  And how were passed the flying hours of that last day, granted to the young and the beloved, on earth? In desperate and wild, but vain appeals, to her love of life—in still more mournful entreaties by her devotion to them who were the joy of her existence, that she would suffer them to bear her confession of penitence and faith to the pasha. It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one moment pleading her by every consideration, to take the words of the Mussulman upon her lips, even if her heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking God that He gave to her strength to remain firm in the face of every temptation. It was pitiful to see the hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours, clasping her hands within his own, and folding her so often to his bosom in a wordless embrace. Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as have no other source but broken hearts; such sighs were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives utterance to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing; such prayers ascended, as the heart of man can alone conceive when every earthly hope has failed, when the terrors of death, and the more terrible agonies of life surround the helpless soul! Once, when a chance word had called to mind the now almost forgotten, but despised and hated Orien Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing to Othniel the only cause she could conceive of his malice against her. But the reflection that such knowledge would Only once did she take the name of the accuser on her lips, and then it was to implore Othniel to forgive him his part in their calamity, and to leave him to the mercy of God. And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all the evil passions which have to do with life, died that day within him—the future time, after that woful night on which he thought with agony, heaven with Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a thought of blessedness—a dream, a hope which the merciful spirit of God breathed into his soul when it laid in the dust of despair. The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then came forth from the prison cell Othniel, and on his arm was leaning the stricken father, Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last upon the fair young idol which he worshiped with a reverence approaching that which he held for his Maker. He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him on the iron door, which would open again ere long that she might be led forth to—death. He made no resistance as they went with him to his deserted dwelling. A sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have passed away—he even smiled as they led him through the cheerful rooms of the home that was always made blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was to be in one’s home again, away from the dark and frightful prison. There was a bird of splendid plumage caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion of which bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of Othniel in days long since gone by. The noise of the intruders on the silence of the house, startled the little warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious flood of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation of delight he threw himself upon the couch near by, and listened in rapt astonishment and joy to the exquisite songster. Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and hastened away in the direction of the prison once more. The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the mournful cause which brought them there. A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his unutterable sorrow was too great to bear. Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to the altar, was to be offered up. Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged father, and for his unworthy self. And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone, and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude had gone. At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream, he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not pass. Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black, hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength, he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings, until he stood with the great multitude. For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consume her. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushed In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her. “Othniel!” “Myrrah!” None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone. A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven, knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence. The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began. There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher love, a loftier and purer faith. They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames pressed closely on her lovely form, which he had but now clasped to his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom! There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the father was sleeping the eternal sleep! The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew. And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer, for Myrrah’s parting counsel and entreaty had saved him from blood-guiltiness—and the life of Orien Fez was never required at his hands. But Othniel died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God is merciful—His will is best,” and the sands of the desert were his resting-place.
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| The Campanero, a Mexican bird: so called from its cry, which resembles the clang of a bell. |
A TRUE STORY
———
BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.
———
More than fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the feet of a lady, then advancing considerably in years, and to listen to her narrative of Indian wars and French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing my eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile aborigines dancing, by the light of a burning dwelling, around prostrate prisoners, and celebrating their victory with tortures upon the victims of their vengeance. Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops of the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended colonial settlement, and sweeping away the inhabitants, as if the full reward of a Frenchman’s toil was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had any very correct view of the geographical limits where such scenes were enacted; nor am I able now to say that my conceptions of the French or Indian character were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of some persons become warped by early prejudices or fears, but my instructive female friend, while she was no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine, carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons who would probably sneer at, if not condemn her, should I tell the tales as she narrated them to me. But I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in vain; I can only recollect some vague fragments of different tales, which she deemed history, and bring back the impression which her narrative caused upon my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish in pools whither are gathered the currents of other years, and seek to drag to the shore, for present use, what has so long remained undisturbed beneath the waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed; and even if I could, is it likely that what was so calculated to amuse me as a child, would be profitable and pleasant with half a century’s experience on my head since they were made its tenants?
An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my memory, while I was on a visit to that part of the country in which I heard the stories. The good old woman had survived those who started in life with her, had buried the companions of her children, and witnessed indeed the sepulture, or mourned the death of most of the children of those who had been her contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented myself before her she was knitting what appeared to be the mate of the same stocking upon which she was engaged two generations back. Time had done no more for her locks than he had for mine, and so we met on conditions as newly equal as were those which distinguished our circumstances fifty years before. After some conversation, by which I supplied, at her request, information that served as some required links to the chain of my own history, I ventured to ask for a repetition of one or two of those stories which were wont, in olden times, to keep my little feet from the ice, and my tender hands from the snow-balls.
“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.
“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents, and the general effect.”
“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s daughter has frequently read to me some of your stories, in which I recognised my own share in the composition.”
“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory instead of imagination, and thus have been retailing your supplies instead of dealing in my own wares. And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very happy now to owe you credit for a whole story.”
“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to the whole of any story, that I have forgotten most that I ever knew, and as books have been greatly multiplied of late, neither I nor those who would have been my auditors have any thing to regret.”
“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account which you gave me of the Wilkinson family?”
“If you will have patience with my feeble voice, and assist with your own recollection my even more feeble memory, I will attempt that story, especially as certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of narrating it will call back to my memory the times when I hired you to forbear outdoor sports, too rude, in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I have always considered that Providence had much to do with the affairs of
‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’”
The persons concerned in the narrative which I have to repeat, are now nearly all departed. Some sleep beneath the sod in the rear of the meeting-house on yonder hill, and some are of the number of those who wait until the sea shall give up its dead, and like the informant of Job I may almost say, “that I only have escaped to tell.”
One day the stage which passed between Plymouth and Boston, at stated periods, and rarely varying in its time of passing any particular point more than two or three hours, (the whole distance, you know, is now
This mode of treating the inquisitive was effective if not satisfactory, and as Mrs. Bertrand did not thrust herself upon any one, and as both the clergyman and Mrs. W. were satisfied with the lady, things were allowed to remain. It was supposed that Mrs. Wendall, in her semi-annual visits to Boston, received some money for Mrs. Bertrand. And at the death of Mrs. Wendall, Mrs. B. entered upon the possession of her neat house, and became the head of a little family, consisting of herself, her daughter Amelia, and one female in the character of assistant.
The education of Amelia was conducted by her mother—we had then no school in which education could be acquired—and the home lessons, by precept and example, which Mrs. B. gave to her daughter were effective in the formation of one of the most lovely characters that ever blessed our neighborhood. The melancholy, fixed and sometimes communicative, of the mother had an effect upon the daughter. Not indeed to infuse into her moral character any morbid sensibility, but to check the exuberance of youthful feeling, and to chasten and direct a girlish fancy. There was religion, too, in all her thoughts—religion lying at the foundation of her character—religion operating upon all her plans and directing all their execution. There was no time when she seemed without this power, no time when she came into its possession. She lived in the atmosphere of her mother; she was from the cradle a child of prayer, and she participated in thousands of acts of goodness and plans of beneficence, of which none but herself and mother knew the source, but which made the heart of the afflicted beat with joy.
While such goodness blessed the dwelling of Mrs. Bertrand, it was diffused through the neighborhood.
I dwell on these things because I have always thought that the loveliness of Mrs. B.’s little family circle, though peculiar, undoubtedly, was imitable, and that the same education in the parent, and the same care for the child, would result in similar excellencies. But somehow, I never could make my views understood—and people around seemed to be impressed with the idea that what they admired in the mother and daughter was some special endowment by Providence, not attainable by any others. It is in this matter pretty much as it was with the minister’s garden—all admired its beauty, and each was willing to share in the excellence of its produce, but we had few who were willing to think that its beauty and usefulness resulted from his culture, and that with the same care their own weedy patch might have become rich in beauty and profitable in fruits.
Such, however, was the chastened excellence of Mrs. Bertrand’s character, such the beauty of her life, I might add, indeed, of her person, and such the sweetness of disposition and almost angelic temper and devotion of Amelia, that perhaps it was not strange that many should regard their domestic and social virtues and their Christian graces as inimitable. Oh, how often have I sat down in my chamber and resolved, with God’s blessing, to copy into my heart some of the heavenly lessons of their lives, and to exhibit in my conduct and conversation something of the lesser graces of this mother and her daughter. Alas! while I feel much benefit in myself from the examples and excellence with which I was occasionally associated, I have little hope that I ever made others sensible of my efforts.
It is certain that our whole town felt and acknowledged the benefit of Mrs. Bertrand’s residence among us; and, strange as it may appear, I do not remember that any envious tongues were employed to diminish the credit of her efforts, or to lessen her power of usefulness. It was a beautiful homage to female excellence which our neighborhood paid to the virtues of mother and daughter, and I have often thought that some credit was due to us all for thus appreciating what was so truly beautiful, without allowing the disparity between us and them to excite envy. Perhaps, however, it was the vast difference between us that served to keep down jealousy.
During a violent gale that followed the vernal equinox, a vessel coming, I think, from Havana, and bound for Boston, was wrecked on one of the outer capes of the bay. She strode at some distance from the shore; and went to pieces in the gale. It was believed that all on board had perished as several dead bodies washed ashore. One person, however, was taken up lashed to a spar; he exhibited some evidence of remaining vitality, and was put into a vessel to be conveyed to Plymouth, but the tide and wind favored the landing at this end of the bay, and he was conveyed to
Mrs. Bertrand was at the time quite too unwell to visit the Nook, as the place was called, where the sick man lay—so Amelia went with such appliances for the sick chamber as her mother could send, and afterward she obtained permission of her mother to remain and assist one of the other persons of the village to take care of the sick man, that the family whose rooms he occupied, might not be drawn from their necessary labor.
The shipwrecked person seemed to be about forty years of age; it was difficult to judge of his person, but his face and head were attractive. He was rather patient than resigned; and if he forbore to complain of his suffering, it was evident that the pride of a man habitually trusting to himself, rather than the Christian submitting to Providence, restrained his tongue.
There was nothing in the case of the sufferer to render his situation particularly perilous, unless a fever should supervene, so said the doctor, but he also confessed that the symptoms indicated more than ordinary exhaustion of shipwreck and the consequence of broken limbs, so he advised a disposition of worldly affairs, as one of the best means of tranquillizing his system.
In the night, while Amelia relieved the watch of the other person, the sufferer called her to him, and when she had disposed his limbs in a favorable position, he remarked that during the whole of her kind attendance on him he had never seen her face—her voice he had heard, it seemed familiar to him, and the name by which she was called was one that he could never forget.
Amelia drew the curtain aside, and the light of the night-lamp gave the patient a full view of her face. He started:
“And that face, too!—looks and name, too! Do I dream, or is it real?”
“What do you see?” said Amelia with kindness. “You seem astonished at my name—is it so unusual, or so familiar to you?”
“You surely are not of this place? And the name—”
“I am of this place—though I was not born here—and though Amelia is the name of my mother, I have reason to believe that I was named for the daughter of one of our excellent neighbors.”
“It is so—yes. I must have been dreaming—perhaps I am feverish. Will you talk a little, however, and let me hear your voice?”
“If you feel able to hear me talk, perhaps you would prefer to hear me read a short passage in the Bible.”
The patient rather consented, than desired it.
There was the next day a much longer conversation between the patient and his young nurse, in which he took occasion to utter opinions upon religious matters quite heretical.
“I did not come hither, captain,” said Amelia, “to dispute upon religious subjects with you. I am no disputant. It is my duty, however, to say distinctly, lest you should mistake my silence, that in my opinion you are quite wrong, and that your present situation is such as to render your irreligious impressions the more fearful to me as they are the more dangerous to you.”
“Why then will you not discuss the question of the truth of Christianity with me?”
“Simply because I do not think that I am competent to the task; and—but no.”
“What do you mean by your unassigned second reason?”
“I mean simply that I do not think you wish to be convinced of the truth of religion.”
“That is hard—but I do wish to believe it if it is true.”
“Captain Wilkinson, if you really wish to believe in the great truths of Christianity, I will invite the clergyman to come down hither and converse with you. Tell me—not now, but tell me after thinking maturely upon it, say this evening, whether you really desire information.”
At night it was again Amelia’s turn to sit with the patient. He intimated that he continued of the same opinion.
“Then I will send for the minister.”
“Let me, while you remain, talk with you, we will have the parson afterward.”
Considerable time was spent by the captain in presenting his views of theology. They were crude and disjointed. He had been poorly instructed, and having led a life of great freedom he felt it much easier to deny the existence of any law, than to reconcile his conduct to the requirements of what was declared to be a divine law. “Nay,” said he, “truth, honesty, sincerity, sobriety, and all these virtues, are only the result of long experience, and men willing to enforce them as a sort of mercantile convenience have declared them to be a part of the requirements of a divine power. The very fact that they are found to be convenient to social and public life, proves that they are mere deductions from general experience, and not the requirements of God.”
“So then you think that a God who is the father as well as the creator of mankind, would not make the rules which He gave for man’s government subservient to man’s happiness?”
“Tell me, Amelia, does your happiness result from your obedience?”
“So far as I am obedient I am happy. It is my mortification to believe that my obedience is too often in the act, rather than in the will. It is easy for me to obey the command of my mother and to have her satisfied—but God who sees the heart, undoubtedly judges me closer, and knowing it, I lack the happiness which perfect obedience would insure.”
“No, I do not. But I believe that such a relation does exist, and though I may not be able now to show that relation in others, yet I believe it becomes manifest at some period; certainly where they are not traceable in this world they become evident in the next.”
“That next world is a sort of safety-valve to those who argue on religious topics with men like me. But if you could show me the relations which exist between your conduct and your present situation, or the dependence of my situation upon my present conduct, I might believe that there was some law—and when there is a law there must be a law-giver.”
“Alas, captain, the discussion of causes and effects will not much benefit you at the present time, especially with such an one as I for an expounder. What you need is not argument, but reflection. Be assured of one thing, religion has had stronger antagonists than you, and they have been defeated, convinced, converted. But what you need—and captain you do need that—is to cease to argue in your own breast, and against what I perceive to be your own convictions—confess plainly now that you have made up your scepticism to meet certain circumstances of your own life, and that you are not prepared to admit of the connection of revealed religion and the terrible consequences of a neglect of its requirements.”
“What circumstance of my life,” said the captain, with much emphasis, “what circumstance of my life has thus induced me to shut my eyes and heart against truth?”
“That I do not know. But I believe if you will go over in your own mind candidly the events of your life, you will confess that, if they have not brought upon you the present fearful visitations, they have at least served to make you argue yourself into infidelity.”
“Amelia, what you say may be true—I will think of the matter. It would be curious if I should be brought back to my early belief by one so young and delicate as you.”
“My youth and ignorance may be altogether in favor of such a result. You can have little or no pride in a discussion with me, and thus, instead of seeking to sustain an argument for the sake of a triumph, you might be willing to listen to the truths which I utter for the sake of the truth. But you intimated a disposition to review your life, and see whether you cannot find some relation between your past conduct and your present scepticism. And permit me to say that your present situation, though not dangerous perhaps, is one that ought to suggest to you the inquiry, whether the foundation on which you have placed your future condition is safe, and the conversation which we have already had is as much I am sure as the doctor would permit were he here. Sleep will be advantageous to your physical powers. I am confident that calm reflection, and honest retrospection must be profitable to your mind.”
“She talks like a parson,” said the captain, as he settled himself for sleep or for thought.
More than two hours had elapsed before Amelia could discover that her patient was asleep, though he was perfectly still. At length the heavy, regular breathing denoted that he had succeeded in his effort to sleep, or had failed in his efforts to keep awake.
Before Amelia saw the captain again she had visited her mother and made her acquainted with the state of the patient’s mind. Mrs. B. could discover in the remarks of the captain which her daughter repeated to her, little else than the willingness of a sick or lame man to be courteous and civil to a voluntary nurse, and she expressed such an opinion to her daughter.
“I think otherwise, mother,” said Amelia, “not so much from the words of the captain as from his tone, his earnestness of expression, and his readiness to return to the conversation whenever other persons leave the room.”
“I have not so much confidence, Amelia, in the re-adoption of early religious opinions upon a sick bed; as some persons have. I love the virtue, the piety which extends along from the nursery to the grave, blessing and sanctifying the whole existence, and forming a complete chain of moral life, a religious growth.”
“But, dear mother, if that chain has been ruptured by extraordinary violence, is it not best to connect the links? There may be less of continued perfection, but the reproduction of a part is worth the effort.”
“The captain seems to have made a strong impression upon you, and to have excited unusual interest for a stranger.”
Amelia did not blush, because she did not understand what would ordinarily be inferred from such a remark as her mother’s.
“I do not know when I have felt a greater interest for one of whom I know so little. But undoubtedly a part of the interest is mingled with curiosity. He is a man of some education, of much travel, and of more observation than masters of ships generally have. But there seems to be some event in his past life upon which he is strongly sensitive, and to which he is constantly referring; especially when a little feverish and in disturbed sleep.”
“I need not say to you, my child, that you will hear as little of such involuntary talk as possible, and never repeat a word of it unless it be to his advantage.”
“I understand, mother. But I have already told the captain that I thought his scepticism was referable to some past event, and he seemed to be struck by the remark.”
“You will find that you were correct; and you will discern, moreover, that while he is sceptical from past occurrences, he postpones investigating the foundation of his opinions, on account of the interference which a correction of error would have on some future event. Men deceive themselves, or try to, just as much as they try to deceive others; and the whole course of the immoral man is one of deception, self-deception, from which rarely any thing but death arouses him.”
Amelia received some advice with regard to her conduct, and some instruction relative to her proposed argument, and then took leave of her mother to enter upon her turn of duty in the chamber of the captain, promising to return the next morning.
Thursday, Noon.
Dear Mother,—You will wonder at my absence, and still more that, not returning in the morning, I did not send word to you; before I conclude this hasty note, you will see not only why I did not come, but why I now write.
After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit, that he seemed to forget his pain.
“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by creating a belief that there is no other state.”
“That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said I.
“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of your face, and the coincidence of your name—”
“That is my mother’s name,” said I.
“But you were born in this town?”
I gave no answer.
“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt, if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”
“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”
The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his skin.
“I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a knowledge of mercantile life. Too young to have the guidance of myself—but I escaped what the world calls gross dissipation.
“At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl, whom I had injured. I was married in the morning at 6 o’clock, and in half an hour left the home of my wife, whom I never saw again.
“I returned from Europe in about a year, having added much to my knowledge of the world, and to my means of enjoying it. In New York, I met a young lady, whose excellence in every female qualification so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened in me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing love for me in her breast. I will not, for my mind now seems to waver, I will not attempt to describe the progress of my courtship. But when I returned from another voyage to England, I led Amelia to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and if mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed my wife into the parlor of her distant relative with whom she resided—her father and mother having been dead for some years.
“Some time in the course of that day, for we were married early in the morning, letters were received at the house. One was addressed to Amelia—of course, with her family name. I remember now, as she opened it, she turned the letter over, and pointing to the superscription, which was in a bold, masculine hand, remarked, that if it was an offer, it came rather late.
“‘Too late for any thing now,’ said her relatives.
“My own heart seemed to sink within me.
“Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she read it. She turned pale, and for a moment I thought she would have fainted; but rallying herself, she placed the letter in my hand, with the single remark, ‘It is for you to explain this.’
“The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained only these words:
“‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he has not already a wife in Vermont.
‘A Friend.’
“For one moment I hesitated whether I would not deny the charge implied, and take Amelia with me to Europe—her means with my wealth would have sustained us. But truth is always ready for utterance—and before the lie could be formed, I was ready to confess.
“‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said Amelia, ‘all I ask is that it may not be increased.’
“‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I ‘is in the affirmative.’ And before explanation could be given, Amelia had been conducted to her chamber, and I took my hat and left the house. I have not seen her since, nor have I ever been able to ascertain her residence. She is probably dead, as is certainly also the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon after my exposure. I have been in business, and I have traveled much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired much. I have none to share with me my property, and no one to inherit it when I depart, which must be soon, as I believe the child born in Vermont died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep solicitude which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and I have resolved that, whether I recover or not, you shall inherit the remainder of my fortune, either by right or by bequest; read—read a little—the Bible, or some from the Prayer Book.”
I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment, and then he said, “you now see what are the errors—the
The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed and swollen, and he became uneasy and quite delirious—and all his symptoms were aggravated. Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced the new disease to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been exposed, and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else be exposed to the contagion.
But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard? I know that you once resided in New York. I have seen in your desk, whither you had sent me, letters addressed to you in a name different from that which we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but never ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I to think? Is this your husband—are you the woman whom he deceived—if so, who and what am I? Certainly I cannot be his child. Let me know—let me know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionate daughter.
Amelia.
The next day Amelia received a note from her mother. It was short and written under great agitation.
My Dear Child,—The information which your letter conveyed has sent me to my bed. You are exposed to the contagion of the small-pox; may God protect you! I cannot doubt that Capt. Wilkinson is the person whom you suppose him to be, if so, he is indeed your father. Be kindly attentive to him, and pray for
Your affectionate mother,
Amelia Bertrand.
The information which this note conveyed struck Amelia with painful surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was, indeed, the man to whom her mother had been married—and there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how could he be her father? The poor girl sat wrapt in doubt and perplexity. If he was her father, she knew the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed God that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his physical comforts, and, as she had reason to believe, to his spiritual aid; and she would renew her devotion to him. But what could she say of her mother’s conduct—her pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there shame on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness, and as she passed to the sick-chamber of her father, she said to herself, “I never knew her to say or do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not nearly twenty years experience teach me to trust to her purity and truth, rather than yield to doubt, which unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have faith in her who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted me. Misfortunes are around us—but may God shield us from shame!”
Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst stages of the loathsome disease, but he was still held to his bed by the broken limbs. One morning he missed his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was confined to her chamber with evident symptoms of the small-pox. This was most painful to him, as he felt that she had taken the disease by her attendance on him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress into every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a stranger with misery, and perhaps death? If she should ever recover it is likely that the ravages of the disease will destroy the beauty of a face that made the loveliness of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back twenty years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven forgive the follies which have caused so much misery, surely this young woman would, however disease may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired in the charms of one I ruined and in the mental excellence of her I shamefully imposed upon. How like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I compensate her for the distress which my advent here has wrought? If my life and hers are spared that must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate the remainder of my existence and my wealth to compensate, as far as both will go, those who have suffered by me, and when the injured individuals cannot be found, may my efforts for the good of others be accepted instead of the direct compensation.”
“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician, who had entered the room unnoticed by his patient. “And as I have heard your remarks by mere accident, will you allow me to express my congratulation at what I regard a much greater change in your mental than in your physical condition, though the latter is truly hopeful?”
“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late gentle, meek nurse are employed, we may hope for every thing of which the patient is capable; but let me add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have shown yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my painful disease, I think Amelia has shown no less skill in dealing with an unbalanced mind and an untoward will.”
“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success without a blessing.”
“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a blessing—she treated the wounds of my mind like those of my body, with perfect gentleness, but with the same direct application. But what will her aged mother say to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s kindness to me?”
“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is with us.”
The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name, and Captain W. apologized for his inability to recognize her; his lameness prevented him from moving, and the room was darkened with reference to the weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.
Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician withdrew.
“Your daughter, madam, is I am afraid, paying a terrible price for charity to me.”
“My daughter, sir, has been taught to consider it proper to discharge a duty and leave the consequences to Heaven. But are you aware, captain, that my daughter felt it a duty to acquaint me with an interesting account which you gave her of your own life?”
“I have come, having had the small-pox, to assist in the care of my daughter, and as far as possible, to supply her place by your bedside.”
“I have not deserved this from Heaven or of men. Help me only to understand and do my duty, and you will complete the work which Amelia began.”
In some conversation which Mrs. Bertrand had with Captain W. the next day, she alluded to his resolution to make reparation as far as possible for any injury he had inflicted on others. “Do you,” said she, “continue of that resolution?”
“Increasingly so. And if now I could find where I might begin the work, I would divest myself at once, if necessary, of every dollar I possess to alleviate the suffering I have caused.”
“Such a sacrifice can scarcely be required, it is certainly not necessary so far as I understand your situation.”
“What then can I do—when shall I begin the work of repentance?”
“It is undoubtedly begun already in the resolve of restitution. I take that to be the essence of repentance, or rather the evidence of it.”
“Am I then to recover, as the doctor assures me I shall? Am I to sit down in the enjoyment of my ample means, and in no way minister to the comfort of those whom my follies made miserable? My wife and child dead—and she, who should have been my wife, lost to me—dead perhaps likewise! I have by various means sought to find Amelia. I even put into a New York and a Boston paper an advertisement, which if it met her eye, would have assured her of my repentance; but, alas! I might repent, I might seek now to marry her, with the same selfish views which I had at first. I might even for her sake now do what would be called justice by some, but what act of mine, however just, could compensate for the horrible outrage which I had committed, the gross insult, public, palpable, unpardonable, which I had offered to her? Yet I loved her, love her now, have ever loved her, and though I have sought refuge for my conscience in the clouds of infidelity, I have never ceased to love her image in my heart, and that has saved me from the follies and vices to which my state of mind and my profession exposed me.”
The spring with its chill winds had passed, and summer was warming the earth. It was then, as it is now, delightful to sit and watch the waving of the long grass on yonder meadows, as the breeze passed over it, or to see the shadow of the cloud flit over the waters that are rippled with the west wind. You who have lived in other states, have undoubtedly found much that you think far more beautiful than this scene, but for me who have spent childhood and age on the banks of this river and the shores of the bay, I know of nothing in nature more lovely. It was just such a morning as this when the invalids were brought from the house, to taste the fresh air from the bay and to look abroad upon land and water, and thank God that they had been spared.
The captain walked with a crutch—his fine manly form would have attracted attention any where.
Poor Amelia sat in her chair, wrapped about with customary garments for the sick, and her face, then sadly marked with the remains of the small-pox, was covered with a green veil.
“I hope you enjoy this scene, captain,” said Amelia.
“All of physical enjoyment which a healthful breeze can impart I certainly have, but I am incapable of mental ease.”
“Is that a fruit of repentance?”
“If repentance is the recognition of errors, surely that repentance, even which seems the pardon of heaven, must keep alive the grief for the offence, though it may rather seem joy for the pardon.
“I may say to you, Amelia, that I have hinted to your mother, that while I shall retain enough of my wealth to sustain myself and do justice to others, I desire to make you remuneration for the benefits you have conferred on me, and the terrible suffering you have endured for me, and for this I shall not wait my own death, but I desire to place you at once in possession.”
“I am compensated—but here comes my mother.”
Mrs. Bertrand advanced, her face covered with her veil.
“Captain Wilkinson,” she said, “your partial restoration renders unnecessary any further attendance on my part. You will probably leave to-morrow, and as I shall remove Amelia immediately to my own house, I have thought this a good opportunity to take my leave of you. I know you feel thankful to Amelia—I believe you are grateful to Heaven. I carry with me the happy reflection, that you will soon be restored to entire health, and that your moral condition is by the mercy of God infinitely improved.”
“Am I not to be allowed to pay my respects to you—not again to say farewell to my beloved nurse, Amelia?”
“We part now—part forever, sir—part with my prayers for your good—with my—”
Mrs. Bertrand fainted from excessive agitation, the unbroken arm of Captain Wilkinson prevented her from falling, and Amelia rose with pain from the chair to remove the veil from the face of her mother, and admit the fresh wind from the bay to her face. When she recovered she looked up into the face of the captain; for a moment he seemed to stagger under the weight that rested upon him.
“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean? Whom do I hold on my arm?”
“It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.”
Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the captain had occupied, while he kneeling at her side, and Amelia rested her hand upon her mother’s knees.
“It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but who are you?”
“I am her daughter.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not my daughter; your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!”
I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion, of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia, but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two
They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on immortality.
———
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
———
Bright fell thy smiling ray,
Rosy Aurora!
Where Alvarado lay,
Dreaming of Mora!
To the tent stole a youth
Lovely as morning,
Yet was his mien in sooth
Full of proud scorning.
Bright, wavy locks fell o’er
Eyes wildly beaming,
Deep the plumed cap he wore
Shadowed their gleaming.
To his pale cheek there came
Hues like the sunset,
For his light, fragile frame
Thrilled for the onset.
Fiercely his sword he drew,
Bold was his bearing,
While to the knight he threw
Words of wild daring.
Crying—“Thou craven false!”
Dark the knight lowered—
“He who in battle halts
Proves him a coward.”
Long had he calmly heard—
Brave Alvarado—
Deeming each daring word
Boyish bravado;
But as that bitter name
Left the lip curling,
Flashed his swift sword—a flame
Through the air whirling.
Proud as his princely foe,
Dauntless in danger,
Springing to meet the blow
Sprang the bright stranger.
Home struck the steel—and ah!
At his feet lying,
Pale as a waning star—
Who is it dying?
Back fall the cap and plume,
Back the bright tresses—
No more her rosy bloom
Meets his caresses.
Lightly her lovely hair
Floats o’er his shoulder,
To his heart’s mad despair
Soft his arms fold her.
“Wo worth the day,” he cried,
“Sweetest Lenora!
When I left thee, my bride
For the false Mora.”
Then in her wistful eyes,
Blue as yon heaven,
He saw her soul arise,
Sighing “Forgiven!”
But her pale, parted lips
Silently quiver,
And in Death’s dark eclipse
Falls she forever!
Sad fell thy sunny ray,
Rosy Aurora,
Where Alvarado lay
By his Lenora.
How many nights, old friend, in earlier times,
When we were boys, we sat together nights,
Poring on books, with ever-new delights,
Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;
I looked for you, as sure as evening came—
I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew
Your sudden rap, and said it must be you—
For step and rap were evermore the same.
We talked of every thing a little while,
And then I took to writing simple themes,
And you to reading—and I could but smile
(Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)
To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,
And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!
R. H. S.
———
BY MARIE ROSEAU.
———
(My dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and because you subscribe for it. I will try.)
Do you believe in presentiments?
Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia.
The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind. Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be rejected.
“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”
No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit.
“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the dilemma.
“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’”
“But the others?”
I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth, &c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I felt that all of them must go.
“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked.
“That would be impossible!” I exclaimed.
“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”
“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said.
“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the difficulty.”
In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.
“Tell her to come up here,” I said.
“What, in this disordered room?”
I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then replied:
“The room don’t look very well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.”
I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly—
“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than half those things.”
I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she should be satisfied with fewer “positively necessary” articles than myself.
“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out with me?” she asked.
“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned engagements of some sort for every hour in the day.
“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.
“Will you keep me long?” I asked.
“I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she answered.
I hesitated.
“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued, looking coaxingly in my face all the time.
I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our way to Chestnut street.
“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said, when we were about a square from home.
“But you had three taken last week,” I said.
“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.”
“Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked.
“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.
I looked at her inquiringly.
“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”
“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”
“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.
Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way.
The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated herself—
“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not like the picture.”
I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But
Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and disagreeable strangers.
We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh.
“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former.
“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon subsided.
“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,” Caroline said.
Fanny colored, and exclaimed—
“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”
“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly.
Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia.
After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a perfectly calm and indifferent tone,
“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly have met the original before.”
“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were quite well acquainted with her in Philadelphia, and I trust you cannot so soon have forgotten an old friend,” I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the object of it entered the room. This time there was no mistaking the glow upon the gentleman’s face; but Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she returned his greeting.
Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance, and a stranger to me, called. Unfortunately in the
It is unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown upon the back-ground. I know that I am not naturally envious; but I could not help feeling akin to chagrin and disappointment upon perceiving the state of things; yet it was not envy. I am sure I did not care one bit that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one so completely absorbed in their interests, as to be indifferent to every thing else, for it made them happy; and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I did think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something of the sort, of any persons to be so intent upon themselves, as to take no notice of others, and so I told the ladies after their visiters were gone, I said—
“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving invitations to tea?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed with them, Marie, in a little time: but why do you ask?”
“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the song,
‘——if any one invites me out to tea,
For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’”
I replied, poutingly.
Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.
“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone, putting her arm around me, “it was too bad of us; but never mind, the next time we will behave better.”
“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely annoying when you are playing your best pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming the company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect, to find them coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet tÊte-À-tÊte; evidently regarding the music only as a happy means of getting rid of one who would otherwise be very much in the way.”
“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with a comic laugh.
“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux extremely disagreeable.”
“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I presume,” Caroline remarked.
“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty, for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”
From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness. She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it.
Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were evidently only meant for Fanny’s
His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted that they had ever existed.
Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always dear to my memory.
Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him.
Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.
———
BY “ORAN.”
———
I saw him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun,
With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison;
And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer,
I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care.
“An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers,
And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.”
I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream,
Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream;
And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away,
To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day!
And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast,
They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not rest.
So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes—
This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”
I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books,
He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks;
Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away,
For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay.
Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare,
O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there!
The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there,
And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair.
Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight,
Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light.
“The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be,
And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality.
Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared,
Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared.
Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light,
And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight.
Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor,
The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store.
And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire,
And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire.
In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing—
“In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know,
And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below.
He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man,
To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan,
’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul,
Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole,
Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound,
Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound.
To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task!
Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst ask?”
And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!
And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.
Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,
Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.
NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
The simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet, familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in fine keeping with the melody.
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So, soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away;
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Although in private fashionable circles, like the “Meeting of the Waters,” this song is rarely heard yet now and then the air, or the words and the air united, break unexpectedly upon us in public, and the effect is almost electric. Well do we remember, on the first appearance of Herz, the effect produced on a crowded assembly, combining nearly all the musical taste and talent of our city, when, after a rapturous encore, he let his fingers fall with the exquisite grace that marked his playing on the keys of the piano, and “The Last Rose of Summer” trembled upon the hushed air. Literally, a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. There was not a heart there that did not respond to the melody as an outburst of true emotion. The same effect was produced, not long since, when this air came thrilling over a large audience in the Musical Fund Hall, from the violincello of Knoop, and, soon after, from the warbling throat of Madame Bishop. Not to the players nor singer was this effect wholly to be ascribed. The power lay in the melody itself, to which they gave a full expression.
So long as there is an ear that can appreciate nature’s own music, and a heart to be touched by genuine emotion, “The Last Rose of Summer” will continue to be a favorite.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
———
BY MARY L. LAWSON.
———
Past from my heart the place and hour
When first I met and owned thy power—
To shadow life with vain regret,
And clouds that darkened when we met—
But still through changing years I see
The lengthened gaze then fixed on me,
As, thrilling with a strange surprise,
I trembled ’neath those earnest eyes.
I know not whence their lustre came—
They quiver with a living flame;
Their liquid light, like diamonds beam,
Through ebon lashes darkly gleam,
Or softly melt with passion’s ray,
That chase their baleful shades away,
Or with a hidden power control
The strongest impulse of the soul.
Those eyes have bent their glance on mine,
Each hidden feeling to divine
’Mid love’s first dream—and love’s decay—
Though from their gaze I turned away;
Read every hope and timid fear,
And smiled away the doubting tear;
Knew all I strove not to impart—
The weakness of my woman’s heart.
In parting once they met mine own,
And cold in stern reproach they shone,
And lost the anguish of the hour
Beneath their dark and withering power—
The blighting sting no words can tell—
That lurked beneath that calm farewell,
The silent glance that left behind
The fevered pulse and wasted mind.
Since then, through thoughts of joy and pain.
Those haunting eyes their spell retain,
And silently they’ve watched me weep
O’er lonely graves where dear ones sleep;
But in my deepest wo’s increase
Their beams have never whispered peace,
Though kindly words were breathed again,
I sought those speaking eyes in vain.
When steeped in wo, or wild with mirth,
The fickle, fleeting joy of earth,
Bound to the world with reckless thrall,
Those fated eyes have marked it all,
And taught the lip with mocking art
To act the tempter’s wily part,
The soul with dreams of bliss to fill
And gently veil the lurking ill.
Alone!—by life’s rough storms distressed,
Unprized, uncared for and oppressed,
Still wert thou near with tender tone,
That spoke of days forever gone,
Till softened memory made thee dear,
And half dispelled each chilling fear—
But starting from my heart’s warm sighs
I marked the gleaming of those eyes.
Some demon power thy soul must bear,
Though angel guise thy features wear,
Arrayed in love alluring mien
To stand my better thoughts between,
Sin imaged form to tempt away—
The holier hopes for which I pray—
A watch above my heart to keep
Till it has sunk to dreamless sleep.
———
BY D. T. KILBOURN.
———
(Concluded from page 75.)
As Arthur approached the city, the sun was sinking behind the snowy clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous light around their fleecy summits, then stretching along the blue horizon, until its brilliant folds, resting upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth, bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one flood of golden light. A fitting robe to herald forth the natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.
As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced by the music of the merry sleigh-bells as they glided past, and the hurrying to and fro of gladsome faces, his heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along, forgetting his fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her little arms fondly clinging about his neck, and her warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how distant seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt to her embrace.
And then came the time when he would come to take her away. And the past year, too, rose before him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be a man, that he might take her to his own home, and be always near her. What cared he if they did laugh, and call him a poor alms-house boy, if one day he might always have his loved sister near him? That sister who looked so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered if she had grown—and how she looked; and thus his happy heart glowed with fond anticipations of the future.
Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the main building, with a beating heart, he rapped at the door of that part occupied by the children.
A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments Mrs. Williams stood before him. In his joy he sprung to meet her.
“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown! and so altered, I scarcely know you! But who would have thought of you?”
Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister Amy—can’t I see her?”
“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”
“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t, don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and leave me alone!”
Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy, you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine; for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit to be in this cold world without a mother.”
Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.
“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to lead him away.
Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me where they have put her?”
“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any other.”
“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”
Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot of their repose.
Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.
Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?”
“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”
“Why did he not take me, too? I would be better off in the still grave.”
“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”
“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.
“Because, God will be angry with you.”
“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.
The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the bright
A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.
“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have about as much sense as their Poodle, on which the entire stock of their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back. But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your sister.”
“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what they say or do to me now.”
“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly upon his shoulder.
Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed, after which, Dick continued. “I suppose, when the old woman broke her word with you, after you had saved the life of her child, she thought she had a particular license to lie! And the old man, too, when he tells me to say that I am selling things ‘under cost,’ while he is getting a good profit on them. So I thought, as they are good church-going people, there could be no possible harm, in a poor dog like myself, following their example. And when they asked me where you were gone, I would not say what you had told me to, for I thought it better you should get the start of them; so I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell asleep, leaving Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.
Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The full-orbed moon rode above on her chariot of clouds, now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now veiling her face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed forth, they shone through a window upon a bunch of drooping violets.
The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it the child of yore; but oh, how changed! That brow, though still so beautifully fair, had lost the halo of its purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to earth. Love, too, with the bright beings that adore, was bound, but a rosy light played round its fetters, while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing heart. The angel’s face was veiled, but sorrowful supplications still went up to heaven.
The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and looked fearfully around. Awakening his companion, he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have had such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight upon my heart will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr. Buckler any longer—I must go tell him all, or my heart will break.”
“Go, and be kicked away as a poor alms-house boy for your pains.”
“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any thing, bear any thing, than feel this weight upon my heart. Before this I could feel that my mother and sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong, they are gone, and every thing is so awful!”
“Oh, Arthur, you have had the nightmare, and are frightened.”
“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I was a very small boy, then. But if there were nothing else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler and feel that I have deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence in me!”
“Arthur, if you peach, you know that I shall be sent away in disgrace, and it would break my poor father’s heart—that father who was so kind to you; who took you home and saved you from perishing of cold. ’Twas but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that little was much to you.”
Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued, “Dick, do you never feel unhappy when you have done wrong?”
“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when I first came here; but now that I see that every one’s for himself, and that a man is respected for his cloth, not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I cannot always banish them when I think of my father and mother.”
“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I know that he will forgive us.”
“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But, Arthur, if you want to peach, you may.”
“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but, if you will only consent.”
“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little of my own!”
“Your own, Dick—how so?”
“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and if right’s right, is it not as much ours as his?”
“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and not for ourselves.”
“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only saw me go to the money-drawer, and said you knew nothing about it. That’s no deception, Arthur.”
“But it is, Dick.”
“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not to be guilty of the like again.”
“But will you likewise promise not to go into that company again? I went with you, because I was so unhappy at home. And you were the son of one who had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after Amy died, I no longer felt a motive for wishing to become a great or a good man; but I feel to-night as if I should have been happier if I had never gone with you.”
Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would not expose him. His parent’s kindness sunk so deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to govern him at will.
And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping guardian, why he was called great! since the sole object for which he had labored, was to subject the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of flesh.
“He is great and god-like in his powers,” replied the angel. “This, men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love, their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh, when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed incense, wafts it forth, a poison to the young, confiding soul—a cry of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of eternity.”
The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do you shut yourself up in this confined room,
Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “’Twas Amy’s favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”
“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy; and she has been dead now so long.”
“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the opinions of Voltaire.”
“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so come, let’s to bed.”
Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed; the dark clouds, one by one, rode forth, until their threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of heaven. And the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to and fro its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming strife of elements.
Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a frail, lone vessel, with white sails furled, like the wild bird of storm. And as the heavy thunder boomed o’er the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from cloud to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that vessel’s deck, a human form. His arms were folded on his breast—his head bared to the blast that whistled through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed, without dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended in their mortal hate. And as the winds swept by, making the light vessel leap and plunge upon its foamy bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare, made the heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the ghastly hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured, “On, on, ye raging elements! ye ne’er can equal the war within this heart. I love your horrid music, ’tis soothing to my reeling brain! Once I feared you. Then, oh then, this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long, long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before me, in mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart to love me—to counsel me when I was wrong! but now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile ingratitude—a forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship! How have the powers of Hell been leagued against me since that fatal night, when she, my mother, died of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God! Yet why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s a God—then I’m an outcast, and have been from my infancy. But oh, what were the pains I suffered then, of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which now devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains were bliss to these!”
A week had passed. The same strange being stood at the corner of a dark, deserted street, in the city of ——. No longer a look of proud despair flashed from his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan features. This noble form was bowed, and from his starting eyes there gleamed, bitter, heart-rending misery.
Two days had he sought employment, and sought in vain. There he stood, without a home—without
Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to ruin of the miserable young man. Why follow him in his downward career? Why enter with him into the abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened picture to the mind of innocence? The guilty can imagine it but too well.
For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot whereon she stood. “I think it is all over with him,” said the woman, who had followed her to the bed-side.
Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay upon the coverlid, and pressing her fingers to his pulse, discovered by its faint, slow movement, that the soul yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.
Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication, which, caught by the listening angels, was on wings of rapture borne to the throne of Grace.
Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing wonderingly upon her—“Where is the clergyman who belongs to this institution?”
“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his health!”
“And the physicians?”
“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am, they gave him up long ago.”
At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing aside with Mr. Barker, entered.
“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze intently fixed upon the corpse-like form before her, he looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who said,
“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t know that I ever pitied any one so much in my life. He appears to have seen better days.”
“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.
“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was picked up in the street, almost frozen to death, about six months ago—and has been, until about three weeks since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great deal about his mother, who, as he seems to suppose, was frozen to death—and a sister—and appears to be one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of demons pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with him now.”
“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!” And as she again stooped to take his hand his lids raised, and his large ghastly eyes bent full upon her. Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow, she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears filled her eyes—“You are better now.”
Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily fired his eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—
“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag you down to this horrible place where they have me. Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at you!”
“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and we have come to take you from them!” And calling for some cold water, she seated herself by his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.
“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac, gazing wildly upon her. “My mother, did she send you to release me? And Amy!”
“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the poor creature’s vagaries, “and you shall be happy too! God will send away those demons from you.”
“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason for one moment, seeming to dart across his brain.
“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.
“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this raging fire?” he said, laying his hand upon his heart, “naught but tears can do it! They took them all away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he sank exhausted.
The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every act a halo of beauty; and Mr. Barker, who had been accustomed to see the fair ones of earth shrinking with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch deprived of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as she knelt beside the unhappy sufferer and bathed his temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she had risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was conscious of being addressed.
“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his embarrassment, “cannot this poor man be removed to a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that he is perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or, at least, till he can be removed to the insane hospital.”
“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire, when Lucy entered accompanied by that gentleman.
“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of you and Ellen—I waited till my patience was quite exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his gallantry to help me find you.”
“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought the doctor hither,” said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was just going in search of him, to see if this poor man cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment in the main-building.”
“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking very fast two days ago.”
“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen in surprise.
“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the better. They have no enjoyment themselves, and are a burden to others. And as to his being removed to the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be thought of.”
“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection can possibly be urged to removing a dying man to a comfortable room, even if he be a raging maniac.”
“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a meaning smile, “you seem to have taken a very deep interest in the handsome stranger.”
Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a smile of pitying contempt cradled about her mouth, said calmly—“The suffering, doctor, always excite the sympathies of the humane, and I trust I am of that class.”
“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered Lucy, “we can do the poor man no good.”
“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and leave this poor creature without a soul near him in his last moments—and this good woman tells me that he has been pleading for some one to pray for him, which proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne. And if uncle will consent, I will remain here, while Mr. Barker sends for the Rev. Mr. P., whose ear is ever open to the call of distress.”
“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject to remark.”
“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the world’s opinion when it combats not with duty, but if the world remark unjustly, when I do my duty, be it even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”
“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with Lucy, you had better not stay.”
“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, “think, for one moment, if this were your own son. Think if it were Lucy or myself, dying alone, without one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when the poor soul is about to take its flight, perhaps to the presence of an offended God, without one sympathizing soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here, overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon his arm and wept.
“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to his heart, “you shall not only stay, but Lucy and myself will stay with you.”
At length, raising her head, she said—“This place, uncle, is cold and damp, and would, I fear, increase your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you know, dear uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and if you will send nurse and John to me, I will watch here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”
“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much affected. “Mary and myself will share your labors. You have taught us our duty, Miss Lincoln.”
As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the soft caress of the dewy night winds, a rude blast swept it from its trellised home, through an open window, until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.
The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light, rousing the nurse from her recumbent position beside a couch whereon reposed a pale unconscious form. Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the window, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little floweret found a resting-place below, upon the bosom of a sweet bouquet formed of its beauteous sisters. And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the sleeper’s form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that erst had hovered round the fairy child, but greatly changed.
No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings of the mind, nor those of flesh wove chains; but with each other waged a mortal strife. Among the latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and severe. Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and whatsoever it rested on was rendered powerless. Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a radiant light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed; too pure for earth’s conception—and there was seen an angel form bearing a golden vessel.
And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with uplifted pinions, looks of love, and rapturous adoration, gazed on that glorious vision—what these things meant.
“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their pinions to yon glorious light.
“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh, is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and powerless.
“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who, weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened, tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not, cannot come, until his will shall plead.”
The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest supplication! A cry of joy
Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past, shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much surprise, why this should be?
“These are regrets,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings of memory, as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”
It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.
Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement, filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair, his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple
“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”
“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since, below the hill, and some persons get out. I think the ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the door, and Mr. Norton entered.
The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while a smile of pleasure lit up his features. Grasping it warmly within his own, Mr. Norton said—
“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge. Dr. Warner tells me, if this fine weather continues, we may take you home with us—although, I don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you away from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend this hill and breathe its pure atmosphere, I feel like a young man again. It is, indeed, a delightful situation, just the place for a hospital.”
Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning the pressure of Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness such as has been bestowed upon an object as unworthy as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once have received but one ray, I should not now have to mourn over misspent time and degraded talents.”
“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton, “you have many long years of usefulness yet before you. You must not be sad. I left Ellen and Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred ascending on foot—but here they are, and they must cheer you.”
At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the former approached, an expression of holy joy irradiated his noble features, as with extended hand, she said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we are, indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”
“But he seems to have a slight touch of the blues! You must not let that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton, laughingly.
“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if you did not know it before, you certainly will learn by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of gay wild flowers,) “that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a sombre hue.”
“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.
“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper tone of sadness, “if you had the same power to renew the wasted energies of the mind, and blot out from the pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened heart to the fount of purifying Love, no gleam but that of joy, should ever emanate from my grateful heart.”
“Don’t say I, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy man who led you to a Saviour’s arms.”
“I do not know which had the greater influence, Miss Lincoln—your sympathy—your earnest pleadings to remain with a poor abandoned wretch in that loathsome room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious, yet powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful watchfulness during that awful night, amid ravings of despair and cries for mercy, intermingled with the yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness and holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one led me to this fount, the other had created in my soul a thirst for its purifying waters. From the moment you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to dawn upon my darkened soul, though at first faint and indistinct, and this morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful landscape, all, all comes up so vividly before my mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it may give you pain, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of some slight expression of gratitude, even though shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I but regain my lost health and strength, how would I labor to show forth the love, mercy, and wisdom of the glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then, Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and kindness have not been thrown away.”
“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen, endeavoring to regain her wonted composure, “has power, if not to obliterate the dark characters upon the pages of memory, to take from them their bitterness.”
“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,” said he with a melancholy smile.
“I shall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly, (perceiving the embarrassment of her cousin, and wishing to relieve her from the conversation,) “that when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to pull it to pieces.”
Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered flowers. While the little flower-spirit saw his bright guardian, now radiant with heavenly smiles, hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of the noble Ellen.
’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The earth lay slumbering in her fleecy robe of white. The diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the distant hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night, as she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of enchanting loveliness.
In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit upon the soft bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same strange, delicious music filled the atmosphere, that erst had burst from cherub choir that hovered round the sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more triumphant.
Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon a couch, round which gathered weeping friends, a form of manly beauty. The ministers of earth lay cold and lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions of the celestial guardian—while Love floated in the ethereal beams of other worlds reflected from the golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows of a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the dying man were fixed; while far above, beyond the deep blue vaults, there burst forth strains of sublime,
“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.
“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen, sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”
And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.
“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn, “why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented, pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that already.”
“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a bright blush suffusing her cheek.
“Simply, appearances. As you say such secrets should not be revealed, I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”
“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”
“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.
“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”
“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying down her work.
“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”
“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious tone, “I wish to ask you another question—will you answer me candidly?”
“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”
“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”
“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to ask such a question?”
“I have two reasons. The one, because the world says so. The other, because I was half in love with him myself, before he became so etherial.”
“The world says so,” responded Ellen.
“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his handsome face at the alms-house; then, afterwards, had him removed to the insane hospital, where he remained at your expense, (though papa did pay the bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the resolution to devote your life to single blessedness.”
Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr. L. must have reported that story. Poor fellow! his soul is so given to earth, that he cannot conceive one idea above it—and it is but natural that he should form such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued she, a sad smile lighting up her expressive countenance, “I never felt for Arthur one ray of earthly love! What I did for him at the alms-house, I would have done as you well know, and would still do, for the most hideous wretch who possesses an immortal soul. His deep contrition, and early history, made me feel for him the love of a sister for an erring, but penitent brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and superior powers of mind, did not heighten that interest would be false. We are all formed to love what is beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing more beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of heart—or more God-like and sublime, than great powers of mind rightly directed; for, even when fallen and degraded from their high estate, we cannot divest them of interest. And when he came to reside with us, his pious resignation under suffering, and his deep absorbing love for our blessed Saviour, made me feel as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such, I loved him. And now, every spot that he loved—every flower which he cherished—the room in which he died—all have to me a holy charm!”
“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after a pause; “or do you suppose yourself incapable of feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”
“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since. And as for my affections, were I to permit them to rest upon an object as worthy as he, I doubt not they would cling to it—as the heart must cling to something.”
“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you think we have any power over our affections?”
“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason to suppose otherwise. For why are we punishable for misplaced affections, if we have no power to govern those affections? As I said before, we are created to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the heart turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws of the Deity, but from the transgression of those laws.”
“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed to love all that is good and noble, why do you speak of not permitting your affections to rest upon a worthy object—since they would naturally cling to it?”
“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance radiating with an expression of heavenly beauty, “there is a higher and holier object of love than is found on earth, and to which all human affections should be subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer! In possessing this, we love all that his eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour died.”
“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in order to make ourselves acceptable in the sight of Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a life of single-blessedness?”
“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted by God, and blessed by the presence of his divine Son, can but be holy, and consequently acceptable. But since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so many hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge of self, and the perfections of the Deity—not taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to the
“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing her arms around her, “I fear that I shall never understand you. It was Dr. Warner himself who told me of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so kind to poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to intercede for him. Then papa was anxious you should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part with you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he has ever met worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen, shall I not tell them of your noble resolution? They must love you for it as I do!”
Ellen was silent.
At length, while a mischievous smile danced through her tears, Lucy cried—“I wonder if I wouldn’t do for the doctor! and then papa can retain all his treasures. There he comes! I must run to tell him of this new plan!” And away she flew to meet her father.
———
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
———
O sweet the dreams that gather now,
Around me with their magic power,
The years are falling from my brow,
And hope, and joyousness, and thou,
Are back again with childhood’s hour.
Thou, thou, a bright-eyed laughing girl,
With voice as sweet as summer glee,
And hair upon whose clustering curl
The sunbeams rested gloriously.
Footsteps, as light as legends tell,
By moonlight gather on the lawn,
Scarce shake the dew-drops from the cell
Of some down-looking lily bell,
That opens to the ardent dawn.
A nature mild as summer’s cheek,
On which the smile of beauty lingers;
But glowing as some mountain peak,
That’s tipt with sunlight’s dying fingers.
And now I look far down the vale,
Through which our weary steps have come,
And memory tells me many a tale,
Of hopes that perished in the gale,
Since last we looked on home.
I think of one around whose form
Thy arms have clung in fond caress,
Whose bark amid the world’s wild storm
Was guided by thy tenderness.
And fancy brings thy home again
Back as it was in years ago,
The robin by the window-pane,
Amid the woodbine pours his strain,
In murmurs soft and low.
The meadow, with its singing stream,
Is stretched before the door,
And in its crystal depths the bream
Plays on the pebbled floor.
I hear the songs of infancy,
At evening, in that peaceful cot,
And the young mother in her glee
Echoes them back in mimicry,
And cares and fears are all forgot.
Love’s sunlight pours beneath that roof
Its beams upon the path of all,
Threading with golden hopes the woof
Of life’s bright festival.
But time goes on, and far away,
Beneath another sun and sky,
Two graves are opened, and the day
Looks down into them mild and gay,
With scarce a murmur or a sigh.
And that young mother kneeling there,
Heart-broken, desolate and lone,
Hears nothing in that summer air
But grief would fashion to a moan.
Her heart is lying ’neath the flower
She planted on that quiet sod,
And memory with her magic power
Goes back, at evening’s holy hour,
With pilgrim’s staff and rod.
One morning, when the corn was green,
And song-birds warbled forth their glee,
A wan and faded form was seen
Beneath the church-yard tree.
A pale moss rose was in her breast,
Wet with the dew of burning tears;
And wandering words and looks confessed
That she, amid her wild unrest,
Was living o’er the by-gone years.
And thus with names she loved so well
Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,
Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,
She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.
This is a dream from which I start,
And wonder if it can be so—
For there, with ruby lips apart,
And sunny youthfulness, thou art,
As in those years long, long ago.
GENL. JOSEPH WARREN.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine
———
BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC. ETC. ETC.
———
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
This illustrious champion of liberty was born in Roxbury, near Boston, in the year 1741. His father was a respectable farmer, and employed much of his time in raising fruit. He was the person that produced that species of apple called the Warren Russet. The house in which his father resided is still standing, near the centre of the village, in a street which has received his name. One day in autumn, as he was in his orchard, he saw an apple remaining on the top of a tree, which, by its uncommon beauty tempted him to climb the tree to pluck it, but as he was reaching the apple, the branch upon which he stood broke under him, and precipitated him to the ground a lifeless corpse. His youngest son, the late Dr. John Warren, of Boston, then four years old, who had been sent by his mother to the orchard to call him to dinner, met the body borne by two laborers. By this fatal accident the mother of Warren was left a widow, with the charge of four boys, of whom the eldest, Joseph, was then about sixteen years of age. The fidelity with which she executed this arduous trust, is sufficiently attested by the eminent virtues and talents of her children. She lived to a very advanced age at the house in Roxbury, surrounded by the younger members of the family, and reaping in their affectionate attention, the best reward for her exemplary and maternal duties. Joseph commenced his education at the grammar-school of Roxbury, which at that time had great celebrity from the superior attainments of its teachers. At fourteen he entered college at Harvard, and passed his examination with such satisfaction to his preceptors, that drew from them expressions of surprise and admiration. The whole term of his collegiate life was marked by a generous, independent deportment, fine manners, with indomitable courage and perseverance.
In 1759, Warren graduated with the highest honors, and on leaving college, signified his wish to study medicine; this was complied with by his maternal parent, who placed him under the care of a personal friend of his father. His professional studies were alike prosecuted with energy and success.
At the age of twenty-three he established himself at Boston, and commenced the practice of his profession, which he pursued with distinguished success.
He had not been in practice more than two years when the town was threatened with that direful disease, the small-pox, the treatment of which was but little known at that day—it was considered the most dreadful scourge of the human race. This disease continued to rage with the greatest violence, baffling the skill and efforts of many of the most learned of the faculty.
Our young practitioner soon distinguished himself by his successful method of treating that disease, and from that moment was exalted to the highest pinnacle of fame. He stood, week after week, untiringly by the bed of his patient, using the necessary exertions with his own hands. These noble and humane traits, apart from his laborious profession, firmly attached him to the people; he stood high among his older brethren in the profession, and his courtesy and his humanity won the way to the hearts of all—and what he once gained he never lost.
A bright and lasting fame in his profession was now before him, whilst wealth and influence were awaiting his grasp; his exalted talents had secured the conquest it had always been his aim to achieve. But the circumstances in which his beloved country was then placed necessarily directed the attention of Warren from professional pursuits, and concentrated it upon political affairs.
The same superiority of talents and ardor of temperament, which would have given him an easy success in any profession, rendered him more than ordinarily susceptible of the influences which then operated upon the community, and threw him forward into the front rank of the asserters of liberal principles. The fact, however, that men, like Warren, of the finest talents, and in every respect the fairest promise, were among the first to join in the opposition to the measures of the government, shows sufficiently how completely the whole mind of the colonies had given itself up to the cause, and how utterly impossible it was for the ministry to sustain their pretensions by any power that could be brought to bear upon the people of America.
In answer to a letter received from his late preceptor, advising him against any action amounting to rashness, he says, “The calls of my distracted country are paramount to every interest of my own. I willingly leave fame and all its glories to aid in bursting the bonds of tyranny, and giving freedom to a virtuous people.” And in another letter to a friend, who had remonstrated with him on the same cause, he says, “It is the united voice of America to preserve their freedom or lose their lives in defense of it; their resolutions are not the effects of inconsiderate rashness, but the sound result of sober inquiry and deliberation. I am convinced that the true spirit of liberty was never so universally diffused through all ranks and orders of people in any country on the face of the earth, as it is now through all North America.”
No sooner were Warren’s intentions made known, than he was appointed surgeon-general of the army.
At the time of Warren’s appointment, the conclusion
The Stamp Act; the tumults which followed it; its repeal; the Tea Act; the troubles which attended its enforcement, and which terminated in the celebrated Boston Tea Party; the military occupation of Boston by the British army; the hostile encounters that occurred so frequently between the troops and the citizens, including the fatal events of the 5th March, 1770; these occurrences, with various others of less importance, were the preludes to the tragedies of the 19th April and 17th June, 1775. In adverting to one or two of these occasions, it will be seen that General Warren was the leading spirit of the colony during the eleven years before mentioned.
Mr. Everett, in his biography of this distinguished officer, says, “The great authority and influence which Warren exercised over his fellow citizens, evidently show that he combined in a remarkable degree the qualities requisite for excellence in civil pursuits, with a strong taste and aptitude for war. In this particular he stood alone among the leading patriots of Massachusetts; this, had his valuable life been prolonged, would have contributed very much to establish and extend his political influence.
He also possessed, in high perfection, the gift of eloquence, and in exercising it, he is represented as having exhibited the discretion which in all respects tempered so honorably the ardor of his character!
His voice was often raised in public, for the purpose of dissuading the people from tumultuous movements, and exhorting them to seek redress for their wrongs, as much as possible, according to the forms of law, and without detriment to the rights of individuals, or a breach of the public peace. The daily riots, which followed the attempt to enforce the new revenue laws at Boston, produced, as must have been expected, the military occupation of the town by British troops.
In the year 1768, two regiments from Halifax, and two from Ireland, making together nearly four thousand men, were ordered to be stationed at Boston, under the command of General Gage, an officer who had honorably distinguished himself in the preceding French war. This gave great dissatisfaction to the inhabitants, and the general found great difficulty in erecting barracks for their accommodations, and consequently hired houses for the greatest part, and the remainder were quartered in tents upon the common.
This military occupation of Boston led to continual animosity between the soldiers and the citizens. In these very frequently the latter were in the wrong, which was certainly the fact on the tragical 5th of March, 1770.
On the evening of that day, while the soldiers were on guard at the Custom House, King Street, now State Street, a mob of citizens, armed with every description of weapons, insulted, and finally assaulted them. The guard exhibited great forbearance, until one of their number had been actually knocked down by one of the mob, and ill-treated; they then precipitately fired and killed three persons on the spot, and wounded two others. So satisfied were the patriots that the citizens were in the wrong, that John Adams and Josiah Quincy volunteered their services as counsel for Captain Preston, the commanding officer of the guard who had been brought to trial for the offence. He was honorably acquitted. This unhappy affair left in the bosoms of the citizens an impression that seemed impossible to erase; and they determined to set apart that day for an annual celebration; and it was accordingly so observed for several years, until the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence was finally substituted for it. On the second of these celebrations, Samuel Adams was invited to deliver the address. He declined the task, and it was then committed to Dr. Warren, who acquitted himself with great ability. On another anniversary, three years afterward, he again delivered another and last address, which, from the mutual exasperation between the troops and the citizens, was considered rather a critical duty. The day arrived, however, and the weather remarkably propitious; the old South Meeting-House was the place appropriated for the delivery of the oration, and so crowded was the building at an early hour, that on the arrival of our young orator, there was no way of access but by the pulpit window, which his friends effected for him by means of a ladder. The British officers occupied the aisles, and the stairs leading to the pulpit. Each man felt the palpitation of his own heart, and watched the pale but determined face of of his neighbor. The speaker began his oration in a firm tone of voice, and proceeded with great energy and pathos.
Warren and his friends were prepared to chastise contumely, prevent disgrace, and avenge an attempt at assassination. The scene was sublime. A patriot in whom the flush of youth and the grace and dignity of manhood were combined, stood armed in the holy sanctuary to animate and encourage the sons of liberty, and to hurl defiance at their oppressors. The orator commenced with the early history of the country, described the tenure by which we held our liberties and property; the affection we had constantly shown the parent country, and boldly told them how, and by whom these blessings of life had been violated.
There was in this appeal to Britain—in this description of suffering, agony and horror, a calm and high-souled defiance, which must have chilled the blood of every sensible foe. Such another hour, perhaps, has seldom happened in the history of man, and is not surpassed in the records of nations. An able writer, commenting on the oration, says, “The thunders of Demosthenes rolled at a distance from Philip and his host—and Tully poured the fiercest torrent of his invective when Catiline was far off, and his dagger no longer to be feared; but Warren’s speech was made to proud oppressors, resting on their arms, whose errand it was to overawe, and whose business it was to fight. If the deed of Brutus deserved to be commemorated by history, poetry, painting and sculpture, should not this instance
‘That struck the foremost man of all this world,’
was hailed as the first of freemen, what honors are not due to him, who, undismayed, bearded the British lion, to show the world what his countrymen dared to do in the cause of liberty? If the statue of Brutus was placed among those of the gods, who were the preservers of Roman freedom, should not that of Warren fill a lofty niche in the temple reared to perpetuate the remembrance of our birth as a nation?”
The late Rev. Dr. Homer, of Newton, Massachusetts, recently deceased, who was present on this ever memorable occasion, related the following incident, which we consider worthy a place on these pages. He says, “while the oration was in progress, a British officer, seated on the pulpit-stairs, raised himself up and held one of his hands before the speaker, with several pistol-bullets on the open palm. Warren observed the action, and without discontinuing his discourse, dropped a white handkerchief upon the officer’s hand.”
How happy had it been for the country, if this gentle and graceful admonition could have arrested the march of violence, and averted the fatal presage afforded by this sinister occurrence of the future fate of the patriotic speaker—a presage too soon and too exactly realized on the following 17th of June. The first position of a public character in which Dr. Warren took a part, were those which grew out of Governor Gage’s determination to fortify the southern entrance of Boston, by lines drawn across the isthmus or Neck, which unites it to Roxbury. On this occasion a convention was held, of delegates from all the towns in the county of Suffolk, which then comprehended the present county of Norfolk, for the purpose of endeavoring to prevent this measure from being carried into effect. Dr. Warren was a delegate to this convention, and was made chairman of the committee which was appointed to prepare an address to the governor upon the subject. The governor replied in a brief and unsatisfactory manner.
The committee rejoined in another address, of greater length, which was transmitted to the governor, to which he did not think proper to reply. These papers were written by Warren, and give a very favorable idea of his literary taste and talent, as well as of his courage and patriotism. The correspondence was communicated by Dr. Warren, as chairman of the committee, to the Continental Congress; and that body, in their reply, notice, in terms of high approbation, the part taken in it by the committee. The high sense, which was now entertained by his fellow-citizens, of the value of the services of Warren to the cause of liberty, was strikingly evinced on this occasion, first by his election as a delegate from Boston to the Congress, and secondly, by his designation as President of that body, and chairman of the committee of public safety. By virtue of these situations, he united in his person the chief responsibility for the conduct of the whole civil and military affairs of the new commonwealth, and became a sort of popular dictator. The Congress was organized at Salem, but shortly after removed to Concord, and, a few days before the battle of Lexington, adjourned to meet again at Watertown, on the 10th May, 1775. The Committee of Safety held its meetings, at this time, in a public house at West Cambridge, and seems to have been in session every day. It was soon apparent that the station now occupied by Warren, in the councils of Massachusetts, would be no sinecure. The events of the 19th of April, including the battles of Lexington and Concord were of such a character, that no individual could well occupy a very conspicuous position in the field. There was no commander-in-chief, and, properly speaking, no regular engagement or battle. The object of the British was to destroy the military stores at Concord; that of the Americans, to prevent this, if possible, and to show that, in this quarter of the country, every inch of ground would be desperately contested. For the vigor and determination which marked the conduct of the people on this important day, it is not too much to say, that the country is mainly indebted to the vigilance, activity and energy of Warren.
It had been the intention of the British commander to surprise the Americans, and so severe were the precautions taken for this purpose, that the officers employed in the expedition were only informed of it on the preceding day. Information of a meditated attack had been, however, for some time in possession of the Americans; the first intimation having been given by a patriotic lady of Boston, the wife of a royalist officer. A most vigilant observation was, in consequence, maintained upon the movements of the British; and, in this operation, great advantage was derived from the services of an association, composed chiefly of Boston mechanics, which had been formed in the autumn of the preceding year. The late Col. Paul Revere was an active member of this society, and was employed by Dr. Warren, on this occasion, as his principal confidential messenger. Some preparatory movements took place among the British troops on the 15th of April, which attracted the attention of Warren. It was known that the principal object of the contemplated expedition was to seize the stores at Concord. Presuming that the movement would now be made without delay, the committee of safety took measures for securing the stores by distributing a part of them among the neighboring towns. John Hancock and Samuel Adams were then at the house of the Rev. Mr. Clark, in Lexington, and Colonel Revere was dispatched as a special messenger to inform them of the probable designs of General Gage. On his return to Boston, he made an agreement with his friends in Charlestown, that, if the expedition proceeded by water, two lights should be displayed on the steeple of the North Church, if it moved over the neck, through Roxbury, only one. The British commander finally fixed upon the 19th for the intended attempt; and, on the evening of the 18th he sent for the officers whom he had designated for this service, and communicated to them, for the first time, the nature of the expedition upon which they were to be employed. So strict had been the secrecy observed by the governor in regard to this matter. The same discretion had not been
He hastened back to the governor’s headquarters, and informed him that he had been betrayed. An order was instantly issued to prevent any American from leaving town, but it came a few minutes too late to produce effect. Dr. Warren, who had returned in the evening from the meeting of the Committee of Public Safety, at West Cambridge, was already informed of the movement of the British army, and had taken the necessary measures for spreading the intelligence through the country. At about nine o’clock on the evening of the 18th the British troops intended for the expedition were embarked, under the command of Colonel Small, in boats at the bottom of the Common. Dr. Warren inspected the embarkation in person, and having returned home immediately after, sent for Colonel Revere, who reached his house about ten o’clock. He had already dispatched Mr. Dawes overland as a special messenger to Lexington, and he now requested Colonel Revere to proceed through Charlestown on the same errand. The colonel made arrangements, in the first place, for displaying the two lights on the steeple of the North Church, agreeably to the understanding with his friends in Charlestown, and then repaired to a wharf, at the north part of the town, where he kept his boat. He was rowed over by two friends, a little to the eastward of the British ship of war Somerset, which lay at anchor in this part of the channel, and was landed on the Charlestown side.
He pursued his way through Charlestown and West Cambridge, not without several perilous encounters with British officers, who were patroling the neighborhood, and finally arrived safely at Lexington, where he met the other messenger, Mr. Dawes, whom he had, however, anticipated.
After reposing a short time, they proceeded together to Concord, alarming the whole country as they went, by literally knocking at the door of almost every house upon the road. They had of course been in part anticipated by the signals on the North Church steeple, which had spread intelligence of the intended movement, with the speed of light, through all the neighboring towns. By the effect of these well-judged and well-executed measures, Hancock and Adams were enabled to provide in season for their personal safety, and the whole population of the towns, through which the British troops were to pass, were roused and on foot before they made their appearance. On reaching Lexington Green, they found a corps of militia under arms and prepared to meet them. At Concord, they found another; and when, after effecting as far as they could, the objects of their expedition, they turned their steps homeward, they were enveloped, as it were, in a cloud of the armed yeomanry, which thickened around them at every step, and did such fearful execution in their ranks, that nothing but their timely meeting with the reinforcements under Lord Percy, at West Cambridge, could have saved them from entire disorganization and actual surrender. Colonel Revere, many years afterward, drew up a very curious and interesting account of his adventures on this expedition, in the form of a letter to the corresponding secretary of the Massachusetts Historical Society, which is printed in the Collections of that body, and is now familiar to the public. Warren who was now in attendance on the Committee of Safety at West Cambridge, expecting the British troops to pass that way on their return from Concord, awaited their arrival.
On their approach he armed himself and went out in company with General Heath to meet them.
On this occasion he displayed his usual fearlessness, by exposing his person very freely to the fire of the enemy; and a bullet passed so near his head, as to carry away one of the long, close, horizontal curls, which, agreeably to the fashion of the day, he wore above his ears.
This accident was regarded by the superstitious as an ill-omen, or a presage of an early doom that awaited him. But Warren himself, even in a superstitious age, never yielded to such notions, his frank and generous spirit would rather sympathize with the gallant Trojan hero, who when he was advised to await, before he entered upon a battle, till the omens deduced from the flight of birds should become favorable, exclaimed, “What care I for the flight of birds, whether they take their course to the right or to the left? I ask no better omen than to draw my sword in the cause of my country.”
It is a remarkable fact, on examining the composition of the New England army of 1775, how many names we find of men, either previously or subsequently illustrious in the history of the country.
The fact is one among many other proofs, how completely the spirit of the times had taken possession of the whole mind of the colonies, and drawn within the sphere of its influence the most eminent professional, political, and military characters, as well as the mass of the people. In regard to the character of the troops, it is sufficient to say that they were the flower and the pride of our hardy yeomanry. They were not like the rank and file of the regular armies of Europe, the refuse of society, enlisted in the worst haunts of crowded cities, under the influence of a large bounty, or perhaps an inspiration of a still inferior kind. They were, as they are correctly described by our enemies, “the country people.”
Though generally unaccustomed to regular service, their continual conflicts with the Indians made them expert in the use of arms. Of the officers, who commanded in this army, Warren has been rendered, by subsequent events, by far the most conspicuous. Prescott and Putnam, both veterans of the former wars, occupied with him at the time, the highest place in the confidence of the country. But, in addition to these, there were many others whose names are not much less extensively known throughout the world than theirs. It will not be
Prescott, the colonel of one of the Middlesex regiments,
Putnam, another veteran of the French wars, was not less bold in action, and equally regardless of unnecessary show and ceremony.
In the war of 1756 he commanded a company of provincial rangers, and, in this capacity, rendered the most essential services; passing through a series of adventures, the details of which, though resting on unquestionable evidence, seem like a wild and extravagant fable. After the close of the seven years’ war, Putnam returned to the plough, and was in the act of guiding it, when he heard the news of the battle of Lexington.
Like Cincinnatus of old, he left it in the furrow, and repaired at once to Cambridge, though now more than sixty years of age. He was particularly earnest, in the council of war, in recommending the measure of fortifying Bunker’s Hill; a part of his regiment was detached for the service, and he was present and active himself on the field, through the night of the battle, and during the action.
Whether, as some suppose, he was charged by the Council of War with a general superintendence of the whole affair; or whether, like Warren, he appeared upon the field as a volunteer, is not known with certainty; for the official record of the orders of the day is lost, and the want of it is not supplied, for this purpose, by any other evidence.
It is certain, however, from all the accounts, that his agency in the action was great and effectual. It may be here remarked, that the principal British and American officers were personally known to each other. They had served together in the French wars, and in some instances, had contracted a close and intimate friendship.
Not long after the battle of Lexington, there was an interview at Charlestown, between some of the officers on both sides, to regulate an exchange of prisoners; and Governor Brooks, who was present, was accustomed to relate that General Putnam and Major Small, of the British army, no sooner met, than they ran into each other’s arms.
In this state of the hostile preparations of the two parties, and with the strong feeling of mutual exasperation, which, notwithstanding occasional instances of a different character, prevailed generally between the masses of both, it was apparent, that a trial of strength on a more extensive scale, and of a much more serious and decisive kind, than any that had yet occurred, must soon take place.
The Americans had been for some time employed in fortifying the heights of Charlestown, and in preparing to defend them against the enemy; the British on their part had commenced preparing for an attack.
At an early hour in the morning, Governor Gage summoned a council of war at the City Hall. They were all agreed as to the propriety of dislodging the Americans from their work; but there was some difference of opinion upon the mode of making the attack. Generals Clinton and Grant were for landing at Charlestown Neck, and attacking the works in the rear, but this plan was considered too hazardous.
It would place the British between two armies, one superior in force, and the other strongly intrenched, by which they might be attacked at once in front and rear, without the possibility of a retreat.
The plan preferred by the council was to attack the works in front. Accordingly, at about noon, twenty-eight barges left the end of Long Wharf, filled with the principal part of the first detachment of the British troops, which consisted of four battalions of infantry, ten companies of light infantry, and ten of grenadiers. They had six pieces of artillery, one of which was placed in each of the six leading boats.
The barges formed in single file, and in two parallel lines.
The day was without a cloud, and the regular movement of this splendid naval procession, with the glow of the brazen artillery, and the scarlet dresses and burnished arms of the troops, exhibited to the unaccustomed eyes of the Americans a brilliant and imposing spectacle. The barges proceeded in good order, and landed their freight at the south-eastern point of the peninsula, commonly called Morton’s Point. Immediately after they had landed, it was discovered that most of the cannon-balls, which had been brought over, were too large for the pieces, and that it was necessary to send them back and obtain a fresh supply. A British writer of that day gives the following ludicrous account of this blunder of over-sized balls, he says: “This blunder arose from the dotage of an officer of high rank, who spends all his time with school-masters’ daughters.” It seems that General Cleveland,
Such, then, were the respective forces and positions of the two armies immediately preceding the battle. General Burgoyne, in a letter written some days after the battle, has given a spirited sketch of the splendid panorama, seen by the British officers from the heights at the northern extremity of Boston. He says, “the spectacle which was exhibited at this time by the two peninsulas and the surrounding waters, was of a highly varied and brilliant character; for immediately below flowed the river Charles,” (not, as now, interrupted by numerous bridges,) “pursuing a smooth, unbroken way to the ocean. Between this and Charlestown shore, lay at anchor, the ships of war, the Somerset, the Lively, and the Falcon; and further on the left, within the bay, the Glasgow. Their black and threatening hulks poured forth at every new discharge, fresh volumes of smoke, which hung like fleecy clouds upon the air, till cleared by the northern breezes, when the spectator could perceive on the opposite side of the river, rising from the shore by a gentle ascent, the sister hills of Charlestown, clothed in the green luxuriance of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their summits were broken by the low and hasty works of the Americans.” While both the armies and the assembled multitude were hushed in breathless expectation, might be seen our gallant fathers, eagerly awaiting the signal for the action, ready to rush to the rescue of freedom and their country. Their homely apparel had but little to attract the eye, but frequently, when some favorite officer made his appearance, a shout of gratulation passed along the ranks, which showed the zeal that inspired them for the cause. During this silent suspense, a horseman was seen advancing at full speed toward the American works. As he crossed the hill, General Putnam rode forward to meet him, and perceived it was General Warren.
“General Warren!” exclaimed the veteran, “is it you? I rejoice and regret to see you. Your life is too precious to be exposed here; but, since you are arrived, I take your orders.”
“General Putnam, I have none to give. You have made your arrangements, therefore proceed. I come to aid you as a volunteer. Tell me where I can be useful.”
“Go, then,” said Putnam, “to the redoubt; you will there be covered.”
“I came not to be covered,” replied Warren, “I came to do my duty; tell me where I shall be most in danger, and where the action will be hottest.”
“The redoubt,” said Putnam, “will be the enemy’s object; if that can be defended, the day is ours.”
General Warren at once hastened to the redoubt, and his approach to the troops, who recognized him, though he wore no uniform, was welcomed with loud acclamations. When he reached the redoubt, Colonel Prescott requested him to give him his orders.
“No, Colonel Prescott,” he replied, “give me yours—give me a musket; I have come here to take a lesson of a veteran soldier in the art of war.”
These particulars, including the dialogue, are given substantially, as reported afterward by General Putnam and Colonel Prescott, and may be depended on as authentic. General Warren was originally opposed to the plan of fortifying the Heights of Charlestown; but when he found the Council of War had decided in favor of it, he told them he should aid them personally in carrying it into effect. Against this he was strongly urged, but his resolution was immovable. Warren had officiated the preceding day at Watertown, as President of Congress; that body being in session there, and had passed the whole night in transacting business.
At daylight he mounted his horse, and rode to headquarters at Cambridge, where he arrived much indisposed from fatigue; he was urged to take some repose, which he did; but he had retired to bed but a short time, when information was received from General Ward that the British were moving.
He rose immediately, said he was quite well, and attended the meeting of the Committee of Safety as chairman. During this meeting, Elbridge Gerry, who entertained the same opinion as Warren upon the prudence of the attempt, earnestly requested him not to expose his person.
“I am aware of the danger,” replied the young and ardent soldier, “but I should die with shame, if I were to remain at home in safety, while my friends and fellow-citizens are shedding their blood, and hazarding their lives in the cause.”
“Your ardent temper,” replied Gerry, “will carry you forward into the midst of peril, and you will probably fall.”
“I know that I may fall,” returned Warren; “but where is the American who does not think it a glory to die in defense of his country?”
After the adjournment of the committee, he mounted his horse, and rode to Charlestown, where he arrived but a short time before the battle commenced.
General Pomroy, of Northampton, reached headquarters at this time, as a volunteer; he had served, with the rank of captain, under Sir William Johnson, in the war of 1756; and was distinguished in the celebrated battle with the French and Indians, under Baron Dieskau. When the sound of the artillery rattled in his ears, he felt it as a summons to action, and could not resist the temptation to repair to the field. He accordingly
The troops advanced in two divisions, General Howe, in person, led the right, toward the rail-fence; General Pigot, with the left, aimed directly at the redoubt. At this time, it appears, the order for the exchange of balls sent in mistake, had not yet been answered, which caused a suspension of the fire from the British artillery very soon after it had commenced. It was, however, renewed with grape-shot. The little battery, stationed at the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, in the American lines, replied with great effect. In the meantime, the American drums beat to arms. General Putnam, who was still at work on the redoubt, quitted the intrenchment, and led his men into action. “Powder is scarce,” said the veteran, addressing them in his usual laconic style; “powder is scarce, and must not be wasted; reserve your fire till you see the whites of their eyes, then take aim at the officers.” These laconic remarks were repeated as an order along the line; but when the British had come within gunshot of the works, a few sharp-shooters disobeyed the injunction, and fired. “Fire again before the word is given at your peril,” exclaimed Prescott; “the next man that disobeys orders shall be instantly shot.” The British were now at only eight rods distance. “Now, men, now is your time!” said Prescott. “Make ready! take aim! fire!”
So effectually was this order obeyed, that when the smoke disappeared, the whole hill-side was covered with the fallen. The British returned the fire, and attempted to rally and advance, but without success. After a moment’s irresolution, they turned their backs, and hurried from the hill.
Such was the futile attempt to storm the works; and had the reinforcements of artillery and supplies of ammunition, which had been ordered from Cambridge, arrived, a brilliant success must have followed. It was at this moment that the mischief resulting from Colonel Gridley’s ill-judged exhibition of parental partiality, in giving the place of major in the artillery to his son, in preference to Count Rumford, was severely felt. This young officer, as his subsequent conduct proved, was entirely incompetent to the duty assigned him.
Could the long-tried and energetic character of Rumford been employed, there would have been no want of ammunition; powder and balls enough would have found their way into their works, and the day might still have been ours. But America paid the penalty of Colonel Gridley’s fatherly weakness, as Great Britain did that of General Cleveland’s superannuated gallantry. The American artillery was badly served through the whole action. Early in the day the officer, who was stationed with his company and two field pieces at the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, drew off his pieces from the post assigned, in order, as he said, to prepare his ammunition in safety. General Putnam was obliged to employ Captain Ford to drag the pieces back; by him and Captain Perkins, they were served the whole day. Major Gridley, who had been ordered with his battalion from Cambridge to the lines with all speed; had advanced only a short distance beyond the Neck, and halted, as he said, in order to wait and cover the retreat, which his inexperience deemed inevitable.
At that moment, Colonel Frye, a veteran of the old French wars, whose regiment was in the redoubt, perceived Major Gridley with his artillery in the position described. Frye galloped up to him, and demanded what it meant.
“We are waiting,” said Gridley, “to cover the retreat.”
“Retreat!” replied the veteran, “who talks of retreating? This day thirty years ago I was present at the first taking of Louisburg, when your father, with his own hand, lodged a shell in the citadel. His son was not born to talk of retreating. Forward to the lines!”
Gridley proceeded a short distance with his artillery, but overcome with terror, and unequal to such a task, he ordered his men to re-cross the Neck, and take a position, where they were to fire with their three pounders upon the Glasgow. The order was so absurd that Captain Trevett refused to obey it, and proceeded at once toward the lines. Major Gridley was tried for neglect of duty, and dismissed from service.
A few hours had now passed in silence, when General Howe determined upon a second attack, and, having rallied and re-organized his men, gave the order to advance. This was complied with, and the artillery pushed forward to within three hundred yards of the rail-fence, to prepare the way for the infantry. During these movements, a solemn silence brooded over the American lines.
The men were ordered not to fire till the enemy were within six rods distance. While every thing was in agitation, a new spectacle burst upon the eyes of the assembled multitude, and added another feature more startling, if possible, than the rest, to the terrible sublimity of the scene. Clouds of smoke were seen to overspread the air, from which flashed sheets of fire. It soon became apparent that Charlestown was in flames. The British General had been annoyed, at his first attack upon the works, by the fire of a detachment stationed in the town, and had given orders that it should be burned. For this purpose, combustibles were hurled into it from Boston, which commenced
The British troops ascended the hill by slow and regular approaches, firing without aim, in platoons, with all the precision of a holyday review.
The Americans, agreeably to their orders, reserved their fire till the British were within six rods distance. The word was then given, and the discharge took place with more fatal effect than the former attack. Hundreds of the British soldiers fell—General Howe remained almost alone, for he lost almost every officer belonging to his staff. His aids, Colonels Gordon, Balfour and Addison; the last was a member of the family of the author of the “Spectator.”
So tremendous was the havoc, that, the second time on this eventful day, did the British army retreat from the hill. At this period in the progress of the battle, a little incident occurred, which shows that the American officers were fighting for their country, not for the sake of blood and carnage, and that they never forgot that high-souled feeling for which they were ever distinguished. After the fire from the American works had taken effect, Major Small, (who has been named before as a personal friend of Putnam,) like his commander, remained almost alone on the field.
His companions in arms had been all swept away, and standing thus apart, he became, from the brilliancy of his uniform, a conspicuous mark for the Americans within the redoubt. They had already pointed their unerring rifles at his heart, and the delay of another minute would probably have stopped its pulses forever.
At this moment Putnam recognized his friend, and perceiving the imminent danger in which he was placed, sprang upon the parapet, and threw himself before the levelled rifles.
“Spare that officer, my gallant comrades, he is my friend; do you not remember our affectionate meeting at the exchange of prisoners?”
This appeal from the favorite old chief was successful, and Small retired unmolested.
This anecdote, poetical as it appears, is attested by undoubted authority.
General Howe, undaunted by the second repulse, felt determined to venture a third attack, but thought best to adopt a more judicious plan than before. He this time concentrated his whole force upon the redoubt and breastwork, instead of directing a portion of it against the rail-fence.
He also directed his men to reserve their fire, and trust wholly to the bayonet. He had discovered the vulnerable point in the American defenses, and pushed forward his artillery to the opening between the redoubt and breastwork, where it turned our works and enfiladed the whole line. By this time the Americans were nearly reduced to the last extremity. Their ammunition was exhausted; they had no bayonets; no reinforcements appeared. Colonel Gardiner, who had been stationed with his regiment at Charlestown Neck, but had received no orders to march, reached Bunker’s Hill with three hundred men. He had no sooner reached the lines, when he received a wound from a musket ball, which afterward proved fatal. As his men were carrying him from the field, his son, a youth of nineteen, second lieutenant in Trevett’s artillery company, which had just come up, met and recognised his father. Distracted at seeing him in this condition, he offered to aid in conducting him from the field.
“Think not of me,” replied the gallant patriot, “think not of me—I am well. Go forward to your duty!”
The son obeyed his orders, and the father retired from the field to die.
The Americans awaited with desperate resolution the onset of the British, prepared to repel them, as best they could, with the remaining charges of powder and ball, with the stocks of their muskets, and with stones.
Having reached the works, the foremost of the British attempted to scale them. Richardson, a private in the Royal Irish regiment, was the first to mount the parapet. He was shot down at once. Major Pitcairn followed him, and as he stepped on the parapet was heard to exclaim, “The day is ours!” But the words had no sooner escaped his lips, than he was shot through the body; his son caught him in his arms as he fell, and carried him from the hill.
He led the detachment which first encountered our troops upon Lexington Green, on the 19th of April; he had a horse shot under him on that day, and was left upon the field for dead. General Pigot, who had mounted the redoubt by means of a tree left standing there, was the first person to enter the works. He was followed by others. The Americans, however, still held out, till the principal of their officers were badly wounded. Perceiving, at length, that further resistance would be a wanton and useless sacrifice of valuable life, Colonel Prescott ordered a retreat. The Americans left the hill with very little molestation. General Warren had come upon the field, as he said to learn the art of war from a veteran soldier. He had offered to take Colonel Prescott’s orders, and it was with extreme reluctance that he quitted the redoubt. He was slowly retreating from it, only a few rods distance, when the British obtained full possession, which exposed his person to imminent danger. Major Small, whose life, as has been mentioned in the preceding chapter, had been saved in a similar emergency, by the interference of General Putnam, attempted to requite the service by rendering one of a like character to Warren. He called out to him by name from the redoubt, and begged him to surrender, at the same time ordering his men around him to suspend their fire. On hearing the voice of Major Small, Warren
The body of General Warren was identified the following day, and the ball which terminated his life was taken from the body by Mr. Savage, an officer in the Custom House, and was carried to England. Several years afterward it was returned to the family, in whose possession it now remains. The remains of Warren were buried on the spot where he fell, but the following year they were removed to a tomb in the Tremont Cemetery, and subsequently deposited in the family vault, under St. Paul’s church, Boston.
In the official account of the battle of Bunker’s Hill, the character of Warren is noticed in the most honorable terms.
“Among the dead,” says the account, “was Major General Joseph Warren, a man whose memory will be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy in every part and age of the world, so long as virtue and valor shall be esteemed among mankind.”
General Warren left four children, two sons and two daughters. Within a year after the death of Warren, it was resolved, by the Continental Congress, that his eldest son should be educated at the public expense; and two or three years after, it was further resolved, that public provision should be made for the education of the other children, until the youngest should be of age. The sons both died in their minority; the daughters were distinguished for their amiable qualities, and personal beauty; one of them married the late General Arnold Welles, of Boston, and died without issue; the other married Richard Newcomb, of Greenfield, Massachusetts, whose children are the only surviving descendants of the hero of Bunker’s Hill. In addition to the public provision made by the Congress for the children of Warren, it was also resolved by that body that a monument should be erected, at the national expense, to his memory. This resolution, like similar ones to the other officers of the Revolution, remains as yet without effect. Such are the only particulars of interest that are known of the brief and brilliant career of Joseph Warren. As Mr. Everett remarks:
“To Warren, distinguished as he was among the bravest, wisest and best of the patriotic band, was assigned, in the inscrutable degrees of Providence, the crown of early martyrdom. It becomes not human frailty to murmur at the will of heaven; and however painful may be the first emotions excited in the mind by the sudden and premature eclipse of so much talent and virtue, it may perhaps well be doubted, whether by any course of active service in a civil or military department, General Warren could have rendered more essential benefit to the country, or to the cause of liberty throughout the world, than by the single act of heroic self-devotion which closed his existence. The blood of martyrs has been in all ages the nourishing rain of religion and liberty. The friends of liberty from all countries and throughout all time, as they kneel upon the spot that was moistened by the blood of Warren, will find their better feelings strengthened by the influence of the place, and will gather from it a virtue in some degree allied to his own.”
———
BY WM. P. BRANNAN.
———
O give me back my dream of youth,
When every pulse throbbed wild and gay,
My heart’s sweet spring-time when life’s flowers
Bewildering bloomed along my way;
When all the world was Paradise,
And Pleasure held a sovereign sway;
When every change brought new delight,
And all the blessed year was May.
O give again those rapturous hours
When first my soul with beauty thrilled,
And mad with ecstasy I dared
To love, nor cared if loving killed
When every radiant face I saw
Flashed with enchantment on my brain,
Till earth seemed changing spheres with heaven;
O give to me that dream again.
Those aspirations for a fame
Immortal through all coming time;
That faith which soared on angel wings
From gladsome earth to heights sublime;
When every air a perfume breathed,
Melodious with the voice of song,
That swayed me with resistless power
And nerved my soul with purpose strong.
O give me back my boyhood’s dream,
Those gleams of glory from above,
That hope which grasped a deathless name,
And blest me with undying love;
O let me taste that joy again
Which riots in my thought to-day—
That earnest and exulting youth
When all the blessed year was May.
FREAKS OF THE PEN.
