[3]It were ungrateful in the writer, not to acknowledge the marked courtesy and kindness received from several friends during a short residence at Hartford, and if tempted to speak a little severely of the manners of the place, there is much more pleasure in the thought, that a town, honored by the residence of Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Wordsworth, the liberal patron of thefine arts, and the model offine feeling, and Rev. Mr. Gualladet, the devoted philanthropist, can endure some censure upon its general hospitality. On a more suitable occasion, I should be most happy to extend this list, partly, because it would be no more than just to do so,“And partly that bright names will hallow song!”
[3]
It were ungrateful in the writer, not to acknowledge the marked courtesy and kindness received from several friends during a short residence at Hartford, and if tempted to speak a little severely of the manners of the place, there is much more pleasure in the thought, that a town, honored by the residence of Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Wordsworth, the liberal patron of thefine arts, and the model offine feeling, and Rev. Mr. Gualladet, the devoted philanthropist, can endure some censure upon its general hospitality. On a more suitable occasion, I should be most happy to extend this list, partly, because it would be no more than just to do so,
“And partly that bright names will hallow song!”
“And partly that bright names will hallow song!”
SONNET.
Stillhe is absent though the buds of SpringBursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,And all its brightest flowers have waked to birthThe perfume in their petals slumbering;—The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishingHave blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirthIs hushed into an echo, and his wingChill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—And yet the loved one is not with us, yetHe lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,While we the lonely, we in vain regretThe distant rapture of the greeting hour,Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.E. J. P.
Stillhe is absent though the buds of SpringBursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,And all its brightest flowers have waked to birthThe perfume in their petals slumbering;—The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishingHave blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirthIs hushed into an echo, and his wingChill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—And yet the loved one is not with us, yetHe lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,While we the lonely, we in vain regretThe distant rapture of the greeting hour,Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.E. J. P.
Stillhe is absent though the buds of SpringBursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,And all its brightest flowers have waked to birthThe perfume in their petals slumbering;—The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishingHave blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirthIs hushed into an echo, and his wingChill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—And yet the loved one is not with us, yetHe lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,While we the lonely, we in vain regretThe distant rapture of the greeting hour,Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.E. J. P.
Stillhe is absent though the buds of SpringBursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,And all its brightest flowers have waked to birthThe perfume in their petals slumbering;—The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishingHave blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirthIs hushed into an echo, and his wingChill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—And yet the loved one is not with us, yetHe lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,While we the lonely, we in vain regretThe distant rapture of the greeting hour,Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.E. J. P.
Stillhe is absent though the buds of Spring
Bursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,
And all its brightest flowers have waked to birth
The perfume in their petals slumbering;—
The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishing
Have blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirth
Is hushed into an echo, and his wing
Chill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—
And yet the loved one is not with us, yet
He lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,
While we the lonely, we in vain regret
The distant rapture of the greeting hour,
Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,
Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.
E. J. P.
THE FALSE LADYE.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC.
———
Therewere merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles—at that time the abode of France’s Royalty!—Music and merriment, even from the break of day! That was a singular age—an age of great transitions. The splendid spirit-stirring soul of chivalry was alive yet among the nations—yet! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its death blow in the spear thrust that hurled the noble Henry, last victim of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and from throne!—In every art, in every usage, new science had effected even then mighty changes; yet it was theold world still! Gunpowder, and the use of musquetry and ordnance, had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel—and tilts and tournaments still mustered all the knightly and the noble; and banquets at high noon, and balls in the broad day-light, assembled to the board or to the dance, the young, the beautiful, and happy.
There were merriment and music in the court—the hall—the stair-case—the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful, and bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered to the presence of their King.—And there were many there, well known and honored in those olden days; well known and honored ever after!—The first, in person as in place, was the great King!—the proud and chivalrous and princely!—becoming his high station at all times and in every place—wearing his state right gracefully and freely—the second Henry!—and at his side young Francis, the King-Dauphin; with her, the cynosure of every heart, the star of that fair company—Scotland’s unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up with those soft, dove-like eyes, fraught with unutterable soul, into her husband’s face—into her husband’s spirit.—Brissac was there, and Joyeuse, and Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned for skill in fence, and Vielleville; and the Cardinal Lorraine, and all the glorious Guises,—and Montmorenci, soon to be famous as the slayer of his King, and every peer of France, and every peerless lady.
Loud pealed the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen minstrelsy—and as the gorgeous sun-beams rushed in a flood of tinted lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall windows, glancing on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that might out-dazzle their own radiance, arrayed in all the pomp and pride of that magnificent and stately period—a more resplendent scene could scarcely be imagined. That was a day of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors thought it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of goldsmith’s work about their necks, and jewels in their ears, and on their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and sword-hilts; and if such were the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more solid sex, what must have been the ornature of the court ladies, under the gentle sway of such a being as Diane de Poitiers, the lovely mistress of the monarch, and arbitress of the soft follies of the Court?
The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety, some in the pomp of blazoned tapestries with banners rustling from the cornices above the jocund dancers, some filled with fresh green branches, wrought into silver arbors, sweet garlands perfuming the air, and the light half excluded or tempered into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense foliage of the rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro, clad in the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry, the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest cates, in every interval of the resounding dance.—It would be tedious to dwell longer on the scene; to multiply more instances of the strange mixture, which might be witnessed everywhere, of artificial luxury with semibarbarous rudeness—to specify the graces of the company, the beauty of the demoiselles and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles, as they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some old chronicler, with style as curious and as quaint as the manners he portrays in living colors.—Enough for us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the grand pageantry! to sketch with a dashy pencil the groups which he would designate with absolute and accurate minuteness!
But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must not be passed over with so slight a regard, since she attracted on that festive day, as much of wondering admiration for her unequalled beauties as she excited grief, and sympathy, and fear, in after days, for her sad fortunes,—but there was now no cloud upon her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of approaching tears in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy thought upon one glorious feature—Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that rank and fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure high brow, her dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect symmetry of her whole shape and person! Her hair, of the darkest auburn shade, fell in a thousand ringlets, glittering out like threads of virgin gold when a stray sunbeam touched them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely shoulders and so much of a soft heaving bosom—veined by unnumbered azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously—as was displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet boddice—her eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light, almost defied description, possessing at one time the depth and brilliance of the black, melting into the softer languor of the blue—yet they were of the latter hue, and suited truly to the whole style and character of her voluptuous beauty. Her form, as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every movement, every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied grace.—In sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere mortality—and so thought many an one who gazed upon her, half drunk with that divine delirium which steeps the souls of men who dwell too steadfastly upon such wondrous charms, as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance, lighter and springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the exciting toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle! and many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an exterior so divine should be the tenement of a harsh worldly spirit—that a demeanor and an air so frank, so cordial, and so warm, should be but the deceptive veil that hid a selfish, cold, bad heart. Aye! many asked themselves that question on that day, but not one answered his own question candidly or truly—no! not one man!—for in her presence he had been more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence unmoved by the attractions of her outward seeming.
For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months before affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè—the bravest and best of Henry’s youthful nobles. It had been a love treaty—no matter of shrewd bartering of hearts—no cold and worldly convenance—but the outpouring, as it seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of the other!—and men had envied him, and ladies had held her more fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her riches, or her beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate, or to sneer, in admiration of the young glorious pair, that seemed so fitly mated. Three little months had passed—three more, and they had been made one!—but, in the interval, Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his King’s behest, had buckled on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought, yet handsomer than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand de Laguy, his own orphaned cousin, bred like a brother on his father’s hearth; and, as Charles well believed, a brother in affection. Three little months had passed, and in a temporary truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone, leading the relics of his cousin’s force, and laden with the doleful tidings of that cousin’s fall upon the field of honor. None else had seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile ranks; but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble kinsman, and failing in the desperate attempt, had borne off his reward in many a perilous wound. Another month, and it was whispered far and near, that Marguerite had dried her tears already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his cousin’s death, succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to the winning of that dead cousin’s bride.—It had been whispered far and near—and now the whisper was proved true. For, on this festive day, young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting wounds, and languid from loss of the blood, appeared in public for the first time, not in the sable weeds of decent and accustomed wo, but in the gayest garb of a successful bridegroom—his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet strewn thickly with seed pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of rich white silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured arm suspended in a rare scarf of the lady’s colors, and, above all, the air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and that lovely girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that for once, at least, the tongue of rumor had told truth.
Therefore men gazed in wonder—and marvelled as they gazed, and half condemned!—yet they who had been loudest in their censure when the first whisper reached their ears of so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted an inconstancy, now found themselves devising many an excuse within their secret hearts for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry himself had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed, radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles—but the stern brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself into a softer aspect, and the rebuff which he had determined—but a second’s space before—to give to the untimely lovers, was frittered down into a jest before it left the lips of the repentant speaker.
The day was well-nigh spent—the evening banquet had been spread, and had been honored, duly—and now the lamps were lit in hall, and corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed the mirth, and faster wheeled the dance. The company were scattered to and fro, some wandering in the royal gardens, which overspread at that day, most of the Isle de Paris; some played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the halls; some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some whispered love in ladies’ ears in dark sequestered bowers—and of these last were Marguerite and Armand—a long alcove of thick green boughs, with orange trees between, flowering in marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand odorous trees mingling their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely bower—and there alone in the dim star-light—alone indeed! for they might now be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor’s right—while his left arm, unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender waist; her head reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich redundancy of ringlets floating about his neck and bosom, and her eyes, languid and suffused, fondly turned up to meet his passionate glances. “And can it be”—he said, in the thick broken tones that tell of vehement passion—“And can it be that you indeed love Armand?—I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that I, like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed—for him thou didst love dearly—while on me never didst thou waste thought or word.”
“Him—never, Armand, never!—by the bright stars above us—by the great gods that hear us—I never—neverdidlove Charles de La-Hirè—never did love man, save thee, my noble Armand.—False girlish vanity and pique led me to toy with him at first; now to my sorrow I confess it—and when thou didst look coldly upon me, and seem’dst to woo dark Adeline de Courcy, a woman’s vengeance stirred up my very soul, and therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh yielded up myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed indeed and honored—but never thought of for one moment with affection—wilt thou believe me, Armand?”
“Sweet Angel, Marguerite!” and he clasped her to his hot heaving breast, and her white arms were flung about his neck, and their lips met in a long fiery kiss.
Just in that point of time—in that soft melting moment—a heavy hand was laid quietly on Armand’s shoulder—he started, as the fiend sprang up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel’s angel weapon—he started like a guilty thing from that forbidden kiss.
A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in a dark riding cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat on the stately head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive features. The high broad forehead as pale as sculptured marble, with the dark chestnut curls falling off parted evenly upon the crown—the full, fixed, steady eye, which he could no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the meridian sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and wo—were all! all those of his good cousin.
For a moment’s space the three stood there in silence!—Charles de La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable consternation of the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent almost to the earth with shame and conscious terror! and Marguerite half dead with fear, and scarcely certain if indeed he who stood before her were the man in his living presence, whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark grave to thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest.
“I am in time”—he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering, as his whole air was cold and tranquil—“in time to break off this monstrous union!—Thy perjuries have been in vain, weak man; thy lies are open to the day.—He whom thou didst betray to the Italian’s dungeon—to the Italian’s dagger—as thou didst then believe and hope—stands bodily before thee.”
A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite, as the dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened ears—the man whom shehadloved—firstloved!—for all her previous words were false and fickle—stood at her side in all his power and glory—and she affianced to a liar, a base traitor—a foul murderer in his heart!—a scorn and by-word to her own sex—an object of contempt and hatred to every noble spirit!
But at that instant Armand de Laguy’s pride awoke—for hewasproud, and brave, and daring!—and he gave back the lie, and hurled defiance in his accuser’s teeth.
“Death to thy soul!” he cried—“ ’tis thou that lieth!—Charles!—did I not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not sink beside thee, hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving to preserve thee?—and when my vassals found me, wert thou not beside me—with thy face scarred, indeed, and mangled beyond recognition, but with the surcoat and the arms upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold hand?—’Tis thou that liest, man!—’tis thou that, for some base end, didst conceal thy life; and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me—but ’twill not do—fair cousin.—The King shall judge between us!—Come lady”—and he would have taken her by the hand, but she sprang back as though a viper would have stung her.
“Back traitor!—” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing.—“I hate thee, spit on thee! defy thee!—Base have I been myself, and frail, and fickle—but, as I live, Charles de La-Hirè—but as I livenow, andwilldie right shortly—I knew not of this villany! I did believe thee dead, as that false murtherer swore—and—God be good to me!—I did betray thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand de Laguy, dog! traitor! villain! knave!—dare not to look upon me any more; dare not address me with one accent of thy serpent tongue! for Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although she be, and lost for ever, is not so all abandoned as, knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with thee one second longer—no! not though that second could redeem all the past—and wipe out all the sin!—”
“Fine words! Fine words, fair mistress!—but on with me thou shalt!” and he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with a perfect majesty, Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped him by the wrist, and held him for a moment there, gazing into his eye as though he would have read his soul; then threw him off with force, that made him stagger back ten paces before he could regain his footing!—then! then! with all the fury of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed his rapier and made a full lunge, bounding forwards as he did so, right at his cousin’s heart! but he was foiled again, for with a single, and, as it seemed, slight motion of the sheathed broadsword, which he held under his cloak, Charles de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling through the air to twenty paces distance.
Just then there came a shout “the King! the King!”—and, with the words, a glare of many torches, and, with his courtiers and his guard about him, the Monarch stood forth in offended majesty.
“Ha!—what means this insolent broil?—What men be these who dare draw swords within the palace precincts?”
“Mysword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling before the King and laying the good weapon at his feet—“nor has been ever drawn, save at your highness’ bidding, against your highness’ foes!—But I beseech you, sire, as you love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and treason, grant me your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy, recreant, base, and traitorous, a liar and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand, in the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law of arms and honor!”
“Something of this we have heard already”—replied the King, “Baron de La-Hirè!—But say out now, of what accuse you Armand de Laguy?—shew but good cause, and thy request is granted; for I have not forgot your good deeds in my cause against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen—of what accuse you Armand de Laguy?”
“That he betrayed me wounded into the hands of the Duke of Parma! that he dealt with Italian bravoes to compass my assassination! that by foul lies and treacherous devices, he has trained from me my affianced bride: and last, not least, deprived her of fair name and honor.—This will I prove upon his body, so help me God and my good sword.”
“Stand forth and answer to his charge De Laguy—speak out! what sayest thou?”
“I say,” answered Armand boldly—“I say that he lies!—that he did feign his own death for some evil ends!—and did deceive me, who would have died to succor him!—That I, believing him dead, have won from him the love of this fair lady, I admit.—But I assert that I did win it fairly, and of good right!—And for the rest, I say he lies doubly, when he asserts that she has lost fair name, or honor—this ismyanswer, sire; and I beseech you granthisprayer, and let us prove our words, as gentlemen of France and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!”
“Amen!” replied the King—“the third day hence at noon, in the tilt yard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat—and this fair lady be the prize of the victor!—”
“No! sire,” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling—but before he had the time to add a second word, Marguerite de Vaudreuil, who had stood all the while with her hands clasped and her eyes rivetted upon the ground, sprung forth with a great cry—
“No! no! for God-sake! no! no! sire—great King—good gentleman—brave knight! doom me not to a fate so dreadful.—Charles de La-Hirè is all that man can be, of good, or great, or noble! but I betrayed him, whom I deemed dead; and he can never trust me living!—Moreover, if he would take me to his arms, base as I am and most false hearted, he should not—for God forbid thatmydishonor should blighthisnoble fame.—As for the slave De Laguy—the traitor and low liar, doom me, great monarch, to the convent or the block—but curse me not with such contamination!—For, by the heavens I swear! and by the God that rules them! that I will die by my own hand, before I wed that serpent!”
“Be it so, fair one,” answered the King very coldly—“be it so! we permit thy choice—a convent or the victor’s bridal bed shall be thy doom, at thine own option!—Meanwhile your swords, sirs; until the hour of battle ye are both under our arrest. Jarnac be thou Godfather to Charles de La-Hirè!—Nevers, do thou like office for de Laguy.”
“By God! not I, sire;” answered the proud duke. “I hold this man’s offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my conscience! I think your royal hangman were his best Godfather!”
“Nevertheless, De Nevers—it shall be, as I say!—this bold protest of thine is all sufficient for thine honor—and it is but a form!—no words, duke! it must be as I have said!—Joyeuse, escort this lady to thy duchess—pray her accept of her as the King’s guest, until this matter be decided. The third day hence at noon, on foot, with sword and dagger—with no arms of defence or vantage—the principals to fight alone, until one die or yield—and so God shield the right!”
SONNETS.
———
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
———
EVENING.In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;The Earth in slumber closes her great eyeLike to a dying god’s; from hills, that lieLike altars kindled by the sunset ray,The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;Those veils of day, the shadows, floating highAround the tree-tops, fall upon the gayAnd gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the WestIts burnished gold throws back in softened linesUpon the East, and, as it sweetly shinesOn lapsing river and reposing dell,Tinges with rosy light the hovering breastOf the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.HEREAFTER.Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,He rises, kindling, into boundless space.Then backward to the Earth, his native place,The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of allThat cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawnHills of the future world he sees afarIn morning rays that beam not here below.Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snowThrough his long night perceive the distant dawn.
EVENING.In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;The Earth in slumber closes her great eyeLike to a dying god’s; from hills, that lieLike altars kindled by the sunset ray,The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;Those veils of day, the shadows, floating highAround the tree-tops, fall upon the gayAnd gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the WestIts burnished gold throws back in softened linesUpon the East, and, as it sweetly shinesOn lapsing river and reposing dell,Tinges with rosy light the hovering breastOf the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.HEREAFTER.Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,He rises, kindling, into boundless space.Then backward to the Earth, his native place,The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of allThat cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawnHills of the future world he sees afarIn morning rays that beam not here below.Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snowThrough his long night perceive the distant dawn.
EVENING.
EVENING.
In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;The Earth in slumber closes her great eyeLike to a dying god’s; from hills, that lieLike altars kindled by the sunset ray,The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;Those veils of day, the shadows, floating highAround the tree-tops, fall upon the gayAnd gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the WestIts burnished gold throws back in softened linesUpon the East, and, as it sweetly shinesOn lapsing river and reposing dell,Tinges with rosy light the hovering breastOf the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.
In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;
The Earth in slumber closes her great eye
Like to a dying god’s; from hills, that lie
Like altars kindled by the sunset ray,
The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;
From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;
Those veils of day, the shadows, floating high
Around the tree-tops, fall upon the gay
And gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the West
Its burnished gold throws back in softened lines
Upon the East, and, as it sweetly shines
On lapsing river and reposing dell,
Tinges with rosy light the hovering breast
Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.
HEREAFTER.
HEREAFTER.
Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,He rises, kindling, into boundless space.Then backward to the Earth, his native place,The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of allThat cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawnHills of the future world he sees afarIn morning rays that beam not here below.Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snowThrough his long night perceive the distant dawn.
Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;
Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,
And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,
He rises, kindling, into boundless space.
Then backward to the Earth, his native place,
The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,
And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all
That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,
Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.
Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawn
Hills of the future world he sees afar
In morning rays that beam not here below.
Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snow
Through his long night perceive the distant dawn.
HARRY CAVENDISH.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. ETC.
———
“And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers.”Childe Harold.
“And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers.”Childe Harold.
“And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers.”
Childe Harold.
I wassitting the other afternoon before my library fire, listening to the fitful breeze without that swayed the trees to and fro before the house and moaned down in the neighbouring woods, when I suddenly recollected that the last sheets of “The Reefer” had gone to press a fortnight before, and that, consequently, my career of authorship was closed. The idea, I confess, gave me pleasure, for I am by nature an indolent man, and would at any time rather dream by a cheery fire, with my slippered feet reposing on my tiger-skin rug, than tie myself down to a writing-table, even though it be to record my own or my friends’ adventures, and “go about the world from hand to hand.” I am not ambitious. I prefer ease to reputation, quiet to turmoil, the epicurean to all other philosophy. To read my favorite authors; to indulge in reveries at the twilight hour; to gaze on fine pictures, choice statues, and tasteful rooms; to listen to the melting airs of Burns, or the glorious hallelujahs of Handel; to sport on my own grounds on a clear, bracing morning; to gallop over the wild hills and through the romantic valleys which surround my residence;—these are the enjoyments in which I delight, and which I prefer to all the reputation either the pen or the sword can give. Others may choose a more bustling life; but I have had my share of that! Give me a quiet, happy home, for there only is true happiness to be found.
Musing thus, I was unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, until I heard a slight cough beside me, and looking up, I saw my faithful servant John standing over my chair. He laid on my lap, at the instant, a copy of Graham’s Magazine for December. As John did so, he heaved a sigh, and then, as if something was on his mind, busied himself in arranging various articles in the room. I knew by these tokens that he was desirous of attracting my attention. The woe-begone expression which he wore during all this time, amused me, for I fancied I could guess what was passing through his mind. As I quietly cut the pages of the book, I indulged him by opening the conversation.
“Well, John,” I said, “it is finished. ‘The Reefer’ has followed my own adventures, and you will have no more trouble in acting as proof-reader for me. Our days,” and here, at the use of the plural, the old fellow grinned from ear to ear, “our days of authorship are over. I think we had better retire while our laurels are green. Are you not glad?”
“Glad! What for Massa Danforth think that? No, no,” and he shook his grey head mournfully, “Johnnotglad.”
“And why not, John? We shall have more time to ourselves. I’m afraid,” I said, looking towards the window, and endeavoring to peer through the twilight without, “I am afraid our planting is sadly behind hand—the clump of trees out yonder wants thinning—and then the water-fall is getting out of order—and Mrs. Danforth has been pleading for an addition to her garden—all this requires overseeing—and besides these, there are a thousand other things which will require our attention.”
I could see that the old fellow had, with difficulty, restrained himself until I had finished; for he kept moving his body unceasingly, and once or twice had opened his mouth to speak. He now broke out—
“Nebber do, Massa Danforth, nebber do to give up authorship, take old John word for dat. You now great man—talk of in all de papers—it Massa Danforth here and Massa Danforth dare—ebbery few month you get extra puff in de prospective of de Magazine—and think you discontinue if you give ober writing? Gor amighty nebber! Ebbery body can do planting,—dere Massa Jones, Massa Tyson, Massa Smit, and de oder blockheads in de county—but you be only one hereabout been to sea, or can drive a pen ober paper like a four-in-hand, polishing skrimanges for a hundred thousand readers—for dat many Massa Graham say thumb his book ebbery month. It plain text, plain sermon. Who so big as Massa Danforth de author?—who so little, beg pardon for say it, as Massa Danforth de farmer? De public like our sleepy boy Joe in de kitchen, he nebber know any one alive, unless dey keep bawling, bawling in his ear all de time.”
“But what am I to do?” said I, smiling at his earnestness, and peculiar style of illustration. “Even if I wished to continue an author, I could not. My own adventures are published; so are those of the Reefer,—if I go on, I must—to say nothing of the trouble—draw on my fancy, and that, you know, wouldn’t do. I always bear in mind what honest Sancho Panza says—‘Let every one take heed how they talk or write of people, and not set down at random the first thing that comes into their imagination.’ ”
“Massa Sanka Pancer had better keep his advice to himself, dat my mind—I nebber saw him here, or read his name in de papers, and he derefore no great shakes—but I no see dat dere be an accessory for any fiction about it. Ah! I hab him—I hab him. I think of a new feature.”
“A new feature! Well—let’s hear it.”
“But first, dere be accessory for a story. Once Massa know I be a poor scoundrel in newspaper office—hard life dat, where kicks plenty and dinners scarce—and ebbery now and den when editor pushed to de wall for cash, he say in his paper dat de next day he come out wid a new feature. Well, ebbery body, besure, be on tip-toe. Office run down next mornin for paper. Massa editor fill his pockets for once anyhow—no trouble, little cost, all wit do it. How? He put in new head to his paper, and call dat ‘new feature.’ Now, suppose Massa Danforth get a new head to ‘Cruising in de Last War,’ and so be author, and dat widout trouble, for anoder year. Ah! ha! dat grand stroke.”
I laughed heartily at the proposal, but replied—
“That would never do, John—but I must tell Graham of your idea.”
“Eh! what?—put old John in print. Gor amighty dat make him grand as de minister—not dat he care much for it—he not vain—but, but, what Massa gwine to say?”
“You’ll know in good time—but at present see who knocks at the library door.”
“Package forgot at post-office,” said John, returning from his errand, and giving me a huge bundle of manuscript.
“Ah! what have we here? A letter from Graham, I declare. What says he?—‘a valuable private history of the revolutionary times,’—‘only wants a little pruning’—‘thrilling adventures’—‘a run unsurpassed for years’—‘unequalled’—‘edit it as a great favor’—and so forth. Well, let us see what it is.”
“Eh! yes—see what he is. Massa Graham oneobiman, he know de quandary we in, and send dis to settle de argument. No escape now, Massa Danforth—it little trouble—thank God! you be great man still—and de people still say as we drive out togedder, ‘dare go de celebrated Massa Danforth, and his man John!’ ”
And now, reader, having acquainted you with the manner in which the following history came into my hands, and given you a hint as to the reasons which have induced me to appear again in print, I will take leave of you without further parley, and let the autobiographer speak for himself.
The parting word had been said, the last look had been taken, and my traps had all been snugly stowed away in the narrow room which, for some years, was to be my home. I stood by the starboard railing gazing back on the dear city I was leaving, and, despite the stoicism I had affected when bidding farewell to my friends, I could not now prevent a starting tear. Nor did my mess-mates seem in a more sportive mood; for they could be seen, some in the rigging and some leaning over the ship’s side, looking back on the well known landmarks of the town with a seriousness in the aspect which betokened the thoughts passing through the heart. Yes! we were about leaving the scenes of our boyhood, to enter on a new and untried life—and who knew if any of us would ever return again to our homes? The chances of war are at all times dreadful, but in our case they were terribly increased by the flag under which we sailed. Who could tell whether the officers of the revolted colonies might not be considered as traitors as well as rebels? Who knew but that the very first enemy we should meet would either sink us or hang us at the yard arm? And yet, firm in the righteousness of our cause, and confiding in the God of battles, there was not one of our number who, having put his hand to the plough, wished to turn back. Sink or swim—live or die—we were resigned to either destiny.
Evening was closing fast around the scene, and, even as I gazed, the town melted into gloom, Copp’s Hill alone standing up in solemn majesty over the shadowy city. The distant hum of the town died fainter and fainter on the darkness, the evening breeze came up fresher across the waters, the song of the fisherman and the dip of passing oars ceased, and, one by one, the white sails of the ships around us faded away, at first seeming like faint clouds, but finally losing themselves altogether in the darkness. All around was still. The low monotonous ground swell heaving under our counter, and rippling faintly as it went, alone broke the witching silence. Not a breath of air was stirring. The boatswain’s whistle was hushed, the whisper had died away, no footfall rose upon the stillness, but over shore and sea, earth and sky, man and inanimate creation, the same deep silence hung.
Gradually, however, the scene changed. Lights began to flash along the town and from the ships in port, and, in a few moments, the harbor was alive with a long line of effulgence. A half subdued halo now hung over the city. The effect produced was like that of magic. Here a ship lay almost buried in gloom—there one was thrown out in bold relief by the lights—now a tall warehouse rose shadowy into the sky, and now one might be seen almost as distinctly as at noon day. The lights streaming from the cabin windows and dancing along the bay, the swell tinged on its crest with silver, but dark as night below, and the far off sails gleaming like shadowy spectres, through the uncertain light, added double effect to the picture. And when the stars came out, one by one, blinking high up in the firmament, and the wind began to sigh across the bay and wail sadly through our rigging, the weird-like character of the prospect grew beyond description. Hour after hour passed away and we still continued gazing on the scene as if under the influence of some magician’s spell; but, at length, exhausted nature gave way, and one after another went below, leaving only those on deck whose duty required their presence. For myself, though I sought my hammock, a succession of wild indistinct dreams haunted me throughout the livelong night.
A pleasant breeze was singing through the rigging as I mounted the gangway at dawn, and the tide having already made, I knew no time would be lost in getting under weigh. Directly the captain made his appearance, and, after a few whispered words, the pilot issued his orders. In an instant all was bustle. The boatswain’s whistle, calling all hands to their duty, was heard shrieking through the ship, and then came the quick hurried tread of many feet, as the men swarmed to their stations. The anchor was soon hove short; the sails were loosed; the topsails, top-gallant sails and royals were sheeted home and hoisted,—the head yards were braced aback and the after yards filled away; a sheer was made with the helm; the anchor was tripped; the gib was hoisted; and as she paid beautifully off, the foretop sail was filled merrily away, and the spanker hauled out. Then the yards were trimmed, the anchor catted, and with a light breeze urging us on, we stood gallantly down the bay. As we increased our distance from the town, the wind gradually freshened. One after another of the green islands around us faded astern; the heights of Nahant opened ahead, glanced by and frowned in our wake; and before the sun had been many hours on his course, we were rolling our yard arms in a stiff breeze, leagues to sea. Before sun-down the distant coast had vanished from sight.
My mess mates had already gathered around the table in the long narrow room which was appropriated to the midshipmen, when I dove down the hatchway after the watch had been set. They were as jovial a set as I had ever seen, and, although our acquaintance was but of twenty-four hours standing, we all felt perfectly at home with each other; and as the salt beef was pushed from hand to hand, and the jug passed merrily around, the mutual laugh and jest bore token of our “right good fellowship.”
“A pretty craft, my lads,” said a tall fine-looking fellow, obviously the senior of the group, and whom I had been introduced to as a Mr. O’Hara; “a pretty craft and a bold captain we have, or I’m no judge. I’ve been at sea before, but never in as gallant a ship as this. Here’s success toThe Arrow—no heel-taps.”
The toast was drunk with a huzza, and O’Hara continued the conversation, as if, under the circumstances, he felt that he was the only proper person to play the host.
“You’re most of you green-horns, my boys—excuse the word, but ‘tell the truth,’ you know—and will not be good for much if this swell continues. One or two of you are getting pale already, and, if I’m not mistaken, Cavendish and I are the only two of the set that have smelt salt water before. Now, take a word of advice. Cut into the beef like the deuce, never mind if it does make you worse, cut away still, and bye and bye, when you get all your long shore swash out of you, you’ll find that you feel better than ever. We’re for a long voyage, and many a hard rub you’ll get before it’s over, but never flinch from duty or danger—even if Davy Jones himself stares you in the face. Kick care to the wall, and be merry while you may. But always have an eye to what is due to your superiors. The captain’s a gentleman. God bless him! The first lieutenant, I’ve a notion, is a sour sinner—never let him catch you tripping,—but you needn’t mind him further, for he looks as if he ought to be tarred and feathered as the Boston boys served the exciseman. And now, lads, here’s to a prosperous voyage, and let’s turn in, one and all, for I’ve got the morning watch, and I’ve a notion this breeze will have settled down into a regular hurricane, and be blowing great guns and marlin-spikes before then.”
The air of easy good-humor with which O’Hara spoke, attracted me to him at once. He was evidently my senior, and had seen some service; but it was equally as evident that he affected no superiority which was not his of right. I determined to know him better.
It was still dark when I was aroused from sleep by the calling of the watch, and, hastily springing up, I soon stood upon the deck. The first glance around me proved that O’Hara’s anticipations were fulfilled, for the tempest was thundering through the rigging with an almost stunning voice, driving the fine spray wildly along, and blowing with an intensity that threatened to sweep one overboard. The men, bent before the blast, and wrapped in their thick overcoats, stood like statues half seen through the mist. The night was bitterly cold—the fine spray cut to the marrow. As far as the eye could see, on every hand around us, the sea, flattened until it was nearly as level as a table, was a mass of driving foam. The binnacle lamp burned faint and dim, with a sickly halo, through the fog. Above, however, all was clear, except a few white fleecy clouds, driven wildly across the frosty stars that twinkled in the heavens. As I ran my eye along the tall taper masts, now bending like rushes in the hurricane, I saw that nearly all the canvass had been taken in, and that we were scudding before the tempest with nothing spread but a close-reefed maintopsail, a reefed fore-course, and the foretopmast staysail,—and even these, as they strained in the gale, threatened momently to blow out into ribbons before the resistless fury of the wind. Under this comparative press of canvass,The Arrowwas skimming along, seeming to outvie even the spray in velocity. And well was it that she sped onward with such hot haste!—for, on looking astern, I saw the billows howling after us, urging on their white crests in fearful proximity, and threatening at every surge to roll in over our taffrail. Wilder and wilder, more and even more fiercely they raced each other in the pursuit, like a pack of famished wolves pitching and yelling after their prey.
“Keep her so,” said the first lieutenant, as he left the deck in charge of his successor, “for you see it is neck and neck with those yelling monsters astern. If the sails are blown from the bolt ropes they must go—but as the canvass is new I think they will stand.”
“Ship ahoy!” shouted a look-out at this moment, startling us as though a thunderbolt had fallen at our feet, “a sail athwart hawse.”
“Where, where?” exclaimed both the officers incredulously.
“Close under our fore-foot—a brig, sir.”
“My God, we shall run her down,” was the exclamation of the second lieutenant.
All eyes were instantly turned in the direction of the approaching danger, and there, sure enough, directly athwart our hawse, a small trim-looking brig was seen lying-to—the wild hurricane of flying spray, which covered the surface of the deck in places with an almost impervious fog, having hitherto concealed her from our sight. It was evident that the inmates of the brig had but just discovered us, for her helm was rapidly shifted and a few hurried orders, whose import we could not make out, were given on board of her. All, indeed, seemed confusion on the decks of the unhappy craft. Her crew were hurrying to and fro; the officer of the vessel was shouting in his hoarsest tone; two or three forms, as if those of passengers, rushed up the companion way; and to crown all, the sheets were let fly, and with a wild lurch she rolled over, and lay the next moment wallowing in the sea broadside on. I could almost have jumped on her decks. All this had passed with the rapidity of thought. Never shall I forget the shriek of horror which burst simultaneously from both vessels at this fearful crisis. Already were we close on to the brig, driving with the speed of a sea-gull with the gale, and we knew that before another moment should elapse, aye! almost before another breath could be drawn, the collision must lake place. But the lightning is not quicker than was the officer of the deck.
“Port—a-port—ha-a-rd,hard,” he thundered, grinding the words between his teeth in his excitement, and waving his hands to larboard, and the helmsman, taking his cue more from the gesture than from the words—for in the uproar of the tempest he could not hear a dozen yards to windward—whirled around the wheel, and our gallant craft, obedient to the impulse like a steed beneath the spur, swept around to starboard. For a second the ill-fated brig could be seen dancing under our stem, and then, rolling heavily around, she seemed as if she would escape, though narrowly, from her frightful position. A cry of joy was already rising to my lips; but, at that instant, I heard a crash, followed by a dull grinding noise, and simultaneously I beheld the brig come into collision with us just abaft the cathead, and, while all our timbers quivered with the shock, she whirled away astern, rolling and rubbing frightfully, and half buried in the brine. A shriek rent the air, on the instant, whose thrilling tones haunted me for days and nights, and seems even now to ring in my ears.
“God of my fathers!” I exclaimed, “every soul will be lost!”
“Heave her to,” thundered the officer of the deck. “For life or death, my lads! Up with the foresail—down with your helm—brace up the after yards—set the mizzen stay sail there.”
It is a libel on sailors to say they never feel. No men are more ready to aid the unfortunate. On the present occasion the crew seemed inspired with an energy equal to that of their officer, and springing to their duty performed the rapid orders of the lieutenant in an almost incredible space of time. Happily a momentary lull aided the manœuvre, and our proud craft obeying her helm came gallantly to.
“Meet her there, quarter-master,” continued the officer of the deck; “set the main stay-sail—brace up the fore-yards—merrily, merrily—there she has it—” and, as these concluding words left his mouth, the manœuvre was finished, and we rode against the wind, rising and falling on the swell, and flinging the spray to our fore-yard arm as we thumped against the seas.
My first thought was of the brig. As soon, therefore, as our craft had been hove-to, I cast a hurried glance over the starboard bow to search for the unfortunate vessel. I detected her at once lying a short distance on our weather bow,—and it was evident that the injury she had sustained was of the most serious character, for even through the mist we fancied we could see that she was settling deeper in the water. Her officers were endeavoring to heave her to again; while rising over their orders, and swelling above all the uproar of the hurricane, we could hear the despairing wail of her passengers. At length she lay-to a few fathoms on our starboard bow, drifting, however, at every surge bodily to leeward. Confusion still reigned on her decks. We could see that the crew were at the pumps; but they appeared to work moodily and with little heart; and we caught now and then the sound of voices as if of the officers in expostulation with the men. A group of female figures also was discernible on the quarter-deck, and a manly form was visible in the midst, as if exhorting them to courage. At the sight a thrill of anguish ran through our breasts. We would have laid down our lives to save them from what appeared to be their inevitable doom, and yet what could we do in the face of such a tempest, and when any attempt to rescue them would only entail ruin on the adventurers, without aiding those we would preserve? As I thought of the impossibility of rendering succor to those shrinking females, as I dwelt on the lingering agonies they would have to endure, as I pictured to myself the brig sinking before our eyes, and we all powerless to prevent it, a thrill of horror shivered through every nerve of my system, my blood ran cold, my brain reeled around, and I could with difficulty prevent myself from falling, so great was my emotion. But rallying my spirits, I tried to persuade myself it was all a dream. I strained my eyes through the mist to see whether I might not be mistaken—to discover if possible some hope for the forlorn beings on board the brig. But, alas! it was in vain. There were the white dresses blowing about in the gale as the two females knelt on the deck and clung to the knees of their protector—there was the crew mustered at the pumps, while jets of brine were pouring from the scuppers—and there were the crushed and splintered bulwarks betokening that the efforts of the men were dictated by no idle fears. I groaned again in agony. Had it been my own fate to perish thus, I could have borne my doom without a murmur; but to see fellow creatures perishing before my sight, without my having the power to succor them, was more than I could endure. I closed my eyes on the dreadful scene. Nor were my emotions confined to myself. Not a heart of our vast crew that did not beat with sympathy for our unhappy victims. Old and young, officers and men, hardy veterans and eager volunteers, all alike owned the impulses of humanity, and stood gazing, silent, spell-bound and horror-struck, on the ill-fated brig and her despairing passengers. At this instant a gray-haired man, whom we knew at once to be her skipper, sprung into the main-rigging of the wreck, and placing his hands to his mouth, while his long silvery locks blew out dishevelled on the gale, shouted,
“We—are—sink-ing!” and, as he ceased, a shiver ran through our crew.
“God help us,” said the captain, for that officer had now reached the deck, “we can do nothing for them. And to see them sink before our eyes! But yet I will not despair,” and raising his voice, he shouted, “can’t you hold on until morning, or until the gale subsides a little?”
The skipper of the brig saw by our captain’s gestures, that he had hailed, but the old man could not hear the words in the uproar of the gale, and he shook his head despondingly.
“We are sinking!” he shouted again; “there is a foot of water in the hold, and the sea is pouring in like a cataract. We have been stove.”
Never shall I forget that moment, for, to our excited imaginations, it seemed as if the brig was visibly going down as the skipper ceased speaking. His words sounded in our ears like the knell of hope. A pause of several seconds ensued—a deep, solemn, awe-inspiring pause—during which every eye was fixed on the battered vessel. Each man held his breath, and looked in the direction of the brig, as she rose and fell on the surges, fearful lest the next billow would submerge her forever. We all saw that it was useless to attempt holding any communication with her, for no human voice, even though speaking in a voice of thunder, could be heard against the gale. The two vessels were, moreover, rapidly increasing the space betwixt them,—and, although objects on the deck of the brig had been at first clearly perceptible in the starlight, they had gradually grown dimmer as she receded from us until now, they could scarcely be seen. There was no alternative, therefore, but to abandon her to her fate. The skipper of the brig seemed to have become sensible of this, for, after having remained in the main rigging watching us for several moments longer, he finally descended to the deck, waving his hand mournfully in adieu.
Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. When I first came on deck, the stars, I have said, were out bright on high, with only a few scud clouds now and then chasing each other over the firmament. Even then, however, I had noticed a small black cloud extending across the western horizon, and giving an ominous aspect to the whole of that quarter of the sky. But during the last half hour my attention had been so engrossed by the events I have just related that I lost all consciousness of this circumstance. Now, however, the increasing darkness recalled it to my mind. I looked up. Already dark and ragged clouds, precursors of the vast body of vapors following behind, were dimming the stars overhead, now wrapping the decks in almost total darkness, and now flitting by and leaving us once more in a dim and shadowy light, through which the men loomed out like gigantic spectres. The wind had perceptibly decreased, while the sea had risen in proportion. The spray no longer flew by in showers, but the white caps of the billows, as they rolled up in the uncertain light, had a ghastliness that thrilled the heart with a strange emotion, almost amounting to superstitious dread. The ship strained and creaked as she rose heavily on the billows, or sunk wallowing far down in the abyss; while ever and anon the sea would strike on her bows like a forge-hammer, breaking in showers of spray high over the forecastle, and often sending its foam as far back as the main hatchway.
The huge mass of vapors meanwhile had attained the zenith, and was rolling darkly onward towards the opposite horizon. Directly the wind died nearly altogether away, while a total darkness shrouded us in its folds. Even then, however, a few stars could be seen low in the eastern seaboard, twinkling sharp and serene, just under the edge of that ominous cloud, but casting only a faint and dreamy radiance around them, and in vain attempting to penetrate the gloom higher up in the sky. The brig was last seen to the north-west, where the darkness had become most intense. She was still doubtless in that quarter, but no trace of her could be discerned.
“It’s as black up yonder as the eye of death,” said the captain, “and I can see nothing there but a dense, impenetrable shadow—your sight is better, Mr. Duval,” he continued, addressing the first lieutenant, “can you make out any thing?” The officer shook his head. “Well, we will hail, at any rate. I would not have run afoul of them for my commission!”
The hail rung out startlingly on the night, and every ear listened for the response. No answer came.
“Again!” said the captain.
“A-ho-o-y!—Hil-lo-o-o-o!”
A second of breathless suspense followed, and then another, when we were about giving up all hope; but at that instant a faint cry,—it might have been a wail or it might not, God knows!—came floating across the waste of waters. It fell on our listening ears like a lamentation for the dead.
“Heaven preserve us!” solemnly said the captain, “I’m afraid all is over with them.”
“Amen!” ejaculated the lieutenant, and for an instant there was a breathless silence, as if each was too awe-struck to speak. Suddenly the huge sails flapped against the mast, bellied out again, and then whipped backward with a noise like thunder. The effect was electric. The captain started and spoke.
“The wind is shifting,” he ejaculated, holding up his hand, after having first wet it slightly; “ha! the breeze is coming from the north. It will strike by the mainmast. Let her stretch away at first, but we’ll heave-to as soon as possible. I wouldn’t for the world desert this neighborhood: God grant we may find some vestige of the brig when morning dawns!”
The hurried orders of the officer of the deck to prepare for the coming hurricane had scarcely been given and executed, before it seemed to us as if we could see, even amid the blackness of darkness to the north, the whirling motion of gigantic clouds, and, almost simultaneously, with a roar as of ten thousand batteries, this new tempest was upon us. Its first fury was beyond description—surpassing imagination—defying belief. It howled, shrieked, and bellowed through the rigging in such awful and varied tones, that the oldest hearts were chilled with fear. It was as if the last convulsive throe of a world was at hand. It was as if the whole fury of the elements had been collected for one last effort—as if tortured nature, made frantic by agony, had broke loose from her tormentors—as if the mighty deep itself, in horror-struck penitence, was thundering its awful “de profundis” on the eve of final dissolution. I could scarcely breathe, much less stand. I could only grasp a rope, fling myself almost prostrate, and await either the subsidence of the storm, or the foundering of our ship,—for, during several minutes, it appeared to me as if every second was to be our last. Torrents of water, meanwhile, swept in sheets from the crests of the billows, were whirling like smoke-wreathes along the decks,—while the ravening surges, faintly seen like shadows through the gloom, chased each other in wild and rapid succession along our sides. All was darkness, doubt and terror.
But happily the duration of the squall was proportioned to its intensity, and, in less than five minutes, the hurricane began to decrease in violence. After the lapse of a short period more the gale rapidly subsided, although its power was still considerable. Before half an hour, however, we were lying-to as near to our old position as we could attain,—having suffered no loss except that of our maintopsail, which was blown from the bolt ropes in the first moment of the squall, but with a noise which was lost in the louder uproar of the wind.
“They have never survived this,” said the captain in a melancholy tone, when we were once more snugly hove-to: “how many souls are in eternity the All-Seeing Eye only knows! Keep her here,” he added after a pause, turning to descend to his cabin, and addressing the officer of the deck, “and with the first streak of light, if the gale shall have abated, as I suspect it will, cruize up to our old position, maintaining a sharp look-out in every direction. But I shall be on deck myself by that time,” and with the words, taking a last but fruitless look towards the west, he went below. In half an hour the crowded decks were deserted by all except the silent watch; and no sound broke the whistle of the winds, except the tread of the men, or the cry of “all’s well” passing from look-out to look-out along the decks.
With the first appearance of morning I was on deck. The gale had nearly gone down; the clouds had broken away; and the stars were out again, clear and bright, in the firmament. Yet the waves still rolled mountain high around us, now heaving their snowy crests above us in the sky, and now rolling their dark bosoms far away under our stern. Morning slowly dawned. Gradually, one by one, the stars paled on high, and a faint shadowy streak of light began to spread along the eastern seaboard. Over the boundless expanse of waters around us no living object met the eye, so that, in that dim mysterious light, the sense of loneliness was overpowering. But I had no thought then for aught except the ill-fated brig. I felt an unaccountable interest in her. It seemed as if some unknown sympathy existed betwixt me and those on board of her, as if my destiny in some mysterious manner was connected with theirs. I could not rest on deck, but ascending to the cross-trees I took my station there, and gazed out anxiously over the waste of waters. Our ship had, by this time, been put about, and we were now, as near as I could judge, in the vicinity of the spot where the collision occurred. The moment came which was either to realize or confirm my fears. A strange emotion took possession of me. My heart beat nervously, my breath came heavily, I trembled in every fibre of my system. I strained my eyes in every direction around, and, once or twice, as a billow rolled its white crest upwards, I fancied I saw a sail,—but, alas! my agitation had deceived me, and all was a blank watery waste around. For more than an hour we cruized to and fro, but in vain. As time passed and hope died away, the officers and men, one by one, left the rigging, until finally even the captain gave up the search, and issued a reluctant order to put the ship away on her course. At that instant I saw, far down on the seaboard, what seemed to me a tiny sail; but as we sank in the trough of the sea the object faded from my sight. With eager eyes, I watched for it as we rose on the swell, and—God of my fathers!—it was the long looked for boat.
“A sail!” I shouted almost in a phrenzy—“they are in sight!”
“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck, while every eye swept the horizon in eager curiosity.
“On the lee-beam!”
“What do you make it out?”
“A ship’s launch—crowded with human beings!”
“God be praised!—it is the brig’s crew,” ejaculated the captain. “Up with your helm, quarter-master—around with her all—there she dances,” and as he spoke the gallant ship wheeled around and in a few minutes the brig’s launch was rocking under our bows.
The discipline of a man-of-war could scarcely suppress the loudest demonstrations of emotion on the part of the crew, when the freight of that tempest-tost launch reached our decks. The sailors of the brig were instantly seized by our tars, and borne forward in triumph,—while our superior grasped the hand of the rescued skipper with visible emotion. But when the two females, with their protector, an elderly, gentlemanly looking man, were safely landed on the quarter-deck, every eye was at once attracted to the interesting group. Both the females were young and beautiful, but one was surpassingly lovely. As I gazed on her, it seemed as if some long forgotten dream had come back to me; but in vain were my attempts to give it reality. At this instant their protector spoke in reply to a question from the captain.
“It is indeed a miracle that we are saved. The brig went down in that fearful squall, and though we had taken to the launch, as a last hope, we did not believe we should live a minute in such a hurricane. But an Omnipotent Power preserved us for some wise ends. All night long we were tossed at the mercy of the waves. We saw you long before you saw us, and thought that you had given up the search, when suddenly your head was brought around in our direction—and here we stand on your decks. To whom are we indebted for our discovery? We owe him our eternal gratitude.”
All eyes were instantly turned towards me, and the captain taking me by the hand, said,
“Mr. Cavendish has that enviable honor,” at the same time presenting me.
“Cavendish!” exclaimed a silvery female voice in delighted surprise.
At the mention of that name I looked up with eager curiosity, and saw the eyes of the lovely speaker fixed upon me, as if in recognition. She crimsoned to the brow at my eager glance, and as she did so, the crowd of dim recollections in my mind assumed a definite shape, and I recognized in that sweet smile, in that delicately tinted cheek, in those now tearful eyes, in that lustrous brow, the features of my old playmateAnnette!
“Cavendish—what, little Henry Cavendish?” exclaimed the gentleman, eagerly seizing my hand, “yes! it is even so, although the years that have passed since you used to visit Pomfret Hall have almost eradicated your features from my memory. God bless you, my gallant young friend! We owe you our lives—our all.”
The scene that ensued I will not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say I retired that night with a whirl of strange emotions at my heart. Was itLove?