Macbeth.The service and the loyalty I oweIn doing it pays itself. Your highness’ partIs to receive our duties; and our dutiesAre to your throne and state, children and servants:Which do but what they should by doing every thingSafe toward your love and honor.
Macbeth.The service and the loyalty I oweIn doing it pays itself. Your highness’ partIs to receive our duties; and our dutiesAre to your throne and state, children and servants:Which do but what they should by doing every thingSafe toward your love and honor.
Macbeth.The service and the loyalty I oweIn doing it pays itself. Your highness’ partIs to receive our duties; and our dutiesAre to your throne and state, children and servants:Which do but what they should by doing every thingSafe toward your love and honor.
Macbeth.The service and the loyalty I owe
In doing it pays itself. Your highness’ part
Is to receive our duties; and our duties
Are to your throne and state, children and servants:
Which do but what they should by doing every thing
Safe toward your love and honor.
It is worthy of remark here, and is another instance of the exhaustless room there is in these plays for the observation of ages, that while Macbeth, who is ready crouched like a ferocious leopard to leap upon his prey, is warm and ardent in his expressions of loyalty and submission, Banquo, who is that somewhat rare character a reallyhonest man, says but very few words to his sovereign.
I have always been accustomed to think that the murder scene of Macbeth involved one of those violations of probability so often found in works of fiction. It seemed that the murder, which is committed as soon as the guests in the castle are asleep, could not very well be interrupted by the knocking of Macduff entering in the morning to awake the king. This objection, like most of those advanced against the inspired bard, disappears upon a closer examination and the supposed fault turns out to be an exquisite beauty. Inverness is in a very northern latitude, and in the summer (the season in which the crime is perpetrated) the day dawns almost as soon as the night falls. I have never been more struck with the beauty of nature than while watching the coming on and passing away of one of these northern summer nights. The change is so brief and lovely—the sun sets so lingeringly and leaves behind him such a heaven of mild and scarcely fading glory, the stars come forth so sparklingly and in such small numbers, and the pale silver opening of day rises in the east so soon after the world has fallen under the shadowy silence of the night, that, to one who has only seen the nights of lower latitudes and who associates ten or twelve hours of darkness with every revolution of the globe, it appears almost the luminous change of some heavenlier planet.
That Macbeth’s deed is committed in this season, we learn from the scene already noticed of the previous day when the king enters the castle and remarks, for the last time, the soothing effect of the summer air upon his senses.
I do not feel sure that all these corresponding beauties and proprieties were intended by Shakspeare, and we have all often heard it questioned whether he himself would not be surprised to see the exquisite things discovered in his works. It is possible; but I do not think that alters his merit, since the beauties really exist. In his advances into the story he keeps everywhere nature and truth in view, and hence consequences and effects of that wonderful proportion and perfection may be visible to the reader not thought of in detail by the writer.
It is certain that, in the instance above alluded to, had the fatal incident occurred in thewinter, and had the murderers thus been interrupted almost in the act by the incoming of Macduff and the commencement of the routine of the subsequent day, there would have been an inconsistency which does not now exist.
A NIGHT AT HADDON HALL.
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BY THE AUTHOR OF “LETTERS FROM ANCIENT CASTLES.”
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The following extraordinary circumstance, which occurred to a young lady whilst on a visit at the house of an English nobleman of the highest rank, is, I believe, unparalleled for acute mental anguish and excitement, during the hours of its continuance. It was related to us by the descendant of a person who resided in the Hall during its occurrence, and I have every reason to believe it to be substantially true, in all its main features. In order to make it more intelligible, and give it that effect to which it seems well entitled, a short description of the place may perhaps be allowed.
Haddon Hall, in the county of Derby, is situated in the upper or mountainous part of the county, called, from that circumstance, the High Peak. The manor of Haddon, at the time of the Norman invasion, in the year 1066, was given by the conqueror to William Peverel, his natural son, whose descendants were named Avenel, and in them it remained till towards the close of the twelfth century, when it changed possessors by the union of Avicia Avenel with Sir Richard de Vernon, whose heirs held it for three centuries, at which time it became the properly of the noble family who now retain it, by the marriage of Dorothy, daughter of Sir George Vernon, with Sir John Manners, second son of the Earl of Rutland, in 1565, very nearly three hundred years ago. Sir George Vernon had the proud title of King of the Peak conferred upon him by courtesy, in consequence of his splendid hospitality, and immense number of servants and retainers, during the reign of King Henry the Eighth.
The gray towers of ancient Haddon are beautifully situated, on a rocky eminence, in the valley of the Derbyshire Wye, one of the many lovely streams in that picturesque county. It is surrounded by a park, abounding with ancient oaks of gigantic size, and a terrace garden of the greatest beauty. This noble old place, although long since abandoned by the family of the Duke of Rutland, for the more modern and magnificent Palace of Belvoir, in Lincolnshire, is still kept in perfect order and repair, and is probably the most perfect specimen of a baronial residence extant in England. The tapestries, teeming with subjects from holy writ and heathen mythology, still adorn the walls, covering the wainscotings and doors; and any one wishing to exemplify the scenery of Shakspeare, where Hamlet slays Polonius behind the arras, has only to visit Haddon and find a true original of that from which the immortal poet painted his terrific scene. The antique heir-looms of the Vernons and Rutlands are all in place as they stood centuries ago. The lofty state-bed, with its gorgeous but faded hangings, worked by the fair hands of lady Katherine De Roos, wife of Sir George Manners, is a splendid specimen of the period. The suits of ancient armor, in which many a gallant knight did battle during the wars of the rival roses, are hanging on their original pegs in the armory under the long gallery. The chapel, in the crypt of the castle, the most ancient part of it, exhibits huge pillars coeval with the times of the Saxons, whilst the walnut tree pulpit and pews are richly carved with the symbols of the catholic faith. The silver dogs, or andirons, are yet on the ample hearths of the long gallery, and, at the upper end of the banqueting hall, on thedais, or elevated part of the floor, still stands, firm as a rock, the huge long oak table on which, heretofore, the lord of the mansion feasted his friends and tenants. Over one side of this hall is the music gallery, where the minstrels of yore played and sang, its antique and curious front highly adorned with gothic carving. Against the door post of the banqueting hall is thehand bolt—used in the old times as a mode of punishing the domestics who had been guilty of irregularities. It consists of an iron ring, by which the wrist of the offender can be locked in, and secured, as high as he can reach, above his head; and the unlucky culprit who refused to take off his horn of liquor in turn, or committed any petty offence against the laws of conviviality, had the alternative presented to him of quaffing a beaker of salt and water, or having his arm bolted in, whilst a quantity of cold spring water was poured down the upraised sleeve of his doublet, until it ran over the tops of his boots. The iron cresset is yet fixed on the loftiest pinnacle of the watch-tower, wherein the beacon fires blazed during alarms in the civil wars. All, all are there; and it is impossible to walk through the mazes of such a perfect, such a glorious specimen of the olden time, without an innate, reverential, awful feeling, as if you had been born and had lived during those antique days, and were removed backward in the world many hundreds of years. Youfeelas if you were become part and parcel of the ancient things which at every turn meet your wondering eye. Any stranger, used to a town life, might well be excused, on entering Haddon, for entertaining thoughts and feelings of a grave and sombre cast, when every article recalls the memory of those who, for so many ages, have departed for “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.”
It is now very many years ago, during the life of one of the dukes of Rutland, who was facetiously named “John of the Hill,” from his perpetual residence on the moors and ardor in the chase, that a large party had assembled at Haddon to enjoy the recreation of autumnal sports. Among the guests was a young lady named Chamberlain, of good birth but impoverished fortune, owing to lamentable reverses in her family. She was the companion of a lady of high rank, and as such, of course, possessed of superior accomplishments.
Miss Chamberlain was mistress of extraordinary acquirements, added to an energy of mind and force of character seldom to be found in a beautiful girl of eighteen. She, with the Countess of Carlisle, whose protégé she was, arrived at the Hall on the evening previous to the night of the terrifying scenes about to be related.
The house being full of company, the room which the groom of the chambers appropriated to Miss Chamberlain was that particular one still shown at the eastern angle of the inner, or rather upper quadrangle, overlooking the terrace garden. That particular room had not been occupied for many months, and, as it was then October, Miss Chamberlain found when she retired a good wood fire blazing on the hearth. She had found in the library the earliest known edition of the immortal Dante, and, being well versed in its language, she carried the volume to her room. Having carefully bolted the door, before letting fall the arras which covered it, she sat long reading the divine work. In such a place, at such an hour, there is no doubt that the terrific pictures presented to the imagination by the power of such an author as Dante, had much effect in imbuing her mind with a greater feeling of awe for what was to follow. Having closed the volume, made her toilet, and imprisoned the last ringlet, the innocent girl turned to the antique mirror to take a last smiling glance at those charms which had that evening called forth many a delicate compliment from the young and gallant Marquis of Granby, the Duke’s son. She then, with profound piety, recommended herself to the Divine protection, extinguished her lamp, and, by the light of the still clear fire, retired to the farther side of the great o’ercanopied bed. She lay long awake, recalling the incidents of the day, and ruminating on the fearful drama she had been perusing. Sleep at length assumed his dominion over her, and the last sounds of the numerous domestics about the hall had long died away, ere she awoke from her first slumber, during which she had dreamed a fearful dream. The moon, which was then in its last quarter, had just risen, and shed a faint pale light through the mullions of the gothic window, the glass whereof, being set in lead in small lozenge shaped squares, made that light less, and the fire, being now all but extinguished, was not visible on the hearth. On awaking, Miss Chamberlain fancied she heard a slight—very slightmovement, or breathing in the room, but it was so like the usual sighing amongst the old trees on the terrace, she imagined it proceeded from them. Yet she felt some apprehension, accompanied by a slight palpitation of the heart. Her eyes naturally turned toward the fire-place, but she could at first scarcely trace the outline of the mantel distinctly. After long gazing toward it, however, a horrible impression began by degrees to take possession of her mind, that she saw something like a human being reclining before the fire, but the idea stole over her senses so imperceptibly, that it was long before she could bring herself to believe it was any thing real. The antiquity of the place, the profound solitude of the room, its distance from the more inhabited parts of the castle, and, above all, the singularly grotesque figures worked on the faded arras, began by degrees to force ideas of spectral apparitions on her mind. A slight motion of the figure, whatever it was, at last put all doubt at rest, and convinced her it lived and moved; but whether it was human or brutal she could not decide. Miss Chamberlain was naturally courageous, but the unusual combination of circumstances kept her spell-bound. She tried to scream, but the will refused to obey the impulse, her eyes were riveted on the figure, and a cold shivering rushed through her nerves, and paralized every effort to master fear. With eyes strained to their utmost power, she at length fancied she could distinguish a pair of thin, bony hands, or paws, extended over the embers as if to gather warmth from them. Then she imagined she could see a long grizzly gray beard hanging down stiff from its breast or chin, but the head appeared to be so low there was no appearance of neck. There, however, the being or spectre certainly sat, in the posture of an Egyptian mummy. A cloud having passed from before the moon, a greater degree of light was now thrown into the chamber, and, as the spectral visitant turned toward the place whence the ray proceeded, the lady perceived, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that it was a man, whose head was entirely bald, having an immensely long white beard! The certainty appalled her—she had neither power to move nor speak, but lay as in a trance. Although reason did not desert her, horror overpowered every faculty, particularly when, at last, she saw him slowly rise from the hearth—a man of gigantic stature—with nothing upon him but the remains of a thin ragged garment. His rising upward was so exceedingly slow, as if to avoid noise or alarm, that before he attained a fully erect position his head seemed to touch the ceiling of the lofty room; his long spider-like limbs were of enormously disproportionate length, and the idea entered the appalled gazer’s mind, that the shriveled fingers she had observed were those of a goule coming to strangle her. The moon now showed her his giant figure distinctly, and the dismayed lady became petrified with horror on seeing him slowly and softly approach the bed where she lay. Silent and stealthily he moved until he was quite near, when, gently raising the bed clothes on the opposite side to where Miss Chamberlain reposed, he slid under them, apparently perfectly unconscious that there was any person there except himself. Who can describe the overpowering terror and dismay which now seized our appalled heroine? In the same bed with a loathsome and monstrous being whose purpose was unknown, and whose power, if exerted, was evidently irresistible. Although utterly deprived of volition, the lady yet retained presence of mind sufficient to know that her only safety depended on remaining as if perfectly unconscious and immovable. She did not dare to draw a breath—and surgeons know how astonishingly, how completely, respiration may be checked and mastered in moments of anxiety. There she lay, more dead than alive, almost as much paralized as a corpse in a coffin, and there too lay the demon visiter by her side, inanimate, and, apparently, as unconscious as a stone.
Long did both retain their respective positions, although once, in turning his head, Miss Chamberlain felt his grizzly beard brush her beautiful cheek. After a considerable interval, every second of which seemed to her an age, he began to breathe regularly and heavily, the sure prelude of sleep, and she began to entertain a hope that escape was not impossible—provided she could so far restrain her feelings as still to hold her breath, and remain immovable. This, by extraordinary exertion, and a noble firmness of purpose, she was enabled to do, and in half an hour she had the unutterable delight to feel assured, by the uniform regularity of his breathing, that her detested and loathsome companion was indeed asleep. But how to escape from the bed and the room, now became her sole consideration. It did occur that, if she could reach the door, raise the arras, and withdraw the bolt from the staple, without disturbing the sleeper, she could soon gain the long gallery through which she well remembered to have passed, and that, although the upper quadrangle of the castle was now still as the grave, there were watchmen in the lodge within the entrance tower both night and day. These, and the noble mastiffs which she had noticed and caressed, she fully expected to alarm in case of need.
Cautiously and gradually she withdrew one of her arms from under the silk coverlet, and began with extreme care to draw aside the clothes, pausing every second to listen whether there was the least irregularity in his respiration; but finding it still uniform, she became reassured, and at length succeeded in so far disengaging herself as to be enabled to place one foot on the matted floor. By degrees she withdrew the other also, and leaning on her left arm began to glide softly from the bed; in retiring from which the slightest rustle of her drapery seemed to her strained ear like a crash of thunder. Well nigh did she expire with terror, when on finally withdrawing herself, the heavy breathing of her detested companion suddenly stopped! Already were his long bony fingers around her throat, she felt herself struggling, quivering, tugging in the agonies of death, and her eyeballs starting from their sockets. She felt all this, at least in imagination, as the heavy breathing ceased. Providentially for her, although the moon now shone in full upon the arras which covered the door, the heavy velvet curtains which fell in large folds from the frieze of the canopy overhead threw a deep shadow where the trembling fair one stood, and she was also partially hidden by one of those large and high old fashioned screens, which were then so much in use, and indeed indispensable, for intercepting drafts of air from the huge chimneys and ill closed windows. There in breathless anxiety she stood, as immovable and as cold as a marble statue. Although the dreaded giant appeared to rise up, she soon had the inexpressible delight to hear that he only turned on the bed, and that it was toward the opposite side to that she wished to gain. Long did she stand riveted to the spot, petrified with fear and shivering with apprehension, but she was every moment gathering fresh courage and resolution (now that she was relieved from such near contact with the mysterious visiter,) and determined, with an almost preternatural impulse, that, if assaulted, she would defend herself to the last extremity.
At length she heard the breathing become again regular, and unable longer to struggle against fear and hope, she stepped silently but determinedly toward the door. Cautiously and slowly was the arras raised and put aside with the left hand, while in her right she firmly grasped the bolt. Who can feel or describe the rapture which fluttered her heart, as she now bravely, fearlessly and rapidly drew the fastening from its staple! But, as it loudly started back, she heard the bedstead crash, and the tall figure of that monstrous being leaped from it toward her! The blood rushed to her heart as the door gave way to her concentrated strength, she rushed from the room, and flew with wild speed and dreadful screams, along the corridor and into the long gallery.
If any one has ever heard the quick, sharp,piercingshriek of a woman in the last extremity of peril, he can easily conceive the terrible energy of Miss Chamberlain’s screams to escape from her pursuer, and awaken the Duke of Rutland and his gallant son. The deep shrillness of her anguished cries pierced every ear throughout the towers of Haddon. At that still moment, in the dead hour of midnight, there was not one living creature within the walls, but started up appalled. The dogs set up a most dismal howl, and the castle bell quickly rung out its deafening tones on the night air. Upward of one hundred and thirty persons, who had been reposing in confident security, were flying in every direction. The watchmen in the entrance tower seized their iron lamps, flew across the lower quadrangle and rushed up the stone staircase leading to the state apartments, which they reached almost in a second, and to their inexpressible relief found the duke hurrying toward the long gallery, accompanied by his intrepid heir, who grasped a gleaming sabre in his hand. The awful screams, they knew, proceeded from that quarter of the building, but alas, if those terrific sounds had arisen suddenly, they had as suddenly ceased, for all was now hushed and still.
Lord Granby, preceding his father, flew toward the gallery, joined at every step by his numerous friends, and servants bearing lights, and arriving at the foot of the well known circular steps, which lead up to the gallery, he found, to his horror and dismay, the body of Miss Chamberlain lying on her face, in a pool of blood which was streaming from her mouth, whilst her long beautiful hair and dress were in the wildest disorder. Groans of mingled pity and indignation burst from all present, but it was no time to stand still. The marquis threw aside his sword, and kneeling down, raised the bleeding victim in his arms; but all animation was extinct, and life itself had apparently left her.
By desire of the duke’s physician, the body was immediately borne to the apartments of the Countess of Carlisle, whilst the groom of the chambers led on the now large assembly to the apartment which had been assigned to the maiden. On reaching it a single glance revealed that it had been occupied by two persons, but who it was that had dared to violate the lady’s privacy, remained a mystery, for the apartment was now as still and desolate as when its doors were first opened to the reader.
A thorough search throughout the entire castle was instantly commenced. As the fastening of Miss Chamberlain’s apartment was on the inside, and could not be opened from without, it was plain that the intruder, whoever he was, must have concealed himself there before she retired. On this subject the groom of the chambers underwent a long and close examination, but nothing was elicited from him which tended in the remotest degree toward a discovery of the mystery.
It was remarked, and well remembered, that the whole of the gentlemen had remained in the great hall long after the ladies had retired to their respective apartments, and the eagerness with which every guest or retainer now joined in the search, indicated their general earnestness for the instant investigation of the subject, and the detection and punishment of the bold adventurer who had been guilty of the wanton and unparalleled crime. Every effort, however, was unavailing.
Meantime, by a prompt application of the lancet, and other usual restoratives, the ladies had the unspeakable pleasure of seeing Miss Chamberlain begin to show signs of returning animation. The physician, however, gave strict injunctions that on the return of her reason no allusion whatever should be made to the terrible circumstances under which she was found, and that should she herself show an inclination to speak of them she should as gently as possibly be restrained. The Countess of Carlisle sat by her side, and with tender solicitude endeavored by every means which affection and good sense could suggest, to soothe and quiet her mind. In this she was so successful that although her lovely protégé had a long succession of fainting fits, she was finally near the break of day lulled into a gentle sleep, from which after a few hours she awoke perfectly rational. When she was apparently about to speak of her adventure the countess informed her of the physician’s desire that she should refrain from mentioning the occurrences of the night until she had gained more strength, as it had been found that the injuries occasioned by her fall were so severe that her immediate restoration could be accomplished only by more than usual carefulness and quiet.
On the following day, however, the restriction was removed, and during the afternoon, as the Duchess of Rutland and Lady Carlisle were sitting beside the couch on which she reclined, she related to them nearly all the particulars with which the reader is now acquainted, but added that after her escape through the door of her apartment, she could recollect nothing whatever, except a frightful concussion, as if she had been suddenly struck down and killed by the dreaded spectre whom she supposed to be in pursuit of her. This was doubtless occasioned by the severity of her fall down the steps, the effect of which was increased tenfold by the velocity of her flight along the gallery, unconscious that there was any stair before her.
A more thorough search having been instituted in the room which Miss Chamberlain had occupied, it was discovered that under the arras, behind the bed, andclose to the floor, there was a small square sliding panel, of sufficient size to admit a man’s body. Such contrivances, in ancient buildings, not unfrequently lead into secret passages, but here, contrary to the usual custom, instead of descending it gradually rose within the massive pile of stone. The walls of old castellated buildings are sometimes of extraordinary thickness, varying from six to eighteen feet. This dark passage at Haddon, evidently erected for purposes of secrecy and safety during the feudal times, appeared to be coeval with the most ancient towers of the edifice, and it was quite unknown to any servant, or even to a member of the Rutland family. After ascending to a considerable height it again descended and led into a subterranean passage which was followed with much difficulty, from the decay and falling in of the stones which once had formed the steps of stairs. There were also two or three abrupt, acute angles, which, at their turning, branched off and divided into others, but one of these was always found (after following it for some distance) to end in what is called ablind alley; apparently intended to mislead or waylay any one in pursuit who was unacquainted with the intricacies and windings of the labyrinth. The true path was, therefore, followed with extreme difficulty, particularly as the air within it was so impure that lights could not easily be made to burn. It was ultimately found that the passage terminated behind a handsome gothic stone pavilion which was erected on the upper terrace of the garden, and within a foot of the high wall that serves as an embankment to retain the steep rising ground of the hill park. The pavilion was overgrown with old tangled ivy, and encircled with aged lilac bushes, pleached and intertwisted so closely, in every fantastic form, as to preclude the possibility of ingress or egress through them, toward the back of the building, and there was no other way of getting at the secret entrance behind the pavilion, except by climbing over the pinnacle stone roof, a feat impossible without a ladder, or by going round into the hill park, and there descending by the very narrow spacebetweenthe back wall of the pavilion and the stone rampart.
The miserable and monstrous creature who had occasioned the catastrophe which had so nearly proved fatal to Miss Chamberlain, was soon discovered, by the sagacity of a favorite beagle belonging to the duke, hid in the hollow of an old oak, which grew in the bottom of a secluded dell in a distant part of the park. When found, he was lying asleep, coiled up more in the manner of an adder than of a human being. His appearance when he emerged from the tree was indeed frightful, as, in addition to a stature far above the common standard, he was emaciated to the last degree of attenuation—a perfect living skeleton. His head was, as Miss Chamberlain had stated, entirely bald, and his long grizzly white beard hung down nearly to his waist. But beyond all these revolting circumstances, there was a terrific wildness in his manner and look which might well occasion doubts whether he was not some “goblin damned.” It turned out, however, that he was a harmless lunatic, who had escaped from an asylum in the vicinity. How he had discovered the secret passage leading into the castle, he could not or would not divulge. When the keeper of the asylum arrived to reclaim him, by the power which such people invariably acquire over maniacs he soon ascertained that for nearly a month previously he had frequented the room which had so unfortunately been assigned to the heroine of our history, and during the nights reposed on the bed; and that he had sustained life in the mean time by the exertion of that inexplicable cunning with which maniacs are so frequently endowed, enabling him, without detection, to plunder the butler’s pantry during the silence and darkness of the nights.
He was a native of Darly Dale, in the immediate neighborhood, and as Haddon, like most houses of the English nobility, was then, as it still is, freely shown to strangers, he had probably before he was deprived of reason become acquainted with the intricacies of the ancient Hall. The reason why he selected it as his place of retreat on escaping from the asylum arose, it was believed, from his having been a rejected suitor of pretty Maude, the house-keeper’s daughter. The painful circumstance of his rejection had bereft the unfortunate being of reason. Sooth to say, the charms of Maude, if the traditions may be credited, had captivated one much less likely to be rejected than her gigantic admirer—no less a person than the then humble retainer of the Duke of Rutland but in after years commander-in-chief of the English cavalry, who at the bloody battle of Minden, by one irresistible charge performed at the exact moment when victory or defeat hung vibrating in the scales, gained for himself and his country immortal honor, by the total overthrow and rout of the French army.
a gathered around a tableT. Webster E. G. DunnelThe Blessing.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.
T. Webster E. G. Dunnel
THE POWER OF RELIGION.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE ENTITLED “THE BLESSING.”
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BY MISS A. C. PRATT.
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How potent is its spell! With mystic chain,Of adamantine strength, it binds to thingsBeyond, invisible; reveals a worldOf such transcendance, that this lower sphereLoses its brightness, and recedes to naughtBut a dim shadow; while life’s thousand charmsAre made to vanish like the beauteous starsIn morning’s fervid rays!Yet, radiant lightIt sheds upon the dreariness of earth,And softens down its woes; ’mid fiercest storms,Dispenses sunshine; on the darkest cloud,Paints a refulgent bow; aye, takes the dregsFrom sorrow’s bitter fount, and brings to view,O’er sin’s sad ruins, rising walls and towers!With lightning’s speed, temptation’s fiery dartsFall powerless beneath its mighty shield!Thus, more than victor, girt anew with strength,The soul may triumph o’er its deadliest foe!It penetrates the dungeon’s massive walls,And pours in floods of such celestial rays,That they in chains sing joyous notes of praise;Makes dismal dens and caverns to resoundWith strains melodious; writes most precious wordsOn all around, to stay the sinking soulWhen danger threatens; shuts the lion’s mouth,Subdues the raging fire, and lends a charmE’en to the martyr’s fagot and his stake.A soothing cordial to disease it brings—And ’mid the strife of earth’s rude elements,Peace, like a gentle rill. Yea, more than all,Irradiates the tomb, and scatters flowersUpon its pathway; bears from death its sting;Throws open wide the “everlasting doors,”As earth recedes, and such an antepastOf endless glory gives, the pinioned oneScarce lingers for the severing of the chain,But panting, flutt’ring, seems to strive to flee!Smiles on the dying lip, light in the eye,And gentleness of that last sigh which freesTh’ exulting spirit, speak the matchless worthAnd lasting solace of this gift divine—Sure antidote for sinful, ruined man,Star only that can light his devious way,Blest, golden wing! on which with eagle flight,From deepest vales of sin, and death, and wo,He soars to heights of purity, and peace!
How potent is its spell! With mystic chain,Of adamantine strength, it binds to thingsBeyond, invisible; reveals a worldOf such transcendance, that this lower sphereLoses its brightness, and recedes to naughtBut a dim shadow; while life’s thousand charmsAre made to vanish like the beauteous starsIn morning’s fervid rays!Yet, radiant lightIt sheds upon the dreariness of earth,And softens down its woes; ’mid fiercest storms,Dispenses sunshine; on the darkest cloud,Paints a refulgent bow; aye, takes the dregsFrom sorrow’s bitter fount, and brings to view,O’er sin’s sad ruins, rising walls and towers!With lightning’s speed, temptation’s fiery dartsFall powerless beneath its mighty shield!Thus, more than victor, girt anew with strength,The soul may triumph o’er its deadliest foe!It penetrates the dungeon’s massive walls,And pours in floods of such celestial rays,That they in chains sing joyous notes of praise;Makes dismal dens and caverns to resoundWith strains melodious; writes most precious wordsOn all around, to stay the sinking soulWhen danger threatens; shuts the lion’s mouth,Subdues the raging fire, and lends a charmE’en to the martyr’s fagot and his stake.A soothing cordial to disease it brings—And ’mid the strife of earth’s rude elements,Peace, like a gentle rill. Yea, more than all,Irradiates the tomb, and scatters flowersUpon its pathway; bears from death its sting;Throws open wide the “everlasting doors,”As earth recedes, and such an antepastOf endless glory gives, the pinioned oneScarce lingers for the severing of the chain,But panting, flutt’ring, seems to strive to flee!Smiles on the dying lip, light in the eye,And gentleness of that last sigh which freesTh’ exulting spirit, speak the matchless worthAnd lasting solace of this gift divine—Sure antidote for sinful, ruined man,Star only that can light his devious way,Blest, golden wing! on which with eagle flight,From deepest vales of sin, and death, and wo,He soars to heights of purity, and peace!
How potent is its spell! With mystic chain,Of adamantine strength, it binds to thingsBeyond, invisible; reveals a worldOf such transcendance, that this lower sphereLoses its brightness, and recedes to naughtBut a dim shadow; while life’s thousand charmsAre made to vanish like the beauteous starsIn morning’s fervid rays!Yet, radiant lightIt sheds upon the dreariness of earth,And softens down its woes; ’mid fiercest storms,Dispenses sunshine; on the darkest cloud,Paints a refulgent bow; aye, takes the dregsFrom sorrow’s bitter fount, and brings to view,O’er sin’s sad ruins, rising walls and towers!With lightning’s speed, temptation’s fiery dartsFall powerless beneath its mighty shield!Thus, more than victor, girt anew with strength,The soul may triumph o’er its deadliest foe!It penetrates the dungeon’s massive walls,And pours in floods of such celestial rays,That they in chains sing joyous notes of praise;Makes dismal dens and caverns to resoundWith strains melodious; writes most precious wordsOn all around, to stay the sinking soulWhen danger threatens; shuts the lion’s mouth,Subdues the raging fire, and lends a charmE’en to the martyr’s fagot and his stake.
How potent is its spell! With mystic chain,
Of adamantine strength, it binds to things
Beyond, invisible; reveals a world
Of such transcendance, that this lower sphere
Loses its brightness, and recedes to naught
But a dim shadow; while life’s thousand charms
Are made to vanish like the beauteous stars
In morning’s fervid rays!
Yet, radiant light
It sheds upon the dreariness of earth,
And softens down its woes; ’mid fiercest storms,
Dispenses sunshine; on the darkest cloud,
Paints a refulgent bow; aye, takes the dregs
From sorrow’s bitter fount, and brings to view,
O’er sin’s sad ruins, rising walls and towers!
With lightning’s speed, temptation’s fiery darts
Fall powerless beneath its mighty shield!
Thus, more than victor, girt anew with strength,
The soul may triumph o’er its deadliest foe!
It penetrates the dungeon’s massive walls,
And pours in floods of such celestial rays,
That they in chains sing joyous notes of praise;
Makes dismal dens and caverns to resound
With strains melodious; writes most precious words
On all around, to stay the sinking soul
When danger threatens; shuts the lion’s mouth,
Subdues the raging fire, and lends a charm
E’en to the martyr’s fagot and his stake.
A soothing cordial to disease it brings—And ’mid the strife of earth’s rude elements,Peace, like a gentle rill. Yea, more than all,Irradiates the tomb, and scatters flowersUpon its pathway; bears from death its sting;Throws open wide the “everlasting doors,”As earth recedes, and such an antepastOf endless glory gives, the pinioned oneScarce lingers for the severing of the chain,But panting, flutt’ring, seems to strive to flee!
A soothing cordial to disease it brings—
And ’mid the strife of earth’s rude elements,
Peace, like a gentle rill. Yea, more than all,
Irradiates the tomb, and scatters flowers
Upon its pathway; bears from death its sting;
Throws open wide the “everlasting doors,”
As earth recedes, and such an antepast
Of endless glory gives, the pinioned one
Scarce lingers for the severing of the chain,
But panting, flutt’ring, seems to strive to flee!
Smiles on the dying lip, light in the eye,And gentleness of that last sigh which freesTh’ exulting spirit, speak the matchless worthAnd lasting solace of this gift divine—Sure antidote for sinful, ruined man,Star only that can light his devious way,Blest, golden wing! on which with eagle flight,From deepest vales of sin, and death, and wo,He soars to heights of purity, and peace!
Smiles on the dying lip, light in the eye,
And gentleness of that last sigh which frees
Th’ exulting spirit, speak the matchless worth
And lasting solace of this gift divine—
Sure antidote for sinful, ruined man,
Star only that can light his devious way,
Blest, golden wing! on which with eagle flight,
From deepest vales of sin, and death, and wo,
He soars to heights of purity, and peace!
CHARACTERLESS WOMEN.
———
BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.
———
Coleridge has somewhere beautifully said, “the perfection of a woman’s character is to be characterless.” A sentiment of such obvious propriety would hardly seem to need a commentary, and yet no one of Coleridge’s appears to be oftener misunderstood. A characterless woman is, assuredly, any thing but an imbecile one. She must be one equal to all contingencies, whose faculties or powers are developed by circumstances, rather than by spontaneous action; and this implies the possession of all that is peculiar to her sex, but all in harmonious adjustment.
A characterless woman is often confounded with one deficient in the finest attributes of the sex, who is characterless indeed, but is so from imbecility—if the phrase do not, of itself, involve a contradiction; as if a creature, whose virtues were all negatives, could be characterless! A woman, too feeble to grasp at thought, too vapid for sentiment, too tame for mirth, too commonplace for enthusiasm, and too weak for passion, may be the ideal of those incapable of appreciating the higher characteristics of womanhood, but could never have been that of him whom Wordsworth calls the “heaven-eyed creature;” of him who conceived Christabel, and the sweet attaching Genevieve.
Such may do for the statue-like creations of Maria Edgeworth, and the thousand and one other romance writers, who expect woman to move by rule—who mistake dullness for goodness, and apathy for grace; but they awaken in ourselves no emotions of sympathy, for the human heart can respond only tohumanemotions, and it at once goes forth to greet its kindred impulses. Fielding’s Sophia is more lovable than Scott’s Rowena, simply because one is a live, earnest woman, and the other designed to be a very perfect one, and she turns out to be a very dull one.
Let Rebecca pass—the noble—the ideal—for, alas! human hearts are not prepared for the love of such as these; they may excite esteem, admiration, even passion, but love—the crowning boon of existence—may not be theirs. They gather not the household gods about them—they enter themselves into the holiest of holies, but they minister alone at the altar. Their fate is that of the fabled bird, whose own intensity kindled its funeral pyre. They have a mission to perform. They are created not to enjoy but to suffer; aye, to suffer that human hearts may be made wiser and holier; therefore do the pale stars keep vigil with them, and therefore is the dew all night upon their heads, and their locks wet with the drops of the morning.
A characterless woman! We feel she must be so, to be perfect as a woman. But then she must have all the susceptibilities, all the sweet impulses, all the weaknesses of her sex; she must have a woman’s thoughts, and a woman’s utterance—her simplicity, her faith—and, beneath all, there must dwell that womanly endurance—wondrous and holy in its power—reserved for the day of trial.
Weakness as often imports character as strength. Any one attribute, in excess, imports a distinctive characteristic. We talk of vain women, coquettish, masculine, sensible, dull, witty, &c., running through all the defective grades of character. Now a true woman must, as circumstances warrant, exhibit something of all this; for she is a “creature of infinite variety.”
She may have a dash of coquetry, but be no coquette—she hath pride, but may not be called proud—hath vanity, but is not vain—she suggests, rather than originates wit—wise she is, but, as Rosalind saith, “the wiser, the waywarder”—she is devout, but no devotee—she is good, but hers is not that dry, barren goodness, which ariseth from cold speculating reason, but is rather that of a beautiful instinct, that causeth her to feel that God hath done infinitely better for her than she could have done for herself. Like Desdemona, she will blush at the mention of herself, feeling she is so nicely balanced—and then, with a woman’s best and sweetest attribute, she spreadeth forth her hand for support.
Let the crowning grace of womanhood be, that she is characterless. The beautiful and beloved of all ages may be thus defined. With all the queenly attributes of Isabella, of Spain, we feel she was all of woman. So was the lonely and unfortunate Mary Stuart, and she still holdeth a place in our hearts.
Joan, of Arc, Catharine de Medici, Mary and Elizabeth, of England, were all characters. We will not analize them, nor the emotions they excite, but simply cite them as illustrations.
The meek sister of Lazarus—she who sat at the feet—the gentle Mary, who was most honored with the friendship of the Savior, whom he could not reproach, even though incited thereto by her sister, was beautiful in her womanhood—so was the mother of Jesus. A character is affixed to Martha, and to Mary the Magdalene. History is full of examples in support of our theory. Josephine was characterless, except in her sorrows; and too often do we find the lovely and beloved distinguished thus, and we weep with them, feeling we are beguiled, not challenged to sympathy. Mrs. Hemans, who hath given such eloquent utterance to a woman’s soul, must have embodied all the attributes of womanhood, and all in harmony.
Shakspeare everywhere discriminates between his characters and his true women, those that are to be a part of the drama of life as the actors, the women swayed by discordant passions, and those that appeal to our love. Never does he confound them. Those that are designed for our love are not characters. Whatever maybe their dignity, their intellect, their fortunes, they are still women. The grace of womanhood invests all they say, and all they do. Such are Portia, Cordelia, Desdemona, Ophelia, Rosalind, &c. His characters may excite our admiration, our mirth, or abhorrence, but they find no lodgement in our hearts. Such are Cressida, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Kate, &c.
Of Milton, Eve is characterless, till she hath fallen, and Spenser’s Amoret sits in the very “lap of womanhood.”
Need we call Byron’s Medora weak, because she is supremely tender and feminine? Weakness creates eccentricities, and she had none. Gulnare hath character, and we recoil from her, as did the Corsair.
But enough—it is the “story without an end,” to be read from the time that Eve first became a type of womanhood, down to the time when her sex shall realize all that of which she was prophetic.
TO A BELLE WHO IS NOT A BLUE BELLE.
———
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
———
Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net;Your beau is disenchanted;You said, how can I e’er forget?That you no “Rymer” wanted.And said you not, my saucy belle,For all my genius rare,Although you liked me passing well,My “Hobbes” you could not bear?You say a “Spenser” you admire,And “Glover’s” works delight in;But should your eyes behold a “Prior”Your wits away ’twould frighten,For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.”“Cotton” ’s your detestation;You place a “Locke” on what is “Good”Nor give your “Cook” a ration.You asked me t’other day to dine,And if I’m not mistaken,Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”—You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.”I brought you down a noble “Bird,”My gift you did not praise;And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard,Was only fit to blaze!Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate,You wish no lore to learn;Your “Pope” you excommunicate,And laugh to find me “Sterne.”In rings and seals your “Goldsmith” ’s fair,You must confess, as could be;And yet that “Livy” is, you swear,No better than she should be!“Moore” would I say to you! Ah me!O’er “Little” you grow cold;You say that “Lamb” should quartered be,And “Young” you say is old.Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make,So merciless your ravage;Though Crusoe took such pains to takeYou throw away—a “Savage.”For “Sparks” you will no pity show:My love meets no returns;Then why should still my bosom glowFor one who laughs at “Burns?”Why to a belle who likes not “Home,”Nor will my cares divide,Should I a pensive suitor come,And bear an “Akenside?”
Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net;Your beau is disenchanted;You said, how can I e’er forget?That you no “Rymer” wanted.And said you not, my saucy belle,For all my genius rare,Although you liked me passing well,My “Hobbes” you could not bear?You say a “Spenser” you admire,And “Glover’s” works delight in;But should your eyes behold a “Prior”Your wits away ’twould frighten,For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.”“Cotton” ’s your detestation;You place a “Locke” on what is “Good”Nor give your “Cook” a ration.You asked me t’other day to dine,And if I’m not mistaken,Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”—You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.”I brought you down a noble “Bird,”My gift you did not praise;And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard,Was only fit to blaze!Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate,You wish no lore to learn;Your “Pope” you excommunicate,And laugh to find me “Sterne.”In rings and seals your “Goldsmith” ’s fair,You must confess, as could be;And yet that “Livy” is, you swear,No better than she should be!“Moore” would I say to you! Ah me!O’er “Little” you grow cold;You say that “Lamb” should quartered be,And “Young” you say is old.Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make,So merciless your ravage;Though Crusoe took such pains to takeYou throw away—a “Savage.”For “Sparks” you will no pity show:My love meets no returns;Then why should still my bosom glowFor one who laughs at “Burns?”Why to a belle who likes not “Home,”Nor will my cares divide,Should I a pensive suitor come,And bear an “Akenside?”
Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net;Your beau is disenchanted;You said, how can I e’er forget?That you no “Rymer” wanted.And said you not, my saucy belle,For all my genius rare,Although you liked me passing well,My “Hobbes” you could not bear?
Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net;
Your beau is disenchanted;
You said, how can I e’er forget?
That you no “Rymer” wanted.
And said you not, my saucy belle,
For all my genius rare,
Although you liked me passing well,
My “Hobbes” you could not bear?
You say a “Spenser” you admire,And “Glover’s” works delight in;But should your eyes behold a “Prior”Your wits away ’twould frighten,For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.”“Cotton” ’s your detestation;You place a “Locke” on what is “Good”Nor give your “Cook” a ration.
You say a “Spenser” you admire,
And “Glover’s” works delight in;
But should your eyes behold a “Prior”
Your wits away ’twould frighten,
For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.”
“Cotton” ’s your detestation;
You place a “Locke” on what is “Good”
Nor give your “Cook” a ration.
You asked me t’other day to dine,And if I’m not mistaken,Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”—You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.”I brought you down a noble “Bird,”My gift you did not praise;And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard,Was only fit to blaze!
You asked me t’other day to dine,
And if I’m not mistaken,
Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”—
You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.”
I brought you down a noble “Bird,”
My gift you did not praise;
And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard,
Was only fit to blaze!
Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate,You wish no lore to learn;Your “Pope” you excommunicate,And laugh to find me “Sterne.”In rings and seals your “Goldsmith” ’s fair,You must confess, as could be;And yet that “Livy” is, you swear,No better than she should be!
Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate,
You wish no lore to learn;
Your “Pope” you excommunicate,
And laugh to find me “Sterne.”
In rings and seals your “Goldsmith” ’s fair,
You must confess, as could be;
And yet that “Livy” is, you swear,
No better than she should be!
“Moore” would I say to you! Ah me!O’er “Little” you grow cold;You say that “Lamb” should quartered be,And “Young” you say is old.Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make,So merciless your ravage;Though Crusoe took such pains to takeYou throw away—a “Savage.”
“Moore” would I say to you! Ah me!
O’er “Little” you grow cold;
You say that “Lamb” should quartered be,
And “Young” you say is old.
Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make,
So merciless your ravage;
Though Crusoe took such pains to take
You throw away—a “Savage.”
For “Sparks” you will no pity show:My love meets no returns;Then why should still my bosom glowFor one who laughs at “Burns?”Why to a belle who likes not “Home,”Nor will my cares divide,Should I a pensive suitor come,And bear an “Akenside?”
For “Sparks” you will no pity show:
My love meets no returns;
Then why should still my bosom glow
For one who laughs at “Burns?”
Why to a belle who likes not “Home,”
Nor will my cares divide,
Should I a pensive suitor come,
And bear an “Akenside?”
SONG—“LOVE’S TIME IS NOW.”
———
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
———
Oh, why delay the happy time,The hours glide swiftly by,And oft we see a sombre cloudObscure the fairest sky;Then while the morn is rosy brightAccept my earnest vow,And oh, believe me, dearest maid,Love’s time, love’s time is now.Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tellOf fond, impetuous youth,But trust my faith and constancy,And never doubt my truth—I would not for the world dispelThe sunshine from thy brow;Then be mine own this very day,Love’s time, love’s time is now.Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now,To-morrow may destroyThe flowers that bloom so fresh and fairAlong the path of joy:Then do not, sweet, an hour delayBut at the altar bow,And with consenting hearts we’ll singLove’s time, love’s time is now.
Oh, why delay the happy time,The hours glide swiftly by,And oft we see a sombre cloudObscure the fairest sky;Then while the morn is rosy brightAccept my earnest vow,And oh, believe me, dearest maid,Love’s time, love’s time is now.Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tellOf fond, impetuous youth,But trust my faith and constancy,And never doubt my truth—I would not for the world dispelThe sunshine from thy brow;Then be mine own this very day,Love’s time, love’s time is now.Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now,To-morrow may destroyThe flowers that bloom so fresh and fairAlong the path of joy:Then do not, sweet, an hour delayBut at the altar bow,And with consenting hearts we’ll singLove’s time, love’s time is now.
Oh, why delay the happy time,The hours glide swiftly by,And oft we see a sombre cloudObscure the fairest sky;Then while the morn is rosy brightAccept my earnest vow,And oh, believe me, dearest maid,Love’s time, love’s time is now.
Oh, why delay the happy time,
The hours glide swiftly by,
And oft we see a sombre cloud
Obscure the fairest sky;
Then while the morn is rosy bright
Accept my earnest vow,
And oh, believe me, dearest maid,
Love’s time, love’s time is now.
Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tellOf fond, impetuous youth,But trust my faith and constancy,And never doubt my truth—I would not for the world dispelThe sunshine from thy brow;Then be mine own this very day,Love’s time, love’s time is now.
Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tell
Of fond, impetuous youth,
But trust my faith and constancy,
And never doubt my truth—
I would not for the world dispel
The sunshine from thy brow;
Then be mine own this very day,
Love’s time, love’s time is now.
Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now,To-morrow may destroyThe flowers that bloom so fresh and fairAlong the path of joy:Then do not, sweet, an hour delayBut at the altar bow,And with consenting hearts we’ll singLove’s time, love’s time is now.
Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now,
To-morrow may destroy
The flowers that bloom so fresh and fair
Along the path of joy:
Then do not, sweet, an hour delay
But at the altar bow,
And with consenting hearts we’ll sing
Love’s time, love’s time is now.
HARRY CAVENDISH.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
———
The day had been close and sultry, but, as sunset drew on, a light breeze sprung up, which diffused a delicious coolness throughout the ship, imparting new vigor to the panting and almost exhausted men. Invigorated by the welcome wind, a group of us gathered on the weather quarter to behold the sun go down; and those who have never seen such a spectacle at sea can have no idea of the vastness with which it fills the mind. Slowly the broad disc wheeled down toward the west, seeming to dilate as it approached the horizon, and, as its lower edge touched the distant seaboard, trailing a long line of golden light across the undulating surface of the deep. At this instant the scene was magnificent. Pile on pile of clouds, assuming every fantastic shape, and varying from red to purple and from purple to gold, lay heaped around the setting god. For a few moments the billows could be seen rising and falling against the broad disc of the descending luminary: while, with a slow and scarcely perceptible motion, he gradually slid beneath the horizon. Insensibly the brilliant hues of the clouds died away, changing from gorgeous crimson, through almost every gradation of color, until at length a faint apple-green invested the whole western sky, slowly fading into a deep azure, as it approached the zenith.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed the skipper, “one might almost become poetical in gazing on such a scene.”
The sun had now been hid for some minutes, and the apple-green of the sky was rapidly becoming colder and more indistinct, though the edge of a solitary dark cloud, hanging a few degrees above the horizon, was yet tipped with a faint crimson. Meantime the stars began to appear in the opposite firmament, one after another twinkling into sight, as if by magic, until the whole eastern heaven was gemmed with them. I looked around the horizon. Never before had its immensity so forcibly impressed me. The vast concave swelling high up above me and gradually rounding away toward the distant seaboard, seemed almost of illimitable extent; and when, over all the mighty space of ocean included within its circuit, my eye rested on not a solitary sail, I experienced a sensation of loneliness such as no pen can describe. And when the breeze again died away, leaving the sails idly flapping to and fro as the schooner rocked on the swell, my imagination suggested that perhaps it might be our doom, as it had been that of others, to lie for days, nay weeks and months, powerless in the midst of that desert latitude, shut out from the world, enclosed within the blue walls of that gigantic prison: and I shuddered, as well I might, at the very idea of such a fate.
It was now a dead calm. No perceptible agitation could be discovered on the surface of the deep, except the long undulating swell which never subsides, and which can be compared to nothing but the heavy breathing of some gigantic monster when lulled to repose. Now and then, however, a tiny ripple, occasioned by the gambols of some equally tiny inhabitant of the deep, would twinkle sharp in the starlight; while, close under the shadow of our hull, a keen eye might detect hundreds of the fairy fire-flies of the ocean, their phosphoric lanterns glittering gaily as they shot to and fro. Absorbed in the contemplation of the spectacle, I suffered more than half an hour to pass unheeded; and it was not until the sea began to be sensibly agitated, and the wind to freshen, that I looked up. The change which had come over the firmament astonished me, and requires a passing description.
When I had last looked at the heavens, the whole eastern sky was thick sown with stars, though no moon had as yet appeared. Along the western seaboard still stretched the long line of pale apple-green which the setting sun had painted in that quarter. The firmament overhead was without a cloud, its dark azure surface spangled with stars. Between the zenith and the eastern horizon hung the dark cloud which I have already mentioned, a black opaque mass of vapor apparently not larger than a capstan head. But every thing now presented a different aspect. The first thing that met my eye was the upper portion of the disc of the moon, peeping above the eastern seaboard, the dark fiery red of its face betraying the existence of a thin mist in that direction. Fascinated by the sight, I remained gazing for more than a minute on the rising luminary, as she emerged gracefully and majestically from her watery bed. At length, and apparently with an accelerated motion, she slid suddenly above the line of the horizon, pouring a line of silver light along the crests of the undulating swell, while instantaneously, as if putting on all her glory, she emerged from the mist that had surrounded her, and rolled on in pearly brightness, calm and undimmed, the stars fading before her approach. One planet alone remained visible—it was the evening star, walking in almost equal beauty, a little to the right of her sister luminary. Never before had those fine lines of Milton, in which he pictures her as leading on the choral hosts of heaven, rose so vividly before my imagination.
When I turned my gaze westward, how different the spectacle that met my eye! The little cloud which I have described, had grown to a gigantic size, and now obscured the whole larboard firmament, extending its dark and jagged front a third of the way around the horizon, and piling its gloomy masses high up toward the zenith. Here and there, where a thinner edge than usual was disclosed to the light, it caught the rays of the rising luminary which it reflected back, so that the cloud seemed lined with silver. The sea, immediately under this gloomy bank of vapor, was of the color of ink, and reminded me of the fabled waters of Acheron. The whole spectacle was calculated to fill the mind with dark and ominous forebodings; and, I confess, my own feelings partook of this uneasy character.
The wind was rapidly freshening; but, instead of setting in steadily from any quarter, it blew in fitful gusts, chopping all round the horizon. Yet it brought a delicious coolness with it, which was peculiarly refreshing after the heat of the day. The sea now began to rise, and as the dark billows heaved up in the spectral light, they wore an aspect so ghastly that I almost shuddered to look on them—an aspect, however, that was partially relieved when the unquiet puffs of air crisped their edges into silver, or rolled a sheet of crackling light along their surface. With the freshening of the wind the schooner began slowly to move ahead, but, ever and anon, as the breeze died away, or struck her from a new quarter, she would settle like a log on the water, moaning as if in pain. At such times the dying cadence of the wind, wailing through the rigging, smote on the ear with strange, weird power.
“A threatening prospect,” said the skipper, approaching me, and breaking the profound silence which had reigned for several minutes, “we shall have a tempest before long, and I fear it will be no child’s play.”
“I never saw such ominous signs before. The very air seems oppressed and sick, as if it trembled at approaching ruin. Mark the faces even of our oldest veterans—they betray a vague sentiment of fear, such as I never saw on their countenances before.”
“Aye!” replied the skipper, abstractedly, for he was gazing anxiously astern, “the cloud comes up like a race-horse. How it whirls over and over, rolling its dark masses along; it reminds me of the mountains which the old Titans, we read of in school, heaved against Jove. But here am I thinking of classic fables when I ought to be taking in sail. Ho!” he exclaimed, lifting his voice, as a sharp gust, premonitory of the coming hurricane, whistled across the hamper, “in sail—every rag!”
No time was to be lost. During the short space we had been conversing, the dark clouds astern had increased their velocity threefold, and, even as the skipper spoke, the most advanced of them had over-shadowed us with its sepulchral pall. As the momentary puff of air accompanying it died away, a few large heavy rain-drops pattered on the deck, and then all was still again. The men sprung to their stations, at the voice of their superior, and incited to double activity by these signs of approaching danger, soon reduced our canvass until the schooner lay, with bare poles, rocking on the swell. Scarcely had this task been completed, when the gale burst on us in all its fury, roaring, hissing, and howling through the rigging, and drenching us with the clouds of spray that it tore from the bosom of the deep and bore onward in its fierce embraces. For a few minutes we could scarcely stand before the blast. The schooner groaned, and starting forward at the first touch of the hurricane, like a steed when he feels the spur, went careering along, her tall masts curving over in the gale, and her hull shrouded in the flying spray which drove onward with even greater velocity than ourselves. In this desperate encounter with the elements, every rope and stick strained and cracked almost to breaking. All at once this hurricane died out, and then an awful stillness fell on the scene. Not a voice spoke, not a footfall was heard, scarcely a breath broke the appalling silence. The schooner rose and fell ominously on the agitated swell. Suddenly a flash of lightning played far off on the dark edges of the cloud behind us, and then followed a low hoarse growl of distant thunder. Scarcely a minute elapsed before a large rain-drop fell on my face, and instantaneously, as if the heavens were opened before us, a deluge of rain rushed downwards, hissing and seething along the decks, and almost pinning us to our places; while the wind, bursting out afresh, swept wildly across the sea, and driving the spray and rain madly before it, produced a scene of confusion and tumult almost indescribable. For some minutes I could see nothing in the thick darkness which now surrounded us—could hear nothing but the roar of the hurricane and the splash of the waters. But suddenly a blinding flash shot from a cloud almost directly overhead, lighting up the deck, spars, and guns, for an instant, with a supernatural glare, and striking the ocean a few fathoms distant, ploughed up the waters, which it flung in volumes of spray in every direction. Before a clock could tick, the report followed, stunning us with its deafening roar, and rattling and crackling fearfully as it echoed down the sky. Never shall I forget the ghastly looks of the men, as I beheld them in that unearthly glare. And minutes after darkness had resumed its sway, and the roar of the thunder had died in the distance, my eyes still ached with that intense light, and the crackling of the bolt rung in my ears.
Meantime the rain descended in torrents, not, however, falling vertically, but flying whistling before the hurricane. The uproar of the elements now became terrific. The thunder rattled incessantly—the wind shrieked through the hamper—every timber and spar groaned in the strife, and the deep boom of the angry surges, pursuing in our wake, sounded like the howlings of beasts of prey. The darkness was intense, only relieved by the glare of the lightning which streamed incessantly over the scene. Whither we were going it was impossible to tell, for all control of the schooner had been given up, and we were scudding before the tempest with breathless velocity. A quarter of an hour had thus passed, when I found myself standing by the skipper, who was watching the course of the ship.
“East, by east-sou’-east,” he said, “and driving like death. God of heaven, what a storm!”
The words had scarcely left his mouth before another peal of thunder, even more awful than the preceding one I have described, burst overhead, and, stunning us for an instant with its terrific explosion, rattled down the sky, crackling and re-crackling in its retreat, as if the firmament were crashing to its centre: it was accompanied rather than preceded by a flash, such as I had never seen before, blinding me instantaneously with its glare, and making every object swim dizzily before the brain. On the moment I felt a stunning shock, and was prostrated on the deck, while a strong smell of sulphur pervaded the atmosphere. The deluge of rain revived me, and I looked up in alarm. Good God! the foremast was in flames.We had been struck with lightning!
Quick as thought the whole horrors of our situation rose before me. We were on a pathless sea amid a raging storm. That there was little hope of extinguishing the flames was evident, for, even while these thoughts flashed through my mind, a volume of smoke puffed up through the forecastle, and a cry ran through the decks that the whole forward part of the schooner was on fire. There was no time, however, to be lost, if we would make any effort to save ourselves; and, faint as was the hope of success, it was determined to attempt to smother the flames, by fastening down the hatches and excluding the air. But the fierce heat that filled the decks told us that the endeavor would be in vain; nor was it long before the forehatch was blown up with a loud explosion, while a stream of fire shot high up into the air; and, the next minute, the forked tongues had caught hold of the rigging, wrapping shrouds, ropes and yards in a sheet of lurid flame. The rapidity with which all this occurred was incredible. It seemed as if but a minute had elapsed since that terrific bolt had burst above us, and now the whole forward part of the schooner was a mass of fire, that streamed out before the tempest like a blood-red banner; showers of sparks, and even burning fragments of the wreck, flying far away ahead on the gale. There are periods, however, even of long duration, which appear to be but momentary, and so it was now. So wholly had every energy been devoted to the preservation of the ship, that the time had passed almost unnoticed, though a full half hour had elapsed since we had been struck with lightning. The storm, however, still raged as furiously as ever; for, though the rain was less violent, the wind blew a hurricane, threatening to settle down into a long sustained gale. Had the torrents of water, which first drenched us, continued falling, there might have been some hope of extinguishing the flames; but the subsidence of the rain, and the unaltered violence of the wind, rendered the situation of the schooner hopeless.
“We can do nothing more, I fear,” at length said the skipper, drawing me aside, “the fire is on the increase, and even the elements have turned against us. We must leave the littleDartto her fate, unless you can think of something else to do?” and he looked inquiringly at me.
“Alas!” I replied, with a mournful shake of my head, “we have done every thing that mortal man can do; but in vain. We must now think of saving ourselves. Had we not better order out the boats?”
The skipper did not, for a moment, reply to my question, but stood, with his arms folded on his breast, and a face of the deepest dejection, gazing on the burning forecastle. At length he spoke.
“Many a long day have we sailed together, in many a bold fray have we fought for each other, and now to leave you, my gallant craft, ah! little did I think this would be your doom. But God’s will be done. We must all perish sooner or later, and better go down here than rot, a forgotten hulk, on some muddy shore—better consume to ashes than fall a prey to some huge cormorant of an enemy. And yet,” he continued, his eye lighting up, “and yet I should have wished to die with you under the guns of one of those gigantic monsters—aye! die battling for the possession of your deck inch by inch.” At this instant one of the forward guns, which had become heated almost to redness in the conflagration, exploded. The sound seemed to recall him to himself. He started as if roused from a reverie, and, noticing me beside him, recollected my question. Immediately resuming his usual energy, he proceeded to order out the boats, and provide provisions and a few hasty instruments, with a calmness which was in striking contrast to the raging sea around, and the lurid fire raging on our bows.
The high discipline of the men enabled us to complete our preparations in a space of time less than one half that which would have been consumed by an ordinary crew under like circumstances; and, indeed, in many cases, all subordination would have been lost, and perhaps the ruin of the whole been the consequence. The alacrity of the men and the forecast of the officers were indeed needed; for our preparations had scarcely been completed when the heat on the deck became intolerable. The fire had now reached the after hatch, and, notwithstanding the violence of the gale, was extending aft with great rapidity, and had already enveloped the mainmast in its embraces. For some time before we left the schooner the heat, even at the tafferel, almost scorched the skin from our faces; nor did we descend into the boats a minute too soon. This was a feat also by no means easily accomplished, so great was the agitation of the sea. As I looked on the frail boats which were to receive us, and thought of the perils which environed us, of our distance from land, and the slight quantity of provisions we had been enabled to save, I felt that, in all human probability, we should never again set foot on shore, even if we survived until morning. To my own fate I was comparatively indifferent, for life had now lost all charms to me; but when I reflected on the brave men who were to be consigned to the same destiny, and of the ties by which many of them were bound to earth—of the wives who would become widows, of aged parents who would be left childless, of children for whom the orphan’s lot was preparing—the big tears gushed into my eyes, and coursed down my cheek, though unobserved.
“All ready,” said the skipper, who was the last to leave the deck, and pausing to cast a mournful look at his little craft, he sprung into the boat and we pushed off from the quarter. For some minutes, however, it seemed doubtful whether our frail barges could live in the tumultuous sea that now raged. One minute we were hurried to the sky on the bosom of a wave, and then we plunged headlong into the dark trough below, the walls of water on either hand momently threatening to overwhelm us. But though small, our boats were buoyant, and rode gallantly onward. Every exertion was made, meanwhile, to increase our distance from the schooner, for our departure had been hurried by the fear that the fire would soon reach the magazine, and our proximity to the burning ship still continued to threaten us with destruction in case of an explosion. The men, conscious of the peril, strained every sinew to effect our object, and thus battling against wind and wave we struggled on our way.
With every fathom we gained, the sight of the burning ship increased in magnificence. The flames had now seized the whole after part of the schooner as far back as the companion way, so that hull, spars and rigging were a sheet of fire, which, caught in the fierce embraces of the hurricane, now whirled around, now streamed straight out, and now broke into a thousand forked tongues, licking up the masts and around the spars like so many fiery serpents. Millions of sparks poured down to leeward, while ever and anon huge patches of flame would be torn from the main body of the conflagration and blown far away ahead. Volumes of dark, pitchy smoke, curling up from the decks of the schooner, often partially concealed a portion of the flames, but they reappeared a moment afterwards with even greater vividness. In some places so intense was the conflagration that the fire was at a white heat. The whole horizon was illuminated with the light, except just over and ahead of the schooner, where a black smoky cloud had gathered, looking like the wing of some gigantic monster of another world; and no description can adequately picture the spectral aspect of the gloomy waves that rolled up their ghastly crests beneath this canopy.
“She cannot last much longer,” said the doctor, who was in my boat, “the flames will soon reach the magazine.”
“Aye! aye! and look there—”
As I spoke, a vivid, blinding jet of fire streamed high up into the air, while the masts of the schooner could be seen, amid the flame, shooting arrow-like to the sky. Instantaneously a roar as of ten thousand batteries smote the ear; and then came the pattering of fragments of the hull and spars as they fell on the water. Even while these sounds continued, a darkness that brought to my mind that of the day of doom enveloped us, though that intense light still swam in our eyes, producing a thousand fantastic images on the retina. No word was spoken, but each one held his breath in awe; and then came a long, deep drawn sigh, that seemed to proceed simultaneously from each one in the boat.The Dart was no more.We were alone in the boundless deep, alone with a storm still raging around us, alone without any hope of rescue, and a thousand miles from land. God only knew whether it would be our lot to perish by starvation, or sink at an earlier hour a prey to the overwhelming deep! As I contemplated our situation I shuddered, and breathed an involuntary prayer that the latter might be our doom.