CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXVII.      AUGUST, 1850.      No. 2.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

It were much too vast a labor to commence an inquiry into the subject of this essay, with a dissertation on the origin of music. Posterity may be enabled, by the aid of advanced wisdom, to explain the birth of this and other blessings which to us appear only natural, and may, perhaps, successfully trace to their sources the numerous enjoyments which God created as ministers to man’s happiness, and of which we now know only the mere existence. It will not be uninteresting to our children’s children to learn how men first discovered that the various sounds with which the Creator, in his wisdom, invested the human voice, might be linked together in wonderful combinations—producing from monotonous particles melodious unisons; and how a knowledge of the various distinctions which the extension or diminution of time confers on every distinct atom of sound, first dawned upon the human mind, appealing through the senses to the soul, and binding, with a force and power which belong not to any other immaterial agent, the heart of man in chains of amaranthine flowers. These wonders, like many more, which now, for aught we know, lie on the first unturned page of wisdom’s book, will one day be developed.

It is more than probable that he who first tuned his voice to song, little thought of the marvels of music, nor dreamed to what perfection the rules of sound would one day be brought. He used the power which God had given him, nor stopped to inquire into the nature or construction of the tones which he almost involuntarily produced, and which lightened his labor, while they made glad his heart. Science in those days was an infant:—has she yet passed the era of her first childhood?

A consideration of the history of music may be prosecuted under four heads: Ancient and Modern, Sacred and Profane; but as it is not intended to do more in this essay than to indulge in a few unimportant and rambling reflections on the progress of music, and on the state of perfection to which it has at present arrived, we will cursorily review ancient music, as preceding the days of Handel and Mozart, and of modern music, from those masters down to the writers of the present day.

It is not denied that the earlier attempts at song were so limited in design and so feeble in imagination as to excuse the application in our time of the term barbarous to the music of the days of Moses and Miriam, and even to the sounds which accompanied the inspired language of the poet king. Music was then in its infancy. The rude instruments which Tubal Cain invented, and which in after ages were improved, but still left rude, were circumscribed in their compass, and harsh in their tones, although reason teaches that they must have been, what is technically termed “true” in their mechanical formation. According to the compass of these rough productions, the multitude restrained their compositions. Instruments were considered necessary to give effect to song; but as these auxiliaries could not express all the sounds of which the voice was capable, it was thought requisite that the voice should be made subservient to the instruments. The more extensive compass of the voice excited admiration and stimulated the desire for imitation. Thus the voice was the means of improving the mechanical expression of sound; and as instrumental mechanism progressed, the human voice became liberated from the restrictions which former ignorance had imposed upon it, and a freer course was afforded to its capabilities in obedience to the eccentricities of the imagination.

Every nation has always had, as it now has, its own peculiar and distinctive style of expressing emotion through the agency of the voice. Barbarous as the first developments of musical ability may have been, they nevertheless expressed the peculiar and characteristic feeling of the people who employed them. With one nation the style was melancholy, with another pensive, with another light, and with a fourth lively. Some delighted to denote their ideas in the junction of lengthened and monotonous sounds, expressive of grief; others in short changing accents; of carelessness or indifference; and others in the deep measured sounds of martial melody. These distinctions still exist in so marked a degree among different people as to entitle them to the appellation of national musical characteristics.

It is generally believed, and not without good grounds, that the earlier attempts at producing musical effect by the union of a considerable number of voices and instruments, were not remarkable for any of that variety which invests with so many attractions the music of a later period. All the singers enunciated the same notes, and in the same time—very much in the style which large prayer-meetings adopt in the open air. The manner in which the beauty and diversity of concords and discords were first discovered, and the precise era at which such discovery was made, are also matters which are reserved for some later and more successful laborer. This branch of the science of music has, perhaps, undergone greater alteration and improvement than any other. It is by no means an uninteresting study, first to imagine the absence of all knowledge of chords among the first inhabitants of our globe; then to look over the works of the earliest masters whose compositions are still extant, and then to follow the publications of later writers down to the present day, observing at each stage the wonderful differences which exist in the instrumental writings of every age.

The act of committing sounds to paper, although very old, must still be regarded, comparatively with the birth of music, as of late discovery. Transferring mere sound from the mind to the paper, without the assistance of any intermediate articulation is a wonder equally great, to say the least of it, as is the act of writing words. Yet no one gives a thought to the invention of the marvel. The fame of Cadmus is diffused over the habitable globe, while the mastermind which first conceived the possibility of recording his thoughts on and in a few parallel lines by means of dots and scratches, causes no inquiry and excites no admiration.

The task of organizing and perfecting so complete and infallible a scheme must have been immense. In the first place the distance, so to speak, between each tone of which the human voice is capable was to be defined by certain laws and rules, and represented by distinctive marks. Then the length or duration of each tone in any given air was to be marked separately or in junction with other tones, without deranging the qualities of any or detracting from the harmony of the whole. Then were to be encountered the difficulties incidental to changes of the key-note or tone. On discovering that the human voice, after executing seven notes, among which are five tones and two semitones, produced, in ascending to the eighth, a tone exactly similar to the first, it was necessary to construct a scale of keys which would always place the two semitones in exactly the same position, and in the same relation to the full tones. Lastly, and perhaps more wonderful than all, a proper and minute division of TIME was to be effected. That inherent appreciation of what musicians term “time,” which almost every human being possesses naturally, but which few understand, and none can explain, was to be expressed and defined. Divisions and subdivisions were to be demonstrated and made clear. This was the task of tasks. Savages, who never heard of the existence of such a science as music, are known to clap their hands in unison at certain measurable periods in their wild songs. They observe the law of musical time, without having the slightest conception of what time is. Nor are we much better now. We can write time as well as tune, but we know not now, nor have we yet been able to analyze or detect the instinct which teaches us, as it does the Savages, at what periods of any given air we should mark time. Yet thousands of persons, singing together, will “beat” at the same instant. No one knows why or wherefore it should be so. We only feel that it is so, and that human ingenuity has enabled us to write and otherwise to mark time. The order of intellect, which first discovered the means of doing even this little, must have been very high indeed.

The difference between the musical instruments of our time and those of a former age, is another interesting subject of inquiry. The Bible mentions the timbrel, the ram’s horn, the reed, the harp, silver trumpets, and other equally rude inventions. From later classical writers we learn the existence of the pipe and tabor, the lyre, the lute, and others. In the records of a much more advanced period, we find mention of the harpsichord, whence we have obtained our present tolerably perfect piano forte. The gradations from the instrumental knowledge mentioned in the Bible down to the astonishing state of improvement to which the art of manufacturing musical instruments has arrived, have been slow but steady. It is possible that our posterity will look back upon our piano fortes, our violins, violincellos, double basses, cornets, trombones, bassoons, oboes, clarionets, flageolets, flutes, harps, French-horns, serpents, opheclides, guitars, tenors, and kettle-drums, with great contempt. Perhaps even our organ, which is an ancient invention, will not escape the critical censure of a coming age. And there can be little doubt that much remains yet to be known in the manufacture of musical instruments. It may be said with much reason that the only perfect instruments now in use are the violin, the violincello, the double-bass, the tenor, and one or two others. On these any tone of which their compass is capable can be produced in every possible variety of execution. The piano forte, delightful as are its powers, cannot produce a gliding sound from one note to the other; neither can it prolong a note for any length of time without losing at its termination the vigor with which it produced the tone at its commencement. In addition to these disadvantages it labors under another which is common to all wind instruments. It can produce full tones, diatonic semitones, and chromatic semitones, but it cannot yield an enharmonic tone. On the piano forte, on the harp, and on all wind instruments, (with the exception of the organ in the Temple Church, London,^[1]) G flat is F sharp; A flat is G sharp; E sharp is F natural; B sharp is C natural; E flat is D sharp, and so on. The difference is so nicely arranged as scarcely to strike the finest ear; but it is undoubtedly an obstacle in the way of perfection which will most probably be overcome by and by. The organ in the Temple Church, in London, which we have made an exception to the above complaint, is a curious specimen. The black notes are split, in order to provide for the production of enharmonic tones, and the effect on a nice ear is very agreeable.

As the majority of organs are not made on the last named principle they must be classed among the imperfect instruments. At the same time, it is believed that general opinion unites in ascribing to the organ the first place among instruments. It is capable of prolonging sounds, of producing multiplied chords, of modulating and swelling its tones at the option of the performer, of suppressing or expanding its volume, and, in a word, of doing every thing which any other instrument can perform, except of gliding from one note to another.

There are now extant several specimens of the style of music in use among the monks of the earlier Christian ages. These examples are very curious, and, to the casual observer, extremely interesting. The airs are written on four lines, and are marked with treble and bass clefs, but they would appear to have been intended almost entirely for the use of singers. Instrumental music of that period is much more rare and uncommon. The compositions alluded to are very feeble, and evince an ignorance of the extent to which musical sounds might be made available. They are merely loose themes without any attempt whatever at artistic effect. As time wore on, the writing on five lines instead of on four became universally adopted in Europe, and the style of composition gradually improved.

The English nation have never been remarkable for musical genius. As late in their history as the accession of the house of Hanover, the greater part of their music came from abroad. Nor were there any great instrumental performers among them. It is only of comparatively late years that any thing like a talent for composition has sprung up among them, and even now they are so far behind most other nations in the art, as to hold a very insignificant position in the musical world. While the music of all other countries has in it something distinctively and peculiarly characteristic, English melodies (if we except their glees and madrigals) have none. The late operas which have been brought out in London, betray an attempt at servile imitation of the Italian school; but the English have not a writer at the present day whose compositions manifest the slightest originality: and with the exception of Dr. Arne, Cabott, Bishop, Rolf, Rooke, and one or two others, their musical works are devoid of conception, character, or beauty. At the same time it must be admitted that there is nothing finer in the world than the English glees and madrigals. These possess a truly definitive character. They are really English, and bear about the same relation to the smooth strains of Italy and Germany, as the bluff, straight-forward yeoman does to the French exquisite. They are at once original, heart-stirring, and amusing. Many of the madrigals exhibit a great amount of artistic skill and musical acquirement, and, when well executed, they are extremely entertaining. Some of the English anthems are also very excellent, but the attempt to imitate the German school is too apparent throughout. They are not the less agreeable on this account, but they lose the charm which would attach to originality.

The English are, as a nation, fond of music, but their love for it seldom reaches the enthusiasm which is felt for the art by a German, an Italian, a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say that the English admire music rather than that they love it. The uneducated classes will gladly listen to music, but they are never moved by it. They may learn or become acquainted with certain airs, but they never impart to what they sing or whistle that elegance or depth of feeling which a really musical mind never fails to throw into an air which pleases him.

The Scotch music, without possessing much claim to art, has a decidedly characteristic feature. It is unlike the compositions of any other country. Even their quickest airs have something peculiarly melancholy in their style, which is touching and agreeable. The principal feature in Scotch music is the frequent introduction of short, catching sounds before long notes.

The Spanish style of music is pleasing but variable. The national fondness for dancing appears to exercise some influence over all their strains; notwithstanding which many of their airs have an extremely melancholy expression. As opera writers they have never excelled, but for love-songs and martial choruses, their style is equal to that of any other people in the world. Their serenades are among the sweetest efforts of simple composition in the world, containing, notwithstanding the plainness of their style, considerable feeling, and an obvious expression of deep passion.

The Italian school of music divides with the German the admiration of the world. Differing widely from the German, it possesses charms equally attractive and quite as moving. If a preference is to be accorded at all, it must be given to the German school, which contains more art; this preference could, however, only be yielded by musicians. The masses are more likely to be attracted by sounds which appeal at once to the senses and charm the ear, than by strains which contain perhaps somewhat less of melody, but which stir up the passions to a greater degree and do not charm until they are understood. The Italian style is smooth, soft and melodious. Even the most martial or impassioned passages are harmonious and agreeable. The chief dependence of the composer for success would seem to be the melody of the scene which he writes. The arrangement is generally artistic, but only sufficiently so to accord with the desire of the composer to make use of the richer resources of his art. He makes the science subservient to the principle of attraction. For this reason Italian vocal music is highly preferred before Italian instrumental music. While as opera writers, the masters of Italy are deservedly famous, we seldom hear of them as composers for the piano, or of any lengthy romantic pieces in which instruments are to convey certain impressions unaided by the human voice or by personal representation.

Of the Italian composers who have remained favorites until the present day, none, perhaps, assimilate more closely to the German school than Pacini and Mercadante. Their works cannot boast of that melodious characteristic which so highly distinguishes those of their fellow-countrymen, the theme being generally less connected; but they are nevertheless decidedly of a higher order in an artistic point of view than the operas of their more favored successors. In the lighter style of Italian composition, Cimarosa and Ricci, as old masters, rank deservedly high; but they do not bear comparison with the Buffo school of the present day.

Among the later writers of Italian operas who have attained eminence in the divine science may be named Mercadante, Rossini, Bellini, Donnizzetti, and Verdi. To compare the peculiar merits of these great artistes would be a task of extreme difficulty, as Rossini, Bellini and Mercadante differ very materially in style, while that of Bellini and Donnizzetti closely assimilate, and Verdi’s partakes of the character both of Bellini’s and Donnizzetti’s, with something of the German school.

The style of Rossini, without being deficient in feeling or artistic arrangement, always partakes in some degree of lightness, which is owing to the very florid manner in which he invariably wrote. His Guiglielmo Tell, Pietro l’Eremita, Gazza Ladra, Otello and Semiramide, are among his finest compositions. The last named opera is decidedly his best effort. Il Barbiere di Seviglia is a favorite with many persons, but it cannot be said to contain many brilliant examples of success. The “Una Voce” and “La Colunnia,” are the attractions in the “Barber.” The role of Figaro is a great source of attraction to the lovers of Merry-Andrewisms, but scarcely so to the musician. One of Rossini’s most powerful compositions is the Stabat Mater.

The style of Bellini, on the other hand, is totally different from that of Rossini. Bellini is at once unaffected and chaste. There is no seeking after applause by introducing difficult passages requiring great flexibility of intonation. Every air, every symphony, every prelude and introduction appear to have been written with the view to the expression of some passion, or the demonstration of some feeling which it was required to convey. It is deeply to be regretted that so bright a genius, promising so brilliant a future, should so early have been lost to the world. During Bellini’s short but energetic career he produced eight operas, every one of which will to this day bear the most searching examination of the most rigid critic:—Norma, Bianca e Fernando, I Puritani, Il Pirata, La Straniera, I Montecchi ed i Capuletti, La Sonnambula, and Beatrice di Tenda. Of these his Puritani and his Norma stand pre-eminently great. Next in rank are his Capuletti and Beatrice di Tenda; then La Sonnambula, La Straniera, Il Pirata, and Bianca e Fernando. The whole of Bellini’s writing is marked by a tone of melancholy which at this day seems like the foreshadowing of an early affliction. He had, perhaps, in a greater degree than any other author, the power of throwing into his airs an unmistakeable interpretation of the passion or feeling which was embodied in the language. The “Deh! tu, bell Anima!” in Romeo e Giulietta, is one of the finest specimens of the remarkable correctness with which the words and music may be so blended as strictly to accord in the expression for which they are intended.

Against Donnizzetti it has been argued that he was a plagiarist; but when the number of operas which he has written are taken into consideration, the accusation will not bear weight or scrutiny. His style is neither so flowing nor so scientific as that of others, but his works are nevertheless highly meritorious, being generally very melodious and expressive. In the course of a long and famous life Donnizzetti produced upward of seventy operas. Among the best of these are his Lucia di Lamermoor, Belisario, Pia de Tolomeo, Lucrezia Borgia, Torquato Tasso, Fausta, Anna Bolena, Roberto Devereux, Betly, Elisire d’AmorÉ, Linda di Chamouni, Il Burgomastro di Saardam Favorita, and others.

Giuseppe Verdi is the latest composer of the Italian school, and he promises to be one of its brightest ornaments, when experience shall have amended his faults and restrained him from those bursts of too powerful effort which he delights to exhibit, and which impart a strained character to his works. There are many of the London Dilletanti who affect to dislike Verdi; but the only reason which can be given for the harsh criticism which is dealt out with no sparing hand on the devoted head of the young aspirant, is the habit which too often exists in that city to despise modern talent to the exaltation of the wisdom which is past and gone. The chief beauty of Verdi’s writing is to be found in his moving choruses and concerted pieces. These exhibit profound musical knowledge combined with much genius, great feeling, and frequently exquisite taste. As examples of a happy union of these qualities, may be instanced the chorus “Il Maledetto non ha fratello,” in Nabuco; the terzetto, in Ernani; the chorus of crusaders, in I Lombardi, and others. His operas are Nino, Ernani, I Lombardi alla prima Crocciata, I due Foscari, and Attila. Of these the four first mentioned are unquestionably the best. There are many other writers of great talent among the Italians, but as they are little known to the world a consideration of them may, perhaps, be deemed prolix.

We now come to the German school of music, which, notwithstanding the vastness of the subject comprehended in this title, will be treated with as much brevity as will serve to explain the writer’s views. German music may be divided into two branches; vocal and instrumental: in either of which it is generally believed to be vastly superior to that of any other school extant. The list of those who may be termed modern German masters, is garnished with the names of Mozart, Haydn, Handel, Weber, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, Mendelsohn, Spohr, Gluck, Lortzing, Bach, Listz, De Meyer, Herz, Thalberg, Moschelles, Herold, and others. Of these Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mendelsohn, stand at the head of a long rank of sacred writers. The solemn requiems of Mozart, the beautiful “Creation” of Haydn; the stirring “Messiah” of Handel; the solemn symphonies of Beethoven; the magnificent “Elijah” of Bartholdy, will never be forgotten while a soul attuned to melody remains on earth. They all appear to have been written in moments of deep inspiration; and the enthusiast may almost believe that a beneficent God may have guided the hands whose work has more than once struck awe into the sinner’s soul to call him to repentance, and lifted up the heart of the pious man to still closer communion with the God who in his wisdom formed the noblest of his creatures.

Among the modern opera writers of Germany, Mozart, Weber, Beethoven, and Meyerbeer, stand pre-eminently high; and it is difficult at this day to say which of these writers outdoes the other in boldness of design, grandeur of conception, brilliancy of execution, or depth of feeling. If, for example, we take the “Don Giovanni” of Mozart, the “Der Freischutz” of Weber, the “Fidelio” of Beethoven, and the “Robert der Teufel” or the “Huguenots” of Meyerbeer, we will find in certain scenes equal attraction in the concerted pieces, similar beauties in the airs, like effect in the orchestral accompaniments, and the same grandeur in the choruses. Each author will therefore have his distinct admirers, who, notwithstanding any especial partiality, will readily confess to the attractions of the rival works. For ourselves, we are yet to hear an opera superior to the Fidelio of Beethoven.

For the reasons above stated, it is not possible, without venturing into matters of detail which would be uninteresting, to mark the minor differences which characterize each writer. It will therefore be only necessary to name some of the principal works of the principal opera writers of the German school. The best of Mozart’s efforts are his “Don Giovanni,” his “CosÌ fan Tutte,” his “Zauberflotte,” and his “Nozze di Figaro.”

Weber’s greatest conceptions are supposed to be his “Freischutz,” his “Oberon,” and his “Preciosa”.

The “Fidelio” of Beethoven stands justly at the head of all his writings. Of Meyerbeer’s great works none are held in greater estimation than his “Robert le Diable,” his “Huguenots,” and his “Crocciatoin Egitto.” His “Prophete” is highly spoken of, but it still remains unknown to the longing ear of the writer of this essay. Herold’s “Zampa,” and Lortzing’s “Czar und Zimmermann,” are also in high repute among musicians.

In instrumental music, German writers rank as high as their compatriots do in the operatic school, and higher than the masters of any other country. In the more solid flights of art we have Beethoven, Mozart, Weber, Meyerbeer, Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck, Bach, Listz, De Meyer, and others. In the lighter but not less meritorious style of composition, we have Thalberg, Herz, Moschelles, and others.

French music, with the exception of the works of one or two writers, has never been in favor out of France. It resembles closely in some points French poetry. There is harmony, melody, softness, and sometimes art; but there are wanting grandeur and loftiness of conception and smoothness. The writings of David and Auber are, however, exceptions to these objections. There is a force in David’s “Desert,” for example, which excuses comparison even with German writers; and many of the operas of Auber have a high place in the estimation of those who incline to the Italian school, a close resemblance to which is to be found in some of his writings. Among the best works of this distinguished musician are his “Muette de Portici,” his “Fra Diavolo,” and his “Diamans de la Couronne.” His “Domino Noir,” his “Barcarole,” and others, are also favorites even beyond the French frontier. Adam’s “Postillion de Lonjemeau” is another effort which must be mentioned with respect.

There are in each of the schools to which I have adverted many great composers whose names do not occur to me at this moment. Indeed, it would be almost impossible to record all those inspired men who have reflected on their several nations the glory which music has conferred on them.

The study of Music is so interesting as to excuse a very lengthy dissertation, and the present paper might be considerably prolonged, did the limits of the Magazine permit a continuation of this already lengthy essay, in which the several branches of the subject are only cursorily treated; but I feel that I need say nothing to recommend to the public of this country the Divine Art, which, as a German author beautifully expresses it, “is to Poetry what Poetry is to language.” It is undoubtedly the poetry of sound, the sweet harmonizer of society, the chief luxury of life and the greatest softener and civilizer of man’s harsh nature.

The plan of the captain was not destined, however, to succeed. He had scarcely spoken when the wind began perceptibly to die away, and before an hour it was almost a dead calm. Puffs of air, indeed, would occasionally distend our sails for awhile and urge us on a space, but the effect of this, on the whole, was to increase rather than lessen the distance between us and the chase, the latter making more headway in a light breeze.

By the middle of the afternoon we were rocking on the surface of the deep, with every sail set, yet without advancing an inch. The day had been intensely sultry, and now that not a breath of air was stirring, the heat became almost insupportable. The vertical rays of the tropical sun, pouring down on our white decks, nearly blinded the eyesight; but in vain we turned our gaze elsewhere to seek relief, for the broad expanse of ocean to the very verge of the horizon, glowed like molten silver; while above the fiery luminary blazed in a sky of brass. Panting and exhausted we lay about the decks, or leaned over the sides gasping for air.

As the hours wore on the captain began to show signs of uneasiness. He would look first at the sails and then at the chase, then up at our idle canvas again, and once more at the stranger. At last he addressed me.

“The night will soon be here,” he said, “and under cover of it this fellow may escape. Since your suggestion that he may be a pirate, I feel doubly anxious to capture him. What do you think of carrying him with the boats?”

I mused a moment before I replied.

“It would be a perilous enterprise,” I answered at last, “but I think it might be made to succeed. If you are willing, sir, to risk the lives of the men, I shall be willing to lead the attack; only, if the attempt is to be made, the sooner it is done the better.”

“Then my mind is made up.” And elevating his voice, he cried, “Boatswain, pipe away the boat’s crews; we will cut out the chase.”

The long inaction to which the men had been subjected, made them especially eager for a prize; and thus, notwithstanding the depressing influence of the atmosphere, they welcomed the enterprise with joy. In a comparatively short time we were speeding across the waters, the launch, with myself in command, leading.

How shall I describe that long pull across the hot and glittering deep? The men baring their brawny arms, bent steadily to their oars, yet reserving their strength at first with the caution long experience had taught them. And well was it that they acted thus! Soon great drops of perspiration gathered on their brows, and rolled down their swarthy chests, and before long it became evident that, with all their care, the task before them would prove almost beyond their strength. Indeed, in all my experience, I had never known a day so debilitating. As we proceeded, too, the atmosphere appeared to become more and more suffocating, until several of the men, in the different boats, actually gave out, declaring they could not breathe and work both. The difficulty of respiration on my part assured me that there was no pretence in this.

Meantime the schooner, like a ship painted on canvas, lay motionless on the deep, her whole figure reflected in the water, from the trucks down. Occasionally a light ripple would ruffle this shadow for a second, betraying its real character, but at other times it required but little fancy to imagine the reflection an inverted ship, and no mere cheat of the imagination. The men on board the chase were not, however, idle, but busily engaged in tricing up the hammock nettings; and when we had approached nearer, a carronade was run back to her stern, aimed at us, and fired.

“Better luck next time,” ironically said an old sea-dog, who pulled the stroke-oar of my boat, as the ball plumped into the water just ahead of us. “The man that trained that gun don’t understand his business, shipmates. We’ll be on board directly, if we pull sharp.”

“Yes, my lads,” I cried, “it’s no time to trifle now. The next ball may be truer sent. Besides,” I added, glancing over my shoulder at a black cloud rising rapidly in the sky, “this close atmosphere has not been without its meaning; yonder is a thunder-squall coming up, and if we don’t carry the schooner before it overtakes us, there may be the devil to pay.”

The men gave a cheer to show that they were ready to do their best, and bent, with renewed vigor, to their oars. Under this momentary excitement the boats surged along at a vastly accelerated rate, and the schooner rapidly drew within musket-shot. At this point another jet of fire was seen to flash from the carronade astern; a cloud of white smoke puffing out, broke away over the quarter, and then, with a dull report across the murky air, a ball came skipping toward us, striking the bow oar just as it rose from the water, and breaking the ashen blade, while it knocked the seaman over on his seat.

“Pull, with a will, boys, pull,” I cried, excited by the peril; “dash in on them.”

“Hurrah!” answered my men; and we shot like an arrow along.

Intent as I was on reaching the schooner before the carronade could be loaded again, I scarcely had noticed the rapid changes of the sky. I only knew that the air was growing thicker than ever, and that the clouds had completely shut in the sun. But now, when I saw the men at the carronade abandon it, and all hands address themselves to taking in sail, I knew that the danger from the squall was close and imminent; and I looked hastily up and around.

When I had called the attention of my men, scarcely ten minutes before, to the approaching tempest, there had been only a small cloud perceptible far down on the seaboard. But now, from pole to pole, and all round the horizon, a vast, black curtain shut out the light of day; yet not entirely shut it out, for here and there a lurid gleam, like that seen through the chinks of a furnace, penetrated the thick vapors. Over and over, in vast whirling masses, tossed and tumbled the inky clouds. The ghostly radiance that broke, as I have said, through the gaps of the ominous curtain, threw a spectral gleam across the seas that conjured up visions of dread and disaster. Oh! never can I forget that spectacle. The sultry closeness of the air; the sudden and sepulchral stillness; the awful gloom, and the lurid glare, like that from the bottomless pit, all seemed to say that sea and sky were at their last gasp, and that the great day of judgment had arrived.

The men had made the same observations, and apparently came to similar conclusions, for they ceased rowing, as if under a spell, while a look of blank horror occupied their faces. Every eye was turned toward me for a moment, and then, as by one common impulse, directed at the ship. Far up in the distance, almost undistinguishable against the sable back-ground, the —— was faintly visible. She was stripped entirely bare, with the exception of a bit of head-sail, which glowing red and ghastly in the sepulchral light, gave her the appearance of a demon vessel. Nor was this first impression removed on a second view, but rather heightened, so unearthly was the effect produced by the faint outlines of her spars, which were seen a moment and then lost to sight, like those of some spectral ship.

Suddenly, while we were thus looking at our distant craft, a dazzling, blinding glare shot athwart the firmament, and as instantly vanished, leaving eye and brain, however, dizzy with that instant of concentrated light. A sulphurous smell, at the same moment, pervaded the atmosphere. Then followed a roar so stunning, so close at hand, that, if a thousand batteries had been discharged right overhead, the noise could not have been more deafening. For a second I thought one of the boats, or at least the schooner, had been struck by the lightning; but when my brain ceased reeling, I saw they had escaped. This dazzling flash, this awful thunder-clap were succeeded by a darkness and silence as profound, as oppressive, as foreboding as before. Then came a few rain-drops, which, big and heavy, pattered, like huge hail-stones, on the waters around us. These were followed by another silence as deep as before; and then the hurricane, with a roar like a lion, was upon us.

It would be vain to attempt finding language adequate to describe what followed. In an instant the air was filled with millions of particles of spray, which, torn from the surface of the deep, and carried in the arms of the tempest, hid every thing, except objects within a few feet, entirely from sight. The stinging of these fine particles, as they struck the cheek, was like that of mustard-shot. Meantime the force of the wind was such that it was impossible to sit erect—and all stooped, as if by a common impulse, before the blast. Shading my eyes with my hand, to protect the orbs from the spray, I glanced at the place where the schooner had been last seen. But she was no longer visible there. A moment after, however, in a casual opening of the prospect, I caught a glimpse of her form, far away ahead, as, half buried in mist, she drove, like a sheeted spectre, before the gale. The instant after she vanished from my vision, and the squall closed around us like the walls of a dungeon.

Fortunately the launch was already before the wind, so that we had only to hold on, and wait the issue. The other boats were soon out of sight, and speedily out of hearing also. I could, therefore, do nothing for the rest of my command, and resigning myself to fate, I bent my head between my knees, ordered the men to lie down, and so let the hurricane have its way. The rain was now falling, as it falls only in the tropics, in vast sheets of water: the drops, instead of descending perpendicularly, driving slantingly before the hurricane, and striking the water with gigantic force, keeping the deep in commotion all around. The hissing of the rain, the roar of the tempest, the blinding glare of lightning, and the terrific thunder-claps combined to make a scene more awful than I had ever witnessed in all my long experience.

For half an hour the storm continued in its fury. At the end of that time the intense darkness began to give way; but it was nearly half an hour more before the squall had entirely passed over us. At last the rain ceased, the clouds began to break, and the wind in part subsided. I now ventured, for the first time since the tempest had burst upon us, to rise up and look around. I was anxious to see what had become of the remaining boats, as well as to learn in what direction our ship was; for the schooner, I had no doubt from the speed with which I saw her going last, was hull down on the horizon by this time.

Eagerly I scanned the prospect, therefore. My first object of search was the ship, for I knew that on her depended our safety. Her greater size had placed her, I reasoned, even more at the power of the gale than ourselves, and consequently I looked for her to be in advance of us considerably. I had fancied, indeed, during the height of the hurricane, that I saw her tall masts, for a single instant, shooting, meteor-like, past us: but in the blinding rain that then closed in the prospect, it was easy, I was sure, to be deceived. My search, however, for her was unsuccessful. Nowhere, on the whole horizon, was she or the schooner to be seen. Up to windward, where it was now entirely clear, the view was unbroken; and she was plainly not there. In front, for a long distance, the prospect was equally unbroken; but she was not in sight in this direction either. Far down, however, in the furthest horizon, where the squall was disappearing, there still hung a black cloud, from which the sullen thunder occasionally growled, and across whose gloomy front the lightning, every few minutes, crinkled. That dark curtain, I knew, enveloped our missing ship, or else she, and her three hundred souls, were buried in the deep.

With a heavy sigh I beheld this condition of affairs. Parted from the ship, without water or provisions on board, destitute even of a compass, and with night coming on, our situation was indeed piteous in the extreme. How far the squall might carry the ship before outrunning her, it was impossible to conjecture. Perhaps, when the hurricane should be over for our comrades on board, the gallant craft might be hull down on the horizon. In that event, though she would naturally retrace her path to seek us, night might shut in before we could be seen from the mast-head even: and, in the darkness that would follow, nothing could be easier than for her entirely to miss us. Days, in that event, would probably elapse before we would be picked up, if ever. The thought was terrible, and I turned from it, sick at heart, to look for the other boats.

I was not, indeed, without misgivings as to the fate of these. The launch, being large, was better fitted to ride out the gale than her companions, and I expected that the smaller of the two boats, at least, had been swamped. However, I soon discovered both her and her companion, one about a cable’s length astern, and the other nearly abeam. With a glad hallo, that sounded strangely on the now lonely seas, my crew took to their oars, and pulled rapidly in the direction of the boat abeam, the one astern following our example. The first voice I heard was the junior lieutenant’s.

“Can you see any thing of the ship?” he said.

“No,” I replied, “she is entirely out of sight.”

“What is to be done?” he asked.

“You have no water or provisions on board, I suppose?”

“Nothing but a beaker of water, and not a solitary biscuit.”

“How far is it to the nearest land?”

“About five hundred miles, I take it.”

“So I thought,” I answered.

And now I mused for a moment, the crews of the three boats resting on their oars, and looking eagerly at me. Every man knew, as well as myself, that, in all likelihood, we should never see the ship again: in which event a lingering death by starvation was our almost inevitable doom. On my decision, whether to pull after the ship, which would carry us further from land, or, abandoning the hope of meeting the ship, seek to reach the coast by the nearest route, hung, perhaps, our lives: and all were aware of this.

“Follow the squall,” I said, at last, turning my eyes to the dark cloud, now fast disappearing on the eastern horizon, “it is our only chance. If we don’t find the ship we are dead men. It is madness to think of reaching land.”

“I would to God the sun was a few hours higher!” said the lieutenant, looking at that luminary, which now hung, a blazing orb, a few degrees only above the horizon. “We haven’t even a lantern on board, to show a light!”

Nothing further was said. The boats were headed east, the men bent to their tasks, and, in another minute, the little fleet was speeding silently across the waters. But with what different feelings from those with which we set out from the ship two hours before!

As the time wore on, and the sun declined lower to the horizon, yet still no sign of the ship became visible, our hearts sunk within us. The squall in the distance had now dwindled to a bank of clouds, low on the furthest seaboard; but no vestige of the ship, between it and us, was perceptible. At last the sun’s disc touched the western horizon, and, in another instant, had entirely disappeared. Darkness, deep and profound, now fell upon us; for, in that tropical latitude, there is no twilight to prolong, in part, the day. As the gloom settled around us, a deep drawn breath rose from the boat’s crew: it was an involuntary expression of the general feeling, that, with the sun, hope too had set.

For more than an hour we pulled on in silence. As no sail had been in sight when darkness shut in, it was useless to hail: and so we continued without a word being spoken. Not a sound, therefore, broke the hush except the measured rollicking of the oars, and the surging noise of the launch as it was propelled heavily through the water. The darkness still continued, for numerous clouds flecked the sky, and every here and there, in consequence, would a star find its way out. But in the azure west, like a lustrous gem, there shone through all one bright, large orb, whose light, flickering and dancing along the water, cheered us with its beauty and kept us from entirely desponding.

Suddenly the old veteran, whom I have before alluded to, looked up.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, addressing me, “there’s a bunch of rockets in the locker in the stern-sheets. They were put there by the gunner some days ago, and have never, I believe, been removed. At any rate it is worth while to look.”

Never did I hear words sweeter to my ears. I was up in an instant and searching the locker. Sure enough, as the old tar had said, the rockets were still there, the result of a carelessness which now appeared to me to have been little less than providential.

The intelligence was immediately announced to the other boats; and the crews, inspired by the news, rested on their oars, as of one accord, and gave vent to three hearty cheers.

“I will signal the ship,” I said to my second in command, “and if she is any where within range of vision, we shall hear from her instantly.”

Accordingly, I let off two rockets in rapid succession. The fiery missiles shot up to a great height in the sky, and falling in a shower of stars, illuminated the horizon far and near for a moment. Many an eye, during that half instant, scanned the seaboard eagerly, in order to see if the ship was in sight; but not a sign of her was perceptible, and a deep sigh told the disappointment.

I, however, did not yet despair. I knew that the ship, though invisible in that partial light, might still be near enough to discern our rockets; and I was well aware that on board of her half a hundred eager eyes were at this moment on the look-out. Without despair, yet with a beating heart, I watched for the reply to my signal. One minute passed, and then another, but still there was no sign of an answering rocket.

My heart grew faint. My limbs tottered beneath me. Minute after minute succeeded, and my hopes were gradually dwindling away—when suddenly the old tar before me shouted,

“Huzza, there she goes! Huzza—huzza—we are safe, lads, huzza!”

Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it. All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red, which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they were the well-known signals of our gallant ship.

Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet, and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins.

Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way by signal rockets till the ship came into sight.

As for the schooner, we never saw her more!

———

BY ALICE B. NEAL.

———

The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is. The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” Letters from Philadelphia.