Various

WINTER.

The winter has come, and the skaters are here

With a falchion of steel

On each manly heel,

To strike the ice with a stroke of fear;

And to make the victim the story tell,

With a voice as clear as a tinkling bell.

The winter has come, and he howls at the door,

And puffing his cheeks,

He whistles and shrieks,—

A shriek of ill-will to the suffering poor,

That maketh the widow clasp her sons,

And huddle together her shiv’ring ones.

The winter has come, and the sorrow besides,

And the poor man’s breast

Can know of no rest,

While his life’s troubled torrent onward glides,

But when ’tis exhausted, the poor will share

A place with the rich, and no winter is there.

Philadelphia, December, 1840.

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MY PROGENITORS.

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BY S. W. WHELPLEY, A. M.

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Mr. Lowman in his treatise on the civil government of the Hebrews, remarks, that their careful attention to genealogy was a distinguishing trait in their national policy. From considering the Hebrews who glory in their descent from the most renowned patriarchs, I was led to reflect on the probable influence which the same custom would have upon other nations. Indeed I have often admired the general indifference of mankind to the names and history of their ancestors; especially considering the veneration which all men feel for every thing that wears the marks of antiquity.

From a few obvious principles I shall endeavor to state the benefits which I consider would result to mankind from the universal prevalence of the custom of keeping an exact genealogy in families. It would be a perpetual source of entertainment and pleasure. Who would not feel gratified to look back upon the line of his ancestors, and see their names, characters, occupations, place of residence, and time when they lived? They would also open numerous and extensive sources of friendly attachment, by closing the ancient alliances of interest, honor, consanguinity and friendship, which subsisted between our forefathers, who perhaps fought side by side in battles, ploughed the seas together, or shared the common danger of exploring and settling new countries.

Genealogical study would operate as a stimulus to laudable ambition, and would enkindle a sense of honor. If a man’s ancestors were mean and low, he would often be struck with the animating thought of raising the reputation of his race. If they were high and honorable, he would, at times, be jealous of their honor, and feel strongly prompted to emulate their virtues.

Could every man trace back his line, it would level many useless distinctions; for it would appear, that some who are ostentatious of their descent and blood, have beggars, bandits, and the humblest cottagers for whole series of links in their chain. That others who are now low and indigent, could look back to lords, princes, and monarchs, who dwelt in “cloud-capt towers and gorgeous palaces.” In fine, it would appear that the descending line of generations is ever wavering, now elevated, now depressed. The grandfathers and grandchildren of lords may have been porters, footpads, or slaves.

The other evening, while investigating a knotty point, I prosed myself into a deep sleep, and dreamed out the sequel. It would be better for many metaphysicians, moral philosophers, and writers of all classes, if they did the same.

I thought I was still pondering on the subject of Genealogy, and considering with what curiosity and pleasure I could look back on the line of my ancestors to the grand progenitors of our race, when suddenly there appeared before me a winged fantastic figure, answering in some measure to the description of Iris. Her flowing robes were of various and varying colors; her eye was penetrating but never fixed; and her aspect might be compared to the shade and light wandering over the folds and margin of a summer cloud. I knew her instantly to be one of the airy powers that preside over dreams.

She informed me that she was empowered to give me a view of my ancestors, and bade me attend her. Not knowing whither she intended to conduct me, or in what form of vision I was to be enwrapt, a chill of terror and ineffable awe rivetted me to the spot. Turning eastward she beckoned me with her hand, and with easy volition, we rose to the region of the clouds. We continued to move with inconceivable speed, till the Atlantic rolled beneath our feet, and we directly alighted on Plinlimmon in Wales.

I was now a little recovered from my surprise, and was delighted to see the venerable seat of my forefathers. I could evidently discern the meanderings of the Severn and Dee, although by distance diminished to a thread. Numberless villages and flourishing farms lay extended in various directions, and I looked with great curiosity over the rocky hills and blue ridges, where a hardy race of men were once able to resist the impetuous armies of the Henrys and Edwards.

Here my conductress presented me with a perspective of most wonderful powers. It would not only magnify objects to their natural size, but this it would do even at any assignable distance. Within the external tube was a sliding barrel, graduated into sixty circles. My guide informed me that a circle denoted a century, and that when the barrel was drawn to the first circle, I might look back one century; and so of all the rest.

Upon this she drew the barrel to the second circle, and presented me the instrument, impatient to try its astonishing powers. Looking through it I saw a face of things entirely new. James the I. had just ascended the throne of the United Kingdoms. I was looking around to observe the appearance of the country which had flourished long under the happy reign of Queen Elizabeth. My guide asked me if I could discern a cottage at the foot of the mountain. “That,” said she, “is the dwelling of your ancestors in the male line.” The moment I espied the cottage, which was low and poor, an aged man came out. His figure was tall and erect—his head quite gray—his look was grave, forbidding, and shaded with melancholy.

My conductress succinctly told me that he had long since buried his wife, and all his children, excepting one son, who was then at sea—that his father was killed in battle, and that his grandfather had emigrated when a youth from Germany. Without further words she took from me the perspective, and the scene of modern times changed.

We immediately mounted on the wing, and again moved eastward. As we passed over London I was not a little gratified by a transient glance of that majestic city, the noblest in Europe, and most commercial in the world. The forest of towers, the waters, all white with sails, and the country all covered with villages, by turns caught my eye; but I travelled too much in the manner of young noblemen, who take the tour of Europe, to make very particular remarks; since our route from Plinlimmon to the banks of the Danube took up but about five minutes. We now stood on a rising ground, having on our right the city of Presburgh, and on our left majestically rolled the Danube. The country appeared beautiful, but I noticed, with regret, various vestiges of tyranny and misery in the appearance of an abject multitude.

The fantastic power now drew out the third circle, and looking through the perspective I beheld a scene in the reign of Maximillian the I. The comparison was truly at the expense of the present day: a bold and manly race appeared, in general of larger size and nobler form. Their thoughts seemed full of freedom, and their general air was martial and independent. With something that appeared like the first dawn of modern refinement, there was a strong tinge of unpolished and simple manners. While I stood in high expectation every moment of seeing another of my ancient fathers, there appeared a royal personage at the head of a splendid retinue of chariots and horsemen. It was the emperor Maximillian himself, who, at that time was at Presburgh, and was on a party of pleasure that morning on the banks of the Danube. I gazed at his majesty, who was a man of uncommonly fine presence, and said, how happy should I be should he prove to be the man I am in quest of.

My guide soon dashed my hopes, by desiring me to observe the coachman of the last carriage,—“That,” said she, “is the man!” I began to fear that my blood

“Had crept thro’ scoundrels

Since the flood.”

I observed that I had always understood my ancestors were from Germany, but never knew till now that they were coachmen—she smiled and bade me not be disheartened. He was a perfect Scythian, and seemed to look like one of the vilest of the human race; there being not discernible in his features any sentiments of honor or humanity. “He is,” continued my guide, “the son of a Tartar by a German mother. His father was one of the wandering tribes that dwelt, at times, near the Bosphorus in Circassia, and on the borders of the Caspian sea.” I wanted no more, but, delivering her perspective, I stepped back into 1840, and was more than ever struck with the wide difference which the flight of three centuries had made in one of the most warlike nations of the world.

Germany! how art thou fallen? Thy councils are divided—thy heroic spirit fled—thy warriors are become women! I consoled myself, however, that my father was a German coachman in the fourteenth, and not in the nineteenth century.

We rose once more, and passed over rivers, solitudes, morasses, forests, lakes and mountains, and at length alighted on an eminence near the mouth of the river Wolga. My guide, not leaving it optional, drew the glass to the sixth circle. I shivered in every nerve to think that my forefathers for such a period of years, had lived in the dreary regions of mental darkness. But could they have been tossed less at random, or enjoyed a milder sky in any of those countries where Rome had once displayed her eagle?

The Wolga is one of the largest rivers in the world. It rises in the Russian empire, and receiving a multitude of tributary streams, it winds a course of three thousand miles, and pours an immense volume into the Caspian sea. Through its whole course, it is said, there is not a cataract. It rolls majestically, with gentle current, through extensive, rich and beautiful plains, diffusing every where luxuriant vegetation and exhaustless abundance. Near the sea, it branches and forms a number of pleasant and beautiful islands.

On one of these we stood, and, for a moment, surveyed the romantic scenery. Near us was a Russian castle and garrison, and the island, which had been used as a military station since the reign of Peter the Great, was guarded by strong fortifications, and enriched with an infinite number of boats and vessels, and defended by ships of war and gallies.

I now looked through the glass, which threw me back six hundred years. How surprising was the change! One half of the island was a forest. The other half was occupied by a spacious camp, containing innumerable wheel carriages of singular forms. Before me lay a great army marshalled for parade. I was struck with their uncommon dress and armor; and presently more so, by a sight of their council chief, who occupied an elevated platform, and seemed at that moment engaged in deep consultation.

At the head three seats were raised above the rest, on which sat three personages of the greatest dignity. The central one, said my guide, is none other than Genghis Khan, and in him you behold your ancestor. He is now holding a council of war, and deliberating on an invasion of China. But you have little reason to boast of your descent from one who has destroyed fifty thousand cities. His tyranny and the perfidy of his queen have roused a conspiracy, which, though it will not destroy him, will imbitter his future life. Beneath a dark brow his fierce and jealous eye seemed to dart the fires of glory and valor into every surrounding breast. Yet he looked like one on whose heart the worm of care unceasingly preys, and who is inwardly consumed by the fires of ambition.

Leaving him, however, to his fate, my guide gave the signal of departure. We crossed the Caspian sea, and the Circassian mountains. The dominions of the ancient Medes and now of the Persians, passed beneath us. In a few moments we alighted on a hill which commanded a view of the fair and delectable vales of Sheeraz, the most celebrated province in Persia. Sublime conceptions struck my fancy as we were travelling the region of the clouds, when I saw stretched out on one side the vast ridges of Mount Taurus, and far distant on the other, the plains where Darius and Alexander fought. A sigh rose at the remembrance of the great cities and powerful empires which once flourished there.

Before me was the vale of Sheeraz, for many miles in extent. The surrounding mountains were covered with vines, and widely extended prospects of rural felicity in that happy region. Innumerable flocks and herds were scattered over the hills, the shepherds and shepherdesses looked gay, all nature was blooming, and the Persians, brave, polite, and elegant in every age, seemed the happiest people upon the face of the earth. The sun shone with peculiar smiles from the cloudless azure, and far remote the calm billows of the Persian Gulf, drew a silver line on the horizon.

On this hill, said my conductress, once dwelt your ancient fathers. At this she drew the glass to the twelfth circle, making from the Wolga a transit of 600, and from this of 1200 years. I looked eagerly through the prospective, and there arose before me a scene of unspeakable horror and desolation. An immense horde of barbarians was ravaging and destroying the whole country. Their faces flashed with fury. They were swift and fierce as tigers. The villages and hamlets, as far as could be seen were in flames; heaven was obscured by smoke; age, infancy, innocence, and beauty, were mingled in indiscriminate slaughter; and blood poured in all directions.

They rushed into a house which stood near me, dragged forth its inhabitants, and cut them in pieces. The parents and the children were mangled and slain together. A little infant only was left, and that, to all appearance, by accident. It was flung upon the ground, and lay wallowing in the blood of its parents, weeping at its fall, although insensible to its deplorable condition. Behold, said my guide, your ancient father. The existence of numerous generations depends on his preservation, and from him multitudes shall descend. Astonished at man’s inexplicable destiny, I gazed, admired, and wept.

At length a female barbarian came up. She was black, filthy, deformed, hideously savage, and resembled a harpy. She spied the weeping infant, and a sensation of humanity stole upon her heart. Kind nature, and compassion to man, has implanted those heavenly sensibilities in the rudest and most degenerate of her children. She took up the babe, and seemed to sooth it. She wiped away its tears and blood, laid it in her bosom and darted out of sight. The glass dropped from my hand, and I stood rivetted in silent astonishment.

That child, resumed my companion, is carried into the bosom of Scythia; there becomes first a robber, then a chieftain, afterward a sage. His descendants dwelt at times in India, in the islands, in Tonquin, in China, in Tartary; and a last issue, as you have seen, was the conqueror of Asia. O Providence! how unsearchable are thy ways! What beings of light, what fiends of darkness, are among thy children. O listen to the fervent aspirations of a worm, and if thine ear is not inexorable, smile on their destiny.

As the glass dropped, the modern vale of Sheeraz returned and as soon vanished. Passing over Palestine, the Levant, Archipelago, Greece and Italy, our next stand was on the banks of the Tiber, among ruined monuments of ancient Rome. The remains of arches, towers and temples, porticos and palaces, where the CÆsars and Scipios once lived, lay before me. A gloomy grandeur covered the scene with awful solemnity, and filled my soul with sensations equally sublime and melancholy.

“There the vile foot of every clown,

Tramples the sons of honor down,

Beggars with awful ashes sport,

And tread the CÆsars to the dirt.”

My airy governess now drew the glass beyond the eighteenth circle. I looked through it and beheld Rome at the zenith of her ancient greatness. A forest of towers covered her seven hills. Never, even in imagination, had I beheld so grand a scene. Her temples, domes and structures, rose and expanded on my view, and at once displayed the glories of that queen of cities. Noble and beautiful villas covered as far as the eye could see, the banks of the Tiber: and the whole prospect appeared as though the wealth, the arts, sciences and elegance of the world, were collected to adorn and beautify the scene.

In the forum a vast assembly of people were listening to the address of an orator, who, from his dignified and commanding manner, I took to be Cicero. My guide assured me it was none else. His attitude, his gestures, his whole manner, were sublime. He was pleading for Milo. The occasion had drawn together an innumerable throng of spectators. I admired the elegance of the criminal: his appearance was firm, heroic, and great. Pompey was present at the head of a select body of troops.

I have seen no man in modern times who can bear a comparison with Pompey. He had the qualities of great men with a dignity peculiar to himself.

On high glittered the Roman eagle, and the whole group of objects appeared with a majesty and resplendence not to be described. The judges, the criminal, the orator, the general, the nobility of Rome, the army and the spectators, possessed a grandeur of countenance which might have induced one to imagine that all the fine and noble countenances in the world had been collected together.

After indulging my curiosity for a moment, my guide showed me my ancestor. He was a common soldier, and stood near the general, appearing to belong to his life guard. He listened with deep attention to the orator; and at times, roused by the powerful flights of unrivalled eloquence, seemed to lay his hand upon his sword, ready to draw it in defence of innocence.

His descendants, continued my conductress, accompany Trajan in his expedition into Asia, where, after various turns of fortune, some of them, as you have seen, settled in the vale of Sheeraz. Here, I must remark, that I was more interested than I had been before, for, upon noticing him more particularly, I found him perfectly to resemble my father in stature, proportions, and countenance.

The next field of discovery carried me back to the Trojan war. The celebrated city of Troy, and the Phrygian shores, the fleet and army of Greece, now engaged my whole attention. I was not a little gratified to have a glance at a scene which has filled the world with noise, and been so famous in poetry. Yet I must confess my expectations were not fully answered. The Grecian chiefs appeared with far less splendor than they are made to exhibit under the glowing pen of Homer. I liked Ulysses the best of any of them. He was a sturdy old fellow, and although in appearance somewhat of a barbarian, yet he was strong, manly, and sagacious, equally able to ward off as to meet danger. I hoped now my ambition would be crowned by finding Ulysses among my progenitors. My guide, however, directly pointed out to me Thersites, assuring me that he was the very man. To save time, I will give a description of him, as we find it in Pope’s translation of Homer:

Thersites clamored in the throng,

Loquacious, loud and turbulent of tongue,

Awed by no shame, by no respect controlled,

In scandal busy, in reproaches bold:

His figure such as might his soul proclaim,

One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame,

His mounting shoulders half his breast o’erspread,

Thin hair bestrewed his long mishapen head,

Spleen to mankind his envious heart possessed,

And much he hated all but most the best.

Ugly as Thersites was, I thought it, however, no small honor to be descended from one of the conquerors of Troy, and I intend at a convenient time, to consult the ancient critics, to see whether Homer has not been guilty of detraction in stating the character of Thersites.

From Troy the genii lead me directly to Mesopotamia, and we halted in the midst of an extensive morass, a wild and trackless wilderness, inhabited by noxious reptiles and wild beasts. Presenting me the glass, she told me to make the best of it as this would be the last opportunity. Under the eye of the perspective the scene presently kindled with glowing colors and magnificent prospects. In the midst wandered a spacious river, the circumjacent grounds, although reclaimed from their native state, afforded those rural wild and romantic scenes indicative of the morning of improvement and invention. Thousands of people appeared busy in building various structures. Many were leisurely roving in the gardens and groves along the river banks. Contentment and tranquility smiled, labor went on with cheerfulness, and the orders of superiors were obeyed with a rude but lofty air of conscious freedom.

My conductress asked me whether I had yet noticed the Tower of Babel? On which, turning to my right, I saw, not far off, that massive structure. Its elevated summit rising toward the clouds, seemed indeed to threaten heaven. I could not but remark how much I had the advantage of Herodotus and some of the other Greek Philosophers, who viewed that Tower in a state of decay, and yet gave a most wonderful account of its greatness. I was now fully sensible that this was the seat of the first of empires, and was beginning to observe more attentively several things, when the appearance of some personages, at the head of a troop of horse, attracted my notice. Two personages of majestic port, followed by a numerous train, now drew near. Before them the statue of Apollo Belvidere would have appeared diminutive.

You see, said my guide, Nimrod and Ham. The former was in the bloom and vigor of manhood. In his eye the fire of ambition burned, and all his actions bespoke haughtiness, ostentation and authority. He was the true and original founder of the science of war and despotism.

In the appearance of Ham there was something almost more than mortal. His deportment was grave, thoughtful, and gloomy. His snowy locks fell over his shoulders which the flight of centuries had not bowed, and his venerable beard swept a breast where the secrets of wisdom seemed deposited. But yet his eye was fierce and cruel, and gave sign of his inward depravity.

Whilst I was scrutinising to discover marks of consanguinity, my guide pointed me to a little fellow just by me who was making brick. There, says he, is your progenitor. His face was an isosceles triangle; and a long sharp nose and chin gave him the air of complete originality. He is, continued she, a true and legitimate offspring of Japhet. And now, having favored you more than I ever did any other mortal, to give you complete satisfaction, know, that from Noah to yourself there have been one hundred generations; and in your line there have been one King, five Princes, seven Butchers, eight Sages, five Commanders, ten Magicians, six Pilgrims, fourteen Soldiers, twenty Husbandmen, seventeen Mechanics, fourteen Sailors, thirteen Shepherds, eleven Beggars, eight Philosophers, twelve Robbers, ten Hermits, nine Warriors, and one Author.

Moreover, some of this illustrious line were present at the confusion of Babel, at the sack of Troy, the battle of Pharsalia, the destruction of Palmyra, the burning of fifty thousand cities in India and China, the defeat of Bajaret, the assassination of Henry the Fourth of France, the Powder Plot, and many other great events. Here I awoke, and behold! it was a dream.

And now the information I would make of the knowledge derived front my dream, is to publish forthwith an address to all the sons of Adam, demonstrating the importance of keeping an exact genealogy. The plan of which address is developed in the following articles.

I.—The seven subsequent years must be employed in exploring the generations that are past; and as I should be obliged to go to Wales and Germany, most of us to Europe and perhaps some to Asia, if not to Africa, I believe there had better be an armistice; for this business cannot be accomplished without an universal peace.

II.—The scheme of Leibnitz of an universal language, might also in that time or a little more, be matured. For in order to know the fair Asiatics and Africans, we must certainly have a common language.

III.—When the scheme is effected, men will see more and more the importance of improving their race. Upon this discovery a Science will arise of infinitely greater glory and utility than that of War. Nations will cross their breed as much as possible; and a wife from India or the South Sea, will be prized more than a ship-load of silks.

IV.—Every man who dies without an issue is the end of a line. He is like a thread cut from a weaver’s web, and never joined again, or like a river that perishes in the sands of Africa, and never reaches the ocean. The plan contemplated, therefore, will excite in men a universal desire to propagate their species. Every man will see the folly and criminality of remaining single, and the horrid impiety of exposing his life in war before he has tied himself to some future generations. He will view it as risking the extermination of an endless chain of beings equally important with himself. And when he has become a parent, he will view it still more impious to hazard his life in any way, now become necessary for the preservation and care of his children.

V.—Thus the art of killing, which has been the main business of nations, will be superceded by that of communicating, preserving and improving life. And in future generations the names of heroes and conquerors will be eternized only by their infamy, as crimes are recorded in law Books, preceded by prohibition and followed by penalty. The ages of war will be regarded as the period of universal destruction, or rather as the period in which the human race had not yet acquired the use of reason. Then Philosophers and Philanthropists will be celebrated, and a man will only be considered as great as he is known to be good.

December, 1840.

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A SOLDIER’S THE LAD FOR ME.

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BY A. M‘MAKIN.

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There’s a charm in the fame

Of a soldier’s name,

With his colors so gay, and his spirits so light;

At his bold command,

No lass in the land,

Can withhold from his prowess her smile so bright,—

With his nodding plume, and his manners so free,

A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me.

At fete or at ball

He is courted by all;

His step is the lightest that trips in the dance,

With his sword on his thigh,

And a smile in his eye,

Each belle doth acknowledge his bow and his glance,

With his nodding plume, and his manners so free,

A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me.

When there’s mischief to pay,

He is first in the fray,

Nor blanches when death-shots are falling around,

With a tear for the foe

In the battle laid low,

He sheds not till victory his valor hath crown’d;

With his nodding plume, and his manners so free,

A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me.

In his wild bivouac,

With his cup and his sack,

His sweetheart remember’d with heart, and with soul;

To beauty a fill,

And a cheer with a will,

While each comrade to friendship is passing the bowl.

With his nodding plume, and his manners so free,

A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me.

Philadelphia, December 20, 1840.

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BY MRS. C. DURANG.

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“Can nothing induce you to give up the idea of going to the ball to-night, my dear Maria?” said the anxious Mr. Worthington, “our dear little one seems quite unwell, and surely the loss, or rather the exchange of one pleasure for another, can not be so distressing, particularly when the one is of so evanescent a nature as a rout.”

“What good could I possibly do the infant?” was the reply to this kind expostulation of her doting husband; “you know Sarah is quite accustomed to her, and really I think it ridiculous that you should wish me to stay home; but lately you seem to rack your brains to contrive what means you can devise to thwart my wishes: if I ask for anything that will cost the slightest extra expense, the reply is: ‘we can’t afford it.’ Pray how do other people afford to live in more style than we do, with less income than ours?”

“Unfortunately, they cannot afford it,” said Mr. Worthington; “and we see the consequences daily. Many of the enormous failures that have lately occurred, might have been prevented, but for the spirit of rivalry that fashion has instilled into the families of many of our merchants and citizens.”

“So,” said Mrs. Worthington, “because people fail, I am to be deprived of everything I wish for, and kept at home to see whether the child is going to be sick. I am sure I have taken every precaution to prevent its crying after me, for I have carefully covered its eyes every time I have nursed it since its birth. Nay, I do not let it come into the room where I am without something thrown over its face, that it may not know me; so that if I was to remain home to watch it, it would neither be better nor wiser; nay, it might frighten her to see a strange face.”

Mr. Worthington paused for some time, confounded by his wife’s unnatural exultation, and want of affection for her infant, at last he exclaimed, with considerable sharpness,—“Have you a heart?”

“I once did, and do still, possess such an article, notwithstanding I presume you consider yourself the proprietor.”

“It must be small indeed,” said Mr. Worthington with a sigh.

“Large enough for it to admit the whole circle of my friends,” added the lady.

“I fear it will soon be untenanted, then,” uttered Mr. Worthington as he left the room, finding it was impossible to dissuade her from her purpose, and discovering, too late, the misery of being united to one whose education had unfitted her for a wife.

Maria Wilson was an only child. At an early age she was left to the direction of a mother, whose partiality for her daughter blinded her to all her errors. The best affections of her heart had been neglected, their place had been allowed to be usurped by pride, arrogance, and self-sufficiency. Their means were circumscribed and insufficient to enable her to shine in the gay world, although her beauty was well calculated to attract the admiration of those who moved in it, and her sole ambition seemed to be to gain pre-eminence there, so that when Mr. Worthington, young, handsome, and rich, offered his hand, it was not rejected:—he viewed her faults with the fondness of a lover, and deceived himself into the belief that, once his, he could mould her disposition to whatever he wished it to be; but, after marriage, she launched into the vortex of fashionable life with enthusiasm, regardless of consequences; she was courted and caressed; in vain he entreated, in vain he expostulated; the wish of her heart was gratified; the goblet of happiness, as she thought, was at her lips, and she was determined to quaff it to the dregs; misfortune had not yet taught him to despair, and hope still upheld him; he looked forward to the time when she would become a mother, when the bonds of nature would form a fresh tie with those of affection. But, alas! he was doomed to be disappointed; the little stranger was viewed as an intruder, whose smile was not allowed to meet the mother’s eyes; she mourned that the fashion was past for children to be put out to nurse, and never suffered it to be brought to her without its face being covered, that it would not fret for her absence. Every request from her husband to avoid unnecessary expenses, were recorded as evidences of his want of love, or as proofs of a contracted and narrow disposition.

She went to the ball,—and, when she returned, her little infant, Adela, lay at the point of death. For the first time, a pang of regret and remorse stung her bosom; repentance caused her tears to flow, as she became a voluntary watcher of its sick bed. Oh! how anxiously did she endeavor to behold one look from those eyes she had so often concealed from hers; she feared they were closed never to be opened again. She sat in silence and despair, endeavoring to catch the sound of that voice whose plaintive wail she had so often despised, but for two days its heavy breathing alone reached her ear.

Providence ordained that it should recover. On the third day it opened its eyes, those eyes which, for the first time, met those of its mother, and as she beheld it smile, a beam of newly-kindled affection woke in her breast; she caressed her child, but it turned from her, and sought the face it had been accustomed to behold; she endeavored in vain to gain the affection of the slighted child; it clung to its nurse, Sarah, who loved her with a mother’s fondness. After many fruitless efforts to regain the treasure she had lost in her infant’s smiles and love, she abandoned the attempt, and with the child’s return to health, she returned to her old routine of levity and frivolity. Unthinking woman! how little did she reflect what labor of mind, and sacrifice of personal comfort her husband daily endured. Of what utility was his splendidly furnished house to him? Surely he merited at least her gratitude, when it was for her gratification that his hours were passed in his homely counting-house, where dreariness was banished by the excitement of business. The wooden chairs, the maps on the wall, the perpetual almanac, table of interest and foreign exchange, pasted in formal array, formed a strong contrast to the splendid rooms where the draperied windows admitted the softened light, which reflected on gilded mirrors, and carpets, where mingled the colors of the rainbow, to blaze in beauty; while the rich vases, filled with flowers, rivalling in beauty the choicest exotics in their hues, would tempt the looker on to believe it was a paradise. And such it would have been to him in his hours of relaxation, could he but have secured the affections of his Maria there; but fashion was the forbidden fruit, and vanity the serpent; they both proved irresistible; her beauty was the theme of universal admiration; it was that which first attracted him, when he sought her heart and hand. But the movements of the heart are imperceptible, its pulsations are uncontrollable, and it will sometimes appear to vibrate on slight occasions. Alas! he too late discovered that with hers it was but the echo of ambition, pride, or vanity that had touched its chords; love had never been awakened in her bosom.

As Adela advanced in years, the subject of her education engrossed much of her father’s thoughts; it was there he felt most severely his wife’s deficiency of duty. A mother’s watchful care is necessary for her daughter’s welfare. No one but her can guard the mind, and guide it through that ideal world, which the youthful imagination creates, and wherein it wanders, bewildered by false hopes and illusive joys.

There is no country whose system of female education is free from error. The elite of England and America select the fashionable boarding schools for their daughters to finish their studies in; where, unfortunately, the adornment of the person, and flippancy of manner, often supercede the adornment of the mind. Can parents reflect that the conclusion of a female’s education requires their care the most, and that the dashing boldness of manners, too often learned at a fashionable school, is but the mask which covers ignorance, and bravados out the want of merit? How much less estimable is the character of such a female than the modest, timid, but firm being who has received and finished her education under the watchful guidance of that mother’s eye, whose anxious glance searches unto the soul of her charge, guarding it from evils that threaten and too often besiege the senses, till confusion and desolation leave the fair fabric a monument of ruins for parental fondness to mourn over.

In France the convent is selected, in a measure secluded from the influence of fashion: there the mind is more unfettered by folly, and becomes prepared to receive necessary instruction. Hence they are more capable of encountering the vicissitudes of life, and prepared for that intercourse which French women are allowed in society. Thus their minds become strengthened; no nation has produced so many celebrated women as France.

An English husband condemned for treason will be allowed to linger in prison, unless the entreaties and petitions of his wife and friends have sufficient influence to procure his release; if they fail, she sinks beneath the weight of her misfortunes, and an early grave yields repose to the bruised spirit: not so with the French woman; it awakens all the energies of her soul; every effort is made; every stratagem is resorted to; the prison doors though barred, are still accessible to love, artifice, and ingenuity, these combined, generally contrive to elude the vigilance of the keepers; thus Madame Lavalette, Roland, and several others, have given bright examples of what fortitude, education, and energy may achieve; thus the Bastille’s dungeons have been insufficient barriers to the influence of the French women.

As time passed on, the aspect of Mr. Worthington’s affairs seemed to become less prosperous; day after day losses occurred, until at last his bankruptcy served to convince his wife that his admonitions had not been needless; remorse again visited the unhappy woman; she felt that her husband’s forbearance had been great; and determined that the neglect of her first born infant should be amply atoned for, by double attention to the second, whose birth was now at hand.

After Mr. Worthington’s bankruptcy, it became necessary that he should leave his native place, and enter into business where it might prove more successful; he settled his wife in a small house till he should be enabled to send for her, and for a short time enjoyed more comfort than when splendor shone around them; they looked forward with hope and joy to the time when they would behold a child that would be mutually attached to each.

The infant was born; a lovely girl, but alas! its eyes were denied to see the blessed light of heaven! It was blind!

The wretched, self-convicted, soul-struck woman dared not complain; conviction of her errors bowed her spirit to the earth; what would she not now have given to recall some years of her past life? But it was too late, and the only resource now left her, was to submit with resignation to her fate.

After Mr. Worthington had departed for the Island of Martinque, his wife had to struggle for the maintenance of her children till he should be enabled to establish himself in business; she proposed opening a seminary, and called on some of those friends whose presence had often enlivened her assemblies, and who had partaken of her hospitality. One had just sent her children to Mrs. ——, who was all the ton. Another thought it would be better style to have a governess in the house; and if she thought she could take the entire charge of the children, she would have no objection to give her the preference, if she could make the terms very low; others were “not at home” when she called—while some more candid than the rest—at once informed her, that any other occupation would be more suitable to her as her former dislike to children could not be so easily overcome; among them were those, who with sneers, regretted the change in her circumstances.

Thus it is to live in the world without studying human nature. We will be sure to find nought but disappointments, if we trust to those we meet in the giddy throng of fashionable assemblies; they are like the fleecy vapors that float over the blue expanse, their brightness is only the reflection of the light by which they are surrounded, and their aspect is as changing. The human family taken in the mass collectively, are cold and senseless, the philanthropic sensations of the heart are extinct, and an apathetic illusion usurps the place of the genuine effusions of benevolence, with which the refined soul overflows when in its unsophisticated state; it is in the domestic circles that friendship is found, given, and reciprocated, it is there that the best human feelings reign monarchs; but in the busy scenes of life, coldness, and contempt are the answers to an appeal for compassion and humanity.

With a mind forlorn and desolate, Mrs. Worthington sought consolation from her children. The cherub smiles of one yielded it; but the early affections of the other had been blighted by its mother’s neglect, and it sheltered itself among strangers. It was no longer swayed by the same gentle passions, but fierce and uncontrolled, they became an ocean of contending emotions.

Adela, at the age of sixteen, eloped with a young man, whose worthless character precluded any chance of felicity for the unhappy girl, and added to the tortures of the miserable parents: but the winning softness, and amiable disposition of the sightless Isabella, made ample amendment for all her mother’s misfortunes. With calmness and cheerfulness she bore her calamity: “What,” said she, “though darkness is over those veiled orbs; my mind’s vision sees beyond this world, the mental light that flashes through the long vista of existence, gleams with brilliance to direct my course. Why should I sigh to behold this world? Do I not enjoy the delightful fragrance of the earth’s flowers, and am I not nourished by its fruits? Do I not possess the affections of those I love, and has not the philanthropy of man instructed (us children whose existence is one still night of calm,) in reading, working, and employing ourselves usefully, so that we feel not that the light of day is darkened from our view?”

And truly might it be called useful, for by her efforts she had supported her mother during a long sickness. The physician, Dr. Morris, that attended Mrs. Worthington, beheld the beauty of Isabella; respect and humanity first guided him to the assistance of a lovely, interesting creature, who deprived of one of the most essential faculties of our nature, exerted those she still possessed for the support of her mother. Her progress in music had been so rapid that before she had been two years under the instruction of one of the directors of the institution for the Relief of the Blind, she was even enabled to fill the situation of principal chorister in a church. That respect soon ripened into love, and she only waited the return of Mr. Worthington to bestow her hand on one altogether worthy of the amiable girl.

The many years that passed with Mr. Worthington, wherein all his efforts proved unsuccessful, finally broke his spirits. Every prospect of raising his family to their former splendor proved unavailing; the separation from his wife had not been felt by him as severely as it would have been, had not her conduct, during the early period of their marriage, alienated his affections; thus those disappointments, which at the time he deplored, proved to be mercies, that in the end were as beneficent as the morning and evening dew which temporises the soil for the fruits it is hereafter to produce.

The final blow was yet to come. He had determined on returning to his native land, and settling in some humble manner of life—when a letter arrived, informing him that his daughter Adela was not expected to live. He immediately arranged his affairs, and departed for those shores which blighted hopes had driven him from in despair.

The sun was about to set, as Dr. Morris sat by the bedside of the dying Mrs. Worthington. Isabella knelt by the side of her mother, and breathed a secret prayer, that the spirit of her parent might be permitted to remain on this earth till the return of her father. Every knock at the door for the last three weeks, had awakened in her bosom a throb of expectation, hoping it might be him. An awful pause ensued, as her last wish and prayer ascended to heaven; it was interrupted by the heavy breathing of the sufferer; when a step was heard approaching the door, it opened, and her father stood there. A shriek from her mother acquainted her, whose eyes were denied the sight of him, that it was him to whom she owed her being, that had come.

“My prayer is heard,” said she, “father let your daughter receive a second blessing, He who is in heaven, ‘the Father of all,’ has already blessed me, by your presence. Mother rejoice, our prayers are heard; and if it is His will that you should soon return to your heavenly home, you can bear with you the last embrace of him you so wished to see, to be assured you die with his blessing on your head.”

“Bless you, my child! bless you, my wife! but there is one that craves your blessing, Maria, if you have yet the strength: it is indeed, needed.” He waited not for a reply, but left the room, to which in a few moments he returned, bearing in his arms the wasted and almost inanimate form of Adela; the last effort of nature gave almost supernatural strength to the mother; she caught her child in her arms, they were folded in one long embrace: the spirits of both departed together. Heaven! in mercy, veiled the sight of so much misery from Isabella; she felt that a solemn scene had passed in her presence, but she knew not the full extent of its horrors.

It was the last trial Mr. Worthington had to endure. The union of Isabella with Dr. Morris banished every solicitude; and taught him that the goodness of God is shown most conspicuous, when by granting those wishes that seem opposed to His, our folly, and His wisdom is manifested.

———

BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

———

Thou giant Pine of patriarchal years,

O’er the rock helm of the stern mountain bending,

As watching yon glad river, which appears

Like a bright dream through bowers of beauty wending.

Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride

With warm and flowery scenes, and soft wings gleaming,

Bright fountains laughing on the mountain’s side,

’Neath bow’rs of blossom’d vines, profusely streaming.

And sigh’st thou o’er those visions of delight,

As my lone bosom o’er the glowing treasures

Which live in fancy’s realm before my sight,

Mocking my spirit with ideal pleasures?

Or art thou holding converse with the wind,

Waving majestic assent to some story

Of mournful interest, how thy stately kind

Have perish’d from the places of their glory?

Or are ye talking of the noble race

Stately as thou, with the wind’s freedom roaming;

Who o’er these mountains once pursued the chace,

Or stem’d the river at its spring tide foaming?

Oh knew I all the legends of the past!

With life and love, and death and sorrow teeming,

On which thou hast looked down, since first the blast

Play’d with thy plumes, in morning sunlight gleaming.

Thou’st seen the free born hunters of the wild,

Chasing the fleet deer in his antler’d glory;

Or with his chosen maid, rich nature’s child,

Breathing in whispers love’s ungarnish’d story.

And thou hast seen him on the mountain path,

Victor and vanquish’d, fleeing and pursuing,

Conquer’d and writhing with vindictive wrath,

Or agonising o’er his nation’s ruin.

While the fierce conqueror gaz’d with gloating eye

On mangled forms, in mortal anguish lying;

Or where the wigwam’s flame was wreathing high,

Showing its inmates, wild with terror flying.

Seemed he not king-like, with his plumy crown,

And like a tiger, streak’d with hideous painting!

With hand that sought no treasure but renown,

And heart that knew no fear, and felt no fainting.

Full many a time, perchance beneath thy shade,

The youthful sachem stood with pride surveying

His wide domains, and the soft valley’s shade,

Where through the bowers his dark-eyed love was straying.

Yet sometimes still there comes a wasted form,

With locks like thine, by many winters faded;

Well has he brav’d the battle, and the storm,

The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded.

Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last,

Each of a noble race; and ye are staying

Magnificent mementoes of the past,

Glorious and wonderful in your decaying.

And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind,

And sigh sad dirges of thy perished glory;

And he is brooding, with a saddened mind,

Over a perish’d nation’s wrongful story.

A few more years, and the wild eagle’s wing

Shall seek his long-lov’d rest with mournful screaming;

A few more years, and no dark form shall cling

To this stern height of perish’d glory dreaming.

And who will mourn when thou art lying low,

And o’er thy shattered limbs green mosses creeping;

What noble heart will melt with generous woe,

When the last warrior of his race is sleeping?

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”

———

THE RESCUE.

“God bless you!” said my old schoolmate, Harry St. Clair, to me, on a bright morning in April, 1776, as I shook his hand for the last time, and leaping into the stern-sheets of the boat, waved my hand in adieu, and bade the crew, with a husky voice, give way. I could scarcely trust myself to look again at the group of old classmates crowding the battery, for a thousand memories of the past came crowding on me as I gazed. The tears, despite myself, welled into my eyes. Determined that no one should witness my emotions, I turned my face away from the crew, affecting to be engaged in scanning the appearance of the brigantine destined to be my future home, the Fire-Fly.

She was as beautiful a craft as ever sat the water. Her hull was long and low, of a mould then but lately introduced. There was no poop upon her quarter deck, nor was she disfigured by the unsightly forecastle then in use. Never had I seen a more exquisite run than that which her glossy hull developed; while her tall, rakish spars, tapering away into needles, and surrounded by their cobweb tracery of ropes, finished the picture. She was, indeed, all a sailor’s heart could desire. When I stepped upon her decks my admiration increased to a ten-fold degree. She had seemed from the water to be a craft of not more than a hundred tons burthen; but the illusion vanished on ascending her side, when you found yourself on board of a brigantine of not less than thrice that size. Her well-scraped decks; her bright burnished binnacle; the boarding-pikes lashed to the main-boom; the muskets placed in stands abaft the main-mast; the nicety with which even the smallest rope was coiled down in its place; the guns ranged along on either side under her bulwarks, and especially the air of neatness, finish, and high discipline perceptible about her, convinced me that I was embarking on board a man-of-war of the highest professional character. In fact I knew Captain Stuart’s reputation to be that of a rigid disciplinarian.

“Mr. Parker—glad to see you,” said my superior, as I touched the deck and raised my hat, “you are punctual, but allow me,” said he, turning to an officer on his right hand, whom I knew to be his lieutenant, “to present you to Mr. Lennox—Mr. Lennox, Mr. Parker.”

The usual salutations were exchanged; the boat was hoisted in; and I dove down into the mess-room to stow away my traps. It was full of officers. The second lieutenant, the purser, and my three fellow reefers greeted me heartily, as they rose from a long, narrow table, on which was a formidable display of salt junk and old Jamaica.

“Just in time, Parker,” sang out my old crony, Westbrook, “we’re stiffening ourselves to keep up against the fog outside. Push the bottle, Jack—a cut of the junk for Parker—and as there’s nothing like beginning right, here’s a jolly voyage to us.”

The toast had just been drunk, amid a whirlwind of huzzas, when the shrill whistle of the boatswain shrieked through the ship, followed by the hoarse cry, “all hands on deck, ahoy!”

In an instant the gun-room was deserted, and we were at our several posts; while the gallant brigantine echoed with the tramp of the crew, the orders of the first lieutenant, and the monotonous creaking of the windlass, as the anchor was being hove up to the bows.

By the time the anchor was catted the morning sun was just beginning to struggle over the heights of Long Island; and as the mists upon the water curled upward in fantastic wreaths beneath his rays, the head of our brigantine began slowly to incline from the breeze. In another instant, as her sails filled, the water could be heard rippling under the cut-water. Then as a sudden puff of wind pressed her down toward her bearings, and we shot rapidly ahead, the bubbles went whizzing along her sides, and eddying around her rudder, swept away astern in a long and glittering wake.

I stood, after the bustle of making sail was over, gazing on the scenery around me, with feelings such as I had never experienced before. It was to be my first voyage in a man-of-war: I would soon, doubtless, imbrue my hands in the blood of my fellow men; and I myself might never return alive from my cruize. I could not help, therefore, being filled with strange and new emotions, as I leaned over the taffrail, gazing on the now fast-receding town, and recurring, again and again, to the many happy days I had spent in my native city, and to the dear faces there which I might never see again. But gradually these feelings were lost in the admiration enkindled in my bosom by the beauty of the surrounding scenery.

It was indeed a glorious sight which opened around me. Right in the wake of the brigantine lay the city, still partly shrouded in the morning mists; while the back-ground was filled up by a range of uplands, through which a narrow opening disclosed where the Hudson rolled his arrowy course. To the right lay Governor’s Island, the East River, with its shipping, and the verdant shores of Long Island; while on the left rose up the bluff highlands of Staten Island, emerging, as it were, from a cloud of mist, and crowned with antique farm-houses, rich fields of verdant grass, and here and there a strip of woodland, as yet sparsely decked with its new-found leaves. Directly ahead were the Narrows, with the frowning heights on either hand; while a white, glittering line on the horizon without, and the long, undulating swell, heaving in through the streight, betokened our near approach to the ocean. A few sails flashed in the distance. All was still, beautiful, and serene. Occasionally, however, the measured sound of oars would give token of a passing fishing boat, or a snatch of a drinking song would float from some craft idly anchored in the stream. A few gulls screamed overhead. A flock of smaller water-fowl wheeled and settled on a strip of white, sandy beach just outside the Narrows. The surf broke with a hollow roar, in a long line of foam, along the neighboring coast; while out on the sea-board hung a dim haze, undulating slowly beneath the sun’s rays as he rose, blood-red, in the eastern horizon.

“A fine breeze for our first day’s cruize,” said Westbrook, “and, faith, a deuce of a one it will be, if we should happen to be caught by one of King George’s frigates, and either be strung up for rebels at the yard arm, or stifled to death in one of his cursed prison hulks. What think you of the prospect, comrades, isn’t it pleasant?”

“Pleasant do ye call it?” said Patrick O’Shaughnessy, a reefer of about my own age, who was a dangerously late emigrant to the colony, “shure, and it is rayther at my father’s hearth I would be, in dear, ould Ireland, afther all, if we’re to be thrated as rebels the day.”

“Your father’s hearth, Pat,” said Westbrook, “and do you really mean to say that they have such things in Galway, or wherever else it was that you were suffered to eat potatoes in ignorance, until your guardians brought you out here on a speculation.”

“By St. Patrick, your head must be hard,” said the irritated reefer, “and it’s well that my shillelah isn’t on the wrist—”

“Pshaw! now you’re not angry, comrade mine,” said Westbrook, laughing good-humoredly, but repenting already of his reckless speech, “come, we’ve got a long cruize before us, and we shall have enough of quarrels with those rascally British, without getting up any among ourselves,” and he frankly extended his hand.

“Shure, and it’s a gentleman ye are, Misther Westbrook, and I’d like to see the spalpeen that says ye aint,” said O’Shaughnessy, grasping the proffered hand, and shaking it heartily.

“Yonder are the white caps of the Atlantic, rolling ahead,” said I, as we stretched past Sandy Hook, and beheld the broad ocean opening in all its vastness and sublimity before us.

We were now fairly afloat. At that time the enterprise in which we had embarked was one of the greatest danger, for not only were we liable to the usual dangers of nautical warfare, but we were, as yet, uncertain in what manner we should be treated in case of a capture. But we were all confident in the justness of our country’s cause, and being such, we were prepared for either fortune.

Nearly a week elapsed without anything occurring to dissipate the monotony of our voyage, excepting a momentary alarm at the appearance of a frigate, which we at first took to be an English one, but which subsequently turned out to be a Frenchman. Meanwhile, we were not without many a merry bout in the gun-room, and over our salt junk and Jamaica, we enjoyed ourselves as hilariously as many an epicure would over his Burgundy and turtle-soup. The jest went round; the song was gaily trolled; many a merry story was rehearsed, and anticipations of a successful cruize were mingled with determinations to bear the worst, if fortune should so will it. Under the broad flag of New York, we were resolved “to do or die,” against the prouder ensign of an unjust, and tyrannical king.

We had run down well nigh to the Windward islands, and were beating up against a head wind, when we spoke a French merchantman, who informed us that he had passed a rich Indiaman, but the day before, bound from London to Jamaica. After enquiring the course of the Englishman, our skipper hauled his wind, and bidding the friendly Gaul, “un bon voyage,” we steered away in pursuit of our prize. Night settled down upon us before we caught sight of her; but still crowding on all sail we kept on in our way.

It was about eight bells in the middle watch, and I was on the point of preparing to go below, after the relief should have been called, when I thought I heard a rattling of cordage down in the thick bank of fog to leeward. I listened attentively, and again heard the sound distinctly, but this time it was like the rollicking of oars.

“Hist! Benson,” said I to the boatswain, who was standing near me at the moment, “hist! lay your ear close to the water here, and listen if you do not hear the sound of oars.”

The old fellow got into the main chains, and holding on with one hand to them, cautiously leaned over and listened for several minutes.

“I hear nothing, sir,” said he in a whisper, “it’s as still as death down in yonder fog-bank. But I’ll keep a sharp look-out, for it may be there’s a sail close on to us, without our knowing it, in this mist.”

The night had been intensely dark, but was now breaking away overhead, where a few stars could be seen twinkling on the patches of half-hid azure sky. All round the horizon, however, but especially to leeward, hung a dark, massy curtain of mist, shrouding everything on the sea-board in impenetrable obscurity, and, like piled up fleeces, laying thick and palpable upon the immediate surface of the ocean, but gradually becoming thinner and lighter as it ascended upwards, until it finally terminated in a thin, gauze-like haze, almost obscuring the stars on the mid heaven above. So dense was the mist in our immediate vicinity, that the man at the helm could not discern the end of the bowsprit; while the upper yards of the brigantine looked like shadowy lines in the gloom. Occasionally, the light breeze would undulate the fog, lifting it for a moment from the water, and disclosing to our sight a few fathoms of the unruffled sea around us; but before a minute had passed the vapors would again settle in fantastic wreaths upon the face of the deep, wrapping us once more in the profoundest obscurity. Not a sound was heard except the occasional rubbing of the boom, the sullen flap of a sail, or the low ripple of the swell under our cut-water, as we stole noiselessly along in the impenetrable gloom. The tread of one of the watch, or the sudden thrashing of a reef-point against the sail, broke on the ear with startling distinctness. Suddenly I heard a noise as of a stifled cry coming up out of the thick fog to leeward, from a spot apparently a few points more on our quarter than the last sound. The boatswain heard it also, and turning quickly to me, he said—

“There’s something wrong there, Mr. Parker, or my name isn’t Jack Benson. And look—don’t you see a ship’s royal through the fog there—just over that gun—that shadowy object, like a whiff of tobacco-smoke, down here to the right, is what I mean.”

“By heavens! you are right—and—see!—yonder comes her fore-top-mast, rising above the undulating mist.”

“Ship ahoy!” hailed the second lieutenant, at that moment appearing on deck, and listening to my report, “what craft is that?”

The hoarse summons sailed down to leeward, like the wailing of some melancholy spirit, but no answer was returned. A couple of minutes elapsed.

“Ship ah—o—o—y!” sung out the officer again, “answer, or I’ll fire into you—this is the Fire-Fly, an armed vessel of the free state of New York.”

“We are a merchantman, belonging to Philadelphia,” answered a gruff voice in reply.

“Send your boat on board.”

“We can’t,” answered the same voice, “for one of them was washed overboard, three days ago, in a gale, and the other one was swamped.”

At this instant, one of those sudden puffs of wind, to which I have already alluded, momentarily swept away the fog from around the approaching ship, and we beheld, to our astonishment, that her sails had been backed, and that she was slowly falling astern of us, as if with the intention of slipping across our wake, and going off to windward.

“Fill away again, there,” thundered the lieutenant, perceiving their manoeuvre, “or I’ll fire on you—fill away, I say.”

“By the holy aposthles,” said O’Shaughnessy at this moment, “isn’t there a schooner’s mast, on the lee-quarter of the fellow—yes—there it is—see?”

Every eye was instantly turned in the direction to which he had pointed. A single glance established the keenness of his vision. Right under the weather quarter of the merchantman, might be seen the mast of apparently a small schooner. The sails were down, and only the bare stick could be discerned; but the whole truth flashed upon us as if with the rapidity of lightning.

“The ship is in the hands of pirates,” I exclaimed involuntarily, “God help the poor wretches who compose her crew.”

“Boarders ahoy!” sung out the voice of the captain, breaking, like a trumpet-call, upon the momentary silence of the horror-struck crew, “muster on the forecastle, all—up with the helm, quarter-master—ready to grapple there—heave,” and the huge irons, as we bore down upon the ship, went crashing among her hamper.

The instant that discovered the true nature of our position, worked a change in the whole appearance of the merchantman. Her deserted decks swarmed with men; her silence gave place to shouts, oaths, and the clashing of arms; and after a momentary confusion, we saw, in the obscurity, a dark group of ruffians clustered on the forecastle, awaiting our attack.

“Boarders ahoy!” again shouted Captain Stuart, brandishing his sword on high, “follow me,” and springing into the fore-rigging of the merchantman, he levelled a pistol at the first pirate attempting to oppose him, and followed by a score, and more, of hardy tars, rushed, the next instant, down upon her decks.

“Stand to your posts, my men,” thundered the pirate captain, as he stood by the main-mast, surrounded by his swarthy followers, “stand to your posts, and remember, you fight for your lives—come on,” and drawing a pistol from his belt, he levelled it at the first lieutenant, who, pressing on, aside of Captain Stuart, received the ball in his side, and fell, apparently, lifeless on the deck.

“Revenge! Revenge!” thundered the Captain, turning to cheer on his men, “sweep the miscreants from the deck, on—on,” and waving his sword aloft, he dashed into the fray. The men answered by a cheer, and bore down upon the pirates with an impetuosity, doubly more vehement from their desire to avenge the fallen lieutenant.

For full five minutes the contest was terrific. Desperation lent additional vigor to the freebooters’ muscles, while our own men were inflamed to madness by the fall of Lennox. I had never been in a conflict of any kind whatever before, and for the first few moments—I will not hesitate to own it—a strange whirling sensation, akin to fear, swept through my brain. But a half a minute had not passed before it had vanished; and I felt a wild tumultuous excitement which seemed to endow me with the strength of a Hercules. I lost all sight of the turmoil around me. I could only see that it had become a general mÊleÉ, in which personal prowess was of more importance than discipline. I heard a wild mingling of oaths, shouts, cries for mercy, the clashing of arms, the explosion of pistols, the shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce tramping of men struggling together in the last stage of mortal combat. But I had no time for more detailed observations. A giant ruffian singling me out from the crowd, rushed upon me with uplifted cutlass, and the next instant I would have been clove in twain, had I not caught the blow upon my blade. But so tremendous was its force that it splintered my trusty steel to fragments, and sent a shock through every nerve of my system. I staggered. But not a moment was to be lost. Already the gigantic arm of the pirate was raised on high. Happily my pistols were both as yet untouched. Springing back a step or two I jerked one from my belt, levelled it at his brain, and fired. He whirled around as if intoxicated, staggered, would have caught at the mast for support, and fell over dead upon the deck.

But I had no leisure to regard my fallen foe. The contest still raged around me fiercer than ever. On our side of the ship, however, the pirates had broken, and were retreating slowly and doggedly toward the stern. We pressed on hotly in pursuit, while shouts, curses, and huzzas, the groans of the dying, and the fierce rattling of cutlasses, formed a tumult around us of stirring excitement; but just as I rushed past the gangway, followed by a few of the bravest of our crew, a wild, long, thrilling scream from the cabin below, rose up over all the uproar of the conflict. It could come from no one but a woman—that prolonged cry of mortal agony! In an instant the retreating pirates were forgotten; I thought only of the danger of the sufferer below. Dashing aside, with the power of a giant, a brawny ruffian who would have impeded my progress, I sprang, at one leap, half way down the gangway, and with another stride found myself in the cabin of the ship.

Never shall I forget the scene that there met my eyes.

The apartment in which I stood was elegantly, even luxuriously furnished, presenting the appearance rather of a sumptuous drawing-room, than of a merchantman’s cabin. The state-rooms were of mahogany, elegantly inlaid with ebony. A service of silver and rich cut glass was ranged in the beaufut around the mast. Silken ottomans stretched along the sides of the room; a silver lamp of exquisite workmanship, depended from the ceiling; and a carpet of gorgeous pattern, and of the finest quality, covered the floor. But not a solitary individual was to be seen. A lady’s guitar, however, lay carelessly on one of the ottomans, and a few books were scattered around it in easy negligence. Could I be deceived with this corroborative testimony? Yet where was the owner of these little trifles? These reflections did not, however, occupy an instant; for I had scarcely finished a rapid survey of the cabin before another, and another shriek, ringing out just before me, roused every emotion of my heart to an uncontrollable fury. Catching sight of an undulating curtain at the farther end of the apartment, which I had imagined was only the drapery of the windows, I darted forward, and lifting up the damask, started back in horror at the sight that met my eyes.

This after cabin was smaller, and even more luxuriously fitted up than the other. But I did not remark this, at the time, for such a scene as I then witnessed, God grant I may never be called to look upon again.

As I pushed aside the curtain, three swarthy, olive-complexioned ruffians, dressed with more elaboration than any of their comrades I had yet seen, turned hastily around as if interrupted in some infamous deed, scowling upon me with the looks of demons. It needed but a glance to detect their fiendish work. A well dressed elderly man was extended at their feet, weltering in his blood. On an ottoman before them half lying, half sitting, was one of the fairest beings I had ever seen, her night dress disordered, her frame trembling, and her hair, wild and dishevelled, hanging in loose tresses from her shoulders. Her hands were covered in one or two places with blood; her eyes were wild; her face was flushed; and she panted as one does whose strength has been nearly overtasked in a desperate struggle. Never shall I forget the unutterable agony depicted on that countenance when I first entered; never shall I forget the lightning-like change which came over it as her eye fell upon me. Rushing frantically forward, while joy beamed in every feature of her face, she flung herself into my arms, shrieking hysterically,

“Oh! save me—save me—for the love of your mother, save me.”

My sudden appearance had startled the three ruffians, and for a moment they stood idle, suffering her to dart between them; but at the sound of her voice, they rushed as one man upon me. The odds were fearful, but I felt, at that instant, as if I could have dared heaven and earth in behalf of that suffering maiden. Clasping my arm around her waist, and retreating hastily into the other cabin, I shouted aloud for aid, parrying, with a cutlass I picked up at random, the attack of the miscreants. But the attempt was desperation itself. Already I had received two cuts across my arm, and I could scarcely hold my weapon in it, when the foremost ruffian, leaving my death, as he thought, to his comrades, laid his unholy hand once more upon the maiden. Good God! I thought my heart would have burst at this new insult. My determination was quicker than the electric spark of heaven. Hastily releasing the lovely burden from my hold, I seized my remaining pistol with the disengaged hand, and before the villain could perceive my purpose planted it against his face and fired. The brains spattered the ceiling, and even fell upon my own face and arm. But the miscreant was dead. Oh, the joy, the rapture of that moment! I heard, too, as the report subsided, the death-groan of another of the ruffians falling beneath the avenging cutlass of our men, who now, victorious on deck, came pouring down the hatchway. In another instant, as a shout of victory rang through the cabin, I had raised the almost senseless girl from the floor. She looked eagerly into my face, gazed wildly around, uttered a cry of joy, and convulsively clinging to me, as if for shelter, buried her head upon my bosom, and burst into a passion of hysteric tears.

The emotions of that moment were such as I had never deemed mortal being capable of experiencing. Feelings I cannot even now describe whirled through me, until my brain seemed almost to spin around in a delirium of joy. Yet there was a holiness in my emotions, far, far different from the common sensations of pleasure. I felt—I knew not how—a sudden interest in the fair being, sobbing convulsively upon my shoulder, which made her already seem dearer to me than life itself. I pressed her involuntarily to me; but a mother could not have done so with more purity to a new-born infant. Her sobs melted me so that I could scarcely keep my own eyes dry.

“God bless you, my poor, sweet girl,” I said in a husky voice, “you are among friends now.”

The tone, the words went to her very heart; she clasped me convulsively again, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Poor dove! she had just escaped from the hands of the spoiler, and fluttered, as yet, involuntarily on her rescuer’s bosom.

“God—in—hea—ven—bless you,” she murmured, betwixt her sobs, after a while, raising her tearful countenance from my shoulder, and looking upon me with eyes, whose depth, and whose gratitude I had never seen equalled—“God—bless—you, sir, for this act. Oh! if a life of prayers for your welfare can repay you,” she continued, with uplifted hands, and a countenance, which, in despite of its earnestness, was crimsoned with blushes, “it shall be freely given by me. But my uncle! my poor uncle! alas! they have murdered him,” and she covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out the fearful sight.

“Say nothing, my dear girl,” said I, the tears standing in my own eyes, “all are friends around you now. The ship has been rescued—the pirates are no more. Compose yourself—none here will harm you—your slightest wish shall be attended to, and you shall be served with the purity with which we serve a saint. Do not thus give way to grief—let me insist on your retiring—here is your maid,” said I, as the trembling creature emerged from a state-room, in which she had locked herself when her mistress was in danger, “a little rest will compose you.”

“Oh! my uncle, my more than parent—heaven bless you,” sobbed the beautiful, but still agitated girl, as she suffered herself to be led away by her little less agitated maid.

The prize turned out to be the British West-Indiaman, which had been surprised by pirates about a quarter of an hour before we hailed her. The beautiful being and her uncle were the only passengers. It is needless to say that very few of the ruffians survived the conflict, and that those who did were tried summarily by a court-martial the next day, and hung at the ship’s yard-arm. Their little schooner, or rather oyster-boat, was scuttled and sunk.

The wounds in my arm proved serious, though not dangerous, but they did not disable me from continuing on duty. I would willingly have lost the limb in such a holy cause.

The first appearance on deck of Beatrice Derwent—for such was the name of her I rescued—was at the burial of her uncle on the evening succeeding the re-capture of the ship. She appeared, leaning on the arm of her maid, and as her eye, just lifted for one moment from the deck, happened to catch mine, her face became suffused with crimson, and such a look of gratitude toward the living, combined with grief for the dead, flashed over her countenance as I never saw equalled. But in another moment her eyes dropped once more on the corpse, and I saw, by the convulsive heaving of her bosom, how fearful was her grief. When the corpse was launched into the deep, her sorrow broke all the restraint of custom, and she sobbed aloud. Directly, however, they subsided partially; and as she turned to re-enter the cabin, the last rays of the setting sun, gilding the mast-head with a crown of glory, and glittering along the surface of the deep, lingered a moment on her sunny hair, like the smile of the departed spirit.

The prize meantime, proving to be richly laden, was allotted to me to conduct into port, as the first lieutenant’s wound prevented him from assuming the command, and the second lieutenant chose rather to remain with the brigantine. Beatrice Derwent was, as a matter of course, to continue on board the merchantman. Thus did destiny again link my fate with this lovely creature, and by one of those simple accidents which so often occur, open for me a train of events, whose transaction it is my purpose to detail in the following crude autobiography.

The sensations with which I watched the receding brigantine, after assuming my new command, and hauling up on our course, may well be imagined. Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed since I first launched on the deep, a nameless, unknown, irresponsible midshipman; and now, by one of fortune’s wildest freaks, I was commanding a prize of untold value, and become the protector of the loveliest of her sex.

“There’s a divinity that shapes our fortunes,

Rough hew them as we will.”