The little islets scattered about, low, sandy, and untenanted, were the only land in sight—all else was the boundless waste of waters. The solitary light rose like an aquatic monument, as if purposely to give its character to the view. Capt. Mull had caused its lamps to be trimmed and lighted for the very reason that had induced Spike to do the same thing, and the dim star they presented was just struggling into existence, as it might be, as the brilliance left by the setting sun was gradually diminished, and finally disappeared. As for the ship, the hull appeared dark, glossy, and graceful, as is usual with a vessel of war. Her sails were in soft contrast to the color of the hull, and they offered the variety and divergence from straight lines which are thought necessary to perfect beauty. Those that were set presented the symmetry in their trim, the flatness in their hoist, and the breadth that distinguish a man-of-war; while those that were loose, floated in the air in every wave and cloud-like swell, that we so often see in light canvas that is released from the yards in a fresh breeze. The ship had an undress look from this circumstance, but it was such an undress as denotes the man or woman of the world. This undress appearance was increased by the piping down of the hammocks, which left the nettings loose, and with a negligent but still knowing look about them.
When half a mile from the islets, the main yard was braced aback, and the maintop-sail was laid to the mast. As soon as the ship had lost her way, two or three boats that had been towing astern, each with its boat-sitter, or keeper, in it, were hauled up alongside, or to the quarters, were “hooked on” and “run up” to the whistling of the call. All was done at once, and all was done in a couple of minutes. As soon as effected, the maintop-sail was again filled, and away the ship glided.
Capt. Mull was not in the habit of holding many consultations with his officers. If there be wisdom in “a multitude of counsellors,” he was of opinion it was not on board a man-of-war. Napoleon is reported to have said thatonebad general was better thantwogood ones; meaning that one head to an army, though of inferior quality, is better than a hydra of Solomons, or Cæsars. Capt. Mull was much of the same way of thinking, seldom troubling his subordinates with any thing but orders. He interfered very little with “working Willy,” though he saw effectually that he did his duty. “The ship’s gentleman” might enjoy his joke as much as he pleased, so long as he chose his time and place with discretion, but in the captain’s presence joking was not tolerated, unless it were after dinner, at his own table, and in his own cabin. Even there it was not precisely such joking as took place daily, not to say hourly, in the midshipmen’s messes.
In making up his mind as to the mode of proceeding on the present occasion, therefore, Capt. Mull, while he had heard all that Mulford had to tell him, and had even encouraged Wallace to give his opinions, made up his decision for himself. After learning all that Harry had to communicate, he made his own calculations as to time and distance, and quietly determined to carry whole sail on the ship for the next four hours. This he did as the wisest course of making sure of getting to windward while he could, and knowing that the vessel could be brought under short canvas at any moment when it might be deemed necessary. The light was a beacon to let him know his distance with almost mathematical precision. It could be seen so many miles at sea, each mile being estimated by so many feet of elevation, and having taken that elevation, he was sure of his distance from the glittering object, so long as it could be seen from his own poop. It was also of use by letting him know the range of the reef, though Capt. Mull, unlike Spike, had determined to make one long leg off to the northward and eastward until he had brought the light nearly to the horizon, and then to make another to the southward and eastward, believing that the last stretch would bring him to the reef, almost as far to windward as he desired to be. In furtherance of this plan, the sheets of the different sails were drawn home, as soon as the boats were in, and the Poughkeepsie, bending a little to the breeze, gallantly dashed the waves aside, as she went through and over them, at a rate of not less than ten good knots in the hour. As soon as all these arrangements were made, the watch went below, and from that time throughout the night, the ship offered nothing but the quiet manner in which ordinary duty is carried on in a well-regulated vessel of war at sea, between the hours of sun and sun. Leaving the good craft to pursue her way with speed and certainty, we must now return to the Swash.
Capt. Spike had found the mooring of his brig a much more difficult task, on this occasion, than on that of his former attempt to raise the schooner. Then he had to lift the wreck bodily, and he knew that laying the Swash a few feet further ahead orastern, could be of no great moment, inasmuch as the moment the schooner was off the bottom she would swing in perpendicularly to the purchases. But now one end of the schooner, her bows, was to remain fast, and it became of importance to be certain that the purchases were so placed as to bring the least strain on the masts while they acted most directly on the after body of the vessel to be lifted. This point gave Spike more trouble than he had anticipated. Fully one half of the remainder of the day, even after he had begun to heave upon his purchases, was spent in rectifying mistakes in connection with this matter, and in getting up additional securities to his masts.
In one respect Spike had, from the first, made a good disposition. The masts of the brig raked materially, and by bringing the head of the Swash in the direction of the schooner, he converted this fact, which might otherwise have been of great disadvantage, into a circumstance that was favorable. In consequence of the brig’s having been thus moored, the strain, which necessarily led forward, came nearly in a line with the masts, and the latter were much better able to support it. Notwithstanding this advantage, however, it was found expedient to get up preventer-stays, and to give the spars all the additional support that could be conveniently bestowed. Hours were passed in making these preliminary, or it might be better to say, secondary arrangements.
It was past five in the afternoon when the people of the Swash began to heave on their purchases as finally disposed. After much creaking, and the settling of straps and lashings into their places, it was found that every thing stood, and the work went on. In ten minutes Spike found he had the weight of the schooner, so far as he should be obliged to sustain it at all, until the stern rose above the surface; and he felt reasonably secure of the doubloons. Further than this he did not intend to make any experiment on her, the Señor Montefalderon having abandoned all idea of recovering the vessel itself now so much of the cargo was lost. The powder was mostly consumed, and that which remained in the hull must, by this time, be injured by dampness, if not ruined. So reasoned Don Juan at least.
As the utmost care was necessary, the capstan and windlas were made to do their several duties with great caution. As inch by inch was gained, the extra supports of the masts were examined, and it was found that a much heavier strain now came on the masts than when the schooner was raised before. This was altogether owing to the direction in which it came, and to the fact that the anchor planted off abeam was not of as much use as on the former occasion, in consequence of its not lying so much in a straight line with the direction of the purchases. Spike began to have misgivings on account of his masts, and this so much the more because the wind appeared to haul a little further to the northward, and the weather to look unsettled. Should a swell roll into the bight of the reef where the brig lay, by raising the hull a little too rudely, there would be the imminent danger of at least springing, if not of absolutely carrying away both the principal spars. It was therefore necessary to resort to extraordinary precautions, in order to obviate this danger.
The captain was indebted to his boatswain, who was now in fact acting as his mate, for the suggestion of the plan next adopted. Two of the largest spare spars of the brig were got out, with their heads securely lashed to the links of the chain by which the wreck was suspended, one on each side of the schooner. Pig iron and shot were lashed to the heels of these spars, which carried them to the bottom. As the spars were of a greater length than was necessary to reach the rock, they necessarily lay at an inclination, which was lessened every inch the after body of the wreck was raised, thus forming props to the hull of the schooner.
Spike was delighted with the success of this scheme, of which he was assured by a single experiment in heaving. After getting the spars well planted at their heels, he even ordered the men to slacken the purchases a little, and found that he could actually relieve the brig from the strain, by causing the wreck to be supported altogether by these shores. This was a vast relief from the cares of the approaching night, and indeed alone prevented the necessity of the work’s going on without interruption, or rest, until the end was obtained.
The people of the Swash were just assured of the comfortable fact related, as the Poughkeepsie was passing out from among the islets of the Dry Tortugas. They imagined themselves happy in having thus made a sufficient provision against the most formidable of all the dangers that beset them, at the very moment when the best laid plan for their destruction was on the point of being executed. In this respect, they resembled millions of others of their fellows, who hang suspended over the vast abyss of eternity, totally unconscious of the irretrievable character of the fall that is so soon to occur. Spike, as has been just stated, was highly pleased with his own expedient, and he pointed it out with exultation to the Señor Montefalderon, as soon as it was completed.
“A nicer fit was never made by a Lunnun leg maker, Don Wan,” the captain cried, after going over the explanations connected with the shores—“there she stands, at an angle of fifty, with two as good limbs under her as body could wish. I could now cast off every thing, and leave the wreck in what they call ‘statu quo,’ which, I suppose, means on its pins, like a statue. The tafferel is not six inches below the surface of the water, and half an hour of heaving will bring the starn in sight.”
“Your work seems ingeniously contrived to get up one extremity of the vessel, Don Esteban,” returnedthe Mexican; “but are you quite certain the doubloons are in her?”
This question was put because the functionary of a government in which money was very apt to stick in passing from hand to hand was naturally suspicious, and he found it difficult to believe that Mulford, Jack Tier, and even Biddy, under all the circumstances, had not paid special attention to their own interests.
“The bag was placed in one of the transom-lockers before the schooner capsized,” returned the captain, “as Jack Tier informs me; if so, it remains there still. Even the sharks will not touch gold, Don Wan.”
“Would it not be well to call Jack, and hear his account of the matter once more, now we appear to be so near the Eldorado of our wishes?”
Spike assented, and Jack was summoned to the quarter-deck. The little fellow had scarce showed himself throughout the day, and he now made his appearance with a slow step, and reluctantly.
“You’ve made no mistake about them ’ere doubloons, I take it, Master Tier?” said Spike, in a very nautical sort of style of addressing an inferior. “Youknowthem to be in one of the transom-lockers?”
Jack mounted on the breach of one of the guns, and looked over the bulwarks at the dispositions that had been made about the wreck. The tafferel of the schooner actually came in sight, when a little swell passed over it, leaving it for an instant in the trough. The steward thus caught a glimpse again of the craft on board which he had seen so much hazard, and he shook his head and seemed to be thinking of any thing but the question which had just been put him.
“Well, about that gold?” asked Spike, impatiently.
“The sight of that craft has brought other thoughts than gold into my mind, Capt. Spike,” answered Jack, gravely, “and it would be well for all us mariners, if we thought less of gold and more of the dangers we run. For hours and hours did I stand over etarnity, on the bottom of that schooner, Don Wan, holding my life, as it might be, at the marcy of a few bubbles of air.”
“What has all that to do with the gold? Have you deceived me about that locker, little rascal?”
“No, sir, I havenotdeceived you—no, Capt. Spike,no. The bag is in the upper transom-locker, on the starboard side. There I put it with my own hands, and a good lift it was; and there you’ll find it, if you will cut through the quarter-deck at the spot I can point out to you.”
This information seemed to give a renewed energy to all the native cupidity of the captain, who called the men from their suppers, and ordered them to commence heaving anew. The word was passed to the crew that “it was now for doubloons,” and they went to the bars and handspikes, notwithstanding the sun had set, cheerfully and cheering.
All Spike’s expedients admirably answered the intended purposes. The stern of the schooner rose gradually, and at each lift the heels of the shores dropped in more perpendicularly, carried by the weights attached to them, and the spars stood as firm props to secure all that was gained. In a quarter of an hour, most of that part of the stern which was within five or six feet of the tafferel rose above the water, coming fairly in view.
Spike now shouted to the men to “pall!” then he directed the falls to be very gradually eased off, in order to ascertain if the shores would still do their duty. The experiment was successful, and presently the wreck stood in its upright position, sustained entirely by the two spars. As the last were now nearly perpendicular, they were capable of bearing a very heavy weight, and Spike was so anxious to relieve his own brig from the strain she had been enduring, that he ordered the lashings of the blocks to be loosened, trusting to his shores to do their duty. Against this confidence the boatswain ventured a remonstrance, but the gold was too near to allow the captain to listen or reply. The carpenter was ordered over on the wreck with his tools, while Spike, the Señor Montefalderon, and two men to row the boat and keep it steady, went in the yawl to watch the progress of the work. Jack Tier was ordered to stand in the chains, and to point out, as nearly as possible, the place where the carpenter was to cut.
When all was ready, Spike gave the word, and the chips began to fly. By the use of the saw and the axe, a hole large enough to admit two or three men at a time, was soon made in the deck, and the sounding for the much-coveted locker commenced. By this time it was quite dark, and a lantern was passed down from the brig, in order to enable those who searched for the locker to see. Spike had breasted the yawl close up to the hole, where it was held by the men, while the captain himself passed the lantern and his own head into the opening to reconnoiter.
“Ay, it’s all right!” cried the voice of the captain from within his cell-like cavity. “I can just see the lid of the locker that Jack means, and we shall soon have what we are a’ter. Carpenter, you may as well slip off your clothes at once, and go inside; I will point out to you the place where to find the locker. You’re certain, Jack, it was the starboard locker?”
“Ay, ay, sir, the starboard locker, and no other!”
The carpenter had soon got into the hole, as naked as when he was born. It was a gloomy-looking place for a man to descend into at that hour, the light from the lantern being no great matter, and half the time it was shaded by the manner in which Spike was compelled to hold it.
“Take care and get a good footing, carpenter,” said the captain, in a kinder tone than common, “before you let go with your hands; but I suppose you can swim, as a matter of course?”
“No, sir, not a stroke—I never could make out in the water at all.”
“Have the more care, then. Had I known as much I would have sent another hand down; but mind your footing. More to the left, man—more to the left. That is the lid of the locker—your hand is on it; why do you not open it?”
“It is swelled by the water, sir, and will need a chisel, or some tool of that sort. Just call out to one of the men, sir, if you please, to pass me a chisel from my tool-chest. A good stout one will be best.”
This order was given, and during the delay it caused, Spike encouraged the carpenter to be cool, and above all to mind his footing. His own eagerness to get at the gold was so great that he kept his head in at the hole, completely cutting off the man within from all communication with the outer world.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Spike, a little sternly. “You shiver and yet the water cannot be cold in this latitude. No, my hand makes it just the right warmth to be pleasant.”
“It’s not the water, Capt. Spike—I wish they would come with the chisel. Did you hear nothing, sir? I’m certain I did!”
“Hear!—what is there here to be heard, unless there may be some fish inside, thrashing about to get out of the vessel’s hold?”
“I am sure I heard something like a groan, Capt. Spike. I wish you would let me come out, sir, and I’ll go for the chisel myself; them men will never find it.”
“Stay where you are, coward! Are you afraid of dead men standing against walls? Stay where you are. Ah! here is the chisel—now let us see what you can do with it.”
“I am certain I heard another groan, Capt. Spike. I cannot work, sir. I’m of no use here—dolet me come out, sir, and send a hand down that can swim.”
Spike uttered a terrible malediction on the miserable carpenter, one we do not care to repeat; then he cast the light of the lantern full in the man’s face. The quivering flesh, the pallid face, and the whole countenance wrought up almost to a frenzy of terror, astonished as well as alarmed him.
“What ails you, man?” said the captain in a voice of thunder. “Clap in the chisel, or I’ll hurl you off into the water. There is nothing here, dead or alive, to harm ye!”
“The groan, sir—I hear it again!Dolet me come out, Capt. Spike.”
Spike himself this time, heard what evenhetook for a groan. It came from the depths of the vessel, apparently, and was sufficiently distinct and audible. Astonished, yet appalled, he thrust his shoulders into the aperture, as if to dare the demon that tormented him, and was met by the carpenter endeavoring to escape. In the struggle that ensued, the lantern was dropped into the water, leaving the half frenzied combatants contending in the dark. The groan was renewed, when the truth flashed on the minds of both.
“The shores! the shores!” exclaimed the carpenter from within. “The shores!” repeated Spike, throwing himself back into the boat, and shouting to his men to “see all clear of the wreck!” The grating of one of the shores on the coral beneath was now heard plainer than ever, and the lower extremity slipped outward, not astern, as had been apprehended, letting the wreck slowly settle to the bottom again. One piercing shriek arose from the narrow cavity within; then the gurgling of water into the aperture was heard, when naught of sound could be distinguished but the sullen and steady wash of the waves of the gulf over the rocks of the reef.
The impression made by this accident was most profound. A fatality appeared to attend the brig; and most of the men connected the sad occurrence of this night with the strange appearance of the previous evening. Even the Señor Montefalderon was disposed to abandon the doubloons, and he urged Spike to make the best of his way for Yucatan, to seek a friendly harbor. The captain wavered, but avarice was too strong a passion in him to be easily diverted from its object, and he refused to give up his purpose.
As the wreck was entirely free from the brig when it went down for the third time, no injury was sustained by the last on this occasion. By renewing the lashings, every thing would be ready to begin the work anew—and this Spike was resolved to attempt in the morning. The men were too much fatigued, and it was too dark to think of pushing matters any further that night; and it was very questionable whether they could have been got to work. Orders were consequently given for all hands to turn in, the captain, relieved by Don Juan and Jack Tier, having arranged to keep the watches of the night.
“This is a sad accident, Don Esteban,” observed the Mexican, as he and Spike paced the quarter-deck together, just before the last turned in; “A sad accident! My miserable schooner seems to be deserted by its patron saint. Then your poor carpenter!”
“Yes, he was a good fellow enough with a saw, or an adze,” answered Spike, yawning. “But we get used to such things at sea. It’s neither more nor less than a carpenter expended. Good night, Señor Don Wan; in the morning we’ll be at that gold ag’in.”
[To be continued.
THE LAST ADVENTURE OF A COQUETTE.
———
BY THOMAS MAYNE REID.
———
A morecapricious coquette than the beautiful Kate Crossley never played with hapless hearts. She is now a sober matron, the wife of an elegant husband, and the mother of two beautiful children. We hate to rake up the ashes of bitter remembrances; (for, believe us, gentle reader, this story, though short, is nevertheless true; and we know one young gentleman at least who will recognise the unhappy hero of it.) But we cannot pass over in silence the last episode in the unmarried life of Kate. It may be a warning to future unfortunate lovers, and afford a striking instance of that utter heartlessness which a beautiful flirt alone can feel.
Kate was an heiress, that is, a moderate fortune of two hundred thousand had been accumulated expressly for her use—for she was an only child. She had a much larger fortune, however, in her face; and that evening never passed, that the threshold of her father’s comfortable dwelling was not crossed by half a score of elegant beaux, all bloods, and some of them men of fortune. Kate amused herself by making these young gentlemen jealous. A beautiful flirt, who can command even the small sum of two hundred thousand dollars, is a dangerous creature in the community of Philadelphia; and already on Kate Crossley’s account, had two parties of the aforesaid young gentlemen crossed over to Camden with sanguinary intentions. Fortunately, however, we have the most vigilant police in the world, and a mayor, whose instinct is so keen, that it has been known to forewarn him of the time and place of a duel, the arrangements of which had been kept religiously secret from all but the principals and their seconds.
By such efforts of genius on the part of our worthy mayor, had the chivalrous lovers of our heroine been spared the pain of blood-letting, and having purchased the pleasing reputation of courage, they were bound over, and thus procured the sweet privilege of frowning at each other hereafter without the necessity of fighting for it.
Matters were progressing thus; lovers were alternately sighing, and smiling, and scowling, when the elegant Augustus Nob returned from his European tour, bringing with him, of course, a foreign mustache, and adecidedlyforeign accent. Nob was an only son of one of thefirstfamilies. He had been left an independent fortune by his parents, (deceased,) most of which he had contrived to spend in Paris and London. This, however, was still a secret, and Nob was welcome every where.
But under no mahogany did Mr. Augustus Nob stretch his limbs more frequently than under the hospitable board of Mrs. Crossley. We sayMrs.Crossley, for although her good husband still lived, he was only identified in the house as a piece of its plainest furniture.
Crossley had served his purpose in this world—he had made the two hundred thousand—had retired from business, and was no longer of any value. It was now Mrs. C.’s turn to play her part, which consisted in practically proving that two hundred thousand can be spent almost as fast as it can be made. Balls, soirées, and suppers, followed each other in quick succession. Morning levees were held, attended by crowds of bloods. The elegant Augustus was always present, and always dressed in the most fashionable rig. A party at the house of Mrs. Crossley and the elegant Augustus not present? Who could bear the idea? Not Mrs. C. herself who was constantly exclaiming,
“My dear Augustus—he is the very life and soul of us; how charming, how handsome, and how fashionable; just the air that traveling always gives. How much I long to call him my dear son;” and in fact Mrs. C. was leaving no stone unturned to consummate this maternal design. She was not likely to find much opposition on the part of the “elegant” himself. Not only would the two hundred thousand have been particularly acceptable at that time, but the heart of the young gentleman, or, in other words, his vanity, had become greatly excited, and he felt much disposed to carry off the coquette in triumph, in spite of the agony and disappointment of at least a score of competitors.
But where is our heroine, Kate, all this time? Flirting, of course, with a dozen beaux, each at one moment thinking himself most favored, and the next spurned and despairing. Now she smiles upon Mr. Fitz-rush, and compliments him upon the smallness of his foot. Fitz blushes, simpers, and appears not at all vain of his feet—in fact, stammers out that they are “large, very large, indeed;” to which candid acknowledgment on his part, should the company appear to assent, he carelessly adds that “they are small for a man of his size,” insinuating that it is nothing out of the way to find small men with little feet, and little credit should therefore be attached; but when a man of large dimensions is found with elegant little feet like his, the credit out to be quadrupled or tripled at least.
Kate, the talented Kate, understands it all; and after smiling quietly at the gentleman’s silliness, she turns her satire upon another victim.
“Ah! my dear Mr. Cressy, how your eyes sparkled last night at the Opera—they looked like a basilisk’s.”
This gentleman’s eyes were of a very dull greencolor, and looked more like a cat’s than a basilisk’s, but not “seeing them as others saw them,” he replied that “he could not help it—the music always excited him so.”
“Ah! the music, Mr. Cressy; but perhaps—”
She was prevented from finishing her reply by the announcement of a gentleman who had just made his appearance in the doorway, and who was no less a personage than the elegant Augustus Nob.
To say that Mr. Augustus Nob was a small fish in this party, would be to speak what was not true; on the other hand, he was a big fish—in fact the biggest in the kettle. Any one who had witnessed the sensation produced by his announcement, would have judged so. The coquette broke off in the middle of her satire, and running toward the door, conducted him to the seat nearest to her own, where, after an elegant bow, he seated himself—a full grown lion. During the continuance of this welcome reception, various pantomimic gestures were exhibited by different members of the company. There was a general uneasy shifting of chairs—dark looks were shot toward the “elegant,” and conciliatory, and even friendly glances were exchanged among the beaux, who, forgetting for the moment their mutual jealousies, concentrated their united envy upon their common rival. If Cressy’s eyes never sparkled before, they certainly did upon this occasion; and the right leg of Fitz-rush was flung violently over the left knee, where it continued to oscillate with an occasional nervous twitching of the toes, expressive of a hardly repressed desire on the part of its owner to try the force of those little feet on the favored “elegant’s” handsome person. It was all in vain, however, Nob was evidently the successful lover, for he sat close to the graceful creature—that is, closer than any other—and chatted to her of balls and operas; and, confident of his position, he did not care a fig for the envy and jealousy which on all sides surrounded him.
And Kate showered all her attentions upon Nob, and Nob triumphed over his rivals.
Matters progressed thus for several weeks, Nob still paying marked attentions to the coquette, whose chief delight seemed to be, not only to torment her host of other lovers, but occasionally the “elegant” himself.
Augustus, however, still continued first in favor, and from the attentions which he received at the hands of Mrs. Crossley, it was conjectured by the family friends that a marriage with her daughter was not far distant. The less aspiring of Kate’s former lovers had long since “hauled their wind,” and only a few, among whom were Fitz-rush and Cressy, still continued to hang on despairingly to what was evidently a forlorn hope.
Nob openly boasted that he had run them all out of the field, and was heard triumphantly to assert that he was breaking the heart of the “deaw creatuw,” and that he “would be under the positive necessity of healing it at the hymeneal altaw.” He was “very young to marry—quite a child—but then to keep the dear sylph in suspense—oh! it would be bawbawous—positively bawbawous!”
It is not to be supposed that the cunning, the talented Kate was ignorant of these boasts on the part of the elegant Nob. No—no—Kate knew every thing, and among other things she knew Mr. Augustus Nob thoroughly; and she resolved on taking most exquisite vengeance upon him.
Spring—delightful spring has returned—and all nature looks as sweet as the lips of a lovely woman. The trees upon our side-walks, and in our beautiful squares, are once more covered with green and shady foliage, and from the windows of high houses hang handsome cages, from which those warbling prisoners—the mockbird, and the troupial, and the linnet and canary bird, send forth their dulcet notes, filling the streets with music and melody.
Fashionable ladies are beginning to make their appearance in the streets, unattended by gentlemen, as it is the shopping hour, and gentlemen would be only in the way. From the door of an elegant mansion in the upper part of Chestnut street issues a graceful and beautiful girl, who is proceeding down the street toward the busier part of the city. She does not loiter nor look in at the shop-windows, as ladies generally do at this hour, but walks nimbly along as though she came forth upon some preconceived errand. As she nears that part of Chestnut street which is in the neighbourhood of the State-House she lessens her gait, and walks more leisurely. She is heard to soliloquize—
“In truth, it is as much as my courage, nay, even my reputation is worth, to enter the studio of my sweet painter thus alone; but what can I do, since the dear fellow has been banished from our house by the aristocratic notions of my mother? Well, I shall risk all for him, as he would for me, I know. How happy it will make him to hear my errand. Only to think that I am forced to an elopement, or marry that ninny whom my mother has chosen for me. But I shall elope—Ishall. Henry has so often proposed it—how happy he shall be to hear me consent; but I shall do it in my own way—that is fixed. Henry will laugh when I tell him of my plans. Some one may be with him at this moment, and deprive me of the pleasure of conversing with him; but then it is all written here, and I can see him soon again. ‘Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.’ Yes! this is the sweet fellow’s place—no one observes me enter.” So saying, the graceful girl entered a huge hall, the door of which stood open, and passing up a flight of steps, she tapped gently with her small gloved fingers upon the door of a chamber, upon which was repeated, in gold letters, the same words that were exhibited in front of the building—
“Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.”
“Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.”
“Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.”
“Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.”
“Henry Willis, Miniature Painter.”
In a moment the door opened, disclosing within the studio of an artist, the artist himself, a finelooking youth, with dark hair and slight mustache, and dressed in his painter’s blouse, while in the back-ground could be seen a prim, stiff old lady in high cap and curls, steadily and rigidly sitting for her portrait.
At sight of the new comer the artist’s countenance became bright with love and pleasure, and the exclamation “dearest!” that almost involuntarily escaped him, told that they were no strangers to each other. The young lady, on the other hand, perceiving the sitter through the half-opened door, glided back a step or two, so as to be unperceived by the latter, and taking from her reticule a folded paper, she held it out to the painter, accompanying the act with these words—“A message for you, Henry; it would have been pleasanter, perhaps, to have delivered it verbally, but you see I have been prepared for any emergency.” So saying, she delivered the paper—received a kiss upon her little gloved hand—smiled—said, “good morning!” and gracefully glided back into the street.
The artist re-entered his studio—found some excuse to dismiss the stiff old lady, and was soon buried, with beaming face and beating heart, in the contents of the paper he had just received.
He rose from its perusal like a man mad—mad from excess of joy—mad from love; and hastily striding up and down his small studio, he exclaimed, “Yes, dearest heart! any thing—any thing you wish shall be done. One week, and she shall be mine; and such a mischievous trick—but the fool deserves it, richly deserves it, for aspiring to the hand of one so immeasurably his superior. Ninny! he little knew how deeply she has loved, sweet girl! How she has deceived them—father, mother, friends—all! How sweet and how powerful is first love!”
Kate Crossley had often been heard to say, that whenever she married, there would be an elopement. She either had a presentiment that such would be her fate, or she so despised the modern, unromantic fashion of marrying and giving in marriage, that she was resolved that itshouldbe. Consequently, when the elegant Augustus Nob, on the first day of May, 1842, knelt before her in the most fashionable manner, and made a most fashionable declaration, quite confident of being accepted—who could have refused. He was accepted, with the proviso that it should be an elopement.
“All right!” soliloquized Augustus, as he closed the hall-door behind him; “all right, and very simple! old lady decidedly in my favwaw—reconciliation easy—carriage and four—private clergy—two days in a hotel—sent for, and all right again—simple, vewy simple, and vewy romantic, too!”
It was a dark night—a very dark night for the month of May—and a very cold one, too; and under the shadow of some trees that grew upon the side-walk in the upper part of Chestnut street, making the spot still darker, might be seen an elegant carriage and horses drawn close up to the curbstone.
The driver was on the box, enveloped in a great coat, and at a short distance from the carriage, and leaning against a tree, might be seen the figure of a young man, fashionably and elegantly attired. He wore a cloth cloak, loosely hanging from his shoulders, and he was evidently waiting for some one to arrive and enter the carriage with him. There were no passers by, however, to conjecture his motives and actions, as it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, and the streets were quiet. He repeatedly took out a splendid watch, and seemed impatiently waiting for some fixed hour. Presently the great bell upon the state-house tolled two. A light footstep was now heard in the distance, and a moment after a graceful woman came tripping along, and approached the carriage. The young man who had been leaning against the tree, immediately recognized the figure, and stretched out his hand to conduct her to the carriage. We will conceal the names of the lovers no longer—they were Augustus Nob and Kate Crossley.
“My dear Kate,” said he, “I have been waiting for you half an hour—how vewy cold it is!”
“No, no—not cold on such an errand as ours! But, dear Augustus,” said Kate, changing her manner, “we must be married by the Rev. Mr. C——, the good old man has been like a father to me, and I could not think of anyone else; he has promised me, and is now expecting us.”
“Oh, vewy well,” replied the lover, “you are sure he expects us?”
“Yes; I will give directions to the driver.” So saying she whispered a word in the ear of the driver, who seemed perfectly to understand her, and entered the carriage, followed by Augustus.
The driver immediately gave the whip to his horses, and turning down Chestnut, entered a cross street, and drove northward toward the district of the Northern Liberties.
The carriage drew up before the door of a handsome house in the upper part of the city, and the driver, dismounting from his box, opened the door, let down the steps, and handed the lady to the pavement. Nob thought that he saw the driver kiss his bride’s little white-gloved hand as she stepped upon the curbstone; but it was so dark he could not be sure of this. He was sure, however, that he was the most officious and impertinent driver he had ever seen; and from the slight glimpse that he caught of the fellow’s face, by the light of a street lamp, he saw that he wore a mustache, and was withal a very handsome young man.
It was no time, however, to study physiognomy, or resent imaginary insults. The door of the house was quietly opened by some one within, and Nob and his beautiful bride entered, and were shown into the drawing-room. The servant desired Kate to follow her to a dressing-room, that she might take off her bonnet, and intimated to Mr. Nob thatthe Rev. Mr. C—— would wait upon him in a minute.
Now it was a very strange thing that that same driver, who kissed Kate’s little hand—for he actually had kissed it—instead of staying by his horses, as every good driver should do, gave them up to another, and walked into the house close after the bride and bridegroom. It was also strange that the bride kept the elegant Mr. Augustus Nob impatiently waiting in that front parlor for at least twenty minutes; but the strangest thing of all was, that when she did make her appearance, she still had her bonnet on, as when last he saw her, and was leaning on the arm of a handsome young gentleman wearing mustaches and white kid gloves, whom the stupified Augustus at once recognized as the impertinent driver, and whom the reader may recognize as Henry Willis, the artist. Mr. Willis politely thanked Mr. Nob for having kindly attended his wife thither, and assisted him in bringing the affair to its happy termination, and added, that as he had driven the party thither, he hoped that Mr. Nob would condescend to reciprocate and take the box on their return. Nob, however, havinggot the sackin so cruel a fashion, felt no inclination totake the box, and in a few moments he was among the missing. He was never again seen in the city of Brotherly Love.
The young artist and his beautiful bride entered the carriage and drove to Jones’s Hotel, where they remained until sent for by Mr. and Mrs. Crossley, which happy event occurred a day or two after. Whoever should see the modest and matronly Kate now, with her two beautiful children, would hardly credit the story that she had ever been a coquette. This, however, was positively her last adventure.
DEATH OF THE GIFTED.
———
BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL.
———
Inscribe on my grave-stone—“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”John Keats.
Inscribe on my grave-stone—“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”John Keats.
Tothat sweet land of lyre and song,Of storied ancient fame,Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng,To bless its mighty name;A minstrel went, unloved, to weep,And lay his aching heart,Where golden skies serenely sleep.And fruited gardens start.’Tis bitter for the young to die,And leave this world of ours,Its sunshine and its sparkling sky,Its paradise of flowers—But oh! when tears mark every track,And woes lead on to death,’Tis blessedness to render backThe feeble, gasping breath!The brightest, frailest, fairest thingsThat to the earth are given,Feel first the angel’s snowy wingsTo waft them home to heaven—And like a meteor in the sky,Or foam-beads on the wave,They dazzle man’s bewildered eye,And sink into the grave.Oh! what is Genius but a partOf Him, whose glory flingsA bliss o’er each devoted heart,And o’er all earth-born things?—An essence of the mind of God,A pure ethereal light,That wingeth at its master’s nod,As angels to their flight.Farewell! thou art not yet forgot,Nor wilt thou ever be,While earth has one sweet Eden spot,Or stars laugh on the sea—Thou hast thy wish, and on the bedWhere thou dost gently rest,The summer daisy waves its head,And blossoms o’er thy breast.
Tothat sweet land of lyre and song,Of storied ancient fame,Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng,To bless its mighty name;A minstrel went, unloved, to weep,And lay his aching heart,Where golden skies serenely sleep.And fruited gardens start.’Tis bitter for the young to die,And leave this world of ours,Its sunshine and its sparkling sky,Its paradise of flowers—But oh! when tears mark every track,And woes lead on to death,’Tis blessedness to render backThe feeble, gasping breath!The brightest, frailest, fairest thingsThat to the earth are given,Feel first the angel’s snowy wingsTo waft them home to heaven—And like a meteor in the sky,Or foam-beads on the wave,They dazzle man’s bewildered eye,And sink into the grave.Oh! what is Genius but a partOf Him, whose glory flingsA bliss o’er each devoted heart,And o’er all earth-born things?—An essence of the mind of God,A pure ethereal light,That wingeth at its master’s nod,As angels to their flight.Farewell! thou art not yet forgot,Nor wilt thou ever be,While earth has one sweet Eden spot,Or stars laugh on the sea—Thou hast thy wish, and on the bedWhere thou dost gently rest,The summer daisy waves its head,And blossoms o’er thy breast.
Tothat sweet land of lyre and song,Of storied ancient fame,Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng,To bless its mighty name;A minstrel went, unloved, to weep,And lay his aching heart,Where golden skies serenely sleep.And fruited gardens start.
Tothat sweet land of lyre and song,
Of storied ancient fame,
Where deeds of old, like pilgrims throng,
To bless its mighty name;
A minstrel went, unloved, to weep,
And lay his aching heart,
Where golden skies serenely sleep.
And fruited gardens start.
’Tis bitter for the young to die,And leave this world of ours,Its sunshine and its sparkling sky,Its paradise of flowers—But oh! when tears mark every track,And woes lead on to death,’Tis blessedness to render backThe feeble, gasping breath!
’Tis bitter for the young to die,
And leave this world of ours,
Its sunshine and its sparkling sky,
Its paradise of flowers—
But oh! when tears mark every track,
And woes lead on to death,
’Tis blessedness to render back
The feeble, gasping breath!
The brightest, frailest, fairest thingsThat to the earth are given,Feel first the angel’s snowy wingsTo waft them home to heaven—And like a meteor in the sky,Or foam-beads on the wave,They dazzle man’s bewildered eye,And sink into the grave.
The brightest, frailest, fairest things
That to the earth are given,
Feel first the angel’s snowy wings
To waft them home to heaven—
And like a meteor in the sky,
Or foam-beads on the wave,
They dazzle man’s bewildered eye,
And sink into the grave.
Oh! what is Genius but a partOf Him, whose glory flingsA bliss o’er each devoted heart,And o’er all earth-born things?—An essence of the mind of God,A pure ethereal light,That wingeth at its master’s nod,As angels to their flight.
Oh! what is Genius but a part
Of Him, whose glory flings
A bliss o’er each devoted heart,
And o’er all earth-born things?—
An essence of the mind of God,
A pure ethereal light,
That wingeth at its master’s nod,
As angels to their flight.
Farewell! thou art not yet forgot,Nor wilt thou ever be,While earth has one sweet Eden spot,Or stars laugh on the sea—Thou hast thy wish, and on the bedWhere thou dost gently rest,The summer daisy waves its head,And blossoms o’er thy breast.
Farewell! thou art not yet forgot,
Nor wilt thou ever be,
While earth has one sweet Eden spot,
Or stars laugh on the sea—
Thou hast thy wish, and on the bed
Where thou dost gently rest,
The summer daisy waves its head,
And blossoms o’er thy breast.