THE POET COWPER.

———

By REV. J. N. DANFORTH.

———

Incontemplating the varieties of human kind, nothing is more obvious than that some men are endowed with genius for the production of one set of results, while others are invested with the same power with a manifest adaptation to different results. So the interior texture of that impalpable thing we call genius, is diverse in various subjects. In some we find the development of extraordinary energies, in others the elaboration of the gentler traits of character. Some are eminently capable of devising, others of executing. One man is distinguished for the ardor of his imagination, another for the soundness of his judgment. A bold, daring temper of mind is indigenous to one class; a gentle, timid disposition characterizes another. The spirit of sarcasm, of irony, of invective, riots in the mental activities of some men, while that of tenderness, benevolence, and habitual charitableness constitutes the repose of others. Of the former, Byron might be mentioned as an example; of the latter, Cowper. They were both men of acknowledged genius. The world has adjudicated on their respective titles to the inheritance of fame. But how different the men!

It may be true that the qualities of Byron were more fitted to excite the stronger and sterner, as they certainly were to awaken the severer and more rampant feelings of our nature, while those of Cowper tend to elicit whatever in man is tender, reverent, social and sympathetic. He is eminently the poet of the home and the heart, and even when contending with the foul and formidable spirit of melancholy, he strives to make others cheerful and happy.

In one of his letters he says that his own experience contradicts the philosophical axiom that nothing can communicate what it has not in itself, for that he wrote certain poems “to amuse a mind oppressed with melancholy,” and that by so doing he has “comforted others, at the same time that they administer to me no consolation.” One can hardly believe that from a mind over which hung such clouds and darkness there could issue such a piece as “John Gilpin,” or the “Report of an adjudged case, not to be found in any of the books.” Yet the mind of man is wondrous! What powerful efforts will it not make to rise into a region, where it can behold the cheerful light of day, and breathe the healthful air of freedom. Cowper long looked upon himself as a doomed reprobate, a hopeless exile from the favor of God—but faith triumphed at last. That exploded absurdity—that a powerful genius must necessarily reside in a slender and morbid frame—seems long to have possessed even intelligent minds. Education is coming to be considered as properly embracing our whole physical, intellectual, and moral being, and the time, we hope, is at hand, when it will be no reproach to carry about a robust mind in a robust body. Indeed we have among the intellectual magnates of the land, men of massive fames and ample physical development. Look at the stalwort line of Secretaries of State for some years past!

But a poet must be a man of more ethereal mould. Why so? Behold Sir Walter Scott, that man of regal imagination, who breathed the spirit of poetry into the body of his romance, and transfused romance into his poetry, while with dramatic energy and verisimilitude he summons before us, on the stage he has erected, the stirring scenes and characters of other days, as with the wand of an enchanter. What an athletic form ministered to the commands of his kingly mind, for it was he who loved to say, “My mind to me a kingdom is.” And Johnson, the critic, moralist, essayist, lexicographer, poet—yes,POET, for in his great mind the elements of the sublime and beautiful lay in all their wondrous nativity; Johnson was a man of giant physical strength, of an apparent animalism too awkward to admit of refinement in this world. Burns, too, was a man of massive mould, yet how exquisitely poetical. The philosophy of the union of soul and body is as yet little understood. We wanthealthymen to conduct the affairs of the world, as well as to serve in the Court of the Muses and the Graces. What injuries have States sustained; what interruptions of the peace of the world have been caused by a fit of the gout, of dyspepsy, of morbid melancholy, of base intemperance, or by some paroxysm of passion engendered by the humors of an unhealthy body. The very Union of the States may be endangered by these causes.

Had Cowper been free from those distressing maladies, from the depredations of that “fierce banditti,” as he calls them,

“That with a black, infernal train,Make cruel inroads in the brain,”

“That with a black, infernal train,

Make cruel inroads in the brain,”

how much happier had he been, how much more might he have accomplished. Pity, not censure; charity, not severity, are due to the interesting sufferer, who had too much timidity to read aloud before his superiors, thereby losing a good office. That, however, was a trifle, compared with the deep fountain of melancholy that existed within him, whose waters no kind angel descending from heaven healed by casting in some celestial gift. Religion itself became tinged with the dark coloring of the disease it would relieve. To most pilgrims of Time the “New Year” is a cheerful season. “Happy” wishes then fly in clusters all around the domestic and the social circles. How does Cowper speak of the old year? “I looked back upon all the passages and occurrences of it as a traveler looks back upon a wilderness, through which he has passed with weariness and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of his labor than the poor consolation, that, dreary as the desert was, he left it all behind him.” While indulging a similar strain of lugubriousness, his thoughtsfall into the natural language of the poet: “Nature revives again, but a soul once slain, lives no more. The hedge that has been apparently dead is not so: it will burst into leaf, and blossom at the appointed time; but no such time is appointed for thestakethat stands in it. It is as dead as it seems, and will prove itself no dissembler.” Mournfully beautiful! And thus had he been talking for eleven lingering years, long enough to make “despair an inveterate habit.”

We do not recollect that any of the biographers of Cowper have given sufficient weight, if they have even adverted to one very natural cause of depression, the destitution of any regular profession or employment for nearly seventy years, with no wife to love, no children to provide for. It were enough to wither even a joyous temperament. “The color of our whole life,” said Cowper, “is generally such as the first three or four years in which we are our own masters make it. Then it is that we may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure up for ourselves a series of future successes or disappointments.” Those years were spent in idleness, to the influence of which was added the effect of his mortifying failure as clerk to the House of Lords, thus throwing him upon any chance resources for the supply of the various wants of life. The final result was the providential overruling of the whole to the production of a consummate poet. “Had I employed my time as wisely as you,” he writes to his friend, Mr. Rose, “in a situation very similar to yours, I had never been a poet perhaps, but I might by this time have acquired a character of more importance in society.”

He had reached fifty years before Fame had dropped a single wreath upon his brow, or he had even seriously courted the poetic Muse. “Dejection of spirits, which I suppose may have prevented many a man from becoming an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed.” He seems to have thought that the season of winter was the most congenial to the operations of his mind and the productions of his fancy. “The season of the year which generally pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my contemporary bards are by no means upon a par. They write when the delightful influence of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal spirits make poetry almost the language of nature; and I, when icicles depend from all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel, and when a reasonable man would as little expect to succeed in verse, as to hear a blackbird whistle.” The very spirit of modesty breathing through language deeply poetical! It is the province of genius, in its imaginative forms, to render tributary to its object the whole circle of the seasons, and to expound the thousand occult meanings of nature in her depths and her varieties, as well as to exhibit the more obvious images of beauty, of which she furnishes in such profusion the striking originals. Hear the voice of his Muse apostrophizing even stern Winter:

“I crown thee king of intimate delights,Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness!”

“I crown thee king of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness!”

Bachelor as he was, he sought his chief happiness in the interior sanctities of domestic life. There his gentle spirit was nourished with the aliment drawn from the purest sources of friendship and virtue, and thence his imagination took its flights, not bold, but beautiful, not ascending to the lofty height of Milton’s “great argument,” but holding its graceful way through that middle region of thought, and fancy, and feeling, familiar to the mass of minds in any measure susceptible to the beauties of poetry. The critics of half a century ago, while they hesitated to admit Cowper to that high rank among the great poets, which has been adjudged him by the verdict of posterity, confessed that his works contained many traits of strong and original genius, and a richness of idiomatic phraseology seldom equalled in the English language. Readers of poetry had become so accustomed to the refined diction and polished versification of his predecessors—Addison, Pope, Gray, and Prior—that they were slow to welcome a new aspirant for the bays, who came with a free, unfettered, and even somewhat careless air to claim their homage. He might gather a few humble flowers along the sides of Parnassus, but to think of reaping near its summit was the height of presumption. Yet which of those poets has now so many readers as Cowper? Goldsmith may better compare with him for permanence and extent of interest, so eminently natural is he; but what shall be said of Dryden, earlier, it is true, than the others, but one who had long been considered as having passed into the apotheosis of theDii majores? He may have one reader to five hundred who luxuriate in Cowper’s parlor, alcove, and garden, with theTaskin hand.

Then for purity, what a contrast between these last two. The Bard of Christianity, as he has been called, wrote no line, which, “dying he would wish to blot.” To Cowper the sentiment is more impressively applicable by the suffrage of the public mind, than Thomson, to whom it is applied by Lord Lyttleton—and deservedly so. They both communed with Nature, the one with her minute lights and shades, the other with her grander forms and more striking developments. The imagination of Cowper, like the microscopic glass, detected the shape and tint of the very petal of a flower. That of Thomson ranged with the sweep of the telescope through fields of light, and distant spheres, radiant with beauty and vocal with harmony. Each fulfilled his mission with dignity, propriety, and devotion, causing us to prayO! si sic omnes!But the nineteenth century has produced so much mysticism, such an amount of nebulous metaphysics in poetry and prose, as to make some honest people doubt the lawfulness of their veneration for the standard poets, especially the more intelligible ones, or whether there is any such thing as standard poetry. Coleridge, indeed, is clear, solemn, and sublime, when he approaches nearest to Milton, as in his Sunrise Hymn; and Wordsworth is most natural, perspicuous, and impressive, when he most resembles Cowper; butShelley, Keats, Tennyson, Browning—what do they mean in half their poetry?

Cowper stands almost alone in having nothing to do with the passion of love, which has always figured atsuch a rate in all sorts of novels, dramas, and poems. It was not because he was destitute of sensibility. His life was a tender sentiment, his heart was formed for friendship; he was even an admirer of the female sex, and he entrusted the happiness of his life to the care and sympathy of female friends; but the romance of the tender passion was beneath the dignity of his Muse, while for real purity of affection, as well as of imagination, no poet has been more distinguished. He possesses the sweetness, if not the grandeur of Milton; and if he does not emulate the song of the Seraphim, who, in their exalted spheres, minister so near the throne of the Eternal, his strain is ever coincident with the thousand choral harmonies of nature and mind around him. In speaking of the influence of the “country” upon his mind, even that country which “God made,” he says, with enthusiasm,

“I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,But there I laid the scene; there early strayedMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free.My very dreams were rural; rural, too,The first born efforts of my youthful muse.”

“I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,

That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,

But there I laid the scene; there early strayed

My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice

Had found me, or the hope of being free.

My very dreams were rural; rural, too,

The first born efforts of my youthful muse.”

The regions of fiction he left others to explore; the artificial manners of a polished age; the martial deeds of heroic periods he relinquished to their admirers, and devoted himself to the socialities of domestic life, to the promotion of pure morals, and the elevation of public sentiment on a proper basis, and to a worthy standard. “He impresses us,” says Campbell, “with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain anunworldly degree of purity and simplicity.” He listened with alacrity to the secret suggestions of the spirit of philanthropy, and at times rose to the solemn dignity and fervor of a prophet’s strain, thus realizing the classic, nay, the Hebraic idea of the union of poet and prophet in the same venerated person.

Among those sentiments which have been incorporated into the thinking and speaking of men, may be found many of the conceptions of Cowper’s genius, especially as embodied in the Task, near the conclusion of which he ascends to so lofty a height, as to remind us of the sublimity of Milton. It is perfectly obvious, that before his muse took that flight, she had bathed her wing in the fountain of inspiration. The voice of the bard seems to echo that of the Hebrew prophet, as he stood upon the Mount of Vision, and beheld the unfolding glories of the latter day.

The satire of Cowper was at times as keen as his own sensibilities, yet blending itself with a gentle manner and a genial humor, it disarmed all suspicion of malignity in its composition, thus augmenting its moral power. Vice, folly, and even finery, felt the sharpness of his satire. In his themes, as in so many clear mirrors, we see reflected the multiplied images of the spirit of the man. Truth, Hope, Charity, Retirement, Ode to Peace, Human Frailty, the Rose, the Doves, the Glowworm, Lily, Nosegay, Epitaph on a Hare, such are the subjects that wakened in him congenial thought and feeling. The lines on his Mother’s Portrait are exquisitely tender and affecting, instinct with love, overflowing with affection, with that love which is never so intense as when softened by affliction, and intertwined with pensive recollections of the past. His pieces are not wrought with the perfection and coldness of artistic skill, like those of the sculptor, but flow from the imagination right through the channel of the heart, taking the most natural shape and costume of the moment and the occasion.

The great critic of the North, who sat so many years on the Bench of Literature before he occupied the Bench of Civil Justice, from which death has recently called him, thus pronounced his opinion of Cowper: “The great variety and truth of his descriptions; the sterling weight and sense of most of his observations, and, above all, the great appearance of facility with which every thing is executed, and the happy use he has so often made of the most ordinary language, all concur to stamp upon his poems the character of original genius, and remind us of the merits that have secured immortality to Shakspeare.”

Little need be added concerning his prose. It is known to have been eminently easy and natural. His letters especially are models. It is sufficient praise to say, that Robert Hall, that master of the art of composition, thus speaks of Cowper: “I have always considered his letters as the finest specimens of the epistolary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease and negligence, they unite a high degree of correctness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. I have scarcely found a single word which is capable of being exchanged for a better. Literary errors I can discern none. The selection of the words, and the structure of the periods are inimitable; they present as striking a contrast as can well be conceived to the turgid verbosity which passes at present for fine writing, and which bears a great resemblance to the degeneracy which marks the style of Ammianus Marcellinus, as compared to that of Cicero and Livy. A perpetual effort and struggle is made to supply the place of vigor; garish and dazzling colors are substituted for chaste ornament, and the hideous distortions of weakness for native strength. In my humble opinion, the study of Cowper’s prose may on this account be as useful in forming the taste of young people as his poetry.”

EVENING.

———

J. R. BARRICK.

———

Howsweet to me the evening hour,When Nature sinks to rest,And like a warrior in his prideThe sun goes down the west.As evening stars, like diamonds bright,Come peeping through the sky,Ah! what a thing of joy ’twould beFrom earth to fade and die.

Howsweet to me the evening hour,When Nature sinks to rest,And like a warrior in his prideThe sun goes down the west.

Howsweet to me the evening hour,

When Nature sinks to rest,

And like a warrior in his pride

The sun goes down the west.

As evening stars, like diamonds bright,Come peeping through the sky,Ah! what a thing of joy ’twould beFrom earth to fade and die.

As evening stars, like diamonds bright,

Come peeping through the sky,

Ah! what a thing of joy ’twould be

From earth to fade and die.

THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS.

MY “LIDA.”

———

BY “L’INCONNUE.”

———

Thespring-time is waking to beauty and bloom,The storm-clouds are breaking, and bright through the gloomThe blue heaven flashes like gleams of thine eye,Through the dark silken lashes, which deepen its dye,’Tis a glance full of tenderness, blended with pride,Like thine own azure eye-beam, my sweet sister Lide!The rose-buds are sleeping—but odors aroundTell of hyacinths peeping from yon grassy mound;And the peach-bloom is blushing like cloudlets at even,When the sunset is flushing the calm summer heaven,And I dream as its leaflets float down at my sideOf the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide.The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood,Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude,Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song,As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along;And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tideSeems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide.The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above,And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love,While a fresh, balmy breathing of spring-tide’s perfumeO’er my free soul is wreathing that delicate bloom,Which glows o’er the beautiful feelings that glideThrough the pure angel-heart of my sweet sister Lide.There’s a charm in the far gleam of waves on the sea,And a spell in the star-beam that whispers of thee;But as gay hours in fleeting new blushes of SpringTo this wild bosom’s beating in loveliness bring,So its soft feelings deepen to glorious prideWhen it dreams of its angel, my sweet sister Lide.The world thinks us lonely—’tis true we’re alone,Not as twin-spirits only—ourhearts are but one—With no parent, no brother, no glad, happy home,We’re the world to each other, wherever we roam,And my young life glides onward like spring’s sunny tideWhen I dwell with “mine own one”—my “love of a Lide!”Memphis, 1850.

Thespring-time is waking to beauty and bloom,

The storm-clouds are breaking, and bright through the gloom

The blue heaven flashes like gleams of thine eye,

Through the dark silken lashes, which deepen its dye,

’Tis a glance full of tenderness, blended with pride,

Like thine own azure eye-beam, my sweet sister Lide!

The rose-buds are sleeping—but odors aroundTell of hyacinths peeping from yon grassy mound;And the peach-bloom is blushing like cloudlets at even,When the sunset is flushing the calm summer heaven,And I dream as its leaflets float down at my sideOf the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide.

The rose-buds are sleeping—but odors around

Tell of hyacinths peeping from yon grassy mound;

And the peach-bloom is blushing like cloudlets at even,

When the sunset is flushing the calm summer heaven,

And I dream as its leaflets float down at my side

Of the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide.

The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood,Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude,Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song,As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along;And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tideSeems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide.

The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood,

Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude,

Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song,

As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along;

And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tide

Seems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide.

The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above,And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love,While a fresh, balmy breathing of spring-tide’s perfumeO’er my free soul is wreathing that delicate bloom,Which glows o’er the beautiful feelings that glideThrough the pure angel-heart of my sweet sister Lide.

The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above,

And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love,

While a fresh, balmy breathing of spring-tide’s perfume

O’er my free soul is wreathing that delicate bloom,

Which glows o’er the beautiful feelings that glide

Through the pure angel-heart of my sweet sister Lide.

There’s a charm in the far gleam of waves on the sea,And a spell in the star-beam that whispers of thee;But as gay hours in fleeting new blushes of SpringTo this wild bosom’s beating in loveliness bring,So its soft feelings deepen to glorious prideWhen it dreams of its angel, my sweet sister Lide.

There’s a charm in the far gleam of waves on the sea,

And a spell in the star-beam that whispers of thee;

But as gay hours in fleeting new blushes of Spring

To this wild bosom’s beating in loveliness bring,

So its soft feelings deepen to glorious pride

When it dreams of its angel, my sweet sister Lide.

The world thinks us lonely—’tis true we’re alone,Not as twin-spirits only—ourhearts are but one—With no parent, no brother, no glad, happy home,We’re the world to each other, wherever we roam,And my young life glides onward like spring’s sunny tideWhen I dwell with “mine own one”—my “love of a Lide!”Memphis, 1850.

The world thinks us lonely—’tis true we’re alone,

Not as twin-spirits only—ourhearts are but one—

With no parent, no brother, no glad, happy home,

We’re the world to each other, wherever we roam,

And my young life glides onward like spring’s sunny tide

When I dwell with “mine own one”—my “love of a Lide!”

Memphis, 1850.

SCENE ON THE OHIO.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

———

Itis a glorious eve—the streamWithout a murmur wanders by,And on its breast, with softened beam,The sleeping stars so sweetly lie,’Twould seem as if the tempest’s plumeHad swept through woods of tropic bloom,And scattered down their blossoms brightTo sleep upon the waves to-night.And see—as hangs the moon aloft,Her beams come gushing through the airSo mild, so beautifully soft,That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer,And the pure spirit, as it kneelsAt Nature’s holy altar, feelsReligion’s self come floating byIn every beam that cleaves the sky.There’s glory in each cloud and star,There’s beauty in each wave and tree,And gentle voices from afarAre borne like angel-minstrelsy;In such a spot, at such an hour,My spirit feels a spell of power,And all beneath, around above,Seems earthly bliss and heavenly love.Oh, Mary, idol of my life,My heart’s young mate, my soul’s sweet bride,Dear soother of my spirit’s strife,I would that thou wert by my side,And I would kneel on this green sodIn love to thee and praise to God,And, gazing in thy gentle eyes,Dream but of thee and Paradise.I see thy name in yon blue sky,In every sound thy name I hear,All nature paints it to my eyeAnd breathes it in my listening ear;I read it in the moon’s sweet beam,The starlight prints it on the stream,And wave and breeze and singing birdSpeak to my soul the blesséd word.

Itis a glorious eve—the stream

Without a murmur wanders by,

And on its breast, with softened beam,

The sleeping stars so sweetly lie,

’Twould seem as if the tempest’s plume

Had swept through woods of tropic bloom,

And scattered down their blossoms bright

To sleep upon the waves to-night.

And see—as hangs the moon aloft,Her beams come gushing through the airSo mild, so beautifully soft,That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer,And the pure spirit, as it kneelsAt Nature’s holy altar, feelsReligion’s self come floating byIn every beam that cleaves the sky.

And see—as hangs the moon aloft,

Her beams come gushing through the air

So mild, so beautifully soft,

That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer,

And the pure spirit, as it kneels

At Nature’s holy altar, feels

Religion’s self come floating by

In every beam that cleaves the sky.

There’s glory in each cloud and star,There’s beauty in each wave and tree,And gentle voices from afarAre borne like angel-minstrelsy;In such a spot, at such an hour,My spirit feels a spell of power,And all beneath, around above,Seems earthly bliss and heavenly love.

There’s glory in each cloud and star,

There’s beauty in each wave and tree,

And gentle voices from afar

Are borne like angel-minstrelsy;

In such a spot, at such an hour,

My spirit feels a spell of power,

And all beneath, around above,

Seems earthly bliss and heavenly love.

Oh, Mary, idol of my life,My heart’s young mate, my soul’s sweet bride,Dear soother of my spirit’s strife,I would that thou wert by my side,And I would kneel on this green sodIn love to thee and praise to God,And, gazing in thy gentle eyes,Dream but of thee and Paradise.

Oh, Mary, idol of my life,

My heart’s young mate, my soul’s sweet bride,

Dear soother of my spirit’s strife,

I would that thou wert by my side,

And I would kneel on this green sod

In love to thee and praise to God,

And, gazing in thy gentle eyes,

Dream but of thee and Paradise.

I see thy name in yon blue sky,In every sound thy name I hear,All nature paints it to my eyeAnd breathes it in my listening ear;I read it in the moon’s sweet beam,The starlight prints it on the stream,And wave and breeze and singing birdSpeak to my soul the blesséd word.

I see thy name in yon blue sky,

In every sound thy name I hear,

All nature paints it to my eye

And breathes it in my listening ear;

I read it in the moon’s sweet beam,

The starlight prints it on the stream,

And wave and breeze and singing bird

Speak to my soul the blesséd word.

THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS.

THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

———

BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

———

(Concluded from page 334.)

wrought gems,Medallions, rare mosaics and antiquesFrom Italy, the niches filled:Thine is the power to giveThine to deny,Joy for the hour I live.Calmness to die.—Willis.

wrought gems,

Medallions, rare mosaics and antiques

From Italy, the niches filled:

Thine is the power to give

Thine to deny,

Joy for the hour I live.

Calmness to die.—Willis.

Asthe object of young Stanley’s visit to England has no bearing upon thedénouementof this tale, we will not follow his footsteps thither. It is probable, however, that we may meet with him on his return, for we, too, although not in company with him, are about to cross the Atlantic, and bear our reader along with us.

It is known that when Alice Heath sailed for England, she had strong hopes from obtaining an interview with Charles II., that she might succeed by her persuasions, in procuring the pardon of her husband and father. These hopes, however, were by no means so strong as she had given the outcasts reason to believe, for it had been clearly represented to her, how difficult she might find it, owing to his bitterness against the murderers of his father. Yet there were those who advised her to the step, on the ground that her chance of success, although, indeed, thus slender, was by no means entirely void. And, on this bare possibility, the heroic wife and daughter had torn herself from the exiles, braved the perils of the ocean alone, and again set foot in her native land.

So far, at first, from her obtaining the desired interview with Charles, his minions had seized upon Alice as a hostage for the escaped prisoners, and thrown her into strict confinement. Here she lingered during the sixteen years of which our narrative takes no account. We have said that that length of time may pass, figuratively speaking, to many, as rapidly as the short turning of a leaf in our volume. But to her, who was thus imprisoned, howwearily must it have waned! Separated from those to whom she deemed her presence so necessary—with no means of communicating to them the fatal termination of her projected journey of hope, how interminable must it have appeared. Then it was, for the first time in her distresses, that the noble spirit of Alice Heath sank. Prevented from acting for those whom she loved, successive days presented to her, no object in life, and scarce the faint hope of escape from her imprisonment at any future period.

At length, however, at the time we again recur to her, she had succeeded in gaining the ear of one who stood high in the favor of the king. Through his influence she had been released, and was this day to have an audience with Charles in behalf of her proscribed relatives.

As Alice rode through London, the lofty houses, the stately streets, the walks crowded with busy citizens of every description, passing and repassing with faces of careful importance or eager bustle, combined to form a picture of wealth, bustle and splendor to which she had long been a stranger. Whitehall at last received her, and she passed under one of the beautiful gates of tesselated brick-work.

Noon-day was long past when Alice entered the palace, and the usual hour of the king’s levee—if any thing could be termed usual where there was much irregularity—was over. The hall and stair-cases were filled with lackeys and footmen in the most expensive liveries, and the interior apartments with gentlemen and pages of the household of Charles, elegantly arrayed. Alice was conducted to an ante-chamber. Here, in waiting, were many of those individuals who live upon the wants of the noble, administering to the pleasures of luxurious indolence, and stimulating the desires of kingly extravagance by devising new modes and fresh motives of expenditure. There was the visionary philosopher, come to solicit base metals in order that he might transmute them into gold. There was the sea-captain, come to implore an expedition to be fitted out, if not exactly to discover new worlds, at least to colonize and settle uncivilized ones. Mechanics and artisans of every trade—the poet—the musician—the dancer—all had collected here under promise of an audience with their monarch, many of them day by day disappointed, but still returned anew.

Alice halted at the door of the apartment, seeing it filled with so many persons, and beckoning a page to her, handed him a passport from the Duke of Buckingham. On glancing his eye over it, he requested her to follow him. He led her some distance, through various passages, elegantly carpeted, and paused before a small withdrawing-room. Throwing open the door, he desired her to enter. The apartment was hung with the finest tapestry, representing classic scenes, and carpeted so thick that the heaviest tread could scarcely be heard. Stools and cushions were disposed here and there about the floor, and elegant sofas and couches were placed against the walls. Statues of bronze, intended to light the apartment by evening, were placed in various niches. A large glass door opened into a paved court heated by artificial means. In this court a number of spaniels were playing, and numerous birds, of different species, seemed to be domesticated there.

Upon this day, the king held his court in QueenCatharine’s apartments. These were thrown open at a given hour to invited persons of something less than the highest rank, though the nobility had likewise the privilege of being present.

It is not unknown that Charles had allowed many of the restrictions by which the court had been surrounded during the previous reign to be remitted. This circumstance it was that had chiefly gained him the popularity which he possessed, and that, in fact, enabled him to retain the throne. All who could advance the slightest claims to approach his circle, were readily admitted: and every formality was banished from a society in which mingled some of the most humorous and witty courtiers that ever dangled around a monarch. The dignity of the king’s bearing withal secured him against impertinent intrusion, and his own admirable wit formed a sure protection against the sallies of others.

On the present day, Charles seemed peculiarly alive to sensations of enjoyment from the scene before him. Arrangements for prosecuting all the frivolous amusements of the day, were prepared by the gay monarch. A band of musicians was provided, selected by his own taste, which, in every species of art, was of the nicest and most critical kind. Tables were set for the accommodation of gamesters. From one to the other of these, the king glided, exchanging a jest, or a bet, or a smile, as the occasion suggested it.

While he was thus occupied, the page who had conducted Alice into the withdrawing-room, suddenly entered. He spoke a few words to an attendant upon the court, who immediately approached and informed his majesty that a lady, refusing to announce her name, desired to be admitted into the presence.

“By what right, then, does she claim to enter?” demanded the queen, hastily.

“She used the name of the Duke of Buckingham,” replied the usher.

“Who can she be?” said a nobleman present.

“In the name of adventure, let us admit her,” said the king.

The games were neglected; the musicians played without being listened to; conversation ceased; and a strange curiosity pervaded the circle.

“Does your majesty desire the lady to be admitted?” inquired the attendant.

“Certainly; but, no, I will see her in the ante-room.” So saying, he left the apartment.

Alice had sat some moments on one of the sofas we have mentioned, when a person entered, whose appearance caused her heart to beat rapidly, as if conscious that he was the individual with whom she sought an interview. He whom she beheld was apparently past thirty years of age. His complexion was dark, and he wore on his head a long, black periwig. His dress was of plain black velvet; and a cloak of the same material, hung carelessly over one shoulder. His features were strongly marked, but an air of dignified good-humor presided over his countenance.

Alice, conscious of the deep die which hung upon the issue of this meeting, grew paler than even imprisonment and sorrow had left her, and her heart palpitated with such energy that it seemed as if it must burst its prison-house. She rose as the king approached, and fell upon her knees. As we have said, there was not the faintest shade of vital color to enliven her countenance, and the deep black garb in which she was clad, as accordant with her feelings and suitable to her distressed condition, increased the effect of this unearthly pallor. She was still beautiful, despite of care and time, and the angel-like expression of purity had deepened upon her features.

Charles, ever alive to the charms of her sex, paused, much struck, at the interesting picture she presented. Advancing, after he had gazed on her for an instant, he bade her rise and be seated.

It was dangerous for the king to behold beauty in the pomp of all her power, with every look bent upon conquest—more dangerous to see her in the moment of unconscious ease and simplicity, yielding herself to the graceful whim of the instant, and as willing to be pleased as desirous of pleasing. But he was prone to be affected far differently by gazing on beauty in sorrow: for his feelings were as keenly alive at times to impressions of genuine kindness and generous sympathy, as they were to the lighter emotions of the heart.

Her glance was one rather of uncertainty and hesitation, than of bashfulness or timidity, as she still knelt and said, “I behold his majesty, the king of England, I presume?”

“It is Charles Stuart, madam, who requests you again to seat yourself,” said the king.

“The posture I employ is the most fitting for one who comes to ask a boon such as I have to solicit. I am the daughter and wife of certain of thy unhappy father’s enemies.”

The king’s countenance instantly changed. “Ah,” said he, “her whose release I have recently granted.”

“The same,” replied Alice, “and I come now on behalf of my husband and father, to beg you to extend your clemency to them.”

“Madam,” said Charles, “you have at length obtained your own pardon, and methinks that is already a sufficient act of generosity, when I might have held you still as a hostage for the escaped prisoners.”

“If you entertained any hopes from that circumstance,” rejoined Alice, “that those whom you pursue would ever deliver themselves up for my redemption, believe me, they were idle; for I had taken care to prevent the knowledge of my situation ever coming to their ears. And except for some such a hope, I can hardly think you would desire longer to confine an innocent female.”

“Your own release is freely granted,” said Charles; “and I grieve, now that I behold you, that it should have been thus long delayed.”

“My release is something, it is true,” said Alice, “since it will permit my return to those unhappy beings for whom I plead. But will you not add to this not of generosity one still more noble, and let me bear to them the news of their pardon.”

“It grieves me to refuse you,” answered Charles. “But your father was one of the most implacable judges in that parricidal court that condemned Charles I. to death.”

At these words Alice leaned back against the wallsof the apartment for support, her countenance becoming, not paler than before, for that was impossible, but convulsed with the effort to repress her emotion.

“Hear me,” said she at length, after a violent struggle, “I have one plea to urge in behalf of my request, and if it fails of success, I will depart in despair.”

“Say on, madam,” answered the king; “your plea must, indeed, be powerful, since you are about to advance it with so much fervor and confidence.”

“It is in the confidence of small desert, my lord. But I will proceed at once to offer it. This is not,” she continued, “the first time that I have come to beg the boon of a human life within these walls—a life not endeared to me by personal ties as are those for whom I now implore your forgiveness. Unprompted by any motives of self-interest, but urged merely by feelings of compassion, such as I would fain excite this moment in your bosom, I came hither to beg the life of your father, my liege, the late unhappy king.”

Charles looked much astonished.

“I came hither, my lord,” pursued Alice, “on the night preceding that unfortunate day which I will not pain you by naming, to solicit the influence of the only man in England who could have interposed to save the life of the late Charles Stuart. My efforts, alas! I need not say, were but too unavailing. But, by those efforts, all fruitless though they were, I urge your pardon of the offenders for whose dear sakes I am here a suppliant. Let the loyalty of the wife and daughter atone in this instance for the disloyalty of the husband and father; and let this act of noble forgiveness distinguish your reign.”

The king’s eye had moistened while she spoke, and an exceeding softness came over his mood. It is known that he was peculiarly alive to gentle and generous impressions. “Your appeal,” said he, “is —”

“Not fruitless, I trust,” interrupted Alice, who had beheld with joy the effect of her words upon his countenance.

“Far otherwise,” replied Charles; “but ask not your demand as a boon at my hands, urge it as a debt of gratitude due from a son to one who would have saved the life of his parent.”

“Call it what you will, my lord, but grant my request.”

“Rise, madam,” said Charles, “my debt to you shall be canceled—your husband and father are pardoned.”

Alice pressed the hand with grateful warmth, and raised it to her lips. “May the Lord reward you for the blest and healing words you have uttered,” said she. “No thanks my tongue can speak may suitably express my acknowledgments for what you have done. You have yourself, my liege, known what it is to be hunted down by those who would have deprived you of life. And when you first learned that you might again hold your existence without fear, the thrill of happiness you must have experienced may be named as a fair parallel with that you now confer on those two outcasts whose lives and liberty hung upon your word. But there is no criterion by which one of your sex may judge of the blessing bestowed upon a wife in restoring the life and freedom of her husband. May God repay you for the joy you have conferred upon my heart.”

“I am already repaid in your gratitude,” said the king. “Besides, let me not forget that I am only returning an obligation.”

“I little dreamed,” rejoined Alice, “when I made an effort on account of the late king, that the time would ever arrive when I should urge it to your majesty as an obligation on your part. It was a simple act of compassion, and some instinctive feelings of loyalty toward my unhappy sovereign. But I find I did not misjudge his son when I thought to found on it some claims to his mercy and generosity.”

“The circumstance affords an illustration of the truth, that deeds of kindness sooner or later meet their reward even in this life.”

“May you live then to reap your recompense for that you have but now performed,” said Alice, terminating the interview, and turning to depart.

The king accompanied her in person to the outer door of the palace, and a page conducted her to the gate, where a carriage was in waiting.

——

Adieu, oh fatherland! I seeYour white cliffs on the horizon’s rim,And though to freer skies I flee,My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!Willis.

Adieu, oh fatherland! I see

Your white cliffs on the horizon’s rim,

And though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!

Willis.

O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,Survey our empire and behold our home.These are our realms, no limits to their sway,Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.Byron.

O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,

Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,

Survey our empire and behold our home.

These are our realms, no limits to their sway,

Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.

Byron.

A neat, tight-built brig was preparing to sail from London. On her deck might have been seen all the confusion usually attendant upon the departure of a vessel from port. Men hurrying to and fro with baggage—sailors hauling the ropes, and climbing the ladders, and fastening the boats to the side—passengers getting on board, and friends accompanying them for the sake of remaining with them to the last moment—and the voices of all resounding in dissonant tones in the air.

Among the passengers, two persons might have been particularly noticed. One was an exceedingly delicate and lovely-looking woman, apparently about the meridian of life. She was clad in black, and as she threw aside her veil to ascend the plank leading to the vessel, she discovered a face of such exquisite beauty, and an expression of such elevated purity, that all who caught a passing glimpse of her lineaments, turned to observe them more closely. She was alone, and borrowed the arm of a sailor to walk the plank, ascending it with a firm and dignified tread. As soon as she touched the vessel’s deck, she put a small piece of money into the hand of her companion, drew her veil again tightly over her face, and immediately sought the cabin.

The other was a young man of handsome exterior, who boarded the brig just after the lady we have described had disappeared below. Walking toward the stern of the vessel he leaned over the side. He remained thus for some time, apparently absorbed in a pleasing revery, and heedless of the bustle and confusionby which he was surrounded. At length he drew from his pocket a letter, evidently written in a delicate female hand, and read it with much interest—seemingly pondering upon every line of it with that lengthened perusal which a man bestows only upon the epistolary communications of the woman of his love.

Finally the preparations were ended. A bell rang, and those persons who intended to remain in England left the vessel. Slowly she got under way, and the breeze soon bore her out of sight of the harbor.

A voyage at sea is monotonous in the extreme; the only incident that can occur to give it positive variety being either a wreck or a capture—that variety is a thing to be dreaded, not desired. The smallest change in the weather—the sight of a bird or a fish—the meeting of another vessel—form the highest objects of interest, and epochs from which to date the flight of time.

In this manner six weeks passed away. The brig being bound for New Haven, had arrived within a hundred knots of Block Island on a certain afternoon, when the attention of the captain was attracted by the sight of a sail.

Immediately men were sent aloft to spy the approaching stranger.

“It is plainly visible,” said the captain, after a long and anxious search with a glass, to the young passenger we have described, who was standing by his side.

The person addressed raised his own glass and swept the water in the direction named. After one or two unsuccessful trials, his eye caught the object.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“Unless I am greatly deceived, sir, there is a full-rigged vessel under sail approaching us.”

The young man was silent for a few moments. He cast a cautious glance over the crew, who were anxiously regarding the approaching vessel, that was gradually becoming more and more distinct, and at length could be seen with the naked eye. She was a sloop, her tall and symmetrical spars rising against the sky in beautiful tapering lines, her sails set, and making rapidly toward them from the southward, the wind being fair from that quarter.

“A fine vessel,” said the passenger, addressing the captain. “I should take her to be Spanish built.”

“It is quite an unusual thing to see a Spanish vessel in these parts,” replied the captain, lifting his glass again. “She shows no colors,” added he, as he looked through it. “I cannot make out of what country she is.”

At that instant, without hoisting colors or hailing, two shots were discharged from the sloop, one of which glanced across the bows of the brig, and ran dipping into the water, while the other went through her sail.

The captain replied by hailing the sloop through a speaking-trumpet, and demanding what she was, and wherefore she was guilty of this unprovoked hostility.

The only answer he received was the command, in a stern voice, “Down with your sails, and we will presently show you who we are.”

It was evident now that the brig was assailed by pirates, and the captain knowing that the command to lay-to would be immediately followed by a broadside if he refused, and, being totally unarmed, perceived that there remained no choice to him between flight and instant surrender. The one, he knew, would be impossible, from the rapid advances which the sloop had already made upon them, though the other was still less consonant with his inclinations.

The order was therefore given to clear the deck for the reception of the pirates. The mandate was received by the crew in sullen silence, and a few of the younger and more fiery of the sailors were seen to shake their heads, as if they disapproved of a step, however necessary, that seemed thus cowardly. Whatever might have been the private feelings of the captain, when the character and force of his enemy were clearly established, he betrayed no signs of indecision from the time when his resolution appeared to be taken. He issued the further requisite commands from the spot where he first stood, in perfect calmness, and with that distinctness and readiness so important to one in his position.

A boat was at once lowered by the sloop and filled with armed hands, which rowed to take possession of their easy prize.

The eye of the passenger never quitted the vessel as it approached. The main-deck presented a picture of mingled unquietness and repose. Many of the seamen were seen seated on their guns, with their cheeks pressing the rude metal which served them for a pillow. Others lay along the deck with their heads resting on the hatches. A first glance might have induced the belief that all were buried in the most profound slumber. But the quick jerking of a line, the sudden shifting of a position, required only to be noticed to prove that the living silence that reigned throughout was not born either of apathy or repose.

“Perhaps you might pacify them by fair words,” said the young man, as he still stood by the captain’s side.

“There is no hope of that.”

“Is there not a lady below?”

“There is,” answered the captain. “I had forgotten her until this moment.”

“I will see to her,” replied the other, and turning away, he quickly disappeared below. He had known that there was a female on board, but as she had throughout the passage kept the cabin, and taken all her meals in private, he had not yet seen her.

When he entered, she was seated at a table in the centre of the cabin. An elbow rested on it, and one fair hand supported a brow that was thoughtful even beyond the usual character of its expression.

He felt the blood rush to his heart, for he fancied the beautiful and pensive countenance before him was familiar. He stood uncertain, when the hand was removed from her face, and raising her head, she perceived that she was no longer alone. Their eyes met, and each started with a mutual glance of recognition. In her he beheld the wife and daughter of the regicides; and she, in turn, had little difficulty in tracing in his features, now matured to manhood, those of the youth who had borne the basket of provisions to and fro, and who had spent a night in the cave. In a word, Alice Heath and Frank Stanley had met.

If Stanley had before felt for the lady’s situation on board of a captured vessel, merely from the compassionate feelings due to her sex, with how much more sympathy did he regard her now. After his interview with Jessy Ellet, on the night before his departure for England, with suspicions aroused in his mind that she whom he beheld might be the mother of that object of his affections, how painful, too, to him must have been the thought that the worst fears her mind might have suggested would probably be realized.

“I fear I can do little to quiet your apprehensions, madam. I have before had occasion to witness your strength of mind and courage, and, all things considered, I deem it best to prepare you for the worst. The ship is attacked by pirates, and being unprepared for defense, has been obliged to surrender. I will remain with you, and protect you as far as I am able.”

Alice received the awful information with calmness.

Meanwhile, Stanley had scarcely left the deck ere the boat drew alongside, and a number of men jumped on board. One of them, of about thirty years of age, who was evidently the commander, approached the captain, and claimed the brig.

This person was a man of a tall and bulky form, and attired in a dress which seemed to have been studied with much care, although the style of it exhibited more extravagance than taste. Several pistols were fastened by a leathern belt around his waist.

“By what warrant do you stop me thus on the high seas?” asked the captain of the brig.

“You shall have the perusal of any of my warrants that you may desire,” replied the other, pointing to the pistols at his belt.

“You mean that you intend to capture us,” said the captain. “Be it so, then; but use civility toward the lady-passenger in the cabin.”

“Civility to the lady passenger!” echoed the pirate commander; “nay, we will use more than mere civility to her: for when are we otherwise than civil to the women, and, if they be fair, kind to boot? Where is this dulcinea? We will see her, for she may be the flower of our prize.”

So saying, he turned on his heel and descended to the cabin. The captain of the captured brig followed, hoping that his presence might in some measure serve to protect the lady.

“A beautiful woman,” exclaimed the pirate, as he entered. “None of your youthful lasses, but a ripened specimen of the sex: and with a look of sorrow, too, enough to soften the heart of a stone. Come,” added he, “most fair and lovely queen of affliction, let me sympathize with you.”

The lady drew her veil closely over her face, and with much offended dignity endeavored to extricate herself from his grasp.

“Let go of her, sir,” exclaimed Stanley, in a tone of anger.

“Why should I let her go; and by what right do you interfere in her behalf?” replied the pirate, turning roughly upon the speaker.

“Because I command you, sir, and because I will protect her with my life.”

“Youcommand me, indeed!” sneered the pirate. “You shall see then what weight your commands have with me. Come,” he continued, addressing the lady, “cast aside this muffling: you have a face, from the glimpse I caught just now, that can bear to be uncovered with the best.”

Suiting the action to the word, the ruffian had torn off Alice’s veil, when Stanley interposed, and strode him a blow which sent him reeling to the farthest end of the cabin. He fell heavily against the brass railing of the stair-way, and lay completely stunned. It was evident that his head had come in contact with the metal in his fall, for the blood streamed from it copiously. The noise brought the other pirates into the cabin. Seeing their commander in the plight we have described, they raised him and placed him on a berth.

Demanding next an explanation from Stanley and the captain of the brig, they seized upon them both and bore them on deck, where they were placed under a guard, and threatened, if they were guilty of another aggression, with instant death. With regard to the lady, considering her as the lawful booty of their commander, they contented themselves with uttering jests at her expense.

Whilst the incidents above related were occurring, the brig had been got under way again, by her captors, and was moving on in the wake of the sloop, which had changed its course, and was putting towards land in a north-easterly direction.

——

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