SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES.

Though the ever-heaving oceanBear us from our forest-land,Through the rising waves’ commotion,To a far and foreign strand;Still the heart, all space unheeding,Firmly ’gainst our progress strives,Leaves us, and with haste is speedingTo our sweethearts and our wives.Ye may bind the eagle’s pinion,⁠—Check the deer’s impetuous course,⁠—Curb the steed to your dominion,⁠—Quell the torrent’s headlong force,⁠—But the spirit, fetters spurningAs our proud ship onward drives,Leaves us, in its joy returningTo our sweethearts and our wives.Noah’s freed and wand’ring ravenToward the ark for safety flew;Backward, to the spotless heaven,Springs, at morn, the vesper dew.Thus affection’s fond devotion,Balm and solace of our lives;Flies, like incense, o’er the ocean,To our sweethearts and our wives.P. E.

Though the ever-heaving ocean

Bear us from our forest-land,

Through the rising waves’ commotion,

To a far and foreign strand;

Still the heart, all space unheeding,

Firmly ’gainst our progress strives,

Leaves us, and with haste is speeding

To our sweethearts and our wives.

Ye may bind the eagle’s pinion,⁠—Check the deer’s impetuous course,⁠—Curb the steed to your dominion,⁠—Quell the torrent’s headlong force,⁠—But the spirit, fetters spurningAs our proud ship onward drives,Leaves us, in its joy returningTo our sweethearts and our wives.

Ye may bind the eagle’s pinion,⁠—

Check the deer’s impetuous course,⁠—

Curb the steed to your dominion,⁠—

Quell the torrent’s headlong force,⁠—

But the spirit, fetters spurning

As our proud ship onward drives,

Leaves us, in its joy returning

To our sweethearts and our wives.

Noah’s freed and wand’ring ravenToward the ark for safety flew;Backward, to the spotless heaven,Springs, at morn, the vesper dew.Thus affection’s fond devotion,Balm and solace of our lives;Flies, like incense, o’er the ocean,To our sweethearts and our wives.P. E.

Noah’s freed and wand’ring raven

Toward the ark for safety flew;

Backward, to the spotless heaven,

Springs, at morn, the vesper dew.

Thus affection’s fond devotion,

Balm and solace of our lives;

Flies, like incense, o’er the ocean,

To our sweethearts and our wives.

P. E.

THE DUEL.

———

BY E. S. GOULD, ESQ. OF NEW YORK.

———

Harry Bradford sat musing by the window and was apparently lost in thought, when a sudden knock at his door aroused him; but before he could bid the applicant enter, Fred Stanley burst into the room.

“It’s all arranged, Harry,” said he with a glee in which, however, his companion did not seem at all to participate.

“So I supposed,” replied Harry, quietly; “such an affair is not likely to remain long unfinished in your hands.”

“And why should it, pray?” inquired Stanley, a little nettled at his friend’s want of enthusiasm.

“Oh, it should not, of course,” said Harry; “such matters, after all, are best done when soonest done. Where do we meet?”

“On the old battle-ground—Weehawken,” said Stanley; “no place like it.”

“No, none like it, indeed! What time have you appointed?” asked Harry.

“To-morrow, at sunrise,” replied Stanley.

“That’s rather prompt, too,” said Harry, “if one has to take leave of his friends and make his peace with God.”

“Bah!” said Stanley, slightingly, “we must not think too much of these things.”

“Imust not, certainly,” replied Harry, “if I would just now retain my self-possession. We use pistols, I presume?”

“Yes, at ten paces;” said Stanley.

“A fearful proximity for men of approved courage and skill who are bent on taking each other’s life!” rejoined Harry; then after a pause, he added, “Wilson persists in his challenge, Fred?”

“Good G—!” exclaimed Stanley in dismay at what appeared to him a prospect of losing his expected sport, “you are not afraid to meet him Harry?”

“No, Stanley,” said Harry, “not in your sense of the word. So long as consequences are limited to myself, I have little thought of fear. But,” he continued—and he spoke in a low tone and with unwonted rapidity, lest some tremulousness of the voice might betray his emotion—“there are other interests, other fears, other considerations—”

“Forget them for heaven’s sake, until after to-morrow,” said Stanley, interrupting him, “or you will never acquit yourself with honor. If you have any little affairs to despatch, set about them at once, and don’t fail to be abed and asleep before ten, or you won’t be up in season. I would not have Wilson on the ground before us for the world. Good-bye; I must prepare my pistols, for I see you will never give them a thought;” and away went Fred Stanley as full of bravery, as solicitous for his friend’s honor, and as indifferent about his friend’s distress of mind—as seconds are wont to be.

Harry did not move for some minutes after Stanley left him; and when at length he raised his eyes from the floor, his countenance bore an expression of unutterable wo.

It was no wonder. He was the only child of a widowed mother, and the affianced lover of the sweetest maid in the land. If he should fall, as he well might, what would become of that mother and of Kate Birney?

He at length aroused himself saying—“I dare not see my mother: but Kate—dearest, loveliest Kate! I promised to call on her at five; and it’s five now; and, by heaven, there she stands at her parlor window beckoning me to hasten; yes! and she holds up that bouquet of flowers. It was but yesterday I gathered them for her—and what has not happened since yesterday!” Here he paused, as if too much overcome by fond recollections to proceed: he then added in a different tone—“these follies come upon us, with both cause and consequences, as suddenly, as fatally as the inevitable casualties of life! A day of promise is changed to a life of mourning by the event of a moment; the act of an instant destroys the happiness and poisons the memory of years! Those flowers were gathered in hope; and before they—frail, perishing mementos—can wither, he who bound them and she who wears them may be lost in despair!”

With a heavy heart Harry repaired to his love’s rendezvous, where, full of beauty and tenderness, Kate awaited him. They were to be married in a week; and these interviews of the lovers now possessed an additional witchery from the fact that their communings, as lovers, were so soon to terminate forever.

The romance of passion is a bright episode in our youth. The hymenæal sun, while he yet clambers toward the “misty mountain-tops” on the morning of a wedding-day, spreads his promise over the broad firmament in a thousand fantastical images of crimson and gold. We watch the accumulating splendors of the sky and say, exultingly, if the dawn be so gorgeous what will not the day bring forth? But as we gaze, the sun heaves his broad disk above the horizon—the ephemeral imagery of vapor disappears—and the calm, steady sunlight of every day-life succeeds to the beautiful vision.

To Kate, this glowing blazonry of heaven was now at its culminating point; but Harry felt, as he almost reluctantly approached her, that a cloud—the more terrible from his uncertainty as to its dimensions and progress—was gathering on that glorious sky.

As he approached, his lovely mistress hailed him with an arch reproof for his delay; but when she reached out her hand to welcome him, she saw that his face was flushed and his eye disturbed; and, changing her tone of censure to one of solicitude, she inquired anxiously:

“Are you ill, Harry?”

The pressure of the hand—the eager look of inquiry—the tremulous tone of affection which accompanied these few words startled Harry from his self-possession; and he replied—

“No—no—not at all ill; I—I—”

“Harry! dear Harry!” exclaimed Kate with passionate earnestness, “what has happened? Tell me, Harry! tell meall!”

It was instantly obvious to the young man that his engagement for the morning—which he held himself bound in honor to fulfil—would in some way certainly be interfered with by his mistress, if he allowed her to be informed of it; for, whatever might be his notions of chivalric obligations, and however imperiously he might demand her acquiescence in them, he still knew that a dread of personal danger to himself would overbear, in her mind,allother considerations. He, therefore, felt it necessary to equivocate and deceive her. This train of argument, which of course went through his mind in far less time than is required to note it down, resulted in his saying promptly—

“For heaven’s sake, Kate, don’t alarm yourself in this manner! Nothing has happened.”

It is not to be supposed that this reply was altogether satisfactory, but as Harry, in his attempt to mislead Kate had broken the spell of his own forebodings, he was now able to regain his self command; and he then soon succeeded in making a jest of her fears.

After an interview such as lovers know how to protract and no one knows how to describe, they parted; Kate inspired with bright visions of happiness, and Harry, in a state of wretchedness, the nature, but not the extent, of which may be readily conceived. He hurried to his room and without any preparation for the morrow cast himself on the bed where his agony found poor relief in a fit of uncontrollable weeping.

In this condition, he fell asleep.

It often happens, by some strange contrariety of nature, that our dreams have relation to the subjectsnotnearest our hearts: what has occupied our thoughts during the day usually gives place, in sleep, to something of more remote interest—as if the soul, when momentarily disencumbered of the cares of life, shook off its dependence on the body and pursued the bent of its own fancy, regardless of the wants and woes of this tabernacle of day to which it is ordinarily held in subjection. But Harry’s experience did not, at this time, conform to the rule.

After he had slept awhile, he dreamed that he was hurrying, stealthily and alone, to the scene of mortal strife. A little in advance of him was an old man whom he had several times tried to avoid by changing his route, but the stranger, without appearing to be conscious of Harry’s motions, happened so exactly to regulate his course by that which Harry took, that the impatient youth found it necessary to brush past him, at the risk of being interrupted, if he would reach his destination in due season.

He had just overtaken the old man, and was rapidly striding onward, when the latter, with a promptness and vigor not to be expected in one of his years, grasped Harry’s arm, saying—

“Hold a moment, young man; you are Harry Bradford, I believe?”

“That is my name, old gentleman,” replied Harry, with a stare of astonishment, “but as I have not the pleasure of knowing you, I must beg you to defer your civilities. I am in haste.”

“Stay a moment, nevertheless,” continued the stranger, “or,”—seeing Harry about to move on in spite of him—“if you will not, at least walk slower, that I may accompany you. I knew your father, Harry, and I can surely claim of his son the privilege of a parting word just as he is about to rush unbidden into eternity.”

“Who are you, then, and what would you say?” exclaimed Harry, not a little startled to find that his purpose as well as his name was known to the stranger.

“I am your friend,” replied the old man, “and my name is Common Sense. Why are you determined to throw away your life?”

“Sir,” said Harry, “I am engaged in an affair of honor—a matter with which, I fancy, you can have no concern.”

“I have little to do with honor as young men understand it; but I am desirous to serve you. Tell me, therefore, what is your predicament?”

“A quondam friend and rival lover, jealous of my success with a lady, insinuated something to her prejudice in the presence of gentlemen. I struck him. He challenged me; and I am bound to fight him.”

“Why?”

“The laws of honor accord full satisfaction to an injured person.”

“Is he injured?”

“No, not in fact: he merely received a just chastisement for a wanton insult.”

“Who says, then, that he is injured?”

“He says so.”

“And is it one of the articles of your code of honor that a party to a quarrel is entitled, also, to be a judge of his own case?”

“That is immaterial. If a man chooses to consider himself aggrieved, he can demand an apology, or, personal satisfaction. The apology being refused—as in my case it must be—the challenge ensues: and to question his right to issue it, provided he is recognised as a gentleman, is, equally with a refusal to fight, equivalent to an admission of cowardice.”

“An admission of one’s own cowardice is, truly, no alluring alternative. But let us understand each other: what sort of cowardice do you mean?”

“I know of but one.”

“Indeed! Cowardice, speaking generally, is fear: what fear does a man betray who declines to accept a challenge?”

“The fear—eh—that is—the fear of being shot.”

“Death, young gentleman, to one who believes in a future state of reward and punishment, is a solemn event; and I apprehend that a brave man, or a good man (to say nothing of a bad man) may fear to meet it without suffering the imputation of cowardice: so that, thus far, your position is none of the strongest. Does this cowardice comprehend nothing else than the fear of death?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then we have all the argument on that side of the question. Let us look a moment at the other. What induces a man to accept a challenge?”

“The fear of dishonor.”

“Ay? thenfearoperates on both horns of the dilemma: and, for my own part, if I were forced to act under the dictation of fear, I would choose that course which promised the least disastrous result. But here, again, we do not perhaps understand each other. What kind ofdishonoris this?”

“Disgrace, in an intolerable form! A man thus degraded would be driven from society, branded with the stigma of cowardice, and blasted with the scorn of all honorable men.”

“That, truly, were a fate to be deprecated; though a man of sober judgment might urge that even such a fate is nothing compared to what awaits those who throw themselves, uncalled and unprepared, into the presence of their Maker. But is what you saytrue? Does such dishonor involve such consequences?”

“Unquestionably it does!”

“Stop a moment. Let us consider this. You say the man would be driven from society: tell me, by whom?”

“By public opinion.”

“And the same agent would brand him a coward and blast him with universal scorn?”

“Even so.”

“This public opinion, I take it, is the united opinion of that class whom you designate by the phraseall honorable men?”

“It is.”

“Very well. I wish now to ascertain the practical operation of public opinion. Supposing you were this dishonored individual: who, as the Scripture hath it, would cast the first stone at you? Who would take the initiative in banishing, branding and scorning you—would your father have done it?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Would your mother?”

“No.”

“Would the lady you love—oranylady on the face of the earth?”

“No.”

“Would any of the old respectable inhabitants—your father’s companions and equals?”

“No.”

“Would any of those who, by common consent, form the respectable and estimable portion of the community?”

“No.”

“Would not, rather, all these to whom I have referred, applaud you for refusing deliberately to give or receive a death-wound in a quarrel; and honor you for daring topracticewhat every sensible man haspreachedsince the world began?”

“Perhaps they might.”

“Then will you tell me, identically,whowould inflict on you the penalties of this imaginary dishonor?Whowould pronounce you disgraced and point at you as a coward?”

“Why, Wilson, and Fred Stanly, and Jack Smith, and Jim Brown, and every body.”

“What are they?”

“Gentlemen.”

“What is a gentleman?”

“One who has, or had, or expects to have a plenty of cash—who has no particular vocation—who carries a rattan, wears long hair, and goes to all the fashionable parties.”

“I have but two questions more to ask: supposing you are killed in this duel: what would be the consequencesto others?”

“My mother would die of a broken heart; and Kate—God knows what would become of her!”

“Supposing, on the contrary, you should kill your antagonist?”

“If I were not arrested and hanged according to law, I should be obliged to quit the country and bear, ever, in my bosom the remorse and on my brow the mark of a murderer.”

“One thing more: are you not heartily ashamed of your present purpose?”

Before Harry could reply, Stanley stood at his side and awakened him by saying:

“Come, Harry, you will be too late!”

The brotherly, disinterested zeal of a second is worthy of all admiration. How dispassionately he tries the flint! How coolly he squints along the barrel to ascertain if the sight is in order! How carefully he graduates the powder, and with what a touching connoisseurship he chooses a ball! Observe, too, with what a stately air he paces off the ground—from the pride of his step you might imagine he was a prince or a conqueror marching to receive the reward of his greatness!—God in heaven! is that man arranging the ground where his friend is to be shot—shot in cold blood—and he, a silent, premeditating witness of the deed?

At the hour designated, the parties were all in attendance: the ground was measured and the pistols were loaded.

Harry now interrupted the proceedings saying:

“Gentlemen this affair has gone far enough.”

“It is too late now, sir!” said Wilson’s second, haughtily: “my friend refuses to accept an apology.”

“He had better wait,” said Harry, “until I offer it. I accepted his challenge under a misapprehension of my obligations to my friends, to society, and to what are called the laws of honor. I now retract that acceptance. He insulted me and I struck him; the reckoning of revenge was thus closed as soon as it was opened. If he dares to repeat the offence, I shall repeat the punishment; without holding myself liable to be shot at like a wild beast of the forest. You are all welcome to put your own interpretation on my refusal to fight. My conduct willjustify itselfto all those whose opinions are truly worthy of regard; and as for the bullying denunciation of those few miscreants whose highest ambition is to be known as the lamp-lighters and candle-snuffers of mortal combats—combats which the laws of God and man pronounce to be murder—as for their denunciation, my now wishing you a good morning shows how thoroughly I despise it.”

Was Harry Bradford a sensible man or a fool? Did he, in after years, regret his refusal to fight a duel? And will anyone who reads this have the good sense and manliness to do likewise?

ELEGY ON THE FATE OF JANE M’CREA.

———

BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.

———

When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays,The world sings vocal with posthumous praise,And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried,Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d.What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due,Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true?Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart,Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart?As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly,With sportive wings along the alluring sky,’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song,To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng,Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite,Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight,And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped,Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed.Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.No arm was there to stay the savage deed,That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign⁠—No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay,When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay,While duteous there a remnant of the brave,Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave,And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade,Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid,Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song,And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along⁠—In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,⁠—Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined!But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid,In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade;And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep,Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep,And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh,Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie,There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom,Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb.Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw,Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law⁠—To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed⁠—Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose⁠—Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that boreThy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore⁠—Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene⁠—Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew⁠—Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave⁠—And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven⁠—’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,That rain thee tears from every manly eye⁠—Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;But that thy form a savage hand should doom,In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb⁠—Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,That death should prove it mockery and untrue,And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine⁠—In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know⁠—In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart⁠—In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead⁠—Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.For when from art the world shall cease to know,Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe⁠—When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,And simple truth, with tragic power relateThe love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.

When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays,

The world sings vocal with posthumous praise,

And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried,

Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d.

What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due,

Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true?

Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart,

Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart?

As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly,

With sportive wings along the alluring sky,

’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song,

To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng,

Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite,

Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight,

And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped,

Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed.

Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.No arm was there to stay the savage deed,That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign⁠—No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay,When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay,While duteous there a remnant of the brave,Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave,And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade,Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid,Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song,And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along⁠—In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,⁠—Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined!

Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,

Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.

No arm was there to stay the savage deed,

That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.

No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,

In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign⁠—

No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,

Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,

But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay,

When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay,

While duteous there a remnant of the brave,

Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave,

And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade,

Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid,

Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song,

And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along⁠—

In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,⁠—

Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined!

But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid,In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade;And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep,Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep,And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh,Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie,There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom,Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb.

But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid,

In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade;

And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep,

Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep,

And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh,

Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie,

There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom,

Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb.

Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw,Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law⁠—To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed⁠—Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose⁠—Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that boreThy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore⁠—Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.

Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw,

Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law⁠—

To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,

Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed⁠—

Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,

That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose⁠—

Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore

Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore⁠—

Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,

Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,

Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,

The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.

Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene⁠—Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew⁠—Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave⁠—And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.

Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,

With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;

But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,

’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,

And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,

Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene⁠—

Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,

And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew⁠—

Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,

While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave⁠—

And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,

Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.

Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven⁠—’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,That rain thee tears from every manly eye⁠—Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;But that thy form a savage hand should doom,In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb⁠—Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,That death should prove it mockery and untrue,And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!

Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,

By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven⁠—

’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,

That rain thee tears from every manly eye⁠—

Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,

Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;

But that thy form a savage hand should doom,

In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb⁠—

Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,

That death should prove it mockery and untrue,

And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,

A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!

But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine⁠—In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know⁠—In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart⁠—In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.

But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,

Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine⁠—

In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,

Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know⁠—

In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,

For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart⁠—

In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,

Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.

Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead⁠—Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.For when from art the world shall cease to know,Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe⁠—When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,And simple truth, with tragic power relateThe love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.

Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,

O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead⁠—

Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,

Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.

For when from art the world shall cease to know,

Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe⁠—

When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,

Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,

And simple truth, with tragic power relate

The love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,

While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,

With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.

HARRY CAVENDISH.

———

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

———

It was a tropical night. The moon had gone down, but the stars shone clear and lustrous, with a brilliancy unknown to more temperate climes, painting a myriad of silvery lines along the smooth swell of the sleeping ocean. A light breeze was murmuring across the waters, now and then rippling the waves in the starlight, and flapping the reef-points occasionally against the sails. A heavy dew was falling, bringing with it, from the island that lay far up to windward, a thousand spicy odors mingled into one delicious perfume. On the extreme verge of the horizon hung a misty veil, shrouding the sea-board in obscurity. Up to windward the same delicate gauze-like vapor was perceptible, and the position of the island which we had made at twilight, was only to be told from the denser masses of mist, that had gathered in one particular spot on the horizon in that quarter.

It was the morning watch and I was standing, wrapped up in my monkey jacket, looking out dreamingly on the ripples that played under our side in the starlight, when the bluff voice of the boatswain addressed me, at the same time that the old fellow wrung an enormous piece of tobacco from a still larger mass that he held in his brawny hand.

“A still night, Mr. Cavendish,” began Hinton—“it looks as if the old salt-lake was dreaming, and had drawn around her that fog as a sort of curtain to keep herself quiet, as I’ve heard King George and other big folks do when they go to sleep. For my part I’ve no notion of such sort of sleeping, for I’d stifle to death if I had to be wrapt in every night like the Egyptian mummies that I’ve seen up the straits. Give me a hammock for sleeping comfortable like in—I never slept out of one since I went to sea but once, and then I’d as lief have slept head downwards, for I didn’t get a wink all night.”

“You mean to say that you tried to sleep,” said I smiling.

“Exactly—I’m no scollard, and none the worse for that I think. Them as is born to live by head work ought to be sent to ’cademies and colleges and such high places,—but them as have to get a living by their hands had better leave book-larnin’ alone, for—take my word for it—it only ends in making them rascals; and there’s other ways of killing a dog without choking him to death with bread and butter. Them’s my sentiments, and so when I’ve got to speak, instead of skulking about the business in search of big words, like the cook in the galley, I come out at once in the plain style my fathers taught me. The devil fly away with them that can’t speak without shaking in their shoes lest they make a mistake. What’s not to be expected of them can’t be, and big words don’t make an honest man much less a good boatswain—the proof of the pudding is in the chewing,” and the old fellow paused and looked in my face for a reply. He had scarcely done so when he started, looked around and turned as pale as ashes. A low melancholy strain, seeming to pervade the air, and coming now from above and now from some other quarter, could be distinctly heard rising solemnly across the night. The phenomenon baffled even myself, but on Hinton it had an extraordinary effect. Sailors are at all times superstitious, and the bluff boatswain possessed a large share of this faculty. These singular sounds, therefore, appealed to one of the strongest feelings in his bosom. He looked at me doubtingly, turned around on tip-toe, and listened attentively a moment in every direction. His scrutiny did not satisfy him, but rather increased his wonder. There could be no doubt that the sounds existed in reality, for although they died away for a moment now and then, they would almost instantly be heard again, apparently coming from a different quarter of the horizon. The burden of the strain could not indeed be distinguished, but I fancied I could recognize human voices in it, although I was forced to confess that I had never heard from mortal lips such exquisite melody, for as the strain rose and fell across the night, now swelling out clear and full as if sung almost at our ears, and then melting away in the distance until it died off like the faintest breathing of a wind-harp, I was tempted almost to attribute the music to angelic visitants. The old boatswain seemed to assign the sounds to the same cause, for drawing nearer to my side, he ran his eye cautiously and as if in awe, up to the mast-head; and then looked with a blank and puzzled gaze, in which, perhaps, some supernatural fear might be detected, into my face.

My own astonishment, however, was but momentary. Hastily scanning the horizon, I had noticed that the mist in the direction of the island had been, during the fifteen minutes that I had been idly looking over the ship’s side, slowly creeping up towards us, although in every other direction, except down in the extreme distance, the sky was as clear as before. At first moreover my imagination had yielded to the impression that, as the strain died away on the night, it came out again from a different quarter of the horizon; but when, divesting myself of the momentary influence of my fancy, I began to analyze the causes of this phenomenon I became satisfied that the sounds in reality arose out of the bank of clouds, to windward, and the illusion had been produced by the rising and falling of the strain upon the night. When therefore, the old boatswain turned to me with his baffled look, I had made up my mind as to the real causes of that which puzzled the veteran seaman.

“There is a craft up yonder in that fog,” I said, pointing to windward, “and there are women on board, for the voices we hear are too sweet for those of men.”

I said this with a calm smile, which at once dissipated the fear of my companion, for after thinking a moment in silence, the puzzled expression of his face gradually cleared away, and he replied with a low laugh, which I thought, notwithstanding, a little forced.

“You are right—and that’s a reason for book-larnin I never thought of before. Here have I sailed for a matter of forty years or so, and yet I couldn’t exactly come at the cause of them same sounds, when you, who havn’t been ten years on the water,—though you’re a smart sailor, I must say, for your years—can tell at once all about it, just because you’ve had a riggilar eddication. Book-larnin ain’t to be despised arter all,” he continued shaking his head, “even for a boatswain, and, by the blessing of God, I’ll borrow the good book of the parson, to-morrow, and go at it myself; for when I was a youngster I could spell, I calculate, at the rate of a ten knot breeze. But mayhap,” he continued, his thoughts suddenly changing, “that craft up yonder may turn out a fat prize—we could soon overhaul her if the wind would only breeze up a little.”

The wind, however, had now fallen to a dead calm and the sails hung idly from the masts, while the ship rolled with a scarce perceptible motion upon the quiet sea. A current was setting in however, to the island, and we were thus gradually borne nearer to the unseen craft. This soon became evident from the greater distinctness of the sounds, and at length I thought I could distinguish a few of the words sung, which seemed to be those of a Spanish air. As the night advanced the music ceased; but the silence did not long continue. Suddenly a shriek was heard rising fearfully on the air, followed by a strange mixture of noises, as if oaths, groans and entreaties, and even sounds of mortal strife were all mingled in one fearful discord. The shriek was now repeated, with even more fearful vehemence; and then came the report of a pistol across the darkness. Our hearts beat with strange feelings. What nefarious deeds were being done on board the unseen craft? Hitherto the captain, who had strolled on deck to enjoy the music, had said that he should await the dawn, or at least the appearance of a breeze, before overhauling the stranger, but now he came to the determination of ordering out the boats, and learning the cause of those fearful outcries.

“Some hellish work, I fear,” he said, “is going on yonder; perhaps a piratical boat has boarded the craft, for the villains infest these islands. Board her at every risk, and then no mercy to the fiends if they are really at their work.”

The boats were hastily lowered, manned and shoved off from the side of the ship. The second lieutenant commanded one of the boats, and to me was deputed the charge of the other. We proceeded rapidly and as noiselessly as possible, into the bank of clouds and soon lost sight ofThe Arrow, although long after her hull and spars had disappeared in the obscurity, her top-light was to be seen like a red baneful star, floating in the firmament. Our guide meanwhile, was the sounds of strife on board the invisible craft, but as we proceeded, the uproar died away, and for a few moments a profound silence reigned. Then came a few sullen plunges in the water which we were at no loss to understand. The men sprung to their oars with renewed vigor at the sounds. A perfect stillness reigned once more, but we knew, from the distinctness with which we had heard the plunges, that we were close on to the craft. Steering in the direction therefore, from which the sounds had come, we glided along the smooth surface of the sea with almost incredible velocity. Not a word was spoken, but the oarsmen strained their sinews to the utmost, while the officers gazed intently into the gloom ahead. Each moment seemed an age. Scarcely a dozen more strokes of the oar had been given, however, when the outlines of a brig shot up, as if by magic, out of the mist ahead, and almost instantaneously a voice from the stranger hailed us in the Spanish tongue.

“Keep her to it my lads—pull with a will,” I said, as the boat commanded by the lieutenant dashed on without heeding the hail.

“Boats ahoy!” shouted another voice from the brig, and this time the words were in English, “lay on your oars or we’ll fire into you,” and at the same time a score of heads was faintly seen crowding the bulwarks of the vessel.

“Dash into her my brave lads!” exclaimed the lieutenant, standing up in the stern-sheets and waving his sword aloft, “another pull and we are up to them.”

The men cheered in reply, and, with a jerk that made the ash blades bend like willow wands, we shot up to the sides of the brig. But not unopposed; for almost before the lieutenant had ceased speaking, the dark villains crowding the sides of the brig poured in a rattling fire on us that would have checked men in the pursuit of a less holy object. But the character of the assassins who had taken the brig had now become apparent, and every man of our crew, remembering that agonizing shriek, thirsted to avenge the sufferer. The volley of the pirates was not, however, as deadly as it might have been had they not been taken partially by surprise; and been in consequence, without that preparation to meet us which they otherwise would have shown. Their discharge however—God knows!—was deadly enough. The stroke oarsman, but a few feet in advance of me, fell dead across the thwart. But the other boat, being in advance, suffered far more, for I saw several of the men stagger in their places,—while the lieutenant, springing up like a deer, tumbled headlong into the stern-sheets. He had been shot through the heart. The impetus, however, which the last gigantic stroke of the men had given to the boats sent them onwards to the brig, and we struck her side almost instantaneously with the fall of my superior.

“Vengeance,” I shouted, “vengeance my lads! follow me,” and springing into the forechains of the brig, I leaped from thence upon her deck, and found myself, the next moment almost unsupported amidst a circle of desperate foes. But it was only for a moment that I was left without aid. I had scarcely exchanged the first parry with a brawny desperado who met me at the bulwark, when my gallant fellows came pouring in after me, inflamed to double fury by the loss we had suffered, and betokening by their stern determined looks that the approaching conflict was to be one of extermination or death. The pirates, seemingly aware of their situation, glared on us with the fury of wild-beasts, and sprang with curses and yells to repel the boarders. This left me, for the instant, almost alone with my stalwart opponent, and had my cause been less righteous, or my skill at my weapon not a proverb, I should have trembled for my life. Barely indeed have I seen a finer looking or more muscular man than my opponent on that fatal night. He was a tall sinewy Spaniard, of the pure olive complexion, with a dark, glittering, fearful eye, and a huge black mustache such as I never saw on a man before or since. His head was bare, with the exception of a red scarf which was bound around it in the form of a turban, the ends of which depended on the left side, as I have sometimes seen them fancifully arranged by the creole girls of the islands. His shirt collar was thrown open, displaying a broad and brawny chest that would have served as a model for that of an athlete. His arms were bared to above the elbow, and in his hand he held a common cutlass; but a brace of huge silver mounted pistols, and a dagger with a splendidly ornamented hilt were thrust into the scarf he wore around his waist. I forgot to mention that a small cross, the jewels of which sparkled even in the comparative darkness, depended by a rich gold chain from his neck.

I am able to give this description of him, because when we found ourselves left almost alone, we paused a moment, as men engaged in a deadly single combat will often do, before commencing our strife. I suspected at once that I was opposed to the leader of the pirates, and he seemed to feel that I held the same office among the assailants, for he gazed at me a moment, with a kind of proud satisfaction, which, however, settled down, as his eye took in my comparatively slight proportions, to an expression of sneering scorn. Our pause, although sufficiently long for me to observe all this, endured but for an instant, for the momentary admiration of my foe faded before that sneering expression, and making a blow at him with my cutlass, which he dexterously repelled, we were soon engaged in mortal combat. At first my opponent underrated my powers, but a wound, which I gave him in the arm, seemed to convince him that victory would cost him an effort, and he became more wary. For several moments the conflict was only a rapid exchange of passes, during which our blades rattled and flashed incessantly; for neither of us could obtain the slightest advantage over the other. How the combatants progressed during this interval I neither knew nor cared to ascertain, for so intensely was I engrossed in my duel with the pirate-leader that I heard nothing but the ringing of our blades, and saw only the glittering eye of my opponent. Those only who have been engaged in a deadly strife can understand the feelings of one in such a situation. Every faculty is engrossed in the struggle—the very heart seems to stand still, awaiting the end. The hand involuntarily follows the impulse of the mind, and the eye never loses sight of that of its destined victim. The combat had continued for several minutes, when I saw that the pirate was beginning to grow chafed, for the calm, collected expression of his eye gave place gradually to one of fury, and his lunges were made with inconceivable rapidity, and with a daring amounting to rashness. It took all my skill to protect myself, and I was forced at length to give ground. The eye of the pirate glared at his success like that of a wild beast already sure of its prey, and, becoming even more venturesome, he pressed forward and made a pass at me which I avoided with difficulty, and then only partially, for the keen blade, although averted from my heart, glanced sideways, and penetrating my arm inflicted a fearful wound. But at the time I was insensible of the injury. I felt the wound no more than if a pin had pierced me. Every thought and feeling was engrossed by the now defenceless front of my antagonist, for, as he lunged forward with his blade, he lost his defence and his bosom lay unguarded before me. Quick as lightning I shortened my blade and prepared to plunge it into the heart of the pirate. He saw his error and made an attempt to grasp a pistol with his left hand, to ward off the blow with his sword arm. But it was in vain. With one desperate effort I drove my blade inwards—it cut through and through his half opposed defence—and with a dull heavy sound went to his very heart. His eyes glared an instant more wildly than ever—his lips opened, but the faint cry was stifled ere it was half uttered—a quick, shuddering, convulsive movement passed over his face and through his frame, and, as I drew out the glittering blade, now red with the life blood of one who, a moment before, had been in full existence, the pirate fell back dead upon the deck. At the same moment I heard a hearty cheer, and looking around, I saw that our brave fellows had gained a footing on the deck, and were driving the pirates backwards towards the stern of the vessel. I now, for the first time, felt the pain of my wound. But hastily snatching the scarf from the body of my late opponent, I managed to bandage my arm so as partially to stop the blood, and hurried to head my gallant tars.

All this had not occupied three minutes, so rapid are the events of a mortal combat. I had at first thought that we had been forgotten in the excitement of the strife, but I had not been wholly unobserved, for as I stooped to snatch the scarf of the pirate, one of his followers who had seen him fall, levelled a pistol at me with a curse, but the missile was struck up by one of my men, just as it was discharged, and the ball lodged itself harmlessly in the bulwark beside me. In another instant I was again in the midst of the fight. The red scarf which I wore however, reminding the pirates of the death of their leader, called down on me their revenge, and my appearance in the strife was a signal for a general rush upon me.

“Down with him,” roared a tall swarthy assassin, who, from his tone of authority, I judged to be the second in command, “cut him down—revenge! revenge!”

I was at that moment surrounded on two sides by the pirates, but springing back while my gallant tars raised their blades in an arch over me, I escaped the cutlasses of the foe.

“Hurl the hell-hounds to perdition,” growled a veteran fore-top-man, as he dashed at the piratical lieutenant.

“Stand fast, all—life or death—that for your vengeance,” was the response of the foe as he levelled a pistol at the breast of the gallant seaman. The ball sped on its errand, and the top man fell at my feet.

My men were now infuriated beyond all control. They dashed forward, like a torrent, sweeping every thing before them. The pirates, headed by their leader, made one or two desperate efforts to maintain their ground, but the impetuosity of their antagonists was irresistable, and the desperadoes, at first sullenly giving way, at length were forced into an indiscriminate retreat. A few of the most daring of the freebooters, however, refused to yield an inch and were cut down; while others, after flying a few paces, turned and died at bay; but with the mass the love of immediate life triumphed over the fear of an ultimate ignominious death, and they retreated to the fore-hatch, down which they were driven. A few attempted to regain the long crank boat in which they had attacked the brig from the island, but their design was anticipated by one of our fellows who hove a brace of shot through her bottom.

I now bethought me of the female whose shriek had first alarmed us; and, advancing to the cabin, I descended with a trembling heart, anxious and yet fearing to learn the truth. I have faced death in a hundred forms—in storm, in battle, and amidst epidemics, but my nerves never trembled before or since as they did when I opened the door into the cabin. What a sight was there! Extended on the floor lay a white-haired old man, with a huge gash in his forehead, and his long silvery locks dabbled in his own gore. At his side, in a state of grief approaching to stupefaction, sat, or rather knelt, a lovely young creature who might be about seventeen, her long golden tresses dishevelled on her snowy shoulders, and her blue eyes gazing with a dry, stony look upon the face of her dead parent. Both the daughter and the father were attired with an elegance which bespoke wealth if not rank. Around her were several female slaves, filling the cabin with their lamentations, and, at intervals, vainly endeavoring to comfort their young mistress. Several books and a guitar were scattered about, and the whole apartment, though only the cabin of a common merchant brig, had an air of feminine grace and neatness. The sight of the instruments of music almost brought the tears into my eyes. Alas! little had that lovely girl imagined, when singing her artless songs, in what misery another hour would find her.

My entrance, however, partially aroused the desolate girl. She looked up with alarm in every feature, gazed at me irresolutely a moment, and then frantically clasping the body of her murdered parent, shrunk from my approach. The negro women clustered around her, their lamentations stilled by their fears.

“You are free—thank God!” said I in a voice husky with emotion, “the murderers of your parent are avenged!”

The terrified girl looked at me with an expression which I shall never forget—an expression in which agony, joy and doubt were all mingled into one—and then, pressing the cold body of that old man close to her bosom, she burst into a flood of tears; while her slaves, reassured by my words, resumed their noisy grief. I knew that the tears of the agonised daughter would relieve her grief, and respecting the sacredness of her sorrow, I withdrew to the deck.

Meantime, one of the crew of the brig who had managed to secrete himself from the pirates, and had thus escaped the massacre which befell indiscriminately his messmates, had come forth from his hiding place, and related the story of their capture. I will give it, adding other matters in their place, as I learnt them subsequently from the inmates of the cabin. The brig was a coaster, and had left the Havanna a few days before, having for passengers an English gentleman of large fortune with his daughter and her personal slaves. They had been becalmed the preceding evening under the lee of the neighboring island, and, as the night was a fine one, their passengers had remained on deck until a late hour, the daughter of Mr. Neville amusing herself with singing on her own guitar, or listening to the ruder but yet dulcet music of her slaves. At length they had descended to the cabin, but, within a few minutes of their retirement, a large crank boat, pulled by some twenty armed piratical ruffians, had been seen coming towards the brig. Escape was impossible, and defence was useless. The feeble though desperate resistance made by the crew of a half dozen men, was soon overcome. Mr. Neville had headed the combat, and, when the ruffians gained possession of the deck, had retreated to the cabin, barricading the entrance on the inside. But the pirates, headed by their leader, although baffled for a while, had eventually broke through this defence and poured into the cabin; but not until several of their number had been wounded by the desperate parent, who, fighting like a lion at bay, had even fired through the door on his assailants, after they had shattered it and before it was finally broken in. At length the ruffians had gained an entrance; and a dozen swords were levelled at Mr. Neville, who still endeavored to shield his daughter. He fell—and God knows what would have been the fate of that innocent girl, if we had not at the instant reached the brig. The ruffian leader was forced to leave his prey and hasten on deck. The reader knows the rest.

When morning dawned we were still abreast of the island. By this time, however, a light breeze had sprung up and the schooner had been brought to under the quarter ofThe Arrow. My superior heard with emotion of the death of his lieutenant, and expressed his determination of carrying the pirates into the neighboring port at once, and delivering them up for trial. He gave up his own cabin temporarily to the afflicted daughter, and sympathized with her sorrow as if she had been his own child. The remains of her parent were not consigned to the deep, but allotted, on the following day, a place in consecrated ground. But I pass over the events immediately succeeding the capture of the pirates. Suffice it to say that, after a delay of three or four days in port, we found it would be impossible to have the pirates brought to trial by the tardy authorities under a month. As my presence was deemed necessary on that event, and as my superior was unwilling to delay his cruise for so long a period, it was determined then thatThe Arrowshould pursue her voyage, calling again at the port to take me up in the course of a month or six weeks. The next day, after this arrangement, she sailed.

Back to Index Next