Fear was within the tossing barkWhen stormy winds grew loudAnd waves came rolling high and dark,And the tall mast was bowed.The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods, against a stormy sky.Their giant branches tost.Mrs. Hemans.
Fear was within the tossing barkWhen stormy winds grew loudAnd waves came rolling high and dark,And the tall mast was bowed.The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods, against a stormy sky.Their giant branches tost.Mrs. Hemans.
Fear was within the tossing bark
When stormy winds grew loud
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky.
Their giant branches tost.
Mrs. Hemans.
About twenty-four hours after the capture of the brig, related in the last chapter, every evidence of a violent storm was abroad. The wind began to sigh, as if bewailing in anticipation the evils which its increased fury might perpetrate. Gradually becoming more violent, it raged with the violence of a young lion over its prey. A blackness, almost as thick as night covered the face of the sky, as though the Almighty were bending his most awful frown upon a devoted world. These indications were speedily followed by heavy rain, intermixed with hail, disturbing the ocean, swelling brooks and lakes into vast sheets of foam, borne by the might of the wind far from their original source, and inundating the land in a fearful manner.
Two weeks previous to this storm an aged colonist from New Haven, had arrived with his son at the island on which Newport now stands. The advantages of that situation for sea-bathing, at this day so thoroughly known and tested, had even at that early period been discovered, and the season being spring, their object was to make arrangements for putting up a rude bathing-house for theaccommodation of invalids.
During the storm described, the pair had remained for shelter on board their schooner, which, anchored as she was, had hard work to live through the angerof the elements. At length, however, after four or five hours, their rage began to abate: the wind gradually blew less and less wildly, the clouds commenced to disperse, and the shower to fall more quietly. Finally, the sun broke through his shroud of darkness, a pleasant calm succeeded, and the only rain-drops perceptible were those which clung to the dripping masts and sides of the schooner, and the rocks and shrubbery on the island.
As the old man and his son looked around them, the sea swelled and heaved with the agitation of the recent storm, the effects of which upon the waves had been too violent to subside for many hours. The tide poured along a surf deafening to hear, and bewildering to behold. The sea came on toward the beach in swells, rather than waves, as though the whole flood were pouring on in one huge body, rising gradually as it neared, towering above the high ridge, drawing back for an instant, and standing as a wall of water, it poured down like some mighty cataract.
All at once, the young man started and exclaimed, “God in Heaven! father, there is a vessel drifting upon the opposite strand.”
The old man perceived an object among the tide. He took his spy-glass and looked through it. “She is dismasted,” he said, “nothing but her hulk is left upon the water.”
“And drifting against the breakers,” cried his son, in horror, “without the slightest means of weathering the point!”
“She makes no attempt,” replied the other, “she must be deserted by her crew.”
“No open boat could have existed through such a storm as is just past, all must have perished.”
“Most probably,” answered the old man, with the mild composure of his years.
The hulk was now in the midst of the current, and drifting rapidly toward the strand. Their sight of it, however, was still indistinct: though from the black speck it had at first appeared, it grew a visible object. At length, they could perceive that it was a freight or passenger vessel, unfitted for defense, for there were no port-holes discernible. She had evidently been dismasted in the storm, and lay water-logged upon the waves, at the mercy of their violence. The crew, finding themselves unable to guide her, or relieve the leak, had taken to their boats and left the ship to her fate.
There was nothing then to fear for human life in the end to which she was fast approaching; yet the old man and his son could scarcely behold her, without a feeling of apprehension, about to fall a prey to the waves. As she advanced, every fathom’s stride she grew larger and larger. At length, as she surmounted the summit of one mountainous billow, her whole bulk was discernible. And when that wave retired, she had ceased her existence, and the receding ocean carried back merely her shattered remains, in the form of planks and beams, to return again by the next wave and again be precipitated to a distance.
At this instant he perceived a plank floating toward the land, to which were fastened two human beings.
“It has grounded in a place so shallow as almost to be dry; those persons live and may yet be saved!” was the exclamation of the youth, as he jumped from the deck of the schooner, and began to make his way at an incredibly rapid pace toward the wreck.
“My son, return, your attempt is rashness, nay, it is death.”
But the young man was out of hearing. In ten minutes he stood upon the cliff which overlooked the spot he sought. He began to descend. His progress was several times impeded by the falling of huge stones to which he was about to entrust his weight. Large fragments, too, came rolling after him, as if to send him headlong to the bottom. But a courageous heart and a firm tread bore him safely to the foot of the precipice.
He was now upon the shallow portion of a small shelf, which projected out a little distance into the sea, composed of gravel and stones. Upon this a few pieces of the wreck had grounded. He eagerly sought among these the objects that had brought him on his perilous errand. He soon discovered them. They were in a most precarious position. One of them a delicate female, her wet clothing hanging in heavy folds upon her form, and herself tied by a handkerchief round her waist to a plank, being placed with her face uppermost. The other was that of a man, lying by her side in a reversed position, with his left arm thrown over his companion, as if to keep her more securely in her place, and his right clinging around the plank, with the tight, convulsive grasp with which he had taken hold upon it. In both these persons, sense and the power of motion were gone. The plank on which they lay, not being thoroughly grounded upon the beach, but floating still in part upon the sea, was liable every moment to be washed away, to return no more.
Just as the youth, who had come in the hope of being their preserver, had discovered them, he saw a billow approaching, and hastened to interpose his efforts before it reached them, lest, in receding, it might bear away the sufferers.
He rushed into the surf, and held the plank on which they were with the tenacity of some animal seizing upon his prey, though under the dictation of a motive entirely different. It was not without a severe struggle on his part, that he as well as his lifeless companions were not swept off by the wave, which proved even stronger in its might than he had anticipated. He succeeded, however, in retaining his position; and, before the return of another, by a violent exertion of strength, he dragged upon the small strip of dry sand, the plank as well as those attached to it.
He next asked himself, how he should remove the unhappy sufferers to his father’s vessel, and obtain the means of recalling their ebbing life and prostrated strength. He looked toward the cliff and shouted for assistance, but he was answered only by the roaring waves. He turned his eyes again on those who were before him. The lady, as she lay with her face uppermost, was a sight more beautiful in the eyes of the rough youth who gazed upon her than he had ever deemed were the angels in Heaven. She was at the middle age of life, but still interesting and lovely in appearance.Her garments were black, and contrasted strangely with the pearl-like whiteness of her skin. The face of her companion being downward, his features were not visible; but chestnut curls clustered over the back of his head, and his whole appearance gave promise of a pleasing physiognomy beneath.
Bending over them, their preserver discovered that they both still breathed, but so feebly that the respiration of each was scarcely perceptible. Of the lady especially, life seemed to have so slight a hold, that there was much ground to fear that unless it were at once re-inforced it would shortly become extinct.
At this moment his father crept cautiously along the beach. Anxious for his son, as well as wishing to assist him in his hazardous enterprise of mercy, if, in fact, he had not lost his life in the perilous path he had taken, the old man had reached him at length by a circuitous and less dangerous descent.
He uttered an exclamation of thanks at beholding him uninjured. Then, after a moment’s consultation, the father untied the handkerchief which bound the female to the plank, and lifting the insensible and fragile form in his arms with much care, he set out with rapid steps by the same path he had come.
His son had more difficulty in raising the body of her companion. But by one of those superhuman efforts of strength which great emergencies are known to inspire, he at length succeeded, and with labored breath, followed after his father, as rapidly as the heavy weight of his burden would allow.
It was about twelve minutes after the old man, that the youth reached the schooner. The lady, by this time, under the vigorous exertions of his father, had revived so far as to open her eyes and sigh heavily.
Both the men, therefore, deemed it best to devote themselves to the other sufferer. He too, though not so readily as his companion, owing to his face having lain downward, and his respiration having been thus impeded, at length gave signs of returning life.
Reader, we will not stay to behold their complete restoration to consciousness. We leave you to imagine the circumstance. Doubtless you have anticipated us in the information, that in them you behold Alice Heath and Frank Stanley, both of whom the storm had been the means of delivering unharmed from the hands of the pirates.
——
Oh, is it not a noble thing to dieAs dies the Christian, with his armor on! —What is the hero’s clarion, though its blastRing with the mastery of a world, to this?What are the searching victories of mind —The lore of vanished ages?—What are allThe trumpetings of proud humanity,To the short history of him who madeHis sepulchre beside the King of kings?Willis.
Oh, is it not a noble thing to dieAs dies the Christian, with his armor on! —What is the hero’s clarion, though its blastRing with the mastery of a world, to this?What are the searching victories of mind —The lore of vanished ages?—What are allThe trumpetings of proud humanity,To the short history of him who madeHis sepulchre beside the King of kings?Willis.
Oh, is it not a noble thing to die
As dies the Christian, with his armor on! —
What is the hero’s clarion, though its blast
Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?
What are the searching victories of mind —
The lore of vanished ages?—What are all
The trumpetings of proud humanity,
To the short history of him who made
His sepulchre beside the King of kings?
Willis.
Henry Elmore and his wife had suddenly been called to New Haven, in consequence of the receipt of a brief letter. By the same messenger, a letter had also come to Jessy Ellet, from her lover, informing her of his arrival in Connecticut, and giving some account of the capture of the vessel in which he had sailed, and of the shipwreck, with the details of his escape from which the reader is already acquainted. He also hinted at some tidings which would make her heart leap for joy, but added, that as he expected to have the bliss of meeting her before twenty-four hours from the time of his writing, he would defer his intelligence until then.
As Jessy sat alone, after having seen her sister and brother depart for New Haven, counting the hours until their return and her lover’s arrival, (for she supposed they would come in company,) her thoughts and feelings were of that agitated kind natural to her situation in expecting to meet so soon the object to whom her affections were plighted, after his absence for months in a distant land.
That part of the letter she had just received, which spoke of joyful intelligence awaiting her, increased the pleasurable disturbance of her mind. To what could it refer if not to the subject upon which she had opened her heart on the night when he had declared his love for her? Some clue, she deemed, he must have obtained to the truth of her surmises, and to the continued existence of that sadly beautiful lady, for whom she had so strangely felt the instinctive yearnings of a daughter’s affection. Filled with all that expectancy to which this conviction gave rise, in addition to that which the announced arrival of her lover was calculated to produce, she had drawn her chair into the corridor at the back of the house, to enjoy the spring-breeze, and muse at her pleasure.
As she sat thus, she was startled by the sound of a deep groan issuing from the door opening upon the wing of the house to which the corridor led. Much surprised, and inclined to think that her imagination had deceived her, and that in the occupation of her mind she had mistaken some ordinary sound, and fancied it that manifestation of distress which she deemed she had heard, she aroused herself completely from her reflections, and listened breathlessly to hear whether or not it should be repeated. In a few minutes it was audible again. This time it was impossible that she could be mistaken. It was a groan of human agony which she had heard. She rose instantly and approached the door from whence it came. She had never before sought entrance here, having always supposed the place sacred to her sister’s devotions, and containing no possible attractions which should lead her to visit it.
Hastily she glanced her eye along the door in quest of a handle or latch to assist her in opening it. But it contained none. She then pushed it, in hopes that it might give way to her pressure. It was firmly secured, however, and resisted all her attempts. At length she was about to desist in despair, when another groan, deeper and more heart-rending than those she had heard previously, caused her to make one more effort. She exerted her utmost strength, and in doing so, her handaccidentally touched upon a secret spring, and the door suddenly gave way. She found herself at the foot of a low flight of steps, up which she quickly ascended.
Jessy Ellet here encountered another door which stood ajar. She heard within the sound of a heavy tread, and, filled with astonishment, hesitated whether to advance or retreat. Again a moan of distress fell upon her ear. Stimulated by feelings of kindness andcompassion no less than of intense curiosity, she proceeded, and stood within a neat though humble apartment. It was carpeted, and otherwise comfortably furnished. A table, strewn with prints and newspapers, was placed in the centre of the room. A low fire burned in the hearth, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, and a couch was drawn near it, beside which was placed a stand covered with phials, and a bowl containing nourishment for an invalid.
Upon this couch lay the form of a person covered with a cloak. Jessy’s quick glance rested here, and, at that moment, another of the sounds of pain, such as she had heard, issued from beneath the folds of the mantle. Instantly approaching, she turned down the cloak, and beheld the face of the dying person lying beneath it. It was that of an aged man, whose features were wan and worn. His eyes were closed, and through the midst of the traces of pain which rested upon his countenance, might have been discerned the calm beauty of holiness, and the placid smile of one whose hopes were placed in heaven.
As Jessy stood, she became conscious, by a slight movement behind her, that there was still another inmate of the apartment. Turning, she beheld standing near, a form of manly grace and dignity. As she did so the countenance of the person whom she viewed underwent an entire change, and he regarded her with a fixed and painful earnestness, while a flush that over-spread his fine features evinced no little emotion.
“Excuse my intrusion,” said Jessy, addressing him modestly, and with embarrassment. “I heard a sound of distress, and came hither to learn whence it proceeded.”
At the tones of her voice, the invalid, with another groan, stirred, as if about to awake. It seemed as though there had been some magic in her notes to arouse him, for his sleep had been deep, and she had spoken but in a low key.
“I heard the voice of my Alice, did I not?” said he, faintly.
Opening his eyes, he beheld Jessy standing by his side. “The Lord’s blessing be upon thee, Alice,” he murmured, endeavoring to stretch out his withered and feeble hand toward her. “I knew thou hadst not utterly forsaken us. See, William, she has returned; the Lord is still merciful to us. Mine eyes have beheld her once more, and I have now no other wish than to close them again and die.”
Jessy, supposing his words caused by the delirium of illness, gently took the faded hand he tried to offer, and he continued. “Years have passed over thee, my daughter. Thou lookest scarce older or less fair than when thou wert wont to trip about thy father’s halls, ere trouble visited us. Time has not dealt so lightly with thy husband and myself. See how thine absence has wasted me until I am dying to-day. Alice, thou must have been happier than we have been during thy separation.”
Surprised at these words, Jessy turned toward the other stranger.
“He mistakes me for another,” said she.
“Well might I too believe that thou art she,” replied the person addressed, regarding her fixedly in an absent manner, and speaking as if to himself. “Maiden,” said he, suddenly, shaking off for a moment his waking dream, and advancing a step nearer to her, “by what name do they call thee?”
“I am known as Jessy Ellet, sir,” she replied, modestly. “Whom do I so much resemble?”
The person spoken to did not apparently hear the query. His whole senses seemed absorbed in the one sense of sight; and he continued to gaze upon her until, in spite of all his efforts at self-control, he seemed almost completely overcome by some feelings of extraordinary emotion.
Jessy looked in surprise at his working features for a moment, and she felt her nature melt in a flow of generous sympathy toward him, as she tremulously and apprehensively repeated her question.
“Whom dost thou resemble?” he said at length. “Thine own mother, my daughter—my wife and the child of that dying man. Behold your father and grandfather in the unhappy beings before you. Come, my child, to this long-forsaken bosom.” And he stretched out his arms to receive her.
There was a moment’s doubt on the part of Jessy; but a mysterious instinct convinced her of the truth of the words she had heard; and the next moment her arms were about the neck of the stranger, and her voice was uttering through sobs and tears the endearing name of father.
After a while, gently disengaging herself from his embrace, she knelt down by the side of the aged sufferer, and bathed his feeble hands with her tears. The old man seemed to have no part in the recognition which had taken place. His imagination mistook the gentle creature before him for the lost child of his memory.
He appeared now to be sinking rapidly, and as the father and daughter sat with full hearts in the consciousness of being thus united, and listened to his labored respirations, the sound of approaching carriage-wheels slightly shook the house. It ceased, and a vehicle stopped at the door. A few moments more, and a creaking was heard upon the stairs. Presently after, a step fell upon the floor of the room, and a female figure softly advanced. The father and daughter started simultaneously, and rushed toward her. In a moment the arms of both were around her, and the heroic Alice Heath was at length restored to her husband and child.
We should attempt in vain to describe the scene that followed. From the state of torpor produced by approaching death, the old man was suddenly awakened to all the pleasure of an actual reunion with her most dear to him on earth. Imagination itself will find difficulty in supplying the effect upon all, when, with hands upraised, and on her bended knees beside his couch of death, Alice thanked God in all the fervor of true piety, that she had returned in time to shed a ray of comfort upon the departing spirit of her aged father. Neither can any conception paint her feelings of bliss as she arose to be clasped again in the arms of him to whom she had pledged her virgin faith, and was bound by the holiest of earthly ties, or to meet the embrace of the daughter toward whom her soul had yearnedso long in absence with all a mother’s tenderness. Suffice it to say, that love and affection, the first elements of her nature, and her great sustaining principles throughout all her trials here, found ample exercise in the full fruition of joy.
We will not linger on the scene with minute detail, since no power of language we possess can convey the transcript as it should be. Pass we on then to the conclusion of our story.
——
To sum the whole—the close of all.Dean Swift.
To sum the whole—the close of all.Dean Swift.
To sum the whole—the close of all.
Dean Swift.
The morning of the next day dawned on few who had pressed their customary couches in the house of Henry Elmore, for the aged sufferer, on the night that intervened, had breathed his last beneath its roof. The body extended on the bed, exhibited, even in death, that mildness and serenity of expression that had characterized his face during the latter portion of his life.
Sorrow could scarcely grieve that one who had outlived the full term of years allotted to man, and drank so deeply of earth’s cup of trial, should, at last, in a moment of unhoped for joy to cheer his exit from life, have finally departed; and Alice felt, as she kissed his cold brow, ere the coffin-lid had closed upon it forever, that her deepest feelings of filial affection could not inspire the wish within her to recall his departed spirit. Tears, many and heavy, it is true, were shed over him, but they fell rather for the sorrows he had passed, than because he was thus summoned in the fullness of time to a world where sorrow could never come.
He was followed to the grave, not only by his relations, but by Henry Elmore and his wife, whose feelings on the occasion were scarcely less deep than their own. In them, the deceased as well as his unhappy companion, had found true and sympathizing friends; and to their unremitting care and attention it was that they had not both sunk, long ere the return of Alice, into the same grave to which the one had now finally departed. Governor H. and his excellent lady likewise attended the funeral with much sympathy, and returned afterward to the house of their niece, to rejoice with Alice on her return, and congratulate her husband on the pardon of which he had been the bearer.
An interesting scene ensued, in which Jessy wept upon the necks of those generous friends, and returned her thanks to them for having so long sought to shield her from the misfortunes of her family. Between Lucy and herself a still more affecting embrace followed. The former, through the strict secrecy of her uncle and aunt, had never suspected that the tender name of sister by which she had known Jessy, was only assumed. But though she received the intelligence in some sorrow, it was scarcely of a heartfelt kind; for both had a consciousness that it was in the name alone that a change could take place, and that in feeling and affection they would ever remain sisters still.
Stanley, too, was present on this occasion. His meeting with Jessy at such a season of deep feeling for her had been tender in the extreme; and although he had not as yet had time for many words in private with the object of his affection, she read in his manner and countenance his deep and ardent sympathy.
The rumor of the strange reunion between the parents and child; of the long seclusion of Lisle and Heath in the wing of Henry Elmore’s house, thereby explaining all the mystery formerly attached to it, soon spread throughout the colony. But it scarcely excited the astonishment which such a romance in real life would create at the present day, for those were periods of tragical confusion and strange catastrophe, for better or for worse, when the rendings asunder of domestic charities were often without an hour’s warning, and where reunions were as dramatic as any exhibited on the stage.
It created little surprise, therefore, when Heath removed to Boston with his gentle and lovely wife, there to reside permanently, or when Jessy Ellet appeared as an inmate of their family.
It was just three months after this removal that Stanley and Jessy were united in marriage. No wedding-party was invited to grace the occasion; but Governor and Mrs. H. and Henry Elmore and his wife were the only guests.
We will now bid the reader adieu, leaving him to imagine that henceforth the fortunes of all of our characters ran in as smooth a tide as is possible in this world. We all know that the stream of actual life flows in an even course with but few. With most it is—romance aside—as our tale has shown it, a confused succession of alternating sensations, sometimes dark and dull of hue, like the clouds of winter, at others, breaking out into the glowing splendor and bright illusions of a dream.
THE JOLLY RIDE.
THE JOLLY RIDE.
[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]
Oh! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,When my sister and I were young,When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,Of sorrow and sin unstung.When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,As good at our need as an Arab steed;And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,O’er rivulet, rock and mead.Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;Ned and we are grown old and gray;But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,In our hearts must ever be gay.H.
Oh! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,When my sister and I were young,When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,Of sorrow and sin unstung.When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,As good at our need as an Arab steed;And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,O’er rivulet, rock and mead.Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;Ned and we are grown old and gray;But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,In our hearts must ever be gay.H.
Oh! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,When my sister and I were young,When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,Of sorrow and sin unstung.
Oh! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,
When my sister and I were young,
When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,
Of sorrow and sin unstung.
When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,As good at our need as an Arab steed;And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,O’er rivulet, rock and mead.
When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,
As good at our need as an Arab steed;
And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,
O’er rivulet, rock and mead.
Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;Ned and we are grown old and gray;But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,In our hearts must ever be gay.H.
Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;
Ned and we are grown old and gray;
But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,
In our hearts must ever be gay.H.
BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. V.
———
BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.
———
Buena Vista.
Welay atAqua Nueva, sullenly, in stern repose,Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes: —We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whomBut was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,Were led bySanta Anna, and were more than five to one; —They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their wayAt Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:Between us andSaltillolay a craggy mountain pass,With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass —The plain ofBuena Vista, where, afterward, we stoodAnd fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.When the foe reachedAqua Nueva—when they found our army gone,They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles —So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute surprise,Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto menWho had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteerHad grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.And then we thought ofWashington, whose spirit, from above,Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the dayWhich gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth, should beOne which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we sworeTo do such deeds as history had never heard before.We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, aroseThe rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes; —They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied; —Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered menRolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chillAs we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun beganTo kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ranAlong the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight —On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foeRolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red plateau.We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;ButTaylor’seye shone every where at once along the field,And the Mississippi volunteers, withBragg, dashed madly on; —We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.On our left the day was ours, whenSanta AnnapressedOn our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;Once more our men retreated, whenBraggagain came on,And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouacOnBuena Vista, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sodBut when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band —God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will sayWho read in coming centuries the records of the fray.
Welay atAqua Nueva, sullenly, in stern repose,Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes: —We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whomBut was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,Were led bySanta Anna, and were more than five to one; —They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their wayAt Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:Between us andSaltillolay a craggy mountain pass,With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass —The plain ofBuena Vista, where, afterward, we stoodAnd fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.When the foe reachedAqua Nueva—when they found our army gone,They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles —So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute surprise,Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto menWho had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteerHad grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.And then we thought ofWashington, whose spirit, from above,Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the dayWhich gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth, should beOne which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we sworeTo do such deeds as history had never heard before.We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, aroseThe rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes; —They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied; —Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered menRolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chillAs we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun beganTo kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ranAlong the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight —On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foeRolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red plateau.We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;ButTaylor’seye shone every where at once along the field,And the Mississippi volunteers, withBragg, dashed madly on; —We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.On our left the day was ours, whenSanta AnnapressedOn our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;Once more our men retreated, whenBraggagain came on,And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouacOnBuena Vista, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sodBut when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band —God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will sayWho read in coming centuries the records of the fray.
Welay atAqua Nueva, sullenly, in stern repose,Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes: —We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whomBut was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.
Welay atAqua Nueva, sullenly, in stern repose,
Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes: —
We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whom
But was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,
And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,
We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.
Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,Were led bySanta Anna, and were more than five to one; —They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their wayAt Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.
Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,
Were led bySanta Anna, and were more than five to one; —
They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;
But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,
When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their way
At Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.
Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:Between us andSaltillolay a craggy mountain pass,With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass —The plain ofBuena Vista, where, afterward, we stoodAnd fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.
Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,
Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:
Between us andSaltillolay a craggy mountain pass,
With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass —
The plain ofBuena Vista, where, afterward, we stood
And fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.
When the foe reachedAqua Nueva—when they found our army gone,They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles —So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute surprise,Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.
When the foe reachedAqua Nueva—when they found our army gone,
They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;
And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,
Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles —
So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute surprise,
Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.
The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto menWho had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteerHad grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.
The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,
While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;
’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto men
Who had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:
We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteer
Had grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.
Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.And then we thought ofWashington, whose spirit, from above,Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.
Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,
And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;
For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,
Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.
And then we thought ofWashington, whose spirit, from above,
Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.
In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the dayWhich gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth, should beOne which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we sworeTo do such deeds as history had never heard before.
In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the day
Which gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,
And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth, should be
One which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;
And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we swore
To do such deeds as history had never heard before.
We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, aroseThe rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes; —They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied; —Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered menRolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.
We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, arose
The rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes; —
They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:
A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied; —
Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered men
Rolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.
The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chillAs we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.
The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chill
As we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;
For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,
Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,
While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,
Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.
At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun beganTo kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ranAlong the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight —On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foeRolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red plateau.
At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun began
To kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ran
Along the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,
And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight —
On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foe
Rolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red plateau.
We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;ButTaylor’seye shone every where at once along the field,And the Mississippi volunteers, withBragg, dashed madly on; —We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.
We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,
And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:
We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;
ButTaylor’seye shone every where at once along the field,
And the Mississippi volunteers, withBragg, dashed madly on; —
We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.
On our left the day was ours, whenSanta AnnapressedOn our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;Once more our men retreated, whenBraggagain came on,And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!
On our left the day was ours, whenSanta Annapressed
On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;
Once more our men retreated, whenBraggagain came on,
And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:
Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,
And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!
Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouacOnBuena Vista, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod
Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac
OnBuena Vista, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.
On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,
We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;
And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,
Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod
But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band —God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will sayWho read in coming centuries the records of the fray.
But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,
We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;
And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,
And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band —
God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will say
Who read in coming centuries the records of the fray.
SHAKSPEARE.
ANALYSIS OF ROMEO AND JULIET.
———
BY H. C. MOORHEAD.
———
Thejudicious critic, whilst insisting on the great and manifold beauties of the plays of Shakspeare, has felt himself constrained to admit that they are marred by grievous faults. Some of these have been laid upon the times in which he wrote; some upon the circumstances of his life; some upon the corruptions of his editors; whilst for others, the most ingenious of his apologists have, with all their zeal, been able to make no rational excuse. Conspicuous among these admitted faults are his “quibbles” and “conceits.” He is charged with marring all his fairest pages with them; and so introducing them as often perversely to destroy the most beautiful creations of his fancy, and in a moment convert the pathetic into the burlesque, and the sublime into the ridiculous. “A quibble,” it has been said, “is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world and was content to lose it.”
Those commentators who have deemed it a duty to vindicate their author at all points and at all hazards, have not failed to repel this strong charge with characteristic earnestness. The great German critic Schlegel, for example, speaking on this subject, offers the following defense, if defense it can be called: “Shakspeare, who was always sure of his object, to move in a sufficiently powerful manner when he chose to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely moderated the impressions when too powerful, and immediately introduced a musical alleviation of our sympathy.”
That is to say: Shakspeare, fearing that evil consequences might result from the overwrought sympathies of his auditors, mercifully threw in a quibble here and there to check the dangerous flow of sentiment! as ifPaganini or Ole Bull had deemed it necessary to introduce an occasional jar in the midst of their most exquisite strains, lest the sensitive ear should be too powerfully ravished. But this defense is still more injurious than the charge itself; inasmuch as it substitutes for that oblivion of self, that apparent unconsciousness of the great things he was doing, which has been regarded as the highest proof of the serene majesty of his mind, an intolerable arrogance and presumption. Shakspeare, however, we may be sure, was governed by no such motive; he had no apprehension that his nectar would prove too intoxicating, and took no such pains to adulterate and weaken it.
The charge referred to is, in truth, applicable, in any great degree, to but a small number of his plays, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is one of these, and “Romeo and Juliet” is another, and the chief one. I shall confine my remarks at present to the latter play; and here, it must be confessed, quibbles are introduced into almost every speech: not only the wit, but the sentiment also is every where seasoned with them; and the different personages, “however distressed, have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable conceit.”
Now this feature, though not peculiar to Romeo and Juliet, is not found in any of the other great tragedies of Shakspeare, it cannot therefore be ascribed to inveterate habit. Neither is any trace of it found in the poem from which the main story, and many of the details and expressions of the play were copied: it was not therefore imitated from his original. The doctrine of Ulrici, however, affords a rational explanation. Quibbles and conceits are a part of the argument of the play, and therefore they are introduced. If they mar its beauties, they help to illustrate its theme, and to this purpose every other consideration is subordinate: for Shakspeare is not content, like other poets with simply moving his readers; but is careful also to cause all the currents of all the emotions he awakens to flow toward a common centre.
What thenisthe theme of this play? It is not easy to frame a definition strict enough and comprehensive enough to embrace it in all its aspects, and to embrace nothing more; but, in general terms, I believe the subject of the play may be thus stated:The unrestrained pursuit of the ruling passion or caprice of the moment.
This is the general subject of the whole play, and it is the particular subject of every scene and of every speech. All the winds of passion are let loose, and they blow where they list. Love and hate, hope and fear, courage and despair, and with them the wildest vagaries of fancy and caprice—all are in the field together; yet all move in subordination to the “central idea,” even as the ocean tides are governed by the moon.
All the personages of the play are made to illustrate this subject, each according to his own nature and circumstances.RomeoandJuliettossed on the stormy sea of ill-starred love, pass from the summit of bliss to despair and death. The hatred ofMontagueandCapuletis drowned in tears, and from their grief springs reconciliation and friendship.Mercutiois a courtier and a wit, his spirits are always brim-full, and sparkling; and he pursues and runs down every phantom that happens to flit across his mind. His wit, and all his speeches areentirelyof this character. He never opens his lips except to utter something fantastical. TheNurse, by followingherimpulses wherever they lead, presents a most ludicrous specimen ofgarrulity. Wherever the “fiery”Tybaltsees any one belonging to the house of Montague his sword instantly leaps from its scabbard. FriarLaurenceand thePrincediscourse on the subject, and all the inferior characters, as we shall see, adapt themselves to it.
For the purposes of a more minute examination, it will be convenient to group the chief passages under several heads.
1.Suggestives of the fancy; viz., quibbles, conceits, etc.
The play opens with a dialogue between Samson and Gregory, two servants of Capulet’s. I quote the first few lines:
Sam.Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll notcarry coals. [that is,bear injuriesGreg.No, for then we should becolliers. [An ancient term of abuse.Sam.I mean an we be incholerwe’lldraw.Greg.Ay, while you livedrawyour neck out of thecollar.Sam.Istrikequickly, beingmoved.Greg.But thou art not quicklymovedtostrike.Sam.A dog of the house of Montaguemovesme.Greg.Tomoveis—tostir; and to be valiant is tostand to it; therefore, if thou artmovedthourunnest away.Sam.A dog of that house shallmoveme tostand, etc. etc.
Sam.Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll notcarry coals. [that is,bear injuries
Greg.No, for then we should becolliers. [An ancient term of abuse.
Sam.I mean an we be incholerwe’lldraw.
Greg.Ay, while you livedrawyour neck out of thecollar.
Sam.Istrikequickly, beingmoved.
Greg.But thou art not quicklymovedtostrike.
Sam.A dog of the house of Montaguemovesme.
Greg.Tomoveis—tostir; and to be valiant is tostand to it; therefore, if thou artmovedthourunnest away.
Sam.A dog of that house shallmoveme tostand, etc. etc.
And so they proceed until certain followers of the house of Montague entering, an affray ensues. Now two things are to be observed here. The servants reflect the temper of their masters, and quarrel the moment they meet; and their conversation is a mere quibbling upon certain words, pursuing the fanciful suggestions of sound or meaning. Thus the whole subject is presented in the first page.
Very similar to this, though a little more refined, in accordance with the characters of the speakers, is the contest of wit between Mercutio and Romeo, (Act 2d, Scene 4th,) and the former’s description of Benvolio’s aptness to quarrel, (Act 3d, Scene 1st,) “Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hasthazeleyes—whateyebut such aneyewouldspy outsuch a quarrel,” etc. etc.
The servant who was sent to invite the guests to the supper at Capulet’s, having a paper with a list of their names, talks in the same style about the difficulty of finding out the persons writ there, when he could not read the names that had been writ there; and his misquotations of maxims is every way characteristic of the theme and of the clown. (Act 1st, Scene 2d.)
TheNursemakes her first appearance in the conversation with Lady Capulet about the age of Juliet. (Act 1st, Scene 3d) Instead of answering the question of her mistress directly, which she might have done with a monosyllable, she runs into a long reminiscence respecting her own daughter, her husband, and the “weaning” of Juliet, all matters connected with the subject, and suggested by it, but absurdly minute and complex. She resembles Mercutio in the recklessness with which she pursues her whims, albeit they are of a somewhat different character.
At the first interview between Romeo and Juliet, (Act 1st, Scene 5th,) Romeo happens in addressing her to use the word “pilgrim;” and the whole subsequent conversation consists of quibbles upon this word. In like manner the wordvolume, in Lady Capulet’s description of Paris, suggests all the remainder of her speech: