SPRING LILIES.
’Neath their green and cool cathedrals,In the garden lilies bloom,Casting on the fresh spring zephyrPeal on peal of sweet perfume;Often have I, pausing near themWhen the sunset flushed the sky,Seen the coral bells vibratingWith their fragrant harmony.But within my quiet dwellingI have now a lily fair,Whose young spirit’s sweet spring buddingWatch I with unfailing care.God, in placing her beside me,Made my being most complete,And my heart keeps time foreverWith the music of her feet.I remember not whilst gazingIn her earnest eyes of blue,That the earth holds aught of sorrow,Aught less innocent and true.And the restlessness and longingWakened by the cares of day,With the burden and the tumult,In her presence fall away.Shield my Lily, Holy Father!Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,But protracted sunshine temperWith a soft and starry night;’Neath the burning sun of summerScorched and shrunk the spring flower lies,Human hearts contract when strangersLong to clouds and tearful eyes.Give her purpose strong and holy,Faith and self-devotion high;These Life’s common by-ways brighten,Every hope intensify.Teach her all the brave enduranceThat the sons of earth require;May she with a patient laborTo the great and good aspire.Should some mighty grief oppress herHeavier than she can bear,Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,Hear and answer Thou her prayer.And whene’er the storms of winterRound my precious Lily reign,To a fairer clime transplant herThere to live and bloom again.M. G. H.
’Neath their green and cool cathedrals,In the garden lilies bloom,Casting on the fresh spring zephyrPeal on peal of sweet perfume;Often have I, pausing near themWhen the sunset flushed the sky,Seen the coral bells vibratingWith their fragrant harmony.But within my quiet dwellingI have now a lily fair,Whose young spirit’s sweet spring buddingWatch I with unfailing care.God, in placing her beside me,Made my being most complete,And my heart keeps time foreverWith the music of her feet.I remember not whilst gazingIn her earnest eyes of blue,That the earth holds aught of sorrow,Aught less innocent and true.And the restlessness and longingWakened by the cares of day,With the burden and the tumult,In her presence fall away.Shield my Lily, Holy Father!Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,But protracted sunshine temperWith a soft and starry night;’Neath the burning sun of summerScorched and shrunk the spring flower lies,Human hearts contract when strangersLong to clouds and tearful eyes.Give her purpose strong and holy,Faith and self-devotion high;These Life’s common by-ways brighten,Every hope intensify.Teach her all the brave enduranceThat the sons of earth require;May she with a patient laborTo the great and good aspire.Should some mighty grief oppress herHeavier than she can bear,Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,Hear and answer Thou her prayer.And whene’er the storms of winterRound my precious Lily reign,To a fairer clime transplant herThere to live and bloom again.M. G. H.
’Neath their green and cool cathedrals,
In the garden lilies bloom,
Casting on the fresh spring zephyr
Peal on peal of sweet perfume;
Often have I, pausing near them
When the sunset flushed the sky,
Seen the coral bells vibrating
With their fragrant harmony.
But within my quiet dwelling
I have now a lily fair,
Whose young spirit’s sweet spring budding
Watch I with unfailing care.
God, in placing her beside me,
Made my being most complete,
And my heart keeps time forever
With the music of her feet.
I remember not whilst gazing
In her earnest eyes of blue,
That the earth holds aught of sorrow,
Aught less innocent and true.
And the restlessness and longing
Wakened by the cares of day,
With the burden and the tumult,
In her presence fall away.
Shield my Lily, Holy Father!
Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,
But protracted sunshine temper
With a soft and starry night;
’Neath the burning sun of summer
Scorched and shrunk the spring flower lies,
Human hearts contract when strangers
Long to clouds and tearful eyes.
Give her purpose strong and holy,
Faith and self-devotion high;
These Life’s common by-ways brighten,
Every hope intensify.
Teach her all the brave endurance
That the sons of earth require;
May she with a patient labor
To the great and good aspire.
Should some mighty grief oppress her
Heavier than she can bear,
Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,
Hear and answer Thou her prayer.
And whene’er the storms of winter
Round my precious Lily reign,
To a fairer clime transplant her
There to live and bloom again.
M. G. H.
THE EARTH.
———
BY R. H. STODDARD.
———
As one who walks with eyes upon the ground,Arrested slow beside a dusty mound,Where swarms of ants are bustling in the sand,As if they had a Universe on hand,Surveys their nothings with a quiet smile,And stops to muse and meditate a while—Even so the sage with philosophic mindLooks down upon the earth and all mankind!And yet withal this little orb is grand,With its circumference of sea and land:The Ocean girds it with a belt immense,Heaving in billowy magnificenceRound Continents with all their subject lands,A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—And mountains loom majestical on high,And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snowTrail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plainAnd bear their tributes to the sounding main.And the round hills and verdant solitudesThat slumber in the heart of trackless woods;The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,And the green pastures where the cattle feedDeep in the daisies; and the silver brooks,And the long winding lanes, and grassy nooks,All, all, are clothed in loveliness and light,The various beauty of the day and night,While the great Earth, as when its flight begun,Wheels like a mighty eagle round the Sun!Yes! Earth is beautiful in every phase,Covered with glory and perpetual bays;—What pomps and pageants fill the glowing east,Hung like a palace on a bridal feast,When clouds of purple standards are unrolled,And morning lifts its diadem of gold!What streams of radiance flood the azure field,When the Noon marches with his shining shieldAnd scales the eternal steep of Heaven alone,And looks o’er Nature from his burning throne!What dreamy softness in the melting westWhen Evening sinks in holiness to rest,And the young crescent moon, an argentbarque,Drifts up the starry ocean of the dark!And how sublime the black tempestuous cloud,Where thunders shout their prophecies aloudWith tongues of fire, that flash from sphere to sphere,While congregated nations quake in fear!How glorious all! how changeless and sereneWhere generations vanish from the scene.Yet what is Earth in Nature’s wondrous whole,Which mirrors dimly its Creative Soul?Less than ant-hill, even the smallest one,Whose gates thrown back exclude the summer sun.A single grain of sand from out the sea,The deep of Chaos and Eternity,Whose bubbles are The Ages dim and vast,Melting into the dark abysmal Past!A mote in the cerulean space of air,One of the innumerous myriads floating there,Wafted of old from God’s eternal seat,Where stars and suns lie thick as dust around his feet!
As one who walks with eyes upon the ground,Arrested slow beside a dusty mound,Where swarms of ants are bustling in the sand,As if they had a Universe on hand,Surveys their nothings with a quiet smile,And stops to muse and meditate a while—Even so the sage with philosophic mindLooks down upon the earth and all mankind!And yet withal this little orb is grand,With its circumference of sea and land:The Ocean girds it with a belt immense,Heaving in billowy magnificenceRound Continents with all their subject lands,A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—And mountains loom majestical on high,And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snowTrail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plainAnd bear their tributes to the sounding main.And the round hills and verdant solitudesThat slumber in the heart of trackless woods;The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,And the green pastures where the cattle feedDeep in the daisies; and the silver brooks,And the long winding lanes, and grassy nooks,All, all, are clothed in loveliness and light,The various beauty of the day and night,While the great Earth, as when its flight begun,Wheels like a mighty eagle round the Sun!Yes! Earth is beautiful in every phase,Covered with glory and perpetual bays;—What pomps and pageants fill the glowing east,Hung like a palace on a bridal feast,When clouds of purple standards are unrolled,And morning lifts its diadem of gold!What streams of radiance flood the azure field,When the Noon marches with his shining shieldAnd scales the eternal steep of Heaven alone,And looks o’er Nature from his burning throne!What dreamy softness in the melting westWhen Evening sinks in holiness to rest,And the young crescent moon, an argentbarque,Drifts up the starry ocean of the dark!And how sublime the black tempestuous cloud,Where thunders shout their prophecies aloudWith tongues of fire, that flash from sphere to sphere,While congregated nations quake in fear!How glorious all! how changeless and sereneWhere generations vanish from the scene.Yet what is Earth in Nature’s wondrous whole,Which mirrors dimly its Creative Soul?Less than ant-hill, even the smallest one,Whose gates thrown back exclude the summer sun.A single grain of sand from out the sea,The deep of Chaos and Eternity,Whose bubbles are The Ages dim and vast,Melting into the dark abysmal Past!A mote in the cerulean space of air,One of the innumerous myriads floating there,Wafted of old from God’s eternal seat,Where stars and suns lie thick as dust around his feet!
As one who walks with eyes upon the ground,
Arrested slow beside a dusty mound,
Where swarms of ants are bustling in the sand,
As if they had a Universe on hand,
Surveys their nothings with a quiet smile,
And stops to muse and meditate a while—
Even so the sage with philosophic mind
Looks down upon the earth and all mankind!
And yet withal this little orb is grand,
With its circumference of sea and land:
The Ocean girds it with a belt immense,
Heaving in billowy magnificence
Round Continents with all their subject lands,
A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—
And mountains loom majestical on high,
And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,
Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snow
Trail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,
Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plain
And bear their tributes to the sounding main.
And the round hills and verdant solitudes
That slumber in the heart of trackless woods;
The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,
And the green pastures where the cattle feed
Deep in the daisies; and the silver brooks,
And the long winding lanes, and grassy nooks,
All, all, are clothed in loveliness and light,
The various beauty of the day and night,
While the great Earth, as when its flight begun,
Wheels like a mighty eagle round the Sun!
Yes! Earth is beautiful in every phase,
Covered with glory and perpetual bays;—
What pomps and pageants fill the glowing east,
Hung like a palace on a bridal feast,
When clouds of purple standards are unrolled,
And morning lifts its diadem of gold!
What streams of radiance flood the azure field,
When the Noon marches with his shining shield
And scales the eternal steep of Heaven alone,
And looks o’er Nature from his burning throne!
What dreamy softness in the melting west
When Evening sinks in holiness to rest,
And the young crescent moon, an argentbarque,
Drifts up the starry ocean of the dark!
And how sublime the black tempestuous cloud,
Where thunders shout their prophecies aloud
With tongues of fire, that flash from sphere to sphere,
While congregated nations quake in fear!
How glorious all! how changeless and serene
Where generations vanish from the scene.
Yet what is Earth in Nature’s wondrous whole,
Which mirrors dimly its Creative Soul?
Less than ant-hill, even the smallest one,
Whose gates thrown back exclude the summer sun.
A single grain of sand from out the sea,
The deep of Chaos and Eternity,
Whose bubbles are The Ages dim and vast,
Melting into the dark abysmal Past!
A mote in the cerulean space of air,
One of the innumerous myriads floating there,
Wafted of old from God’s eternal seat,
Where stars and suns lie thick as dust around his feet!
ALONE—ALONE!
———
BY MRS. I. W. MERCUR.
———
“Her friends had one after one departed, and in her mind continually rang the monotonous words, alone, alone!”
“Her friends had one after one departed, and in her mind continually rang the monotonous words, alone, alone!”
I am alone, oh God! alone—alone!Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart,Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moanForever falling on my weary heart—I am alone!I am alone—around me press the gay,The light of heart, they who have never knownThe blight of sorrow, or the sure decayOf every joy the spirit here has known—I am alone!I am alone—yet memory oft doth bringBack the sweet visions of life’s sunny day,Of friends unchanged, who in my early springWith smiles of love illumed my joyous way—I am alone!I am alone—alas! stern death has wonHearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light;Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed uponIn life’s full glory greet no more my sight—I am alone!Alone—alone!—for unto me no moreThe living turn with thought or feeling’s flow.And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er—I never more shall love or friendship know—I am alone!Alone and weary, yet I strive to wearEver a look of calm, serene repose,And smiling seek to hide each galling careAnd burning sorrow which my spirit knows—I am alone!I am alone—and far, oh! far awayFrom where my home of happy childhood lies,From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring playAnd smile beneath my own, my native skies—I am alone!Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bearCold and neglect from those for whom I pourMy full soul forth—whose images I wearForever shrined in memory’s sacred store—I am alone!I am alone, but in my fevered dreamsFriends throng around me—voices loved I hear.Light once again upon my pathway beams,But I awake!—no forms beloved are near—I am alone!Alone—alone!—no more the star I seeOf Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky.And naught is left on this wide earth to me,Save but to look on Nature’s face and die—I am alone!
I am alone, oh God! alone—alone!Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart,Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moanForever falling on my weary heart—I am alone!I am alone—around me press the gay,The light of heart, they who have never knownThe blight of sorrow, or the sure decayOf every joy the spirit here has known—I am alone!I am alone—yet memory oft doth bringBack the sweet visions of life’s sunny day,Of friends unchanged, who in my early springWith smiles of love illumed my joyous way—I am alone!I am alone—alas! stern death has wonHearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light;Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed uponIn life’s full glory greet no more my sight—I am alone!Alone—alone!—for unto me no moreThe living turn with thought or feeling’s flow.And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er—I never more shall love or friendship know—I am alone!Alone and weary, yet I strive to wearEver a look of calm, serene repose,And smiling seek to hide each galling careAnd burning sorrow which my spirit knows—I am alone!I am alone—and far, oh! far awayFrom where my home of happy childhood lies,From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring playAnd smile beneath my own, my native skies—I am alone!Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bearCold and neglect from those for whom I pourMy full soul forth—whose images I wearForever shrined in memory’s sacred store—I am alone!I am alone, but in my fevered dreamsFriends throng around me—voices loved I hear.Light once again upon my pathway beams,But I awake!—no forms beloved are near—I am alone!Alone—alone!—no more the star I seeOf Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky.And naught is left on this wide earth to me,Save but to look on Nature’s face and die—I am alone!
I am alone, oh God! alone—alone!
Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart,
Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moan
Forever falling on my weary heart—
I am alone!
I am alone—around me press the gay,
The light of heart, they who have never known
The blight of sorrow, or the sure decay
Of every joy the spirit here has known—
I am alone!
I am alone—yet memory oft doth bring
Back the sweet visions of life’s sunny day,
Of friends unchanged, who in my early spring
With smiles of love illumed my joyous way—
I am alone!
I am alone—alas! stern death has won
Hearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light;
Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed upon
In life’s full glory greet no more my sight—
I am alone!
Alone—alone!—for unto me no more
The living turn with thought or feeling’s flow.
And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er—
I never more shall love or friendship know—
I am alone!
Alone and weary, yet I strive to wear
Ever a look of calm, serene repose,
And smiling seek to hide each galling care
And burning sorrow which my spirit knows—
I am alone!
I am alone—and far, oh! far away
From where my home of happy childhood lies,
From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring play
And smile beneath my own, my native skies—
I am alone!
Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bear
Cold and neglect from those for whom I pour
My full soul forth—whose images I wear
Forever shrined in memory’s sacred store—
I am alone!
I am alone, but in my fevered dreams
Friends throng around me—voices loved I hear.
Light once again upon my pathway beams,
But I awake!—no forms beloved are near—
I am alone!
Alone—alone!—no more the star I see
Of Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky.
And naught is left on this wide earth to me,
Save but to look on Nature’s face and die—
I am alone!
PEDRO DE PADILH.
———
BY J. M. LEGARE.
———
(Continued from page 148.)
Meanwhile, the Marquis of Santa-Cruz with a hundred sail was steering from Lisbon to Tercera, bent upon reaching that island before the French fleet, and moreover settling it in his own mind to hang the Viceroy de Torrevedros, (who was at that moment taking wine with De Chaste to their mutual longevity,) for sticking to the landless and luckless King Anthony of Portugal, in preference to his own master Philip the Second, sometimes called the Prudent, but by the Protestants, whom he roasted and otherwise ill-treated, the Demon of the South.
Señor Inique’s vessel was the Doblon, and our acquaintance Don Pedro’s the Pez-de-mar, but on the day designated, the two maîtres-de-camp dined together in the Doblon, besides whom were at table some half dozen cavaliers of more or less note. At the close of the meal, Sir Pedro said—
“Gentlemen all, this is a day I never let pass without thought of the brave man whose head fell ten years ago this noon, at Brussels. I ask apaterof the company here present for the rest of his soul.”
“If you mean Count Egmont,” answered one, “there never was truer knight. I was near him at the time of his death, and believe him to have been as loyal as you or I.”
“A doubtful comparison,” cried another, laughing, “since you question the king’s justice.”
“By no means,” returned the Constable of Castile. “The king acknowledged as much himself. I was present when the news arrived, and he said with his usual smile, ‘These two salmon heads are better off than three-score heads of frogs!’”
“Yes, and the French ambassador wrote to court, ‘I have seen a head fall which has twice made France quake.’”
“Well,” said the constable, “I was but a stripling at the time, but I well remember how the count led his lances at St. Quentin. There was not a—hush! what’s that?” he stopped suddenly and asked.
“What?” demanded most of his audience, who had heard nothing but the breaking of Don Pedro’s glass upset by his elbow. Perhaps Don Pedro, sitting next, was the only other who heard the smothered cry from a partition behind their host, for Don Inique’s face was as usual inflexible as a mask, and Padilh, turning to the constable, said—
“I interrupted you. You were saying?”
“Count Egmont rode so gallantly, there was not a man in the army had seen the like before; it was a ballad of the campeador acted to the life. Even the king, when he came down from the Escurial, praised his bravery, and afterward presented him a sword, upon which was engraved ‘St. Quentin.’”
The constable may have repeated the last word to satisfy a doubt in his mind, but if so he was disappointed in his purpose, for no response came from the partition, although a momentary silence followed the close of the sentence. I mention this little incident because it was the prelude to a singular conversation between the two camp-masters, the next morning, on board the Pez-de-mar.
“I cannot be mistaken, Padilh,” said the other, in his starched way. “You heard the exclamation yesterday at table, and endeavored to drown it. You saved me, sir, a pang—for which I am grateful,” he added, with the air of a man compelled to acknowledge a service.
“I did my best and quickest to forestall curiosity,” answered Sir Pedro kindly. “The Constable of Castile is the only gentleman in the fleet who suspects the presence of your—your—son. And that only since yesterday; he told me as much last evening. For your precautions in Portugal have been effectual in keeping a knowledge of the matter even from most of our comrades at St. Quentin.”
“A curse fall on the name,” muttered Inique bitterly. “It is the only touchstone his memory has, and at its utterance nothing but force can stay his screams. God pity me: I act it all over in mind whenever the boy cries out as he did on the field.”
Padilh knew his associate well enough to disguise whatcommiseration he felt, and without noticing the interruption continued—
“Thus, señor, your secret is safe still; for as you may readily believe, the constable got as little information from my tongue as by his own at table.”
“Do you think he pronounced the name with design?” cried the maître-de-camp, his brows contracting. “If I—”
“No,” returned honest Don Pedro decidedly, “the constable is a man of worth, and would pry into no one’s affairs systematically. But his chief defect is a tendency to say or do whatever comes into his head, and that he falls into difficulty less often is perhaps owing more to luck than consideration on his part. Don’t you remember hearing the answer he made his Holiness, while a mere lad?”
“No,” absently.
“Why,” persisted the knight, regardless of the doubtful attention of his auditor, and moved by a good-natured wish to lead away from the painful topic, “the brusquerie of the whole affair made it the talk at court; where were you that you failed to hear it? The constable was sent to congratulate his Holiness on his accession to St. Peter’s chair, but the Pope taking umbrage at the youth of the ambassador, exclaimed aloud—‘What! has the King of Spain no men in his dominions, that he sends us aface without a beard?’ Whereupon the fiery boy, stretching himself up and stroking with forefinger and thumb his upper lip, where a mustache should have been but was not, said with a frown—‘Sir, had my royal master known your Holiness measured wisdom by a beard, he would doubtless have sent a he-goat to honor you!’”
After a pause Inique said—(the capernian episode was evidently lost upon him)—
“I have no need of any mortal’s sympathy, Padilh, and the man that pities me openly must answer to my sword for it. You have done neither to my knowledge, yet you were not far off when I struck the boy,” (he dropped his voice here, as a weight on the conscience will make people do.) “If you choose to listen, the secret motives of a man who for fifteen years has had no thought for his second child, until moved to avenge her, because the first, an idiot, intervened, may startle your ears, Pedro Padilh.”
“The recital may ease your breast,” said our knight in some surprise.
“There is no likelihood of what you say,” answered Don Augustino, a shade of scorn crossing his moody face, “and I wish it otherwise. Why I choose you, a companion in arms, for confessor, you will learn in time; perhaps your long friendship and yesterday’s prompt action have their influence. These things you witnessed or know; the mad blows, their result, the measures I have taken to be constantly within reach of his voice? Why? have you, has any one, hesitated to give some cloak, some color, to so singular a course?”
Each of these interrogatories, rapidly put, Sir Pedro answered in turn by a slight token of assent; he was about to reply more fully to the last, when the other stopped him with a gesture.
“Never mind. I know what is said. That I hide away the living reminder of my crime from the world; that I am remorseful, or doing penance, or else crazed. Let them prate. Sir Pedro, by all the saints, the boy I struck is not my son!”
“Poor fellow!” thought the knight, compassionately; “his last plea is the right one.”
“Don Pedro Padilh, there was a man of good birth and great wealth, but little or no character, or care for character, whom I saved once from being hanged. He was grateful, after his headlong fashion, for the service, and in the end proposed to unite our infant children; he had one son, and I a son and daughter; and consolidate our joint estates. At first my soul revolted at the suggestion; an union between my own offspring and that of a redeemed felon, appeared to me monstrous. But while I debated the matter, difficulties softened. I knew better than any one the smallness of my fortune, which extravagance had reduced to the tatters of its former amplitude; but of this I said nothing, and the papers were signed in due form. That day was the last I could touch my breast proudly, and say, ‘Here is the abode of honor.’”
“And this is the soldier whose honor is held up to the world as a pattern!” Padilh mused.
“Still the degradation of such connection preyed upon my mind. I wanted the money to perpetuate the wealth of my house; but how be rid of the bad blood? And about this time my friend went abroad, leaving his boy in my charge. I confronted the temptation only to be overcome in the end; sent away my servants, and removing to the mountains chose others; and when these were assembled, I, myself, took occasion to call the names of the infants before them, that there might be no mistake—no mistake, you understand—as names may from what they have been. My own boy I called—”
“Speak, Sir Augustino!” ejaculated Padilh, sharply.
“Hilo de Ladron; the other—”
“Man, man!” cried the knight, rising and standing over against the speaker, “You have made an idiot of and imprison my own kin—the son of my half-brother. What reparation can you make?”
“Reparation! Look here, at these premature seams and wrinkles, grizzled hair and beard. Has that unsteady hand nothing to show of an iron temper shattered by sorrow?”
“Sir, your selfish sorrow blinds you. These are signs of retribution on you, not of reparation to the party injured. Don Augustino, I joined this expedition with the sole purpose of saving from ruin, if I might, a lad whom I despise for his vices; and do you think I will leave longer at your mercy the real Hilo, whom, in place of condemning, I can only pity.”
“That rests with me,” returned the maître-de-camp, with a slight sneer. “But listen to me, Don Pedro; you judge my case before it is stated.”
“Finish, sir,” answered Padilh, moodily, resuming his seat; “and heaven grant your conscience proves clearer than it seems to me likely to do.”
Inique, without comment, took up the word where the interruption occurred.
“My reasoning took this shape. My daughter is a puny thing—there is no probability of her surviving to even girlhood. What does it matter if the baby is betrothed to her brother? As for De Ladron, if he ever returns from the new world, how is he to recognize his boy, grown out of remembrance, if the child does not die—he seems pining away rapidly—before that time. Hernan Ladron I never saw again; but his infant grew strong and healthy in our change of climate, and this vexed me hourly. I had felt sure the weakly thing could not live, or the exchange would not have been made; and now, he was growing up a quiet, mild boy—pah! it made me sick to think he believed himself my son, as did all the world beside. The sense of this contrast pushed from my brain all other concern. I cursed the grasping folly which had tempted me to barter a gallant fellow, like my own boy, for an estate and this whey-faced child. However, he should go to war with me, and be cured of his girlishness. But when, at St. Quentin, he fled before the first charge of the French, cowering at my stirrup, I was frantic with rage and shame. I had no love for the boy; his very existence was a daily threat of exposure, and I beat him, as you all saw, with my sword hilt,to drive him a second time into the fight. What followed, too, you all knew. But, until this day, no mortal has learnt the yearning pity that mastered my passions and filled my breast with remorse. I believe my first resolution was to confess my infamy and restore the heir his wealth and name; but I waited until he should recover, and when I saw he was likely to remain an idiot, I changed my mind.”
“Don Augustino, you would have been less dishonored by confessing your dishonor,” cried our knight, here. “You proved yourself, in the sight of Heaven, a greater coward than your reputed son.”
“Sir,” replied the other, hotly, flushing red, “you forget I am your equal in point of rank, if not virtue, and wear a sword. You tax my forbearance heavily.”
“A horse in meadow neighs louder than a horse under saddle,” answered Padilh. “Overlook the reproach, Don Augustino, and pass on.”
“I set some value on your friendship, and will not consent to lose it for a hard word honestly spoken,” Inique said, not very contentedly.
“I altered my mind, but not altogether. I resolved not a fraction of his income should be used in the service of me or mine, and reduced the expenses of my household accordingly. Hilo, my real son, left to his own guidance at home, had become a ruinous spendthrift, and openly revolted at any curtailment of what he considered his rights. But against his wickedness I had, as a set off, the patience and affection of the supposititious son; the very qualities I had before despised now touched me most—his mildness of face and speech, and trustfulness in my protection—for the whole past seemed wiped out of his remembrance, and but a single word was capable of recalling any portion of it—the word the Constable of Castile spoke yesterday at table. Perhaps the cries and sounds of battle might recall my shame and his sorrow, but my care has hitherto proved successful in keeping such from his ears.”
“Yet there seems to me in all this, Don Augustino, no good reason for your becoming the boy’s jailor,” said Sir Pedro.
“Stay. If it was hard to resolve on publishing my infamy with my own mouth, was it easy to bear the thought that some day it must be realised in the growing likeness of my prisoner to his true father, Ladron? I watched this fast maturing resemblance with the anguish of one seeing his death warrant signed, understanding to the full how the crime which my voluntary confession might have softened in the eyes of the world, would grow in odium as time elapsed. I fancied it was only needful for you, or any one familiar with the father’s face, to catch a glimpse of the son’s to detect my secret; and I kept the sole evidence near my person, not because it was the safest, but the least harassing course it was possible to pursue.”
“The least harassing, Don Augustino,” the knight said, “would have been to acknowledge your criminality at first, and have made restitution openly as you did in private. Better do so now than never.”
“What! when the son of a felon in yonder ship must be disowned only to substitute a felon himself! No, sir; the most I can do is what I now purpose—to find this reckless youth and turn him from his vicious life by every means but that you propose. Only in the last extremity will I show him to be as penniless in the future as now, and that the girl he has exhausted his vileness to dishonor is his sister, and I the wretched father of both.”
“And only in such extremity will your words have weight with Hilo de Ladron, as I suppose, for your sake, he must yet be called, although I grudge him the name. But it seems to me, Don Augustino Inique, you prate more of dishonor than a man should who has committed felony to his own conscience and in God’s sight; and that the honor you esteem so highly is nothing better than the declamation of those who surround you.”
“A truce to your sarcasms,” cried Inique, pale with anger. “I am not here, Padilh, to listen to a sermon or be ordered a penance. If you will help me in this affair by your intervention, you will not find me ungrateful; and I know enough of my own nature, as you might, to feel assured that, left to my own resources, I may do that in the heat of passion which cannot be undone. What! am I so fallen in your eyes that you cannot afford me the time and occasion I need for amendment, or distrust my best designs?”
“No, by St. Jago,” cried our generous don, “that I will not, Inique. I have done you some wrong in thought, perhaps, but I will make amends by assisting you where I may with proper regard to my own views and affections. But, you understand, I annex a condition—the true Hilo must pass from your care into mine as soon as we effect a landing. As his nearest relative, I have a higher right to the charge of his person than the—than yourself, Don Augustino.”
“Don Pedro,” answered Inique, slowly, after a pause, “you have justice on your side, and I will not oppose the transfer if you insist. But I beg you earnestly to consider that I, from hating, have come to love the youth better—yes, better than my own children; and until the present adjustment succeeds or fails, you may do worse than leave him in my keeping, as before—only that the doors of his prison, as you seemed but now to consider it, are open to you from this hour. I pledge you my word, at all hazard or pain, to restore him to you at the close of this expedition.”
“Well, let it be so,” replied Don Pedro, surprised and pleased at the other’s words.
And the maître-de-camp, with a breast somewhat less burdened, betook himself to his ship again.
A couple of days later the peaked and thickly-wooded shores of Tercera were first visible, and the armada coasting along, to the mortal terror of the Portuguese, who were parceled out in companies to defend the accessible points, and miserably ignorant where the Spaniards would make their descent, came to anchor off St. Catherine, where about fifty French and twice as many Portuguese were drawn up to oppose the landing.
“It would be a pity to cross the humor of the French gentlemen, yonder,” Santa-Cruz said, with a grim smile. “But their allies will only embarrass their manœuvres, and had better be routed before hand. Don’t you think we can frighten them, Pòlvora?”
“Frighten them!” cried that cavalier; “I can see, at this distance, the finery of some glittering in the sunshine, as if the wearers were shaking all over. Let us try if they are not too frightened to run.”
So the signal was given, and a general discharge of cannon followed from the fleet, doing no special harm. I believe the widow Jean’s son was decapitated, and that young fool, Allain, who must needs leave his pretty sweetheart Annette in Floillé to pick up a little glory, that his marriage might come off with more eclat than any in his village, lost a leg or arm; but these were trifles nobody minds in a skirmish.
However, it was before the balls came bumping along the sands—indeed, while they were disporting, like great whales, in the outer surf, and casting up jets of water at eachricochet, that the brave rear-guard took to their heels—a piece of prudence for which I beg the indulgence of those military young men who are suffered by their employers to sport moustachios in their shops and counting-houses, and whose chief motive for advocating, in strong language, a dissolution of the Union, is supposed to lie in the admirable opportunity to be afforded of winning undying laurels in civil warfare; for I would intimate, however reprehensible cowardice may be on any occasion, and on this in particular, that watching the lively skipping from wave to wave of such iron globes as a 42-pounder debouches, while chatting with the officer of artillery, who has just sighted the piece at a hogshead anchored in the bay, is quite a different thing from doing the same when serving as the hogshead yourself.
“Yonder go a brave enemy!” cried Padilh, with a laugh, to his colleague in the next barge, the two maîtres-de-camp heading the flotilla with the landing party. “If any fall in your way hereafter, don’t forget they’re women; spare their lives, as you wear spurs, señor mine.”
To this Inique answered, standing erect in the stern and shading his eyes with his palm, quite another personage in voice and carriage from the penitent of two days back:
“But the line of the French has not a gap in it—yes, one, which they have just filled with a fresh man. There’ll be sharp work there, Padilh, although we are strong enough to surround and capture the whole detachment. Lay to your oars, men! Make prisoners of as many of the gallant fellows as you can.”
“What’s come over the master?” grumbled a sergeant to a crony. “Last time he marched against the French it was nothing but ‘keep your pikes level, my lads; the man that fails to spit his man, deserves to be cut over the head in return.’ And nowit’s, ‘don’t hurt them, these fine fellows.’ You see, I like a man to be one thing.”
“Why, they say Señor Inique has a cousin, or a son-in-law, or something of the sort, who is no better than he should be, and at this moment in the French camp. Who knows if the señor hasn’t an idea of turning coat some day himself? It looks like it, don’t it, sergeant?”
“No; hang it, man, he wouldn’t do such a dirty thing. Why, don’t you know, you unbelieving Thomas, there ain’t a gentleman in all Spain with such a name for honor!”
“Well, may be; but I like to be sure of a thing of the sort. Honesty and uprightness is my motto.”
“Hey! what’s that Mig’s saying?” said a sailor who pulled the bow oar, with a grin, to his neighbor. “I lived near La Mécha myself, egad! and I know there wa’n’t a lamb sure of being raised so long ashewas about. May be he’s forgot my phiz, with the tip of my nose sliced off by that turbaned chap’s cim’tar.”
So the gossip was kept up until a volley of twenty or so arquebuses, as the fleet grounded in tolerable line, turned their thoughts too busily in another channel to leave time for such tattling; and the old campaigners of the later Moorish wars were out and formed in “battle” before Capt. Bourgignon poured in his reserve fire, and fell upon the invaders with the audacity of a hawk half as large as your hand pouncing upon a turkey a fourth as big as your body; only that the enemy was not in any respect like a turkey—more like a condor, I should say, in point of ferocity and collected action. He marched up from the submerged beach to the sands above high-water, with no more concern for the struggling handful in front than you or I would for the whiff of sleet blown in our faces on a windy day in the streets. To be sure, the smooth tablet left by the last tide, was written over with a heavy stylus, and dabbled with such ink as conquerors and others who leave their mark on the times in which they lived, employ; moreover, there were numerous unsightly blotches dropped about, which retained enough vitality sometimes to scream in a manner calculated to shock our fire-eating civilians into a wholesome distaste to civil collision and slaying. Of course, such things are necessities, like lightning and volcanic eruptions, despite the efforts of Mr. Burritt to show the contrary. The exception appears strongest when one of us loses a brother or a husband, with a bullet in the heart or head, as Amelia did George at Brussels, or more than one acquaintance of mine, now wearing premature widow’s-weeds, in the late Mexican war.
On the whole, there is something vastly fascinating in military display and glory; and I confess, when I call to mind the bray of trumpets, glint of steel harness, and gallant show of surcoats, paraded that July morning along the St. Catherine beach, I am tempted to drag my obliging reader into the thick of the fight, and recapitulate, with cannibal appetite, the shouts, groans, and extorted cries of agony, by which you could have told with shut eyes how the work advanced, and where this or that poor devil was left sprawling on the driftweed, with a saucer full of blood in a sea-shell, perhaps, just under his left side; to say nothing of those who enacted theparts, as near as their heavy armor and different locomotive organization allowed, of fowls recently beheaded—a sight full of interest to even those darlings of mamma who are brought up to feed sparrows with crumbs, but slay mice and centipedes without restriction. All I intend relating of this skirmish is, that Capt. Bourgignon was killed, as were most of his officers, and as to the fifteen men remaining out of the fifty, not one was without a wound. They could not have acquitted themselves better had De Chaste himself been present, which he was not, but on the opposite side of a high promontory lying next La Praya, making what haste he might to come up with the combatants, whose whereabouts he knew by the cannonading.
Three days before this the viceroy had sent word to the commander that the Spanish fleet could plainly be seen from the Peak; and riding along the coast, De Chaste heard the sentinels posted on the mountains ringing bells and firing their arquebuses, in token of the approach of the enemy, who were not long in arriving within gun-shot of the shore, and keeping the islanders in constant alarm, as before hinted, by cannon shots and the hovering of a cluster of galleys about every available landing. The French general had his hands full in following these last, encouraging his little garrisons, and endeavoring to find bread for his troops, whose dinners the Count de Torrevedros never troubled himself about. Indeed, that viceregal nobleman had enough to do to consider how best to ingratiate himself with the Marquis of Santa-Cruz, and for the present keep out of harm’s way. It was not only the count, however, who cared little for the landing of the Spaniards and ruin of the French, provided their persons and property remained secure—a tolerably universal wish being that their allies had gone to the bottom before reaching Tercera and dragging them into a siege, when all they wanted was safety and submission.
“Senhor Commandante,” said the Portuguese captain at La Praya, while the pair rode out, as usual, with a company or two at their heels, “you can now see for yourself, yonder, how little the number of the enemy has been magnified.”
“So much the better,” answered the commander, like the Wolf in Little Red Ridinghood; “we will have more to make prisoners.”
“O—h!” cried the Portuguese, the idea being new to him.
“Confound the man’s bragging,” he muttered to himself; “he talks as if they were children or savages he has to do with.”
Whereupon De Chaste added, with something like a smile on his hard face:
“You see at least, senhor captain, they are not afraid of us, if we are of them, for they pull within reach of our batteries; and here comes a ball to measure the distance between us.”
“St. Hubert! Are we to stand here to be shot without chance of drawing sword?” cried Captain Gaza, brushing the sand thrown over him from his holyday doublet. “It is madness, sir commander, madness; and I cannot expose my brave men to such needless danger.”
“As you like best; you will find a half mile up the beach out of cannon range,” indifferently rejoined the French knight, and spurred closer to the water’s edge, followed by his countrymen, many of whom, in passing, saluted the Portuguese ironically, while others, out of earshot of the conversation, wondered at the blanched visage of the captain, and his taking himself and company to the skirt of the wood a mile or more back.
“Duvict,” said De Chaste, presently, to that cavalier, whom he had called to his side, “you will ride over to-night to Angra, and tell the viceroy we all count it strange, that, with the enemy threatening the coast, he is no where to be seen; perhaps, if he is bent on shutting up himself, he will take this captain off our hands; the fewer such cowards in our ranks, the better chance will we have of successful defense. At all events, I insist on the withdrawal of this Gaza, even if his troop goes with him. Moreover, I demand in the queen’s name, an immediate supply of rations for our men here and elsewhere. Lose no time on your journey.”
“I am so well pleased with the errand, that I will set out this instant, monseigneur, if you consent. Why wait until our return to Porta Praya?” cried Duvict, cheerfully.
“Go, then,” answered the commander, nodding approval; “and if he is not to be met with at Angra, search the country till you find him.”
The viceroy was not at Angra, that city being too exposed to bombardment to suit his present fancy; but the Frenchman found him at his country-house among the hills, keeping a sharp look-out over the roads leading coastward.
“Tell the honorable commander,” replied Torrevedros, dissembling his annoyance at the ambassador’s blunt message, “I will surely join him as soon as I make certain levies, calculated to do him more service than five troop of horse. But I take it ill, he shows so little faith in my concern for his safety at the present extremity.”
“As for his safety,” answered Duvict, who was not much of a courtier, “our commandant can very well take care of that and ours. It is for your own honor, and the putting your people in good heart, which, by the three kings, they want mightily! Monseigneur troubles himself with your absence, M. le Viceroi. Meanwhile, it would not be amiss to give our soldiers something withal to fill their mouths, especially as we may be obliged to do most of the fighting before the new levies arrive.”
“You will soon have abundance for all,” the count made answer, smoothly. “Hasten down, and inform your commandant I will delay here not an hour beyond what is necessary, on the honor of a knight. You said truly, sir, we must have no cowards in our ranks, either French or Portuguese.”
“M. le Viceroi, your acquaintance with your own countrymen is indisputable,” Duvict here said superciliously, “but we French are taught in a different school.”
“Let it pass,” rejoined Torrevedros, biting his lip. “If I designed to wound your self-love, it would not be in my own house. I will show my willingness at least to oblige M. de Chaste, by cashiering my captain at Porta Praya in favor of one more reliable.”
It was this new captain, John de Castros, who carried De Chaste a letter from the viceroy a day later, which that loyal nobleman had received from Santa Cruz by a Portuguese, caught off the coast, and forced to swim ashore with the dispatch tied about his neck—the French not suffering any boat to approach within hail.
The commandant tore the paper to fragments as soon as he saw the contents. “This Count of Torrevedros,” he said, with a short laugh, to his maître-de-camp, who was present, “is either a fool, or doubts our honor. The Marquis of Santa Cruz offers him here his life, and abundant rewards, besides the freedom of his wife and children, now in Madrid, provided he surrenders the island, which he might well enough do as far as himself is concerned, but he wishes to be rid of us at the same time, and therefore risks being reckoned a traitor in hope of inducing us to accept the marquis’s conditions.”
“A traitor he is!” cried the lieutenant, indignantly. “And since he proves himself so in so many ways, why not return to France as we are, without further intermeddling between him and his lackland master.”
“You forget,” returned De Chaste, “all who have entered on this enterprise, are bound in honor to see it through with what success their energy may obtain. Still you, and other cavaliers who have joined of your free will, and not by the queen’s direct command, may do as you see proper, and leave us who remain to share the greater glory which must attend a defense against greater odds.”
“Sir commandant,” the lieutenant responded, simply hearing him through with some little mortification in his frank face, “you pain me by such permission, for neither I, nor any other French gentleman here, would leave you an instant without being compelled by your commands; and that I am sure you know.”
“I know it so well,” cried the commandant at this, “that I am not sure I spoke the truth in even hinting my distrust just now.”
And truly the lieutenant was as good as his word; for when the French crossed the neck of the promontory I have mentioned, and coming too late to reinforce Bourgignon, fell upon a strong party of the Spaniards, detailed to take possession of a spring near by, with a determination which brought about a general and very bloody battle; there was not one in the tremendous uproar of voices and of arms, smoke of arquebuses, blood spattered and welling, screams, shrieks, groans, and huzzas!—huzzas! ensuing—who did such execution with the sword, as that same lieutenant; it was he that killed the father of poor little Margueretta, who, for want of bread, the next year became what even famine must not excuse. And, perhaps, as he did his share of irreparable mischief with an easy conscience, and certainly to the best of his ability, when his corpse lay stark as the mail encasing it, that same afternoon, by the eminence to the left, where Hilo was seen aiming an arquebuse at one time of the fight, his spirit may have been regaling in Paradise with other performers of that much abused sentiment, duty.
[To be continued.