously at the scene around, or cast hurried glances aloft as if fearful that our masts would not stand the strain.
“Hark!” said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “was not that a gun?—there again?”
As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep, and for several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder, followed the same awful sound. We looked at each other.
“They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “God have mercy on the sufferers! for man can afford them no help.”
I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succession of rapid, vivid flashes of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for several minutes, as with the light of day; and for the first time we caught a glimpse of the rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was breaking in a hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of our own danger, it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager gaze. About a cable’s length ahead, and a few points on our lee bow, was a tall and gallant bark, dismantled and broached to, upon a reef of jagged rocks, now buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay high upon the ledge, and was crowded with unfortunate human beings, men, women and children, over whom the surges broke momentarily in cataracts. I hear now their wild despairing cries, although years have passed since then. I see their outstretched hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the cold chill, freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my heart, as I thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a few moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The tears were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his tones were husky and full of emotion as he said,
“It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker.”
“It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears?—cheer up, man—it’s not all over with us yet,” said I.
“Ah! sir, it’s not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what my little ones, and their poor mother would do for bread to eat, should I be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker.”
“God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your emotions,” said I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to conceal my own feelings. But as I did so, I felt something hot fall upon my finger. It was the old man’s tear.
“We must give her another reef, I fear,” said the captain, as he saw how fearfully the vessel strained, “no, no,” he added, as he glanced again at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he thundered, raising his voice, “keep her to it, quarter-master.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
We were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving rapidly along, the dark waters sinking in foam beneath our lee as we breasted the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same with that of the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We were in dangerous proximity to the dismantled ship; and the least falling off would roll us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we could weather the reef, should we still hold our own. At this moment a ray of hope appeared. We perceived that the shore shelved in just beyond the wreck, and that, if we could escape the ledge, our safety would be ensured. The captain took in at a glance this new situation of affairs, which, by holding out hope, redoubled every motive to action.
“How bears she?” he anxiously inquired.
The man answered promptly.
“Hard up—press her down more,” he shouted, and then muttered, between his teeth “or we are lost.”
“She is almost shaking.”
“How does she bear?”
“A point more in the wind’s eye.”
“Harder yet, harder.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“How now?”
“Another point, sir.”
The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under the enormous press of her canvass, the schooner groaned and struggled against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony, during which we held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries of the sufferers upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but, although the schooner staggered under the successive shocks, she did not yield, and as the last billow sank away, whitening beneath her lee, and we rose gallantly upon its crest, the rocky reef shot away astern, and we were safe. As the wreck vanished in the gloom behind, the cries of her despairing passengers came mingled with the roar of the tempest, in awful distinctness, to our ears.