He was like the sun, giving me light;Pouring into the caves of my young brainKnowledge from his bright fountains.
He was like the sun, giving me light;Pouring into the caves of my young brainKnowledge from his bright fountains.
He was like the sun, giving me light;Pouring into the caves of my young brainKnowledge from his bright fountains.
He was like the sun, giving me light;
Pouring into the caves of my young brain
Knowledge from his bright fountains.
A man who reads live books keeps himself alive, has a constant sense of what life means and what mind is. In reading Milton, a power is communicated to us, which, for the time, gives us the feeling of a capacity for doing any thing, from writing a Hamlet to whipping Tom Hyer. “My ——, sir,” said the artist who had been devouring Chapman’s Homer, “when I went into the street, after reading that book, men seemed to be ten feet high.” This exaltation of intelligence is simply a movement of our consciousness from the mechanical to the vital state, and to those whose common existence is in commonplaces such an exaltation occasions a shock of surprise akin to fear.
In an art very closely connected with one of the highest forms of literature, the art of acting, we have another illustration of the fundamental antithesis, in processes and in results, between vitality and mechanism. Few, even among noted performers, have minds to conceive the characters they play; and it consequently is a rare thing to see a character really embodied and ensouled on the stage. The usual method is to give it piece by piece, and part by part, and the impression left on the audience is not the idea of a person, but an aggregation of personal peculiarities. Mr. Macready, for instance, has voice, action, understanding, grace of manner, felicity in points: but each is mechanical. His mind is hard and unfusible, never melts and runs into the mouldof the individuality he personates, never imparts to the audience the peculiar life and meaning embodied by his author. His energy is not vital but nervous; his mode of arriving at character is rather logical than imaginative. He studies the text of Hamlet, infers with great precision of argument the character from the text, and plays the inference. Booth, on the contrary, who of all living actors has the most force and refinement of imagination,conceivesHamlet as a person, preserves the unity of the person through all the variety in which it is manifested, and seems really to pass out of himself into the character. Macready leaves the impression of variety, but of a variety not drawn out of one fertile and comprehensive individuality: Booth gives the individuality with such power that we can easily conceive of even a greater variety in its expression without danger to its unity. The impression which Macready’s Hamlet leaves on the mind is an impression of Mr. Macready’s brilliant and versatile acting; the impression which Booth stamps on the imagination is the profound melancholy of Hamlet, underlying all his brilliancy and versatility. A man can witness Booth’s personation of Macbeth, Hamlet, Lear and Othello, with great delight, and with great accession of knowledge, after reading the deep Shakspearian criticism of Goethe, Schlegel and Coleridge: but every one feels it would be unjust to bring Macready to the test of such exacting principles.
In these desultory remarks on a variety of suggested topics, we have attempted to illustrate the radical distinction between vitality and mechanism, impassioned imagination and logical understanding, the communication of mental life and the imparting of lifeless information, as that distinction applies to all things which occupy human attention and stimulate human effort. We have indicated, in a gossiping way, the dangerous ease with which the mechanical supersedes the vital in those departments of knowledge and affairs which originated in the mind’s creative and organizing energy; in society, in governments, in laws, literature and institutions, in ethical, mental and physical science; and have tried to show that such an usurpation of torpor over activity dulls and deadens the soul, makes existence a weakness and weariness, and mocks our eyes with nothing but the show and semblance of power. A man of mechanical understanding can but exist his four-score years and ten, and a dreary time he has of it at that, bored and boring all his few and tiresome years; but a live mind has the power of wonderfully condensing time, and lives a hundred common years in one. From the phenomena presented by men of genius we can affirm the soul’s immortality, because they give some evidence of the joy, the ecstasy, involved in the idea of life; but to a mechanical being, endowed with a spark of vitality sufficient only to sting him with rebuking possibilities, an endless existence would be but an endless ennui. The ground for hope is, that man, using as he may all the resource of stupid cunning, cannot kill the germ of life which lies buried in him; hatred and pride, the sins of the heart, may eat into it, and his “pernicious soul” seem, like Iago’s, to “rot half a grain a day;” mechanism, the sin of the head, may withdraw itself into “good common sense,” and contentedly despise the joyous power of vital action; but still the immortal principle constituting the Person survives—patient, watchful, persistent, unconquerable, refusing to capitulate, refusing to die.
P.
SONNETS.
———
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
———
I.—CELINE.Those deep, delicious, heavy-lidded eyesOh, I could bask forever in their light!What raptures, sweet, heart-thrilling raptures, riseWhene’er I pierce their depths with eager sight!The profile pure and soft—the bright full face—The cupid mouth with rows of flashing pearls—The waist so dainty—step of gliding grace—White brow—curved hair, more beautiful than curls,All make her sweetest, loveliest of girls.Her breath is balmier than May’s downiest breeze;Rosier than rose-buds are her moist, plump lips;Than the pure nectar there, no purer sipsThe clinging bee—all beauty’s harmoniesAre in her sweetly blent—all hearts her graces seize.II.—THE LESSONS OF NATURE.Nature in outward seeming takes the hueOf our chance mood; if sad, her tones and looksAre full of grief; if glad, her winds and brooksAre full of merriment. But piercing throughHer outward garb, her sadness whispers “Peace—Peace to thee, mourner! day succeeds to night,Sunshine to storm!” Her brightest mirth says “CeaseThis thoughtless rapture! flowers must suffer blight,Change is my law of order.” Then a voiceSwells from her deep and solemn heart, “RejoiceWith purer joy, ye mirthful! and be gladWith a sustaining, steadfast faith, ye sad!In this swift, changeful life, whate’er befall(Blest truth) a watchful God of love is over all!”
I.—CELINE.Those deep, delicious, heavy-lidded eyesOh, I could bask forever in their light!What raptures, sweet, heart-thrilling raptures, riseWhene’er I pierce their depths with eager sight!The profile pure and soft—the bright full face—The cupid mouth with rows of flashing pearls—The waist so dainty—step of gliding grace—White brow—curved hair, more beautiful than curls,All make her sweetest, loveliest of girls.Her breath is balmier than May’s downiest breeze;Rosier than rose-buds are her moist, plump lips;Than the pure nectar there, no purer sipsThe clinging bee—all beauty’s harmoniesAre in her sweetly blent—all hearts her graces seize.II.—THE LESSONS OF NATURE.Nature in outward seeming takes the hueOf our chance mood; if sad, her tones and looksAre full of grief; if glad, her winds and brooksAre full of merriment. But piercing throughHer outward garb, her sadness whispers “Peace—Peace to thee, mourner! day succeeds to night,Sunshine to storm!” Her brightest mirth says “CeaseThis thoughtless rapture! flowers must suffer blight,Change is my law of order.” Then a voiceSwells from her deep and solemn heart, “RejoiceWith purer joy, ye mirthful! and be gladWith a sustaining, steadfast faith, ye sad!In this swift, changeful life, whate’er befall(Blest truth) a watchful God of love is over all!”
I.—CELINE.
Those deep, delicious, heavy-lidded eyes
Oh, I could bask forever in their light!
What raptures, sweet, heart-thrilling raptures, rise
Whene’er I pierce their depths with eager sight!
The profile pure and soft—the bright full face—
The cupid mouth with rows of flashing pearls—
The waist so dainty—step of gliding grace—
White brow—curved hair, more beautiful than curls,
All make her sweetest, loveliest of girls.
Her breath is balmier than May’s downiest breeze;
Rosier than rose-buds are her moist, plump lips;
Than the pure nectar there, no purer sips
The clinging bee—all beauty’s harmonies
Are in her sweetly blent—all hearts her graces seize.
II.—THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
Nature in outward seeming takes the hue
Of our chance mood; if sad, her tones and looks
Are full of grief; if glad, her winds and brooks
Are full of merriment. But piercing through
Her outward garb, her sadness whispers “Peace—
Peace to thee, mourner! day succeeds to night,
Sunshine to storm!” Her brightest mirth says “Cease
This thoughtless rapture! flowers must suffer blight,
Change is my law of order.” Then a voice
Swells from her deep and solemn heart, “Rejoice
With purer joy, ye mirthful! and be glad
With a sustaining, steadfast faith, ye sad!
In this swift, changeful life, whate’er befall
(Blest truth) a watchful God of love is over all!”
DARA.
———
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
———
When Persia’s sceptre trembled in a handWilted by harem-heats, and all the landWas hovered over by those vulture illsThat snuff decaying empire from afar,Then, with a nature balanced as a star,Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.He, who had governed fleecy subjects well,Made his own village, by the self-same spell,Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold,Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees,Under his sway, to neighbor villagesOrder returned, and faith and justice old.Now when it fortuned that a king more wiseEndued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,He sought on every side men brave and just,And, having heard the mountain-shepherd’s praise,How he renewed the mould of elder days,To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.So Dara shepherded a province wide,Nor in his viceroy’s sceptre took more prideThan in his crook before; but Envy findsMore soil in cities than on mountains bare,And the frank sun of spirits clear and rareBreeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.Soon it was whispered at the royal earThat, though wise Dara’s province, year by year,Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest,Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,Went to the filling of his private cup.For proof, they said that wheresoe’er he wentA chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,Went guarded, and no other eye had seenWhat was therein, save only Dara’s own,Yet, when ’twas opened, all his tent was knownTo glow and lighten with heapt jewels’ sheen.The king set forth for Dara’s province straight,Where, as was fit, outside his city’s gateThe viceroy met him with a stately train;And there, with archers circled, close at hand,A camel with the chest was seen to stand;The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.“Open me now,” he cried, “you treasure-chest!”’Twas done, and only a worn shepherd’s vestWas found within; some blushed and hung the head,Not Dara; open as the sky’s blue roofHe stood, and “O, my lord, behold the proofThat I was worthy of my trust!” he said.“For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had;My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad,Still to the unstained past kept true and leal,Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air,And Fortune’s heaviest gifts serenely bear,Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel.“To govern wisely I had shown small skillWere I not lord of simple Dara still;That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!”Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright,And thrilled the trembling lids; before ’twas nightTwo added provinces blessed Dara’s sway.
When Persia’s sceptre trembled in a handWilted by harem-heats, and all the landWas hovered over by those vulture illsThat snuff decaying empire from afar,Then, with a nature balanced as a star,Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.He, who had governed fleecy subjects well,Made his own village, by the self-same spell,Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold,Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees,Under his sway, to neighbor villagesOrder returned, and faith and justice old.Now when it fortuned that a king more wiseEndued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,He sought on every side men brave and just,And, having heard the mountain-shepherd’s praise,How he renewed the mould of elder days,To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.So Dara shepherded a province wide,Nor in his viceroy’s sceptre took more prideThan in his crook before; but Envy findsMore soil in cities than on mountains bare,And the frank sun of spirits clear and rareBreeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.Soon it was whispered at the royal earThat, though wise Dara’s province, year by year,Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest,Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,Went to the filling of his private cup.For proof, they said that wheresoe’er he wentA chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,Went guarded, and no other eye had seenWhat was therein, save only Dara’s own,Yet, when ’twas opened, all his tent was knownTo glow and lighten with heapt jewels’ sheen.The king set forth for Dara’s province straight,Where, as was fit, outside his city’s gateThe viceroy met him with a stately train;And there, with archers circled, close at hand,A camel with the chest was seen to stand;The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.“Open me now,” he cried, “you treasure-chest!”’Twas done, and only a worn shepherd’s vestWas found within; some blushed and hung the head,Not Dara; open as the sky’s blue roofHe stood, and “O, my lord, behold the proofThat I was worthy of my trust!” he said.“For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had;My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad,Still to the unstained past kept true and leal,Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air,And Fortune’s heaviest gifts serenely bear,Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel.“To govern wisely I had shown small skillWere I not lord of simple Dara still;That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!”Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright,And thrilled the trembling lids; before ’twas nightTwo added provinces blessed Dara’s sway.
When Persia’s sceptre trembled in a hand
Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land
Was hovered over by those vulture ills
That snuff decaying empire from afar,
Then, with a nature balanced as a star,
Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.
He, who had governed fleecy subjects well,
Made his own village, by the self-same spell,
Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold,
Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees,
Under his sway, to neighbor villages
Order returned, and faith and justice old.
Now when it fortuned that a king more wise
Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,
He sought on every side men brave and just,
And, having heard the mountain-shepherd’s praise,
How he renewed the mould of elder days,
To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.
So Dara shepherded a province wide,
Nor in his viceroy’s sceptre took more pride
Than in his crook before; but Envy finds
More soil in cities than on mountains bare,
And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare
Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.
Soon it was whispered at the royal ear
That, though wise Dara’s province, year by year,
Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest,
Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,
Went to the filling of his private cup.
For proof, they said that wheresoe’er he went
A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,
Went guarded, and no other eye had seen
What was therein, save only Dara’s own,
Yet, when ’twas opened, all his tent was known
To glow and lighten with heapt jewels’ sheen.
The king set forth for Dara’s province straight,
Where, as was fit, outside his city’s gate
The viceroy met him with a stately train;
And there, with archers circled, close at hand,
A camel with the chest was seen to stand;
The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.
“Open me now,” he cried, “you treasure-chest!”
’Twas done, and only a worn shepherd’s vest
Was found within; some blushed and hung the head,
Not Dara; open as the sky’s blue roof
He stood, and “O, my lord, behold the proof
That I was worthy of my trust!” he said.
“For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had;
My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad,
Still to the unstained past kept true and leal,
Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air,
And Fortune’s heaviest gifts serenely bear,
Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel.
“To govern wisely I had shown small skill
Were I not lord of simple Dara still;
That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!”
Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright,
And thrilled the trembling lids; before ’twas night
Two added provinces blessed Dara’s sway.
A LEGEND OF TYROL.
———
BY JAMES T. FIELDS.
———
In a green sheltered nook, where a mountainStood guarding the peace-haunted ground,Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlightThat gladdened the hill-sides around.Her voice seemed a musical echo,Whose notes wandered down from above,And wherever she walked in her beautySprang blossoms of joy and of love.As she stood at her door in the morning,The hunter below, riding by,Cried out to his comrades, “we’re early!For look, there’s a star in the sky!”At the chapel, when good men were prayingThat angels of God would appear,Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling,And felt that an angel was near.Thus radiant and pure in her presence,A blessing she moved, day by day,Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her,And lured her forever away.He bore this bright bird of the mountain,Watched over and shielded the best,From the home of her youth and her kindred,Away to his own haughty nest.And lo! the grim idols in waitingBeset her for worship, and won;And the light of her beautiful childhoodWent down like the swift-fading sun.And sudden as rises the black cloud,When tempests the thunder-gods start,Strange wishes encircled her bosom,And Pride swept the halls of her heart.And once, when o’ermastered by anger,Her golden-haired boy sought her side,In her fury she smote down her first born,And he fell like a lily and died.There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,And anguish that scorches the brain,But the harp-strings of life never answeredThe touch that would tune them again!She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,And ages have rolled o’er her head,But her name is remembered in TyrolAs when she was laid with the dead.And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl,They tell the sad story, and whisperThe warning that speaks to your soul.
In a green sheltered nook, where a mountainStood guarding the peace-haunted ground,Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlightThat gladdened the hill-sides around.Her voice seemed a musical echo,Whose notes wandered down from above,And wherever she walked in her beautySprang blossoms of joy and of love.As she stood at her door in the morning,The hunter below, riding by,Cried out to his comrades, “we’re early!For look, there’s a star in the sky!”At the chapel, when good men were prayingThat angels of God would appear,Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling,And felt that an angel was near.Thus radiant and pure in her presence,A blessing she moved, day by day,Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her,And lured her forever away.He bore this bright bird of the mountain,Watched over and shielded the best,From the home of her youth and her kindred,Away to his own haughty nest.And lo! the grim idols in waitingBeset her for worship, and won;And the light of her beautiful childhoodWent down like the swift-fading sun.And sudden as rises the black cloud,When tempests the thunder-gods start,Strange wishes encircled her bosom,And Pride swept the halls of her heart.And once, when o’ermastered by anger,Her golden-haired boy sought her side,In her fury she smote down her first born,And he fell like a lily and died.There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,And anguish that scorches the brain,But the harp-strings of life never answeredThe touch that would tune them again!She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,And ages have rolled o’er her head,But her name is remembered in TyrolAs when she was laid with the dead.And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl,They tell the sad story, and whisperThe warning that speaks to your soul.
In a green sheltered nook, where a mountain
Stood guarding the peace-haunted ground,
Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlight
That gladdened the hill-sides around.
Her voice seemed a musical echo,
Whose notes wandered down from above,
And wherever she walked in her beauty
Sprang blossoms of joy and of love.
As she stood at her door in the morning,
The hunter below, riding by,
Cried out to his comrades, “we’re early!
For look, there’s a star in the sky!”
At the chapel, when good men were praying
That angels of God would appear,
Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling,
And felt that an angel was near.
Thus radiant and pure in her presence,
A blessing she moved, day by day,
Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her,
And lured her forever away.
He bore this bright bird of the mountain,
Watched over and shielded the best,
From the home of her youth and her kindred,
Away to his own haughty nest.
And lo! the grim idols in waiting
Beset her for worship, and won;
And the light of her beautiful childhood
Went down like the swift-fading sun.
And sudden as rises the black cloud,
When tempests the thunder-gods start,
Strange wishes encircled her bosom,
And Pride swept the halls of her heart.
And once, when o’ermastered by anger,
Her golden-haired boy sought her side,
In her fury she smote down her first born,
And he fell like a lily and died.
There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,
And anguish that scorches the brain,
But the harp-strings of life never answered
The touch that would tune them again!
She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,
And ages have rolled o’er her head,
But her name is remembered in Tyrol
As when she was laid with the dead.
And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,
And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl,
They tell the sad story, and whisper
The warning that speaks to your soul.
FOR’ARD AND AFT;
OR THE CAPTAIN’S SON AND THE SAILOR BOY.
A SEA STORY.
———
BY S. A. GODMAN.
———
Fortune, the great commandress of the world,Hath divers ways to enrich her followers:To some, she honor gives without deserving;To other some, deserving without honor;Some wit—some wealth—and some wit without wealth;Some, wealth without wit—some, nor wit nor wealth.Chapman.
Fortune, the great commandress of the world,Hath divers ways to enrich her followers:To some, she honor gives without deserving;To other some, deserving without honor;Some wit—some wealth—and some wit without wealth;Some, wealth without wit—some, nor wit nor wealth.Chapman.
Fortune, the great commandress of the world,
Hath divers ways to enrich her followers:
To some, she honor gives without deserving;
To other some, deserving without honor;
Some wit—some wealth—and some wit without wealth;
Some, wealth without wit—some, nor wit nor wealth.
Chapman.
“Rouse up, rouse up, my hearty! Bear a hand and be lively for that little devil-skin abaft, has been hailing for you this five minutes.”
Thus spoke, with a rough voice, but in a kind tone, a tall and powerfully built sailor, as he descended the forecastle-ladder, to a boy of some ten years of age, who, lying stretched upon his back on a mess-chest, was fast asleep. Loud as were the tones of the speaker, they made no impression upon the boy. Wrapped in the deep, sweet slumber of childhood, his body fatigued, his conscience clear, and his mind at ease, he was enjoying one of those refreshing rests that are only permitted to the young and contented—the sleep that manhood longs after but seldom experiences.
A beautiful picture would that forecastle and its inmates have made, could they have been transferred to canvas. The boy, a noble one, as he reposed with closed eye-lids and upturned face, over which bright smiles were flitting—the reflection of pleasant, hopeful dreams—seemed an embodiment of intelligence and innocence; notwithstanding the coarse canvas trowsers and striped cotton-shirt which formed his only attire. The man, with his muscular and strongly-knit figure, his bronzed cheeks, huge whiskers, brightly gleaming eyes and determined expression of countenance, was the personification of bodily strength, physical perfection and perfect self-reliance. The one looked as if he were a spirit from a higher sphere, who had by chance become an inmate of that dark, confined, triangular-shaped and murky apartment; and appeared all out of place amidst its mess-chests, bedding, and other nautical dunnage, and its atmosphere reeking with the odors of bilge-water, tar, and lamp-smoke. The other was in keeping with the surrounding objects; his bright red flannel shirt, his horny hands, his very attitude showed him one to ease and comfort unaccustomed, whose only home was a forecastle, his abiding-place the heaving ocean.
Wearied with awaiting the result of his verbal summons, the seaman reached down to awaken his companion with a shake; and as he did, a beam of affection so softened the expression of his countenance, and lent so much tenderness to his eye, that with all his roughness and uncouthness, the weather-beaten tar became really handsome; for, than love, there is no more certain beautifier. Though undisturbed by noise, no sooner was the sailor-boy touched, than, true to the instinct of his calling, he sprung from his resting-place, as wide awake, and with his faculties as much about him, as if he had always been to sleep a stranger—and exclaimed,
“Is it eight bells already, Frank? I thought I had just closed my peepers.”
“Just closed your peepers, my little lark! I began to think your eye-lids were battened down, it seemed such a hard pull for you to heave them up. Youhaven’t had much of a snooze though, for it’s only four bells; but that young scaramouch astern wants you to take him in tow. So you had better up-anchor and make sail, Tom, for the cabin, or the she-commodore will be sending the boatswain after you with the colt.”[1]
Scarcely waiting to hear the completion of the sentence, the lad hurried up the ladder to the deck, and in a few seconds was at the door of the cabin. Standing just inside the entrance, a drizzling rain preventing him from coming further, stood the youth to whom Frank had referred, by the not very flattering appellations of devil-skin and scaramouch. There was but little difference in the age of the two boys. Not the slightest resemblance or similarity, however, existed between them in any other respect.
The sailor-boy was large for his years—with a figure that gave promise of symmetry, grace, and an early maturity; his head was in keeping with his body—admirably developed, well balanced, and covered with a profusion of rich, dark brown hair; his forehead, broad and intellectual, lent additional beauty to his full, deep-blue eyes; and with his ruddy cheeks, giving evidence of vigorous health, he was just such a boy as a prince might desire his only son and heir to be.
The captain’s son was slight and rather under-sized, with a sickly look, produced apparently more by improper indulgences than natural infirmity; sparkling black eyes, black hair, and regular features, added to a well-shaped head and fine brow, would have rendered him good-looking in spite of his sallow complexion, had it not been for a peevish, discontented and rather malignant expression, that was habitual to him.
Thephysiqueofthe lads did not differ morethan their dress. The one was clothed in a suit of the most costly broadcloth, elegantly made, with boots upon his feet, and a gold chain around his neck to support the gold watch in his pocket. The other, bare-footed, bare-necked, jacketless, was under no obligations to the tailor for adding to the gentility of his appearance. Yet any person, even a blind man, could he have heard their voices, would at once have acknowledged that the roughest clad bore indellibly impressed upon him the insignia of nature’s nobility.
No sooner did the captain’s son see the boy of the forecastle, than he addressed him in a tone and style that harmonized with the sneering expression of his face:
“So, you good-for-nothing, lazy fellow, you’ve made me stand here bawling for you this half hour. What’s the reason you did not come when I first called?”
“Why, Master Charles, I would not have kept you waiting if I had known you wanted me; but I was asleep in the forecastle, sir. Frank Adams woke me up—and I’ve come as quick as I could.”
“Asleep this time in the afternoon! Why don’t you sleep at night? I never sleep in the afternoons. But you had better not make me stand and wait so long for you another time, or I’ll tell my mamma, and she’ll get father to whip you.”
At this threat a bright flush overspread the face and neck of the sailor-boy, and for an instant his eye assumed a fierce expression that was unusual to it; but suppressing his feelings, he replied in his accustomed tone,
“I was up all night, Master Charles, helping to reef top-sails, and lending a hand to get up the new fore-sail in place of the old one that was blown out of the bolt-ropes in the mid-watch. This morning I could not sleep, for you know I was playing with you until mess-time.”
“Well, Tom, come into the cabin and let’s play, and I wont say any thing about it this time,” said Charles, as he walked in, followed by his companion.
What a difference there was between the apartment in which the lads now were, and the one which Tom had left but a few moments before. It was the difference between wealth and poverty.
The vessel, on board of which our scene is laid, was a new and magnificently-finished barque of seven hundred and fifty tons, named the Josephine. The craft had been built to order, and was owned and commanded by Lewis Barney Andrews—a gentleman of education and extensive fortune, who had been for many years an officer in the United States navy. Getting married, however, and his wife’s objecting to the long cruises he was obliged to take in the service, whilst she was compelled to remain at home, he effected a compromise between his better half’s desire that he should relinquish his profession, and his own disinclination to give up going to sea entirely, by resigning his commission in the navy, and purchasing a ship for himself. The Josephine belonged to Baltimore—of which city Captain A. was a native, and was bound to the East Indies. She was freighted with a valuable cargo, which also belonged to the captain, and had on board besides the captain, his wife, son and servant-girl, a crew consisting of two mates, and a boatswain, fourteen seamen, a cook, steward, and one boy.
Her cabin—a poop one—was fitted up in the most luxurious style. Every thing that the skill of the upholsterer and the art of the painter, aided by the taste and experience of the captain, could do to make it elegant, beautiful and comfortable, had been done. Extending nearly to the main-mast the distance from the cabin-door to the transom was full fifty feet. This space was divided into two apartments of unequal size, one of twenty, the other thirty feet, by a sliding bulkhead of highly polished rosewood and superbly-stained glass.
The after-cabin was fitted up as a sleeping-room, with two mahogany bedsteads and all the appurtenances found in the chambers of the wealthy on shore. The forward-cabin was used as a sitting and eating-room. On the floor was a carpet, of whose fabric the looms of Persia might be proud—so rich, so thick, so magnificent was it, and deep-cushioned ottomans, lounges and rocking-chairs were scattered along the sides and were placed in the corners of the apartment.
Not far from the door, reclining on a lounge, with a book in her hand, was the wife of the captain, and the mother of Master Charles. She was a handsome woman, but one who had ever permitted her fancies and her feelings to be the guides of her actions. Consequently her heart, which by nature was a kind one, was often severely wrung by the pangs of remorse, caused by the recollection of deeds committed from impulse, which her pride would not permit her to apologize or atone for, even after she was convinced of her error.
As the two boys entered the cabin she looked at them, but without making any remark, continued the perusal of her book, whilst they proceeded to the after-cabin, and getting behind the bulkhead were out of her sight. For some fifteen minutes the stillness of the cabin was undisturbed; but then, the mother’s attention was attracted by the loud, angry tones of her son’s voice, abusing apparently his play-fellow. Hardly had she commenced listening, to ascertain what was the matter, ere the sound of a blow, followed by a shriek, and the fall of something heavy upon the floor, reached her ear. Alarmed, she rushed into the after-cabin, and there, upon the floor, his face covered with blood, she saw the idol of her heart, the one absorbing object of her affection, her only son, and standing over him, with flashing eyes, swelling chest, and clenched fists, the sailor-boy.
So strong was the struggle between the emotions of love and revenge—a desire to assist her child, a disposition to punish his antagonist—that the mother for a moment stood as if paralyzed. Love, however, assumed the mastery; and raising her son and pressing him to her bosom, she asked in most tender tones, “Where he was hurt?”
“I ain’t hurt, only my nose is bleeding becauseTom knocked me down, just for nothing at all,” blubbered out Charles.
The mother’s anxiety for her son relieved, the tiger in her disposition resumed the sway; letting go of Charles, she caught hold of Tom, and shaking him violently, demanded, in shrill, fierce tones, how he, the outcast, dared to strike her child!
Unabashed and unterrified, the sailor-boy looked in the angry woman’s face without replying.
“Why don’t you answer me, you cub! you wretch! you little pirate!—speak! speak! or I’ll shake you to death!” continued the lady, incensed more than ever by the boy’s silence.
“I struck him because he called my mother a hussy, if you will make me tell you,” replied Tom, in a quiet voice, though his eye was bright with anger and insulted pride.
“Your mother a hussy! Well, what else was she? But you shall be taught how to strike your master for speaking the truth to you, you good for nothing vagabond. Run and call your father,” she continued, turning to Charles, “and I’ll have this impertinent little rascal whipped until he can’t stand.”
In a moment Captain Andrews entered; and being as much incensed as his wife, that a sailor-boy, a thing he had always looked upon as little better than a block or rope’s end, had had the audacity to strike his son, he was furious. Taking hold of Tom with a rough grasp, he pushed him out on deck, and called for the boatswain. That functionary, however, was slow in making his appearance; and again, in louder and more angry tones, the captain called for him. Still he came not; and, spite of his passion, the captain could but gather from the lowering expressions of the sailors’ countenances, that he was at the commencement of anemeute.
[1]Colt.—A rope with a knot on the end. Used as an instrument of punishment in place of the cat-o’-nine-tails.
[1]
Colt.—A rope with a knot on the end. Used as an instrument of punishment in place of the cat-o’-nine-tails.
——
The deepest ice that ever frozeCan only o’er the surface close;The living stream lies quick below,And flows, and cannot cease to flow.Byron.
The deepest ice that ever frozeCan only o’er the surface close;The living stream lies quick below,And flows, and cannot cease to flow.Byron.
The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o’er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows, and cannot cease to flow.
Byron.
Accustomed to have his commands always promptly obeyed, the wrath of Captain Andrews waxed high and furious at the dilatoriness of the boatswain. Without any other exciting cause, this apparent insubordination on the part of one of his officers, was enough to arouse all the evil passions of his heart. Educated under the strict discipline of the United States service, he had been taught that the first and most important duty of a seaman was obedience. “Obey orders, if you break owners,” was the doctrine he inculcated; and to be thus, as it were, bearded on his own quarter-deck, by one of his own men, was something entirely new, and most insulting to his pride. Three times had he called for the boatswain without receiving any reply, or causing that functionary to appear.
When the captain first came out of the cabin, his only thought was to punish the sailor-boy for striking his son; but his anger now took another course, and his desire to visit the boatswain’s contumacy with a heavy penalty was so great, that he forgot entirely the object for which he had first wished him. Relinquishing his hold on Tom’s shoulder, the captain hailed his first officer in a quick, stern voice,
“Mr. Hart, bring aft Mr. Wilson, the boatswain.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the mate, as he started toward the forecastle-scuttle to hunt up the delinquent. “Hillo, below there!” he hailed, when he reached the scuttle, “You’re wanted on deck, Mr. Wilson!”
“Who wants me?” was the reply that resounded, seemingly, from one of the bunks close up the ship’s eyes.
“Captain Andrews is waiting for you on the quarter-deck; and if you are not fond of tornadoes, you had better be in a hurry,” answered the mate.
Notwithstanding the chief dickey’s hint, the boatswain seemed to entertain no apprehensions about the reception he would meet at the hands of the enraged skipper; for several minutes elapsed before he made himself visible on deck.
As soon as the captain saw the boatswain, his anger increased, and he became deadly pale from excess of passion. Waiting until Wilson came within a few feet of him, he addressed him in that low, husky voice, that more than any other proves the depth of a person’s feeling, with,
“Why have you so long delayed obeying my summons, Mr. Wilson?”
“I was asleep in the forecastle, sir, and came as soon as I heard Mr. Hart call,” replied Wilson.
But the tone in which he spoke, the look of his eye, the expression of his countenance, would at once have convinced a less observant person than Captain Andrews, that the excuse offered was one vamped up for the occasion, and not the real cause of the man’s delay.
“Asleep, sir! Attend now to the duty I wish you to perform—and be awake, sir, about it! And you may, perhaps, get off easier for your own dereliction afterward—for your conduct shall not remain unpunished,” answered the captain.
“Captain Andrews, boy and man, I have been going to sea now these twenty-five years, and no one ever charged Bob Wilson with not knowing or not doing his duty before, sir!” rejoined the boatswain, evidently laboring under as much mental excitement as the captain.
“None of your impertinence, sir! Not a word more, or I will learn you a lesson of duty you ought to have been taught when a boy. Where’s your cat,[2]sir?” continued the captain.
“In the razor-bag,”[3]replied the boatswain.
“Curse you!” ejaculated the captain, almost beside himself at this reply, yet striving to maintain his self-possession; “one more insolent word, and I will have you triced up. Strip that boy and make a spread-eagle of him; then get your cat and give him forty.”
During this conversation between the captain and the boatswain, the crew had been quietly gatheringon the lee-side of the quarter-deck, until at this juncture every seaman in the ship, except the man at the wheel, was within twenty feet of the excited speakers. Not a word had been spoken amongst them; but it was evident from the determination imprinted upon their countenances, from their attitudes, and from the extraordinary interest they took in the scene then transpiring, that there was something more in the boatswain’s insubordination than appeared on the surface; and whatever it was, the crew were all under the influence of the same motive.
Mr. Wilson, the boatswain of the Josephine, was a first-rate and thorough-bred seaman. No part of his duty was unfamiliar to him; and never did he shrink from performing any portion of it on account of danger or fatigue. Like many other simple-minded, honest-hearted sons of Neptune, he troubled himself but little about abstruse questions on morals; but he abhorred a liar, despised a thief, and perfectly detested a tyrant. And though he could bear a goodly quantity of tyrannical treatment himself, without heeding it, it made his blood boil, and his hand clench, to see a helpless object maltreated.
Ever since the Josephine had left port, there had been growing amongst the crew a disposition to prevent their favorite, Tom, the sailor-boy, from being imposed upon and punished, as he had been, for no other reason than the willfulness of the captain’s son, and the caprice of the captain’s wife. Not a man on board liked the spoiled child of the cabin. No fancy, either, had they for his mother; because, right or wrong, she always took her son’s part, and oftentimes brought the sailors into trouble. The last time Tom had been punished a grand consultation had been held in the forecastle, at which the boatswain presided; and he, with the rest of the crew, had solemnly pledged themselves not to let their little messmate be whipped again unless, in their opinion, he deserved it.
This was the reason why the boatswain, one of the best men in the ship, had skulked when he heard the captain’s call: he had seen him come out of the cabin with Tom, and rightly anticipated the duty he was expected to perform. Such great control does the habit of obedience exercise over seamen, that although he was resolved to die before he would suffer Tom to be whipped for nothing, much less inflict the punishment himself, the boatswain felt a great disinclination to have an open rupture with his commanding officer. The peremptory order last issued by the captain, however, brought affairs to a crisis there was no avoiding; he either had to fly in the face of quarter-deck authority, or break his pledge to his messmates and his conscience. This, Wilson could not think of doing; and looking his captain straight in the face, in a quiet tone, and with a civil manner, he thus addressed his superior:
“It does not become me, Captain Andrews, so be as how, for to go, for to teach my betters—and—and—” here the worthy boatswain broke down, in what he designed should be a speech, intended to convince the captain of his error; but feeling unable to continue, he ended abruptly, changing his voice and manner, with “Blast my eyes! if you want the boy whipped, you can do it yourself.”
Hardly had the words escaped the speaker’s lips, before the captain, snatching up an iron belaying-pin, rushed at the boatswain, intending to knock him down; but Wilson nimbly leaped aside, and the captain’s foot catching in a rope, he came down sprawling on the deck. Instantly regaining his feet, he rushed toward the cabin, wild with rage, for the purpose of obtaining his pistols. Several minutes elapsed before he returned on deck; when he did he was much more calm, although in each hand he held a cocked pistol.
The quarter deck he found bare; the crew, with little Tom in their midst, having retired to the forecastle, where they were engaged in earnest conversation. The second mate was at the wheel, the seaman who had been at the helm having joined his comrades, so that the only disposable force at the captain’s command was the chief mate, the steward and himself, the cook being fastened up in his galley by the seamen. On the forecastle were fifteen men. The odds were great; but Captain Andrews did not pause to calculate chances—his only thought was to punish the mutinous conduct of his crew, never thinking of the possibility of failure.
Giving one of his pistols to Mr. Hart, and telling the steward to take a capstan bar, the captain and his two assistants boldly advanced to compel fifteen sailors to return to their duty.
[2]An instrument used for punishment.
[2]
An instrument used for punishment.
[3]The technical name of the bag in which the cats are kept.
[3]
The technical name of the bag in which the cats are kept.
——
They were met, as the rock meets the wave,And dashes its fury to air;They were met, as the foe should be met by the brave,With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair.
They were met, as the rock meets the wave,And dashes its fury to air;They were met, as the foe should be met by the brave,With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair.
They were met, as the rock meets the wave,
And dashes its fury to air;
They were met, as the foe should be met by the brave,
With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair.
Whilst the captain, mate and steward, were making their brief preparation for a most hazardous undertaking, the men of the Josephine, with that promptness and resolution so common amongst seamen when they think at all, had determined upon the course they would adopt in the impending struggle.
Although the numerical discrepancy between the two parties seemed so great, the actual difference in their relative strength was not so considerable as it appeared. The sailors, it is true, had the physical force—they were five to one; but the captain’s small band felt more confidence from the moral influence that they knew was on their side, than if their numbers had been trebled, without it.
Habit ever exercises a controlling influence, unless overcome by some powerful exciting principle, and men never fly in the face of authority to which they have always been accustomed to yield implicit obedience, but from one of two causes—either a hasty impulse, conceived in a moment, and abandoned by actors frightened at their own audacity; or, a sense of wrong and injustice so keen and poignant, as to make death preferable to further submission.
Aware of custom’s nearly invincible power, having often seen seamen rebel, and then at the firstwarning gladly skulk back to their duty, the captain unhesitatingly advanced up the weather-gangway to the break of the forecastle, and confronted his mutinous crew. The men, who were huddled around the end of the windlass, some sitting, others standing, talking together in low tones, only showed they were aware of the captain’s presence by suddenly ceasing their conversation—but not a man of them moved.
Captain Andrews, though quick tempered, was a man of judgment and experience; and he saw by the calmness and quietness of his men, that their insubordination was the result of premeditation—a thing he had not before thought—and he became aware of the difficulties of his position. He could not, for his life, think of yielding; to give up to a sailor would, in his estimation, be the deepest degradation. And moral influence was all he could rely upon with which to compel obedience—feeling that if an actual strife commenced, it could but result in his discomfiture. His tone, therefore, was low and determined, as with cocked pistol in hand he addressed his crew:
“Men, do you know that you are, every one of you, guilty of mutiny? Do you know that the punishment for mutiny on the high seas is death? Do you know this? Have you thought of it?” Here the captain paused for an instant, as if waiting for a reply; and a voice from the group around the windlass answered—
“We have!”
Rather surprised at the boldness of the reply, but still retaining his presence of mind, the captain continued:
“What is it then that has induced you to brave this penalty? Have you been maltreated? Do you not have plenty of provisions? Your regular watches below? Step out, one of you, and state your grievances. You know I am not a tyrant, and I wish from you nothing more than you promised in the shipping articles!”
At this call, the eyes of the men were all turned toward Wilson, the boatswain, who, seeing it was expected from him, stepped out to act as spokesman. Respectfully touching his tarpaulin, he waited for the captain to question him. Observing this, the captain said,
“Well, Wilson, your messmates have put you forth as their speaker; and it strikes me that you are the ringleader of this misguided movement. I am certain you have sense enough to understand the risk you are running, and desire you to inform me what great wrong it is that you complain of. For assuredly you must feel grievously imposed upon, to make you all so far forget what is due to yourselves as seamen, to me as your captain, and to the laws of your country!”
“I ain’t much of a yarn-spinner, Captain Andrews, and I can turn in the plies of a splice smoother and more ship-shape than the ends of a speech; and it may be as how I’ll ruffle your temper more nor it is now, by what I have to say—” commenced the boatswain.
“Never mind my temper, sir,” interrupted the captain, “proceed!”
“We all get plenty of grub, Captain Andrews, and that of the best,” continued Wilson; his equanimity not in the least disturbed by the skipper’s interruption. “We have our regular watches, and don’t complain of our work, for we shipped as seamen, and can all do seamen’s duty. But sailors have feelings, Captain Andrews, though they are not often treated as if they had; and it hurts us worse to see those worked double-tides who can’t take their own part, than if we were mistreated ourselves; and to come to the short of it, all this row’s about little Tom, there, and nothing else.”
“Is he not treated just as well as the rest of you? Has he not the same quarters, and the same rations, that the men are content with? Who works him double-tides?” answered the captain, his anger evidently increasing at the mention of Tom’s name; and the effort to restrain himself, being almost too great for the choleric officer to compass.
“You can’t beat to wind’ard against a head-sea, Captain Andrews, without a ship’s pitching, no more than you can reef a to’s-sail without going aloft.” Wilson went on without change in manner, though his voice became more concise and firm in its tone. “And I can’t tell you, like some of them shore chaps, what you don’t want to hear, without heaving you aback. We ain’t got any thing agin you, if you was let alone; all we wants is for you to give your own orders, and to keep Mrs. Andrews from bedeviling Tom. The boy’s as good a boy as ever furled a royal, and never skulks below when he’s wanted on deck; but he stands his regular watches, and then, when he ought to sleep, he’s everlastingly kept in the cabin, and whipped and knocked about for the amusement of young master, and that’s just the whole of it. We’ve stood it long enough, and wont return to duty until you promise—”
“Silence, sir!” roared the captain, perfectly furious, and unable longer to remain quiet. “Not another word! I’ve listened to insolence too long by half, already! Now, sir, I have a word to say to you, and mind you heed it. Walk aft to the quarter-deck!”
The boatswain, though he heard the order plainly, and understood it clearly, paid no attention to it.
“Do you hear me, sir?” asked the captain. “I give you whilst I count ten, to start. I do not wish to shoot you, Wilson; but if you do not move before I count ten, I’ll drive this ball through you—as I hope to reach port, I will!”
Raising his pistol until it covered the boatswain’s breast, the captain commenced counting in a clear and audible tone. Intense excitement was depicted on the faces of the men; and some anxiety was shown by the quick glances cast by the chief mate and steward, first at the captain, and then at the crew. Wilson, with his eyes fixed in the captain’s face, and his arms loosely folded across his breast, stood perfectly quiet, as if he were an indifferent spectator.
“Eight! Nine!” said the captain, “there is but one left, Wilson; with it I fire if you do not start.”
The boatswain remained motionless. “Te—” escaped the commander’s lips; and as it did, the sharp edge of Wilson’s heavy tarpaulin hat struck him a severe blow in the face. This was so entirely unexpected, that the captain involuntarily threw back his head, and by the same motion, without intending it, threw up his arm and clenched his hand enough to fire off the pistol held in it; the ball from which went through the flying-jib, full twenty feet above Wilson’s head.
The charm that had held the men in check, was broken by the first movement toward action, and they made a rush toward the captain and his two supporters. Bravely, though, they stood their ground; and Frank Adams, the sailor introduced with Tom in the forecastle, received the ball from the mate’s pistol in the fleshy part of his shoulder, as he was about to strike that worthy with a handspike. Gallantly assisted by the steward, the captain and mate made as much resistance as three men could against fifteen. The odds were, however, too great; spite of their bravery, the three were soon overpowered and the contest was nearly ended, when a temporary change was made in favor of the weaker party by the appearance in the fray of the second mate. He, during the whole colloquy, had been at the wheel, forgotten by both parties. His sudden arrival, therefore, as with lusty blows he laid about him, astonished the seamen, who gave back for an instant, and allowed their opponents to regain their feet. They did not allow them much time, however, to profit by this respite, for in a few seconds, understanding the source from whence assistance had come, they renewed the attack with increased vigor, and soon again obtained the mastery. But it was no easy matter to confine the three officers and the steward, who resisted with their every power, particularly as the men were anxious to do them no more bodily injury than they were compelled to, in effecting their purpose.
So absorbed were all hands in the strife in which they were engaged, that not one of them noticed the fact that what had been the weather-side of thebarque at the commencement of the affray, was now the lee; nor did any of the men—all seamen as they were—observe that the vessel was heeling over tremendously, her lee-scuppers nearly level with the water. A report, loud as a cannon, high in the air, first startled the combatants; then, with a rushing sound, three large, heavy bodies, fell from aloft, one of which striking the deck near the combatants, threatened all with instant destruction, whilst the other two fell with a loud splash into the sea to leeward.
In the new danger, both the victors and vanquished were equally interested, and at the same instant looked aloft to discover the cause. The first glance convinced every one of the necessity for prompt and vigorous action. Their position was, indeed, one fraught with imminent danger. Left without a helmsman, by the second mate going to the assistance of the captain, the barque, close-hauled with a stiff breeze blowing, had come up in the wind, and was now flat aback; that is, the wind, instead of blowing against the sails from behind, was before them. The fore and main-royal, and top-gallant masts, with all their gear, had been carried away; and the ship was gathering stern-way at a rate that would soon run her under.
The natural desire for self-preservation, combined with the instincts and habits of both officers and men to cause them entirely to forget the fierce contest in which they had just been engaged—their thoughts were changed from each other, to the ship and its situation—and the officers were at once permitted to regain their feet.
No sooner did Captain Andrews find himself at liberty, than he at once assumed command, and issued his orders as loud and clear as if nothing had interrupted his authority.
“To the wheel! to the wheel! Mr. Hart! All hands ware ship!” were his first words; and the men with alacrity hurried to their stations, whilst the mate ran to the helm.
The captain’s wife and son had been in the cabin, anxiously awaiting the result of the controversy on the forecastle, but alarmed by the failing spars, they had hurried on deck and were now on the poop. In the hurry and confusion consequent upon the ship’s hazardous position, all hands were so busy that no one paid attention to Charles and Mrs. Andrews; and they were too much alarmed to take due care of themselves, else would they have sought a less exposed situation. As the spanker jibed, Charles was standing nearly amidships on the deck, and before he even had time to shriek, the boom struck him and hurled him over the monkey-rail into the sea. His mother, who was close to the mizzen-mast, saw him just as he went over, and terror-stricken, sunk to the deck in a swoon, without uttering a sound. Unable to swim, a puny child in the angry waves of the rough Atlantic, the case of Charles seemed a hopeless one; but rescue came from a source he could have least expected. Tom, the sailor-boy, who was on the tafferel belaying the spanker-sheet to windward, recognized the captain’s son as he floated clear of the stern; and actuated by that generous, gallant spirit that had so endeared him to his messmates, he shouted to the mate that Charles was over-board! and fearlessly sprang into the sea to his assistance. Tom was an excellent swimmer, and he found no difficulty in supporting Charles’ delicate form until the barque hove round, when they were both picked up and taken on board.
The joy of the mother at having restored to her the idol of her heart; the grateful feelings she and the father felt toward the deliverer of their child, we will not attempt to describe; only the results will we give of this heroic action. Tom was treated by the captain as a son; the crew were forgiven for their mutinous conduct, and cheerfully returned to duty; and Tom, now a distinguished naval officer, dates his first step upon the ladder that leads to eminence, from the day he so narrowly escaped a severe whipping.
Laurensville, South Carolina.