"Thou hast a heart," my spirit said;"Seek out a kindred one, and wed:So passes grief, comes joy instead.""True, Soul, I have," I quick replied;"But in this weary world and wideThat other hath my search defied.""Poet, thou hast an eye to see;Thou knowest all things as they be;The spheres are open books to thee."Thou art a missioned creature, sentTo preach of beauty—teach content:In life's Sahara pitch thy tent!"It is not good to be alone—Not fit for any living one—There's nothing single save the sun."Beasts, fishes, birds—yea, atoms mate,Acknowledging an ordered fate:What dost thou in a single state?""O, Soul!" I bitterly replied,For I was full of haughty pride,"Would in my birth that I had died!"I feel what thou hast said is truth;But I am past the bloom of youth,And Beauty's eye has lost its ruth."I languish for some gentle heartTo throb with mine, devoid of art,Perfect and pure in every part—"Some innocent heart whose pulse's toneShould beat in echo of mine own,Where I might reign and reign alone.""All this, and more, thy love might win,"My spirit urged, "poor Child of Sin,That sickenest in this rude world's din."Love is a way-side plant: go forthAnd pluck—love has no thorns for worth—The blossom from its place of birth."Perchance, on thee may Beauty's queen,And Fortune's, look, with smiling mien—With eyes, whose lids hold love between.""Spirit, I am of little worth,"Said I—"an erring child of earth:Yet fain would own a happy hearth."Mere beauty, though it drowns my soulWith sunshine, may not be my goal;And love despises gold's control."Better the riches of the mind—A spirit toward the spheres inclined—A heart that veers not with the wind."She might be beautiful, and goldMight clasp her in its ruddy fold—Have lands and tenements to hold:"She might be poor—it were the sameIf lofty, or of lowly name,If famous, or unknown to fame:"But she must feel the brotherhoodI feel for man—the love of good;—Life is at best an interlude,"And we must act our parts so here,That, when we reach a loftier sphere,Our memories shall not shed a tear."With such a one, if fair or brown—Gracing a cottage, or a throne—Soul, I could live and love unknown!"Yes, gazing upward in her eye,Scan what was passing in its sky,And swoon, and dream, and, dreaming, die.""There is none such," my spirit sighed."Seek glory: woo her for thy bride.And perish, and be deified!""Why, Soul," I said, "the thought of fame,Of winning an exalted name,Might woo me, but my heart would blame"The coldness that compelled me forth.No: somewhere on this lower earthThe angel that I seek has birth."If not, I will so worship hereHer type, that I shall joy, notfear—To meet her in her holier sphere."
"Thou hast a heart," my spirit said;"Seek out a kindred one, and wed:So passes grief, comes joy instead."
"True, Soul, I have," I quick replied;"But in this weary world and wideThat other hath my search defied."
"Poet, thou hast an eye to see;Thou knowest all things as they be;The spheres are open books to thee.
"Thou art a missioned creature, sentTo preach of beauty—teach content:In life's Sahara pitch thy tent!
"It is not good to be alone—Not fit for any living one—There's nothing single save the sun.
"Beasts, fishes, birds—yea, atoms mate,Acknowledging an ordered fate:What dost thou in a single state?"
"O, Soul!" I bitterly replied,For I was full of haughty pride,"Would in my birth that I had died!
"I feel what thou hast said is truth;But I am past the bloom of youth,And Beauty's eye has lost its ruth.
"I languish for some gentle heartTo throb with mine, devoid of art,Perfect and pure in every part—
"Some innocent heart whose pulse's toneShould beat in echo of mine own,Where I might reign and reign alone."
"All this, and more, thy love might win,"My spirit urged, "poor Child of Sin,That sickenest in this rude world's din.
"Love is a way-side plant: go forthAnd pluck—love has no thorns for worth—The blossom from its place of birth.
"Perchance, on thee may Beauty's queen,And Fortune's, look, with smiling mien—With eyes, whose lids hold love between."
"Spirit, I am of little worth,"Said I—"an erring child of earth:Yet fain would own a happy hearth.
"Mere beauty, though it drowns my soulWith sunshine, may not be my goal;And love despises gold's control.
"Better the riches of the mind—A spirit toward the spheres inclined—A heart that veers not with the wind.
"She might be beautiful, and goldMight clasp her in its ruddy fold—Have lands and tenements to hold:
"She might be poor—it were the sameIf lofty, or of lowly name,If famous, or unknown to fame:
"But she must feel the brotherhoodI feel for man—the love of good;—Life is at best an interlude,
"And we must act our parts so here,That, when we reach a loftier sphere,Our memories shall not shed a tear.
"With such a one, if fair or brown—Gracing a cottage, or a throne—Soul, I could live and love unknown!
"Yes, gazing upward in her eye,Scan what was passing in its sky,And swoon, and dream, and, dreaming, die."
"There is none such," my spirit sighed."Seek glory: woo her for thy bride.And perish, and be deified!"
"Why, Soul," I said, "the thought of fame,Of winning an exalted name,Might woo me, but my heart would blame
"The coldness that compelled me forth.No: somewhere on this lower earthThe angel that I seek has birth.
"If not, I will so worship hereHer type, that I shall joy, notfear—To meet her in her holier sphere."
"What a happy girl is Mary Warner," said an elderly lady, as a bright laughing girl turned into another room.
"And so exceedingly lively and cheerful, for one of her years," rejoined another.
"Years! How old is she?"
"About twenty-four," said a third, who had hitherto been silent, "and yet no one, to see her, would think it."
So thought the world, who in their most scrutinizing glance could detect no indication of care or gloom, in this, the object of their observations, who was one of those bright, intelligent beings, ever ready for conversation, and whose sallies of wit, never failed to excite the attention of those around her. "Little did they know of my aching heart," said Mary, that evening, to one in whom she had confided much of her former history; for years had passed since she had left the grave of her mother, and her native home, on "New England's rocky shore," to wander forth with her father to the western wilds. "Little did they know of the bitterness of soul I felt while making merriment for them."
"How can you so control your feelings, while endeavoring to conceal them, with such an excess of gayety?" eagerly inquired Ella.
"Ah! that is the work of time and necessity. Time has schooled my heart to hide behind the covering I might think best to wear. Were my history known, my name would be the theme of every tongue, the derision of the stoical, the pity of the simple, and exposed to the ridicule of a heartless and unfeeling world. The head must dictate and govern my actions, all else submitting. Yet nothing can equal the wretchedness of trying to conceal with smiles the bitter struggles of a wounded spirit, whose every hope hath perished. Eye may not pierce through the laughing cover, or ear catch the breathing of a sigh. Even sympathy seems like those cold blasts of a November night, seeking the hidden recess only to chill its peace forever."
"But do you not," said Ella, "enjoy something of that mirth which you inspire in others?"
"Sometimes the excitement is sufficient to make me forget, for a moment, the past, but then it is followed by such a depression that the feeble clay well nigh sinks beneath it. Misery pays her tribute to all my revelry."
"Then never will I again wish for Mary Warner's light and joyous air," said Ella, her cheek flushed with agitation, for being one of those sober ones, whose words were ever the thoughts of her heart, she had often wished for Mary's power to charm.
Weeks and months had rolled away, until they had numbered years. The friends had parted. Ella's calm face still cheered the domestic fireside, and Mary was gliding in crowded halls, the gayest of the gay. No voice more musical than hers, or tones more sprightly; she moved as a creature of enchantment, her image fastening upon the minds and memories of all. But Ella was not forgotten or neglected; they often corresponded. Mary's letters told but too truly how much those scenes were enjoyed by her. In answer to an invitation to come and spend the summer in the retirement of Ella's home, she says, "Even in this giddy place my heart is full to bursting; should I allow myself more time for meditation it would surely break, and pour forth its lava streams on the thirsty dust of human pride. In the dark, cheerless hour of midnight, my burning, throbbing brain still keeps its restless beating, scarce bestowing the poor refreshment of a feverish dream to strengthen the earthly tenement. My health is failing; there will soon be nothing left for me but the drifts of thought and memory, which gather around a weary past and blighted future."
It was in vain that Ella tried to place on parchment words of soothing and consolation—to draw her thoughts from lingering around the ruined wreck of her affections, and direct them to the "hope set before" her, of obtaining through the merits of the Savior a home "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." Every letter she received came burthened with its own weight of wo.
The summer passed—its roses bloomed and died. Another autumn came and whistled by; but ere the winter's snow had melted, there were anxious thoughts concerning Mary Warner. Never before had so long a time elapsed without a letter from her to Ella. The first crocuses of spring had just begun to smile when a letter came, written by a stranger's hand! It told of Mary's being sick even unto death, and begged of Ella, as she loved her friend, to come and remain with her while yet life's taper burned. It was a fearful summons thus to break the suspending spell. That evening saw Ella sitting in the cabin of one of those large steamers which ply the western waters, anxiously wending her way to a retired yet pleasant village near the Ohio, for Mary's sadly declining health could no more mingle in the excitement of the city, and she had retreated to this lonely place to lay down her shattered frame in peace. The night of the second day brought Ella to the place of destination. She entered the house where Mary was, almost unconscious of the manner in whichshe introduced herself as Mary Warner's friend. That was enough; an elderly lady clasped her hand and bade her welcome. "Oh!" said she, "'tis a strange sight to be in her sick room. Poor thing! she is nearly gone, and still so lively; and, too, this morning when I went in, I know she had been weeping."
"Did she ever mention me?" said Ella.
"Last night she said if you would come, that she could die contented."
"Then lead me to her quickly."
They silently bent their steps to the sick chamber, and coming to the door, both made an involuntary pause.
"She is sleeping," said the old lady, softly; but Ella was too much struck to make reply. She was thinking of the dreadful changes which had come over that frail being since last they met. Worn down to a skeleton, her lips compressed, as if in agony, her dark hair thrown back upon her shoulders, while her cheeks were pale as the marble so soon to be raised in her memory, which, with the glimmering of the lights, served to make it a too dismal scene. Staggering forward to a chair, she sat down quickly, but in the agitation there was a slight noise—it awakened the sleeper; a moment passed—they were in each others arms. When the first wild burst of joy had passed away, Mary spoke.
"Sit down here, Ella—I want to be alone with you; I feared that I might die before you came;" a convulsive shuddering passing over her, as she spoke of death. "I want to give you my history. 'T is? a dark picture, and yet it has all been mine."
"But are you not too weak and agitated?" asked the warm-hearted friend.
"Oh, no! that sweet, quiet sleep has so refreshed me, that I feel almost like another being—and I shall be very brief. But to my story. You recollect my having often told you that I never set my heart on an earthly object but I was doomed to bear a bitter disappointment. That wary, stubborn rock, encircled by the whirl of youthful and enthusiastic feeling, which, in life's earlier years, drew within its circled waves my frail bark of love and hope, then cast it forth—a wreck forever.
"In the village in which I was raised, lived one who shared with me the sports of childhood; and as we grew older, partook of the recreations and amusements of the young together. There was a strange similarity in our tastes and dispositions; and we consequently spent much of our time in each others society. There were those who sometimes smiled to see a young and sunny-haired youth so constantly with the sensitive, shrinking Mary Warner; but then they knew we were playmates from childhood, and thought no more. Mother was dead, and I was under the guidance of my remaining parent, an only child—an idolized and favored one; and in my sixteenth year, claimed as the bride of Samuel Wayland. Parental judgment frowned, and called it folly. What could I do? Our faith had long been plighted, but filial respect demanded that should be laid aside; yet what was I to find in the future, that would ever repay for the love so vainly wasted. It was all a blank. I nerved my heart for our last meeting—but the strings were fibrous, and they broke.
"'I shall go to the West, and then you must forget me,' said I, when we came to part.
"'Never, Mary, will you, can you be forgotten!'
"We parted there, forever. He is still living, a lone wanderer on the earth; we have never had any communications; but there is a unity of feeling, a oneness of spirit, that at times make me feel as if we were scarcely separated. I enjoy a pleasure in thinking of his memory, a confidence that would trust him any where in this wide world; and I now believe that wherever he is, his heart is still true to me. As for me, I have hurried through life like a 'storm-stricken bird,' no rest from the busy scenes in which I mingled. Since then, there have been proposals in which honor, wealth, and distinction were connected; and once I had well nigh sold myself for interest, and to please my father. We were promised, and I was congratulated on my happy prospects; but, alas! alas, for me; the more memory reverted to the past, my feelings revolted from the present. I sometimes used to stand where I could see him pass in the street, and exclaim 'oh, heaven! can I marry that man! can I stand before God's altar, and promise to love and honor him, when I abhor his presence.' Time was hasting; one night I went down into the study; father was sitting there.
"'Well, Mary,' said he, 'I suppose you will leave us soon.'
"That was enough for my pent-up feelings to break forth. 'I suppose so,' said I, 'but, oh! father, I would rather see my grave open to-morrow, than to think of uniting my destiny with that man. My very soul detests him."
"Mary, sit down now, and write a letter to Mr. M——, that you cannot keep your promise, and the reason why. Far would it be from me to place in the hands of my only daughter, the cup of misery unmixed. My judgment and your feelings differ.'
"It was late that night when I sealed the fated letter for M——; but I retired and slept easy, there was a burden removed which had well-nigh crushed me. What I have experienced since, words may never tell; the young have deemed me impenetrable to the natural susceptibilities of our natures, while the old have called me trifling. But, Ella, depend upon it, a heart once truly given, can never be bestowed again. I have erred in trying to conceal my history in the manner I have. Instead of placing my dependance on the goodness of the Most High, and seeking for that balm which heals the wounded spirit, and acquiring a calmness of mind which would render me in a measure happy, I plunged into the vortex of worldly pleasure. But it is all over now; they say I have the consumption, and pity me, to think one so joyous should have to die. To-day has been spent mostly in meditation; and I have tried to pray that my Savior would give me grace for a dying hour; and, Ella, will you kneel at my bedside and pray as you used to, when a young, trembling girl?"
"Yes, I will pray for you again," said Ella; "but take this cordial to revive your exhausted frame."
As the friend raised the refreshing draught, she marked such a change in Mary's countenance, that her heart quailed at the thought of the terrible vigil she was keeping, in the silence of night, alone. She kneeled by the sick, and offered up her prayer with an energy unknown to her before, such a one as a heart strong in faith, and nerved by love and fear alone could dictate; a pleading, borne on high by the angel of might, for the strengthening of the immortal soul in prison-clay before her. There was a sigh and a groan; she rose hastily and bent over the couch—there was a gasping for breath, and all was still. Ella's desolate shriek of anguish first told the tale, that Mary was dead.
Thus passed again to the Giver, a mind entrusted with high powers, and uncontrolled affections, who, in the waywardness of youth, cast unreservedly at the shrine of idolatrous love, her all of earthly hopes, then wandered forth with naught but their ashes, in the treasured urn of past remembrance, seeking to cover that with the mantle of the world's glittering folly.
Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore—Hear once more that friend infernal—that grim visiter nocturnal!Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:Oh, then, tell us something more!Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearkenTo that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"Tell me truly, I implore!Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature—its distresses?Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?Stoops he not to eating—drinking? Is he never caught in winkingWhen his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?Tell me this, if nothing more!Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?Keeps he not that oath he swore?He, too, may be inly praying—vainly, earnestly essayingTo forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,Oh, renounce him nevermore.Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,No such narrow prejudices canheknow whom Love possesses—Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy doorLest Love enter nevermore!Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some messageFrom that much-mourned matchless maiden—from that loved and lost Lenore.In a pilgrim's garb disguiséd, angels are but seldom prizéd:Of this fact at length adviséd, were it strange if he forsworeThe false world for evermore?Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!Tell us of that world of wonder—of that famed unfading "Yonder!"Rend—oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!Doth he answer—"Nevermore?"
Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore—Hear once more that friend infernal—that grim visiter nocturnal!Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:Oh, then, tell us something more!
Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearkenTo that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"Tell me truly, I implore!
Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature—its distresses?Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?Stoops he not to eating—drinking? Is he never caught in winkingWhen his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?Tell me this, if nothing more!
Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?Keeps he not that oath he swore?
He, too, may be inly praying—vainly, earnestly essayingTo forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,Oh, renounce him nevermore.
Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,No such narrow prejudices canheknow whom Love possesses—Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy doorLest Love enter nevermore!
Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some messageFrom that much-mourned matchless maiden—from that loved and lost Lenore.In a pilgrim's garb disguiséd, angels are but seldom prizéd:Of this fact at length adviséd, were it strange if he forsworeThe false world for evermore?
Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!Tell us of that world of wonder—of that famed unfading "Yonder!"Rend—oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!Doth he answer—"Nevermore?"
When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!And brightly we hover on silvery wing,And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,And music and fragrance are on the air!Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?
When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!And brightly we hover on silvery wing,And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,And music and fragrance are on the air!Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?
We sat within the farm-house old,Whose windows looking o'er the bay,Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,An easy entrance, night and day.Not far away we saw the port,—The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,—The light-house,—the dismantled fort,—The wooden houses, quaint and brown.We sat and talked until the nightDescending filled the little room;Our faces faded from the sight,Our voices only broke the gloom.We spake of many a vanished scene,Of what we once had thought and said,Of what had been, and might have been,And who was changed, and who was dead.And all that fills the hearts of friends,When first they feel, with secret pain,Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,And never can be one again.The first slight swerving of the heart,That words are powerless to express,And leave it still unsaid in part,Or say it in too great excess.The very tones in which we spakeHad something strange, I could but mark;The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark.Oft died the words upon our lips,As suddenly, from out the fireBuilt of the wreck of stranded ships,The flames would leap, and then expire.And, as their splendor flashed and failed,We thought of wrecks upon the main,—Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,And sent no answer back again.The windows rattling in their frames,The ocean, roaring up the beach—The gusty blast—the bickering flames—All mingled vaguely in our speech;Until they made themselves a partOf fancies floating through the brain—The long lost ventures of the heart,That send no answers back again.O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!They were indeed too much akin—The drift-wood fire without that burned,The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
We sat within the farm-house old,Whose windows looking o'er the bay,Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port,—The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,—The light-house,—the dismantled fort,—The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the nightDescending filled the little room;Our faces faded from the sight,Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene,Of what we once had thought and said,Of what had been, and might have been,And who was changed, and who was dead.
And all that fills the hearts of friends,When first they feel, with secret pain,Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,And never can be one again.
The first slight swerving of the heart,That words are powerless to express,And leave it still unsaid in part,Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spakeHad something strange, I could but mark;The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips,As suddenly, from out the fireBuilt of the wreck of stranded ships,The flames would leap, and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed,We thought of wrecks upon the main,—Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,And sent no answer back again.
The windows rattling in their frames,The ocean, roaring up the beach—The gusty blast—the bickering flames—All mingled vaguely in our speech;
Until they made themselves a partOf fancies floating through the brain—The long lost ventures of the heart,That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!They were indeed too much akin—The drift-wood fire without that burned,The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,And tell your gladness to the listening skies;Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increaseTill one loud pæan hails the day of peace.Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swellsAnd heaven seems full of great celestial bells!Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hillsAnd every grove with choral welcome thrills.Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,Go age and greet her with your holiest vows;—See where she comes, her hands upon her breastThe sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.
Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,And tell your gladness to the listening skies;Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increaseTill one loud pæan hails the day of peace.Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swellsAnd heaven seems full of great celestial bells!Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hillsAnd every grove with choral welcome thrills.Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,Go age and greet her with your holiest vows;—See where she comes, her hands upon her breastThe sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.
Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dweltIn noisome cities, whence Thy sacred worksAre ever banished from my sight; where lurksEach baleful passion man has ever felt.Here human skill is shown in shutting outAll sight and thought of things that God hath made;Lest He should share the constant homage paidTo Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.O, it was fit that he[2]upon whose headWeighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,Should build a city, when he trembling fledFar from his Maker's face. And which was worse,The murder—or departing far from Thee?Great God! impute not either sin to me!
Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dweltIn noisome cities, whence Thy sacred worksAre ever banished from my sight; where lurksEach baleful passion man has ever felt.Here human skill is shown in shutting outAll sight and thought of things that God hath made;Lest He should share the constant homage paidTo Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.O, it was fit that he[2]upon whose headWeighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,Should build a city, when he trembling fledFar from his Maker's face. And which was worse,The murder—or departing far from Thee?Great God! impute not either sin to me!
When I came on deck the next morning, I found that the mate's prediction had proved true. A norther, as it is called in the Gulf, was blowing great guns, and the ship, heading westward, was rolling in the trough of the tremendous sea almost yard-arm under, with only close-reefed top-sails and storm foretopmast-staysail set. We wallowed along in this manner all day, for we were lying our course, and the skipper was in a hurry to bring our protracted voyage to an end. We made much more leeway than we reckoned, however, for just at sunset the high mountains of Cuba were to be seen faintly looming up on the southern horizon.
"Brace up, there," ordered Captain Smith, when this fact was announced. "Luff, my man, luff, and keep her as near it as you may."
The old ship came up on the wind, presenting her front most gallantly to the angry waves, which came on as high as the fore-yard, threatening to engulf her in the watery abyss. We took in all our top-sails but the main, and with that, a reefed fore-sail and foretopmast-staysail set, the old ship shook her feathers, and prepared herself for an all-night job of clawing off an iron-bound lee-shore.
The hatches were battened down, the fore-scuttle and companion closed, and all the crew collected aft on deck and lashed themselves to some substantial object, to save themselves from being washed over-board by the immense seas which constantly broke over our bows, and deluged our decks. The night closed down darker than pitch, and the wind increased in violence. I have scarcely ever seen so dismal a night. Except when at intervals a blinding flash of lightning illumined the whole heavens and the broad expanse of raging ocean, we could distinguish nothing at a yard's distance, save the glimmer of the phosphorescent binacle light, and the gleam which flashed from the culmination of the huge seas ahead of us, resembling an extended cloud of dull fire suspended in the air, and blown toward us, till, with a noise like thunder, as it dashed against the bows, it vanished, and another misty fire was to be seen as if rising out of some dark gulf. At midnight it blew a hurricane; the wind cut off the tops of the waves, and the air was full of spray and salt, driving like sleet or snow before the wintry storm. I had ensconced myself under the lee of the bulwarks, among a knot of select weather-beaten tars, and notwithstanding the danger we were in, I could not help being somewhat amused at their conversation.
"Jack," said Teddy, an Irish sailor, to the ship's oracle, old Jack Reeves, "do you think the sticks will howld?"
"If they don't," growled Jack, "you'll be in h—l before morning."
"Och, Jasus!" was the only reply to this consolatory remark—and there was an uneasy nestling throughout the whole circle.
"Well, Frank," said old Jack to me, after a most terrific gust, during which every man held his breath to listen whether there might not be a snapping of the spars, "well, Frank, what do you think of that?"
"Why, I think I never saw it blow so hard before," I replied. "'Tisn't a very comfortable berth, this of ours, with a lee-shore not thirty miles off, and a hurricane blowing."
"No danger at all, Frank, if them spars only stay by us—and I guess they will. They're good sticks, and Mr. Brewster is too good a boatswain not to have 'em well supported. The old Gentile is a dreadful critter for eatin' to windward in any weather that God ever sent; but I hope you don't call this blowin' hard, do you? Why, I've seen it blow so that two men, one on each side of the skipper, couldn't keep his hair on his head, and they had to get the cabin-boy to tail on to the cue behind, and take a turn round a belaying-pin."
"An' that nothin' to a time I had in a brig off Hatteras," observed Teddy, who had somewhat recovered his composure; "we had to cut away both masts, you persave, and to scud under a scupper nail driv into the deck, wid a man ready to drive it further as the wind freshened."
"Wasn't that the time, Teddy," asked another, "When that big sea washed off the buttons on your jacket?"
"Faix, you may well say that; and a nigger we had on board turned white by reason of the scare he was in."
"Wal, now," interposed Ichabod Green, "Teddy, that's a lie; it's agin all reason."
"Pooh! you green-horn!" said Jack Reeves, "that's nothing to a yarn I can spin. You see that when I was quite a boy, I was in a Dutch man-o'-war for a year and thirteen months; and one day in the Indian Ocean, it came on to blow like blazes. It blowed for three days and nights, and the skipper called a council of officers to know what to do. So, when they'd smoked up all their baccy, they concluded to shorten sail, and the bo'sn came down to rouse out the crew. He ondertook to whistle, but it made such an onnateral screech, that the chaplain thought old Davy had come aboard; and he told the skipper he guessed he'd take his trick at prayin'.'Why,' says the skipper, 'we've got on well enough without, ever since we left the Hague, hadn't we better omit it now?' ''Taint possible,' says the parson. Now you all know you can't larn seamanship to a parson or passenger—and the bloody fool knelt down with his face to wind'ard. 'Hillo!' says the skipper, 'you'd better fill away, and come round afore the wind, hadn't you?' 'Mynheer captain,' says the parson, 'you're a dreadful good seaman, but you don't know no more about religious matters than a horse.' 'That's true,' answered the skipper; 'so suit yourself, and let fly as soon as you feel the spirit move, bekase that main-sail wants reefin' awfully.' Well, the parson shuts his eyes, takes the pipe out of his mouth, and gets under-weigh; but, onluckily, the first word of the prayer was a Dutch one, as long as the maintop-bowline, and as crooked as a monkey's tail, and the wind ketchen in the kinks of it, rams it straight back into his throat, and kills him as dead as a herrin'. 'Blixem!' says the skipper, 'there'll be brandy enough for the voyage now.'"
"Sail, ho-o-o!" shouted a dozen voices, as a vivid flash of lightning showed us the form of a small schooner riding upon the crest of a wave, not two cables length ahead.
"Hard-a-lee!" shouted the skipper. "My God! make her luff, or we shall be into them."
Slowly the ship obeyed her helm, and came up on the wind, trembling to her keel, as the canvas, relieved from the strain, fluttered and thrashed against the mast with immense violence, and a noise more deafening than thunder, while the great seas dashed against the bows, now in full front toward them, with the force and shock of huge rocks projected from a catapult, and the wind shrieked and howled through the rigging as if the spirits of the deep were rejoicing over our dreadful situation.
Again the fiery flash shot suddenly athwart the sky.
Good God! the schooner, her deck and lower rigging black with human beings, lay broadside to, scarcely ten rods from before our bows. A cry of horror mingled with the rattling thunder and the howl of the storm. I felt my blood curdle in my veins, and an oppression like the nightmare obstructed my voice.
The schooner sunk in the trough, and, as the lightning paled, disappeared from sight. The next moment our huge ship, with a headlong pitch, was precipitated upon her. One crash of riven timbers, and a yell of despairing agony, and all was over; the ship fell off from the wind, and we were again driving madly forward into the almost palpable darkness, tearing through the mountain seas.
"Rig the pumps and try them," cried Captain Smith, in a hoarse voice, "we may have started a plank by the shock."
To the great joy of all, the ship was found to make no more water than usual. All hands soon settled down quietly again, wondering what the run-down schooner could have been, and pitying her unfortunate crew, when a faint shout from the forecastle was heard in a lull of the storm.
"Lord save us! what can that be?" exclaimed a dozen of the crew in a breath.
"In nomine Pathris—" began Teddy, crossing himself in a fright.
"Silence there!" cried the skipper; "Mr. Stewart, can it be one of the schooner's crew, who has saved himself by the bowsprit rigging?"
"Plaze yer honor," said Teddy, "it's more likely it's one of their ghosts."
"Silence, I tell you! who gave you liberty to tell your opinion. Mr. Brewster, hail 'em, whoever they be."
"Folk'stle, ahoy!" sung out the second mate; "who's there?"
"Help! help! for God's sake!" faintly answered the mysterious voice.
"Go forward, there, two hands," ordered the captain; "'t is one of the schooner's crew."
After a moment's hesitation, the second mate and Jack Reeves started on this mission of mercy, and were soon followed by nearly all the crew. Upon reaching the forecastle we found the body of a man lying across the heel of the bowsprit, jammed against the windlass pawl. The insensible form was lifted from its resting place, and, by the captain's order, finally deposited in the cabin on the transom. The skipper, steward, and myself, remained below to try and resuscitate the apparently lifeless body. The means we used were effectual; and the wrecked seaman opened his eyes, and finally sat up.
"I must go on deck now," said the captain. "Stay below, Frank, and help the steward undress him, and put him into a berth."
Our benevolent darky had by this time concocted a glass of brandy grog, very stiff, but, alas! not hot, which I handed to the object of our care, who, after drinking it, seemed much better; and we then proceeded to help him strip. I noticed that his clothes were very coarse, and parti-colored; there were also marks of fetters on his ancles, and his back was scarred by the lash. I conjectured from these circumstances that our new shipmate was not of the most immaculate purity of character, and after I had got him into a berth, between two warm woollen blankets, I made free to ask him a few questions, not only about himself, but also about his vessel. I could get no reply but in Spanish, as I took his lingo to be, though, from his hailing for help in English, I knew that he must understand that language. When I went upon deck I reported myself to the officers, who concluded to defer any examination until morning. The gale began to abate about midnight, and at nine o'clock in the morning it had so far subsided that the cabin mess, leaving Mr. Brewster in charge of the deck, went below to get breakfast.
"The swell is tremendous," said the skipper, as we were endeavoring to get seated around the table. "I think I never saw a much heavier sea in any part of the world. Look out, there!"
But the caution was given too late; the ship had risen on an enormous wave as the skipper had spoken, and when she plunged, the steward pitched headlong over the cabin table, closely followed bythe third mate, who had grasped his camp-stool for support, and still clung pertinaciously to it. The ship righted, leaving Langley's corpus extended at full length among a wreck of broken crockery.
"Well, Mr. Langley," said the skipper, "I hope you enjoy your breakfast."
"Bill," added the mate, as Langley gathered himself up, "as you've got through your breakfast so expeditiously, hadn't you better go on deck and let Mr. Brewster come down?"
"Beg your pardon, sir; but don't you see I'm laid on the table—there can be no action about me at present."
"Well, sit down and try to preserve your gravity. I hope to see no more such flights of nonsense at this table."
"Steward," asked the skipper, after we had nearly finished our meal, "how is your patient this morning?"
"It's enough to make any body out of patience, sar, to fall ober de cabin table. So tan't werry first rate."
"No, so I perceive; but I mean, how's the man who came on board us last night?"
"Oh, dat's him—excuse me, sar. Well, sar, he's quite smart dis mornin'."
"Fetch him out here, I wish to ask him some questions; give him a shirt and trowsers of mine, and fetch him out."
The steward soon made his appearance again, in company with the stranger, who, now dressed clean, looked to be a stout, powerful man, apparently about thirty-five; but his long, tangled, black hair and whiskers so concealed his features, that their expression could not be discerned. He bowed as he entered the cabin, and in good English thanked the captain for his care.
"Sit down upon the stool yonder," said the skipper, "and tell us the name and nation of your vessel, and by what miracle you escaped; and afterward you shall have some breakfast."
"The name of the vessel, señor, was the San Diego, theguarda-costaupon this station. I was on deck when your ship was first seen, and I climbed half way up the main shrouds to look out for you, by the captain's order. When you struck us, I found myself entangled in your jib-boom rigging, and held on, though much bruised, and half-drowned by the seas which ducked me every minute, until I succeeded in laying in upon your forecastle. I had had time to notice your rig, and knew you to be an American."
"How many were your crew?" asked the mate.
The sailor started, and for a moment eyed the querist closely. "Oh! señor, only about fifty souls in all."
"Good God!" cried the captain, "fifty lives lost—fifty souls sent into eternity with scarcely a moment's warning!"
"Don't regret it, captain," said the sailor, bitterly, "many of them were only convicts; the government will be much obliged to you."
"Were you a convict?" asked the mate.
"I was, señor, as my dress and appearance would have told you, even if I had been disposed to lie. I was drafted from the Matanzas chain-gang to the guarda-costa some six month ago."
"The Matanzas chain-gang!" cried the mate, eagerly, "pray, my good fellow, do you know a convict by the name of Pedro Garcia?"
The man rose to his feet—"Why, señor, do you?" he inquired.
"I do, indeed," answered Mr. Stewart, impatiently; "but tell me—answer my question, sir."
The convict brushed back his long hair. "I was once called Don Pedro Garcia," said he; "tell me," he added, as all four of us rose involuntarily at this startling announcement, "with whom do I speak?"
"Good God!" cried the mate, making one jump for the convict felon, and throwing his arms around him, "I'm Ben Stewart, alive and well."
Very unluckily, at this moment the ship gave a violent lurch, and the two fell, and, locked in each others embrace, rolled over to leeward; the skipper, who was unguarded in his astonishment, followed Langley's former wake over the table, which, yielding to the impulse, fetched away, capsized, and with the captain, also rolled away to leeward; the steward, as in duty bound, ran to his superior's help.
At this juncture, Brewster, hearing the unusual row, poked his head through the skylight slide, and demanded—"What's the matter? Mutiny! by G——d!" he shouted, catching sight of the prostrate forms of his fellow officers, struggling, as he thought, in the respective grasps of the rescued convict and the steward. Off went the scuttle, and down came the valiant Brewster square in the midst of the crockery, followed by three or four of his watch, stumbling over the bodies of the overthrown quartette. Langley and myself climbed into a berth and looked on.
"It's the steward," shouted the mischievous third mate, whose love of fun could not be controled by fear of consequences; "he tried to stab the captain with the carving-knife."
The scene now became exciting; the cry of mutiny was heard all over the vessel; and the skipper and mate hearing it, very naturally concluding that the mutineers were those who had so unceremoniously invaded the cabin, turned furiously upon them, and called loudly for assistance to us in the berth; but we were enjoying the fun too much to even speak and explain.
"Are ye kilt, cap'n?" asked Teddy, who had pushed his way to his beloved commander.
"No, you d——d mutinous scoundrel!" replied the enraged skipper, planting a tremendous blow between the eyes of the anxious interrogator; "take that!" and the Irishman rolled upon deck. In the meantime, Mr. Brewster, who had taken an especial spite against the convict, grabbed him by the throat. Pedro returned the compliment by a blow in the stomach, and Stewart aided the defeat of his colleague by taking him by the shoulders and dragging him off. Transported beyond reason by the pain of the blow he had received, and what he supposed to be the black ingratitude of Mr. Stewart, Brewstergave a scream of rage and clinched in with the mate with all his force.
It was fast getting to be past a joke.
"Come, Langley," said I, "let's put a stop to this—somebody will be killed."
"Sure enough! but how are we going to do it? Oh! here are the mate's pistols; draw the charges, Frank, and you take one and I the other, and we'll soon proclaim peace."
"They're not loaded," said I, after trying them with the ramrod.
"All right, then—follow me."
"We jumped down from our roost, leveled our pistols at the crowd, and threatened to fire if hostilities should not instantly cease on both sides.
"Langley, hand me those pistols," cried the frenzied skipper, who was the more angry because nobody would fight with him.
"Please, sir, I can't; I daren't trust myself without 'em." Disperse, ye rebels! lay down your arms and disperse—die, base and perjured villain," shouted Langley, holding the muzzle of his pistol to Brewster's ear, while I, by poking my shooting-iron in everybody's face, obtained partial order. After a deal of difficulty the mutiny was explained; and the crestfallen Brewster withdrew his forces, followed by the mate, who conciliated his irate colleague, and gave him an inkling as to the real name and character of the rescued convict.
After the steward had cleared away the wreck of the breakfast things, a conclave of the cabin-mess was called, to which the black steward wasex officioandex necessitateadmitted; and it was determined, after much debate, that the voyage should be continued, and that during our stay in Matanzas my cousin Pedro should remain hidden on board. The next mooted point was whether to conceal the matter from the crew, and decided in the negative; so the men were called aft, and the truth briefly stated to them. One and all swore to be faithful and discreet—and so they proved. With one or two exceptions our crew were Yankees, and of a far higher grade than the crews of merchantmen generally.
During these proceedings the gale had rapidly abated, and at noon we found ourselves rolling and pitching in a heavy sea, the sun shining brightly over our heads, and not a breath of air stirring. The skipper, mate, and Cousin Pedro were closeted together in the cabin during the afternoon, while the second and third mates, and ship's cousin, compared notes sitting under the awning on the booby-hatch. I enlightened Brewster more fully as to Mr. Stewart's former adventures in Cuba; and we finally concluded that our running down the Spanish guarda-costa was the most lucky thing in the world.
"Half my plan is now accomplished to hand," said I; "we must now get my Cousin Clara out of the nunnery."
"You hadn't better try that, Frank," interposed Mr. Brewster, "because, for two reasons; in the first place, them Catholics are poor benighted heathen, and she wouldn't get out if she could—for she is a veiled nun; and the next place you'd get your neck into a certain machine called agarrote, or else make your cousin's place good in the chain-gang."
"Nevertheless, I shall try; and if she only is willing to run away, there can some plan be contrived, I know."
"And my part shall be to run old Alvarez through the body, if the devil hasn't taken him already," added Mr. William Langley.
"Boys will be boys, that's a fact, call 'em what you're a mind to," observed Mr. Brewster, very sapiently stroking his big red whiskers.
The calm continued, and by evening the swell had in a great degree gone down. In the first dog-watch, my Cousin Pedro, sitting upon the companion, gave us an account of his long imprisonment. He had, as the reader already knows, been sentenced for the murder of the Count ——, and had toiled and slaved in the streets of Matanzas, till drafted, with many others, on board of the guarda-costa. He knew of Clara's fate, and had been undeceived by my father in the belief of Mr. Stewart's death.
Langley and I stood the middle watch again that night. An easterly breeze, gentle, but steady, blew most of the night; and when we went below, and eight bells struck, the moon was silvering the lofty peak of the Pan of Matanzas, which lay far away on our larboard bow.