Many modern authors, of eminent ability, have employed their time and talents in writing tales of the vast deep; and of those “who go down to the great sea in ships;” but they nearly always take for the hero of their story some horrible and bloody pirate, or daring and desperate smuggler, of the sixteenth or seventeenth century; characters that the increased number, strength and vigilance of armed cruisers, and the energy of the excise officers, have long since driven from the face of the ocean, in these capacities: and who now can only be found in that lawless traffic, the Slave Trade.

Yet that in itself comprises all the wickedness and blood-thirstiness of the pirate; the recklessness and determination of the smuggler; with the coolness, skill, and knowledge of the merchant captain.

It is true, that by taking a distant era for the date of their themes, they have a more widely extended field for the play of their imaginations, and are less liable to severe criticisms on the score of consistency; but, at the same time, they lose that hold on the feelings of their readers, that a tale of the present will ever possess; for instead of thinking of the characters, the incidents, and the scenes, as things that were, or might have been, a century ago, our imaginations are vividly impressed with the fact that they even now exist. And whilst we are quietly perusing some thrilling tale, events equally startling, deeds as dark and desperate, scenes as horrible, may be transpiring at that instant, on the bosom, or the borders, of the same ocean, that laves with its salt waters the shores of our own happy land.

But the present will be too far in the past, if we lengthen our introduction: so e’en let us to our story.

It was a moonlight night, early in the year 1835, when two young girls were reclining on a lounge, in the piazza of a beautiful and luxurious-looking house, situated near the margin of one of the most magnificent bays that indent the eastern extremity of the Island of Cuba.

The prospect was enchanting; such a one as can only be found within the tropics; the limpid waters of the bay, extending for fifteen miles, appeared in the soft and mellow radiance of the full moon a field of crisped silver; and the lovely islands with which it was dotted looked like emeralds upon its bosom; the range of hills, blue in the distance, charmingly relieved the brightness of the water, and the tall cocoa-nut trees, with their bare trunks and single tuft of leaves at top, reminded us of the genii of the night, overlooking these fair domains: a cool and gentle breeze from the ocean made music as it murmured through the foliage, and gathering sweet perfume from the flowers it kissed in its passage, reinvigorated, as it fanned, the languid frames of those overcome by the intense heat of the just spent day.

And in perfect accordance with the softness, the mildness, and the beauty of the scene, were the two lovely beings on the piazza. In the cold climate of the north, they would have been but children, so few summers had they seen; but under the influence of their own burning sun, they were just expanding into early, but most delicious womanhood.

La SeÑorita Clara, the eldest, had entered her sixteenth year; her sister, La SeÑorita Francisca, was one year younger.

They were the only children of Don Manuel Velasquez, a Spaniard of immense wealth, and of noble family, who in his youth had been sent from Spain, in a government capacity of some importance, to Cuba. He became deeply attached to, and married a beautiful Creole girl, and settled upon the island, after the expiration of his official engagement, rather than remove his loved Cubanean bride from the scenes of her childhood.

She, the idol of his youth and the treasure of his riper years, had died, a short twelvemonth prior to the commencement of our tale; and Don Manuel, who was a Spaniard of the old school, proud, stern, bigoted, and of strong prejudices, a great stickler for etiquette and form, though naturally kind-hearted and hospitable, gave sufficient evidence of his sorrow, by his increased devotion to, and fondness for, the two sweet pledges of his heart’s only affection, the legacy of his departed wife; he seemed to live but to minister to their wants; their slightest wish was his law; and every thing that wealth could command, or kind solicitude imagine, was brought to increase their happiness.

Clara, the eldest, was rather above the medium height; with a graceful figure, jet-black hair, dark eyes, perfectly formed features, and a complexion such as is only found in the daughters of Spain, (and rarely there,) as purely white as alabaster; and was surpassingly beautiful, notwithstanding the haughty expression of her mouth and eye, and the air of command that pervaded her motions.

Francisca was the opposite of her sister; rather too short than otherwise; her features were not so regular as Clara’s; but the love and kindness that shone forth in her brilliant eye, and the sweet smile that played around her mouth, more than compensated for any want of symmetry.

Their dispositions were as different as their outward contour. Clara was cold, proud and haughty; inheriting all the sterner traits of her father’s character: she was calculated to figure in the gay world, or to shine in a ball-room.

Francisca was all heart, with a gentle and affectionate disposition, yet capable, when her feelings were interested, of the greatest exertions and sacrifices; she was one born to love and be loved; and was made for either unequaled happiness or misery.

But let us return to where we first discovered them, in the piazza of their father’s house. They had been for some time quietly contemplating the fairy scene, when the silence was broken by the soft musical voice of Francisca.

“Hermanita cara, mi alma,^[1] what troubles you? How, this lovely evening, can you look so sad?”

“Have I not enough to distress me, NiÑa?^[2] Who on earth, but you, could be cheerful and contented cooped up in this dull out-of-the-way place?”

“Oh, Clara! how can you call this lovely spot dull? I wish so much that father would let me stay here all the year, instead of spending half of it in that nasty Havana, where one is bothered all the day with foppish cavalleros, dressed to death, and thinking of nothing but their own sweet selves; and all the evenings with parties or the theatre.”

“Well, Miss Rusticity, you can stay here, and flirt with boors, and look at the water and flowers, as long as you please; but I intend to have father take me to that “nasty Havana,” as you call it, next week.”

Her words Francisca found were true, for in a few days after this conversation, an unusual bustle about the quiet mansion, the harnessing of horses and mules, and the noise of servants, gave evidence of a removal. The family were about starting for the capital of the island. We will not, however, accompany them over their long and rough road, but will join them in Havana, the day after their arrival at Don Manuel’s splendid town-house.

Clara was all joy, gayety and animation at the thought of again being in the city, where she shone the observed of all observers; but Francisca was moved to tears whenever she contrasted the city with their beautiful country-seat; and knowing that she was obliged to attend a large ball that evening, given at the palazza, by the governor-general, she felt more than usually dull. The evening came, and in a sea of light, a flood of music, amidst the waving of plumes, the rustling of silks, and the flashing of jewels, the sisters appeared, the most lovely of all the galaxy of beauty that ever surrounds the vice-royal court in Cuba.

Clara was in her natural element in the light and graceful dance, or attended by a circle of admirers, returning their compliments with flashes of wit, or sallies of gay repartee, she wished for no greater happiness.

Francisca was soon fatigued and ennuied with the excitement, and retired to the shelter of a large window, shaded by orange trees in blossom, where she was comparatively alone; and sinking into one of those dreamy reveries young ladies so much delight in, had nearly forgotten the ball, when she was aroused by a rich and manly voice at her side, asking for the honor of her hand in the next dance. There was something so fascinating, so deep and tender in the tones of the speaker, that though not inclined to grant his request, she paused ere she denied him; and turning around, discovered in the person who addressed her a young American gentleman, to whom she had been introduced in the early part of the evening, and whose tall, graceful and well knit figure, sparkling and intelligent eye, beautiful mouth, and commanding air, had unconsciously made a deep impression upon her fancy, and whose image had usurped a large share of her late meditations: her reluctance to join the dance instantly vanished, and, for nearly the first time in her life, she was willingly led on the floor.

Cotillion after Cotillion they were partners, and envy was excited in the breast of many a fair Havanarean, at seeing one so young engrossing the attention of the handsomest cavalier in the room.

But Francisca knew it not; the dulcet tones of her partner’s voice, his entertaining conversation, as with a keen satirical tongue, and deep knowledge of the world, he criticised the beaux and belles of the ball-room; or with feeling and sentiment discoursed of music, poetry, or love, his delicate flattery, and assiduous attentions, rendered her insensible to aught beside, and riveted her every thought; and when her sister sought her, at a late hour, to accompany her home, it was with surprise that she discovered the rapid flight of time, and with feelings unaccountable, new and strange, such as woman only experiences once, she bid her attendant of the evening good-night, and stepped into the carriage.

Many a jest had Francisca to bear, after this evening, from her sister, in consequence of a new taste that seized her, for constant rides on the Paseo, and nightly visits to parties or the theatre, in her unsuccessful endeavors to again meet with the gallant of the governor’s ball, who never since had been absent from her mind.

But she was not soon destined to enjoy this pleasure, which was now the great hope of her life. For with all the impetuosity and ardor of her nature and climate, she had yielded to this acquaintance of a night, the rich and inappreciable treasure of her fond heart’s first love.

My fair readers may charge Francisca with want of modesty, or proper maiden delicacy, in thus yielding her young affections to the first assault; but they will unfairly judge her, and do wrong to the devoted, passionate, and enthusiastic daughters of the torrid zone, whose blood, scorning the well-regulated, curbed, and restrained pulsations of their more northern sisterhood, flows, flashes, bounds through their veins, with the impetuosity of an Alpine torrent, but with the depth and strength of a mighty river.

Their heart is in reality the seat of their life; all else, prudence, judgment, selfishness, every thing, bows to its dictates; but in this love they are constant, devoted, self-sacrificing, changing their feelings but with life.

——