IMAGINATION.[2]

Itis so long a time since a poem of any serious pretensions has made its appearance before the British or American public, that we have almost ceased to look for new metrical productions, divided into books or cantos. We have been contented with the light, fugitive strains of the periodicals, and have not asked for grand overtures—such as used to absorb the whole interest of the reading public, twenty, thirty, fifty and more years ago. In the middle of the last century, a man, to be recognised as a poet, was required to issue some single work of a thousand lines. Quantity was more considered than quality; intellectual labor was judged of rather by the amount of its achievements than by their kind.

Poetry has at times been criticised by a different rule than Painting. That age never was, when an artist acquired a reputation in consequence of the number of his pictures: one gem of art has always been more highly esteemed than a million crystals. In all days past, as in the day present, it might be said of a single head by a master, small, faded, stained, yet beautiful through the rust of age,—“that little bit of canvass is worth more than a whole gallery of fresh portraits, though after living models, as beautiful as Aspasia, or as stately as Alcibiades.” But a solitary brief poem was never so valued in comparison with a voluminous production. Even now, formed and polished as the public taste pretends itself to be, there lurks with us that prejudice which more highly ranks the author of a book of verses than the author of a sonnet. Though the book may be as negative in merit as the correct hand of gentle dullness could make it, and the sonnet as perfect as the best that Petrarch wrote, in the intensest glow of his love and his genius—except by the few, the former would be regarded as the more arduous, the more commendable performance.

The philosophy of this prejudice, is a sort of respect mankind entertains for a constant fulfilment of the original curse. We love to see hard work done or indicated. We look at a mass of printed leaves and exclaim, “Goodness! what an industrious individual the writer must have been! How much he has accomplished!” It may be that, upon examination, his work may have added nothing to the available stock of literature; it may be that it will prove useless lumber, destined to dust and obscurity in men’s garrets, and not worth the corners it will encumber. “What of that? the author had to work hard to do it—didn’t he?” Yes! such is the question put by people who seem to love labor for its own sake. They look upon men of talent very much in the same light that old Girard of Philadelphia considered poor people who existed by the employment of their arms and legs.

At a season of distress, some day-laborers applied to Girard for assistance. There was a huge pile of bricks lying in the vicinity of the house of Dives. “Take up those bricks,” said he, “and place them yonder, and then I will pay you for the task.” The men obeyed; the bricks—to use a verb for which we are indebted to Dr. Noah Webster and the Georgia negroes—weretotedfrom one position to another, and the stipulated price demanded. Girard paid it cheerfully. “But,” said the laborers, “what are we to do now? Must we be idle while we spend this money, and starve by and by? We shall come to you again in a week. Keep us employed—bid us perform another task.” “Yes,” said Girard. “Take up those bricks from the place where you have put them, and carry them back to the place whence you removed them.” Pretty much as Girard used the pooroperativesdoes the public treat the man of genius. Let him write the immortal sonnet, bright and beautiful, to be fixed hereafter, a star in the firmament of fame, and his contemporaries, in reply to his demand for praise, will say, “What has he done? What book has he written? What is he the author of?”—They want to see work—honest labor, and plenty of it, though that labor be as useless as thetotingof the bricks.

Not without some qualifications must these remarks be considered strictly true, with regard to the present age, or to our own country. There are facts to the contrary, though not sufficient to disprove the general truth of what we say. We have no poet, who is more generally, or more highly esteemed, than Halleck; and yet his truly great reputation has been built up on some four or six short pieces of verse. On the other hand, Mr. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, has lumbered the bookseller’s lofts with ream after ream of printed paper, and nobody but an occasional crazy reviewer, calls such a dunce, a poet. Nevertheless, we maintain the verity of the general observation, that those poets have heretofore been most esteemed, who have done the most work. It is downright astonishing, how much some of them diddo. We look over their long poems, with a sentiment of wonder, and reverence, and we are awfully perplexed to determine, how vast a length of time it must have taken these modern Cheopses, to build their pyramids. Hamlet’s account to Polonius, of the graybeard’s book he was reading, appears to us a pretty comprehensive description of many of these vast metrical diffusions—“words, words, words.” It exceeds our powers of conjecture, how the writers could have completed their whole task, so labors the line and so slow runs the verse. We have seen a sturdy blacksmith pound a piece of iron, for hours and hours, till it became as malleable as lead; we have seen a woodsawyer saw, and saw, and saw, up and down, down and up, till the very sight of him made us ready to drop with imaginary fatigue; thy still-beginning, never ending whirl, oh weary knife-grinder, have we also contemplated with feverish melancholy—still for the endurance of all these, have we been able satisfactorily to account; drilled by habit, ruled by habit, habit is to them a second nature. But for the perpetration of a long, tedious poem for the manufacture of verse after verse, the last drier and duller than the preceding, there is no possible manner of accounting. It is an infliction, which can be borne by neither gods, men nor columns. Yourmédiocreman may be forgiven for talking one into a paralysis, or writing prose, till every word acts like a mesmerist and puts you to sleep; but for his writing verses, there can be, there ought to be no forgiveness; he should be consigned to the cave of perpetual oblivion, and over its entrance should be inscribed, “Hope never enters here.”

Were we to follow in the track of reviewers in the Quarterlies, who always seem to think it necessary to make a considerable preliminary flourish to the solemn common-places they are about to utter, we should observe that the foregoing remarks had been elicited by a work on our table, entitled “Imagination, a poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa Frances Poulter.” But as the work did not call forth the remarks, we shall observe nothing of the kind. The moment we wrote the title of the poem, and saw that it consisted of nearly eleven hundred lines, we began to reflect that very few long poems had been written lately, and our pen scampered over the paper at a rail-road rate, till we reached thedépôtat the end of this paragraph.

Pausing here, we first look back over what we have said; it pleases us—let it stand, therefore, and let us now employ ourselves with reading Miss Poulter’s poem in two cantos. We have not the slightest dread of it—no! it seems a pleasant land, of which we have had delightful glimpses in a transient survey. With these glimpses we mean to entertain the reader, besides giving him an idea of the face of the country.

In limine, we ought to confess ourselves amiable critics, when we are called upon to pronounce on the works of a female writer, and more particularly of one who is a new claimant for distinction. It is our desire to encourage the intellectual efforts of the gentle sex, if for no better purpose, at least for that of inciting women to assert their claims to the honors and the rewards of authorship. These pages are scrutinized by many a brilliant pair of eyes, ready to flash indignation upon the slightest disparagement of female genius. Far be it from us to evoke from those mortal stars any other beams than those of softness and serenity. Lovely readers! smile therefore upon this article as kindly as upon the prettiest story in the Magazine, and think well of him who seeks to win no better guerdon than your approbation.

Miss Poulter has put upon her title-page a striking passage in French from some essay ofBernardin de St. Pierre, which may be thus literally translated. “Tasso, while travelling with a friend, one day ascended a very high mountain. When he had reached the summit, he exclaimed: ‘Seest thou these rugged rocks, these wild forests, this brook bordered with flowers, which winds through the valley, this majestic river, which rolls onward and onward till it bathes the walls of a hundred cities? Well, these rocks, these mountains, these walls, these cities, gods, men—lo! these are my poem!’ ” On the page immediately preceding the principal poem in the volume, “Imagination,” there appears the following fromStewart’s Outlines of Moral Philosophy, “One of the principal effects of a liberal education is to accustom us to withdraw our attention from the objects of our present perceptions, and to dwell at pleasure on the past, the absent and the future. How much it must enlarge in this way the sphere of our enjoyment or suffering is obvious: for (not to mention the recollection of the past) all that part of our happiness or misery, which arises from our hopes or our fears, derives its existence entirely from the power of our imagination.”

We are pleased with these quotations. They augur well for the original words that are to follow. They prepare the mind of the reader for something almost as good as they are. The talent, or rather tact of quoting well is no mean one; it is not possessed by many, scarcely possessed at all by those who say that a quotation should be as strictly appropriate as a title. It is enough that a quotation be one naturally appertaining to or suggestiveper seof the subject matter. Mottoes, it should be remembered, are not texts, but simply prefixes, intended rather as ornaments than things of use. They are to books, chapters, and cantos, what jewels are to the clasps of a fair lady’s girdle, not indispensable to the clasps, but decorating them. In the choice of the jewels and the style of their setting the taste of the wearer is manifested.

The reflection which first suggests itself to us after a consideration of this poem, is that the author preferred rather to indulge her inclination for roving from topic to topic, than to confine herself to any exact method. She does not so much consider the power of imagination or its effect upon life as she does the places and persons upon which this faculty of the mind would choose to expand itself. The single word, therefore, which constitutes the title, might be regarded as too pretensive, as demanding too much, more than it is within the capacity or education of the writer to give. Her modes of thought seem to be too independent of the influence of “Association,” and it would confuse a philosophical thinker to follow the diversities of her fancy. Perhaps, however, the person who reads only to be amused, would derive more gratification from Miss Poulter’s disregard of rules than were she more correct and less fervid.

The poem opens with a picture of sunset after a storm, and this affords an apt and natural illustration for the Power of the Imagination. The first topic pursued is the fact that childhood is but little under the influence of Imagination, being led away by the pleasures of the present moment and apt to resign itself wholly to the object by which it is temporarily attracted. Illustrative of this is the following admirably drawn scene⁠—

See, from his sheltering roof, the infant boyRush with delight, to snatch the promised joy;Allowed for once to stray where’er he please,And live one day of liberty and ease.His frugal basket to his girdle hung,His little rod across his shoulder flung,With eager haste he starts at dawn of day,Yet every trifle lures him from his way;An opening rose, a gaudy butterfly,Turn his light steps and fix his wandering eye;He plucks ripe berries blushing in the hedge,And pungent cresses from the watery sedge.At length he gains the bank, and seeks to fillHis little scrip, and prove his infant skill;He marks the fish approach in long array⁠—Then, stamps the ground, to see them glide away.But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind,’Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined:It comes—it bites—he finds himself possestOf one small trout, less wary than the rest:With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil,The rich reward of one long day of toil.For some short moments yet he keeps his seatClose to the brook, and laves his weary feet;Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws,That playful airs may fan his little brows;Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay,To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way.Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips,The half-told tale is muttered from his lips;With bounding heart he shows his spotted prize,And marks, exulting, the well-feigned surprise.A second moment sees him locked in sleep,And placid slumbers o’er his senses creep;In dreams he rests along some river’s side,Where giant trout beneath clear waters glide.

See, from his sheltering roof, the infant boy

Rush with delight, to snatch the promised joy;

Allowed for once to stray where’er he please,

And live one day of liberty and ease.

His frugal basket to his girdle hung,

His little rod across his shoulder flung,

With eager haste he starts at dawn of day,

Yet every trifle lures him from his way;

An opening rose, a gaudy butterfly,

Turn his light steps and fix his wandering eye;

He plucks ripe berries blushing in the hedge,

And pungent cresses from the watery sedge.

At length he gains the bank, and seeks to fill

His little scrip, and prove his infant skill;

He marks the fish approach in long array⁠—

Then, stamps the ground, to see them glide away.

But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind,’Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined:It comes—it bites—he finds himself possestOf one small trout, less wary than the rest:With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil,The rich reward of one long day of toil.For some short moments yet he keeps his seatClose to the brook, and laves his weary feet;Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws,That playful airs may fan his little brows;Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay,To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way.Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips,The half-told tale is muttered from his lips;With bounding heart he shows his spotted prize,And marks, exulting, the well-feigned surprise.A second moment sees him locked in sleep,And placid slumbers o’er his senses creep;In dreams he rests along some river’s side,Where giant trout beneath clear waters glide.

But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind,

’Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined:

It comes—it bites—he finds himself possest

Of one small trout, less wary than the rest:

With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil,

The rich reward of one long day of toil.

For some short moments yet he keeps his seat

Close to the brook, and laves his weary feet;

Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws,

That playful airs may fan his little brows;

Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay,

To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way.

Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips,

The half-told tale is muttered from his lips;

With bounding heart he shows his spotted prize,

And marks, exulting, the well-feigned surprise.

A second moment sees him locked in sleep,

And placid slumbers o’er his senses creep;

In dreams he rests along some river’s side,

Where giant trout beneath clear waters glide.

The following figure illustrates the toilsome ascent of youth to Greatness:

So up yon cliffs that frown in stern array,The hardy pilgrim climbs his painful way;His form bends forward—see! how he expandsO’er each frail mountain-shrub his fearful hands;Will it resist?—or, from the rocky steep,Whirl him below unnumbered fathoms deep?He grasps it firm—he keeps his dizzy ground⁠—Though blasts and foaming torrents roar around;Soon from the summit, views, with raptured eye,The lovely scenes that far extended lie;The smiling hamlet; the deep-tangled grove;The lake whose breast reflects the hills above;The lowing herds that through green pastures stray,Where limpid streams pursue their pebbled way.

So up yon cliffs that frown in stern array,

The hardy pilgrim climbs his painful way;

His form bends forward—see! how he expands

O’er each frail mountain-shrub his fearful hands;

Will it resist?—or, from the rocky steep,

Whirl him below unnumbered fathoms deep?

He grasps it firm—he keeps his dizzy ground⁠—

Though blasts and foaming torrents roar around;

Soon from the summit, views, with raptured eye,

The lovely scenes that far extended lie;

The smiling hamlet; the deep-tangled grove;

The lake whose breast reflects the hills above;

The lowing herds that through green pastures stray,

Where limpid streams pursue their pebbled way.

After showing that imagination is most powerful in youth, and the different manner in which it operates upon men, leading some to public life, and some to retirement; after drawing a picture of domestic felicity, and dwelling upon the question whether the happiness derived from the indulgence of an ardent fancy is not ill exchanged for a reasonable view of human life,—the poet speaks of the moral influence of a fine imagination; and here occur these lines⁠—

Shall the pale Autumn shed his leaves in vain,Sear the green woods, and all their glories stain?Shall Winter clouds and bitter frosts impart,Yet force no saddening moral on the heart?Oh! let the warning past one thought employ!Have not our projects, marked by grief or joy,And all that we call beauty, talent, worth,Mimicked the transient fashion of the Earth?The fragile bloom has withered in the storm⁠—The pride of better years now feeds the worm!

Shall the pale Autumn shed his leaves in vain,

Sear the green woods, and all their glories stain?

Shall Winter clouds and bitter frosts impart,

Yet force no saddening moral on the heart?

Oh! let the warning past one thought employ!

Have not our projects, marked by grief or joy,

And all that we call beauty, talent, worth,

Mimicked the transient fashion of the Earth?

The fragile bloom has withered in the storm⁠—

The pride of better years now feeds the worm!

The next subject of contemplation is the death of a beloved and distinguished friend; afterwards the poet goes on to describe the influence of sublime scenery in awakening corresponding sensations in the mind. An address to the Deity is attempted: next it is shown that external beauties alone cannot soothe a wounded heart; a fact happily illustrated by the disappointment of Tasso on his return to his native Sorrento⁠—

Tasso, the pride, the victim of the Great,Who learned the value of their smile too late.Had shone in courts resplendent, and beneathA prison’s wall had drawn his painful breath,Sought his beloved Sorrento; for he fedA wild delirious hope that bade him tread,In search of peace, her groves, her spicy hills,And woo the balsam her soft air distils.Impetuous passion in his mind had wrought,And trenched it deep with many a bitter thought;Perchance the breeze that fans her rocky shore,The mournful measure of the plashing oar,Her blooming gardens that expanded lie,Breathing their citron fragrance to the sky,Her clustered almond trees, her sighing pines,Her founts of crystal, and her palmy wines,May lull its throb, its languid tone restore,And charm it back to all it was before.

Tasso, the pride, the victim of the Great,

Who learned the value of their smile too late.

Had shone in courts resplendent, and beneath

A prison’s wall had drawn his painful breath,

Sought his beloved Sorrento; for he fed

A wild delirious hope that bade him tread,

In search of peace, her groves, her spicy hills,

And woo the balsam her soft air distils.

Impetuous passion in his mind had wrought,

And trenched it deep with many a bitter thought;

Perchance the breeze that fans her rocky shore,

The mournful measure of the plashing oar,

Her blooming gardens that expanded lie,

Breathing their citron fragrance to the sky,

Her clustered almond trees, her sighing pines,

Her founts of crystal, and her palmy wines,

May lull its throb, its languid tone restore,

And charm it back to all it was before.

The poetess then describes the anguish he endured.

This is all that we can extract for the reader’s recreation from the first Part or Canto of this meritorious poem, with the exception of a very touching ballad. The verses are supposed to be repeated by an Indian mother, over the grave of her departed child. Let us call them

THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LAMENT.Twice falling snows have clad the earth;Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest;Since first I smiled upon thy birth,And felt thee breathing on my breast.Now snowy wreaths will melt away,And buds of red will shine around;But, heedless of the sunny ray,Thy form shall wither in the ground.Oft hath thy father dared the foe,And, while their arrows drank his blood,And round him lay his brothers low,Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood.But when he saw thee droop thy head,Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,And from thy lip the scarlet fled,Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled.The land of souls lies distant far,And dark and lonely is the road;No ghost of night, no shining star,Shall guide me to thy new abode.Will some good Spirit to thee bringThe milky fruits of cocoa-tree?To shield thee stretch his pitying wing?Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee?Oh! in the blue-bird’s shape descend,When broad magnolias shut their leaves!With evening airs thy lisping blend,And watch the tomb thy mother weaves!I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest,When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shineOn Mississippi’s furrowed breast,By many a watery wreath entwined.But soon they rippled down the stream,To lave the stranger’s distant shore;One moment sparkled in the beam⁠—Then saw their native banks no more.

THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LAMENT.

Twice falling snows have clad the earth;Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest;Since first I smiled upon thy birth,And felt thee breathing on my breast.

Twice falling snows have clad the earth;

Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest;

Since first I smiled upon thy birth,

And felt thee breathing on my breast.

Now snowy wreaths will melt away,And buds of red will shine around;But, heedless of the sunny ray,Thy form shall wither in the ground.

Now snowy wreaths will melt away,

And buds of red will shine around;

But, heedless of the sunny ray,

Thy form shall wither in the ground.

Oft hath thy father dared the foe,And, while their arrows drank his blood,And round him lay his brothers low,Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood.

Oft hath thy father dared the foe,

And, while their arrows drank his blood,

And round him lay his brothers low,

Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood.

But when he saw thee droop thy head,Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,And from thy lip the scarlet fled,Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled.

But when he saw thee droop thy head,

Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,

And from thy lip the scarlet fled,

Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled.

The land of souls lies distant far,And dark and lonely is the road;No ghost of night, no shining star,Shall guide me to thy new abode.

The land of souls lies distant far,

And dark and lonely is the road;

No ghost of night, no shining star,

Shall guide me to thy new abode.

Will some good Spirit to thee bringThe milky fruits of cocoa-tree?To shield thee stretch his pitying wing?Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee?

Will some good Spirit to thee bring

The milky fruits of cocoa-tree?

To shield thee stretch his pitying wing?

Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee?

Oh! in the blue-bird’s shape descend,When broad magnolias shut their leaves!With evening airs thy lisping blend,And watch the tomb thy mother weaves!

Oh! in the blue-bird’s shape descend,

When broad magnolias shut their leaves!

With evening airs thy lisping blend,

And watch the tomb thy mother weaves!

I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest,When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shineOn Mississippi’s furrowed breast,By many a watery wreath entwined.

I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest,

When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shine

On Mississippi’s furrowed breast,

By many a watery wreath entwined.

But soon they rippled down the stream,To lave the stranger’s distant shore;One moment sparkled in the beam⁠—Then saw their native banks no more.

But soon they rippled down the stream,

To lave the stranger’s distant shore;

One moment sparkled in the beam⁠—

Then saw their native banks no more.

Of the second Part or Canto, the following is a brief analysis. The poet first addresses the Spirit of Ruin; then displays various forms of destruction—a shipwreck: the descent of an avalanche. The topics next treated are intellectual decay; the fatal effects of an ill-regulated and warm Imagination; the power of Love in youth; the influence of Imagination in our choice of life; the love of Fame; an active life necessary to a person of vivid Imagination; the thirst of some overcoming the love of life. Next occurs an apostrophe to the noble and patriotic and sainted spirits of the heroes of Switzerland and America—Arnold de Winkelried and George Washington. It is then shown that Imagination represents them as still living; the power of Imagination in old age is portrayed, and the poem concludes.

From this part, we regret that we have room but for two extracts; for these are of so excellent a character that the reader, like Oliver Twist, will be certain to ask for more.

Our first extract is a description of the life of an Alpine shepherd. The lines are eminently good.

Track thou my path where Alpine winters shedTheir lingering snows o’er bare St. Gothard’s head,Ghastly his savage aspect; there reclineRocks piled on rocks, and shagg’d with stunted pine;Yet touched with beauty, when the purple hazeIts softening shadows o’er their summit lays;Then melts in air, while wandering sunbeams streak,With tints of rose, each ridge and frozen peak.From cliff to cliff hoarse cataracts pursueTheir shattered course; now stained with lovely hue,Lovely, and yet more transient, while a rayAthwart the shivered waters cuts its way;Now whirling in black eddies, as they lashThe darkened precipice with hideous crash.But see! with trees and freshest verdure bright,A lonely valley starts upon the sight,Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side,And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide.Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knollThe lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll,Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose,As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows.Here, free from Passion’s storm and splendid Care,A hardy race Life’s simple blessings share.Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot,Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot?Sighs he for joys by Nature’s hand denied?Feels he a want by labor unsupplied?The flock which oft his children’s pranks disturb,The goats delighting in the sprouted herb,The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies,His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies.Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease,At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze;With eager industry and rustic skillFirst prunes his purple vine, then hastes to tillHis garden, freshened by the chills of night,Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight;The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees,The green retiring herb, the lofty trees,That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the airWaft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r.But noon advances, and he drives his flocksWhere spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks;There spends the day; and, far above, inhalesThe love of Freedom with his mountain gales.Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite,Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height;The shepherd’s evening call—and in each dellTinkles the music of the pastoral bell.His labor done, a frugal meal preparedBy her he loves, recruits his strength impaired;Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest,And rural visions charm his peaceful breast.

Track thou my path where Alpine winters shed

Their lingering snows o’er bare St. Gothard’s head,

Ghastly his savage aspect; there recline

Rocks piled on rocks, and shagg’d with stunted pine;

Yet touched with beauty, when the purple haze

Its softening shadows o’er their summit lays;

Then melts in air, while wandering sunbeams streak,

With tints of rose, each ridge and frozen peak.

From cliff to cliff hoarse cataracts pursue

Their shattered course; now stained with lovely hue,

Lovely, and yet more transient, while a ray

Athwart the shivered waters cuts its way;

Now whirling in black eddies, as they lash

The darkened precipice with hideous crash.

But see! with trees and freshest verdure bright,

A lonely valley starts upon the sight,

Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side,And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide.Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knollThe lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll,Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose,As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows.Here, free from Passion’s storm and splendid Care,A hardy race Life’s simple blessings share.Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot,Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot?Sighs he for joys by Nature’s hand denied?Feels he a want by labor unsupplied?The flock which oft his children’s pranks disturb,The goats delighting in the sprouted herb,The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies,His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies.Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease,At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze;With eager industry and rustic skillFirst prunes his purple vine, then hastes to tillHis garden, freshened by the chills of night,Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight;The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees,The green retiring herb, the lofty trees,That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the airWaft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r.But noon advances, and he drives his flocksWhere spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks;There spends the day; and, far above, inhalesThe love of Freedom with his mountain gales.Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite,Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height;The shepherd’s evening call—and in each dellTinkles the music of the pastoral bell.His labor done, a frugal meal preparedBy her he loves, recruits his strength impaired;Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest,And rural visions charm his peaceful breast.

Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side,

And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide.

Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knoll

The lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll,

Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose,

As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows.

Here, free from Passion’s storm and splendid Care,

A hardy race Life’s simple blessings share.

Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot,

Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot?

Sighs he for joys by Nature’s hand denied?

Feels he a want by labor unsupplied?

The flock which oft his children’s pranks disturb,

The goats delighting in the sprouted herb,

The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies,

His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies.

Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease,

At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze;

With eager industry and rustic skill

First prunes his purple vine, then hastes to till

His garden, freshened by the chills of night,

Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight;

The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees,

The green retiring herb, the lofty trees,

That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the air

Waft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r.

But noon advances, and he drives his flocks

Where spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks;

There spends the day; and, far above, inhales

The love of Freedom with his mountain gales.

Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite,

Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height;

The shepherd’s evening call—and in each dell

Tinkles the music of the pastoral bell.

His labor done, a frugal meal prepared

By her he loves, recruits his strength impaired;

Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest,

And rural visions charm his peaceful breast.

Our second, and last, extract is one the spirit and force of which every devotee of Freedom, every true American heart cannot fail to acknowledge.

Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayedIn mortal clothing, once a proud part playedUpon this nether orb! If ye retainNo human sense of honor, joy, or pain;If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deemEarth’s goodliest pageantries an idiot’s dream;Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sownDeep as Life’s pulse the love of fair Renown;For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds,Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds,A spark of fire ethereal shall impart,To rouse each godlike passion in the heart.Still, gallant Arnold! while the Switzer fightsE’en to his blood’s last drop, to guard his rights;The right to tread his hills begirt with storm,Free as the winds that brace his nervous form;Your dying words, invincible he hears;When with gored bosom, grasping Austria’s spears,To glorious death you singly forced the way,And bade forever live red Sempach’s day;“The ranks are broken! charge! the cowards yield!My little orphans, Oh my Country! shield.”And You! in whose unconquerable mindThe wide-expanded wish to serve MankindRuled as a master-passion; whether laidAt ease, you wooed Mount Vernon’s pleasant shade,And the pure luxury of rural life;Or plunged, reluctant, into desperate strife,To breast the weight of tyrannous command.And stamp the badge of Freedom on your Land;Shall You, the meteor of a fickle day,Blaze for one moment, strike, and pass away?No—to her sons unborn shall cling your name,Linked to their country’s proudest hour of Fame;Till private, public worth, to Ruin hurled,Shall leave not e’en their shadow in the World;Thenmust the Slave, the Patriot, share one lot⁠—And He, and Washington, shall be forgot.

Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayed

In mortal clothing, once a proud part played

Upon this nether orb! If ye retain

No human sense of honor, joy, or pain;

If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deem

Earth’s goodliest pageantries an idiot’s dream;

Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sown

Deep as Life’s pulse the love of fair Renown;

For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds,

Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds,

A spark of fire ethereal shall impart,

To rouse each godlike passion in the heart.

Still, gallant Arnold! while the Switzer fights

E’en to his blood’s last drop, to guard his rights;

The right to tread his hills begirt with storm,

Free as the winds that brace his nervous form;

Your dying words, invincible he hears;

When with gored bosom, grasping Austria’s spears,

To glorious death you singly forced the way,

And bade forever live red Sempach’s day;

“The ranks are broken! charge! the cowards yield!

My little orphans, Oh my Country! shield.”

And You! in whose unconquerable mind

The wide-expanded wish to serve Mankind

Ruled as a master-passion; whether laid

At ease, you wooed Mount Vernon’s pleasant shade,

And the pure luxury of rural life;

Or plunged, reluctant, into desperate strife,

To breast the weight of tyrannous command.

And stamp the badge of Freedom on your Land;

Shall You, the meteor of a fickle day,

Blaze for one moment, strike, and pass away?

No—to her sons unborn shall cling your name,

Linked to their country’s proudest hour of Fame;

Till private, public worth, to Ruin hurled,

Shall leave not e’en their shadow in the World;

Thenmust the Slave, the Patriot, share one lot⁠—

And He, and Washington, shall be forgot.

From the remarks, with which this article began, it is clearly enough to be inferred that we are no admirers of long poems, unless they be of extraordinary and sustained merit. This praise cannot be awarded to Miss Poulter’s production: We believe that we have taken pretty much all that is excellent, though a fine passage or two may be left in the exquisite volume which we have just now cut to pieces—not metaphorically, but literally. It was sad to destroy so charming a library book; but what were the exquisite typography and clear white paper of one of Saunders & Otley’s editions, when compared with the amusement of the friends of Graham’s Magazine? Nothing. Moreover, we should not have quoted so largely as we have, had we not felt assured of the fact that the volume to which we refer was the only copy of Miss Poulter’s poem in America. Such works are not in the least likely to be reprinted here; and our readers would therefore know nothing about them, were it not for the pains we are happy to take in their behalf.

[2]Imagination: a Poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa Frances Poulter, London: Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street.

[2]

Imagination: a Poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa Frances Poulter, London: Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street.

HARRY CAVENDISH.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. ETC.

———

Itwas the second night after our brush with the corvette, when a party, composed of Mr. St. Clair, his niece and daughter, together with several of the officers, stood at the side of the ship. It was a lovely evening. The moon was high in heaven, sailing on in cloudless splendor; her silvery light tipping the tops of the billows, and stretching in a long line of effulgence across the waters. A gentle breeze was singing, with a clear musical intonation, among the thousand tiny threads of the rigging. The water rippled pleasantly against the sides of the ship. Not far off lay a small rakish schooner, from which the sound of a bugle, borne gently on the night air, floated in delicious melody to our ears. The decks were noiseless. The quiet moon seemed as if, by some magic spell, she had hushed the deep into silence, for scarcely a sound rose up from the heaving waves, which, glittering now in the wake of the moon, and now sinking into sudden shadow, stretched away in the distance until they faded into the dim mystic haze of the distant seaboard. The whole scene was like a vision of romance.

The group which I have mentioned stood at the gangway of the ship. A boat was rocking gently below. The passengers, whom we had rescued from the brig, were about transferring themselves to the schooner lying-to a short distance off, which we had spoken about an hour before, and which proved to be a small privateer bound in for Newport. As we were off Block Island, and the run would consequently be a short one, Mr. St. Clair had resolved to avail himself of this opportunity to place his daughter and niece safely on shore. The party were now about to embark.

“I shall never forget your kindness,” said Mr. St. Clair, addressing the captain, “and I am sure that my daughter and niece will give you their especial prayers, as the best return they can make for the obligations they owe you. And as for my friend, Mr. Cavendish—I hardly know how to express my thanks. You will come and see us,” he continued, turning frankly to me, and taking both my hands, “Pomfret Hall will always open its doors gladly to welcome the preserver of its owner.”

I promised that I would not forget it, and turned away to hide the emotion occasioned by the kind tone of Mr. St. Clair. As I moved away my eyes fell on Annette. Her gaze was fixed on me with an expression I shall never forget, but which I would have given the world to have been able to interpret. There was an expression of the deepest interest in that look, and the eyes, I fancied, were partially humid. As soon as she caught my gaze, she blushed deeply, and looked down. What meant that earnest gaze—this sudden embarrassment? Did she then really love me? My heart beat fast, my brain fairly swam around, my emotion, for an instant, almost overpowered me. I could, if no one had been present, have rushed to her feet and told my suit. But a moment’s reflection changed the current of my thoughts. Perhaps she had noticed my feelings while her father had been speaking. If so, her subsequent emotion arose from being detected in observing me. I ran over everything which had happened since she had been on board, and could find nothing corroborating, directly, the idea that she loved me. Her manner had always been frank and kind; but what had she said or done to give me hope? As these thoughts rushed through my mind my towering hopes fell. The revulsion was extreme. I despaired now as much as I had exulted but a moment before. I was about to turn gloomily away, when the voice of Isabel called me. I looked up. She was beckoning me gayly toward her as she leaned on Annette’s arm.

“Why, I declare, Mr. Cavendish,” she said laughingly, “you seem to be determined to leave us depart without even saying ‘adieu’—a pretty gallant you are, to be sure! Here is Annette really displeased at your coldness.”

A look of silent reproach was the only reply of her cousin, who dared not raise her eyes to mine. With the vacillation of a lover my sentiments again underwent a change. Had Annette really been wondering at my coldness? How unjust then had been my suspicions. I advanced eagerly to her side. Yet when I had done so I knew not what to say. Isabel seemed not only to see my embarrassment but to enjoy it. She continued gayly—

“There, now, do yourdevoirlike a gallant knight and soldier—coz, have you no glove or other favor for him to wear on his bosom in battle? Ah! me, the days of courtesy and chivalry have gone forever. But there I see uncle ordering down my package, I must see that he does not let it drop clumsily over-board,” and she tripped laughingly away.

Left almosttête-à-têtewith Annette—for every eye was that moment turned to the gangway where some of the passengers were already embarking, I yet felt unable to avail myself of an opportunity for which I had longed. A single word would decide my fate, and yet that word I could not pronounce. My boldness had all disappeared, and I stood before that fair girl equally agitated with herself. At length I looked up. She stole a furtive glance at me as I did so, and blushed again to the very brow. I took her hand, it was not withdrawn. Words of fire were already on my lips when her father turned toward us, saying—

“Annie, my love, they wait for you—Mr. Cavendish, a last good-bye”—and as he spoke every eye was turned toward us. The precious moment was past. I could do nothing but lead Annette forward. Yet I ventured to press her hand. My senses deceived me, or it was faintly, though very faintly, returned. I would have given worlds, if I had them, for the delay of a minute, that I might learn my fate from the lips of that fair girl. But it was not to be. We were already in the centre of the group. Mr. St. Clair took his daughter and lifted her into the chair, and in another moment her white dress fluttered in its descent to the boat. My heart died within me. The golden moment had passed, perhaps forever; for when should we meet again? New scenes, new friends would in all probability drive me from Annette’s remembrance before we should next see each other. These thoughts filled my mind as I leaned over the bulwark and waved my hand while the boat put off. Mr. St. Clair stood up in the barge and bowed in return, while I thought I could see, through the shadowy moonlight, the fair hand of Annette returning my parting adieus.

I watched the receding figures until they reached the schooner, and even after they had ascended the deck, and the two vessels had parted each on its own way, I continued gazing on the white dress of Annette until I could no longer detect the faintest shadow of it. When at length it disappeared totally in the distance, I felt a loneliness of the heart, such as no language can express. To a late hour I continued pensively walking the deck, unable to shake off this feeling, and it was only a gay remark of one of my messmates that finally aroused me from my abstraction. I shook off my pensiveness by an effort, laughed gayly in reply, and soon sought my hammock, as my spirits would not permit me much longer to carry on this double game.

For a week we cruized in the track of the homeward bound fleet from the West Indies, but without success. During this time Annette was constantly in my thoughts. Her last look—that gentle pressure of her hand thrilled through every vein, as often as they recurred to me. Never could I forget her—would she continue to think of me?

More than a week had passed, as I have said, since we had parted from the St. Clairs, yet still we had not spoken a sail. At length one day, when I had the morning watch, the lookout hailed from the cross-trees, that a sail was down on the seaboard to leeward. Chase was instantly given to the stranger. The breeze was fresh, and we were in consequence soon close enough to discern the character of our neighbor. She had not from the first appeared to avoid us, and no sooner did we show our colors, than she ran up the ensign of France. We were going on different tacks, and, as we approached, both ships lay-to for a moment’s conversation. The French merchantman was a noble ship, and as she came up gallantly towards us, her long bowsprit sunk far down into the trough of the wave, and then, with a slow swan-like motion she rose on the ensuing swell until her bows were elevated almost clear of the water, while the bright copper dripping with brine glistened gloriously in the sunbeams.

The Frenchman backed his topsails as he drew near, and the two vessels stood head on, while we sent a boat on board. The merchantman proved to be upon her homeward passage, and had consequently no intelligence from Europe to furnish us. But the French skipper told us what was far more interesting to us. He mentioned that he had, but the day before, fallen in with the homeward bound English fleet, from the West Indies, amounting to some sixty sail. The fleet was convoyed by four men-of-war. Our captain, however, resolved to have a dash at the convoy. He conceived the daring project of cutting off a portion of the fleet, under the very batteries of the men-of-war. The French skipper wished us a “bon voyage,” and the two vessels parted company.

We cracked on all sail, during the whole of the day and night. The next morning, at the dawn of day, our lookout descried the English fleet, on our larboard-side. Luckily, we had the weather-gauge. We kept crowding on our canvass, however, during the whole forenoon, and as we gained on the convoy, we saw sail after sail rising in the seaboard, until the whole horizon was dotted with them, and the lookout reported more than fifty, in sight. By this the men-of-war had caught the alarm, and were firing guns to keep their flock around them. The dull sailers, however, fell rapidly behind. This forced one of the English frigates to leave the advance, and run astern of the fleet. During the whole day we kept coquetting to windward of the fleet, but no demonstrations against us were made on the part of the men-of-war.

“A cowardly set, by the Lord Harry,” said our old boatswain, who often beguiled a dull hour with a yarn, “here are we giving them a chance for a fair stand-up fight, and the cowardly lubbers haven’t the pluck to come up and take or give a thrashing. I can’t stand such sneaking scoundrels—by St. George,” and the old fellow energetically squirted a stream of tobacco-juice from his mouth, as if from a force-pump.

“We’ll have a brush with them, nevertheless, Hinton,” said I, “or I know nothing of the captain. He has got his eye on more than one rich prize in that fleet, and depend upon it, he’ll make a dash for it before long.”

“Ay! ay! you’re right,” answered the boatswain “and he’ll do it, too, before two bells have struck in the morning watch.”

The night shut in squally and dark. The fleet was some three miles to leeward, for during the whole day we had carefully maintained the weather gauge. As the darkness increased we lost sight of the enemy’s ships, but their numerous lights glistening like stars along the seaboard, still pointed out to us their position. The wind was uncertain, now coming in fitful puffs, and then blowing steadily for a quarter of an hour, when it would again die away and sweep in squalls across the waste of waters. Scud clouds began to fly across the face of the heavens, obscuring the few stars, and giving a wild and ominous appearance to the firmament. Down to the west the seaboard was covered by a dense bank of clouds, out of which occasionally a flash of lightning would zig-zag, followed by a low hoarse growl of distant thunder. It was evident that a tempest was raging, far down in that quarter. On the opposite horizon, however, the sky was nearly free from clouds, only a few fleecy vapors being discernible in that quarter, through which the bright stars twinkled clear and lustrous. The English fleet lay between these two opposite quarters of the horizon—the right wing of the convoy stretching down almost into the utter darkness in that direction, and the left wing skirting along the horizon to the eastward. Along the whole expanse of seaboard, more than fifty lights were now glittering, like so many fire-flies winging through the gloom along the edge of a forest, on a summer eve. The scene was one of surpassing novelty, and drew forth the admiration even of our veteran tars. Now and then the vapors in the east would clear entirely away, leaving the firmament in that direction, sparkling with thousands of stars; and then again the murky shroud would enclose them in nearly total darkness. Occasionally, as if in contrast to this, a brighter flash of lightning would gleam, or a louder burst of thunder roll up from the dark bank of clouds enclosing the tempest to the westward.

The night had scarcely settled down before the ship’s course was altered and we bore down upon the fleet—taking the precaution, however, to put out all the lights on board except the one at the binnacle. Meantime the men were called to quarters, the tompions of the guns removed, the ammunition served out, pikes, cutlasses and fire arms distributed among the crew, and every preparation made for action. As we drew nearer to the convoy the darkness of the night increased, until, at length, we could see but a few fathoms ahead into the gloom. The eastern firmament now became wholly obscured. Not a star shone on high to guide us on our way. Had it not been for the long line of lights sparkling along the seaboard, betraying the positions occupied by the various vessels in the convoy, we should have possessed no guide to our prey,—and nothing but the confidence felt by the enemy in his superior force could have induced him to continue his lights aboard, when otherwise he might have run a chance of dropping us in the darkness. But he never dreamed of the bold swoop which we projected, into the very midst of his flock. He would as soon have thought of our blockading the Thames, or burning the English fleet at Portsmouth.

The plan of Captain Smythe was indeed a bold one. Bearing right onwards into the very centre of the fleet, he intended to cut off one of the wings from the main body, and then board and take possession of as many of the merchantmen as he could carry in the obscurity. We judged that the men-of-war were in the van, with the exception of a frigate which we had seen before nightfall hovering in the rear of the fleet to cover the lagging merchantmen. This frigate, however, we supposed to be on the extreme right of the enemy. We therefore bore down for the opposite extremity of the fleet.

For more than an hour, while, with every rag of canvass abroad, we were hastening to overtake the enemy, scarcely a word was spoken by the crew,—but each man remained at his station eagerly watching the gradual diminution of the distance betwixt us and the convoy. Indeed silence was, in some measure, necessary to the success of our plot. Even the orders of the officers therefore were given and executed with as little bustle as possible. As the darkness increased we noticed that the lights ahead began to diminish in number, and it was not long before we became satisfied that the foe had at length awoke to the probability of our being in the vicinity. At length scarcely more than half a dozen lights could be seen. These we judged to belong to the men-of-war, being kept aloft for the convoy to steer by.

The difficulty of our enterprise was now redoubled, for, if the darkness should increase, there would be great danger of a collision with one or another of the fleet. This peril, however, we shared in common with the merchantmen composing the convoy. Our only precaution consisted in doubling our look-outs.

Another hour passed, during which we steered by the lights of the men-of-war. By the end of that period we had run, according to our calculation, into the very heart of the fleet, leaving a man-of-war broad on our larboard beam, a mile or two distant. This latter vessel we fancied to be the frigate which had been hovering towards nightfall in the rear of the fleet. Our anxiety now increased. We were surrounded, on every side, by the vessels of the convoy, and the obscurity was so profound that we could not see a pistol shot on any hand. Our progress, meantime, was continued in utter silence. The only sound we heard was the singing of the wind through the rigging, the occasional cheeping of a block, or the rushing of the water along our sides. Suddenly, however, I thought I heard a sound as of the bracing of a yard right over our starboard bow.

“Hist!” I said to the boatswain, who happened that moment to be passing, “hist! do you hear that?”

The old fellow stopped, listened a moment, and then shaking his head, said,

“I hear nothing. What didyouhear?”

“Hark! there it goes again,” I said, as the sound of a sail flapping against a mast came distinctly out of the gloom.

“By St. George, you are right,” exclaimed the old water-rat, “ay! ay! young ears are arter-all the sharpest!”

He had scarcely spoken before the tall masts of a ship, like a spectre rising through the night, lifted themselves up out of the obscurity in the direction whence the sound had proceeded, and instantaneously we heard the tramping of many feet on the decks of the stranger, the rapid orders of the officers, the running of ropes, the creaking of yards, and the dull flapping of sails in the wind. At the same time a voice hailed,

“Luff up or you’ll be into us,” and then the same voice spoke as if addressing the helmsman on board the stranger, “up with your helm—around, around with her—my God! we’ll be afoul.”

The consternation of the British skipper was not without cause. No sooner had Capt. Smythe discovered our proximity to the stranger, than he formed the determination of running her aboard, taking her by a sally of our brave fellows, and then, after throwing into her a party sufficiently strong to maintain possession of her, keeping on his way. During the minute therefore that elapsed betwixt the discovery of the merchantman, and the hail of her affrighted skipper, the boarders had been called away and the quartermaster ordered to run us bows on to the quarter of the stranger. Instead of luffing, therefore, we kept straight on in our course, and as a score of lanterns were instantly shown on board both ships, sufficient light was thrown over the scene to guide us in our manœuvre. As the English ship wore around, bringing the wind on her starboard quarter, our helm was jammed to port, and swinging around almost on our heel we shot upon the foe, striking her in the stern galley, which we crushed as we would have crushed an egg-shell. The English ship was heavily loaded, and in consequence our bowsprit ran high above her decks, affording a bridge on which our brave tars might easily pass on board. At the moment we struck, the captain dashed forward, and summoning the boarders to follow him, had leaped, sword in hand, into the centre of the enemy’s crew, before her skipper had ceased giving orders to the perplexed seamen, who were running to and fro on her decks, in the vain hope of preventing any damage resulting to them from this collision, with, as they thought, a sister vessel. The consternation of the master may well be conceived when he found his ship in possession of an enemy. For some minutes he imagined it to be a jest, for he could not conceive how any foe would have the audacity to cut him out from the very heart of the fleet. His rueful countenance when he discovered his error, I shall never forget, nor the bad grace with which he consented to be transferred with a portion of his men tothe Aurora. In less than five minutes, however, this necessary precaution had been carried into effect, and a prize-crew left in possession of the merchantman. The officer in command was ordered to haul out of the fleet, and gain a position as speedily as possible to windward. Then the two ships were parted, and we stood away as before on the larboard tack, while the prize braced sharp up, hauled her bowlines, and went off close into the wind’s eye.

“By Jove,” said a reefer, elated with the part he had acted among the boarders, for he had been one of the first to step on the decks of the merchantman, “by Jupiter, but that was neatly done—eh! don’t you think so, Hinton, my old boy?”

“Shut your dead-lights, you young jackanapes,” growled the old boatswain, by no means pleased with such a salutation, “and keep your tongue for cheering against the enemy: you’ll have enough of it to do yet before you turn in. Avast! there! I say,” he continued, perceiving that the youngster was about to interrupt him, “go to your post, or I’ll report you, you young whelp. None of your blarney, as your thick-tongued Irish messmate would say—away with you.”

When Hinton’s ire was up the safest plan was to retreat, for he would brook no retort unless from the captain or lieutenant. Over the young reefers, especially those who were in disfavor with him, he domineered with a rod of iron. The youngster who had forgotten for a moment, in the elation of his first victory, the awe in which he held the boatswain, was recalled by these words to a sense of the authority of the old tar, and he shrunk accordingly away, disdaining to reply.

“Ay! go, you varmint,” chuckled Hinton, as the reefer walked to his post, “and give none of your long shore palaver to a man who had learned before you were born to hold his tongue before an enemy as his first duty. Isn’t it so, Mr. Cavendish?”

I was a great favorite of the old fellow, and always made a point of humoring him, so I nodded an assent to his remark, although I was tempted to ask him how long since he had forgotten this important duty of silence. I restrained, however, my question, and the smile which would fain have preceded it: and listened for several minutes in return for this complaisance to a long philippic on the part of the old fellow, against what he chose to call the almost universal presumption of midshipmen. From this tirade, however, the boatswain condescended to exempt me. How long he would have dilated upon this favorite subject, I know not; but, at this moment, a hail came out of the gloom ahead, and every eye was instantly attracted in the direction from which the voice proceeded.

“Ship ahoy!” shouted a herculean voice, “what craft is that?”

The tone of the speaker betrayed a latent suspicion that all was not right with us. Indeed he must have been so close to us in our late encounter with the merchantman, that he necessarily heard many things to awaken his doubts. As he spoke, too, the tall figure of a heavy craft loomed out from the obscurity, and while we were yet speculating as to the answer the captain would make, a dozen lanterns flashing through as many open port-holes, revealed that our neighbor was a man-of-war.

“What ship is that?” thundered the voice again, “answer, or I’ll fire into you!”

Our dauntless captain waved his hand for the batteries to be unmasked, and springing into the mizzen rigging, while a neighboring battle-lantern now disclosed to the night, flung its light full upon his form, he shouted in an equally stentorian voice⁠—

“This isthe Aurora—commissioned by the good commonwealth of⁠——”

“Give it to the canting rebel,” roared the British officer, breaking in on this reply, “fire—for God and St. George—FIRE!”

“Ay! fire my brave boys,” thundered our leader, “one and all, for the old thirteen—FIRE!”

From the moment when the enemy had disclosed his lighted ports, our gallant tars had been waiting, like hounds in the leash, for the signal which was to let them loose upon the foe. The silent gesture of the captain, when he sprung into the mizzen rigging, had been intuitively understood by the crew, and the orders of the proper officers were scarcely waited for, before the ports were opened, the battle lanterns unmasked, the guns run out, and the whole deck changed, as if by magic, from a scene of almost Egyptian darkness to one of comparative light. Nor were the men less ready to discover the moment when to open their fire. The first word of the British officer’s haughty interruption had scarcely been spoken, when the gunners began to pat their pieces and squint knowingly along them, so that, when the command to fire was given, our whole broadside went off at once, like a volcano, and with deadly effect. Every gun had been accurately aimed, every shot was sent crashing into the foe. Not so the enemy. Although the British captain had certainly viewed us with suspicion, his crew had apparently thought us deserving of little caution; and the reply of our leader, and the order of their own to fire, took them, after all, with surprise. Nearly a minute accordingly elapsed before they delivered their broadside, and then it was done hurriedly and with little certainty of aim. The first fire is always more effective than the ensuing six; and the advantage of the surprise was decided; for while we could hear the crashing of timbers, and the shrieks of the wounded, following our discharge, the shot of the enemy passed mostly over our heads, and, in my vicinity, not a man of our crew was killed. One poor fellow, however, fell wounded at the gun next to mine.

“Huzza!” roared Hinton, leaping like a lion to fill the place of the injured man, “they’ve got their grog already. Have at ’em, my brave fellows, again, and revenge your messmate. Never mind, Jack,” he said, turning to the bleeding man, “every one must have a kick sometime in his life, and the sooner its over, my hearty, the better. Bouse her out, shipmates! Huzza for old Nantucket—the varmints have it again on full allowance!”

For ten minutes the fight was maintained on our side without cessation. The enemy, at first, rallied and attempted to return our broadsides promptly, but the injuries she had suffered from our first discharge had disheartened her men, and, when they found the spirit with which we maintained our fire, they soon gave up the contest and deserted their arms. Still, however, the enemy did not strike. One or two of her forward guns were occasionally and suddenly discharged at us, but all systematic resistance had ceased in less than five minutes.

By this time, however, the whole fleet was in an uproar. Lights were dashing in every quarter of the horizon, and, as the darkness had been clearing away since our brush with the merchantman, our lookout aloft could see through the faint, misty distance, more than one vessel bearing down toward us. The majority, however, of the fleet, seemed to be struck with a complete panic, and, like a flock of startled partridges, were hurrying from us in every direction. It soon became apparent that the ships, bearing down upon us, were armed; and before we had been engaged ten minutes with our antagonist, no less than three men-of-war, from as many quarters of the horizon, had opened a concentric fire on us, regardless of the damage they would do their consort. Still, however, unwilling to leave his antagonist without compelling her to strike, our leader maintained his position and poured in a series of rapid broadsides which cut the foe up fearfully. Yet she would not strike. On the other hand, reanimated by the approach of her consorts, her men rallied to her guns and began again to reply to our broadsides. Meanwhile the hostile frigates were coming up to us, hand over hand, increasing the rapidity of their cannonade as the distance betwixt us lessened. Our situation was becoming momentarily more critical. Yet even amid our peril my eye was attracted by the sublimity of the scene.

The night, I have said, had partially cleared away, but the darkness was still sufficiently intense to render the approaching frigates but dimly visible, except when a gush of fire would stream from their ports, lighting up, for the moment, with a ghastly glare, the smoke-encircled hull, the tall masts, and the thousand mazes of the hamper. Often the whole three vessels would discharge their broadsides at once, when it would seem for an instant as if we were girdled by fire. Then, as the smoke settled on their decks, they would disappear wholly from our sight, and only become again distinguishable, when they belched forth their sulphureous flame once more. In the west, the scene was even more magnificent, for in that quarter, was unexpectedly the nearest of the three men-of-war, and as she came up to us close-hauled, she yawed whenever she fired, and then steadily discharged her pieces, doing more damage than all her other consorts. The gallant manner in which she delivered her fire—the measured, distinct booming of her long twenty-fours—and more than all, the inky hue of the sky, in the background, brought out into the boldest relief, by the light of her guns, made up a picture of gloomy grandeur, which the imagination can compare to nothing, except the fitful, ghastly gleams of light shooting across the darkness of that infernal realm, which Dante has painted with his pen of horror. While, however, I was gazing awe-struck, on this scene, I noticed that the dark bank of clouds behind the frigate, was visibly in motion, rolling up towards us. Our superior officer had, perhaps, noticed the same phenomenon, and knowing what it portended, had remained by his antagonist, when otherwise, our only chance of escape would have been in an early flight. Some of the older tars now perceived the approaching tempest, and paused instantaneously from the combat. Indeed, not a moment was to be lost. I had scarcely time to look once more in the direction of the other frigates, and then turn again to the westward, before our antagonist in that quarter, was completely shut in by the squall. The wind had, meantime, died away, leaving us rocking unquietly in the swell. A pause of a minute ensued, a pause of the most breathless suspense. The men had instinctively left their guns, and stood awaiting the directions of their leaders to whom they looked in this emergency. We were happily nearly before the wind, which could now be seen lashing the foam from the billows, and driving down upon us with the speed of a race-horse. Another instant and the squall would be upon us. All this, however, had passed, in less time than is occupied in the relation, for scarcely a minute had elapsed, since I first saw the approaching squall, before Captain Smythe shouted,

“Stand by to clew down—quick there all!”

The command was not an instant too soon. His opening words were heard distinctly in the boding calm that preceded the squall, but the concluding sentence was lost in the hissing and roaring of the hurricane that now swept across our decks. The captain saw that it was useless to attempt to speak in the uproar, and waving his hand for the quartermaster to keep her away, while the men instinctively clewed down the topsail-yards, and hauled out the reef-tackles, he awaited the subsidence of the squall. For five minutes we went skimming before the tempest, like a snow-flake in a storm. On—on—on, we drove, the fine spray hissing past us on the gale, and the shrill scream of the wind through our hamper deafening our ears. Whither we were going, or what perils might meet us in our mad career, we knew not. We were flying helplessly onward, enclosed by the mist, at the mercy of the winds. Even if the intensity of the squall would have allowed us to bring by the wind and reef, prudence would dictate that we should run before the hurricane, as the only chance of escaping from the clutches of our foes. Yet, surrounded as we were by the merchantmen of the fleet, we knew not but the next moment, we might run down some luckless craft, and perhaps by the collision, sink both them and ourselves.

For nearly half an hour we drove thus before the hurricane. More than once we fancied that we heard the shrieks of drowning men, rising high over all the uproar of the tempest, but whether they were in reality the cries of the dying or only the sounds created by an overheated imagination and having no existence except in the brain of the hearer, God only knows! A thousand ships might have sunk within a cable’s length of us, and not a prayer of the sufferers, not a shriek of despair have met our ears. There was a fearfulness in that palpable darkness, which struck the most veteran heart with an awe akin to fear. When men can look abroad and see the real extent of the peril which surrounds them they can dare almost anything; but when surrounded by darkness their imaginations conjure up dangers in every strange intonation of the tempest, in every new outbreak of the surge. They tremble at what they cannot behold; in the language of the scripture “their joints are loosed with fear.”

At length the fury of the squall began to subside, and the dark bank of clouds which had encircled us, undulated, rolled to and fro, and finally flew in ragged vapors away, flitting wildly past the stars that once more twinkled in the sky. As the prospect brightened, we looked eagerly around to see what damage the squall had occasioned. The fleet was scattered hither and thither over the horizon, torn, shattered, dismantled, powerless. Far up in the quarter from whence the hurricane had burst could be faintly seen the body of the convoy; but on every hand around some of the less fortunate ships were discoverable. Whether, however, most of the merchantmen had attempted to lie-to, or whether we had scudded before the gale with a velocity which none could rival, it was evident that we had passed away like a thunderbolt from the rest of the fleet, leaving them at a hopeless distance astern.

Owing to the rapidity with which our canvass had been got in, we suffered no material injury; and, when the gale subsided and the wind came out again from the north, we lost no time in hauling up and getting the weather-gauge of the convoy. The ship was put once more in trim—the crew then turned in, and the watches were left in undisturbed possession of the decks. As I stood at my post and watched the bright stars overhead, shining placidly upon me, or listened to the cry of “All’s well!” passed from lookout to lookout across the deck, I could not help contrasting the peace and silence of the scene with the fearful uproar of the preceding hour.

When morning dawned, not a vestige of the fleet remained on the southern seaboard. Our anxiety was now turned to the fate of the merchantman we had captured and that of the prize-crew we had thrown into her. But toward the afternoon watch, a sail was discovered on the horizon to windward, and when we had approached within a proper distance we recognized our prize. Our joy at rejoining may well be imagined.

The prize proved to be laden with a valuable cargo, and, as this was the first capture of any moment we had made, it raised the spirits of the men in a commensurate degree. The skipper of the merchantman could never comprehend the justice of his capture. Like the generals whom Napoleon has been beating at a later day, he protested that he had been taken against all the rules of war.

After keeping company with us for a few days, the prize hauled up for the coast with the intention of going into Newport. We subsequently learned that she accomplished her aim, but not until she had run the gauntlet of an English fleet. As for ourselves, we stood towards the south on the look out for a new prize.

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