A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER.

———

BY R. PENN SMITH.

———

Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining;We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining;And though the sad tear may embitter the wine,Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine.True, others may drink in the lightness of soul,But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl;Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine,And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine.And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother;Who drinks of the one should partake of the other.Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.—Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early visionShone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindnessReceived in return but deceit for their blindness;And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repiningThat friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining—Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl;A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul.

Fill the bowl to the brim, there’s no use in complaining;

We’ll drown the dark dream, while a care is remaining;

And though the sad tear may embitter the wine,

Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine.

True, others may drink in the lightness of soul,

But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl;

Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine,

And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with thine.

And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother;

Who drinks of the one should partake of the other.

Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain.—

Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.

’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision

Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.

A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;

As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.

’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness

Received in return but deceit for their blindness;

And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;

Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.

Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining

That friends quickly leave us, when fortune’s declining—

Let each drop a tear in the roseate bowl;

A tear that’s sincere, and then pledge to the soul.

“WHAT CAN WOMAN DO?”

OR THE INFLUENCE OF AN EXAMPLE.

———

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

———

Good, therefore, is the counsel of the Son of Sirach. “Show not thy valiantness in wine; for wine hath destroyed many.”Jeremy Taylor.

Good, therefore, is the counsel of the Son of Sirach. “Show not thy valiantness in wine; for wine hath destroyed many.”

Jeremy Taylor.

“I am glad you admire my pretty cousin,” said Isabel Gray to a gentleman seated near her. “She deserves all her good fortune, which is the highest possible compliment when you see how devoted her husband is and what a palace-like home he has given her.”

“It does, indeed, seem the very abode of taste and elegance,” and the speaker looked around the luxurious apartment with undisguised admiration.

The room, with its occupants, seemed, in the mellow light which came from lotus shaped vases, like a fine old picture set in a gorgeous frame. The curtains, falling in fluted folds, shut out the dreariness of a chill November night—a glowing carpet, on whose velvet surface seemed thrown the richest flowers and the most luscious fruits, in wild but graceful confusion, muffled the tread of the well-trained servants. A few rare pictures hung upon the walls, and a group of beautiful women were conspicuous among the guests who this evening shared the hospitality of the master of the mansion. The dessert had just been placed upon the table—rare fruits were heaped in baskets of delicateSèvres, that lookedwovenrather than moulded into their graceful shapes; cones and pyramids of delicately tinted ices, and sparkling bon-bons—in fine, all that could tempt the most fastidious appetite, had been gathered together for this bridal feast.

Very happy was William Rushton that night, and how fondly he glanced, in the pauses of conversation, toward his lovely wife, who, for the first time, had assumed her place as mistress of all this elegance. But hers was a subdued and quiet loveliness,

“Not radiant to astranger’seye,”

and many wondered that his choice should have fallen upon her, when Isabel Gray seemed so much better suited to his well known fastidiousness. Isabel had passed the season of early girlhood, yet her clear brow was as smooth, and her complexion as glowing, as when she had first entered society the belle of the season. Four winters had passed, and, to the astonishment of many an acquaintance, she was still unmarried; and now, as the bridemaid of the wealthy Mrs. Rushton, she was once more the centre of fashion—the observed of all.

Glittering glasses, of fanciful shape and transparent as if they had been the crystal goblets of Shiraz, were sparkling among the fruits and flowers. Already they were foaming to the brim with wines, that might have warmed the heart of the convivial Clarence himself, whose age was the topic of discourse among the gentlemen and of comment to their pretty listeners, who were well aware that added years would be no great advantage tothemin the eyes of these boasting connoisseurs.

“No one can refuse that,” came to the ears of Isabel Gray, in the midst of an animated conversation.

“The health of our fair hostess,” said her companion, by way of explanation. “We are all friends, you know. Your glass, Miss Gray,” and he motioned the attendant to fill it.

“Excuse me,” said she, in a quick, earnest voice, which drew the attention of all. “I will drink to Lucy with all my heart, but in water, if you please,” and she playfully filled the tall glass from a water goblet near her.

“May I be permitted to follow Miss Gray’s example? She must not claim all the honor of this new fashion,” and the speaker, a young man with a fine though somewhat sad face, suited the action to the word.

Courtesy subdued the astonishment and remonstrances of the host and his fashionable friends, and this strange freak of Miss Gray’s formed the topic of conversation after the ladies withdrew.

“I do not think it a fancy—Isabel Gray always acts from principle,” said one of the party, with whom she had been conversing; and Robert Lewis, for so they called her supporter in this unparalleled refusal, gayly declared himself bound, for that night at least, to drink nothing but water, for her sake.

“Oh, Isabel, how could you do so?” said her cousin, as they re-entered the drawingroom, and the ladies had dispersed in various groups to examine and admire its decorations.

“Do what, dear Lucy?”

“Why, act in such a strange way. I never knew you to refuse wine before. You might, at least, have touched the glass to your lips, as you always have done. Mr. Rushton was too polite to remonstrate, but I saw he looked terribly annoyed. He is so proud of his wines, too, and I wanted him to like you so much. I would not have had it happen—oh, for any thing,” and the little lady clasped her hands with a most tragical look of distress.

“How very terrible! Is it such a mighty offense? But, seriously, it was not a freak. I shall never take wine again.”

“And all my parties to attend? You will be talked about all winter. Why, nothing is expected of a lady now-a-days but to sip the least possible quantity; and, besides, champagne, you know, Isabel—champagne never hurt any one.”

“I have seen too much of its ill effects to agree with you there, Lucy. It has led to intemperance again and again. My heart has long condemned the practice of convivial drinking, and I cannot countenance it even byseemingto join. Think of poor Talfourd—what made him a beggar and a maniac! He was your husband’s college friend.”

“Oh, that is but one in a thousand; and, besides, what influence can you possibly have. Who, think you, will be the better man for seeing you so rude—I must say it—as to refuse to take wine with him?

“We none of us know the influence we exert—perhaps never will know it in this world. But, still, the principle remains the same. To-night, however, I had a definite object in my pointed refusal. Young Lewis has recently made a resolution to avoid every thing that can lead him into his one fault. Noble, generous to “the half of his kingdom”—highly cultivated, and wealthy, he nearly shipwrecked his fortune when abroad, brother tells me, by dissipation—the effect of this same warm-hearted, generous nature. It is but very lately that he has seen what a moral and mental ruin threatened him, and has resolved to gain a mastery over the temptation. I knew of it by accident, and I should not tell it, even to you, only that it may prevent his being rallied by Mr. Rushton or yourself. To-night was his first trial. I saw the struggle between custom, pride, and good resolutions. If he had yielded then, he would have become disheartened on reflection, and, perhaps, abandoned his new life altogether. I cannot tell—our fate in this world is decided by such trivial events. At any rate, I have spared him one stroke—he will be stronger next time to refuse for himself.”

“I should not have dreamed of all this! Why I thought it was only his Parisian gallantry that made him join with you; but, then, if he has once been dissipated, the case is hopeless.”

“Oh, no Lucy, not hopeless; when a strong judgment is once convinced, it is the absence of reflection, or a little moral courage, at first, that ruins so many.”

“Excellent, excellent,” cried the lively Mrs. Moore, who came up just in time to hear Isabel’s closing sentence—“If Miss Gray is not turned temperance lecturer! Come, ladies, let her have a numerous audience while she is about it. Ah, I know you think to get into Father Mathew’s good graces. Shall you call upon him when he arrives, and offer your services as assistant?”

“We were discussing the possibility of entire reformation,” said Isabel, calmly, quite unmoved by Mrs. Moore’s covert sarcasms, to the ladies who now gathered round the lounge on which she sat. “The reformation of a man who has been once intemperate, I mean.”

“Oh, intemperance is so shockingly vulgar, my dear,” quavered forth Mrs. Bradford, the stately aunt of the hostess. “How can you talk about such things. No, to be sure, when a man is once dissipated, you might as well give him up. He’s lost to society,that’s certain; besides, we women have nothing to do with it.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear madam, but I think we have a great deal to do, though not in the way of assisting Father Matthew to address Temperance Conventions, as Mrs. Moore kindly suggests. Moreover, I have known a confirmed inebriate, so supposed, to give up all his old associations, and become a useful and honorable member of society.”

“Tell us about it, please, Miss Gray,” urged Emily Bradford, deeply interested. “There will be plenty of time before the gentlemen come in.”

And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her simple tale.

[1]“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember those pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—andyouhave seen me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman—aladywhom I first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at Milton, a little town not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very domestic, and thought it no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one of the most prominent men in the state, to see after her own household.

“There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I remember going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by ‘sleeves and gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them with the most exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother yourself with such things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school notions on the dignity ofidleness. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a seamstress.’

“‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you will find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our walk ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one of the lower windows.

“‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who was making sand pies on the front step.

“‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed toward a door on the right of the little hall.

“‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy curtain which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window. There was a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table, and a bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window, so that the light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-worn counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—but her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her eyes were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in consumptives, yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale in that soft emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved by a faint hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as she saw my aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held out her long thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I noticed that she wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were scattered bits of linen and sewing implements. You cannot tell how strange it seemed to see her take up a wristband and bend over it, setting stitch after stitch with the regularity of an automaton, while she talked with us. She seemed already dying, and this industry was almost painful to witness.

“I gathered from her conversation with my aunt,—while I looked on and wondered,—that Mrs. Hall had long been a confirmed invalid. They even spoke of a ruptured blood-vessel, from the effects of which she was now suffering. She did not complain—there was not a single murmur at her illness, or the hard fate that compelled her to work for her daily bread. I never saw such perfect cheerfulness, and yet I knew, from the contracted features and teasing cough, that she was suffering intensely. The little savage we had seen on our arrival, proved to be the son of her landlady, who was also her nurse and waiting-maid.

“I was very much interested, and, by the time we bade her good-bye, I had sketched out quite a romance, in which I was sure she had been the principal actor.

“‘Poor lady,’ said I, the instant we were out of the gate. ‘Why do you let her work, aunt? Why don’t you take her home, you have so many vacant rooms—or, at least, I should think, there were rich people enough in Milton to support her entirely. She does not look fit to hold a needle. Has she no children? and when did her husband die?—was she very wealthy?’

“I poured out my questions so fast that aunt had no time to answer any one of them, and I had been so much engaged, that I had not noticed a man reeling along the side-walk toward us, until just in time to escape the rude contact of his touch, from which I shrunk, almost shrieking.

“‘Who told you that Mrs. Hall was a widow, Isabel?’ said aunt, to divert me from my mishap.

“‘Nobody; but I knew it at once, as soon as I looked at her; how lonely she must be—and how terrible to see one’s best friend die, and know you cannot call them back again.’

“‘Not half so dreadful, dear,’ answered she, very seriously, ‘as to live on from day to day and see the gradual death of the soul, while the body is unwasted. It would be a happy day for Mrs. Hall that made her a widow, though she, poor thing, might not think so. That wretched inebriate’—and she pointed to the man we had just met—‘is her husband; and this is why she plies her needle when we would willingly save her from all labor. She cannot bear thatheshould be indebted to the charity of strangers.’

“It was even so, for the poor fellow had reached the garden-gate, and was staggering in.

“‘So he goes home to her day after day,’ continued aunt; ‘and so it has been since a few years after their marriage. When I first came here, he had a neat shop in the village, and was considered one of the most promising young men in the neighborhood. Such an excellent workman—such a clever fellow—so fond and proud of his wife; and everybody said that Charlotte Adams had married ‘out of all trouble,’ in the country phrase. Poor girl! she had only entered a sea of misfortunes—for, from the death of her only child, a fine little fellow, they have been going down. It is a common story. First, the shop was given up, and he worked by the day; not long after, they moved to a smaller house, and sold most of their furniture. It was then she first commenced sewing, and, with all her industry she could scarcely get along. She could never deny him money when she had it—and this, with his own earnings, were spent at the tavern. She remonstrated in vain. He would promise to do better—in his sober moments he was all contrition, and called himself a wretch to grieve such a good wife. I do not believe she has ever reproached him, save by a glance of sorrowful entreaty, such as I have often seen her give when he entered as now he is going to her.

“‘She was never very well, and under repeated trials, and sorrow and mortification, her health gave way. Many a time have I parted with her, never expecting to see her alive again; but there is some concealed principle of vitality which supports her. Perhaps it is the hope that she will yet see her husband what he has been. I fear she hopes in vain, for if there was ever a man given over to the demon of intemperance it is James Hall. But it is for this reason that she refuses the assistance of her acquaintances, and works on from day to day, sometimes as now unable to leave her bed. Of course she is well paid, and has plenty of work, for everybody pities her, and all admire the wonderful patience, cheerfulness and industry which she exhibits. She never speaks to any one, even to me, of her husband’s faults. If she ever mentions him it is to say, ‘James has been such a good nurse this week—he has the kindest heart in the world.’ ‘She is a heroine,’ exclaimed my aunt warmly. ‘The best wife I ever knew—and if there is mercy in heaven, she will be repaid for all she has suffered in this world.’

“‘Poor lady,’ I thought and said a hundred times that week. I suppose I must have tired everybody with talking about Mrs. Hall.”

“And did you ever see her again—didshe die, Miss Gray?” asked Emily Bradford, as Isabel paused in her narration.

“I told you she made those pretty habit shirts for me. They were not in fashion in those days if you will recollect. The first summer after my debut in society I passed at Milton. I never shall forget the second evening of my visit. If you recollect, there was a great temperance movement through all our towns and villages just about that time. Reformed inebriates had become the apostles of temperance, and went from village to village, rousing the inhabitants by their unlearned but wonderful eloquence. Mass meetings were held in the town-ball at Milton nightly, and by uncle’s invitation, for he went heart and hand with the newly awakened spirit of reform, aunt and myself accompanied him to one of these strange gatherings. It was with the greatest difficulty we could get a seat. Rough laborers, with their wives and children, crowded side by side with theéliteof the little place; boys of every age and size filled up the interstices, with a strange variety of faces and expressions. The speaker of the evening was introduced just as we entered. He was tall, with a wan, haggard-looking face, and the most brilliant, flashing eyes I ever saw. A few months ago he had been on outcast from society, and now, with a frame weakened by past excesses, but with a spirit as strong as that which animated the old reformers, he stood forth, going as it were ‘from house to house, saying peace be unto you.’ Peace which had fled from his own hearth when he gave way to temptation, but which now returning urged him to bear glad tidings to other homes.

“I never listened to such strange and thrilling eloquence. I have seen Fanny Kemble as Portia plead with Shylock with all the energy of justice, and the force of her passionate nature, but though that was beyond my powers of conception, I was not moved as now. With what touching pathos he recounted the sorrows, the wasting, mournful want endured by the drunkard’s wife! The sickness of hope deferred and crushed—the destruction of all happiness here, or hope of it hereafter! It was what his own eyes had seen, his own acts had caused—and it was the eloquence of simple truth. More than one thought of poor Mrs. Hall, I am sure. As for myself, I know not when I have been so excited, and after the exhausted speaker had concluded his thrilling appeal, and the whole rude assembly joined in a song arranged to the plaintive air of Auld Lang Syne—more like a triumphal chant it seemed, as it surged through the room—I forgot all rules of form, and though I had sung nothing but tame Italiancavatinasfor years, my voice rose with the rest, forgetful of all but the scene around me.

“Scarce had the last strains died away, when through the crowded aisles, passing the very seat we occupied, some one pressed forward with trembling eagerness. At first I did not recognize him—but uncle started and made way for him to the table in front of the speaker’s seat. A confused murmur of voices ran through the room, as one and another saw him grasp the printed pledge which was lying there, with the eagerness of a dying man. The first name subscribed to the solemn promise of total abstinence that night wasJames Hall. When it was announced by my uncle himself, whose voice was fairly tremulous with pleasure, the effect was electrical. The whole assembly rose, and the room rang with three cheers from stentorian voices. All order was at an end. Men of all classes and conditions pressed forward to take him by the hand, and more names were affixed to the pledge that night than any one could have counted on.

“It was a proud tribute paid to woman’s influence, when James Hall grasping the hand of the speaker ejaculated—‘Oh! it was the picture you drew of what my poor wife has suffered. Heaven bless her! she has been an angel to me—poor wretch that I am.’

“My aunt’s first impulse was to fly to Mrs. Hall with the good news, but ‘let him be the bearer of the glad tidings himself,’ she said afterward. ‘We will offer our congratulations to-morrow.’ And never were congratulations more sincerely received than by that pale invalid, trembling even yet with the fear that her great happiness was not real.”

“Oh! very well,” broke in Mrs. Bradford. “Quite a scene, my dear; you should have been a novelist. But did he keep it?—that’sthe thing.”

“You would not ask, my dear madam,” answered Isabel, “if you could have witnessed another ‘scene,’ as you term it, in which Mrs. Hall was an actor.

“There is a pretty little cottage standing at the very foot of the lane which leads to my uncle’s house. This has been built since that memorable evening by Mr. Hall, now considered the best workman, and one of the most respected men in Milton; and it was furnished by his wife’s industry. Her health was restored as if by a miracle; it was indeed such, but wrought by the returned industry, self-respect, and devotion of her husband. My aunt and myself were her guests only a few months ago, the evening of her removal to her new home.

“We entered before her little preparations were quite finished, and found Mrs. Hall arranging some light window curtains for the prettily furnished parlor, while a fine curly-haired, blue-eyed little fellow was rolling on the carpet at her feet. She was still pale, and will never be strong again, but a happier wife and mother this world cannot contain. Her reward has been equal to her great self-sacrifice, and not only this, but the example of her husband has reformed many of his old associates, who at first jeered at him when he refused to join them. There is not a bar now in all Milton, for one cannot be supported.”

More than one thoughtless girl in the little group clustered around Isabel began, for the first time, to feel their responsibility as women, when her little narrative was concluded. But the current of thought and education is not so easily turned, and by the time the gentlemen entered the room, most of them had forgotten every thing but a desire to outshine each other in their good graces.

Emily Bradford alone remained in the shadow of a curtain, quiet and apart; and as she stood there musing, her heart beat faster, it may be, with an unacknowledged pang of jealousy as she saw Robert Lewis speaking earnestly with Isabel.

“Heaven bless you, Miss Gray, I confess I wavered—you have made me ashamed of my weakness; I will not mind their taunting now,” was all that the grateful, warm-hearted man could say; and he knew by the friendly clasp of Isabel’s hand that nothing more was needed. Who among that group of noble and beautiful women had more reason for happiness than Isabel Gray? Ah, my sisters, if you could but realise that all beauty and grace are but talents entrusted to your keeping, and that the happiness of many may rest upon the most trivial act, you would not use that loveliness for an ignoble triumph, or so thoughtlessly tread the path of daily life!

“Oh, Isabel,” said Lucy Rushton, bursting into her cousin’s room, some two years from the scenes we have recorded, “what am I to do? Pray advise me, for you always know every thing.”

“Not quite as wise as that, dear, but what am I to do for you?”

“Oh, Emily Bradford has been proposed for by young Lewis, and aunt, who sees only his wealth and connections, is crazy for the match. Emily really loves him devotedly; and what am I to do, knowing how near he once came to downright intemperance? Is it my duty, or is it not, to tell aunt? It has no effect on Emily, and, besides, he confessed it all to her when he proposed.”

“And what does she say?”

“Why, it’s your fault, after all, for she quotes a story you told that same night I heard about his folly. You told me that, too. Well, he declares he has not drank a glass of wine since then, and never will again. Particularly if he has Emily for his guiding angel, I suppose, and all that sort of thing. And she believes him, of course.”

“Well, ‘of course’—don’t say it so despairingly; why not? I do, most assuredly. I might perhaps have distrusted the reformation if it had been solely on Emily’s account, a pledge made to gain her, but if I am not very much mistaken, I think I can trace their attachment to that same eventful night, but I am very certain he did not declare himself until quite recently.”

“So I am to let Emily run the risk?”

“Yes, if she chooses it; though I do not think there is much. I should have no hesitation to marry Lewis if I loved him. Emily is a thoughtful, sensible girl. She does not act without judgment, and she is just the woman to be the wife of an impulsive, generous man like Lewis. Sufficient time has elapsed to try his principles, and her companionship will strengthen them.”

And so it proved, for there are now few happier homes than the cheerful, hospitable household over which Emily Lewis presides. Isabel Gray is always a favorite guest, and Robert predicts that she will never marry. It may prove so, for she is not of those who would sacrifice herself for fortune, or give her hand to any man she did not thoroughly respect and sympathise with, to escape that really very tolerable fate—becoming an old maid.

[1]The circumstances here related are substantially true.

[1]

The circumstances here related are substantially true.

ON A PORTRAIT OF CROMWELL.

———

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

———

“Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell,Rough with age, and gashed with wars—“Show my visage as you find it—Less than truth my soul abhors!”This was he whose mustering phalanxSwept the foe at Marston Moor;This was he whose arm upliftedFrom the dust the fainting poor.God had made his face uncomely—“Paint me as I am,” he said,So helivesupon the canvasWhom they chronicled asdead!Simple justice he requestedAt the artist’s glowing hands,“Simple justice!” from his ashesCries a voice that still commands.And, behold! the page of History,Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name,Shines to-day with thrilling lustreFrom the light of Cromwell’s fame!

“Paint me as I am,” said Cromwell,

Rough with age, and gashed with wars—

“Show my visage as you find it—

Less than truth my soul abhors!”

This was he whose mustering phalanx

Swept the foe at Marston Moor;

This was he whose arm uplifted

From the dust the fainting poor.

God had made his face uncomely—

“Paint me as I am,” he said,

So helivesupon the canvas

Whom they chronicled asdead!

Simple justice he requested

At the artist’s glowing hands,

“Simple justice!” from his ashes

Cries a voice that still commands.

And, behold! the page of History,

Centuries dark with Cromwell’s name,

Shines to-day with thrilling lustre

From the light of Cromwell’s fame!

A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as ifThe myth that ancient poësy did tellWere true, and they did bear upon their breastsKing Néreus with state most royal. HowThey leap and toss aloft their snowy crests;And now a tumbling billow springing upIn air, does dash and bound—another comes—Then playfully they meet, with bursting swellDashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,And quick the ripples hasten back, as ifTo join the Ocëanides wild glee.But when the beaming sunlight fades awayAnd storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heardThe under-current’s deep and solemn tones,As on the shore it breaks.How like to lifeThese ocean waves! When beaming with the raysOf sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound,Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh,Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloudObscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes,The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on,And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone!

These white-capped waves roll on with pride, as if

The myth that ancient poësy did tell

Were true, and they did bear upon their breasts

King Néreus with state most royal. How

They leap and toss aloft their snowy crests;

And now a tumbling billow springing up

In air, does dash and bound—another comes—

Then playfully they meet, with bursting swell

Dashing their spray-wreaths on the shelving shore,

And quick the ripples hasten back, as if

To join the Ocëanides wild glee.

But when the beaming sunlight fades away

And storm-clouds gather—then the rolling waves,

Without a light, sweep on, and soon is heard

The under-current’s deep and solemn tones,

As on the shore it breaks.

How like to life

These ocean waves! When beaming with the rays

Of sunny Joy, Youths cresting billows bound,

Its frolick waves leap up with gleeful laugh,

Glitt’ring with pleasure’s light; but lo! a cloud

Obscures Life’s sky, and sorrow’s storm awakes,

The heavy swell of grief comes rolling on,

And all the sparkles of Life’s waves are gone!

THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.

A SOUTHERN NOVELET.

———

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

———

(Concluded from page 91.)

It was with feelings of a tumultuous satisfaction that Mat Dunbar found himself in possession of this new prize. He at once conceived a new sense of his power, and prepared to avail himself of all his advantages. But we must suffer our friend Brough to become the narrator of this portion of our history. Anxious about events, Coulter persuaded the old African, nothing loth, to set forth on a scouting expedition to the farmstead. Following his former footsteps, which had been hitherto planted in security, the negro made his way, an hour before daylight, toward the cabin in which Mimy, and her companion Lizzy, a young girl of sixteen, were housed. They, too, had been compelled to change their abodes under the tory usurpation; and now occupied an ancient tenement of logs, which in its time had gone through a curious history. It had first been a hog-pen, next a hunter’s lodge; had stabled horses, and had been made a temporary fortress during Indian warfare. It was ample in its dimensions—made of heavy cypresses; but the clay which had filled its interstices had fallen out; of the chimney nothing remained but the fire-place; and one end of the cabin, from the decay of two or more of its logs, had taken such on inclination downward, as to leave the security which it offered of exceedingly dubious value. The negro does not much regard these things, however, and old Mimy enjoyed her sleeps here quite as well as at her more comfortable kitchen. The place, indeed, possessed some advantages under the peculiar circumstances. It stood on the edge of a limestone sink-hole—one of those wonderful natural cavities with which the country abounds. This was girdled by cypresses and pines, and, fortunately for Brough, at this moment, when a drought prevailed, entirely free from water. A negro loves any thing, perhaps, better than water—he would sooner bathe in the sun than in the stream, and would rather wade through a forest full of snakes than suffuse his epidermis unnecessarily with an element which no one will insist was made for his uses. It was important that the sink-hole near Mimy’s abode should be dry at this juncture, for it was here that Brough found his hiding place. He could approach this place under cover of the woods. There was an awkward interval of twelve or fifteen feet, it is true, between this place and the hovel, which the inmates had stripped of all its growth in the search for fuel, but a dusky form, on a dusky night, careful to crawl over the space, might easily escape the casual glance of a drowsy sentinel; and Brough was partisan enough to know that the best caution implies occasional exposure. He was not unwilling to incur the risk. We must not detail his progress. Enough that, by dint of crouching, crawling, creeping, rolling and sliding, he had contrived to bury himself, at length, under the wigwam, occupying the space, in part, of a decayed log connected with the clayed chimney; and fitting himself to the space in the log, from which he had scratched out the rotten fragments, as snugly as if he were a part of it. Thus, with his head toward the fire, looking within—his body hidden from those within by the undecayed portions of the timber, with Mimy on his side of the fire-place, squat upon the hearth, and busy with thehominypot, Brough might carry on the most interesting conversation in the world, in whispers, and occasionally be fed from the spoon of his spouse, or drink from the calabash, without any innocent person suspecting his propinquity. We will suppose him thus quietly ensconced, his old woman beside him, and deeply buried in the domestic histories which he came to hear. We must suppose all the preliminaries to be dispatched already, which, in the case of an Africandramatis personæ, are usually wonderfully minute and copious.

“And dis nigger, Tory, he’s maussa yer for true?”

“I tell you, Brough, he’s desp’r’t bad! He tak’ ebbry ting for he’sef! He sway (swears) ebbry ting for him—we nigger, de plantation, boss, hog, hominy; and ef young misses no marry um—you yeddy? (hear)—he will hang de maussa up to de sapling, same as you hang scarecrow in de cornfiel’!”

Brough groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.

“Wha’ for do, Brough?”

“Who gwine say? I ’spec he mus fight for um yet. Mass Dick no chicken! He gwine fight like de debbil, soon he get strong, ’fore dis ting gwine happen. He hab sodger, and more for come. Parson ’Lijah gwine fight too—and dis nigger’s gwine fight, sooner dan dis tory ride, whip and spur, ober we plantation.”

“Why, wha’ you tink dese tory say to me, Brough?”

“Wha’ he say, woman?”

“He say he gwine gib me hundred lash ef I no get he breckkus (breakfast) by day peep in de morning!”

“De tory wha’ put hick’ry ’pon your back, chicken, he hab answer to Brough.”

“You will fight for me, Brough?”

“Wid gun and bagnet, my chicken.”

“Ah, I blieb you, Brough; you was always lub me wid you’ sperrit!”

“Enty you blieb? You will see some day! You got ’noder piece of bacon in de pot, Mimy? Dis hom’ny ’mos’ too dry in de t’roat.”

“Leetle piece.”

“Gi’ me.”

His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not forget that the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which he paused from eating the supper which, in anticipation of his coming, the old woman had provided. Then followed the recapitulation of the narrative, details being furnished which showed that Dunbar, desperate from opposition to his will, had thrown off all the restraints of social fear and decency, and was urging his measures against old Sabb and his daughter with tyrannical severity. He had given the old man a sufficient taste of his power, enough to make him dread the exercise of what remained. This rendered him now, what he had never been before, the advocate himself with his daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb’s virtue was not of a self-sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man—was rather what the world esteems a good one. He was just, as well as he knew to be, in his dealings with a neighbor; was not wanting in that charity, which, having first ascertained its own excess of goods, gives a certain proportion to the needy; he had offerings for the church, and solicited its prayers. But he had not the courage and strength of character to be virtuous in spite of circumstances. In plain language, he valued the securities and enjoyments of his homestead, even at the peril of his daughter’s happiness. He urged with tears and reproaches, that soon became vehement, the suit of Dunbar as if it had been his own; and even his goodvrow, Minnecker Sabb, overwhelmed by his afflictions and her own, joined somewhat in his entreaty. We may imagine poor Frederica’s afflictions. She had not dared to reveal to either the secret of her marriage with Coulter. She now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the probable effect which it might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there be to his fury and brutality, should the fact become known to him? How measure his rage—how meet its excesses? She trembled as she reflected upon the possibility of his making the discovery; and while inly swearing eternal fidelity to her husband, she resolved still to keep her secret close from all, looking to the chapter of providential events for that hope which she had not the power to draw from any thing within human probability. Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of all mortal agents. But she had no voice which could reach to him—and what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old Brough to his spouse, but with these she was prevented from all secret conference. Her hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing for herself, would duly report to the African; and he, she well knew, would keep nothing from her husband. We have witnessed the conference between this venerable couple. The result corresponded with the anticipations of Frederica. Brough hurried back with his gloomy tidings to the place of hiding in the swamp; and Coulter, still suffering somewhat from his wound, and conscious of the inadequate force at his control, for the rescue of his wife and people, was almost maddened by the intelligence. He looked around upon his party, now increased to seven men, not including the parson. But Elijah Fields was a host in himself. The men were also true and capable—good riflemen, good scouts, and as fearless as they were faithful. The troop under Dunbar consisted of eighteen men, all well armed and mounted. The odds were great, but the despair of Richard Coulter was prepared to overlook all inequalities. Nor was Fields disposed to discourage him.

“There is no hope but in ourselves, Elijah,” was the remark of Coulter.

“Truly, and in God!” was the reply.

“We must make the effort.”

“Verily, we must.”

“We have seven men, not counting yourself, Elijah.”

“I too am a man, Richard;” said the other, calmly.

“A good man and a brave; do I not know it, Elijah? But we should not expose you on ordinary occasions.”

“This is no ordinary occasion, Richard.”

“True, true! And you propose to go with us, Elijah?”

“No, Richard! I will go before you. Imustgo to prevent outrage. I must show to Dunbar that Frederica is your wife. It is my duty to testify in this proceeding. I am the first witness.”

“But your peril, Elijah! He will become furious as a wild beast when he hears. He will proceed to the most desperate excesses.”

“It will be for you to interpose at the proper moment. You must be at hand. As for me, I doubt if there will be much if any peril. I will go unarmed. Dunbar, while he knows that I am with you, does not know that I have ever lifted weapon in the cause. He will probably respect my profession. At all events, Imustinterpose and save him from a great sin, and a cruel and useless violence. When he knows that Frederica is irrevocably married, he will probably give up the pursuit. If Brough’s intelligence be true, he must know it now or never.”

“Be it so;” said Coulter. “And now that you have made your determination, I will make mine. The odds are desperate, so desperate, indeed, that I build my hope somewhat on that very fact. Dunbar knows my feebleness, and does not fear me. I must effect a surprise. If we can do this, with the first advantage, we will make a rush, and club rifles. Do you go up in the dug-out, and alone, while we make a circuit by land. We can be all ready in five minutes, and perhaps we should set out at once.”

“Right!” answered the preacher; “but are you equal to the struggle, Richard?”

The young man upheaved his powerful bulk, and leaping up to the bough which spread over him, grasped the extended limb with a single hand, and drew himself across it.

“Good!” was the reply. “But you are still stiff. I have seen you do it much more easily. Still you will do, if you will only economise your breath. There is one preparation first to be made, Richard. Call up the men.”

They were summoned with a single, shrill whistle, and Coulter soon put them in possession of the adventure that lay before them. It needed neither argument nor entreaty to persuade them into a declaration of readiness for the encounter. Their enthusiasm was grateful to their leader whom they personally loved.

“And now, my brethren,” said Elijah Fields, “I am about to leave you, and we are all about to engage in a work of peril. We know not what will happen. We know not that we shall meet again. It is proper only that we should confess our sins to God, and invoke his mercy and protection. My brothers—let us pray!”

With these words, the party sunk upon their knees, Brough placing himself behind Coulter. Fervent and simple was the prayer of the preacher—inartificial but highly touching. Our space does not suffer us to record it, or to describe the scene, so simple, yet so imposing. The eyes of the rough men were moistened, their hearts softened, yet strengthened. They rose firm and resolute to meet the worst issues of life and death, and, embracing each of them in turn, Brough not excepted, Elijah Fields led the way to the enemy, by embarking alone in the canoe. Coulter, with his party, soon followed, taking the route through the forest.

——

In the meantime, our captain of loyalists had gone forward in his projects with a very free and fearless footstep. The course which he pursued, in the present instance, is one of a thousand instances which go to illustrate the perfect recklessness with which the British conquerors, and their baser allies, regarded the claims of humanity, where the interests, the rights, or the affections of the whig inhabitants of South Carolina were concerned. Though resolutely rejected by Frederica, Dunbar yet seemed determined to attach no importance to her refusal, but, dispatching a messenger to the village of Orangeburg, he brought from thence one Nicholas Veitch, a Scotch Presbyterian parson, for the avowed object of officiating at his wedding rites. The parson, who was a good man enough perhaps, was yet a weak and timid one, wanting that courage which boldly flings itself between the victim and his tyrant. He was brought into the Dutchman’s cottage, which Dunbar now occupied. Thither also was Frederica brought, much against her will; indeed, only under the coercive restraint of a couple of dragoons. Her parents were neither of them present, and the following dialogue ensued between Dunbar and herself; Veitch being the only witness.

“Here, Frederica,” said Dunbar, “you see the parson. He comes to marry us. The consent of your parents has been already given, and it is useless for you any longer to oppose your childish scruples to what is now unavoidable. This day, I am resolved, that we are to be made man and wife. Having the consent of your father and mother, there is no reason for not having yours.”

“Where are they?” was the question of Frederica. Her face was very pale, but her lips were firm, and her eyes gazed without faltering into those of her oppressor.

“They will be present when the time comes. They will be present at the ceremony.”

“Then they will never be present!” she answered, firmly.

“Beware, girl, how you provoke me! You little know the power I have to punish—”

“You have no power upon my voice or my heart.”

“Ha!”

The preacher interposed, “My daughter be persuaded. The consent of your parents should be enough to incline you to Captain Dunbar. They are surely the best judges of what is good for their children.”

“I cannot and I will not marry with Captain Dunbar.”

“Beware, Frederica,” said Dunbar, in a voice studiously subdued, but with great difficulty—the passion speaking out in his fiery looks, and his frame that trembled with its emotions.

“‘Beware, Frederica!’ Of what should I beware? Your power? Your power may kill me. It can scarcely go farther. Know, then, that I am prepared to die sooner than marry you!”

Though dreadfully enraged, the manner of Dunbar was still carefully subdued. His words were enunciated in tones of a laborious calm, as he replied,

“You are mistaken in your notions of the extent of my power. It can reach where you little imagine. But I do not desire to use it. I prefer that you should give me your hand without restraint or coercion.”

“That I have told you is impossible.”

“Nay, it is not impossible.”

“Solemnly, on my knees, I assure you that never can I, or will I, while I preserve my consciousness, consent to be your wife.”

The action was suited to the words. She sunk on her knees as she spoke, and her hands were clasped and her eyes uplifted, as if taking a solemn oath to heaven. Dunbar rushed furiously toward her.

“Girl!” he exclaimed, “will you drive me to madness. Will you compel me to do what I would not!”

The preacher interposed. The manner of Dunbar was that of a man about to strike his enemy. Even Frederica closed her eyes, expecting the blow.

“Let me endeavor to persuade the damsel, my brother,” was the suggestion of Veitch. Dunbar turned away, and went toward the window, leaving the field to the preacher. To all the entreaties of the latter Frederica made the same reply.

“Though death stared me in the face, I should never marry that man!”

“Death shall stare you in the face,” was the fierce cry of Dunbar. “Nay, you shall behold him in such terrors as you have never fancied yet, but you shall be brought to know and to submit to my power. Ho, there! Nesbitt, bring out the prisoner.”

This order naturally startled Frederica. She had continued kneeling. She now rose to her feet. In the same moment Dunbar turned to where she stood, full of fearful expectation, grasped her by the wrist, and dragged her to the window. She raised her head, gave but one glance at the scene before her, and fell back swooning. The cruel spectacle which she had been made to witness, was that of her father, surrounded by a guard, and the halter about his neck, waiting only the terrible word from the ruffian in authority.

In that sight, the unhappy girl lost all consciousness. She would have fallen upon the ground, but that the hand of Dunbar still grasped her wrist. He now supported her in his arms.

“Marry us at once,” he cried to Veitch.

“But she can’t understand—she can’t answer,” replied the priest.

“That’s as it should be,” answered Dunbar, with a laugh; “silence always gives consent.”

The reply seemed to be satisfactory, and Veitch actually stood forward to officiate in the disgraceful ceremony, when a voice at the entrance drew the attention of the parties within. It was that of Elijah Fields. How he had made his way to the building without arrest or interruption is only to be accounted for by his pacific progress—his being without weapons, and his well-known priestly character. It may have been thought by the troopers, knowing what was in hand, that he also had been sent for; and probably something may be ascribed to the excitement of most of the parties about the dwelling. At all events, Fields reached it without interruption, and the first intimation that Dunbar had of his presence was from his own lips.

“I forbid this proceeding in the name and by the authority of God,” was the stern interruption. “The girl is already married!”

——

Let us now retrace our steps and follow those of Richard Coulter and his party. We have seen what has been the progress of Elijah Fields. The route which he pursued was considerably longer than that of his comrades; but the difference of time was fully equalized by the superior and embarrassing caution which they were compelled to exercise. The result was to bring them to the common centre at nearly the same moment, though the policy of Coulter required a different course of conduct from that of Fields. Long before he reached the neighborhood of old Sabb’s farm, he had compelled his troopers to dismount, and hide their horses in the forest. They then made their way forward on foot. Richard Coulter was expert in all the arts of the partisan. Though eager to grapple with his enemy, and impatient to ascertain and arrest the dangers of his lovely wife, he yet made his approaches with a proper caution. The denseness of the forest route enabled him easily to do so, and making a considerable circuit, he drew nigh to the upper part of the farmstead, in which stood the obscure out-house, which, when Dunbar had taken possession of the mansion, he assigned to the aged couple. This he found deserted. He little dreamed for what reason, or in what particular emergency the old Dutchman stood at that very moment. Making another circuit, he came upon a copse, in which four of Dunbar’s troopers were grouped together in a state of fancied security. Their horses were fastened in the woods, and they lay upon the ground, greedily interested with a pack of greasy cards, which had gone through the campaign. The favorite game of that day wasOld Sledge, orAll Fours, orSeven Up; by all of which names it was indiscriminately known. Poker, and Brag, and Loo, and Monte, andVingt’un, were then unknown in that region. These are all modern innovations, in the substitution of which good morals have made few gains. Dragoons, in all countries, are notoriously sad fellows, famous for swearing and gambling. Those of Dunbar were no exception to the rule. Our tory captain freely indulged them in the practice. He himself played with them when the humor suited. The four upon whom Coulter came were not on duty, though they wore their swords. Their holsters lay with their saddles across a neighboring log, not far off, but not immediately within reach. Coulter saw his opportunity; the temptation was great; but these were not exactly his prey—not yet, at all events. To place one man, well armed with rifle and pair of pistols, in a situation to cover the group at any moment, and between them and the farmstead, was his plan; and this done, he proceeded on his way. His policy was to make his first blow at the head of the enemy—his very citadel—trusting somewhat to the scatteredcondition of the party, and the natural effect of such an alarm to scatter them the more. All this was managed with great prudence, and with two more of his men set to watch over two other groups of the dragoons, he pushed forward with the remaining four until he reached the verge of the wood, just where it opened upon the settlement. Here he had a full view of the spectacle—his own party unseen—and the prospect was such as to compel his instant feeling of the necessity of early action. It was at the moment which exhibited old Sabb in the hands of the provost, his hands tied behind him, and the rope about his neck. Clymes, the lieutenant of Dunbar, with drawn sword, was pacing between the victim and the house. The old Dutchman stood between two subordinates, waiting for the signal, while his wife, little dreaming of the scene in progress, was kept out of sight at the bottom of the garden. Clymes and the provost were at once marked out for the doom of the rifle, and thebeadsof two select shots were kept ready, and leveled at their heads. But Dunbar must be the first victim—and where was he? Of the scene in the house Coulter had not yet any inkling. But suddenly he beheld Frederica at the window. He heard her shriek, and beheld her, as he thought, drawn away from the spot. His excitement growing almost to frenzy at this moment, he was about to give the signal, and follow the first discharge of his rifles with a rush, when suddenly he saw his associate, Elijah Fields, turn the corner of the house, and enter it through the piazza. This enabled him to pause, and prevented a premature development of his game. He waited for those events which it is not denied that we shall see. Let us then return to the interior.

We must not forget the startling words with which Elijah Fields interrupted the forced marriage of Frederica with her brutal persecutor.

“The girl is already married.”

Dunbar, still supporting her now quite lifeless in his arms, looked up at the intruder in equal fury and surprise.

“Ha, villain!” was the exclamation of Dunbar, “you are here?”

“No villain, Captain Dunbar, but a servant of the Most High God!”

“Servant of the devil, rather! What brings you here—and what is it you say?”

“I say that Frederica Sabb is already married, and her husband living!”

“Liar, that you are, you shall swing for this insolence.”

“I am no liar. I say that the girl is married, and I witnessed the ceremony.”

“You did, did you?” was the speech of Dunbar, with a tremendous effort of coolness, laying down the still lifeless form of Frederica as he spoke; “and perhaps you performed the ceremony also, oh, worthy servant of the Most High!”

“It was my lot to do so.”

“Grateful lot! And pray with whom did you unite the damsel?”

“With Richard Coulter, captain in the service of the State of South Carolina.”

Though undoubtedly anticipating this very answer, Dunbar echoed the annunciation with a fearful shriek, as, drawing his sword at the same moment, he rushed upon the speaker. But his rage blinded him; and Elijah Fields was one of the coolest of all mortals, particularly when greatly excited. He met the assault of Dunbar with a fearful buffet of his fist, which at once felled the assailant; but he rose in a moment, and with a yell of fury he grappled with the preacher. They fell together, the latter uppermost, and rolling his antagonist into the fire-place, where he was at once half buried among the embers, and in a cloud of ashes. In the struggle, however, Dunbar contrived to extricate a pistol from his belt, and to fire it. Fields struggled up from his embrace, but a torrent of blood poured from his side as he did so. He rushed toward the window, grasped the sill in his hands, then yielded his hold, and sunk down upon the floor, losing his consciousness in an uproar of shots and shouts from without. In the next moment the swords of Coulter and Dunbar were crossed over his prostrate body. The struggle was short and fierce. It had nearly terminated fatally to Coulter, on his discovering the still insensible form of Frederica in his way. In the endeavor to avoid trampling upon her, he afforded an advantage to his enemy, which nothing prevented him from employing to the utmost but the ashes with which his eyes were still half blinded. As it was, he inflicted a severe cut upon the shoulder of the partisan, which rendered his left arm temporarily useless. But the latter recovered himself instantly. His blood was in fearful violence. He raged like aBirserkerof the Northmen—absolutely mocked the danger of his antagonist’s weapon—thrust him back against the side of the house, and hewing him almost down with one terrible blow upon the shoulder, with a mighty thrust immediately after, he absolutely speared him against the wall, the weapon passing through his body, and into the logs behind. For a moment the eyes of the two glared deathfully upon each other. The sword of Dunbar was still uplifted, and he seemed about to strike, when suddenly the arm sunk powerless—the weapon fell from the nerveless grasp—the eyes became fixed and glassy, even while gazing with tiger appetite into those of the enemy—and, with a hoarse and stifling cry, the captain of loyalists fell forward upon his conqueror, snapping, like so much glass, the sword that was still fastened in his body.

——

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