Various

“Steady, there, steady!” thundered the master of the merchantman, his voice seeming, however, in the fierce uproar of the gale, to die away into a whisper.

I looked ahead. A giant wave, towering as high as the yard arm, its angry crest hissing above us, and its dark green bosom seeming to open to engulph our fated bark, was rolling down toward us, shutting out half the horizon from sight, and striking terror into the stoutest heart. It was a fearful spectacle. Involuntarily I glanced around the horizon. All was dark, lowering, and ominous. On every hand the mountain waves were heaving to the sky, while the roar of the hurricane was awfully sublime. Now we rose to the heavens: now sunk into a yawning abyss. But I had little time to gaze upon the fearful scene. Already the angry billow was rushing down upon our bows, when the master again sang out, as if with the voice of a giant.

“Hold on all!” and as he spoke, the huge volume of waters came tumbling in upon us, sweeping our decks like a whirlwind, hissing, roaring, and foaming along, and making the merchantman quiver in every timber from bulwark to kelson. Not a moveable thing was left. The long boat was swept from the decks like chaff before a hurricane. For an instant the merchantman lay powerless beneath the blow, as if a thunderbolt had stunned her; but gradually recovering from the shock, she shook the waters gallantly from her bows, emerged from the deluge, and rolling her tall masts heavily to starboard, once more breasted the storm.

We had been a week at sea without meeting a single sail. During that time we had enjoyed a succession of favorable breezes, until within the last few days, when the gale, which now raged, had overtaken us, and driven us out into the Atlantic, somewhere, as near as we could guess, between the Bermudas and our port of destination. Within the last few hours we had been lying-to, under a close-reefed foresail; but every succeeding wave had seemed to become more dangerous than the last, until it was now evident that our craft could not much longer endure the continued surges which breaking over her bows, threatened momentarily to engulph us. The master stood by my side, holding on to a rope, his weather-beaten countenance drenched with spray, but his keen, anxious eye changing continually from the bow of his craft, to the wild scene around him.

“She can’t stand it much longer, Mr. Parker,” said the old man, “many a gale have I weathered in her, but none like this. God help us!”

“Meet it with the helm—hold on all,” came faintly from the forecastle, and before the words had whizzed past upon the gale, another mountain wave was hurled in upon us, and I felt myself, the next instant, borne away, as in the arms of a giant, upon its bosom. The rope by which I held had parted. There was a hissing in my ears—a rapid shooting like an arrow—a desperate effort to stay my progress by catching at a rope, I missed—and then I felt myself whirled away astern of the merchantman, my eyes blinded with the spray, my ears ringing with a strange, wild sound, and a feeling of sudden, utter hopelessness at my heart, such as they only can know who have experienced a fate as terrible as mine, at that moment, threatened to be.

“A man overboard!” came faintly from the fast-receding ship.

“Ahoy!” I shouted.

“Hillo—hil—lo—o,” was answered back.

“Ahoy—a—a—hoy!”

“Throw over that spar.”

“Toll the bell that he may know where we are.”

“Hillo—hi—il—lo!”

“Who is it?”

“Bring a lantern here.”

“Hil—l—o—o—o—o!”

“Can you see him?”

“It’s as dark as death.”

“God have mercy then upon his soul.”

I could hear every word of the conversation, as the excited tones of the speakers came borne to leeward upon the gale, but although I shouted back with desperate strength, I felt that my cries were unheard by my shipmates to windward. The distance between myself and the merchantman was meanwhile rapidly increasing, and every moment her dark figure became more and more shadowy. With that presence of mind which is soon acquired in a life of peril, I had begun to tread water the instant I had gone overboard; but I felt that my strength would soon fail me, and that I must sink, unaided, into the watery abyss. Oh! who can tell my feelings as I saw the figure of the merchantman gradually becoming more dim in the distance, and heard the voices of my friends, at first loud and distinct, dying away into indistinct murmurs. Alone on the ocean! My breath came quick; my heart beat wildly; I felt the blood rushing in torrents to my brain. The scene meanwhile grew darker around me. The faint hope I had entertained that the ship would be put about, gradually died away; and even while I looked, she suddenly vanished from my vision. I strained my eyes to catch a sight of her as I rose upon a billow. Alas! she was not to be seen. Was there then no hope? Young; full of life; in the heyday of love—oh! God it was too much to endure! I felt that my last hour had come. Already the waters seemed roaring through my ears, and strange, fantastic figures to dance before my eyes. In that hour every event of my life whirled through my memory! I thought of my childhood; of my mother in her weeds; of her prayers over her only child; and of the cold wintry day when they laid her in her grave, and told me that I was an orphan. I thought too of my boyhood; of my college life; of my early days at sea; of the eventful months which had just passed; of my hopes of a bright career or a glorious death, thus to be quenched forever; and of Beatrice, my own Beatrice, whom I was to see no more. Wild with the agony of that thought, I tossed my arms aloft, and invoked a dying blessing on her head. At that instant something came shooting past me, borne on the bosom of a towering wave. It was a lumbering chest, doubtless one of those thrown overboard from the merchantman. I grasped it with a desperate effort: I clambered up upon it; and as I felt its frail planks beneath me, a revulsion came over my bosom. The fisherman by his fireside, when the tempest howls around his dwelling, could not have felt more confident of safety than I now did, with nothing but this simple chest between me and the yawning abyss. Quick, gushing emotions swept through my bosom; I burst into tears; and lifting up my voice, there, alone, on the wide ocean, I poured forth my thanksgivings to God.

It was with no little difficulty I maintained my position on the chest, during the long hours which elapsed before the morning dawned. Now borne to the heavens, now hurried into the abyss below; now drenched with the surge, now whirled wildly onward, on the bosom of some wave, I passed the weary moments, in alternate efforts to maintain my hold, and ardent longings for the morning’s light. The gale, meantime, gradually diminished. At length the long looked-for dawn appeared, creeping slowly and ominously over the horizon, and revealing to my eager sight nothing but the white surges, the agitated deep, and the leaden colored sky on every hand. My heart sank within me. All through the weary watches of that seemingly interminable night, I had cheered my drooping hopes with the certainty of seeing the merchantman in the morning, and now, as I scanned the frowning horizon; and saw only that stormy waste on every hand, my heart once more died within me, and I almost despaired. Suddenly, however, I thought I perceived something flashing on the weather seaboard like the wing of a water-fowl, and straining my eyes in that direction, whenever I rose upon a wave, I beheld at length, to my joy, that the object was a sail. Oh! the overpowering emotions of that moment. The vessel was evidently one of considerable size, and coming down right toward me. As she approached I made her out to be a sloop of war, driving under close-reefed courses before the gale. Her hull of glossy black; her snowy canvass; and her trim jaunty finish were in remarkable contrast with the usual slovenly appearance of a mere merchantman. No jack was at her mast-head; no ensign fluttered at her gaff. But I cared not to what nation she belonged, in that moment of hope and fear. To me she was a messenger of mercy. I had watched her eagerly until she had approached within almost a pistol-shot of me, trembling momentarily lest she should alter her course. I now shouted with all my strength. No one, however, seemed to hear me. Onward she came, swinging with the surges, and driving a cataract of foam along before her bows. A look-out was idly leaning on the bowsprit. As the huge fabric surged down toward me another danger arose. I might be run down. Nerved to supernatural strength by the immanency of the peril, I raised myself half up upon my chest, and placing my hand to my mouth, shouted with desperate energy,

“Ahoy! a—a—hoy!”

“Hillo!” said the look-out, turning sharply in the direction of my voice.

“Ahoy! ship a—ho—o—y!”

“Starboard your helm,” thundered the seaman, discovering me upon my little raft, “heave a rope here—easy—easy—God bless you, shipmate,” and with the rapidity with which events are transacted in a dream, I was hoisted on board, and clasped in the arms of the warm-hearted old fellow, before he saw, by my uniform, that I was an officer. When he perceived this, however, he started back, and hastily touching his hat, said, with humorous perplexity,

“Beg pardon, sir—didn’t see you belonged aft——”

“An American officer in this extremity,” said a deep voice at my elbow, with startling suddenness, and as the speaker advanced, the group of curious seamen fell away from around me, as if by magic; while I felt, at once, that I was in the presence of the commanding officer of the ship.

“You are among friends,” said the speaker, in a voice slightly tinged with the Scotch accent, “we bear the flag of the Congress—but walk aft—you are drenched, exhausted—you need rest—I must delay my inquiries until you have been provided for—send the doctor to my cabin—and steward mix us a rummer of hot grog.”

During these rapid remarks the speaker, taking me by the arm, had conducted, or rather led me to a neat cabin aft, and closing the door with his last remarks, he opened a locker, and producing a suit of dry clothes, bid me array myself in them, and then vanished from the apartment.

In a few minutes, however, he re-appeared, followed by the steward, bearing a huge tumbler of hot brandy, which he made me drink off, nothing loth, at a draught.

From the first instant of his appearance, I had felt a strange, but unaccountable awe in the presence of the commanding officer, and I now sought to account for it by a rigid, but hasty scrutiny of his person, as he stood before me.

He was a short, thick-set, muscular man, apparently about thirty years of age, drest in a blue, tight-fitting naval frock coat, with an epaulette upon one shoulder, and a sword hanging by his side. But his face was the most striking part of him. Such a countenance I never saw. It had a fire in the eye, a compression about the lips, a distention of the nostrils, and a sternness in its whole appearance, which betokened a man, not only of strong passions, but of inflexible decision of character. That brow, bold, massy, and threatening, might have shaped the destinies of a nation. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. He appeared to read my thoughts, for smiling faintly, he courteously signed to the steward to take my glass, and when the door had closed upon him, said,

“But to what brother officer am I indebted for this honor?”

I mentioned my name, and the schooner in which I had sailed from New York.

“The Fire-Fly!” he said, with some surprise, “ah! I have heard of your gallantry in that brush with the pirates—” and then, half unconsciously, as if musing, he continued, “and so your name is Parker.”

“And yours?” I asked, with a nod of assent.

“Paul Jones!”

For a moment we stood silently gazing on each other—he seeming to wish to pierce my very soul with his small, grey eye, and I regarding with a feeling akin to fascination, the wonderful man whose after career was even then foreshadowed in my mind.

“I see you are of the right stuff,” exclaimed this singular being, breaking the silence, “we shall yet make those haughty English weep in blood for their tyranny.”

I know not how it was; but from that moment I felt certain my companion would make his name a terror to his enemies, and a wonder to the world.

For some days we continued our course, with but little deviation; and every day I became more and more interested in the commander of the man-of-war. Although my situation as his guest brought me into closer contact with him than any one except his lieutenant, yet, after the first few hours of our intercourse, he became reserved and silent, though without any diminution of courtesy. His former career was little known even in the ward-room. He had been brought up, it was said, by the earl of Selkirk, but had left his patron’s house at the age of fifteen, and embarked in a seafaring life. Dark hints were whispered about as to the causes of his sudden departure, and it was said that the dishonor of one of his family had driven him forth from the roof of his patron. Upon these subjects, however, I made no ungenerous enquiries; but learned that he had subsequently been engaged in the West India trade as master, and that he had, on the breaking out of the war, come to America, and offered himself to Congress for a commission in our navy. Some deep, but, as yet unknown, cause of hatred toward the English, was said to have prompted him to this act.

As time passed on, however, I enjoyed many opportunities of studying his singular character, which, had I not felt my curiosity aroused, might have passed by unused. Often would I, in our slight conversations, endeavor to pierce into his bosom, and read there the history of all those dark emotions which slumbered there. But he seemed generally to suspect my purpose—at least he appeared always on his guard. He was ever the same courteous but unfathomable being.

We had run down as far south as the Bermudas, when, one day the look-out made five sail; and in an instant every eye was directed toward the quarter where the strangers appeared, to see if there was any chance of a prize.

“How bear they?” asked Paul Jones quickly, to the look-out at the mast-head.

“I can’t make out but one, and she seems a large merchantman, on a taut bowline.”

“Watch her sharp.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

For some time, every eye was fastened upon the approaching sail, which, apparently unconscious of an enemy so near, kept blindly approaching us. At length her royals began to lift, her topsails followed rapidly, and directly the heads of her courses loomed up on the horizon. Every eye sparkled with the certainty of a rich prize.

“She’s a fat Indiaman, by St. George,” said our lieutenant, who had not yet so far forgot the country of his ancestors, as to swear by any saint but her patron one.

“I guess we’d better not be too sure,” said a cautious old quarter-master from Cape Cod, as he levelled a much worn spy-glass, and prepared to take a long squint at the stranger.

“By St. Pathrick,” said an Irish midshipman, in a whisper to one of his comrades, “but wont she make a beautiful prize—with the rale Jamaica, my boys, by the hogshead in her, and we nothing to do afther the capture, but to drink it up, to be shure.”

“The strange sail is a frigate,” said the look-out at the mast head, with startling earnestness.

“Too true, by G—d,” muttered the lieutenant, shutting his glass with a jerk; and as he spoke, the hull of the stranger loomed up above the horizon, presenting a row of yawning teeth that boded us little good, for we knew that our own little navy boasted no vessel with so large an armament.

“That fellow is an English frigate,” calmly said Paul Jones, closing his telescope leisurely, “we shall have to try our heels.”

Every thing that could draw was soon set, and we went off upon a wind, hoping to distance our pursuer by superior sailing. But though, for a while, we deluded ourselves with this hope, it soon became apparent that the enemy was rapidly gaining upon us, and with a heavy cross sea to contend against, we found ourselves, in less than four hours, within musket shot of the frigate, upon her weather bow. During all this time the Englishman had been firing her chase guns after us, but not one of them, as yet, had touched us. The game, however, was now apparently over. Every one gave themselves up as lost, to die, perhaps, the death of rebels. Resistance would only inflame our captors. How astonished then, were we all to hear the captain exclaim,—

“Beat to quarters!”

The high discipline of the crew brought every man to his post at the first tap of the drum, though not a countenance but exhibited amazement at the order.

“Open the magazine!” said Paul Jones in the same stern, collected tone.

The order was obeyed, and then all was silent again. It was a moment of exciting interest. As I looked along the deck at the dark groups gathered at the guns, and then at the calm, but iron-like countenance of the daring commander, I felt strange doubts as to whether it might not be his intention to sink beneath the broadside of the frigate, or, grappling with the foe, blow himself and the Englishman up. My reverie, however, was soon cut short by a shot from the frigate whizzing harmlessly past us, overhead. The eye of the singular being standing beside me, flashed lightning, as he thundered,—

“Show him the bunting. Let drive at him, gunner,” and at the same instant our flag shot up to the gaff, unrolled, and then whipt in the wind; while a shot from one of our four pounders, cut through and through the fore-course of the enemy.

“Keep her away a point or two, quarter-master,” said the captain, again breaking in upon the ominous silence, now interrupted only by the report of the cannon, or the fierce dashing of the waves against the sloop’s bows.

“Does he mean to have us all strung up at the yard arm?” whispered the lieutenant to me, as he beheld this perilous bravado, yet felt himself restrained as much by the awe in which he held his superior, as by his own rigid notions of discipline, from remonstrating against the manoeuvre.

Meantime, the frigate was slowly gaining upon us, and had her batteries been better served, would have soon riddled us to pieces; but the want of skill in her crew, as well as the violence of the cross sea, prevented her shot from taking effect. The distance between us, however, gradually lessened. We saw no hope of escape. Every resort had been tried, but in vain. Already the frigate was dashing on to us in dangerous proximity, and we could see the eager countenances of her officers apparently exulting over their prize. Our crew, meanwhile, began to murmur. Despair was in many faces: despondency in all. Only our commander maintained the same inflexible demeanor which had characterised him throughout the chase. He had kept his eye steadily fixed upon the frigate for the last ten minutes in silence, only speaking now and then to order the sloop to be kept away another point or two. By this means the relative positions of the two vessels had been changed so as to bring us upon the lee-bow of the enemy. Suddenly his eye kindled, and turning quickly around to his lieutenant, he said,—

“Order all hands to be ready to make sail,” and as soon as the men had sprung to their stations, he shouted—

“Up with your helm; hard,—harder. Man the clew garnets—board tacks—topsails, royals—and flying jib,—merrily all, my men.”

And as sheet after sheet of canvass was distended to the wind, we came gallantly around, and catching the breeze over our taffrail, went off dead before the wind, passing, however, within pistol shot of the enemy.

“Have you any message for Newport?” said Paul Jones, springing into the mizzen-rigging, and hailing the infuriated English captain, as we shot past him.

“Give it to him with the grape—all hands make sail—fire!” came hoarsely down from the frigate, in harsh and angry tones.

“Good day, and many thanks for your present,” said our imperturbable commander, as the discharge swept harmlessly by; and then leaping upon the deck, he ran his eye aloft.

“Run aft with that sheet—send out the kites aloft there, more merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows,” shouted the elated captain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manoeuvre, worked with a redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise, she could neither throw out her light sails sufficiently quick, nor direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail. We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot.

---

Her parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear,

Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear?—

The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stem,

The casket is broken, and scattered the gem.

Pale Death! the grim archer, hath bended his bow,

The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low;

Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed,

And well might the spoiler exult in his deed.

———

A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.

———

“Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim, low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour until he growled back your salutation?”

“Who? Jeremy—that was a poet.”

“A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married?”

“No—he swears he’ll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know they’re a scarce article in the market.”

“Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man writing poetry? Flummery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—away with your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular beefsteak, with a spice of wit to make it palatable, boy. Now there’s Oliver Oldfellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grinder before he got married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love you!—he hasn’t written a line these twenty years.”

“You’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to be a law against poets marrying.”

“And what’s the use of law, to stop what one can’t help? No man—let me tell you—ever got married in his senses. No, no, my boy, they are crazy, bewitched, ‘non compos mentis.’ Did you ever meet a girl that didn’t say she’d never get married, and why then should she do it if she didn’t get possessed? But the poor victims are to be pitied more than blamed. It’s not their fault. It’s destiny, sir, destiny. When a thief’s hour comes he’s got to be hung—and when a man’s time is up he’s got to suffer matrimony. There’s no escape. Let him double like a hare, turn to the right or left, dive like a duck, or pretend to be dead like a dormouse, he’ll be sure to be found out at every trick, and made a Benedict of—even if it’s done by spirits—before he’s aware of it. Let me tell you a story to prove my position.

“Major Compton was a hale, hearty old fellow when I knew him in the last war, though I believe gout and morning drams have long since driven the nails in his coffin. He had been a gay chap when young—a soldier, a beau, a bit of a fop, and then—egad, sir—a poet of no little fashion. He could knock you off a sonnet on a lady’s charms sooner than old Tom the blacksmith could knock off a horse-shoe. But after a while he fell in love, and—to cut short my story—was married. Ah! many and many a time have I heard him tell me how he felt it coming on him as if he was bewitched; how he struggled against the malady but could not prevail; and how he shuddered when he found himself writing poetry, because, like the sight of water in the hydrophobia, he knew then that it was all over with him. But this happened years before we met. When I knew him he was a jolly, red-faced widower, and had a horror of all poets, women, and cold water—the last of which he used to say made men effeminate, in proof of which he said all savages who used nothing else, like the Tahitians, were cowards. Betwixt you and I, he must have married a Tartar.

“Well—he’d been out one night at a supper, and the bottle had passed around so frequently that every soul of the company, except the major, got under the table,—so, after amusing himself by blacking their faces with burnt cork, and moralising, as a gentleman ought to, over their deplorable condition, he set out to find his way home to his quarters. As he emerged into the cool air he felt his head getting light as if it were going up, balloon-like, with himself for a parachute; but holding his hat down with both hands, as he remembered to have seen them keep down an inflated balloon, he managed to get along pretty well, though he couldn’t keep his head from swinging about with the wind, which made him, he said, walk as crooked as if he had been drunk, though he was never soberer in his life.

“It was a wild, gusty night, and the clouds were drifting like snow-flakes overhead, when the major sallied out into the street, and began his journey to his lodgings. The wind roared around the corners, or whistled down the chimneys of the old houses around, whose tall, dark, chilly figures rose up against the November sky, until they seemed, to the major’s vision, fairly to shiver with cold. The stars, high up, were winking through the drift, except now and then a sturdy old fellow who stared right into the major’s face. One of these seemed determined to abash him whether or no. Go where he would it followed him, so that if he looked up he would be sure to see it staring full upon him with its dull yellow eye. It made him think, he said, of his spouse of blessed memory, when she would stick her arms a-kimbo, and make faces at him. Now the major was a good-humored soul, but there are some things, even Job couldn’t endure. The major bore it, however, until he reached a wild common, when taking a seat upon a heap of stones, he planted his elbows on his knees, buried his chin in his hands, and looking right at the saucy star, said,

“‘Hillo! up there—now take a good look, and let’s see who’ll give over first.’

“‘Hillo!’ said a voice close behind him.

“‘Hillo it is, you old mocking curmudgeon, say that again and I’ll pound your face into a jelly,’ said the major, turning wrathfully around; but, though he looked every where, not a bit of a man could he see even as big as the fabled Tom Thumb. It was, as I have said, a wide, open common, with not a tree or a house upon it, and if any living thing had been moving across its surface he would have been sure to have detected it. What could it have been? He thought of all the stories of goblins he had ever read, and his hair almost stood on end as he remembered them. But rallying himself, he began to whistle aloud, and stare again at the saucy star overhead. The sky, however, had grown darker during the interruption; and in a few moments the clouds obscured the provoking star. For a moment he closed his eyes, and feeling sleepy, dozed; but his head suddenly pitching forward, aroused him, and he once more looked up. What a sight was there! Dark, frowning masses of vapor swept wildly across the firmament; while the wind now wailed out in unearthly tones, and then went shrieking across the common like the laughter of a troop of malignant fiends. A wood, some distance off, skirting the common, tossed its gray, leafless branches wantonly in the winds; and anon a loud, shrill whistle, as of an army of hunters, rung out, down in the very heart of the forest. The major almost started from his feet, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from his drowsiness. The clouds were once more drifting swiftly across the sky, now rolling together into huge, dark masses, and now separating, and then weaving together again into a thousand fantastic shapes. Just at that instant the provoking star gleamed once more through the drift, and this time it stared at him more like his spouse than ever. The major could stand it no longer. Forgetting the fearful things around him, he shook his clenched fist at it, and said,

“‘Hillo! you old, wry-faced vixen, how dare you squint at me—Ma—a—a—jor—Com—Compt—Compton—how dare you, I say? Do you want to remind me that I was once fool enough to get married?—I’d like to see the woman I’d have now: all the powers above or below couldn’t force me to get married again—no, no, you old crab-apple!—I—I—say—’

“They couldn’t—couldn’t they?” quietly said a voice at his elbow.

“And who the deuce are you?” said the major, turning sharply around.

“‘Who do you think?’ said one of the oddest looking beings the major ever beheld—a short, mis-shapen man, with great goggle eyes, a roguish leer on his face, legs that were doubled up under him like a pocket-rule, and long, bony fingers, one of which was stuck knowingly aside his nose, while his eyes alternately were winking at the astonished major; for the little fellow seemed to be in high glee at the wonder he occasioned.

“For some minutes they stood looking at each other without a word—the major’s eyes growing larger and larger with astonishment; while the odd little fellow kept winking away, with his finger at his nose, to his own apparent glee. At length he said,

“‘Well—what d’ y’e think, old carbuncle?’

“Now the major was a valiant man, and had any mortal thing called him by such a nick name, he would have first run him through and then almost eaten him alive; but he has told me a hundred times that his heart went like a forge-hammer to be addressed by a being of another world. So he only stammered,

“‘I—I—don’t know—’

“‘Speak up, man, speak up—why your voice is as thin and weak as if you’d been doctored for the quinzy a month.’

“‘Lord bless you, sir, I never had it in my life,’ said the major, with sudden boldness.

“‘Uh—uh—uh,’ interrupted the little fellow, menacingly, ‘none of that—none of that. No strange names if you please.’

“The major’s heart again went like a fulling mill, and his throat felt as if he was about to choke; for he had no doubt it was the devil himself who stood before him.

“‘I—I—beg pardon—your majesty—I—I.’

“‘What! Strange names again,’ sternly interposed the goggle-eyed little fellow, and then, seeing how he had frightened his companion, he said, to re-assure him, ‘come, come, Major, this will never do. Let’s proceed to business.’

“The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted at the door of a lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a large company, apparently assembled to witness a marriage, for the bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirking as they always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that he delayed his coming to the last moment. She was an old, withered beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, with a yellow skin, a hook nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids, who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The parson stepped forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers.

“‘You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, turning to the major.

“‘Late!—my love!’ said he, starting back, and turning with astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride.

“‘I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little fellow composedly, with a tantalising grin, ‘didn’t I hear you say, on the common, “that you’d like to see the woman you’d marry,” didn’t I?’ and he grinned again.

“‘Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘and I’ve been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain you. Why were you so long?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the major’s arm.

“‘Hands off,’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning bewildered from one to another of his tormenters.

“‘Come, come, now, major,’ said his conductor, with a malicious grin, ‘it’s no use to resist, for that,’ said he with emphasis, pointing to the old hag, ‘is your bride. It is fate; and what is written, is written you know. I’ve no doubt,’ and here he gave another malicious grin, ‘that your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity. Come,—don’t you see the parson’s waiting?’

“‘Yes, dear,’ said the bride, distorting her withered jaws into what was meant for a smile, ‘and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and here she tried to sob, ‘that your fatigues have thrown you into a fever and delirium.’

“Cold drops of sweat were on the major’s brow, as he looked around the room, and saw every eye bent upon him, some with amazement, some with contempt, but most with indignation. There was a menacing air on the brow of his conductor, which made him shake as if he had an ague chill. The major, moreover, was unarmed. But he made a desperate effort, and said piteously—

“‘Marry! I didn’t want to get married—’

“‘Not want to get married, when it’s your destiny!’ broke in his conductor, with a voice of thunder, striding up to the major, whose very teeth chattered with fright at his peril.

“‘Why—why—y—I’ve no particular objection—that is to say,’ exclaimed the major with another desperate effort, ‘if I must get married, I’d sooner take one of these pretty, blue-eyed bridemaids here.’

“‘You would—would you!’ said his conductor with a threatening look, ‘dare but to think of it, and I’ll make you rue it to the last day of your existence,’ and again he scowled upon the major with a brow blacker than midnight, and which had a fearful indentation—the major used to say—as of a gigantic spear head, right in the centre.

“The major always said that he resisted stoutly for a long time, even after his tormentor had fairly prostrated him with only a tap of his finger, and until strange figures, of unearthly shape, uttering terrible cries of anger, and attended by a strong smell of brimstone, came rushing into the room, without any apparent way of ingress, and surrounding him in a body, awaited the signal of his conductor to bear him off, he knew not whither, and inflict on him unheard of torments;—but as I knew the major was sometimes given to vaporing in his cups, I always set the better part of it down for exaggeration. However, at length he gave in, even according to his own account, and signified his willingness, though not without some qualms as he looked at the bride, to have the ceremony performed.

“‘I knew it, major—a brave man never should struggle against fate,’ said the little fellow with goggle eyes.

“‘Needs must, when the—’

“‘Sir,’ said the little fellow, turning fiercely around.

“‘I beg pardon,’ said the major meekly.

“But to wind up my story—for, egad, I believe you’re asleep—the major was married, had kissed the bride, and was actually performing the same duty on the bridemaids, when the little fellow with the goggle-eyes, perceiving what he was at, seized him angrily by the arm, whisked him up the chimney, bore him swiftly through the air, and with a roar of malicious laughter, that might have been heard a mile, exclaiming,—

“‘There—wait, and your wife will pop in on you when you least expect it,’—let him drop to the earth, on the very common, and aside of the very pile of stones, where he had been sitting when he first saw the little, old fellow. But meantime the night had passed, and it was broad morning. The birds were singing in the neigboring woods,—the sound of the village clock striking the hour, boomed clear upon the air,—and a few cattle, with the monotonous tinkle of their bells, were leisurely crossing the commons, under the charge of a herd boy. For some minutes the major could not persuade himself but what it had all been a dream; but the damp sweat was still upon his brow, and every limb ached with the fall. So he couldn’t comfort himself with that assurance, but set himself down, on the contrary, as one of the most luckless men alive.

“From that hour, sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and used to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in constant fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old curmudgeon—who’ll say marriages ain’t fixed by fate?”

“But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of credulity.”

“Credulity! Ghost story! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance, and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in diablerie? Ah! my good fellow if I didn’t know that the major was generally credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I’d endorse his story just because it proves my assertion. Answer that, if you can!”

J. S.

———

BY MRS. S. A. WHELPLEY.

———

The wind moaned in low and fitful gusts around the mansion, sounding at times, as if the wailings of departed spirits were borne upon the blast, when Mary Levingston sat alone in the solitude of her chamber. Her lamp was hid in a recess at a distance, and casting its pale and feeble beams across the darkened room, scarcely disclosed her drooping figure, or the tears upon her cheek. It was not that the fearful tumult without had affected her imagination, nor the thought that her only brother might be exposed to all the dangers of the coast. Something that more deeply touched her happiness awoke her grief. Wild, tumultuous thoughts agitated her bosom, and mocked the storm that shook her casement, and roared in all its fury around her.

The substantial mansion of Mr. Levingston was situated in a delightful town in New Jersey. Here he had trained up an interesting and lovely family. Four of his daughters were married; three of them were settled in the same town with their father; the other resided in the city of New York. His only son, possessing many virtues, but a wild and roving disposition had, in opposition to his father’s advice, gone to sea, and had not been seen by any of his family for four years. Mary Levingston was the sole remaining daughter at home. She was the sun that lit up her father’s dwelling. Swift and light as the fawn had been her footstep till of late; when a cloud had passed over her gentle bosom, and obscured its brightness. A blast had swept over the flower and it was changed; but neither the cloud had been seen, nor the blast heard. Then wherefore this change?

It was well known to Mr. Levingston’s family, that a strong and bitter alienation of feeling existed between himself and Mr. James, an early, and once dear friend, who, at the time of which we speak, resided in New York. So exasperated had Mr. L. become by a series of ungrateful acts on the part of this early friend, that on pain of his everlasting displeasure, he had forbidden his children ever associating with the family. Unfortunately for Mary, during a visit to the city, she had met with a son of Mr. James, and it was not until her affections were unchangeably fixed, that she had discovered his relationship to the most bitter enemy of her father. Admiring Mary at first sight, and conscious of the enmity between the families, her lover had sought an introduction to her under a false name, and it was long before she discovered the truth.

When she did so, however, her determination was soon made. Obedience had been the law of her life, and she resolved at once to sacrifice her own feelings, in preference to that of her kind father’s wishes. She felt pained, moreover, that her lover should have deceived her even to win her affections. She fled from the scene of danger; but she could not fly from herself. In her own bosom she carried the image she had so fondly cherished, and which had been the object of her waking and sleeping dreams. It was after a long struggle, in which she had almost conquered, that she received a letter—which had caused her present grief—written by her sister, and informing her that her lover was about to sail for Europe, and asked for a last interview, if only to beg her forgiveness, and bid her farewell forever.

“I will see him,” said Mary, “and convince him there is no hope, and then I will return and confess all to my beloved father, and throw myself upon his mercy. He will not cast me off when he finds I did not err knowingly.”

She rose from her chair, as she thus spoke, arranged her dress, and descended to the parlor, with a countenance from which, except to a suspicious eye, every trace of grief had vanished.

“You must not leave us so long again, my daughter,” said her venerable father, as she entered the room. “My home appears almost cheerless, unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.”

“What shall I sing, dear father? Shall it be your favorite, Grace Darling?”

“Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells of shipwreck and death.”

“Well, I will sing my own favorite,” said Mary, seating herself at the piano, “it shall be

The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their own Mary.

“Dear papa!” said she at length, suddenly stopping, and turning around, “I want to ask a favor of you,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me go to New York next week. There now, I knew you would,—you are always such a kind and indulgent papa,” and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him tenderly.

“Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear Mary, don’t come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon, play me another song.”

Mary felt the blood rush to her very brow at this chance remark of her father; but turning around to her piano, she struck into a march, to hide her emotion.

In a few days she set forth to New York, with a heart, vacillating between duty and love,—determined, however, to permit only one interview, and then to bid her lover adieu forever.

“You will have a strong advocate in my wife,” said Mr. M—— to Mr. James, who sat on the sofa by Mary Levingston the evening of her arrival. “She is resolved, she says, to return home with her sister hoping she may be enabled to soften the feelings of Mr. Levingston toward your father.”

“I hope she may prove a successful pleader,” said the lover, “and prepare the way for my casting myself at his feet when I return. Since I have obtained my sweet Mary’s forgiveness, I feel that I can now with courage brave the hardships of the deep. The thought that she loves me, will be the sun that will light my path in a distant clime. The thought that she is my advocate with her father fills me with the conviction that the ancient enmity will be buried in oblivion and that all will soon be well.”

“You are far more sanguine, as to the result, dear Edward, than I am,” said Mary: “I have little hope myself of succeeding with my father. I know his feelings so well on this point, that I tremble lest I have sinned beyond forgiveness. One thing, here, in the presence of those that are so dear, I solemnly declare, though my heart may be crushed, never to unite my destiny to one his judgment disapproves. I should feel a solitary outcast, even with him I so tenderly love, without a father’s blessing.”

“We shall have it, dear Mary, we shall have your father’s blessing,” exclaimed Edward, pressing her to his bosom, “for God will reward so filial and dutiful a daughter. I should feel myself to be a wretch were I to corrupt such purity, or wish you, for my sake, to sacrifice his peace.”

We pass over the last two or three hours the lovers passed together. The clock had told the departure of midnight before they separated. Who could blame them for lengthening out an interview that was to be their last for months and perhaps forever?

“I leave you, dear Mary,” said Edward, at length rising to go, “in obedience to the commands of my father. If God prospers me I shall soon again be with you. Cheer up my love, and remember my motto is ‘Brighter days will come.’”

When Edward arrived in London, he hastened to fulfil the object of his voyage and put his business in a train for speedy adjustment. Days seemed to him weeks, and Mary could not have doubted his love had she known there was none in that great metropolis who could eclipse her beauty in the eyes of him she so fondly loved. In about three weeks the business which took him to London was settled, Mr. James was preparing to return home, when one night, at a late hour, the cry of “fire” resounded through the long halls of the Hotel in which he lodged. In an instant all was alarm and confusion. He enquired what part of the building was on fire, and was told that the eastern wing was all in flames. He hastened to the scene of danger, which appeared to be entirely forsaken. Nearly suffocated with smoke, he turned to retrace his steps, when a wild scream arrested his attention, and the next instant he beheld a young and beautiful female in her night dress rushing through the flames.

“Save, oh! save him, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, “save my sick husband, he is perishing! who, who will rescue him?”

“I will,” said Mr. James, “but do not on your peril attempt to follow me.”

In an instant he was lost to sight, but directly reappeared, bearing in a blanket the body of the helpless being he had been the means of snatching from an untimely death. He hastened to his own room and deposited his burden on the bed, and was administering restoratives, when his servant informed him that the firemen had succeeded in pulling down the eastern wing and were rapidly extinguishing the flames.

“We have nothing now to fear,” said Mr. James, addressing the young female, who had partly shrunk behind the curtains to conceal her thinly clad person—“but you are cold,” said he, as he threw his own cloak around her, “pardon my neglect.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, bursting into tears: “talk not of neglect. You have been every thing to us. You have saved the life of my beloved husband, and an age of gratitude is ours.”

Edward now left the room to seek for rest in another apartment. To sleep was impossible. The excitement of the past hour had been so great, that his nervous system was completely unstrung, and he passed the night in listening for some alarm. After breakfast, he hastened to the room of the invalid, to enquire for his health. Most joyfully was he greeted by both husband and wife, who now appeared to have recovered from the alarm of the past night. In the course of conversation, Mr. James mentioned that he was on the eve of starting for America.

“When does the vessel sail?” inquired the lady anxiously.

“This afternoon, at four o’clock,” replied Mr. J——, “and I should like before I say adieu, to become acquainted with the name of those I feel so deep an interest in.”

“Our name is Levingston,” said the gentleman. “And yours, sir?”

“James.”

“Well, this is remarkable. A Levingston and a James to meet under circumstances that have bound them together by cords that death alone can sever!”

Long and interesting was the communion of that morning. All was told. The gentleman he had rescued was the long absent brother of his own Mary. The tale of love was revealed, and Edward persuaded to wait one week longer, that they might return together to their native land.

“I shall send despatches to my father by the vessel in which you expected to sail, this afternoon,” said Mr. Levingston, “and if he has any love for his only son, he must receive us as brothers.”

We now hasten back to Mary Levingston. After the departure of Edward, New York had lost its attractions for her. Mr. M—— returned home with Mary. She indulged strong hopes of influencing her father in favor of Mr. James, and inducing him to consent to his union with her sister. But she was destined to be disappointed. Mr. Levingston would not even listen to her. Ringing the bell, he ordered Mary to be summoned to his presence.

When Mary entered the room, her eye fell instantly beneath the steady gaze of her father.

“I have sent for you,” said he, “to express my deep displeasure at your conduct, and my utter abhorrence for the man who could impose upon such a child as you. Your sister says you love the son of one that has insulted and abused me. Can it be so, Mary, my child?” said he, bursting into tears.

In a moment Mary was on her knees before him. “Forgive me, dear father, I have sinned ignorantly. Forgive me,” she exclaimed, “for I here promise to renounce him forever.”

“If this is your determination,” said Mr. Levingston, “rise and receive your father’s blessing. May you long enjoy the consolation of knowing you rendered the last days of your father peaceful and happy.”

From that hour, Mary Levingston was calm and happy. Innocence and an approving conscience supported her.

“Never,” said Mary, to her sister, Mrs. M——, on the morning of her departure, “mention in your letters the name of Mr. James, who in future must be as one dead to me. Tell him, when he returns, that my determination is unalterable, and bid him seek some more congenial alliance.”

Weeks rolled round and found the calm quiet of the Levingston’s unbroken. The rose was still blooming on the cheek of Mary. No change had taken place in any except Mr. Levingston. It was very evident to all his friends that he rapidly failed. Every step of the hill he was descending seemed to fatigue him, and the only cordial that revived his fainting spirit, was the presence of his youngest child. Was not Mary Levingston, as she gazed on his pale face and feeble frame, rejoiced at the sacrifice she had made to secure his peace? Yes, the happiness she now felt was of a calm, enduring nature. She could lie down and rise up without listening to the upbraidings of a guilty conscience, without having to reflect that it was her rebellion which had dimmed the eye and paralyzed the step of her father. Every night before she retired, she received his embrace, and heard him say, “God bless you Mary, you have been a dutiful child.”

Late one evening, in the latter part of October, a servant entered the parlor where the family was sitting with a package of letters. He delivered them to Mr. Levingston, and retired. The hand trembled that broke the seal.

“This is from our dear son,” said he, turning to his wife, and holding up a letter, “and here is one for each of his sisters. Let me see, two of them are directed to Mary, here they are, take them.”

He now commenced reading the letter aloud, which told of the prosperity and marriage of his son, and his intention of leaving England for home the following week. Then came the description of the fire. The peril—the rescue; the name of him who had exposed his own life to snatch a stranger from the flames. At this part of the letter Mr. Levingston suddenly stopped and left the room. In his study he finished its perusal.

“What does this mean?” he exclaimed, rapidly walking the floor, “It seems as though the hand of God was in this thing. I would that some other one had saved him. He asks me to receive his deliverer as my son. Bold request—and yet I will do it. I will receive him as a son, for he has saved the life of my Walter at the risk of his own. For so generous, so noble an act, I here bury my enmity forever.”

Mr. Levingston, with a lighter heart than he had felt for months, returned to the parlor. Mary met him at the door.

“This letter, dear papa,” said she, “I return to you. I have not read it, neither do I desire to. It is written by one I have renounced forever.”

“Keep it, Mary,” said Mr. Levingston, “and cherish the memory of the writer. I have buried my resentment forever toward that family. From this hour shall we not bless the deliverer of our son?”

Mary was astonished. She could scarcely persuade herself that all was not a dream. Still holding the letter toward her father, and gazing immoveably in his face, she seemed rather a statue than a human being.

“Do you think I am trifling?” said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. “No, Mary, I love you too well for that. From this moment you have my consent to become the wife of him, who, although so tenderly loved, you felt willing to sacrifice to the peace of your aged father.”

The intervening days, preceding the arrival of Walter, rapidly glided away in busy preparation. Suddenly, however, Mr. Levingston was taken dangerously ill at midnight. His symptoms were so alarming that a council of physicians was called before morning, when an express was sent to New York for his children.

Calm and collected, Mary Levingston might be seen noiselessly moving about her father’s chamber. No hand but hers could administer his medicine, or smooth his pillow. The thought of death—the death of her father—had not once crossed her mind. His life seemed so necessary to his family, that such an event appeared impossible.

“Has he come, Mary?”

“Who, dear father?” she gently asked, stooping and kissing his brow.

“Walter, my son, has he come?”

“It is too soon yet to expect him.”

“Too soon,” said he, faintly, “I fear then I shall never see him. The hand of death is on me, my child, I feel its chill.”

“You will kill me, dear father, if you talk so. You will soon be better. I thought this was to be the happiest week of my life,” said she, bursting into tears.

“Mary,” observed Mr. Levingston, “I wish you to be calm and listen to me. If I should not live to see my son, tell him he was his father’s idol. Tell him to transmit the name of Levingston, unsullied, to posterity, and to be the comfort and support of his widowed mother. One more message and I am done,” said he, wiping the cold sweat from off his brow. “Hark!” he exclaimed, hearing a noise, “perhaps that is Walter.” Finding himself disappointed, he proceeded—“request Edward James to tell his father that I die in peace with all men, and joyfully entrust the happiness of my daughter to his son. I had hoped to have given away the treasure with my own hand, but that is all over. Leave me now for a few moments, I wish to see your mother.”

That interview over there was a solemn silence for a few moments, when he exclaimed, “Did you say he had come? Oh my son, receive my blessing.”

“You were dreaming, dear father,” said Mary, “Walter is not here.”

“Well, well, it is all right,” he replied. He never spoke more: in a few hours his spirit took its final flight.

It was late in the evening when the mournful intelligence of Mr. Levingston’s illness reached his children in New York. They instantly set forth to gain, if possible, his dying couch in time to obtain his blessing.

“Where is my father?” exclaimed Walter on his arrival at the mansion, rushing by his mother and sisters who had hastened to the door to meet them. “Lead me to my father,” said he, catching hold of Mary.

As she went toward the room, he rushed by her; and entered, closed, and locked the door. Mary stood without listening to his wild outbursts of grief.

In anguish he called upon him once more to speak to him. It was the lamentation of the prodigal yearning in vain to hear his father’s voice. It was the pleading of the wanderer who had returned with the hope of cheering his last days.

“Mary,” said a gentle, well known voice, “My beloved Mary, we meet with your father’s blessing resting upon us.”

In an instant she was in the arms of Edward James, and weeping upon his bosom. Walter Levingston at this moment entered the apartment.

“Did my father ask for me, Mary?” said he.

“Oh yes,” she replied, “often. Almost his last words were, ‘My son receive my blessing.’ And he told me to request you, Edward, to say to your father, ‘I die in peace with all men, and willingly entrust the happiness of my daughter to your son.’”

“Forever blessed be his memory,” said Edward. “Never shall his confidence be misplaced, or that daughter have reason to doubt my trust.”

The door now opened, and Mrs. Levingston, leaning on the arm of one of her daughters, entered. “Beloved mother,” said Walter, embracing her, “from this hour it shall be my first care and study to promote your comfort. Here by the corpse of my father, I resolve to do all in my power to fill his place, and render your last days peaceful and happy.”

Some months from this period, a party was seen to alight from a carriage early one morning in front of Saint Paul’s Church. The blessings of many were heard in low murmurs from the crowd that filled the vestibule. “She was the pride of her father,” said an aged female who stood leaning against the wall, “and I know she will be a blessing to her husband.”

Early as was the hour, the Church was crowded with spectators. Many had risen to get a more perfect view of the fine manly form of him that was about to bear away the sweet Mary Levingston from her maiden home. The silence was intense as the impressive marriage ceremony of the Episcopal Church was read; and fervent were the responses of those who promised through weal and wo to be faithful to each other. As the party turned to leave the Church, a hearty “God bless them,” resounded from many. Mrs. James was greatly affected as she cast a farewell glance on these familiar faces. Her husband hurried her to the carriage.

“The blessing of many has rested on you, dear Mary, to-day,” said he, as they were borne to their new home.

“Yes,” said she, “and I thought as I stood before the bridal altar, I heard the voice of my departed father saying, ‘God bless you.’”

———

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D.

———

———

BY J. TOMLIN.

———

The subject of the present sketch has had in time, the most sincere friendship of the writer. One act, and one alone, has made them enemies—irreconcilably, forever. It is to be regretted that it is so, yet it cannot be otherwise, and the honor of both be preserved. There is in any and every one, that aspires to greatness, a tameless absurdity, when suffering a reprehensible action of an associate to pass away like the morning mist on the flower, without noticing it, or giving the admonitory reproof, that often corrects and finally subdues the evil. We are not such isolated creatures on the surface of a world passing away, as to require a more powerful impulse in the correction of an evil, than the blessings it gives to our fellow beings.

Gordon De Severn was my senior by some several years;—but in all of his actions, there was a freshness and youthfulness, so akin to what I did, and what I felt myself, that I could not keep away from him. He was a scholar, but not of the schools, therefore none ever complained of his dullness. His Aristotelian capacity grasped almost intuitively, what others could scarcely get by the most diligent researches; and with the perception of a Byron, he disclosed every beautiful thought that ever swept along the labyrinth of mind. He was a mighty genius, free, bold, and daring! He liked to see the bubbles of time vanish, and others coming in their places, but did not recollect, that soon, very soon, the vapour that supported his adolescent spirits, would dissolve, and be no more forever! He was an observer on the world—a spy on the tumultuous feelings that agitate, and corrupt the heart;—and he boasted that he was of the world, but a being removed beyond its temptations.

Six summers ago, Eliza Wharton was young, happy, and full of innocence. How altered now is this creature, from what she was when I first knew her. Time often makes worse havoc with the reputation, than with the body. A little while ago, Eliza Wharton was not more fair than she was innocent; but now at the heart the canker-worm preys voraciously, as is evidenced by the deep lines that mark the cheek. Retired beyond the precincts of the bustle of the multitude; lost to friends that once loved her,—she lives a solitary creature, ruined in reputation by the very being she once loved;—penitent in seclusion, she has wept her sins forgiven, and will win her way to heaven, in spite of a cold—cold world.

Being in affluent circumstances, she moved in the first circles of society in the little town that gave her birth. She was intellectual and beautiful, which made her an object of envy to the many. Women envy the beauty they see in every one of their sex, and man, the rich endowment of mind, that makes his fellow being more distinguished than himself. How apt are we to despise any noble capacity that we see in others, when we possess it not ourself—and the good qualities that show themselves most splendidly in our neighbor, are a bright mark, at which we level in bitterness, the wrath of our envy. Those that have but the most common endowments of our nature, are generally the most happy, and almost always move in a path, that leads to a peaceful destiny. Had Eliza Wharton been one of the common, ordinary creatures that move in humble life, in her fall, she would have had the sympathies of the world. But being of a superior mould both in body and mind,—her fall was unregretted, unwept.

In an evil hour there came along a being in the shape of man, like herself of towering intellect, but unlike her in goodness of heart and benevolence of feeling. She loved him! She thought that she saw in him something superior to any thing that she had ever seen before in others. Nobleness of mien he certainly had—and the ways of the world he was familiar with, for he had travelled much. He had studied, but not from books. The volume of nature as it lay spread out before him, in gorgeous robes of mixed colors, dyed with the richest tints the every avenue to the soul, and he became a poet in feeling. His was the philosophy of feeling and not of reason—therefore he erred. Every emotion of the heart, he mistook for inspiration of the soul—and he fed the keen appetites of his nature from every stream that rippled his path. What to him was good, he never considered might be poison to others. His was the mighty ocean of mind, not cramped by this usage, or that custom—but free, bold and daring! He visited fountains that could not be reached by every one, and drank of waters that inspired different sensations from what were felt by the world in which he lived.

I do well recollect the time when these two beings first met. It was on the eighteenth anniversary of Eliza’s birth—and at a fÊte, given by her father, in honor of the occasion. It was in May, the month of flowers; and though a moonless night, yet the bright stars looked down in myriads on the happy earth. Eliza was all joy and animation. Before her lay the rich fields of pleasure, and she seized on every moment as one of gladness, and of happiness. She did not know that in her path, there lay a serpent that would soon destroy her. Gordon De Severn, like some fiery comet, attracted every eye, and spell-bound the poor maiden that happened to come within the hearing of his magic words. Exclusively on that night, did he appropriate Eliza to himself. She listened, enraptured at every word he spoke, and fell at last a victim, to the snare he then laid. He played his part so well on that night, that he fairly captured the fair one’s heart—and for the first time in her life, she retired, to a sleepless pillow, bedewed with tears. De Severn admired her, but he was not in love.

For several months after their first interview, he was almost a daily visitor at her house. He courted her—and he won her. She believed him, when he told her, that he would be her friend. She believed him when he said, that he loved her. She trusted, when he deceived. She fell because she loved one too much, that proved himself a villain, and not because she was base. She departed from virtue, not because she was in love with vice, but to oblige one that she loved much. She fell—and this vile seducer is now sporting in the sunshine of wealth—and has friends, and is received into the houses of the honorable, and is caressed, and is smiled upon; while the poor injured one—Eliza Wharton, is abandoned by the world, and by her relations, to pine in some sequestered spot, and die of a broken heart.

How often does it happen in this world of ours, that the betrayer receives honor from the hands of the people, and the betrayed is scoffed at and reviled, for being so credulous as to believe even a tale of—Love.

Jackson, Tenn.

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BY E. G. MALLERY.

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Written by T. Haynes Bayly, Esq.—The Music composed by C. M. Sola.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co., No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.