Bender, within a few days, was pardoned and released. Thoroughly humbled, yet sufficiently happy in saving his life, he quietly departed.
One result of the remarkable events which have been recorded will be so easily conjectured by the reader, as scarcely to require its relation. Born at remote points of the globe, singularly united in their recent destinies, and long really wedded in affection, Louis De Zeng and Ellen Gansevoort were not henceforth to be separated. But the day which witnessed their union was equally auspicious to another pair of generous and gentle hearts. Colonel Gansevoort had, by some accident, at length discovered his own attachment to the beautiful Alice. By her seemingly slight agency what momentous results had been effected. A lifetime of devotion could not have repaid the service, which, under the impulse of a generous feeling, she had freely rendered. But a sense of obligation was not necessary to inspire affection for Alice. Her gentle heart elicited a voluntary and perpetual homage, which no sentiment of duty was needed to confirm.
Little remains to be told. The subsequent military career of Colonels Gansevoort and De Zeng were distinguished by the same integrity, sagacity, and courage, which had marked their commencement. If they did not rise to eminence in station, it was less from want of ability than want of ambition. They haddrunk of that charmed cup of bliss which renders tasteless and insipid all the inferior joys of life.
Colonel Edmund Gansevoort lived to read the proclamation by which his royal master acknowledged the sovereignty and independence of the United States of America, and to behold his own boasted possessions saved from confiscation only by the interest of his once disinherited son.
LINES
ON VISITING BROAD STREET HOTEL,
HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON, WHEN NEW YORK WAS EVACUATED BY CLINTON.
———
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
———
It is a structure of the olden time,Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;A stain is on the venerable roof,Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,With thread-like roots, the moss.Grey shutters swingOn rusted hinges, but the beams of dayDart with a softening radiance through the bars.Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,But a cold glance they win from me alone.Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,To look on pile more humble? Why in thoughtLinger around this ancient edifice?The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowedTo die or conquer with their matchless chief.Methinks at yon old window I beholdHis calm, majestic features—while the soundOf blessing rises from the throng below.Have not the scenes of other days returned?Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a placeAllied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voiceComes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul —Amighty voicethat speaks of Washington,And prompts renewal of stern vow to guardPure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.
It is a structure of the olden time,Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;A stain is on the venerable roof,Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,With thread-like roots, the moss.Grey shutters swingOn rusted hinges, but the beams of dayDart with a softening radiance through the bars.Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,But a cold glance they win from me alone.Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,To look on pile more humble? Why in thoughtLinger around this ancient edifice?The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowedTo die or conquer with their matchless chief.Methinks at yon old window I beholdHis calm, majestic features—while the soundOf blessing rises from the throng below.Have not the scenes of other days returned?Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a placeAllied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voiceComes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul —Amighty voicethat speaks of Washington,And prompts renewal of stern vow to guardPure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.
It is a structure of the olden time,Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;A stain is on the venerable roof,Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,With thread-like roots, the moss.Grey shutters swingOn rusted hinges, but the beams of dayDart with a softening radiance through the bars.Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,But a cold glance they win from me alone.
It is a structure of the olden time,
Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;
A stain is on the venerable roof,
Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,
And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,
With thread-like roots, the moss.
Grey shutters swing
On rusted hinges, but the beams of day
Dart with a softening radiance through the bars.
Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,
Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,
And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,
Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,
But a cold glance they win from me alone.
Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,To look on pile more humble? Why in thoughtLinger around this ancient edifice?The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowedTo die or conquer with their matchless chief.Methinks at yon old window I beholdHis calm, majestic features—while the soundOf blessing rises from the throng below.Have not the scenes of other days returned?Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a placeAllied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.
Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,
To look on pile more humble? Why in thought
Linger around this ancient edifice?
The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,
Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.
Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,
Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,
At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,
His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,
Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.
Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,
While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,
Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowed
To die or conquer with their matchless chief.
Methinks at yon old window I behold
His calm, majestic features—while the sound
Of blessing rises from the throng below.
Have not the scenes of other days returned?
Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,
Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,
Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?
No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a place
Allied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,
Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.
Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voiceComes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul —Amighty voicethat speaks of Washington,And prompts renewal of stern vow to guardPure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.
Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!
Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,
Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,
And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voice
Comes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,
Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul —
Amighty voicethat speaks of Washington,
And prompts renewal of stern vow to guard
Pure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.
THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.
———
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
———
“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees!” cried a poorly clad, tired-looking woman, about eleven o’clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady, dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop. The woman lifted the heavy tray from her head, and placing it upon the door-step, sat wearily down.
“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she came to the door.
“Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh.”
“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up and looking grave. Then shaking her head, and compressing her lips firmly, she added —
“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries. It’s too much.”
“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said the woman. “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”
“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say. I never pay such prices. I bought strawberries in market yesterday, just as good as yours, for eight cents a box.”
“I don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned the woman. “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can sell out quickly. It’s a very hot day.” And the woman wiped, with her apron, the perspiration from her glowing face.
“No, I wont pay ten cents,” said the lady(?) coldly. “I’ll give you forty cents for five quarts, and nothing more.”
“But, madam, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a quart.”
“I can’t help that. You paid too much for them, and this must be your loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other people’s mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than that.”
The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually hot and sultry, and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than usual. Five boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight cents, she would clear two cents and a half, and that made her something.
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” she said, after thinking a few moments; “I don’t feel as well as usual to-day, and my tray is heavy. Five boxes sold will be something. You shall have them at nine cents. They cost me seven and a half, and I am sure it’s worth a cent and a half a box to cry them about the streets such hot weather as this.”
“I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do,” said the customer, with dignity. “If you are willing to take what I offer you, say so, if not, we needn’t stand here any longer.”
“Well, I suppose you will have to take them,” replied the strawberry-woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better. “But it’s too little.”
“It’s enough,” said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid for them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good bargain, while the poor woman turned from the door sad and disheartened. She walked nearly the distance of a square before she could trust her voice to utter her monotonous cry of
“Strawb’rees! Strawb’rees!”
An hour afterward, a friend called upon Mrs. Mier, the lady who had bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and things interesting to lady house-keepers, Mrs. Mier said —
“How much did you pay for strawberries this morning?”
“Ten cents.”
“You paid too much. I bought them for eight.”
“For eight! Were they good ones?”
“Step into the dining-room and I will show them to you.”
The ladies stepped into the dining-room, when Mrs. Mier displayed her large, red berries, which were really much finer than she had at first supposed them to be.
“You didn’t get them for eight cents,” remarked the visiter incredulously.
“Yes I did. I paid forty cents for five quarts.”
“While I paid fifty for some not near so good.”
“I suppose you paid just what you were asked?”
“Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season, who agrees to furnish me at the regular market price.”
“Which you will always find to be two or three cents above what you can get them for in the market.”
“You always buy in market.”
“I bought these from a woman at the door.”
“Did she only ask eight cents for them?”
“Oh no! She asked ten cents, and pretended that she got twelve and a half for the same quality of berries yesterday. But I never give these people what they ask.”
“While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor, tired-looking woman at my door, to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks me. A cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of great importance to her.”
“You are a very poor economist, I see,” said Mrs. Mier. “If that is the way you deal with every one, your husband no doubt finds his expense account a very serious item.”
“I don’t know about that. He never complains. He allows me a certain sum every week to keep the house, and find my own and the children’s clothes; and so far from ever calling on him for more, I always have fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me.”
“You must have a precious large allowance then, considering your want of economy in paying everybody just what they ask for their things.”
“Oh, no! I don’t do that exactly, Mrs. Mier. If I consider the price of a thing too high, I don’t buy it.”
“You paid too high for your strawberries to-day.”
“Perhaps I did; although I am by no means certain.”
“You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you own that they are superior to yours at ten cents.”
“Still, yours may have been too cheap, instead of mine too dear.”
“Too cheap! That is funny! I never saw any thing too cheap in my life. The great trouble is, that every thing is too dear. What do you mean by too cheap?”
“The person who sold them to you may not have made profit enough upon them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the case, she sold them to you too cheap.”
“Suppose she paid too high for them? Is the purchaser to pay for her error?”
“Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell; and even if she had made such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to pay her a price that would give her a fair profit, instead of taking from her the means of buying bread for her children. At least this is my way of reasoning.”
“And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a system of reasoning. But how much, pray, do you have a week to keep the family? I am curious to know.”
“Thirty-five dollars.”
“Thirty-five dollars! You are jesting.”
“Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find the sum ample.”
“While I receive fifty dollars a week,” said Mrs. Mier, “and am forever calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me. And yet I never pay theexorbitant prices asked by everybody for every thing. I am strictly economical in my family. While other people pay their domestics a dollar and a half and two dollars a week, I give but a dollar and a quarter each to my cook and chambermaid, and require the chambermaid to help the washer-woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen, for I take care, in marketing, not to allow room for waste. I don’t know how it is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system.”
The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly understood by the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs. Mier never paid any body as much as was at first asked for an article, and was always talking about economy, and trying to practice it, by withholding from others what was justly their due, as in the case of the strawberry-woman, yet she was a very extravagant person, and spared no money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs. Gilman, her visiter, was, on the contrary, really economical, because she was moderate in all her desires, and was usually as well satisfied with an article of dress or furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars, as Mrs. Mier was with one that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little things, the former was not so particular as to infringe the rights of others, while in larger matters, she was careful not to run into extravagance in order to gratify her own or children’s pride and vanity, while the latter pursued a course directly opposite.
Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied, on reflection, about the price she had paid for her strawberries, as she had felt at first.
“I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a quart too much than too little,” she said to herself,—“dear knows, they earn their money hard enough, and get but a scanty portion after all.”
Although the tray of the poor strawberry-woman, when she passed from the presence of Mrs. Mier, was lighter by five boxes, her heart was heavier, and that made her steps more weary than before. The next place at which she stopped, she found the same disposition to beat her down in her price.
“I’ll give you nine cents, and take four boxes,” said the lady.
“Indeed, madam, that is too little,” replied the woman; “ten cents is the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable profit.”
“Well, say thirty-seven and a-half for four boxes, and I will take them. It is only two cents and a-half less than you ask for them.”
“Give me a fip, ma!—there comes the candy-man!” exclaimed a little fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. “Quick, ma! Here, candy-man!” calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his arm, that looked something like an ice-cream freezer. The lady drew out her purse, and searched among its contents for the small coin her child wanted.
“I havn’t any thing less than a levy,” she at length said.
“Oh, well, he can change it. Candy-man, you can change a levy?”
By this time the “candy-man” stood smiling beside the strawberry-woman. As he was countingout the fip’s worth of candy, the child spoke up in an earnest voice, and said —
“Get a levy’s worth, mother, do, wont you? Cousin Lu’s coming to see us to-morrow.”
“Let him have a levy’s worth, candy-man. He’s such a rogue I can’t resist him,” responded the mother. The candy was counted out, and the levy paid, when the man retired in his usual good humor.
“Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a-half cents?” said the lady, the smile fading from her face. “It is all I am willing to give.”
“If you wont pay any more, I mustn’t stand for two cents and a-half,” replied the woman, “although they would nearly buy a loaf of bread for the children,” she mentally added.
The four boxes were sold for the sum offered, and the woman lifted the tray upon her head, and moved on again. The sun shone out still hotter and hotter as the day advanced. Large beads of perspiration rolled from the throbbing temples of the strawberry-woman, as she passed wearily up one street and down another, crying her fruit at the top of her voice. At length all were sold but five boxes, and now it was past one o’clock. Long before this she ought to have been at home. Faint from over-exertion, she lifted her tray from her head, and placing it upon a door-step, sat down to rest. As she sat thus, a lady came up, and paused at the door of the house as if about to enter.
“You look tired, my good woman,” she said kindly. “This is a very hot day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your strawberries?”
“I ought to have ten cents for them, but nobody seems willing to give ten cents to-day, although they are very fine, and cost me as much as some I have got twelve and a half for.”
“How many boxes have you?”
“Five, ma’am.”
“They are very fine, sure enough,” said the lady, stooping down and examining them; “and well worth ten cents. I’ll take them.”
“Thanky, ma’am. I was afraid I should have to take them home,” said the woman, her heart bounding up lightly.
The ladyrang the bell, for it was at her door that the tired strawberry-woman had stopped to rest herself. While she was waiting for the door to be opened, the lady took from her purse the money for the strawberries, and handing it to the woman, said,
“Here is your money. Shall I tell the servant to bring you out a glass of cool water? You are hot and tired.”
“If you please, ma’am,” said the woman, with a grateful look.
The water was sent out by the servant who was to receive the strawberries, and the tired woman drank it eagerly. Its refreshing coolness flowed through every vein, and when she took up her tray to return home, both heart and step were lighter.
The lady, whose benevolent feelings had prompted her to the performance of this little act of kindness, could not help remembering the woman’s grateful look. She had not done much—not more than it was every one’s duty to do; but the recollection of even that was pleasant, far more pleasant than could possibly have been Mrs. Mier’s self-gratulations at having saved ten cents on her purchase of five boxes of strawberries, notwithstanding the assurance of the poor woman who vended them, that, at the reduced rate, her profit on the whole would only be two cents and a-half.
After dinner Mrs. Mier went out and spent thirty dollars in purchasing jewelry for her eldest daughter, a young lady not yet eighteen years of age. That evening, at the tea-table, the strawberries were highly commended as being the largest and most delicious in flavor of any they had yet had; in reply to which, Mrs. Mier stated, with an air of peculiar satisfaction, that she had got them for eight cents a box when they were worth at least ten cents.
“The woman asked me ten cents,” she said, “but I offered her eight, and she took it.”
While the family of Mrs. Mier were enjoying their pleasant repast, the strawberry-woman sat at a small table, around which were gathered three young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries, for which she was to pay seven and a-half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box, she would have made seventy-five cents; but such was not the case. Rich ladies had beaten her down in her price—had chaffered with her for the few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her—and actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strove to earn for her children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian meal and molasses for her own and herchildren’s supper and breakfast.
As she sat with her children, eating the only food she was able to provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her; but the remembrance of the kind words, and the glass of cool water, so timely and thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaven in the waters of Marah. Her heart softened, and with the tears stealing to her eyes, she glanced upward, and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though poor, she was still human.
Economy is a good thing, and should be practiced by all, but it should show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour, and in the next trying to save a five penny piece off of a wood-sawyer, coal-heaver, or market-woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest.
THE SOUL’S SEARCH.
———
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
———
A weary, wandering soul am I,O’erburthened with an earthly weight;A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,Who all night gaze upon the skies,Have ye not in the silent hoursSeen aught of Paradise?Ye birds, that soar and sing, elateWith joy which makes your voices strong,Have ye not at the crystal gateCaught somewhat of your song?Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,Ye seas, which hold the starry night,Have ye not from the imperial bournCaught glimpses of its light?Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,Ye mountain forests old and gray,In all your long and winding linesHave ye not seen the way?Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,Knowest thou the path the angels tread?Seest thou beyond thy azure towersThe golden gates dispread?Ye holy spheres, that sang with earthWhile earth was yet a sinless star,Have the immortals heavenly birthWithin your realms afar?Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurlsThy banners through unnumbered skies,Seest thou amid thy subject worldsThe flaming portals rise?All, all are mute! and still am IO’erburthened with an earthly weight,A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.No answer wheresoe’er I roam—From skies afar no guiding ray;But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!Arise! I am the way!”
A weary, wandering soul am I,O’erburthened with an earthly weight;A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,Who all night gaze upon the skies,Have ye not in the silent hoursSeen aught of Paradise?Ye birds, that soar and sing, elateWith joy which makes your voices strong,Have ye not at the crystal gateCaught somewhat of your song?Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,Ye seas, which hold the starry night,Have ye not from the imperial bournCaught glimpses of its light?Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,Ye mountain forests old and gray,In all your long and winding linesHave ye not seen the way?Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,Knowest thou the path the angels tread?Seest thou beyond thy azure towersThe golden gates dispread?Ye holy spheres, that sang with earthWhile earth was yet a sinless star,Have the immortals heavenly birthWithin your realms afar?Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurlsThy banners through unnumbered skies,Seest thou amid thy subject worldsThe flaming portals rise?All, all are mute! and still am IO’erburthened with an earthly weight,A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.No answer wheresoe’er I roam—From skies afar no guiding ray;But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!Arise! I am the way!”
A weary, wandering soul am I,O’erburthened with an earthly weight;A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.
A weary, wandering soul am I,
O’erburthened with an earthly weight;
A palmer through the world and sky
Seeking the celestial gate.
Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,Who all night gaze upon the skies,Have ye not in the silent hoursSeen aught of Paradise?
Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,
Who all night gaze upon the skies,
Have ye not in the silent hours
Seen aught of Paradise?
Ye birds, that soar and sing, elateWith joy which makes your voices strong,Have ye not at the crystal gateCaught somewhat of your song?
Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate
With joy which makes your voices strong,
Have ye not at the crystal gate
Caught somewhat of your song?
Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,Ye seas, which hold the starry night,Have ye not from the imperial bournCaught glimpses of its light?
Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,
Ye seas, which hold the starry night,
Have ye not from the imperial bourn
Caught glimpses of its light?
Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,Ye mountain forests old and gray,In all your long and winding linesHave ye not seen the way?
Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,
Ye mountain forests old and gray,
In all your long and winding lines
Have ye not seen the way?
Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,Knowest thou the path the angels tread?Seest thou beyond thy azure towersThe golden gates dispread?
Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,
Knowest thou the path the angels tread?
Seest thou beyond thy azure towers
The golden gates dispread?
Ye holy spheres, that sang with earthWhile earth was yet a sinless star,Have the immortals heavenly birthWithin your realms afar?
Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth
While earth was yet a sinless star,
Have the immortals heavenly birth
Within your realms afar?
Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurlsThy banners through unnumbered skies,Seest thou amid thy subject worldsThe flaming portals rise?
Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurls
Thy banners through unnumbered skies,
Seest thou amid thy subject worlds
The flaming portals rise?
All, all are mute! and still am IO’erburthened with an earthly weight,A palmer through the world and skySeeking the celestial gate.
All, all are mute! and still am I
O’erburthened with an earthly weight,
A palmer through the world and sky
Seeking the celestial gate.
No answer wheresoe’er I roam—From skies afar no guiding ray;But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!Arise! I am the way!”
No answer wheresoe’er I roam—
From skies afar no guiding ray;
But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!
Arise! I am the way!”
TO LIZZIE.
———
BY MRS. M. N. M’DONALD.
———
And all hearts do pray, “God love her!”Ay, in certes, in good sooth,We may all be sureHedoth.Miss Barrett.
And all hearts do pray, “God love her!”Ay, in certes, in good sooth,We may all be sureHedoth.Miss Barrett.
And all hearts do pray, “God love her!”
Ay, in certes, in good sooth,
We may all be sureHedoth.
Miss Barrett.
There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,That I cannot well define,And I sometimes think it liethIn that soft blue eye of thine;And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,And beautiful thy lip—As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,A bee might love to sip—Yet I think it is nor lip nor eyeWhich binds me with its spell,But a something dearer far than these,Though undefinable.When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,When I hear thy gentle tone;When my hand is pressed so tenderly,So warmly in thine own—Why then I think it is thy voice,Whose music, like a bird’s,Can soothe me with the melodyOf sweetly spoken words:Perchance the pressure of thy handThis hidden charm may be—Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sighThat lures my heart to thee.Perchance it is thy gentleness,Perchance thy winning smile,Which lurketh in such dimplesAs mighteasilybeguile;Or perchance the music of thy laughHath a bewildering flow—Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,If it be thy laugh or no;For mirth as musical as thineHath met mine ear before,But its memory faded from my heartWhen once the strain was o’er.Oh! for the wand of fairyTo dissolve the witching spell,And teach me, dearest Lizzie,What it is I love so well.Thy simple truth and earnestness,Perchance it may be this,Or the gentle kindness breathingIn thy morn or evening kiss—Thy care for others’ weal or wo,Thy quickly springing tears—Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,Unmeet for thy brief years.Well, be it either look or tone,Or smile, or soft caress,I know not, Lizzie, yet I feelI could not love thee less.And something, haply, there may be,“Like light within a vase,”Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,Flings o’er thee such a grace.Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,That words may not impart,Is but the warm affectionsOf a kind and loving heart.
There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,That I cannot well define,And I sometimes think it liethIn that soft blue eye of thine;And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,And beautiful thy lip—As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,A bee might love to sip—Yet I think it is nor lip nor eyeWhich binds me with its spell,But a something dearer far than these,Though undefinable.When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,When I hear thy gentle tone;When my hand is pressed so tenderly,So warmly in thine own—Why then I think it is thy voice,Whose music, like a bird’s,Can soothe me with the melodyOf sweetly spoken words:Perchance the pressure of thy handThis hidden charm may be—Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sighThat lures my heart to thee.Perchance it is thy gentleness,Perchance thy winning smile,Which lurketh in such dimplesAs mighteasilybeguile;Or perchance the music of thy laughHath a bewildering flow—Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,If it be thy laugh or no;For mirth as musical as thineHath met mine ear before,But its memory faded from my heartWhen once the strain was o’er.Oh! for the wand of fairyTo dissolve the witching spell,And teach me, dearest Lizzie,What it is I love so well.Thy simple truth and earnestness,Perchance it may be this,Or the gentle kindness breathingIn thy morn or evening kiss—Thy care for others’ weal or wo,Thy quickly springing tears—Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,Unmeet for thy brief years.Well, be it either look or tone,Or smile, or soft caress,I know not, Lizzie, yet I feelI could not love thee less.And something, haply, there may be,“Like light within a vase,”Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,Flings o’er thee such a grace.Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,That words may not impart,Is but the warm affectionsOf a kind and loving heart.
There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,That I cannot well define,And I sometimes think it liethIn that soft blue eye of thine;And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,And beautiful thy lip—As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,A bee might love to sip—Yet I think it is nor lip nor eyeWhich binds me with its spell,But a something dearer far than these,Though undefinable.
There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,
That I cannot well define,
And I sometimes think it lieth
In that soft blue eye of thine;
And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,
And beautiful thy lip—
As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,
A bee might love to sip—
Yet I think it is nor lip nor eye
Which binds me with its spell,
But a something dearer far than these,
Though undefinable.
When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,When I hear thy gentle tone;When my hand is pressed so tenderly,So warmly in thine own—Why then I think it is thy voice,Whose music, like a bird’s,Can soothe me with the melodyOf sweetly spoken words:Perchance the pressure of thy handThis hidden charm may be—Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sighThat lures my heart to thee.
When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,
When I hear thy gentle tone;
When my hand is pressed so tenderly,
So warmly in thine own—
Why then I think it is thy voice,
Whose music, like a bird’s,
Can soothe me with the melody
Of sweetly spoken words:
Perchance the pressure of thy hand
This hidden charm may be—
Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sigh
That lures my heart to thee.
Perchance it is thy gentleness,Perchance thy winning smile,Which lurketh in such dimplesAs mighteasilybeguile;Or perchance the music of thy laughHath a bewildering flow—Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,If it be thy laugh or no;For mirth as musical as thineHath met mine ear before,But its memory faded from my heartWhen once the strain was o’er.
Perchance it is thy gentleness,
Perchance thy winning smile,
Which lurketh in such dimples
As mighteasilybeguile;
Or perchance the music of thy laugh
Hath a bewildering flow—
Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,
If it be thy laugh or no;
For mirth as musical as thine
Hath met mine ear before,
But its memory faded from my heart
When once the strain was o’er.
Oh! for the wand of fairyTo dissolve the witching spell,And teach me, dearest Lizzie,What it is I love so well.Thy simple truth and earnestness,Perchance it may be this,Or the gentle kindness breathingIn thy morn or evening kiss—Thy care for others’ weal or wo,Thy quickly springing tears—Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,Unmeet for thy brief years.
Oh! for the wand of fairy
To dissolve the witching spell,
And teach me, dearest Lizzie,
What it is I love so well.
Thy simple truth and earnestness,
Perchance it may be this,
Or the gentle kindness breathing
In thy morn or evening kiss—
Thy care for others’ weal or wo,
Thy quickly springing tears—
Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,
Unmeet for thy brief years.
Well, be it either look or tone,Or smile, or soft caress,I know not, Lizzie, yet I feelI could not love thee less.And something, haply, there may be,“Like light within a vase,”Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,Flings o’er thee such a grace.Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,That words may not impart,Is but the warm affectionsOf a kind and loving heart.
Well, be it either look or tone,
Or smile, or soft caress,
I know not, Lizzie, yet I feel
I could not love thee less.
And something, haply, there may be,
“Like light within a vase,”
Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,
Flings o’er thee such a grace.
Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,
That words may not impart,
Is but the warm affections
Of a kind and loving heart.
THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;
OR, ROSE BUDD.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content.As You Like It.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.
———
[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]
[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]
(Continued from page 313.)
Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.—As You Like It.
Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.—As You Like It.
Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.—As You Like It.
While the tyro believes the vessel is about to capsize at every puff of wind, the practiced seaman alone knows when danger truly besets him in this particular form. Thus it was with Harry Mulford, when the Mexican schooner went over, as related in the close of the preceding chapter. He felt no alarm until the danger actually came. Then, indeed, no one there was so quickly or so thoroughly apprized of what the result would be, and he directed all his exertions to meet the exigency. While there was the smallest hope of success, he did not lessen, in the least, his endeavors to save the vessel; making almost superhuman efforts to cast off the fore-sheet, so as to relieve the schooner from the pressure of one of her sails. But, no sooner did he hear the barrels in the hold surging to leeward, and feel by the inclination of the deck beneath his feet, that nothing could save the craft, than he abandoned the sheet, and sprang to the assistance of Rose. It was time he did; for, having followed him into the vessel’s lee waist, she was the first to be submerged in the sea, and would have been hopelessly drowned, but for Mulford’s timely succor. Womenmightswim more readily than men, and do so swim, in those portions of the world where the laws of nature are not counteracted by human conventions. Rose Budd, however, had received the vicious education which civilized society inflicts on her sex, and, as a matter of course, was totally helpless in an element in which it was the design of Divine Providence she should possess the common means of sustaining herself, like every other being endued with animal life. Not so with Mulford, he swam with ease and force, and had no difficulty in sustaining Rose until the schooner had settled into her new berth, or in hauling her on the vessel’s bottom immediately after.
Luckily, there was no swell, or so little as not to endanger those who were on the schooner’s bilge; and Mulford had no sooner placed her in momentary safety at least, whom he prized far higher than his own life, than he bethought him of his other companions. Jack Tier had hauled himself up to windward by the rope that steadied the tiller, and he had called on Mrs. Budd to imitate his example. It was so natural for even a woman to grasp any thing like a rope at such a moment, that the widow instinctively obeyed, while Biddy seized, at random, the first thing of the sort that offered. Owing to these fortunate chances, Jack and Mrs. Budd succeeded in reaching the quarter of the schooner, the former actually getting up on the bottom of the wreck, on to which he was enabled to float the widow, who was almost as buoyant as cork, as, indeed, was the case with Jack himself. All the stern and bows of the vessel were under water, in consequence of her leanness forward and aft; but though submerged, she offered a precarious footing, even in these extremities, to such as could reach them. On the other hand, the place where Rose stood, or the bilge of the vessel, was two or three feet above the surface of the sea, though slippery and inclining in shape.
It was not half a minute from the time that Mulford sprang to Rose’s succor, ere he had her on the vessel’s bottom. In another half minute, he had waded down on the schooner’s counter, where Jack Tier was lustily calling to him for “help,” and assisted the widow to her feet, and supported her until she stood at Rose’s side. Leaving the last in her aunt’s arms, half distracted between dread and joy, he turned to the assistance of Biddy. The rope at which the Irish woman had caught, was a straggling end that had been made fast to the main channels of the schooner, for the support of a fender, and had been hauled partly in-board to keep it out of the water. Biddy had found no difficulty in dragging herself up to the chains, therefore, and had she been content to sustain herself by the rope, leaving as much of her body submerged as comported with breathing, her task would have been easy. But, like most persons who do not know how to swim, the good woman was fast exhausting her strength, by vain efforts to walk on the surface of an element that was never made to sustain her.Unpracticed persons, in such situations, cannot be taught to believe that their greatest safety is in leaving as much of their bodies as possible beneath the water, keeping the mouth and nose alone free for breath. But we have seen even instances in which men, who were in danger of drowning, seemed to believe it might be possible for them to crawl over the waves on their hands and knees. The philosophy of the contrary course is so very simple, that one would fancy a very child might be made to comprehend it; yet, it is rare to find one unaccustomed to the water, and who is suddenly exposed to its dangers, that does not resort, under the pressure of present alarm, to the very reverse of the true means to save his or her life.
Mulford had no difficulty in finding Bridget, whose exclamations of “murther!” “help!” “he-l-lup!” “Jasus!” and other similar cries led him directly to the spot, where she was fast drowning herself by her own senseless struggles. Seizing her by the arm, the active young mate soon placed her on her feet, though her cries did not cease until she was ordered by her mistress to keep silence.
Having thus rescued the whole of his companions from immediate danger, Mulford began to think of the future. He was seized with sudden surprise that the vessel did not sink, and for a minute he was unable to account for the unusual fact. On the former occasion, the schooner had gone down almost as soon as she fell over; but now she floated with so much buoyancy as to leave most of her keel and all of her bilge on one side quite clear of the water. As one of the main hatches was off, and the cabins doors, and booby-hatch doors forward were open, and all were under water, it required a little reflection on the part of Mulford to understand on what circumstance all their lives now depended. The mate soon ascertained the truth, however, and we may as well explain it to the reader in our own fashion, in order to put him on a level with the young seaman.
The puff of wind, or little squall, had struck the schooner at the most unfavorable moment for her safety. She had just lost her way in tacking, and the hull not moving ahead, as happens when a craft is thus assailed with the motion on her, all the power of the wind was expended in the direction necessary to capsize her. Another disadvantage arose from the want of motion. The rudder, which acts solely by pressing against the water as the vessel meets it, was useless, and it was not possible to luff, and throw the wind from the sails, as is usually practiced by fore-and-aft rigged craft, in moments of such peril. In consequence of these united difficulties, the shifting of the cargo in the hold, the tenderness of the craft itself, and the force of the squall, the schooner had gone so far over as to carry all three of the openings to her interior suddenly under water, where they remained, held by the pressure of the cargo that had rolled to leeward. Had not the water completely covered these openings, or hatches, the schooner must have sunk in a minute or two, or by the time Mulford had got all his companions safe on her bilge. But they were completely submerged, and so continued to be, which circumstance alone prevented the vessel from sinking, as the following simple explanation will show.
Any person who will put an empty tumbler, bottom upwards, into a bucket of water, will find that the water will not rise within the tumbler more than an inch at most. At that point it is arrested by the resistance of the air, which, unable to escape, and compressed into a narrow compass, forms a body that the other fluid cannot penetrate. It is on this simple and familiar principle, that the chemist keeps his gases, in inverted glasses, placing them on shelves slightly submerged in water. Thus it was, then, that the schooner continued to float, though nearly bottom upward, and with three inlets open, by which the water could and did penetrate. A considerable quantity of the element had rushed in at the instant of capsizing, but meeting with resistance from the compressed and pent air, its progress had been arrested, and the wreck continued to float, sustained by the buoyancy that was imparted to it, in containing so large a body of a substance no heavier than atmospheric air. After displacing its weight of water, enough of buoyancy remained to raise the keel a few feet above the level of the sea.
As soon as Mulford had ascertained the facts of their situation, he communicated them to his companions, encouraging them to hope for eventual safety. It was true, their situation was nearly desperate, admitting that the wreck should continue to float forever, since they were nearly without food, or any thing to drink, and had no means of urging the hull through the water. They must float, too, at the mercy of the winds and waves, and should a sea get up, it might soon be impossible for Mulford himself to maintain his footing on the bottom of the wreck. All this the young man had dimly shadowed forth to him, through his professional experience; but the certainty of the vessel’s not sinking immediately had so far revived his spirits, as to cause him to look on the bright side of the future, pale as that glimmering of hope was made to appear whenever reason cast one of its severe glances athwart it.
Harry had no difficulty in making Rose comprehend their precise situation. Her active and clear mind understood at once the causes of their present preservation, and most of the hazards of the future. It was not so with Jack Tier. He was composed, even resigned; but he could not see the reason why the schooner still floated.
“I know that the cabin-doors were open,” he said, “and if they wasn’t, of no great matter would it be, since the joints ar’n’t caulked, and the water would run through them as through a sieve. I’m afeard, Mr. Mulford, we shall find the wreck going from under our feet afore long, and when we least wish it, perhaps.”
“I tell you the wreck will float so long as the air remains in its hold,” returned the mate, cheerfully. “Do you not see how buoyant it is?—the certain proof that there is plenty of air within. So long as that remains, the hullmustfloat.”
“I’ve always understood,” said Jack, sticking to his opinion, “that wessels floats by vartue of water, and not by vartue of air; and, that when the water gets on the wrong side on ’em, there’s little hope left of keepin’ ’em up.”
“What has become of the boat?” suddenly cried the mate. “I have been so much occupied as to have forgotten the boat. In that boat we might all of us still reach Key West. I see nothing of the boat!”
A profound silence succeeded this sudden and unexpected question. All knew that the boat was gone, and all knew that it had been lost by the widow’s pertinacity and clumsiness; but no one felt disposed to betray her at that grave moment. Mulford left the bilge, and waded as far aft as it was at all prudent for him to proceed, in the vain hope that the boat might be there, fastened by its painter to the schooner’s tafferel, as he had left it, but concealed from view by the darkness of the night. Not finding what he was after, he returned to his companions, still uttering exclamations of surprise at the unaccountable loss of the boat. Rose now told him that the boat had got adrift some ten or fifteen minutes before the accident befell them, and that they were actually endeavoring to recover it when the squall, which capsized the schooner, struck them.
“And why did you not call me, Rose?” asked Harry, with a little of gentle reproach in his manner. “It must have soon been my watch on deck, and it would have been better that I should lose half an hour of my watch below, than we should lose the boat.”
Rose was now obliged to confess that the time for calling him had long been past, and that the faint streak of light, which was just appearing in the east, was the near approach of day. This explanation was made gently, but frankly, and Mulford experienced a glow of pleasure at his heart, even in that moment of jeopardy, when he understood Rose’s motive for not having him disturbed. As the boat was gone, with little or no prospect of its being recovered again, no more was said about it; and the widow, who had stood on thorns the while, had the relief of believing that her awkwardness was forgotten.
It was such a relief from an imminent danger to have escaped from drowning when the schooner capsized, that those on her bottom did not, for some little time, realize all the terrors of their actual situation. The inconvenience of being wet was a trifle not to be thought of, and, in fact, the light summer dresses worn by all, linen or cotton as they were entirely, were soon effectually dried in the wind. The keel made a tolerably convenient seat, and the whole party placed themselves on it to await the return of day, in order to obtain a view of all that their situation offered in the way of a prospect. While thus awaiting, a broken and short dialogue occurred.
“Had you stood to the northward the whole night?” asked Mulford, gloomily, of Jack Tier; for gloomily he began to feel, as all the facts of their case began to press more closely on his mind. “If so, we must be well off the reef, and out of the track of wreckers and turtlers. How had you the wind, and how did you head before the accident happened?”
“The wind was light the whole time, and for some hours it was nearly calm,” answered Jack, in the same vein; “I kept the schooner’s head to the nor’ard, until I thought we were getting too far off our course, and then I put her about. I do not think we could have been any great distance from the reef, when the boat got away from us, and I suppose we are in its neighborhood now, for I was tacking to fall in with the boat when the craft went over.”
“To fall in with the boat! Did you keep off to leeward of it, then, that you expected to fetch it by tacking?”
“Ay, a good bit; and I think the boat is now away here to windward of us, drifting athwart our bows.”
This was important news to Mulford. Could he only get that boat, the chances of being saved would be increased a hundred fold, nay, would almost amount to a certainty; whereas, so long as the wind held to the southward and eastward, the drift of the wreck must be toward the open water, and consequently so much the further removed from the means of succor. The general direction of the Trades, in that quarter of theworld, is east, and should they get round into their old and proper quarter, it would not benefit them much; for the reef running south-west, they could scarcely hope to hit the Dry Tortugas again, in their drift, were life even spared them sufficiently long to float the distance. Then there might be currents, about which Mulford knew nothing with certainty; they might set them in any direction; and did they exist, as was almost sure to be the case, were much more powerful than the wind in controlling the movements of a wreck.
The mate strained his eyes in the direction pointed out by Jack Tier, in the hope of discovering the boat through the haze of the morning, and he actually did discern something that, it appeared to him, might be the much desired little craft. If he were right, there was every reason to think the boat would drift down so near them, as to enable him to recover it by swimming. This cheering intelligence was communicated to his companions, who received it with gratitude and delight. But the approach of day gradually dispelled that hope, the object which Mulford had mistaken for the boat, within two hundred yards of the wreck, turning out to be a small low, but bare hummock of the reef, at a distance of more than two miles.
“That is a proof that we are not far from the reef at least,” cried Mulford, willing to encourage those around him all he could, and really much relieved at finding himself so near even this isolated fragment ofterra firma. “This fact is the next encouraging thing to finding ourselves near the boat, or to falling in with a sail.”
“Ay, ay,” said Jack, gloomily; “boat or no boat, ’twill make no great matter of difference now.There’scustomers that’ll be sartain to take all the grists you can send to their mill.”
“What things are those glancing about the vessel?” cried Rose, almost in the same breath; “those dark sharp-looking sticks—see, there are five or six of them; and they move as if fastened to something under the water that pulls them about.”
“Them’s the customers I mean, Miss Rose,” answered Jack, in the same strain as that in which he had first spoken; “they’re the same thing at sea as lawyers be ashore, and seem made to live on other folks. Them’s sharks.”
“And yonder is truly the boat!” added Mulford, with a sigh that almost amounted to a groan. The light had, by this time, so far returned, as to enable the party not only to see the fins of half a dozen sharks, which were already prowling about the wreck, the almost necessary consequence of their proximity to a reef in that latitude, but actually to discern the boat drilling down toward them, at a distance that promised to carry it past, within the reach of Mulford’s powers of swimming, though not as near as he could have wished, even under more favorable circumstances. Had their extremity been greater, or had Rose begun to suffer from hunger or thirst, Mulford might have attempted the experiment of endeavoring to regain the boat, though the chances of death by means of the sharks, would be more than equal to those of escape; but still fresh, and not yet feeling even the heat of the sun of that low latitude, he was not quite goaded into such an act of desperation. All that remained for the party, therefore, was to sit on the keel of the wreck, and gaze with longing eyes at a little object floating past, which, once at their command, might so readily be made to save them from a fate that already began to appear terrible in the perspective. Near an hour was thus consumed, ere the boat was about half a mile to leeward; during which scarcely an eye was turned from it for one instant, or a word was spoken.
“It is beyond my reach now,” Mulford at length exclaimed, sighing heavily, like one who became conscious of some great and irretrievable loss. “Were there no sharks, I could hardly venture to attempt swimming so far, with the boat drifting from me at the same time.”
“I should never consent to let you make the trial, Harry,” murmured Rose, “though it were only half as far.”
Another pause succeeded.
“We have now the light of day,” resumed the mate, a minute or two later, “and may see our true situation. No sail is in sight, and the wind stands steadily in its old quarter. Still, I do not think we leave the reef! There, you may see breakers off here at the southward, and it seems as if more rocks rise above the sea, in that direction. I do not know that our situation would be any the better, however, were we actually on them, instead of being on this floating wreck.”
“The rocks will never sink,” said Jack Tier, with so much emphasis as to startle the listeners.
“I do not think this hull will sink until we are taken off it, or are beyond caring whether it sink or swim,” returned Mulford.
“I do not know that, Mr. Mulford. Nothing keeps us up but the air in the hold, you say.”
“Certainly not; but that air will suffice as long as it remains there.”
“And what do you call these things?” rejoined the assistant steward, pointing at the water near him, in or on which no one else saw anything worthy of attention.
Mulford, however, was not satisfied with a cursory glance, but went nearer to the spot where Tier was standing. Then, indeed, he saw to what the steward alluded, and was impressed by it, though he said nothing. Hundreds of little bubbles rose to the surface of the water, much as one sees them rising in springs. These bubbles are often met with in lakes and other comparatively shallow waters, but they are rarely seen in those of the ocean. The mate understood, at a glance, that those he now beheld were produced by the air which escaped from the hold of the wreck; in small quantities at a time, it was true, but by a constant and increasing process. The great pressure of the water forced this air through crevices so minute that, under ordinary circumstances, they would have proved impenetrable to this, as they were still to the other fluid, though they now permitted the passage of the former. It might take a long time to force the air from the interior of the vessel by such means, but the result was as certain as it might be slow. As constant dropping will wear a stone, so might the power that kept the wreck afloat be exhausted by the ceaseless rising of these minute air-bubbles.
Although Mulford was entirely sensible of the nature of this new source of danger, we cannot say he was much affected by it at the moment. It seemed to him far more probable that they must die of exhaustion, long before the wreck would lose all of its buoyancy by this slow process, than that even the strongest of their number could survive for such a period. The new danger, therefore, lost most of its terrors under this view of the subject, though it certainly did not add to the small sense of security that remained, to know that inevitably their fate must be sealed through its agency, should they be able to hold out for a sufficient time against hunger and thirst It caused Mulford to muse in silence for many more minutes.
“I hope we are not altogether without food,” the mate at length said. “It sometimes happens that persons at sea carry pieces of biscuit in their pockets, especially those who keep watch at night. The smallest morsel is now of the last importance.”
At this suggestion, every one set about an examination. The result was, that neither Mrs. Budd nor Rose had a particle of food, of any sort, about their persons. Biddy produced from her pockets, however, a whole biscuit, a large bunch of excellent raisins that she had filched from the steward’s stores, and two apples; the last being the remains of some fruit that Spike had procured a month earlier in New York. Mulford had half a biscuit, at which he had been accustomed to nibble in his watches; and Jack lugged out, along with a small plug of tobacco, a couple of sweet oranges. Here, then, was every thing in the shape of victuals or drink, that could be found for the use of five persons, in all probability for many days. The importance of securing it for equal distribution, was so obvious, that Mulford’s proposal to do so, met with a common assent. The whole was put in Mrs. Budd’s bag, and she was intrusted with the keeping of this precious store.
“It may be harder to abstain from food at first, when we have not suffered for its want, than it will become after a little endurance,” said the mate. “We are now strong, and it will be wiser to fast as long as we conveniently can, to-day, and relieve our hunger by a moderate allowance toward evening, than to waste our means by too much indulgence at a time when we are strong. Weakness will be sure to come if we remain long on the wreck.”
“Have you ever suffered in this way, Harry?” demanded Rose, with interest.
“I have, and that dreadfully. But a Merciful Providence came to my rescue then, and it may not fail me now. The seaman is accustomed to carry his life in his hand, and to live on the edge of eternity.”
The truth of this was so apparent as to produce a thoughtful silence. Anxious glances were cast around the horizon from time to time, in quest of any sail that might come in sight; but uselessly. None appeared, and the day advanced without bringing the slightest prospect of relief. Mulford could see, by the now almost sunken hummocks, that they were slowly drifting along the reef, toward the southward and eastward, a current no doubt acting slightly from the north-west. Their proximity to the reef, however, was of no advantage, as the distance was still so great as to render any attempt to reach it, even on the part of the mate, unavailable. Nor would he have been any better off could he have gained a spot on the rocks, that was shallow enough to admit of his walking, since wading about in such a place would have been less desirable than to be floating where he was.
The want of water to drink, threatened to be the great evil. Of this, the party on the wreck had not a single drop! As the warmth of the day was added to the feverish feeling produced by excitement, they all experienced thirst, though no one murmured. So utterly without means of relieving this necessity did each person know them all to be, that no one spoke on the subject at all. In fact, shipwreck never produced a more complete destitution of all the ordinary agents of helping themselves, in any form or manner, than was the case here. So sudden and complete had been the disaster, that not a single article, beyond those on the persons of the sufferers, came even in view. The masts, sails, rigging, spare spars, in a word, every thing belonging to the vessel was submerged and hidden from their sight, with the exception of a portion of the vessel’s bottom, which might be forty feet in length, and some ten or fifteen in width, including that which was above water on both sides of the keel, though one only of these sides was available to the females, as a place to move about on. Had Mulford only a boat-hook, he would have felt it a relief; for not only did the sharks increase in number, but they grew more audacious, swimming so near the wreck that, more than once, Mulford apprehended that some one of the boldest of them might make an effort literally to board them. It is true, he had never known of one of these fish’s attempting to quit his own element in pursuit of his prey; but such things were reported, and those around the wreck swam so close and seemed so eager to get at those who were on it, that there really might be some excuse for fancying they might resort to unusual means of effecting their object. It is probable that, like all other animals, they were emboldened by their own numbers, and were acting in a sort of concert, that was governed by some of the many mysterious laws of nature, that have still escaped human observation.
Thus passed the earlier hours of that appalling day. Toward noon, Mulford had insisted on the females dividing one of the oranges between them, and extracting its juice by way of assuaging their thirst. The effect was most grateful, as all admitted, and even Mrs. Budd urged Harry and Tier to take a portion of the remaining orange; but this, both steadily refused. Mulford did consent to receive a small portion of one of the apples, more with a view of moistening his throat than to appease his hunger, though it had, in a slight degree, the latter effect also. As for Jack Tier, he declined even the morsel of apple, saying that tobacco answered his purpose, as indeed it temporarily might.
It was near sunset, when the steward’s assistant called Mulford aside, and whispered to him that he had something private to communicate. The mate bade him say on, as they were out of ear-shot of their companions.
“I’ve been in sitiations like this afore,” said Jack, “and one l’arns exper’ence by exper’ence. I know how cruel it is on the feelin’s to have the hopesdisapp’inted in these cases, and therefore shall proceed with caution. But, Mr. Mulford, there’s a sail in sight, if there is a drop of water in the Gulf!”
“A sail, Jack! I trust in Heaven, you are not deceived!”
“Old eyes are true eyes in such matters, sir. Be careful not to start the women. They go off like gunpowder, and, Lord help ’em! have no more command over themselves, when you loosen ’em once, than so many flying-fish with a dozen dolphins a’ter them. Look hereaway, sir, just clear of the Irish woman’s bonnet, a little broad off the spot where the reef was last seen—if that an’t a sail, my name is not Jack Tier.”
A sail there was, sure enough! It was so very distant, however, as to render its character still uncertain, though Mulford fancied it was a square-rigged vessel heading to the northward. By its position, it must be in one of the channels of the reef, and by its course, if he were not deceived, it was standing through, from the main passage along the southern side of the rocks, to come out on the northern. All this was favorable, and at first the young mate felt such a throbbing of the heart as we all experience when great and unexpected good intelligence is received. A moment’s reflection, however, made him aware how little was to be hoped for from this vessel. In the first place, her distance was so great as to render it uncertain even which way she was steering. Then, there was the probability that she would pass at so great a distance as to render it impossible to perceive an object as low as the wreck, and the additional chance of her passing in the night. Under all the circumstances, therefore, Mulford felt convinced that there was very little probability of their receiving any succor from the strange sail; and he fully appreciated Jack Tier’s motive in forbearing to give the usual call of “Sail, ho!” when he made his discovery. Still, he could not deny himself the pleasure of communicating to Rose the cheering fact that a vessel was actually in sight. She could not reason on the circumstances as he had done, and might at least pass several hours of comparative happiness by believing that there was some visible chance of delivery.
The females received the intelligence with very different degrees of hope. Rose was delighted. To her their rescue appeared an event so very probable now, that Harry Mulford almost regretted he had given rise to an expectation which he himself feared was to be disappointed. The feelings of Mrs. Budd were more suppressed. The wreck and her present situation were so completely at variance with all her former notions of the sea and its incidents, that she was almost dumb-founded, and feared either to speak or to think. Biddy differed from either of her mistresses—the young or the old; she appeared to have lostallhope, and her physical energy was fast giving way under her profound moral debility.
From the return of light, that day, Mulford had thought, if it were to prove that Providence had withdrawn its protecting hand from them, Biddy, who to all appearance ought to be the longest liver among the females at least, would be the first to sink under her sufferings. Such is the influence of moral causes on the mere animal.
Rose saw the night shut in around them, amid the solemn solitude of the ocean, with a mingled sensation of awe and hope. She had prayed devoutly, and often, in the course of the preceding day, and her devotions had contributed to calm her spirits. Once or twice, while kneeling with her head bowed to the keel, she had raised her eyes toward Harry with a look of entreaty, as if she would implore him to humble his proud spirit and place himself at her side, and ask that succor from God, which was so much needed, and which indeed it began most seriously to appear that God alone could yield. The young mate did not comply, for his pride of profession and of manhood offered themselves as stumbling-blocks to prevent submission to his secret wishes. Though he rarely prayed, Harry Mulford was far from being an unbeliever, or one altogether regardless of his duties and obligations to his Divine Creator. On the contrary, his heart was more disposed to resort to such means of self-abasement and submission, than he put in practice, and this because he had been taught to believe that the Anglo-Saxon mariner did not call on Hercules, on every occasion of difficulty and distress that occurred, as was the fashion with the Italian and Romish seamen, but he put his own shoulder to the wheel, confident that Hercules would not forget to help him who knew how to help himself. But Harry had great difficulty in withstanding Rose’s silent appeal that evening, as she knelt at the keel for the last time, and turned her gentle eyes upward at him, as if to ask him once more to take his place at her side. Withstand the appeal he did, however, though in his inward spirit he prayed fervently to God to put away this dreadful affliction from the young and innocent creature before him. When these evening devotions were ended, the whole party became thoughtful and silent.
It was necessary to sleep, and arrangements were made to do so, if possible, with a proper regard for their security. Mulford and Tier were to have the look-out, watch and watch. This was done that no vessel might pass near them unseen, and that any change in the weather might be noted and looked to. As it was, the wind had fallen, and seemed about to vary, though it yet stood in its old quarter, or a little more easterly, perhaps. As a consequence, the drift of the wreck, insomuch as it depended on the currents of the air, was more nearly in a line with the direction of the reef, and there was little ground for apprehending that they might be driven further from it in the night. Although that reef offered in reality no place of safety, that was available to his party, Mulford felt it as a sortof relief, to be certain that it was not distant, possibly influenced by a vague hope that some passing wrecker or turtler might yet pick them up.
The bottom of the schooner and the destitute condition of the party admitted of only very simple arrangements for the night. The females placed themselves against the keel in the best manner they could, and thus endeavored to get a little of the rest they so much needed. The day had been warm, as a matter of course, and the contrast produced by the setting of the sun was at first rather agreeable than otherwise. Luckily Rose had thrown a shawl over her shoulders, not long before the vessel capsized, and in this shawl she had been saved. It had been dried, and it now served for a light covering to herself and her aunt, and added essentially to their comfort. As for Biddy, she was too hardy to need a shawl, and she protested that she should not think of using one, had she been better provided. The patient, meek manner in which that humble, but generous-hearted creature submitted to her fate, and the earnestness with which she had begged that “Miss Rosy” might have her morsel of the portion of biscuit each received for a supper, had sensibly impressed Mulford in her favor; and knowing how much more necessary food was to sustain one of her robust frame and sturdy habits, than to Rose, he had contrived to give the woman, unknown to herself, a double allowance. Nor was it surprising that Biddy did not detect this little act of fraud in her favor, for this double allowance was merely a single mouthful. The want of water had made itself much more keenly felt than the want of food, for as yet anxiety, excitement and apprehension prevented the appetite from being much awakened, while the claims of thirst were increased rather than the reverse, by these very causes. Still, no one had complained, on this or any other account, throughout the whole of the long and weary day which had passed.
Mulford took the first look-out, with the intention of catching a little sleep, if possible, during the middle hours of the night, and of returning to his duty as morning approached. For the first hour nothing occurred to divert his attention from brooding on the melancholy circumstances of their situation. It seemed as if all around him had actually lost the sense of their cares in sleep, and no sound was audible amid that ocean waste, but the light washing of the water, as the gentle waves rolled at intervals against the weather side of the wreck. It was now that Mulford found a moment for prayer, and seated on the keel, that he called on the Divine aid, in a fervent but silent petition to God, to put away this trial from the youthful and beautiful Rose, at least, though he himself perished. It was the first prayer that Mulford had made in many months, or since he had joined the Swash—a craft in which that duty was seldom thought of.
A few minutes succeeded this petition, when Biddy spoke.
“Missus—Madam Budd—dear Missus”—half whispered the Irish woman, anxious not to disturb Rose, who lay furthest from her—“Missus, bees ye asleep at sich a time as this?”
“No, Biddy; sleep and I are strangers to each other, and are likely to be till morning. What do you wish to say?”
“Any thing is betther than my own t’oughts, missus dear, and I wants to talk to ye. Is it no wather at all they’ll give us so long as we stay in this place?”
“There is no one to give it to us but God, poor Biddy, and he alone can say what, in his gracious mercy, it may please him to do. Ah! Biddy, I fear me that I did an unwise and thoughtless thing, to bring my poor Rose to such a place as this. Were it to be done over again, the riches of Wall Street would not tempt me to be guilty of so wrong a thing!”
The arm of Rose was thrown around her aunt’s neck, and its gentle pressure announced how completely the offender was forgiven.
“I’s very sorry for Miss Rose,” rejoined Biddy, “and I suffers so much the more meself in thinking how hard it must be for the like of her to be wantin’ in a swallow of fresh wather.”
“It is no harder for me to bear it, poor Biddy,” answered the gentle voice of our heroine, “than it is for yourself.”
“Is it meself, then? Sure am I, that if I had a quar-r-t of good, swate wather from our own pump, andthat’sfar betther is it than the Crothon the best day the Crothon ever seed—but had I a quar-r-t of it, every dhrap would I give to you, Miss Rose, to app’ase your thirst, I would.”
“Water would be a great relief to us all, just now, my excellent Biddy,” answered Rose, “and I wish we had but a tumbler full of that you name, to divide equally among the whole five of us.”
“Is it divide? Then it would be ag’in dividin’ that my voice would be raised, for that same r’ason that the tumbler would never hold as much as you could dhrink yourself, Miss Rose.”
“Yet the tumbler full would be a great blessing for us all, just now,” murmured Mrs. Budd.
“And isn’t mutthon good ’atin’, ladies! Och! if I had but a good swate pratie, now, from my own native Ireland, and a dhrap of milk to help wash it down! It’s mighty little that a body thinks of sich thrifles when there’s abundance of them; but when there’s none at all, they get to be stronger in the mind than riches and honors.”