GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. May, 1847. No. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry

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

Drawn by J. Smillie from a sketch by T. Addison Richards. Graham’s Magazine, 1844.
Engraved by Rawdon, Wright and Hatch & Smillie.
LOVER’S LEAP.
CHATTAHOOCHEE RIVER

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. PHILADELPHIA, May, 1847. No. 5.

THE LOYALIST’S DAUGHTER.

A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

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BY P. HAMILTON MEYERS.

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CHAPTER I.

The world-renowned city of Paris, always gay, was, perhaps, never more so than in the autumn of the year 1776. Most prominent among the exciting topics of its excitable populace, at that period, was the American war. Possessed of an innate love of liberty, and a generous sympathy for its oppressed supporters, and acting, doubtless, in part, under the influence of an habitual opposition to the British government, the citizens of Paris, and, to a less extent those of all France, had watched with anxiety the growing rupture between the colonies and their parent country, and now hailed with unconcealed delight the prospect of their final separation. Each item of intelligence which gave token of the spirit of the republicans, or the prospect of their success was sought with avidity, and discussed with animation. Not a city in the colonies themselves could boast of a populace so united in their opinion, or more enthusiastic in their anticipations on this engrossing subject. Whatever mistaken ideas of loyalty there might be in America, to arrest the cause of popular freedom, no such obstacle existed in France. They at least owed no fealty to the House of Hanover.

The feeling upon this subject at Paris had been brought to its height by the appearance of Franklin in that capital. Never, perhaps, had an untitled foreigner attracted so much attention, or been received with such distinction. In addition to the cause of his country, his personal reputation as a philosopher, his venerable years, his singular costume and manners, combined to throw around him that charm of novelty so seducing to the multitude. Wherever he appeared in public, crowds gathered to admire. The hotels and club-rooms resounded with the name; the gazettes were filled with his aphorisms and bon-mots; and in every place of public resort, conspicuous among the embellishments the portrait of the American envoy, with grave and sage-like countenance, arrested attention.

That the presence of so decided a lion should be eagerly sought for at the fashionable parties and levees was quite a matter of course. Nor was the American backward in availing himself of all legitimate means to increase the popularity of his cause.

The clairvoyance of imagination, more potent than that of Mesmerism, shall unroof for our benefit the marble and pillared mansion of the Countess De Berne, and give to us a bird’s-eye view of its interior, on the evening of one of her most brilliant fêtes. A flood of light, a blaze of beauty meets the eye. Sitting, standing, promenading, the votaries of fashion, in numberless brilliant groups, are seen. Eminent among this throng for his personal appearance, and his graceful and agreeable manners, was Mr. Francis Gansevoort. American by birth, he had been spending several years in travel on the eastern continent, and only for a few weeks past had been a sojourner in the French metropolis, where he had gained, not without desert, ready access to the first circles of society. The son of a distinguished and wealthy loyalist of New York, he had left his home before the commencement of hostilities, and until his arrival in Paris, had heard but little to awaken his sympathies in behalf of his native land. He had for the last year been traveling in the eastern states of Europe, ignorant of the great events which had taken place at home, and unconscious of the rapid development of those great political principles for which his country was contending. The state of feeling which he found existing in Paris on this subject, the enthusiasm, the ardor with which every thing American was spoken of, operated with an electric effect upon his mind. If any thing were wanting to fan his emotions into a flame, a letter, which he at this juncture received from a much loved sister at home, was that desideratum. It had been written many months before, and although its general intelligence was not new, its details were full of the most exciting interest.

Standing beside Mr. Gansevoort, and engaged in animated discussion with him, was a French gentleman of about his own age, who had been the companion of his more recent travels. Their acquaintance had commenced at Paris, about a year previous to the time now spoken of, and had ripened into a warm friendship. Louis De Zeng was a count of the French empire, and a gentleman of the most unsullied reputation. Like Gansevoort he was a tall and commanding person, and possessed of that rare grace of manner which compels admiration.

Central amid another group, beheld with reverence, addressed with respect, listened to with the most profound attention, numbering the highest nobility among his admirers, was Benjamin Franklin. The winters of more than seventy years had left their frosts upon his brow, without impairing the strength of his intellect. Conspicuous among those who thronged about the philosopher, was a youth of about nineteen years, himself the object of no inconsiderable degree of respect. Evidently of exalted rank, his fascinating manners and address were well calculated to adorn his elevated station. None listened with more earnest and polite attention to the envoy, none asked more minute and pertinent questions than the young Marquis de La Fayette. It is needless to say that the struggles of the revolutionists, their exploits, and their prospect of success were the principal topics of conversation. The circle was soon joined by De Zeng and Gansevoort, both of whom hastened to pay their respects to the American minister, and afterward to the marquis, with the latter of whom each appeared to be upon terms of considerable intimacy.

“Our friend, the marquis, calls this the American camp, Mr. Gansevoort,” said Dr. Franklin; “I am happy to see that you are disposed to join it.”

This was no random remark. The speaker had been made acquainted, in a few words, with the peculiar history of his young countryman, and designed to sound his views. The friends of Gansevoort, all of whom were in equal doubt as to his intentions, listened eagerly for his reply.

“I fear the points of resemblance between this brilliant assemblage and the American camp are but few,” was the answer. “I design, however, that a few months shall enable me better to institute a comparison.”

A thrill of pleasure pervaded the breasts of the listeners at this remark; and the venerable patriot did not hesitate openly to express his delight, and promise his personal influence with the American commander-in-chief in his young friend’s behalf.

“You are of those who ‘forsake father and mother’ to follow the good cause,” he said; “May your reward be proportionate.”

Count De Zeng came to the relief of his friend, by remarking that if the latter forsook father and mother, there was one at least whom he was not required to forsake, but who was herself among the pioneers of liberty. He then spoke enthusiastically of the letter of Miss Gansevoort, which he had been allowed to see, and begged a similar favor for Dr. Franklin. This having been granted, the latter, after perusing a few lines, asked the privilege of reading a portion of it aloud. The request was so earnest, and so heartily seconded by the bystanders, that it would have been uncourteous to refuse. The best educated classes of France, it is well known, fully understand the English language when spoken, although but few can converse in it with precision or elegance. The part selected for perusal was a brief description of the battle of Bunker Hill, of which Miss Gansevoort had had the extraordinary fortune to be a witness, while on a visit at Boston.

The crowd thickened around the majestic form of the ambassador, as with distinct but slightly trembling voice, amidst a general silence he read the following extract from Miss Gansevoort’s letter:

“The British army, under Gen. Howe, crossed the Firth about noon, in a multitude of sloops and boats. Every house-top in the northern part of the city, every steeple, and dome, and hill, was crowded with spectators. The anxiety of all classes was most intense, and especially of those who, like myself, sympathized with the patriots. It seemed as if on the passing hour hung the final destiny of our land. It was the first real struggle, and its issue was to animate or forever dampen the hopes of her gallant defenders.

“The attacking army had formed on the opposite side, and advanced in solid column toward the American redoubt. How breathlessly I awaited the shock! I was in the midst of my loyalist friends, and on every side I heard nothing but confident predictions of an immediate rout of the Americans.

“ ‘Now, now,’ were the whispered words, ‘in a moment you’ll see them fly.’ I could not reply—my voice was choked. I could only send up silent prayers to the Throne of Power; and I firmly believe that tens of thousands of petitions were at that moment ascending simultaneously to Heaven in behalf of our army.

“The British approached nearer and nearer to the cloud-like cluster which hung upon the summit of the hill, without an opposing gun being fired. A death-like silence prevailed in the American camp. ‘They’ll surrender without a blow!’ exclaimed one. ‘They have surrendered,’ said another. In the midst of these remarks, a flash of lightning seemed to pour down the sides of the hill; one long, continuous, rapid roll of musketry was heard, while shouts, and charging cheers rose wildly on the air. Ceaseless, unremitting, deadly, was that fearful discharge of musketry from the camp. The ranks of the assailants were decimated at a breath. Appalled at this unexpected reception, they wavered, and rallied, and wavered again. Still downward poured the iron hail. Vain was their valor. No human courage could have withstood the shock. The British army retreated rapidly down the hill, and one wild shout of triumph rent the sky. From every roof, from every dome and height, those thrilling cheers went up. So great was the consternation of the retreating army that many fled precipitately to their boats. But their officers, with indomitable skill and courage, succeeded in rallying them at length to a second attack. In the mean time the flames of Charlestown were illuminating the heavens. A detachment of the British had fired that beautiful town, and its pillars of flame and smoke, ‘volumed and vast,’ formed a terrific background to the tragedy enacting on the hill. The charge was renewed with increased ardor. Heedless of their galling fire, the Americans, as before, silently awaited the near approach of the enemy, and again greeted them with the same resistless deluge of balls. Completely broken and routed, the British a second time fled to the shore. Their dauntless general, Sir William Howe, remained for some time alone on the field of battle—all the other officers being either killed or wounded.

“But the contest was not yet decided. The well-disciplined troops of Sir William were rallied to a third attack, and by the aid of Gen. Clinton, who, witnessing from the city their imminent peril, had crossed rapidly to their relief another and more judicious assault was planned. There is little reason to doubt that even this, although made with tremendous force, might have been successfully sustained, but for a most unfortunate and unforeseen event. The ammunition of the patriots began to fail. They were also unprovided with bayonets; and, after a brief resistance, they abandoned the works, and retired with but little loss.

“That the Americans were virtually victorious in this contest is allowed even by many of their enemies; but however that may be, the effect of the battle upon the people is quite the same as that of a victory. It has inspired them with the fullest confidence in their powers, and will lead, beyond doubt, to still nobler achievements. The whole country rings with the tidings.”

A murmur of approbation succeeded the silence which had prevailed during the reading of this epistle. Conversation at once became animated, and the compliments, which were showered with a lavish hand, were divided between the American army and its fair encomiast.

“When do you embark?” inquired De Zeng of his friend.

“Within a few weeks,” said the other.

“I will go with you,” was the sententious reply.

He who had watched the excited bearing of the young marquis at this moment, and the proud flashing of his eye, would not have doubted that in his breast also was forming that lofty resolution which was subsequently carried to so glorious a fulfillment.

——

CHAPTER II.

The city of New York was at this period in the possession of the British. Forced to evacuate Boston, and glad of permission peaceably to depart, Sir William Howe had retired with his troops, temporarily, to Halifax, and soon after, landing at Sandy Hook, had fought his way to New York. Naturally most anxious to visit his relations in that city, Gansevoort had resolved on crossing to London, for the purpose of embarking at that place. But here a difficulty occurred. The English government, irritated by the evident encouragement which France had given to the revolutionists, kept a vigilant eye upon the movements of her military men, and gentlemen of rank. Numbers of these had already enlisted in the American army, and no French officer could at that period have ventured within any of the colonial cities, which were in possession of the British, without liability to arrest and detention. It is true that such an one, so far from being regarded as a prisoner of war, would doubtless have been allowed to re-embark for his own or any foreign shore; but this, in the case of De Zeng, would have been to defeat the very object of his mission. Neither himself nor Gansevoort could endure the idea of separation from each other, nor could the latter possibly forego his design of visiting his friends before entering the army. If another and still more potent cause influenced the count in persisting at all hazards to accompany his friend, it will be readily surmised by the reader. Miss Gansevoort had already taken full possession of his glowing imagination. Incidentally he had become acquainted with the prominent traits of her character, and had learned her surpassing beauty by the accidental sight of a miniature in her brother’s possession. He earnestly desired to form her acquaintance, without any well defined idea of the motives that influenced him. Unless, however, he could meet her before entering the army, there was but little probability that any subsequent opportunity would occur. Let not the sedate reader be alarmed with the idea of being entrapped into the perusal of a love tale, abounding with disguises and stratagems, when informed of the expedient resorted to by the volatile Frenchman in this dilemma. He resolved to accompany Gansevoort as a valet-de-chambre, laughingly protesting that the latter should impose no duties upon him beyond those absolutely essential to the sustaining of his assumed character. To this seemingly absurd proposition his companion, with great reluctance, was prevailed on to accede. Indeed, De Zeng would not be denied, and for the purpose of overcoming the scruples of the other, frankly acknowledged the motives that actuated him.

The plan was duly carried out. The friends proceeded to London, and took passage in an armed packet for New York. Their fellow-passengers were but few in number, and as fortunately none of them were familiar with the French language, they were enabled to maintain nearly as unrestricted an intercourse as usual. A few weeks brought them safely to port. It is unnecessary to depict the delight which marked the re-union of the young American and his friends, whose attachment to each other, years of separation, so far from diminishing, had tended only to increase. It was not, therefore, without deep regret that Gansevoort thought of the pain which he should be obliged to inflict upon his father, by avowing his political principles, and his determination to support them.

In this trying crisis his sister proved a ministering angel. She reminded him of the paramount claims of his country, and of the great probability that, by the course he had chosen, he would render an essential service, ultimately, to the parent whose wishes he was now obliged to contravene. With a degree of natural eloquence, unusual among her sex, she recounted briefly, but feelingly, all those deep and burning wrongs which had been heaped by British arrogance upon our land. She spoke of the martyrs who had already laid down their lives in its behalf and the self-denying labors and perils of those great men who were still engaged in the cause, and who were destined, she said, to an immortality of fame, and to the unceasing gratitude of posterity.

“Do not think, dear Frank,” she concluded, “that I am transcending my proper line of duty. I talk only to you. But if propriety must seal my mouth in the presence of others, I only feel the more deeply.”

The Count De Zeng, in his assumed character, was a witness of this interview. Ellen had been told by her brother that she need not hesitate to talk in his presence, and inasmuch as he himself spoke only in the French language, she had inferred that he could comprehend no other; there was, therefore no restraint upon her feelings.

As, with a heightened color, and eye lighted with strong emotion, she concluded, her brother smiled and replied: “You are the same artless, impulsive girl as ever; but, as usual, you are in the right. Do not believe that your persuasive powers were needed in my behalf. I have not traveled three thousand miles to engage in this war with a faint heart or hesitating mind. But there is another, an ardent lover of liberty, on whom they may not be entirely thrown away. Allow me to introduce you to my friend and fellow-traveler, the Count Louis De Zeng. He travels, as you perceive, under a cloud at present; but I think I may safely trust to your discretion.”

Astonished and bewildered, Ellen could not believe that she had heard aright; and it was not until some moments after De Zeng, with entire self-possession, had advanced to pay his respects, which he did in unexceptionable English, that she found words to reply.

“I know that I have made myself very ridiculous,” she said, blushing deeply; “but if Count De Zeng is really a republican at heart, he will make due allowances.”

Count De Zeng was a republican at heart, but at that moment he felt that there was something at his heart besides republicanism. If ever, in the course of his approaching warfare, he should have occasion to storm a citadel, he could ask no better success than had attended Miss Gansevoort’s undesigned assault. She had carried the outworks, glacis, fosse, and parapet, at a single blow, and stood at that moment in the centre of the works completely victorious. What terms she would be disposed to allow the vanquished, was a question yet to be settled.

Gansevoort hastened to explain to his sister the necessity of his friend’s disguise, and the importance of preserving the secret; and Ellen, delighted, as she believed, at this accession to the American ranks, promised to use all necessary discretion.

——

CHAPTER III.

The senior Mr. Gansevoort was himself a military man. He had been engaged in the last war between France and England, prior to the period now spoken of, which, as is well known, was prosecuted with no inconsiderable warmth on this continent. He had held the rank of colonel in the British service, and acquitted himself with credit; and although now unfitted for a military life, his zeal in the royal cause was none the less ardent. His acquaintance among the English officers resident in New York was extensive, and for several of them his house was a place of frequent resort. Sir William Howe himself was occasionally seen at his table. Among his most frequent visiters, however, was Sir Philip Bender, a gentleman who held the rank of major in the army, but who had seen no actual service. He had come to this country in the suite of Lord Howe, and was supposed to be secretly connected with the mission of that nobleman, and Sir William, to establish peace by negotiation. Profligate and unprincipled, he was a fit agent for some of those disgraceful schemes which were set on foot by the British government, to acquire by fraud what they could not gain by conquest. Major Bender had early manifested a partiality for Miss Gansevoort, nor was either the colonel or his daughter left long in doubt as to his wishes. To the one he was as acceptable as to the other odious. Yet another individual, whom it is necessary to introduce to the reader, was a young American, who had attached himself warmly to the royal cause, and who held an ensign’s commission in the army. To say that Edward Wiley was a friend and confidant of Sir Philip may perhaps be a sufficient indication of his character. In boyhood he had been a companion and schoolmate of young Gansevoort, but even at that age his conduct had been characterized by cunning and deceit. There were of course others among the officers with whom Gansevoort now found himself in occasional communication, who were in every respect worthy and excellent men. From these, as well as from those first named, he met with frequent solicitations to enter the army; and although it was no difficult matter resolutely to decline the alluring offers that were held out to him, the necessity of concealing his sentiments was a source of continual pain and mortification. Suspicion was already aroused, and if confirmed might lead to his detention. He therefore prepared to depart. Convinced that it would be unsafe to acquaint his father with his intentions, he resolved that he should learn them first from the camp of the enemy. Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed since his arrival, nor had De Zeng allowed the time to pass entirely unimproved. Occasional opportunities were afforded him of interviews with Ellen, which had resulted on his part in the fullest confirmation of his first impressions. Unfortunately, however, Count De Zeng knew but little of the female character, and hardly daring to hope for a prize which he valued so highly, he construed reserve into aversion, and failed to discover any sufficient encouragement in the conduct of Miss Gansevoort, to justify a direct avowal of his feelings. Thus, unfortunately, they parted; each uncertain of the other’s sentiments, but both painfully conscious of their own.

The theatre of war at this period was exclusively in New Jersey. But war in reality there was none. That celebrated campaign of Washington, by which, with an inferior and enfeebled army, he had driven Howe and Cornwallis from almost all their strong-holds in that state, had drawn to a close. The severity of the season was an effectual bar to further military operations, and by tacit consent, hostilities, with the exception of a few slight and occasional skirmishes, were suspended. The quarters of the American commander-in-chief were at Elizabethtown, and thither, without delay, Gansevoort and De Zeng repaired. The reader may perhaps be aware that the time now spoken of was that critical period of the war, in which, for the sake of the common safety, Congress had invested General Washington with a degree of dictatorial authority. Among other plenary powers, he had been authorized to levy and organize a very large force, in addition to those already in existence, and to appoint and remove all officers under the rank of brigadier-general.

Franklin had not failed of his promise to commend Gansevoort to the special attention of the commander-in-chief, nor was a recommendation from so high a quarter ineffectual. Both himself and friend immediately received a colonel’s commission in a regiment of light-horse, of which several were then being formed, but which were not designed for service until the ensuing spring. In a skirmish which soon after took place between a small party of the Americans under Gansevoort, and a foraging, or rather pillaging party of the enemy, the young officer displayed so extraordinary a degree of skill and courage as to elicit the particular commendation of Washington. It led to an unexpected result. The commandant at Fort Constitution had signified his desire to retire temporarily from that station, by reason of ill health; but it was difficult, at that juncture, to supply his place. Washington would have offered it, unhesitatingly, to Count De Zeng, who, although scarcely twenty-six years of age, had brought with him a distinguished military reputation from abroad, but he could not conceal from himself the fact that there was a growing dissatisfaction among the people, at the number of foreigners already promoted in the army. The appointment was to be but temporary. The fort, completely garrisoned, was considered entirely invulnerable, and could be safely entrusted to any officer of integrity and common skill. He resolved to place it in the hands of Gansevoort, and, in order that the latter might be able to have the advantage, if necessary, of a larger experience than his own, signified his desire that the count should accompany his friend. It is needless to say that this arrangement was most acceptable to both. It led to results but little anticipated.

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CHAPTER IV.

Fort Constitution has been not inaptly termed the Gibraltar of America. Situated in an almost inaccessible fastness, about thirty miles above New York, and commanding the Hudson river, as well as the passes of the mountains on its western shore, its possession was considered a matter of the utmost moment to both parties. At this period it was most earnestly coveted by General Howe, for a reason unknown as yet to Washington. The northern expedition of Burgoyne, although not yet undertaken, had been fully planned, and was to be set on foot in the ensuing spring. General Howe was, of course, cognizant of these intended operations, to the full and complete success of which, nothing seemed wanting but the ability on his part to form a timely junction with Burgoyne on the banks of the Hudson—the one army descending from Quebec—the other ascending from New York. Fort Constitution, the key of the county of Albany, as it was termed, would be the principal impediment to this movement on the part of General Howe. Thus, it will be seen, circumstances combined to render its possession, at this period, the very point on which the issue of the whole war might depend. Its fall would have struck terror into the whole country.

Count De Zeng, who, with the commandant, had immediately repaired to the fort, did not hesitate to express the liveliest gratification at the condition of the works. The garrison also was complete, and the count, with the spirit of a true soldier, saw only one thing to regret, which was the entire improbability of an attack. There was but little duty to perform, beyond an occasional sally in defence of the neighboring settlements against the incursions of tories and savages; and even those calls were rare, the Indian operations being chiefly confined to a more northerly region. During this repose of arms, there was, therefore, abundant leisure for other and more pleasing pursuits. A village of no inconsiderable size, which lay sheltered beneath the guns of the fortress, afforded the means of an agreeable social intercourse to the officers, and festivities were in reality more frequent, and probably better enjoyed, than in the “piping times of peace.” Of its inhabitants, although the most were republicans, some of course were loyalists. These, however, remaining entirely inactive, claimed to have their rights, if not their opinions, respected. The society was too small to allow of any political line of demarcation, and the friends of King George and the supporters of Congress were seen mingling harmoniously together in the evening parties, or at the midnight ball. It is true, there were some whose naturally sour dispositions, rendered more rancorous by the events of the war, kept them entirely aloof from their opponents, and some, more despicable still, who concealed the bitterest animosity under a pleasing exterior.

Not belonging to either of the classes last named, although a loyalist, was Captain Wilton, a friend and former companion in arms of Colonel Gansevoort, but a gentleman of more liberal views, and of the most perfect integrity. He had two daughters, whose characters may be briefly described. Both were exceedingly pretty. The elder was graceful and gifted, but vain, conceited, and imperious. The preponderance in her character of that one quality, which is so often the bane of beauty, subverted what would otherwise have been a sound and discriminating judgment. The younger, with more than her sister’s charms, possessed almost none of her faults. She had been taught, by the daily and hourly deportment of the other, to believe in her own comparative inferiority, and was consequently but little conscious of her attractions. Thus had she grown up, as it were, in the shade, but fortunately under circumstances favorable to the development of all those pure and winning graces of the heart, which so immeasurably transcend the flitting charms of beauty. Cheerful, modest, confiding and affectionate, Alice Wilton was “a gem of purest ray serene.”

Gansevoort was a frequent and welcome visiter at the house of Captain Wilton. Although attracted unconsciously by the charms of Alice, the ingenuity of her sister, Arabella, contrived to make him, ostensibly at least, a suitor of her own. She did not hesitate to appropriate his attentions exclusively to herself although she could not fail to see that they were otherwise designed. Indeed Arabella was possessed of an art, which it is to be hoped is lost to her sex of the present generation, of compelling the addresses of the gentlemen. Gansevoort was far from considering himself a suitor of either of the sisters. His mind was chiefly engrossed by the duties of his station, and his hours of relaxation were controlled mainly by accident. Thus, therefore, without giving sufficient thought to the subject to enable him to fathom the designs of Miss Wilton, he allowed himself to appear to the public in the character of her professed admirer.

It has been said that the winter was rigorous and severe; but it had not yet been sufficiently cold to entirely close the lower part of the river, which was still navigable from the fort to the city of New York. Occasionally a ship of war, from the latter place, penetrated up to the neighborhood of the fortress, (avoiding, of course, an imprudent proximity,) for the purpose probably of facilitating intercourse with some parts of the interior. From one of these, a messenger, under the protection of a flag, was sent to the fort, to request permission for Ensign Wiley to visit some friends at the adjoining village. Gansevoort readily gave the desired permit. At an interview which he soon after had with Wiley, the latter seemed disposed to claim the full benefit of their early acquaintance and intimacy. The commandant did not repel his advances, chiefly, perhaps, lest any coldness which he might manifest should be attributed to the pride of superior station. They met frequently, and at all times with apparent frankness and cordiality. Wiley did not even hesitate to introduce and discuss the subject of the war, and its probable results. New and formidable forces of the enemy were hinted at. Defection in the highest quarters in our own ranks was boldly asserted. Negotiations were now pending at New York, he said, by which several distinguished leaders of the republicans would return to their allegiance, and receive the clemency of the king. Gansevoort, of a cool and phlegmatic temperament, often listened without reply; and the other, mistaking his silence for conviction, or at least for doubt, grew still more bold. Those, he said, who were the first to claim the royal favor, would doubtless receive it the most abundantly. But little merit would attach to the submission of those who submitted only when there were no longer any hopes of effectual resistance. These remarks, however, were kept carefully free from every thing of a personal character. They were made, too, with an air of the utmost nonchalance, as if they were on a subject in which neither speaker or hearer had the slightest interest. Gansevoort was, fortunately, a man of quick perceptions. Not slow to discover when himself was insulted, or his cause dishonored, he yet had that fortunate command of temper, which, in all controversies, is of such immeasurable importance to its possessor. Like the true Italian diplomatist, as painted by McCauley, his eye was large, dark, and dreamy, expressing nothing, but discerning every thing. The interviews alluded to usually took place at the house of Captain Wilton, where Wiley also was a frequent visiter. He was, of course, not admitted within the fort.

——

CHAPTER V.

Nothing could exceed the grief and anger of the elder Mr. Gansevoort on learning the conduct of his son. The first burst of his resentment fell upon poor Ellen, whom he had long suspected of entertaining disloyal views, and who he now fully believed had been chiefly instrumental in forming the sentiments of her brother. Her continued repugnance to the addresses of Major Bender, had already incensed her father most highly, and, his anger being now literally without bound, he notified her, in the most peremptory manner, that she must prepare for her immediate marriage with that gentleman. In vain did she expostulate. “You alone,” he said, “remain to inherit an ample estate, derived from the bounty of a generous sovereign. Never shall it pass to rebellious hands. Son, or son-in-law, never shall a traitorous subject lord it in these halls.”

Ellen was not without the most serious alarm. She knew well her father’s firmness and her own helplessness. She did not doubt his power, in conjunction with Sir Philip, to execute his threat in relation to her marriage. The times were favorable to almost every scheme of iniquity and fraud. Indeed, an event similar to the one threatened, and which had proved almost tragical in its termination, had but recently taken place in the city. There was none to whom she could look for help. Her mother who alone had ever possessed any real influence over the iron will of her other parent, had been many years deceased. She was literally confined, a prisoner in her room, excepting when compelled to descend to the parlor to receive the visits of Sir Philip, who did not fail, on his part, to use every art and blandishment which a life of gallantry had placed at his command to overcome her dislike. He painted in the most alluring colors her reception in England as his bride; the sensation which her beauty would make in the highest circles, and the prospect of his own expected elevation to the peerage. It is needless to say that his assiduities only increased her abhorrence. At length he assumed a sterner tone. He claimed her hand as a matter of right, alledging that prior to her brother’s arrival, her encouragement of his addresses had been such as to constitute an implied contract of marriage. This assertion was palpably false, but the change which he supposed Francis had wrought in her political sentiments, he thought would give color to it. The fulfillment of that contract, he said, he had a right to enforce. Her father was anxious for their immediate marriage, and if she persisted in interposing her childish objections, means could readily be found to overcome every obstacle.

“Do not think,” he said, “that when every thing conspires to favor me, I will be thwarted by a foolish whim. But let me beseech you to lay aside your scruples; and if your regard for me is not now all that you would desire, doubt not it will become so. The attachment which commences after marriage, if less romantic in its character, is often the most permanent. If my society is now displeasing to you, you shall be relieved from it at once, until your feelings become tranquillized. Business of the utmost importance calls me immediately from town, and my absence may continue for several weeks. Let but the ceremony be performed⁠—”

“Never! Sir Philip Bender,” she exclaimed with emphasis, starting from her seat, which he had gradually approached. “It shall never be. The God of Heaven will protect me. I will never be your bride.”

A flush of mingled mortification and anger reddened the cheek of Sir Philip. Pausing a moment to recover his self-command, he coolly replied,

“My bride you certainly will be, although I can scarcely find it in my heart to deprive the stage of so admirable an actress.” Having thus spoken, he formally took leave, but with an expression of countenance that bespoke the most determined resolution.

Frightened by threats, galled by taunts, every nerve strung to its utmost tension with excitement, Miss Gansevoort hastily retired to her room, where for many minutes her violent sobs, and the convulsive heavings of her breast, alone testified her irrepressible emotion.

On the afternoon of the ensuing day, Colonel Gansevoort, and his intended son-in-law, were seated together in a private parlor in the mansion of the former. A profound silence existed, excepting the noise occasioned by the scratching of Sir Philip’s pen, who was diligently engaged in writing.

Answering the violent ringing of a bell, the maid of Miss Gansevoort made her appearance.

“Is my daughter ready?” inquired Col. G.

“Please, sir,” responded the maid, “Miss Ellen is in a dreadful way. She pulls out the roses—”

“A curse upon the roses!” exclaimed the other. “Fling them into the fire, and see that she is dressed and in the adjoining parlor within ten minutes.”

“If you please, sir, she is almost ready now. Every few minutes she gets faint-like, and then we go on.”

Entirely unmoved by this statement, Bender deliberately finished, and laid upon the table a neatly embossed marriage certificate, ready for signature.

“Your priest can be depended on, I hope, Sir Philip?” inquired Col. Gansevoort.

The other smiled as he slowly replied, “Doctor Felton owed his appointment as navy chaplain to me, ten years ago, at a time when he had not lost more than half of his faculties. His sight is dim now at the best, and in a judiciously darkened room, will be found all that can be desired; and as to hearing, he has laid no claim to the use of that organ within my memory. But even were both senses perfect, I do not think he would either see or hear more than I desire.”

Scarcely had he finished speaking when the clergyman was announced. His appearance fully justified the eulogy which had just been pronounced upon him. Of bulky form, and rubicund face, he shuffled with unsteady gait into the room, and with attempted gayety, but in a husky and scarcely audible voice, replied to the salutation of his patron.

“You may find my daughter a little eccentric in her conduct,” said Colonel Gansevoort, after being introduced to the priest. “She is young and romantic. It will not be necessary that you should take any particular notice of these things.”

“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir—certainly not, sir,” mumbled the chaplain rapidly, as with unsteady hand, in compliance with an invitation from Sir Philip, he helped himself at the sideboard, to an antidote against the cold.

The maid now made her appearance, to announce that her mistress was ready; and the little party immediately proceeded into the adjoining room, where, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, white as the dress she wore, and to all appearance lifeless, sat the bride elect. She was in reality in a swoon. No questions were asked—no explanations made. Sir Philip stood beside her, and the ceremony went rapidly forward. The priest knew the service by rote; he held his book merely for form. Not a word of its contents could he have seen, if it had been necessary. “Does she answer?” he inquired, putting his hand to his ear, when the decisive interrogatory was put. Bender bowed, and the ceremony went on.

“The ring?” inquired the chaplain.

Sir Philip produced the golden circlet, and after it had passed through the hands of the priest, proceeded with gentlest motion to place it upon her finger. The touch was like electricity to her frame. She sprang to her feet, and catching the robe of the terrified chaplain, sank upon her knees before him.

“No, no, no!” she shrieked, “it must not, shall not be.”

Bender hastily disengaged her hold, and leading Dr. Felton out of the room, informed him that Miss Gansevoort was laboring under a fit, to which she was subject, but which would soon pass off.

“Certainly, sir—yes, sir—of course, sir—poor thing!”

“Father, dear father,” exclaimed Ellen, turning next to him, and gasping for breath as she spoke, “you do not, cannot mean it. I implore, I beseech you by the memory of my dear, sainted mother, to spare me. See,” she said, pointing suddenly to a portrait of her deceased parent, “she looks at you! She speaks to you! Her eyes, her lips are moving! God of heaven!” she exclaimed, “she is coming down from the canvas!”

Wrought up by excitement to a point of positive delirium, Ellen once more fell senseless to the floor.

Her father, shocked and terrified, hastily threw open a blind, and gazed for a moment in awe at the picture. It hung motionless against the wall.

Summoning her maids, he then ordered them to bear Ellen directly to her room. To Sir Philip’s expostulations he briefly replied; “Do not believe that my purpose is shaken. On the contrary, it is more fixed than ever. I know that I am doing my duty, and that she will yet thank me for it. But it is impossible to proceed now. One week from to-day she shall be yours. Attend, then, with your wooden priest, and the honor of Edmund Gansevoort stands pledged for the fulfillment of his word.” Bender saw that it was vain to reply. Having therefore enjoined the strictest confidence upon the chaplain, and made an appointment with him to attend on the day named, that obsequious gentleman took his leave, muttering as usual,

“Yes, sir—no, sir—of course, sir,—certainly not.”

——

CHAPTER VI.

Nearly a week had passed since the arrival of Ensign Wiley in the neighborhood of Fort Constitution, and he had as yet manifested no disposition to return. The vessel from which he landed still lay sleeping at anchor, just beyond the reach of the cannons of the fort; and himself, mingling freely in society, was every where received as a welcome addition to its limited numbers. Gansevoort, at this period, received a letter from his sister, which she had found means to send to Washington’s camp in New Jersey, and which had been forwarded from there. It was of recent date, and fully detailed the unparalleled persecution to which she had been subjected, and to a recurrence of which she was so soon to be exposed. Utterly astounded by this intelligence, and moved almost to madness by her earnest appeals for a relief beyond his ability to bestow, his grief yielded only to the most bitter and burning wrath against the infamous author of her sufferings. Long and anxiously he revolved the subject in his mind, without being able to decide upon any feasible plan of relief. The time appointed for the compulsory nuptials was so close at hand, that no action but the most speedy could be of the least avail. There was no possibility of his quitting his post, without special leave of the commander-in-chief, which could not be obtained within the requisite time; and to complete the combination of untoward events, his friend and counsellor, the Count De Zeng, was temporarily absent from the fort. His return was not expected until the ensuing morning, and Gansevoort was compelled patiently to await that event, with the very faint hope that some means of rescue might be devised. In the mean time, hoping to meet Wiley, and obtain from him some information that might be serviceable to his plans, he made an evening visit at the house of Captain Wilton, where, for the first time, he found himself alone with Arabella. Conversation, as was not unusual, took a political turn, and the affairs of King and Congress were discussed for some time in a semi-jocular vein.

“Colonel Gansevoort is now in the camp of the enemy,” Miss Wilton at length remarked; “if I could expect him to speak the truth under such circumstances, I should be disposed to trouble him with a very serious question.”

“Colonel Gansevoort will speak the truth, if he speaks at all,” replied the latter, smiling, “even in the enemy’s camp.”

“Tell me, then, Frank,” she rejoined, assuming a familiarity that their acquaintance in early life may possibly have justified, “tell me if you really desire to see the independence of these colonies established.”

For a moment Gansevoort was too much astonished at this question to reply. While he hesitated, a light of startling intensity broke upon his mind; but subduing every sign of emotion, he still remained silent.

“I know,” she continued, “that although Congress has declared independence, there are many of its supporters who in reality desire nothing more than an honorable peace with Great Britain, as her subjects. Suppose, then,” she added, “that you had it in your power to contribute to that end, and thus to promote the best interests of your country, and spare the effusion of human blood—would you not do it?”

Still Gansevoort did not reply.

“Suppose, also,” she continued, “that in so doing an honorable, praiseworthy action, you could secure to yourself affluence and distinction, would you not do it?”

Her companion at length spoke. “Why should we waste time in these idle hypotheses?” he said; “I know of no such opportunities.”

“But would you avail yourself of them if presented to you?”

“If Miss Wilton believes that I would not act in accordance with what was at once just and honorable, best for my country, and most advantageous to myself, she certainly gives me but little credit for discretion.”

“You have spoken at last, sir oracle, and like a man of sense and spirit. You seek the substantial good of your country. For this alone you have taken up arms; and for this, when it can be best accomplished by so doing, you are willing to lay them down. You are ready to take part in that patriotic and spontaneous movement which is every where making to promote a permanent peace. You are a prominent and influential man, whose example will lead others to return to their duty; and as such, his majesty is ready to testify his regard for you, in a particular and most gratifying manner.”

“His majesty has long had the reputation of being a gentleman of benevolence,” replied Gansevoort. “May I inquire in what manner he proposes to display it toward so insignificant a personage as myself?”

“Francis Gansevoort,” said Miss Wilton, “it is not unknown to the officers of the king, that your patriotism has brought upon you the curse of a loyal father, and that you are a disinherited and penniless man. You shall see that your sovereign is more easily propitiated than your sire. The royal exchequer will furnish an ample substitute for a forfeited patrimony. A free gift of ten thousand pounds will testify the approbation of our most gracious sovereign for his friend and subject, Sir Francis Gansevoort.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Gansevoort; “Is it possible?” now carried away by real surprise. “But,” he continued, after a pause, “is there nothing expected from me in return for such munificence, besides renewed allegiance?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Wilton, “literally nothing. It is true, that merely as a proof of your sincerity, you will be expected to give up this useless air-castle of yours, which, now that the war is exclusively in another quarter, is in reality of no value either to King or Congress.”

“It is an air-castle, truly,” exclaimed Gansevoort, glancing momentarily from the window at the flag which floated among the dark clouds of night. “Have I not reason to suspect that your dazzling project is also a castle in the air and of less substantial texture? Kings do not usually employ such agents in their negotiations.”

“His majesty does not lack an agent far more worthy to represent him than myself. When you are prepared to enter upon the negotiation, he shall be forthcoming. Ensign Wiley⁠—”

“Enough!” cried Gansevoort; “I do not treat with ensigns. My own rank, and the importance of this transaction demand an envoy of far higher station, and one whose word is capable of binding the British government.”

“Be satisfied, then,” said Miss Wilton; “at this hour to-morrow, and at this place, you shall meet with one, to whose name, and rank, and authority, the utmost fastidiousness could not object.”

“Doubt not I will meet him,” was the reply. And thus they parted.

A few hours later in the evening now referred to, two individuals were seated in the cabin of the British sloop-of-war Dragon, engaged in earnest conversation. Both were in military undress. The one was young, slight, and good looking, with an air, however, of recklessness and audacity, that spoke the fitting agent of dark and hazardous deeds. The other was a middle-aged man, of more dignified and gentlemanly deportment. His demeanor was one that denoted station and influence, but his countenance bore that sinister expression, which nature often stamps upon the vile, and which no effort of assumed honesty can fully eradicate or conceal. Like the mark of Cain, it is indelible; but, unfortunately, unlike that sign, it is perceptible only to an eye practiced in the study of the human visage. An animated discussion had been followed by a prolonged silence, when the latter, after rising and rapidly pacing the floor, turned suddenly to his companion, and said,

“If you have made sure of success in this matter, Wiley, we shall have accomplished a work of the utmost magnitude, and your reward will be proportionate.”

“I assure you there is no room for doubt,” was the reply. “I have felt my way step by step. Our conversations have been frequent and prolonged. He believes that his cause is declining; that the leaders are rapidly giving in their adhesion to the crown; that all oppressive measures will be abandoned, and thus the chief object of the war attained. What wonder, then, that he should hasten to be among the earliest penitents, and thus secure to himself so brilliant a reward. In truth, I begin to regret that you bade so high.”

“It is too late to think of that,” said the other, musing. “And Miss Wilton is his affianced bride. Well, well—we have played for a heavy stake, and won. How will these tidings rejoice Sir William!” Thus muttering to himself, he continued to pace his limited apartment, until his companion reminded him of the lateness of the hour.

[Conclusion in our next.

THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER.

A STORY OF CLARE.

———

BY J. GERAGHTY M‘TEAGUE.

———

Those of my readers, (and particularly of my fair readers,) who may expect to hear a love story, will, I am afraid, be grievously disappointed; for though my legend certainly treats of that which, in most countries, is the consequence of the contrivances of the cunning little god, yet we will hazard our affirmation that the course of true love, as it runs through the hearts of the lads and lasses of Columbia, is widely different in its manner among those of the west of Ireland, and of all places in Ireland, the county of Clare.

To those who are familiar with the truly glorious tales of William Carleton, all this is unnecessary; for these, with wonderful humor and pathos, faithfully portray the endless peculiarities of Irish character. Who that has alternately roared with merriment which he could not suppress, and sobbed with strong emotion at the history of the “Poor Scholar,” can ever forget it?

Among all Carleton’s delineations of Irish character, that of the Shanahus is the one which chiefly bears on our present subject. “And who is the Shanahus?” you ask. Well, I will tell you a few of his characteristics from my own personal knowledge and observations.

In most countries under the sun, the getting of a wife is no such railroad-speed kind of affair; and, (dating from the first eloquent glance of a bright eye, or sly squeeze of a lily hand, to the happy day when a certain little ceremony is performed,) occupies some little time, and, as many probably will be inclined to admit, no little anxiety, interlaced with a thousand little disappointments, &c.; all very well known, and very delightful in their way, no doubt, when all comes right at last. But in the land we are treating of, unlike all others, except in some particulars the Eastern nations, from whom many of our customs are derived, affairs are carried on in another kind of manner.

The week before Lent, or Shrove, is the great time in Clare. And, oh! what a study is here for the plenipotentiary, the attaché, or the financier. A young man, (suppose, for instance,) hears of the “great fortune” of some young lady in the neighborhood, or, what generally happens, he is waited on by one of his friends, (quite by accident) when a conversation to the following purport occurs:⁠—

“Well, Jimmy, who do you think I’ve in my eye for you?”

“Why, then, how do I know, Corny?”

“What do you think of Judy Tucker?”

“Oh, that would be great, Corny! I hear she has a good stockin’ full?”

“Is it her? Two hundred pounds—no less; she’s no great beauty, but⁠—”

“Oh, never heed, Corny. Do you think you could manage it?”

“Oh, let me alone.”

Corny then mentions it to his wife, and she takes an early opportunity to go over to Judy’s residence, where she (quite casually) mentions Jimmy Melish.

“Oh, but that’s the nice boy, Judy, agrah!”

“Is it Jemmy Melish you mane, that lives beyond the old church of Kilbricken?”

“Yes, agrah!” (softly.) “Oh, but it’s he would make you the dashin’ husband!”

“Oh, yeh! what’s that you say?”

“A husband, dear! And sich a beautiful farm! Ten cows—no less, and every one of them white with a black star on their foreheads. Did you ever see him, Judy?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, come wid me to mass on Sunday, an’ I’ll show him to you.”

And thus is the ice broken. But who is Corny, all this time? Why he is the veritable Shanahus; and he it is who is the oracle for all the matches in the neighborhood.

Every district has its “Corny,” and it is he who has been the projector of half the matches that have been made for years in that part of the country; and seldom does it happen, so good is his judgment, that any bad selection takes place.

As soon as the ice is thus broken, sundry meetings take place at the houses of both the suitor and the sought. In former days, countless were the gallons of whiskey swallowed on these occasions, and bitter the disputes. I have known a match broken off altogether from a discussion as to which party was to provide the spirits for the wedding banquet; but they are frequently annulled, even now, by a dispute about a pig, which one side insists on being added to the “fortune,” and the other refuses.

And now you see, my fair readers, that love has but little to do with these matches. I can positively state, and many will bear out my assertion, that the blooming bride, and the happy bridegroom, have frequently never before set eyes on each other until they stand up to the ceremony, and it is singular to see the lady nudge a neighbour on the arm, and say “which av ’em is it?” Yet these things are; though I’ve no doubt they will gradually wear out, become matters of history, and Clare grow “like the rest of the world.”

It is but justice to my country people to say, that in all my life, I have never heard of an unhappy match. Unfortunate it may be, and the dire cravings of hunger may be often felt; but though these strange people may show but a faint trace of what we call love in these matrimonial speculations, of which I have given you a slight outline, that they possess the strongest affections for their partners, in their joys and sorrows, cannot for one instant be questioned. In sickness, health, joy, sorrow, fortunes, and reverses, we will, for constancy and affection, defend the “choice of the Shanahus” against the whole world.

Will it, then, be considered amiss, if we pass away one of these evenings, or wet days, as the case may be, by relating a few of the more remarkable doings of a pretty good specimen of the genus, who existed, or (as we may truly say) flourished, in the county of Clare, some little time ago?

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick, (or Michael Fitzpatrick) then, was eminently fond of his jokes, and was accounted, by all, the most knowing fellow in the parish of Ballinacally. He had, withal, a happy genius, and was peculiarly famed as a mediator in matrimonial arrangements. On this account, Mehicle’s advice and assistance were frequently solicited to transact these little matters of business, and truly surprising was the consummate tact he would display on such occasions. Were he engaged on the part of the “boy,” who, perhaps with scanty means and expectations of his own, wished to secure a rich heiress, his forte consisted in making him appear, in the eyes of the opposite party, as rich again as he really was. Was he, on the other hand, on the side of her friends—in that case, he had to exert all his abilities in putting the very same “boy” off with the least possible amount of fortune. Notwithstanding, Mehicle was a jolly fellow, and no one could enjoy more than he a good-humored frolic, especially when coupled with an affair of this kind, which was ever to his fancy.

Now, some particularly “cute” things, which Mehicle did at various times, bid fair long to live in the remembrances of the good folks of Ballinacally; and if a sample or so will be at all acceptable (that is, amusing) to my readers, they shall have one, and “lead mille failte” into the bargain.

Mehicle, then, had occasion one season, in conformity, alas! to a too general custom, (which would plunge me too much into an Irish agrarian political discussion were I to describe,) had occasion, I say, to sow his “handful of pratees” on a farm some miles from his own house, and might be seen, early and late, going to and returning from his work.

He had been for some time thus engaged in preparing his potato-field, when he observed that every day a young man of his acquaintance regularly passed through the end of the same field, on his way to and from the house of a rich old farmer, who lived on the other side of the hill.

Now, as Mehicle watched him night and morning, he could not help guessing (and he guessed rightly for once, for he was a shrewd observer in these matters) that this young man was hard at work making love to the said rich farmer’s daughter.

It happened, that between the field in which Mehicle was sowing his potatoes, and that which led to the rich farmer’s house, there was a wide water-course; not exactly a drain, but a hollow, wet, rushy place, that divided the lands. It was dry enough in summer, no doubt; but, in its flooded state it was, though very wide, quite such a place as a young, active fellow like Aidey Hartigan, who possessed a clean pair of stockings, and brightly polished shoes, would rather risk a flying jump across, than wet the one, or sully the lustre of the other, by splashing through.

Not a little surprising was it to Mehicle to observe his friend Aidey, every morning, after having come out of the farmer’s house, (where he had spent the night,) walk straight through this nasty, wet, boggy place, to the great detriment of the nice clothing of his nether man; but what still more astonished him was, that just when he was about to leave off work, he saw Aidey, as he was coming to the farmer’s hopping and jumping as he neared the trench, and clearing it at a bound.

Mehicle, who as I have hinted, was ever inquisitive, could at last no longer bear to see Aidey going on in this manner, and determined not only to inquire the reason of this strange behavior, but also to try to have his hand in the making of the match, if such was in view; and accordingly, when Aidey appeared next morning, after having as usual covered himself with bog-dirt and mud, in blundering through the trench, he went forward to meet him, and they addressed each other with the usual salutations. Let me detail their conversation, as Mehicle used to relate it, and fond was that very same boy to tell over all the adventures, schemes and diplomacies, in his life of Shanahusy.

“Good morrow, Mehicle! God bless your work.”[^[1]]

“And you likewise, Aidey. How are you to-day?”

“Why, then, middlin’, only! but there’s no use in complainin’!”

“Indeed, faix, Aidey, you’re airly up! but an’ sure they say it’s the airly thrushes get the airly worms. Whisper! what are you about above here at big house?”

“What house? Is it Brian Mungavan’s you the mane?”

“Yes, to be sure!”

“Ah! myself that knows that! Maybe, though, I might tell you, in the course of time, and maybe yourself might assist me for a bit.”

“Oho! is that the way? Well that it may thrive with you! That’s a business, at any rate, that serves all men, includin’ the priests!”

“And Shanahuses!” said Aidey, grinning, “and I ever knew you to be a capital one!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to make a trial of me, and I say again, that it may thrive with you! But, aisy awhile, and answer me one question. I’ve been noticing you, and I’ve seen you passing backward and forward, these few days past, being, as you see, diggin’ the place of a half acre of pratees for myself, and every morning, when you used to be coming out of owld Brian Mungavan’s house, and over that wet place beyant, you used to walk straight through it, and not mind the wet one straw; but when you used to be going in to Brian’s when I was lavin’ off work for the day, and when I was wairy and tired enough myself, it’s then I used to see you give a hop and a jump, and clear the trench in flyin’ colors. And faith it’s not such a bad jump aither, not at all; and it’s no wonder (so it isn’t) that you’d like to carry a dry shoe in to herself; but why shouldn’t you do the same when you’re comin’ out?”

“Why, then,” answered Aidey, mournfully, “I’ll tell you. Every word of what you say is true; and I’m much afeard it’ll be the cause of my giving up Brian Mungavan’s house; and what’s worse, Eileen herself; and what’s worse again, her fortune—for the rale honest fact is, I must do it; I can’t stand it any longer—for, indeed, when I come out of Brian Mungavan’s house, Mehicle, I am not able to jump over the trench.”

“Why, man alive, why not? Wouldn’t one think now, that the good dinner you’d get, and good supper, and good sleep, and the sight of herself, would put you in the best of spirits, and that you’d clear the trench in a jiffey? But, God help you! Sure you’re in love, I suppose. As Larry Burk says in the song,⁠—

“Love, she is a killin’ thing!”

“Ah, let me alone! Faith, then, that’s not what’s killin’ me, I can tell you. Little you know what a place that house above is. Little you know what sort of a man is Mungavan. There! redden the pipe, and let’s sit down behind the rock, and I’ll tell you all about it, and let you know the hobble I’m in.”

“Very well, out with it,” said Mehicle, as he drew a puff of his pipe; “and if I can serve you, you know me, and what I am.”

“Oh, well I know who and what you are; and that the dickens a better Shanahus than your four bones ever stood in shoe leather to undertake a bargain of the kind; and so I’ll ask your opinion. And, first and foremost, you must know that there’s not such a kinnadt[^[2]] in the province of Munster, than that same Brian Mungavan—and himself knows it well; and it’s an unhappy life he lades his poor wife, and his nice girl of a daughter, he’s such an owld crust himself; and, indeed, myself believes he begrudges even the crusts to the poor dogs. In fact, I’d have run off with Eileen long ago—for I could do it in a minute—only I know if I did, I’d never finger a penny of her fortune, which is pretty nice, too.”

“But,” said Mehicle, “what, in the name of goodness, has this to do with jumping over the trench?”

“Every thing,” said Aidey, groaning—“wait a minute. When I go in, you see, at night, I’m in tolerable good spirits; and then I think nothing of the trench—so much for that. Well—that’s all very well. I go in, and after a while, we all sit down to dinner; and, to be sure, to do the man justice, it’s not a very bad dinner at all that he gives us. Well, we begin; and all of us pelt, and cut, and tear, and ate away at the dinner, as hard as ever as we can; but all wont do, Mehicle. Brian ates twice faster nor any of us; and in less than five minutes he purtends to be done, and—‘Here, now,’ says he, ‘take away,’ says he. ‘Remove those dishes immediately,’ says he. ‘The Lord be praised, we’ve had enough! and thousands of the poor starvin’ all over the country,’ says the big rogue; and all the while, Mehicle, we haven’t half enough to ate, nor a quarter; and then it’s a poor night’s rest a man gets on an empty belly, Mehicle. So, then, for fear of bein’ starved intirely, I start off before breakfast. I don’t go home at night, (because she and I can get a great dale of talk before bed-time, and then it’s too late to be goin’ home so far.) I go, I say, before breakfast, for then I’m lost altogether with the hunger, and I’m not able hardly to move, and I come to the trench, and it bothers me entirely, and I’m obligated to wade. And, Mehicle, Eileen tells me it’s the same way at breakfast, and he allows them but the two meals a-day; but, and listen to me, now. She says he gets up in the night, and gets things that’s left from the dinner, and ates them within in his bed, the dirty, unmannerly brute! Now, did you ever hear of such a rascal? Oho! Muvrone! if I ever get the fingerin’ of any of his cash, it’s I’ll show him how a good boy can spend good money. But how can we manage it, Mehicle? Can you give me any resate to cook the old scoundrel with?”

“Faix, I can so!” said Mehicle, handing him the pipe, “and a good way. It’s easily known that you’ve not the laste sperrit, though, indeed, you’re a fine, likely lad—but, to be sure, you’re in love? You can’t do a single ha’porth. No, if you really want to cook that chap, you must get an owld trainer like me, and then, maybe, if both of you help me right, we may get some good out of him; at any rate we’ll have diversion, and, Aidey, my boy, take courage, and if you do lose her, and her dirty fortune, I’ll be bound, by the pipe in your mouth, to secure as good a one for you in the space of one month.”

“O, Mehicle, I don’t doubt that in the least; but my heart is for Eileen, and you must try and get her first, any how.”

“Very well, Aidey, we’ll try. ‘Worse than lose we can’t,’ as Mike Gorman said, when the doctor pulled out his tooth; do you stop diggin’ here along with me to-day, it’s the least you can do. I have a famous dinner here in the basket—we’ll ate that soon, and then we’ll have a tremendious, grand, famous appetite by evening; and my hand and word to you, we shall have enough and lavins at dinner to-day.”

“Do you think so, Mehicle? God bless you for sayin’ so! I always heard you had a great head for these things.”

“Yes, maybe I have; but two heads are always better than one, even supposin’ they were no better than a couple of boiled pigs’ heads.”

With this profound reflection, they set to work, and with the help of the dinner which Mehicle had brought, and the tibbacky, managed to dig a good piece of the stubbles; and when evening came on, they made their way over the hill to Brian Mungavan’s house.

“And now,” said Mehicle, “do you introduce me just as your friend, but say nothing whatever about the match; lave all that to my management.”

They went in accordingly, and were welcomed, civilly by Mrs. Mungavan, coolly enough by Mr. Mungavan; but as for Miss Mungavan, it may not be too great a presumption to suppose that the fault would not lie in that quarter, were the match not made.

Dinner, the much dreaded dinner, was announced; and, as faithful historians, we must say, too, what was for dinner. There were, then, a couple of good sized fat fowls, a turkey, too, and some bacon, with a proportionate supply of cabbage. Miss Mungavan, on being asked the dish of her choice, preferred, for certain reasons of her own, the delicate breast of the turkey; Mehicle, before whom were placed the fowls, not a little to the astonishment of all, who stared at so unusual a proceeding, clapped one on Aidey’s plate, and kept the other himself, observing that “it wasn’t worth while to be dividin’ them for birds.”

Mr. Brian Mungavan, from old custom, gobbled up his bacon and cabbage with all celerity; but when he raised his eyes, and beheld the fierce and determined attack on the good things, he evidently foresaw it was useless to give the accustomed order to “take away;” for that if given, it would remain perfectly unheeded.

A fowl a-piece, with the bacon and various other appurtenances, was not a bit too much for men who possessed such keen appetites as Aidey and Mehicle; Miss Mungavan, as she had some one to keep her in countenance, also transgressed the rules, and doubtless enjoyed her share; the old woman, her mother, had enough; in short, it was a great day for that family. A dinner so completely discussed, was there, a rare occurrence. Such a day had never before been seen; but it was but a trifling forerunner of what was to come.

In fact they ate enough, and after they had eaten, they drank, all but the old kinnadt; he seemed quite lost in amazement at the quantity eaten, and bewildered at the assurance of Mehicle, who laughed, and talked, and played all sorts of antics, and cracked lots of jokes, as he always did, when engaged in an adventure just to his mind, as this was.

At length night came on, and bed-time was declared. All separated to their respective rooms, with the exception of Mehicle, who was to remain where he was, and to be content with occupying a “settle-bed” near the kitchen fire—and a not uncomfortable berth it is. But not long had Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick enjoyed his first sleep, when as he was, I believe, chuckling inwardly, while he dreamt of the tricks he was playing, a slight noise near the fire attracted his attention, and rousing him from his slumbers, caused him to raise his head cautiously. Peeping over the side of the settle-bed, he discovered Brian’s wife in the act of kneading on the table a cake of wheaten flour.

“Oho!” thought Mehicle, “this must be the supper that Brian gets every night, the scoundrel. He begrudges honest people the bite, and the sup, and it would be only a proper good deed to chate him out of it himself.”

So Mehicle waited until he saw the old woman finish her cake, and cover it carefully in the hot ashes that still remained red on the hearth; and as soon as she had gone in to her room, he got up, slipped on his clothes, took his seat at the fire, and in a short time, out came the old woman, thinking the cake was now almost ready.

“O,” said Mehicle, “good morning, ma’am. I heard the cock crowing, and I thought it was break-of-day, and then I got up and sat here; and after that I considered it couldn’t be day, or you’d be up; but now I see it is.”

“See that, now,” said Mrs. Mungavan, “you’re wrong all the while. Our cock always crows at twelve o’clock, and it’s not one at present; but my husband has a great tooth-ache, and he says he’d be the better for a smoke, and I just came in for a red coal, and I’d advise you to go to bed again.”

“So I will, ma’am, by and bye; but as I’m up at all, I’ll wait until he’s done smokin’, and when I’ve got a puff of the pipe myself, I’ll go to bed.”

“O, wisha, wisha!” thought she, “what’ll I do? I’ll be kilt both ways. I’d be ashamed to take up the cake, and it’ll be burned entirely—and what’ll he say?”

“What are we to do?” said she, going in to her husband, “there’s that man, bad manners to him, up, and sittin’ near the fire; and I don’t like to let him see me take up the cake, but he says he’ll go to bed when he smokes; he heard our old cock, bad luck to him, bawlin’ and he thought it was day.”

“Well, here,” said Brian, “take him the pipe, and make haste and bring me the cake; but don’t let him see you takin’ it up.”

“Here, sir,” said she, “here’s the pipe; his tooth-ache’s greatly better. Well, now, to be sure, tibbacky is a fine thing. Myself takes a sly puff now and again, to comfort me; can you tell me, sir, where it grows? I heard it grew up in Ulster?”

“O, not at all ma’am, but in Americky, ma’am, where there’s plenty av land idle, and wantin’ occypation; and, faix, indeed, ma’am, that’s not the way here, when we’re a’most starved, and it’s so scarce, and wonderful dear; sit down here, if you plaze, ma’am, and I’ll tell you all about my own land, and how I lost it, and the hobble I’m in. Will we put down some turf, and make a good rousin’ fire?”

“O, yeh, no, sir!” getting frightened about the cake, “we’d never get to bed if we’d a good fire.”

“Well, then, never mind, ma’am. You see, about my farm. I was tellin’ you, ma’am, my farm (puff) was just like that,” pointing to the ashes smoothed down quite flat over the cake; “well, my farm was quite smooth, and level, and flat, just like that; but if it was, ma’am, my second brother, Pat, ma’am, (p-p-f-f-f)—here, ma’am, here’s the pipe for you, and smoke for a bit.”

“Thank’e, sir. Well! well, what about your brother Pat?”

“O, I’ll tell you. My second brother, Pat, ma’am, went to a blackguard ’torney, and got an advice, and found out that he’d as good a right to the farm as I had myself; and he went to law with me, and he bate me, ma’am; and then it was all left to arbitration, ma’am, and,” said Mehicle, taking a piece of broken scythe in his hand, as if to illustrate his description, “the rascals were bribed, I’m sure; but, however, they made me divide the land into two halves, just now as I might divide this,” making a desperate cut across the ashes, and, of course, through the centre of the cake.

“O, dear, sir! that was terrible,” said she. “I hope they didn’t do any more to your land?”

“O, yes; that was nothing, ma’am. The next brother, Terry, then, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why hasn’t myself as good a right as them two?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and so he went to law, and we did our best, but he bate us, and it was left to arbitration; and then we had to divide our land somehow so,” cutting across again, “or, stop, I’m wrong, there was more of a corner cut off than that—it was more like this;” another sliver, “and there was a wall running across, as it might be so;” and here followed another slice; by this time, too, the cake was pretty well minced.

“O, dear, dear!” said she, “it must have been spylte entirely for you, then, sir;” said she, thinking of the cake.

“O, musha, then! indeed it was, ma’am, not worth one fraction. But that wasn’t half of the misfortune; my youngest brother, Jack, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why,’ says he, ‘why isn’t it mine as much as theirs?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and he went to law, and it was left to arbitration; and they were bribed, and if they were, they made us turn, and mix, and twist it all to and fro, higgeldy piggeldy, in and out, this way and that way, just for all the world like that,” said Mehicle, mixing ashes and cake all up together with the bit of scythe; “and see, now, it’s all destroyed and ruined, and broken up, just like that,” pointing down at the fire.

Mrs. Mungavan was, to be sure, grievously vexed, but said nothing till she went in to her husband.

“O, Brian,” said she, “that’s a terrible man, that man at the fire. He has cut up and spylte your eligant cake, tellin’ me a story;” and here she told her husband how it happened.

“Well, Molly, accidents can’t be helped; but, indeed, faith, I’m very hungry. What else is there in the house?”

“Nothing, agrah, nothing. Them lads eat every bit that we had at dinner—howld on, there’s the cabbage that was boilt with the bacon, and maybe some av the bacon itself.”

“O, that’s right. Is that man in bed?”

“O, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, where’s the bacon and cabbage?”

“In the skillet, near the settle-bed.”

It was rather dark in the room; however, he found the right skillet, which Mehicle watched him putting down, determined, however, to cheat him of it if he could. As soon as Mr. Mungavan had put down the cabbage, he retired to bed, and Mehicle hopped up.

Seeing another skillet near him, he examined it, and, O, joy! it was half full of tar.

In one minute the bacon and cabbage had vanished down his own throat, and in another the tar was beginning to hiss slightly in the skillet on the fire. Just then, said Brian to Molly, “Don’t you think, Molly, agrah, but the cabbage is near bein’ warm enough?”

“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for you?”

“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”

So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly able to bear the pain.

“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well, I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”

In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr. Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands, and get the tar off.

“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s this?”

“O, dear! so you’ve caught me,” said Brian, “who are you?”

“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr. Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’ your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.

“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t! I’ll do any thing you like. Oh! Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’s me that’s here?”

“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle, continuing to beat him.

“O, stop! and God reward you! stop! Sure I’m Mr. Mungavan!”

“O, thunder, and pratees, and buttermilk! Why didn’t you tell me so before! Sure I wouldn’t do such a thing if I didn’t know it was you. Come in to the house. Poor man! are you much hurt?”

And now, many were the explanations on both sides. When they came in, Brian set to work, and called up all that were in the house, as it was now daylight. “And,” said he, “here, in the name of all that’s good and bad, let’s have breakfast, for I’m famished, not to spake of the scaldin’ and batin’ I got; but sure it’s all accidents, and can’t be helped.”

Breakfast was prepared and finished, and Brian got, gradually however, into better humor. But when that was over, his wife called him aside, and said,

“Now, Brian, all these accidents happened through your own fault; so, by all the books in Connemara, you must take my advice to-day. Have a fine dinner, and make them ate and drink enough; and if it’s Eileen that boy wants, faith, he’s a smart young man, and we couldn’t do better. Say you’ll give her a hundred pounds, or two, if one wont satisfy him; but, for goodness sake, give that Mehicle enough to ate.”

What a truly sensible speech was this. Here was the proper view of the question. Brian Mungavan overcame himself for once, and was generous. And there was such a dinner! Eileen took good care of that. Turkeys, geese, and all manner of delicacies, graced the board. Take the words of a contemporaneous poet:⁠—

“Mutton, and good fat bacon

Was there, like turf in creels.”

Or rather in the language of the old song:⁠—

“There was lashins of beef there,

And stammins of sheep there,

And whiskey came pourin’ galore.”

And then it was, when all, including Mr. Mungavan, were in that happy state denominated soft, that Mehicle opened his unerring batteries, never yet known to fail.

Let us merely now wish them a happy wedding; but we somehow cannot help thinking there is in this tale a

MORAL.

Be ever hospitable; but, if you invite a friend or two, beware, when you say “Take away;” for you know not whether some time or another you may not fall in with a Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick.

SONNET.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day,

Where I so late with thee in joyance went,

And gladly thitherward my steps I bent,

Turning me from the dust and din away,

And tracing with a quiet joy each spot

Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me,

A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot⁠—

Places whose every charm was won from thee;

And therefore do I love that grassy way,

And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er,

And as a miser counts his secret store

When darkness has obscured the light of day,

So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night,

Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

THE STOLEN CHILD.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—

And Age as fair a light displays,

When beautiful Love and spotless Truth

Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,

His eyes are dulled before his prime,

And each year leaveth the mark of three,

For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,

By a way-side beggar-crone,

Who wrestled with the reluctant breath

On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,

And clutch the air in her sinewy palms

As if forcing from a miser’s grasp

The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down

Was the little maiden pale and thin

Who stood by her side in a tattered gown

Which let the sharp air in!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,

And shivered like autumn’s leaf,

Trembling with very hunger and pain,

And weeping with fear, not grief!

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,

“What makes you tremble and stare?

Why do you look so angry-eyed

As you strike the empty air?

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!

Your wild and piercing eye!

Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,

There is no one to see me cry!

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?

And why do we walk all day,

And rest at night, if it rain or snow,

In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, why do the village children play

And seem so very glad?

And why are they dressed so clean and gay

While I am so meanly clad?

“Do not their parents beat them too,

To make them moan and cry?

Or are their mothers weaker than you,

And the children stronger than I?

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold

Their little ones on the knee!

I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,

You never did so with me!

“Why am not I as pretty and good

As the little girls in the town?

Are mine the meaner flesh and blood

Because I am burnt so brown?

“And why do they go with happy looks

Up where the chapel stands,

Some with their little shining books

And flowers in their hands?

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!

For often as we go by

Their voices come through the happy air

As if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,

And learn their beautiful words;

I am sure they do not sing for pain

No more than the little birds!

“You know how once we followed them out

To the forest green and gay;

How they danced and sang a song about

The beautiful flowers of May!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free

From hunger, pain and strife;

As a lady once told me I should be

If I lived on honest life!

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,

If we should be angels fair!

But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,

Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often said

You’d kill me yet in some lonely place

If I did not steal—and did not shed

More tear-streams down my face!

“And when in the prison cell we lay,

Because you took the purse,

I remember how I heard you say

A very dreadful curse!

“How then you threatened to take my life

Because I lied not more!

And I remember still the knife

You said you had used before!

“I fear you, mother! more and more!

You groan and give such fearful starts,

Ah, spare me now! and at every door

I’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“But, mother, see, arise, arise!

A carriage comes up the vale;

They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,

Now that you look so pale!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,

And she stood as with hunger wild;

While suddenly burst from the coach a dame

Crying “my child! my child!”

The crone half rose from her dying place,

With her mouth and eyes all wide!

And she knew the injured mother’s face,

Then fell on her own and died!

PART II.

One day in the summer garden fair

The mother and daughter strayed;

With trembling tongue and timid air

Thus spake the little maid.

“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?

And are you really so?

And may a useless way-side weed

In a beautiful garden grow?

“Yes, you have told me all the tale,

How I was stolen away,

And how you grew all thin and pale,

Grieving for many a day!

“Day after day my heart repeats

The story o’er and o’er!

And when you say you love me, it beats

As it never did before!

“Oh, what are all these flowers that load

The bushes with red and white?

There are many growing beside the road,

But none so large and bright!

“Along the fence the alder grows,

To shade the dusty way,

And by the brook the briar blows

Where the cat-bird sings all day!

“Down by the meadows long and wet,

The willow-walks are made;

And now and then a violet

Grows in the willow’s shade.

“The dandelion and mullin bloom

By the glossy buttercups’ bed;

And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plume

With its beautiful tip of red!

“The blackberries grow by the stony wall,

You may pick them as you pass;

The strawberries, too, but so scattered and small

You must hunt them in the grass!

“All these along the highway shine;

And as I see from here

The turnpike’s long and winding line,

My heart sends up a tear!

“For they were the only things to cheer

The long and weary mile!

The only things for many a year

That ever wore a smile!

“Oh, mother, in our idle hours

We’ll wander down the glen,

And I’ll show you some of the simple flowers

That smiled upon me then!

“Come, let us walk by the road and search,

There where the poplars stand;

That I may carry some flowers to church

To-morrow in my hand!

“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lie

In the mound so new and bare,

I’ll slip aside, as we go by,

And quietly lay them there.

“So that if she is up in Heaven,

Singing the angels’ psalms,

She may know that all has been forgiven

By these beautiful bright alms!

“The good man told us, the other day,

We must forgive our foes!

And I forgive her; though she, you say,

Was the mother of my woes!

“I love to hear the church organ blow

When the people rise from their places!

And the children stand in a shining row

And sing with happy faces!

“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoice

Like a blue-bird in the spring;

But when I try to raise my voice

I weep; for I cannot sing!

“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;

But mine has none of such;

It seems more like the wind’s low moan

Of which I have heard so much!

“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,

In my heart I try to pray,

And I whisper o’er those little prayers

You taught me how to say!

“Say, mother, why did the preacher place

His dripping hand on the little child?

And did you not mark its rosy face

How angel-like it smiled?

“When I was so very, very small,

Did you carry me up the aisle,

And when I felt the waters fall,

Say, did I weep or smile?

“And then again in the afternoon

They brought another there,

The while the organ’s solemn tune,

Hung heavy on the air.

“But this one in its coffin lay,

While its mother sobbed aloud;

And its little hands were cold as clay,

And its face was white as its shroud.

“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,

While the pebbles down after it slid;

And, mother, I still can hear the sound

Of the gravel upon the lid!

“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,

And it’s grown to a pleasant noise;

It seems like a loving angel’s call—

And I must obey the voice!”

Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calm

Brought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,

And the great bell tolled its solemn psalm

As they laid her in the ground!

MARGARET’S WELL:

A TALE OF THE GREAT CIVIL WAR.

———

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “THE ROMAN TRAITOR,” “MARMADUKE WYVIL,” ETC.

———

Ay me! For aught that I did ever hear,

Did ever read in tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.

It was toward the close of a lovely summer’s day, in the eventful year of 1643, that a young cavalier might have been seen riding at a slow pace, and in a somewhat sad and thoughtful mood, through a green and winding lane in the pleasant county of Warwick, not far distant from the pastoral banks of famous Avon.

But though the young man’s brow was now overcast and clouded, though his fine gray eye was fixed abstractedly on the mane of his charger, and though a heavy shadow, such as is believed by the superstitious to arise from the prescience of coming fate, gloomed over all his features, it was evident that such an expression was alien to the face, such a mood unusual to the character of the man.

He was as handsome a youth as you might see in a twelvemonth, even in that land, so justly famed for the manly beauty of its sons; tall and well-made, and giving promise of uncommon strength and vigor, when mature manhood should have swelled and hardened his slender form and yet unfurnished muscles. His face was frank and open, with a fair broad forehead, a well-opened, laughing, deep gray eye, and a mouth, the dimpled angles of which could not be divested of their natural tendency to smile, even by the heavy despondency which seemed now to weigh upon his spirit, and alter his whole countenance, even as a sunny landscape is altered by the intervention of a storm-cloud, blotting out all the laughing rays, which gave it mirth and radiance.

He was well-mounted on a horse that seemed adapted, by its mingled blood and bone, to bide the shock of armies, and caparisoned with demipique and holsters, as became the war-steed of an officer. Nor did the rider’s dress, though not what we should now call military, contradict the inferences that would be drawn from the charger’s make and accoutrements; for in his steeple-crowned slouched beaver he wore a single long black feather, and across the left breast of his velvet jerkin a baldrick of blue silk, sustaining a sword of heavier and more war-like fabric than the court rapiers of the day—the baldrick and the feather indicating a partisan of the king, as clearly as the sword and war-horse showed that he was bound on some longer and more perilous adventure than a ride through rich green meadows and among flowery hedge-rows.

He rode quite alone, however, which was at that day something unusual; for the custom of going forth accompanied by several armed servants or retainers, even in times of profound peace, was still prevalent among men of any pretension to gentle birth, and such, unless every indication of natural appearance, gentle bearing, and free demeanor failed, was evidently this young cavalier.

The sun was perhaps still an hour high, and the skies were filled with rich yellow lustre, while all the face of the green country was checkered with bright gleams and massive shadows, according as the level rays streamed gayly over the open fields, or were intercepted by the undulations of the ground, the frequent clumps of trees and patches of dark woodland, or the thick hawthorn hedges which diversified that pleasant landscape, when the lane which the young man followed began to rise rapidly over the eastern slope of a steep hill or down, the summit of which, a bare wild sheep-pasture, cut clear and solid against the rich gleam of the sunset heavens.

Here, for the first time, the youth raised his eyes, and after casting a rapid glance over the evening skies, as if to read the hour in the fading hues of day, checked his horse with the curb, and touching him at the same time lightly with the spur, cantered up the ascent with more animation in his air than he had hitherto displayed, and with a slight gesture of impatience, as if at the unexpected lateness of the hour.

A few minutes rapid riding brought him to the edge of the bare down, which was in fact a mere ridge, with but a few level yards at the summit, beyond these, sinking down almost precipitately into a singular lap or basin of land, nearly circular in form, and about two miles in diameter, walled in as it were from the external world, on every side, by tall, bare, grassy downs, treeless and bleak, without a sign of human habitation or of human culture, and limiting the range of the eye to that narrow and cheerless horizon.

Looking downward into the hollow, the scene was, however, entirely different; for all the bottom of the basin, and all the lower slopes of the hills were covered with dark shadowy woods, the gigantic trees and massive foliage of which bore witness alike to their great antiquity, and to the mild and favorable situation, sheltered from every wind of heaven, which had induced their unusual growth. The hills at this hour intercepted all the light of the setting sun, and the whole space within the valley was filled with a misty purple shadow; through which, from out the glades and skirts of the black woods, the silvery gleam of many clear, still ponds met the eye; and beyond these, nearly in the centre of the landscape, the tall gables and twisted chimneys of an old dark-red Hall, with a solitary column of blue smoke soaring up straight into the cloudless sky, arose the only indication in that wild scene of the vicinity of any human being.

But although we have paused a moment on the bare brow of Clavering Edge, to point the reader’s eye to this sequestered spot, the youth in whose company we have journeyed hither made no such pause; but, too familiar with the scenery, perhaps too impatient to reach the end of his ride, turned his horse’s head short to the left, and trotted, as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit, along a faintly marked foot-path which traversed the hill-side in a diagonal line, the steepness of the declivity forbidding any more direct progress to the bottom, leading to a narrow gorge which ran half way up the ascent, feathered with rich dark timber.

As soon as he reached the covert of the woodland he dismounted, and leading his horse a little way aside from the path, fastened him by the chain of his cavalry head-stall to a tall ash-tree in the centre of a thick coppice. Then, with a rapid step, he hurried down the path, which became every moment more clearly defined, as it followed a clear, rapid brook of slender volume along the gorge, which gradually widened into a beautiful wooded valley. Within ten minutes he came to a tall park paling of solid oaken plank, at least ten feet in height, all overrun with the giant ivy which flourishes so verdantly in such moist situations, affording access to the park within only by a low wooden portal, closed by an antique iron lock of large dimensions.

This formidable barrier was, however, easily passed by the cavalier; the lock giving way readily, and notwithstanding its rusty guise smoothly enough, to a key which he drew from the bosom of his jerkin. Before opening it altogether he paused, however, for a moment, and gazed anxiously through the chink, to see, as it would seem, if there was any one observing him. Then, satisfied that all was safe, he passed in quickly, closing the door with a noiseless hand behind him, but taking especial care not to lock it against his own egress.

Within, the scenery was very beautiful, though still impressed with the same character of loneliness, and almost weighing on the spirits by its unnatural and almost awful silence and repose. The glen expanded rapidly, sloping from the park palings downward toward the mansion, but so thick were the woods on either slope and in the bottom, that nothing could be distinguished in the foreground but the huge trunks of the giant oaks and beeches, with the tall lady fern growing in rank luxuriance under them, nor any thing in the distance but the twilight foliage of their heads, as they descended rank below rank in the great amphitheatre. Even at this early hour, indeed, that deeply wooded dell would have already been as dark as midnight, save that adown its centre there ran a chain of long, narrow, shallow fish-ponds, each raised by a dam above that next below it, until they reached the level bottom-ground; all overarched, it is true, with shadowy branches, but all reflecting the last western gleam which stole in through the arch of leaves, dark as the portal of some gothic aisle, through which the eye caught a glimpse of a smooth grassy lawn, glimmering in the dewy twilight.

Between the young man and the head of this chain of ponds there lay a belt of thick alders, with here and there a stunted willow, fringing the margin of the brook which fed them, and separating it from the path which gave access to them from above, and to the lawn below, and thence to the gardens and the Hall.

Along this path he now bounded with a fleet and impatient step, as if anxious to discover something which might be hidden from his eye by its leafy barrier; a few paces brought him to the termination of the brake, and to a large clear tank, immediately beyond it, fed by the brook, and itself the feeder of the calm pools below. It was perhaps three yards in length, by two in breadth, walled on all sides with solid masonry, and partly covered at the head over the inlet of the stream by a groined arch of stone-work; on every side the ground sloped down to it, covered with deep rank grass; and above it six or seven enormous elm trees shadowed it with a constant gloom. The water within was as transparent as glass, showing the sandy bottom in all parts, though of extraordinary depth, with the pure cold springs boiling up from a dozen little whirlpools, and sending their trains of sparkling bubbles, like the tails of so many comets, through the limpid darkness of the pool.

And here, once more, the young man paused, and gazed anxiously about him, and down the walk toward the quiet lawn. Then seeing that he was alone, and that there was no person in sight, even at a distance, he cast himself down on the turf at the foot of one of the great elms, where the shadows would conceal him from any casual observer’s glance; crossed his arms on his breast with a sort of impatient resignation, and muttered to himself half angrily⁠—

“It is past the hour, and yet she is not here. Oh! if she knew, if she but knew what a hell it enkindles in my heart to be kept waiting, to be set doubting, to be tormented thus. But no!” he added in a moment, as if reproving his own vehemence. “No, no! something has fallen wrong—something has hindered or delayed her. And yet what should it be? Can we have been betrayed, discovered? God!” he exclaimed, springing again to his feet, “Great God, forgive me! as I cannot endure this any longer. Away with my word, when hers is broken thus! away! I will go seek her even in⁠—”

But as he made the first motion to take the path leading toward the house, his impetuosity was arrested, and his rash speech cut off, by the apparition of a figure entering the verdant arch from the lawn, and advancing with a slow and hesitating step, as if timid or reluctant, toward the tank and the upper glen.

The young man’s heart beat rapidly and high, as that form, distinguishable only in the increasing duskiness of evening by its relief against the twilight sky, entered the green arcade; and it was a minute or two before he could discern with any certainty the sex, much less the identity of the person approaching him.

There is, however, in the senses of a lover something intuitive, that can for the most part discern unerringly the presence of the beloved object, by sounds, by signs, perhaps even by perfumes, so slight as to be imperceptible to any one, whose every nerve were not supernaturally sharpened by the influence of passion. Something it must have been of this amorous prescience, which rendered the cavalier almost certain, long ere the eye could inform him, that the figure approaching was no other than the person to meet whom he had ridden hither, and whose delay had caused him so much anxiety.

Nor was he deceived; for ere long the fluttering of female habiliments, might be distinguished clearly, and in another moment the well-known sounds of the light gentle footstep, and the silvery tones of the soft low voice assured him.

He bounded from his covert to meet her, and she too quickened her step, as she saw and recognized her lover.

She was as beautiful a girl, of some eighteen or nineteen years, as ever gladdened the eye of man. Considerably taller than the ordinary height of women, her figure, although very delicate and slender, with feet and ankles of the smallest and most fairy model, was yet so exquisitely rounded, so perfect in the rise and fall of every graceful and voluptuous outline, that it was not until you stood beside her, and compared her stature with your own, that you perceived how far she overtopped her fellow fair ones in height as in beauty. Her face was of perfect Grecian outline, with large soft gentle eyes, like violets surcharged with dew, and a mouth the most beautiful that ever adorned a female face, both for shape, color and expression; an expression so soft and so wooing that it would almost have been thought sensual, but for the candid artless innocence, not all unblended with a touch of pensive melancholy, which breathed from every other feature of that most lovely and love-inspiring countenance.

Her hair, profuse even to redundance, of the richest and sunniest brown, with a golden tinge running through it where it met the light, fell down in soft and silky masses on either side of the pale oval face and the swan-like neck, and waved in floods of heavy ringlets over the splendid arch of her falling shoulders, and the dazzling fairness of her bust, so far as it was shown by the square cut bodice of her dark velvet dress.

“Margaret,” said the young man, as he sprang forward joyously to meet her, “my own sweet Margaret, is it at length thou? Oh! I have so long tarried, and so⁠—”

“Sorely tormented thyself, Lionel,” interrupted the fair girl, “is it not so? tormented thyself with fears of I know not what, and doubts of poor Margaret, that thou wert even half mad, between jealousy and apprehension! Now out upon thee for a self-tormentor, and most discourteous knight, to misdoubt thus thy true lady’s word! For did I not promise thee, Lionel?” she added, laying aside the playful air in which she had at first addressed him, and speaking now in the gentle but earnest tones of pure calm affection, “did I not promise that I would meet you here this evening, and when did I ever fail in my promise? Oh! Lionel,” she continued, laying her hand fondly on his arm, and looking full into his eyes with those large dark orbs of hers swimming in mournful languor, “how, when I see you thus fiercely moved, thus rendered doubtful and suspicious and unhappy by things of so slight moment, how can I hope that you will bear the real crosses and afflictions, the genuine woes and trials, of which so great a portion of life is composed, with that serene and manly dignity, that resolute and noble patience which alone in the end can make yourself or those who love you happy? Oh! cast this temper, Lionel, nay but subdue it altogether; and do not, do not, my beloved, make me too doubt and tremble for my future.”

“Beautiful counsellor,” he answered, “I listen to your eloquent words, your womanly and graceful counsels, and while I listen, I would swear to guard them as my soul’s best guides; would swear to abide by them forever; but when once your lovely face has vanished from before my eyes, when once your sweet voice sounds in my ears no longer, when I am once again alone, and all around me is left void and cheerless, then my heart burns apace, and my imagination darkens, and of my very craving and insatiate desire for your dear presence grows fear of every thing on earth, and almost doubt of every thing in heaven. But be once mine, let the dark dread of losing you forever be effaced from my mind, and you shall see me calm and patient as—as thyself, my own Margaret.”

“Ah you are selfish, Lionel,” she answered. “Your very love makes you selfish, and in the warmth of your own passions, in the anxiety of your own impatience, you forget that I too have my trials to endure, that I too wax at times impatient under the cold constraints, the small punctualities that fetter me, that I too—” and she paused in beauteous hesitation for a moment, until she marked the pleading glance, which he cast to her eyes—“that I too love, and dare not disclose that love, Lionel.”

“Ay, that is it,” he replied moodily. “All my requests are ever met with ‘I dare not;’ all my affections cast back coldly on my heart with ‘my duty.’ I know not how these things should be; I am a poor casuist, Margaret, but I can feel; and I do feel that to genuine, honest, deep-souled true love, there is nothing that may not be dared—that to the plighted there can be no higher duty⁠—”

“Peace, Lionel,” returned the fair girl, gravely, almost severely; “for if you will speak thus to me, I must not, and I will not hear you. You know that, from the first, when I owned that my heart was yours, and promised that my hand should be so likewise, I told you plainly that although nor force, nor flattery, nor fraud, should ever make me the wife of another, yet never would I swerve from a daughter’s obedience, though my heart-strings should burst asunder in the strife between my love and my duty. You know all this of old, dear Lionel; then wherefore torture yourself thus, and afflict me, by these wild and unprofitable outbreaks. You are assured that I love you, with all the truth and strength of a young maid’s first affection; you have my promise to be yours, or to die a heart-widowed maiden; you know, that the obstacles between us are no wise insurmountable; that my good father, although somewhat over tenacious, and self willed on points which he deems essential, is kind and gracious; that he loved you well⁠—”

“Loved me!” exclaimed the young man, impetuously, “loved me! ay! fondled me when I was a curled stripling, as one would fondle an ape or a popinjay! loved me, forsooth! until he found that I aspired to his fair daughter’s hand, and then—spurned me—spurned me from his door like a nameless cur! Loved me! Great God! I marvel at you, Margaret!”

“And I both marvel at you, and grieve for you, Lionel,” cried the fair girl, indignantly. “You are unkind, unreasonable, and ungenerous. I thought you had come hither to say farewell, before riding forth to win honor in the field of loyalty; I thought you had come hither to speak kindly with the woman you pretend to love, the woman whom you may not see again for months, for years, perhaps forever. I thought you had come hither as a man, to console a fond girl’s sorrows, to point a sad girl’s hopes, to strengthen a frail girl’s weakness. I thought you had come hither, nobly and manfully, and generously, as it should beseem the king’s cavalier, to give and to derive strength for the endurance of long separation, the struggling against hard trial—and how do I find you, captious, unreasonable, jealous-spirited, unkind—seeking to afflict, not to console; to take away, not to give hope; to unnerve, not to strengthen. Now, out upon you, Lionel, I say—out upon you, and for shame! Is this the frame of mind wherein a gentleman should part from the lady of his love? Is this the high prophetic spirit which pointed you erewhile to fields of honor, and to deeds of glory, which should perforce win the consent—the reluctant consent, if you will—of my father, and compel him to be proud of his daughter’s chosen husband, even as he was fond of his daughter’s youthful playmate? Out upon you, I say, Lionel. It almost shames me to confess that I have loved, to confess that I still love one so high and spirited to aim at great things afar off, so faint-souled when it comes to the touch to win them.”

She spoke fervently, indignantly; and as she spoke her tall form seemed to dilate to a grander and more majestic height, and her soft blue eye flashed, and her pale cheek kindled with the glow of proud and generous emotion.

Lionel gazed at her half in admiration, half in wonder; for though he had seen her in many moods, and admired her loveliness in many guises, never had he seen so much of animation, so much of high-born, haughty fire in her air, as at this moment; yet, though his mind was moved by her eloquent words, and his heart touched by the justice of her tender, although spirited remonstrance, he answered again ungenerously, resisting the promptings of his better nature, which would have led him to cast himself down at her feet, and confess his injustice and ill-temper; but no, man to the last, unjust to woman, he kicked against the pricks of conscience, and said harshly,

“Proud! proud!—you are proud, too, Margaret. There spoke the temper of Sir Hugh! There spoke the haughty heart of the proud Claverings.”

“And God forbid,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a firm yet melancholy eye, “that in my tongue should not speak the temper of my noble father—for it is a temper all of loyalty, and nobleness, and honor. God forbid that in my breast there should not beat the haughty heart of the Claverings, for in their haughtiness to the high they ever have borne themselves humbly to the low; and in their pride toward the proud and great, they ever have protected the poor and the forlorn. God forbid, I say, Lionel Thornhill, God forbid that I should not be proud—for I am proud only of gentle blood, and gentle deeds, and honorable bearing. And you, too, sir, should rejoice in that pride of mine; for had I not been proud, too proud to value wealth, or rank, or title, apart from that nobility of soul which alone gives them value, proud enough to esteem the man of my choice, honored by his own virtues only, and his innate and natural grandeur, far above loftier suitors, then had I never said to thee, ‘I do love, Lionel,’ never had brought my pride to be humbled thus, by reproach whence I should have met gratitude; by insult, whence I should have looked for support. But it matters not. If I have erred, I can retrace my steps; and I have erred, sir, erred fearfully, if not fatally. I fancied you all that was high and great, all that was generous and gentle, all that was true and tender, all that was chivalrous and courteous. I worshiped you almost as a god; my eyes are opened, and I find you—a mere man!—and a man of no manly mould. We have both been mistaken, Lionel. You never have known me in my strength, nor I you in your weakness. But I will neither upbraid nor explain. Better to part now forever, with warm hearts, and no unkindly feelings, than to be linked irretrievably together, and find, too late, that we are uncongenial souls, and wear out years of bickering and growing coldness, and hate, perhaps, before we die⁠—”

“Hate!” exclaimed Lionel, now alarmed by her earnestness, despite his wayward mood, and fearful, at length, that he had gone too far—“and could you hate? could you hate me, Margaret?”

“I could do more,” she replied, “I told you that you know me not. I could despise, if I found you worthless.”

“But I am not—I am not worthless, Margaret. Great God! I worthless! I who would lay down life to win honor, honor itself to win you⁠—”

“To lay down honor were the way to lose, not win me.”

“You are unjust now, Margaret. You go about to put constructions on my words, to warp my phrases from their meaning, to torture my thoughts into evil. You are unjust and ungenerous, and unkind. I will waste neither words nor affection on you any longer—hate me you may, despise me if you can, proud girl; but you shall not wring my heart thus. I cast you from me in your pride—I renounce you. Go, go, unkind and haughty creature, go to your gothic halls, and gaze upon your long descended portraits, cherish your little pride with the details of bygone greatness; go, and confess to your overbearing father that you have been but a degenerate daughter, to stoop even in thought so low as to a beggarly Thornhill; go, and console his wounded pride by your repentance; go, and profess your willingness to be the bride of titled imbecility and noble baseness, in his chosen suitor. Go, I say, go, Margaret Clavering. Go, and forget that Lionel Thornhill, whom you once swore to love forever—that Lionel Thornhill, who now gives you back your oath. Go, Margaret Clavering, go; and farewell for ever.”

“Farewell, Lionel Thornhill.”

And with a calm demeanor and firm step, but with a heart so full that she fancied it would burst at every step she made to leave him, the fair girl turned away. It was a mighty, mighty effort, and her brain reeled dizzily, and a mist darkened her eyes. “My God,” she moaned within her heart, “My God, how have I loved this man, that he should thus deal with me; but it is better, it is better so to part, and God will give me strength to bear it.” And without looking once behind her, she walked in bitterness of spirit down that dim walk, which she had not an hour before ascended full of glad thoughts and joyous aspirations; convinced in her own mind that this was, indeed, a final rupture between herself and her impetuous and reckless lover, and thoroughly determined that she would neither return nor relent, unless on the exhibition of an altered and amended spirit on the part of him whom she indeed loved with all the sincere and earnest depth of a mind as powerful as it was pure, but of whose many faults of character and temper she was already but too painfully aware.

Nor was this resolve on her part in any degree the result of any idle coquetry, or weak and unworthy desire to try her lover’s patience, or exert her influence over him. It was rather the consequence of a perception which had been long gaining upon her, that the spirit of Lionel, although high-toned and ambitious of good and high ends, and full of noble aspirations, was yet altogether deficient in stability and self-reliance; that his character was marred by a sort of jealous irritability and impatience, and that he was in no small danger of becoming in the end that most unhappy and unamiable of beings, a self-doubter, and a doubter of all around him.

It had been well, perhaps, for her, had nothing occurred to break her resolution, but so it was not, not so was it like to be; for the quarrels of lovers are proverbially of brief duration, and the temper of Lionel was as placable as it was easily excited.

Margaret Clavering had not, therefore, gone twenty paces on her homeward path, ere a fleet foot sounded behind her, an arm was thrown about her slender waist, and her repentant lover was at her feet.

Five minutes more and all was forgiven and forgotten; and, arm-in-arm, the young and beautiful pair sauntered back to the edge of the deep tank, and there seated beneath the shade of the gigantic elms, sat till the evening had closed in dark around them, weaving a tissue of gay prospects for the future, exchanging protestations of eternal faith, and consoling and confirming each the other with promises of perfect confidence, and resolute endurance of whatever should befall them.

Before they parted, neither of the two entertained a doubt that Lionel’s career under the banner of his lawful monarch, displayed, alas! in civil war against his own rebellious subjects, and the glories which he would achieve with his good sword, would reconcile Sir Hugh, in due season, to the comparatively obscure birth and lowly fortunes of his daughter’s suitor; and that time alone and constancy were needed to insure to both ultimate and eternal happiness. Rings were exchanged, and locks of dark and golden hair; and it was understood between them, that in case of any sudden need, or perilous emergency, at sight of his ring returned to him by a trusty messenger, Lionel Thornhill should return hither with all speed of horse and man, and look to meet his faithful mistress—faithful through life and unto death, by that same tank, on whose green edge they parted. They parted, with many a tear, and many a fond embrace. They parted! When shall they meet again, and how?

A year had passed since Margaret and her lover parted; a year of incessant strife and warfare throughout England; a year of suffering and sorrow and trial to the fair young girl, such as she never had endured before, since the day of her joyous childhood. The war, which had raged at first so fiercely in the western counties, had now, by the partial success of the royal arms, swept inland; and the royal host lay at Oxford where the court was assembled, and where the loyal parliament, for there were now two parliaments in the distracted kingdom, held their sittings. Tidings were, it is true, in those days carried to and fro with difficulty; split up as the whole country was by borough towns and hamlets, by the castles of the great, and the cottages of the poor, between the two contending factions; still, in spite of this, those who were interested in the fortunes of the contending armies, or in the fate of friends or relatives engaged on either side, contrived to ascertain which way the tide of events was setting, and of which host on every stricken field, the more and nobler victims had gone down before the merciless surge of civil fury.

On the latter point, unhappily, the tale, for the most part, ran one way; for while the parliamentarians, even in their most galling and disastrous routs, lost only a few low-born fanatics, pimple-nosed serving-men, as Oliver himself has set down the bulk of the rebel forces, small shop-keepers, or broken farmers; the king’s army, even in its most glorious victories, had to deplore the fall of the good, the great, the far-descended, and the noble; so that for one man of quality and parts, and education, who had gone down on the rebel side, twenty of higher rank, and equal merit, probity, and valor, had been lost to the king’s supporters.

It may be easily imagined, therefore, what must have been the constant agony of Margaret, as day after day brought tidings of some desperate skirmish or well-fought pitched battle, or some fierce onslaught, or slow famished leaguer; while weeks, perhaps, nay, months, elapsed before the names of those who had fallen were clearly ascertained, to relieve the breasts of the happy from anguish for a while, and to plunge their hapless neighbors in that only sorrow for which there is no earthly medicine.

Thus far, that last stroke had been spared to Margaret; nay, hitherto from all that she had learned of her lover’s career in arms, she had derived unmixed satisfaction, and had been led at first to form sanguine hopes of the accomplishment of all her wishes.

From his first action to the last of which the tidings had arrived at Clavering-in-the-Hollow, he had distinguished himself by his spirit, his coolness and judgment in the council-chamber, and his fiery, impetuous ardor on the battle-field. From a captain in Colonel Bagot’s regiment of horse he had risen so rapidly, as to be given the command of that regiment, on the appointment of the gallant officer who raised it to be governor of Litchfield.

For a while, as Sir Hugh Clavering noted the encomiums passed on the conduct of the young man, whom he had, indeed, loved until he discovered what he considered his presumption, in aspiring to his daughter’s hand, he had expressed some pleasure; for he was of a generous and noble temper, although stern, unyielding, and exacting, and had even, on the occasion of his promotion, declared at the supper-table, when the news reached him, not without something of self-gratulation at his own prescient sagacity, that he had always foreseen that Lionel Thornhill would do great things, and rise to honor, should opportunity be vouchsafed, and fortune favor him.

Unfortunately, however, poor Margaret, delighted at hearing her lover’s praises flowing from that unaccustomed tongue, had displayed her emotion and her joy so visibly in her flushed cheeks, clasped hands, and sparkling eyes, that the stern old baronet at once perceived his error—an error into which he would not have fallen, had he not been well assured, from the unconscious manner and absolute tranquillity of his sweet child, that absence, and time, joined to the knowledge of his determination, had eradicated all the traces of her misplaced and, as he hoped, transient passion from the maiden’s breast.

Once satisfied that such was not the case, with the decisive, energetic obstinacy, which was his principal characteristic, he had resolved to compel her at once to an union which he had long desired to bring about, but which was so repugnant to his daughter, whom, in spite of his severity, he loved more dearly than any thing else on earth, that although he had often given her to understand that it must be at some future time, he had yet so continually delayed, and so entirely forborne to press it, that she had begun to regard it rather in the light of an old story adhered to from pertinacity, but in truth signifying nothing, than as a real peril, immediate, and threatening her happiness.

Now, however, changing his plans on the instant, he constantly invited the suitor of his choice to Clavering, though still without speaking on the subject at all to Margaret; encouraged him to persist in his attentions, in spite of the coldness, and sometimes of the aggressive impertinence of the overwrought maiden, and directed the servants to treat Sir Andrew Acton in all respects as the future husband of his daughter, and as their future master.

Margaret was not slow to perceive the meaning of these machinations, yet she hoped still, although they wrought upon her spirit fearfully, wrought even on her health, and dimmed the resplendence of her dazzling beauty, that by patience and self-control, and the calm endurance of a noble mind, she should be enabled to protract matters at least until something should fall out which might give her an advantage over her persecutors, in the deep and wily game they were playing against her.

Thus time wore onward, until the latter days of autumn, the autumn of 1644, were fast approaching. The dark woods of Clavering-in-the-Hollow had changed their deep garniture of summer greenery for the sere and melancholy russet; the dead leaves came whirling slowly down through the still and misty atmosphere, and lay in thick decaying masses, red and rank, over the steamy grass. The solitary fish-ponds were veiled by the white vapors which hung over them even at noonday; and a faint mouldering, earthy odor, reminding those who perceived it of the scent of a burial-vault, dwelt heavily among the deep, moist woodlands, and rendered those wild wood-paths, which were so cool and attractive in the budding days of early spring-time, and the fierce heats of summer, loathsome and almost insalubrious.

Even in the open lawns and trim terraced gardens which surrounded the old hall, the faint and sickly sunshine fell but for a few hours at mid-day, and then with a melancholy and as it would seem reluctant lustre.

A gloomy place, and solitary at the best, in such a season, was Clavering-in-the-Hollow; but now it was doubly so, from the total absence of all animation, all sound, or show of human life within its precincts. Old age, and fast growing infirmities had long since debarred Sir Hugh from his once loved field-sports; sons he had none, nor nephews, nor kindred, except his one fair daughter; and thence it was, that no baying of the merry fox-hound was ever heard in those deep glades and tangled dingles; no ringing report of the birding-piece or carbine awoke the echoes of the bare downs above; no merry cavalcades of gorgeous cavaliers and merry ladies, with falcon on fist, and spaniel at heel, were ever seen sweeping over those solitary lawns, and filling those lonely places with sounds and sights of beauty.

Sir Hugh mused ever by the hearth, or pondered over some huge tome of heraldry, or told old legends of his youth, sternly and briefly, and with none of the garrulity of complacent old age, to the dull ears of Sir Andrew, who, now almost a constant inmate of the Hall, listened unmoved and stolid to tales intended for the most part to urge him on to something of action or exertion; too indolent and listless for field sports, too dull and unintellectual to take delight in books or paintings, he would lounge away half the morning playing at shovel-board, his right hand against his left; or setting the terriers and mastiffs by the ears, or quaffing mighty tankards of toast and ale, until the dinner hour should subject poor Margaret to the petty persecution of his unmeaning speeches, his simpering smiles, and his impertinent assumptions, which she affected not to perceive, and treated with indifference, unless absolutely thrust upon her, and then with cool contempt.

Meanwhile it was observed by the old servants, who worshiped the very ground on which she trod, that, although in the presence of her father and of that hated suitor she bore up with a brave front against those small, and mean, and irritating persecutions, which act on a high and noble spirit as the incessant drip of water on the intrenchant granite, that although she was calm and self-possessed, and dignified, nay, at times quick and high-spirited, and prompt at eloquent and cutting repartee, she was, when left alone, another creature.

She, whose whole nature, in old days, was gentleness and woman mirthfulness, who never could walk across a room, or athwart a grassy lawn, but her gay soul would send her bounding like a happy fawn in some unpremeditated dance-steps; she, whose lips poured forth, not from the lack of thought, but from the very superfluity of fancy, one constant stream of blithe imaginative song, would now sit brooding for whole mornings in dark silence, with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes, hard and tearless, and abstracted, riveted on those thin, wan, burning fingers; hearing no sounds from without, and if forced to lend her attention, starting with a wild stare from her revery, and gazing around her like one awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, and answering sullenly, querulously, and at times even harshly to addresses of the kindest meaning.

Evening after evening, when she could escape, favored by the deep musings of her father, and the deeper potations of Sir Andrew, she would wander away into the deep, moist woods, heedless of the chill dews and loathsome mists, roaming the desolate paths like an unquiet ghost, and terminating still her melancholy walks at the margin of that deep, transparent tank, beside which she had parted from her lover.

The old forester at first, who had known and loved her mother when she was as young and as fair, and almost as wretched as her miserable child, was wont to follow her steps at a distance, so deeply was he impressed with the idea that all was not right with her gentle spirit; and he had whispered once into the ear of a fellow-servitor, as old and as faithful as himself, that he had seen her make strange gestures with her hands, and noticed that her lips moved constantly without giving utterance to a sound.

But it was not long before she discovered that she was watched; and the moment she discovered it, assuming instantly her usual calm and graceful dignity, she turned about, left the path which she was following, and walked directly up to the old man, where he stood half concealed by the boll of a huge oak, and alarmed now at the consequence of his own precaution.

Fixing her soft eyes mournfully, and with half reproachful glance, on those of the old servant, she laid her hand lightly on his arm, and said, with an attempt to be playful, as of old, which was in truth most melancholy, “Ah, I have found you out for all your hiding, Jeremy. So you were watching me in these wild woods;” and then altering her tone in an instant, as if she had become aware that the effort was in vain, “but no,” she added, “no, no—you are mistaken; I am not mad, indeed I am not mad, only most miserable; though God knows, and he only, how soon they may make me mad also. Now listen to me, Jeremy, you must promise me here, and now, that you will do from this time forth whatever I may ask of you. I know that in old times you were good to my mother, and now, God help me, unless it be you alone, there is no one left to be good to her daughter. Say, will you promise me, old Jeremy?”

“I will—I will, Mistress Margaret,” replied the old man, moved even to tears by the earnest incoherency of her address. “I will, if they kill me for it! I will do what you bid me, though it be to lose my own life, or—” and he bent his brows darkly, and clenched his hand and repeated in a deep whisper, “or—or to take that of others!”

For one moment she gazed at him so wistfully and so wildly, that he imagined that he had hit upon her meaning, and that she only lacked the nerve to speak out her desire openly. He fixed his eye, therefore, firmly and confidently on hers, and tapping the butt of the heavy cross-bow, which lay in the hollow of his left arm, with the fore-finger of his right, “There is no doubt,” he said, “nor any danger. I can send a broad arrow through his heart, as he rides home some night in his cups, I warrant me, and none the wiser.”

“Hush! hush!” replied the girl severely. “You must not speak of such things, nor I think of them. You misunderstand me, and offend me.” But it was remarkable that her cheek did not pale, nor her lip quiver, nor her soft eye blanch, nor any start of disgust or horror shake her frame, at that dark and bloody proposition. A little month before, and she had recoiled in awe and loathing, had fled in utter scorn and hatred from any one who should have dared to impute such meaning to her words. But now she listened calmly, and though she refused and rebuked the offer, she did so with an unmoved and deliberate demeanor, as if she were herself familiar with thoughts of blood and death; as if she had accustomed herself to envisage such ideas calmly, perchance herself to look at man’s worst enemy or best friend, as it may be, no longer through a glass darkly, but steadily, and face to face.

It must have been, indeed, strange misery, awful despair, which had changed a being so merry and innocent, so delicate and womanly, and gentle, into one so resolved and stern, and so calm in her resolution, whether for good or evil.

“No, no,” she continued, “you must promise me, in the first place, never to follow or watch my steps any more, but, on the contrary, to observe others, lest they do so; and if you see or suspect any one attempting it, frustrate or intercept him. Do you promise me this?”

“I swear it.”

“It is well. Now tell me, how long shall it take, with the utmost speed of man and horse, taking relays wherever they may be had, to reach Oxford.”

“I will be bound to do it, Mistress Margaret, between sunrise to-morrow and noon the third day hence; a younger man might do it quicker by well nigh a day; but I am near to fourscore years old now, and my limbs grow stiff, and my breath fails, but my will is good, lady, and my heart is as stout as ever.”

“I doubt it not, Jeremy; and that will do right well. Now mark me. I may have need to send ere long to Oxford a messenger whom I can trust, and may have no occasion to speak with you. See, here is gold, thirty broad pieces. Now observe this ring which I wear; if I send it to you at any hour of night or day, or give it you myself, or drop it in your path that you find it, tarry not for one moment, but take horse and ride—and ride for life, for life, and—” here she dropped her voice, and caught the old man by his hand, and whispered in his ear—“bear it to Lionel Thornhill, and with your own hand place it in his hand. Do you mark?—Do you comprehend? Will you do my bidding?”

“If life and limb hold out, I will.”

“Enough! I ask no more. God’s blessing on your head, and a lone orphan’s prayers for your spirit’s rest, if you be true—the curse of Judas on your soul if you betray me. Farewell, and remember.”

She wrung his hard hand, and turned away abruptly, and rushed homeward with a heart perhaps a little lighter that it had unbosomed thus to a true ear something of its sorrows. In the meantime events were drawing on rapidly, and the crisis was at hand yet more nearly and more suddenly than she imagined.

When the supper-bell rang, which it did within ten minutes after her return, and she descended into the great hall, she found her father, instead of sitting, as usual, in his large arm-chair by the fireside half dozing, was striding to and fro across the oaken floor, speaking with great animation, and holding in his hand a news-letter, as the rare and incomplete gazettes of the time were called, while Acton, listless as usual, and without one spark of animation apparent in his inert but handsome features, sat toying with a terrier dog, and provoking it to bite at his fingers, and then beating it for doing so.

“Have you news from the host, father,” cried she, as she saw how he was employed, “is it well for the good cause?”

“Great news, and gallant doings, daughter,” replied the old man quickly. “Basing-House has been gloriously relieved by valiant Colonel Gage, and a small band of partisans, who have slain thrice their number of the Roundheads; and the king’s army has gone into winter-quarters with higher hopes than it has yet had cause to entertain of bringing this war to a close in the next campaign.”

“Great news, indeed, and happy. Let me see the news-letter, father.”

“Not now, not now, darling,” replied the old man; “let us to table now, the goose-pie is growing cold, and your lover here has been looking angrily at the baron of beef these ten minutes.”

“My lover!” she exclaimed, in tones of ineffable disdain, and gazed on him with wide eyes of cold astonishment.

“A very true, if a very humble one, fair Mistress Margaret,” replied the indolent baronet, sauntering up to her, and offering his hand to lead her to the table.

“No one can be a lover of mine, Sir Andrew,” she replied, very shortly, “who is not a lover of honor also. In times like these, no lady should smile on any suitor but him who dares the furthest, and does the most for the king’s cause;” and refusing his offered hand, she walked by herself to her place, and did the honors of the coming meal, which passed in gloomy and unsocial silence.

When it was ended, however, and they had all retired into the withdrawing-room where the lamps were lighted, and a wood-fire sparkling cheerfully, Margaret possessed herself of the forgotten news-letter, while her father returned to his heraldic musings, and the baronet applied himself to seek consolation for his late rebuff, in the ample spiced posset, which was set, with wine and comfits and manchet-bread, on the board before him.

Suddenly, springing to her feet in great excitement, and letting the news-letter, which she yet held in her hand, fall by her side at arm’s length, Margaret cried out in shrill tones,

“Why, father, dearest father, why, I beseech you, did you not tell me this, for this is, indeed, great news”—and she burst into a flood of passionate tears; but they were tears of joy. Alas! alas! poor Margaret, the last tears of joy that she should thenceforth shed forever.

“What, what!” cried the old man, startled by her vehemence, and by her sudden fit of weeping, “what tidings? I did tell you, surely.”

“Not,” she returned, forgetting every thing in the joy of the moment, “not that our friend and neighbor, Colonel Thornhill, has been stricken a banneret by the king’s own hand, for his glorious deeds in the relief of Basing-House; not that he has been ennobled, and created a baronet—Thornhill of Thornhill-Royal. Oh, happy, happy day!”—and again she burst into tears, and clasped her hands to her heart, as if she were fearful that it would burst from the excess of happiness.

“And, I beseech you, what may it concern Mistress Margaret Clavering,” asked silly Andrew Acton, “that a beggerly gentleman, scarcely a gentleman, indeed, at all, should be rapped over the costard with the flat of an old rapier, under a rag of painted bunting?”

“What does it concern me, sir?” she burst forth, her eyes lightning glorious indignation as she spoke, “that my promised husband has won deathless honor, by his good sword, in a great and righteous cause? Whom should it, then, concern—or what should concern me more than such tidings?”

“Your promised husband, Mistress Margaret!”

“Your promised husband, minion!” thundered Sir Hugh, in almost inarticulate fury.

“My promised husband!”

“I thought I had that honor!” faltered the witless baronet.

“You thought, sir—you thought!” she replied, contemptuously. “This is the first time I have ever heard that you thought at all! Now, mark me well, Sir Andrew Acton, and let it, I pray you, be once and for all. I think you never asked me to become your wife; and I know, that if you had done so, and if you had been a man and a gentleman, instead of a paltroon and a winebibber, and almost an idiot, I had made answer, as I make answer now—never! never! never! The wife of the grave, if God will it so, but the wife of Sir Andrew Acton, never! Now are you answered, sir? If you are, and if you have one drop of gentle blood in your veins, one touch of gentle feeling in your heart, you will torment me no further, but begone, and leave me, as you have made me, wretched.”

But he simpered, and stood there unabashed, dangling his bonnet, and shuffling his feet, and making no movement to withdraw, until Sir Hugh, who saw that the decisive moment had arrived, bowed his head gravely and said, “I pray you leave us awhile, now, Sir Andrew; I would confer alone with my daughter. I will see you again to-morrow.”

Then he attempted a sort of shuttling bow, and left the room awkwardly, like a cowed cur, fearful of the lash; but when they were left alone, the obstinate old man stood up, and walking straight to his daughter, shook his fore-finger sternly in her face, and said,

“You know me, Margaret. I am not a man of many words, but when I have spoken, I never go backward from my speech.”

“I know it,” she said, firmly, “and I am of your own blood, father, and not base-born.”

“And I have said that you shall marry Andrew Acton.”

“And I, that I will die sooner.”

“Enough of this!” he replied. “I am no dotard, to be driven from my just purpose for a silly girl’s love-sick fancies.”

“Nor I,” she answered, “a mere puppet, to be driven to misery, and perchance to sin, for a father’s prejudice. Oh, hear me!” she cried the next moment, altering her tone, and throwing herself at his feet, “oh, hear me, beloved father! spare me, but spare me this one thing! force me not, for God’s sake, to be this odious varlet’s wife! bind me not to this life of anguish! and I will swear never to marry any one without your free consent; nay, I will swear never to ask for your consent; never to meet, or see, or speak to the only man on earth whom I can love. Oh, grant me, grant me, father, this one, this reasonable prayer. I adjure you, by your own gray hairs, by my dead mother’s soul, do not, do not drive me to madness and despair.”

“Margaret, listen. It is now Wednesday at evening. A ship sails from Bristol one week hence this day, for St. Maloes. At Rennes there is a nunnery of Ursulines, wherein my sister is the prioress. On Wednesday next, by that ship you sail, to take your vows in that nunnery, or you accept Sir Andrew Acton as your husband. Are you answered? I have spoken.”

“I am answered,” she replied, rising slowly to her feet. “And I, too, have spoken—I will die sooner. May God forgive you, father, you know not unto what you drive me.”

She moved away as if to leave the room, but ere she reached the door she turned again, and stretching out her arms, cried in a piteous voice, “One boon, at least, one boon, my father. On Tuesday night you shall have my answer; but, oh! for the love of God, let me not during this one week, be tormented by his hateful presence.”

“Be it so,” replied the old man, thinking that she was about to yield. “Whither go you now?”

“To bed, to bed. Would that I never might rise thence any more.”

But ere she laid her down, she took a large pair of scissors and clipped the circle of her ring asunder, unseen by her waiting-woman; and then giving it to her, bade her carry it to old Jeremy, the forester, and let him bear it to the goldsmith at Stratford the next morning.

Day after day lagged on—night after night crept on, in cloud or in starlight, over her sleepless couch; and she waxed paler every day, and thinner, and more ghost-like. She never spoke, or smiled, or left her chamber, except to go through the wretched semblance of partaking her father’s meals; but sat muttering inarticulate words, and sometimes wringing her hands, when she was alone; but when others were present, perfectly calm and tranquil, though very sad and silent.

The third day came, and she grew restless and eager. There was a hard, red spot on her cheek-bones, and an unnatural glitter in her clear, ghastly eye. Her hand trembled nervously; she was quick in her mood, and irritable to her attendants—a quenchless and insatiate thirst tormented her.

The fourth day came. It was the blessed Sabbath; but for the first time in her life she refused to accompany Sir Hugh to the village church, and kept her chamber during the noon-day meal. As sunset drew near she became more impatient; and as the early twilight settled down on the sere woods and silent waters, she donned her cloak, and sallied forth alone, and took her way up the accustomed path toward the tank, which still bears her name—Margaret’s Well.

It was quite dark when she returned, wet with the night-dew, and shivering with cold; but she declined all refreshment, knelt down by her bed-side, and prayed fervently, and laid her down, not to her sleep, but to think, to hope, to despair.

The fifth day came, and again she went not forth until evening; again took her sad, fruitless walk; again returned, colder and sadder and more silent than before, again dismissed her woman, and prayed, and laid her down in mute and tearless agony.

The next day came—the last; and she must either accept Acton’s hand this night, or on the morrow quit her native land forever.

Meanwhile anxiety had grown into fear, concerning the absence of the old forester, who had not been seen for a week; and the country was searched far and near, but no tidings were had of him, and it was whispered that the old man had been murdered. But the secret had leaked out among the household of the terrible decision which was that day to be made by their young mistress; and the fate of the forester was forgotten in the horrid anticipation of something more awful yet.

At noon, Sir Andrew Acton returned to the Hall, for the first time that week, and was closeted with Sir Hugh in his own study. But Margaret knew not, heeded not—she was immersed in the deepest and most awful meditation.

Just before sunset, she braided her hair firmly, trained her beautiful ringlets to fall down over her fair shoulders, arrayed herself from head to foot in spotless white, as a virgin bride, and then wrapping a heavily-furred mantle round her, and covering her head with its capuchin, or hood, stole forth softly, and sped with a quick, silent step up the dank, gloomy wood-path.

“I will fly with him—I will fly with him, if he be here,” she muttered. “This absolves me from all duty; and if not—Jesu, Jesu have mercy, and forgive!”

She reached the tank, and gazed about her earnestly. All was lonely and dark and silent as the grave.

“Lionel!” she shrieked aloud. “Lionel!—Lionel Thornhill!” and her wild, thrilling tones were re-echoed many times from wood and hill, but no answer came—and again all was silent.

The sun had already set—the distant clock from the stable turret struck seven.

“It is past the time,” she said calmly. “And thou, too, hast forsaken me. But I will wait—I will wait yet one hour. When we last met here, I chid him for impatience; I will not, therefore, be—impatient.”

And she laughed bitterly. Oh! what an awful sound was that! how fearfully indicative of a broken and disordered spirit? and she folded her arms on her bosom, and sat down at the base of the very tree beneath which he had sat at their last meeting—sat down awaiting the next chime of the distant clock.

The dews fell heavily around her; the sere leaves dropped upon her motionless head; an aquatic bird cried several times hoarsely and fearfully from the ponds below, but she moved neither hand nor foot, nor spoke, nor sighed, nor trembled—but sat there a dark statue.

What awful thoughts passed through her mind in that strange place, in that terrific hour, one knows alone; what fearful misery it was that drove that gay and innocent young spirit to such despair, one knows alone——may HE be merciful.

The stable clock struck eight. Then she arose and cast off her shrouding cloak, and stood in the murky night pure in her virgin vestments, cold and resolved, and—was she fearless?

She knelt her down, and buried her face in her hands, and prayed, or seemed to pray, for a little space. Then she arose again, listened one little moment—

“It is too late—too late. Jesu, forgive us both! Jesu, sweet Jesu!”

There was a heavy plash, a sullen plunge! two or three bubbling sobs, and dull undulations of the water followed, and all again was solitude and silence.

The dews fell heavily, the leaves dropped silently into the tank above her, once more the aquatic night-bird shrieked in the sedges—but that immortal soul had gone before its Maker and its Judge.

It was, perhaps, half an hour later, when the clang of a horse’s hoof came thundering at mad speed down the steep hill-side—it ceased—a rapid footstep followed it, bounding in frantic haste along the rugged path. A loud voice, trembling with anxiety, cried—“Margaret! Margaret!” but Margaret was not—to hear those beloved accents.

Lionel Thornhill rushed into the little space, but all was vacant. A nameless feeling led him to the base of that tree; he trod on something, he knew not what, of a strange texture, stopped—it was Margaret’s mantle.

One bound to the tank’s marge, and there, revealed in the gloom of night, in the blackness of those awful waters, by the brightness of her own purity, he found his lost one.

At that same hour, in Margaret’s withdrawing-room, sat two men by a blazing hearth, with cheerful lamps above, and a steaming posset cup between them.

They talked, they laughed, they were merry.

Sir Hugh Clavering and Sir Andrew Acton.

There came a strangely sounding footstep, fleet as the wind, yet heavy as lead, on the road before the house. The hall door was cast violently open—the strange step came direct across the oaken hall, across the antechamber, along the corridor, every door dashed open with rude force—the door of the withdrawing-room the last; and in the door-way, with that snow-white, dripping figure, its long locks of gold, lank and disheveled, its white robes clinging to the unrivalled form, cast a dead weight upon his shoulder, stood Lionel Thornhill, the brave banneret, the successful soldier.

One stride brought him to the table, one stroke swept posset-cup and goblets from the board. Then, reverentially he composed the dead form thereon, while the soul-stricken pair gazed on him, scarcely conscious, and aghast, and at a single motion removing his hat and unsheathing his rapier,

“If that,” he said, pointing to the body, “if that sight slay not, swords are useless. For the rest, you, who have done this thing, and another that is yet to be, look to it! Margaret! Margaret! I tarried not; and if I came too late—nor do I tarry now—Margaret! Margaret! my wife, I come!”

And with the word, he drove the sword into his own breast with so true an aim, and a hand so steady, that the point cleft his heart, and he was a dead man, while yet he stood upon his feet.

They lie in nameless graves—their murderers beneath emblazoned monuments. No record is preserved of them, save in this humble tale, and in these touching words carved on the brink of that fatal tank:—

Margaret’s Well.

Stranger,

who drinketh here,

Pray for the soul of Margaret.

NIGHT.

———

BY ALICE GREY.

———

Night on the mountain—the beautiful night!

The bright stars are beaming with silvery light;

And the pale crescent moon, sailing calmly on high,

Looks down on the earth from her home in the sky;

Oh the sunniest day has no lovelier sight,

Than the tranquil repose of the beautiful night.

Night in the valley—the tall forest trees

In whispers reply to the voice of the breeze;

The streamlet glides softly amidst its green bowers;

The air is perfumed by the night-blooming flowers;

And the song of the bulbul, the fire-fly’s light,

Proclaim through the valley, night, beautiful night.

For soon—far too soon—comes the loud busy day;

Slowly and sadly the stars fade away,

As if even they, in their glory, could grieve

A world of such exquisite beauty to leave;

But with eve they’ll return, and their pure holy light

Long, long shall illumine the beautiful night.

SETTLEMENT OF THE GENESEE.

———

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

———

Let Ruin lift his arm, and crush in dust

The glittering piles and palaces of kings,

And, changing crown and sceptre into rust,

Doom them to sleep among forgotten things!⁠—

Let Time o’ershadow with his dusky wings,

Warriors who guilty eminence have gained,

And drank renown at red, polluted springs⁠—

Sacked peaceful towns—the holy shrine profaned

And to their chariot-wheels the groaning captive chained!

But the self-exiled Britons, who behind

Left Transatlantic luxuries, and gave

Their parting salutations to the wind,

And, scorning the vile languor of the slave,

Rocked with the little May Flower on the wave,

To immortality have prouder claim:

Let the bright Muse of History engrave

Their names in fadeless characters of flame,

And give their wondrous tale an everlasting fame!

No empty vision of unbounded power⁠—

No dream of wild romance—no thirst for gold,

Lured them from merry England’s hall and bower⁠—

Her Sabbath chime of bells, her hamlet old;

At home religious bigotry controlled

The struggling wing of thought; a gloomy cloud,

Charged with despotic wrath, above them rolled;

And haunts they sought where man might walk unbowed,

And sacred Truth might raise her warning voice aloud.

No waving flag, gay plume or gleaming casque

Proclaimed them masters of war’s bloody trade;

Less daring spirits from the mighty task

In terror would have shrunken: tender maid,

And daughter gently reared, for God to aid

Their feeble natures, breathed the words of prayer,

And in Heaven’s panoply their soul’s arrayed⁠—

Speeding the good work on, though frail and fair,

When sterner manhood felt the faintness of despair.

Old Sparta in exulting tones may boast,

Of ancient matrons who could deck the bier

Of sire and husband, slain where host met host,

And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:

Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,

And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrined

The soft affections: Who loves not to hear

Their praises sung?—their constancy of mind,

Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!

White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,

And Winter flung his banner on the blast⁠—

Behind swept angry waters, and before

Spread waving woods, dark, limitless and vast,

When a new continent received at last

Our houseless sires. The red man, gaunt and grim,

On the strange scene his falcon vision cast;

And nameless terror shook his tawny limb

While, drowning ocean’s roar, went up their triumph-hymn;

And when the bold survivors of the band

Reached the decaying autumn-time of life,

And locks were white, and palsied was the hand,

Barbaric swarms, with axe and deadly knife,

And painted, plumed, and quivered for the strife,

Rushed from their trackless lairs to burn—despoil⁠—

Butcher the cradled babe, the pleading wife;

Then swept the nodding harvest from the soil,

And scattered on the wind the fruits of patient toil.

When the green, shrouding moss of time o’ercrept

Mounds in the vale and on the mountain-side,

Where the stern founders of our empire slept,

Improvement, moving with gigantic stride,

Still hurried onward:—patient Labor plied

The ringing axe; and from his old domain

Fled drowsy Solitude; while far and wide

The scene grew bright with fields of golden grain,

And orchards robed in bloom on hill and sunny plain.

The wand of Enterprise to queenly states

Gave wondrous being; rivaling the spell

That reared round Thebes a wall of many gates

When proud Amphion[^[A]] swept his chorded shell,

The tuneful gift of Hermes: pastoral bell,

With tinkling murmurs, woke savannahs green,

And roused wild echoes in the woody dell,

Where late the cougar, of terrific mien,

Devoured the fawn, or rocked upon his perch unseen.

With his penates, to the distant shores

Of our broad western streams, Adventure hied,

And pierced the soil for rich metallic ores,

Or, with a keen, prophetic vision, spied

An unborn mart upon the river-side;

While Traffic trimmed her bark to brave the gale,

And meet the terrors of a chartless tide⁠—

In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,

Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.

The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiver

Were thy admiring sponsors long ago,

And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,[(1)]

For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!

Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,

The free and happy in thy valley throng,

O’er which the airs of health delight to blow⁠—

No richer, brighter charms than thine belong

To streams immortal made by proud Homeric song.

Although thy tide that winds through pastures now,

By fleecy flock and lowing kine is drank,

A river of the wilderness wert thou,

When mixed in deadly combat on thy bank

The yelling Savage and impetuous Frank:[^[B]]

Thy wave lifts up no murmuring voice to tell

Where the red, bubbling stream of carnage sank,

When rattling gun, loud groan and fiendish yell

Thy hollow murmur drowned, and gasping valor fell:

And Nature, in the moss of time attired,

On her green throne of forest sat, when came

The host of Sullivan, with vengeance fired,

To rouse upon thy shore the beast of game,

And wrap the lodges of fierce tribes in flame,

Fresh from unhappy Wyoming, and red

With scalps of hoary age and childless dame:

Gone from thy borders are the oaks that spread

Their yellow, autumn palls above the martial dead.

Eastward the soldiers of that campaign bore

Glad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,

Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yore

Who brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bands

By Moses led across the desert sands.

Regardless of the sons of Anak, soon

Bold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,

Left home, while life was in its active noon,

To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.

They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,

From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet:

The halls of their nativity were bright,

And fraught with recollections, fond and sweet,

Of childish hours; and hearts that loved them beat

Beneath their pleasant roofs: forsaking all⁠—

They roused the wood-wolf from his dim retreat,

And boldly reared the gloomy cabin wall

Of rude, misshapen logs, amid the forest tall.

They little thought, while roving near the site

Of thy proud city,[^[C]] deafened by the sound

Of waters tumbling from a fearful height,

And darkened by the wilderness around,

That soon its hollow roaring would be drowned,

By the deep murmur of the mighty crowd,

Amid thick domes, with tower and turret crowned;

The din of whirling cars, and clatter loud

Of mills by human art with iron lungs endowed:

Nor did they dream that, in communion grand,

Broad Erie’s wave, and Hudson’s mighty tide,

Within a channel shaped by mortal hand,

Ere half a century elapsed, would glide:

That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,

Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,

And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide⁠—

To shipping change the patriarchal trees,

And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.

The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,

By rural seat and stately mansion graced,

Stands mute with wonder when he hears the tale

Of thy redemption from the sylvan waste:

That only fifty years their rounds have traced

Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm[(2)] forsook

The peopled haunts of Genius, Art and Taste,

While doubting friends with apprehension shook,

And love upon his form fixed sad, regretful look.

On the broad green acclivities that round

The lovely lake of Canandaigua rise,

The groves in deep, majestic grandeur frowned,

Hiding their gloomy secrets from the skies,

And scarred and worn by storms of centuries,

When painted hordes, with streaming locks of jet,

Terrific garb, and wildly glancing eyes,

Him and his daring band in treaty met

Though late with Christian gore the tomahawk was wet.

A magic mirror girt by emerald,

In shade embowered, the diamond waters lay;

While the proud eagle, king-like, fierce and bald,

Throned on the blasted hemlock, eyed his prey:

Sweet wild-flowers, guarded from the blaze of day,

Delicious odor on the soft air flung;

And birds of varied note and plumage gay

On shrubs and vines, with ripening berries hung,

Folded their glittering wings, and amorously sung.

The water-rat and darting otter swam

Amid the reedy flags that fringed the shore;

And the brown beaver to his rounded dam,

With patient toil, the tooth-hewn sappling bore:

The lonely heron, surfeited with gore.

Smoothed on the pebbly beech his plumage dank:

Earth, sky and wave an air of wildness wore,

And nimbly down the green and sloping bank

Came stag and timid hind, on silver hoof and drank.

The pen of voiceful narrative may well

That solemn congress in the forest call

A thrilling and romantic spectacle:

The trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,

Were the rough columns of their council hall;

Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,

And winds made music with their leafy pall:

Below a tangled sea of brushwood spread,

Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.

Few were the whites in number, and about

The council-fire were gathered dusky throngs,

From whose dark bosoms time had not washed out

The bitter memory of recent wrongs.

Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,

And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze⁠—

Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,

And hellish yells of exultation raise,

While shriveled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.

The compact for a cession of their land

Was nearly ended, when a far-famed chief

Rose with the lofty bearing of command,

Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:

Nought broke the silence save the rustling leaf,

And the low murmur of the lulling wave;

He drew his blanket round him, and a brief,

But proud description of his fathers gave,

Then spoke of perished tribes, and glory in the grave.

“And who be ye?” he said, in scornful tones,

And glance of kindling hate—“Who offer gold

For hunting-grounds made holy by the bones

Of our great seers and sagamores of old?

Men who would leave our hearths and altars cold⁠—

Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear⁠—

Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame infold,

Then drive our starving, wailing race in fear

Beyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer.

“Wake, On-gue-hon-we![^[D]] Strike the pointed-post,

And gather quickly for the conflict dire;

You Long-knives are forerunners of a host,

Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire;

Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire⁠—

Arm, arm for deadly struggle, one and all

While wives and babes to secret haunts retire:

The ghosts of buried fathers on ye call

To guard their ancient tombs from sacrilege or fall!”

Dark forms rose up, and brows began to lower,

While many a savage eye destruction glared;

But one came forth in that portentous hour,

Ere shaft was aimed, or dagger fully bared,

And hushed the storm. Old Houneyawus dared

His voice upraise; and by his friendly aid

The knife was sheathed—the pioneer was spared;

Above that humane warrior of the shade

Let marble tell the tale in lines that cannot fade.

All hail our early settlers! though with storm

Their sky of being was obscured and black,

And Peril, in his most appalling form,

Opposed their rugged march, and warned them back:

They faltered not, or fainted in the track

That led to empire; but with patience bore

Cold, parching thirst, and fever’s dread attack;

While ancient Twilight, to return no more,

From far Otsego fled to Erie’s rock-bound shore.

They toiled, though Hunger with his wasted mien,

Stalked through their infant settlements, and night

Lured from the gloomy cavern, gaunt and lean,

Droves of disturbing wolves, that hated light,

Some wan and trembling mourner to affright

With their dismaying howls, around the place

Where coldly still, and newly hid from sight,

Earth folded loved ones in her damp embrace,

Without recording tomb their forest mounds to grace.

From clearing rude, and dismal swamp undrained,

Fumes of decaying vegetation rose;

While the fell genius of distemper reigned,

And filled the newly-opening realm with woes;

Brave manhood smiting—though his lusty blows

Tall ranks of warrior oaks in dust had bowed,

And robbing widowed beauty of her rose,

Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,

Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.

Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,

Mindless, too oft, are children of the sire

Who purchased at the fearful price of health,

And even life, their heritage. The lyre

Should call forth music from its proudest wire

In praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,

Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;

Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,

When crumbled are their bones—their ashes on the wind:

And those who left the venerated breast,

And soil of proud New England, to reclaim

Our smiling El Dorado of the West

From centuries of gloom, and haunts of game

Change to Arcadian lovelines, and tame

The virgin rudeness of the shaded mould,

Should not be unremembered:—on the same

Eternal page where Fame, in lines of gold,

Hath pilgrim virtue traced, their names should be enrolled.

NOTES.

(1) “And named thee Genesee,” &c.

The word Genesee is of Seneca origin, signifying “Pleasant Valley,” or “Valley of Pleasant Waters.”

(2) “Since Phelps, the Cecrops of thy realm.”

It may seem strange to many of the millions who are now reveling in the comforts and prosperity which the last half century has diffused through western New York, that the course of Oliver Phelps and his associates should have been then considered so hazardous, that the whole neighborhood of Granville, Mass., their native town, assembled to bid them adieu—a final adieu, as many thought; for it seemed a desperate chance that any of that intrepid band should ever return from their enterprise through a region to which the Indian title had not been extinguished. The wilderness was penetrated as far as Canandaigua Lake, and I am indebted to an old number of the New York American for the description that follows, of a treaty held on its banks with the Senecas by Phelps and his companions.

“Two days had passed away in negotiation for a cession of their land. The contract was supposed to be nearly completed, when Red Jacket arose. With the grace and dignity of a Roman senator, he drew his blanket around him, and with a piercing eye surveyed the multitude. All was hushed. Nothing interfered to break the silence, save the rustling of the tree-tops under whose shade they were gathered.

“Rising gradually with his subject, he depicted the primitive simplicity and happiness of his nation, and the wrongs they had sustained from the usurpations of the white man, with such a bold but faithful pencil, that his Indian auditors were soon roused to vengeance, or melted into tears. Appalled and terrified, the white men cast a cheerless gaze upon the hordes around them. A nod from the chiefs might be the onset of destruction. At that portentous moment Houneyawus, known among the whites as Farmer’s Brother, interposed.”

Drawn by Ch. Bodmer Eng^d by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch

MANDAN INDIANS—LOVER’S LEAP.

We present our readers this month with two beautiful American plates. The Mandan Indians is one of a series of the spirited pictures of Bodmer, who, in a visit through the west and south-west, made sketches from nature of the most striking scenes, and of incidents in Indian life and warfare. We have still on hand several very fine pictures by this artist; and we think we hazard nothing in saying, that, for artistic effect and skill, these engravings are far superior to any thing that is met with in the Magazines. The dance of the Mandan women was taken, as represented, from a group, by Mr. Bodmer.

Our other engraving, is one of the fine series of Georgia views that we are running through the Magazine; and the “Lover’s Leap” is another evidence of the charming bits of scenery with which that state abounds. We have now in the hands of artists, sketches of scenery in Virginia, North Carolina, Ohio, and other states, and purpose in coming volumes, to present to the readers of Graham, views of every state in the Union, engraved in a style to do credit to the country and the work. The American character of the embellishments and literature of Graham, are rallying around the work thousands of true friends yearly.

FRANK BEVERLY.

———

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

———

Late in the evening of the last day of September, A. D. 18—, a stage stopped at a small inn, and deposited two trunks, with their two owners: then rattled on to its final stopping-place, six miles further.

The two trunks with their two owners were shown into the best sleeping-room the house afforded, and left with a “dim, religious light” for company. The light showed them (the trunk’s owners, not the trunks) to be men—good-looking and young. Their conversation proved them to be cousins, and on their way to Beverly Park, the home of the handsomer of the two, whom the less handsome addressed as Frank.

“But, Ned, speaking of pictures, and furniture,” continued Frank, interrupting himself in his description of Beverly Park and its picture gallery, “you never have seen Clara. Three years ago she bid fair to be a beauty. To-morrow will prove whether time has or has not fulfilled his promise. Three years ago she was a fairy thing of sweet fifteen. I say, Ned, did you ever see a more horrid place than this inn?”

“Yes, many.”

Frank laughed. “Any way,” said he, “you must acknowledge it is a most dismal apology for a ‘house of entertainment for man and beast:’ I wonder if his godship, Mr. Morpheus, ever deigns to visit it. I feel wonderfully like making the trial. What say you, Ned, shall we court him to wrap us in his mantle of oblivion?”