GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. September, 1847. No. 3.

Contents

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

John Lucas A. L. Dick

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1847. No. 3.

THE SLAVER.

A TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES.

———

BY A SON OF THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

———

(Concluded from page 71.)

CHAPTER X.

Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs

Of sea, for an acre of barren ground,

Long heath, brown furze, any thing. The

Wills above be done! But I would fain die a

Dry death.

Tempest.

De Vere had not intended to marry quite so soon as he did, but being unexpectedly recalled home by an order from the admiralty, and wishing to take his beautiful Clara with him, he had with very little difficulty persuaded her to hasten their bridal day, and then accompany him to England.

Don Manuel was at first very loth to let his daughter leave him. Had it been Francisca, he would not have consented; her soft and gentle disposition had entwined itself completely around the old man’s heart. But there was more of pride mingled with his affection for Clara; and she so enthusiastically expressed her desire to visit the English metropolis, and to travel over the heaving waves of the broad Atlantic—for she had never been to sea—that the old Don gave way to her entreaties; and with many kisses and promises of soon seeing them again, but apparently without much distress, she took leave of her father and sister on the deck of the Scorpion, where they had accompanied her to take a last farewell. Telling De Vere to watch well the charge he had entrusted to him, with sorrow and tears Don Manuel and Francisca got into their boat.

As soon as the boat was clear of the brig, which was only waiting for them to make sail, and whose sails were all loose, but held in their places by the men who had unloosed them, were let fall together, and walking away with all the halyards at once, the Scorpion was under all sail, and standing out of the harbor before Don Manuel’s boat reached the shore.

Francisca and her father both felt very much the loss of Clara and De Vere’s company; but knowing it was useless to make vain lamentations, they returned home.

The thoughts of the many things she would see, and the images of the proud beauties of the English court, whom she would soon be with, and she hoped outshine, so occupied the mind of Clara, that she had parted from her father and sister without much regret. But as she stood on the quarter-deck, and saw the objects on shore gradually grow smaller and smaller—first the trees, then the light-house, and eventually the blue shores of the now distant island itself disappear from her sight, as if they had all sunk to the depths of the ocean, and looking around, observed nothing but an expanse of clouds and water, upon which the brig was but a speck—a sudden and complete sense of her bereavement oppressed her, and she burst into tears; for though she knew her husband was near, there is something so inexpressibly melancholy in leaving for the first time the home of your childhood, and the land of your nativity, that, for awhile, she could not avoid giving way to her grief. But De Vere soothed her, by tales of the sea, the distant and new country she was about to visit, and by promising it would be but a short time ere she should return. Hardly had she regained her composure when she was disagreeably affected in another way. Father Neptune, not allowing even the most beautiful and fair to travel over his domains without paying tribute; and sick, nauseated, with her head swimming and aching as if it would split, she was led to her state-room, thinking she would give all she possessed in the world to be once more in the house she had so lately left.

When she recovered, and again came on deck, it was a warm, bright morning. The brig had just left the Gulf Stream. There was a fresh breeze, but the sea, unruffled by it, was heaving in long, rolling waves. Shoals of porpoises and black-fish were tumbling about in their uncouth gambols—interesting, because new, to Clara, but to the sailors more than uninteresting, as they prognosticated an approaching storm. The fragile and graceful nautilus, also, was seen expanding its tiny sail; numerous sea-birds were flying about, or for a moment resting on the water; and the Scorpion, as she moved rapidly along, seemed “a thing of life.”

Clara, forgetting her sickness, was delighted, and amused her husband by the incessant questions she put to him about every thing she saw. All day she remained on deck, and until a late hour in the evening; then with a lingering look at the bright stars, and the wide expanse of water that, alive with phosphorescent matter, seemed on fire, she reluctantly went below; but soon was dreaming of the glorious sublimity and beauty of all she had seen, nearly all the night, as the day had thus passed pleasantly by, when, toward morning, she was awakened by hoarse noises on deck, overhead, and found the ship rolling and pitching violently. Her husband she saw had left the cabin; and, alarmed, she hastily dressed, and started after him, to see what had happened; but she got no further than the top of the companion-way. Terrified, she clung to the railing, and with her body on the steps, and her head just above the level of the deck, with dilated pupils she gazed upon the awful change that had come over the face of the fickle deep in a few short hours. Instead of the long, unbroken, rolling waves she had left, she now found the surface of the ocean a mass of foam; huge, giant billows, as if in sport, chased each other with fearful rapidity, lifting the brig, now apparently as if they would carry her up into the low, dark, leaden-looking clouds, that seemed not much higher than her masts, and then, as they ran from under her, would leave her to sink between two hills of living water, as if to the bottomless pit, until another would pick up the brig, as a child’s plaything, and hurling her on, away she would go again, up, up, for awhile, only to sink into another yawning valley, pitching, rolling, struggling, creaking, she held her way; and Clara’s natural pride and self possession in a short time enabled her to look calmly around, and even to admire, the fearful scene.

The brig, she saw, was under nothing but her top-sails, close reefed; and a small storm stay-sail; and her husband coming to her, said that a heavy wind had come out from the northward and westward about twelve o’clock, and had been increasing ever since, and was still rising, and that though he was now able to hold his course, he did not think he could much longer, and insisted upon Clara’s going below. Well it was that she did; for scarcely had she left the deck, when a blast, stronger and fiercer than any they had felt, struck the Scorpion, and bore her almost on her beam-ends. Struggling, she nearly righted herself, but again the ruthless wind compelled her to bow to its power, and a tremendous wave striking her at the same time, she was laid over completely.

Captain De Vere had been expecting such a catastrophe; and as soon as he found his vessel was on her beam-ends, and could not again right herself, gave the order to “Cut away the masts!”

Never is the cool and intrepid bravery that forms the basis of a seaman’s character shown to such great advantage as in situations of the utmost emergency. And to have seen the self-collectedness with which the sailors of the Scorpion, axe in hand, crept along the brig’s weather bulwark, with the strong and angry billows momentarily threatening to carry them off to the coral depths beneath, as they swept over them, one would have thought the men were all unconscious of fear—and such was the truth; for mariners are danger’s children, begotten by courage.

Though fearless, they were fully aware of the risks they were running; with certain, but quick and rapid strokes, their sharp hatchets struck the thick-tarred lanyards, which, stretched to their utmost tension by the weight of the masts, quickly parted, and the tall spars losing their support, snapped short off, and toppled over into the boiling sea.

As soon as the masts fell the brig righted; and much to the joy of all on board, was once more on an even keel.

“Lively, men! lively, lads!” was now the order; and quickly cutting away the lee-lanyards, the brig was free from the wreck of her floating spars, and putting her before the wind, away the Scorpion flew, sailless, mastless, faster than she had ever sailed before, when, in the pride of all her lofty canvas, she had chased some flying enemy—on, on, they sped!

Never until now had the haughty spirit of Clara been thoroughly humbled, or had she a correct idea of man’s entire nothingness, when compared with nature in its might and majesty. But humbled she was, when she came on deck that day and saw the tall and gallant brig, that had obeyed every motion of the helmsman’s hand, a bare, naked hull, unmanageable, and driven whither the wind listed over the angry waves, which followed fast after, and as they rose under the stern, their vast white combs would curl over the very tafferel, as if about to break on deck; and as the vessel lifted, and was for a moment out of danger, they would send the spray in showers over her, as if they were shedding tears of anger that the poor vessel had, for an instant, escaped that destruction to which it seemed she was inevitably hurrying. At last, one mighty wave, more powerful than the rest, reared its tremendous bulk far over the devoted brig’s stern, and breaking in a torrent of resistless force, swept over her deck. De Vere saw the impending danger just soon enough to throw one arm around his wife’s waist, and casting himself and her flat on deck, seize with the other a ring-bolt, and save themselves from death.

When the water ran off, and he looked around, but ten of his crew were left on the Scorpion’s deck; the rest, some one hundred and forty souls, had been swept, unannealed, into eternity, the waves their winding-sheet, the howling blast, and the roaring billows, hymning their dirge. Poor men! how many of your fellows, with brave souls, kind hearts, loving wives and children, meet the same sad fate.

Gathering together on the quarter-deck those who had been spared, the hardy, weatherbeaten tars, the proud, conceited officer, the vain, worldly-minded lady, humbly joined in offering to the throne of Almighty Grace, grateful thanks for their preservation; and praying to the Ruler of all things for the rest of their departed messmates, earnestly besought him to keep them safe in the hollow of his hand, and lead them out of their present danger.

The second day came round; the wind was unabated; and the brig was rushing, hurrying on to her unknown destination—most probably the bottom of the ocean.

The third day came; as time will ever on in its ceaseless course, alike indifferent to human joy or sorrow. No change had yet taken place for the better; slowly, tediously, tiresomely, the hours of that third day crept by. No employment had they but watching the brig, as she dashed along, apparently racing with the wild billows that ever followed, ever kept alongside. Sun there was none to enliven them; the same dark, leaden hue pervaded the sky; and even the sunlight of hope, that best, most cheerful of all lights, was just glimmering, and on the very eve of expiring forever. With grim and despairing countenances, silently they sat, fearing each moment that the vessel, strained in every timber by the violent and incessant heaving and rolling to which she was subjected, would go to pieces.

What a sight that deck and crew would have been to the purse-proud, the ambitious, the money-craving, grasping ones on shore; would it not have exhibited the utter worthlessness of it all? and the necessity we all have, poor mortals that we are, subject to die at any moment, for the grace, the pity, and the care of God.

Again, another day arrived, the fourth since the brig had been dismasted; but a change had taken place; the wind had died away, and the heavens had opened their thousand windows, and the dark clouds were pouring down a deluge of rain on the poor brig, as she rolled, pitched, tossed, heaved about at the mercy of the waves, which still ran frightfully high. To add to horrors already overpowering, De Vere discovered that his worst fears had been realized. The brig, strained until her seams were opened, was leaking. Sounding the well, she was found to have four feet of water in her hold. He did not mention it to his unfortunate companions, hoping that it would not increase. In an hour he again tried the water; it had increased six inches, thus reducing to a certainty their deaths in the course of two days at the furthest, unless they were relieved; for every boat had been stove or carried overboard by the waves, and the crew was too weak to do any good at the pumps.

With a sad heart, and solemn voice, he imparted the startling fact to the group on the quarter-deck; for, gathering confidence from each other’s society, they still continued huddled together astern, regardless of the fast falling rain—in great misfortunes so soon do we grow callous to smaller ones.

De Vere’s intelligence extinguished the last spark of hope in the breasts of the men; and reckless in their despair, they were for at once breaking into the spirit-room, and having one more bacchanalian riot; let death, when he came, find them insensible to his terrors.

Their captain ordered them back; but what was earthly authority to them, on the brink of eternity? He then expostulated, but it was of no avail; they were determined to die drunk, and told De Vere to get away from in front of the companion-way, where he was standing, to prevent their descent, or they would throw him overboard, and send him to Davy Jones a little before them. They were about to rush on him, as he stood unmoved, when Clara, roused by the danger of her husband, sprung between them. In a tone of command, and with an authoritative air, she said, —

“Back! back!—are ye men, made after the image of the living God! And would ye hurry into his awful presence like beasts—drunk! insensible! and stained with murder! Or are ye such cowards that ye are afraid to die in your senses! Shame! shame upon ye! to have less firmness than I, a woman! But, no,” and she altered her tones to those of mildness, “I know ye are neither beasts nor cowards; but brave men, hurried away by an evil thought, who will join with me in asking forgiveness for it;” and sinking down on the deck, the sailors involuntarily followed her example; and when they arose, after her ardent supplication, they had given up all thought of their mad design.

Scarcely had they regained their feet, when, as if in very answer to their prayer, a sail was seen; just a speck, ’tis true, but enough to assure them a vessel was in sight. Great was their joy; and then all was anxiety, for fear the distant ship might not come near. Now, for a moment, they lost sight of her, and their hearts were like lead in their bosoms; but again they made her out—she was nearer, and watched intently. On she came, until they made her out to be a large top-sail schooner.

Nearer she came, but gave no evidence of having seen the wreck. The sufferers tried to hail, and though together they all raised their voices to the utmost pitch, the roaring, dashing billows drowned all sound ere it had gone twenty fathom. But they had been observed by the crew of the schooner, who, rounding-to, proceeded to get out a boat. After some labor she succeeded; for it was a work of toil and danger to launch a boat on that rough ocean. The boat was lowered with her gallant crew in her, who, unhooking the davit-tackles as she touched the water, were afloat, and the small boat looked like an egg-shell as she rose and fell with the angry waves. Powerfully her crew tugged at the oars, and, watched by all eyes, she approached the hull.

Go alongside she could not; but getting under the brig’s stern, they hove a rope to the boat, and it being fastened in her bow, De Vere took Clara in one arm, and with his other hand and feet climbed down, and placing his wife in the boat turned to ascend again to the brig; she clung to him, and begged him to stay, but he would not. “The last man that leaves the Scorpion must be I, my love,” he said, and returning as he came, he was again on the tafferel of the wreck. Clara would have followed him, but she could not.

One by one five more of the Scorpion’s crew descended into the schooner’s boat, which, unable to carry more at once, put off with these to the schooner.

Well the oarsmen bent to their task, and in a time that seemed nearly impossible, they had again returned. After all else had left the wreck, De Vere abandoned his lost brig, and was pulled to the schooner.

Long and eager was the embrace that passed between him and his wife, when they met in safety on the deck of the schooner. After thanking the boat’s crew, who had so nobly exerted themselves, and promising them large rewards, he turned to make acknowledgments to the captain of the vessel for his prompt assistance.

Walking further aft to where the captain was standing with his arms folded, he was surprised to find in him Charles Willis, the slaver. De Vere’s feelings underwent a sudden revulsion. “Have I,” he thought, “escaped a watery-grave, only to fall, with my wife, into the power of my most inveterate enemy—a man without principle, honor, or law, and whom I once brought nearly to the gallows? Would to heaven the salt waters had closed over us!”

Willis remarked the change that came over De Vere’s countenance, and correctly defining the cause, extended his hand toward him, and said, —

“Keep your mind perfectly easy, Captain De Vere, and believe that you will be treated with all honor and kindness; and that I am too proud to take advantage even of those who have always proved themselves causelessly my enemies, when they are in distress and suffering; and also give me credit for having sufficient humanity to make me thankful for this opportunity of saving the lives of twelve fellow-mortals.”

De Vere, mortified at the injustice he had done the slaver captain in his thoughts, warmly grasped his hand, and thanked him; saying he felt as secure as if he were on shore.

Willis gave up his own cabin to Clara and De Vere, and slung his hammock on the berth-deck. Every thing was done to make the Scorpion’s men comfortable; and their fears were soon relieved, for they, as their commander, had felt a good many misgivings about their future fate, when they first learned they were on board of the Maraposa, the vessel they had used so roughly.

As soon as De Vere had attended to the comfort of Clara, Willis asked him how he had met with such a misfortune to his vessel, and whither he was bound? De Vere detailed all the circumstances, and asked Willis how it happened that he was so far to the northward of his usual cruising ground. Willis said that it was by no good-will of his own, but that some of De Vere’s friends—a sloop-of-war and a brig—had chased him so hard, as he was going from Cuba to the coast, that he had been compelled to hold to the northward to get rid of them; and that he was on his way back to Africa when he first saw the wreck of the brig, but he would be happy to carry De Vere and his wife back to Havana.

This was the very thing De Vere and Clara most anxiously desired, though neither were willing to request it of Willis; but when he thus generously offered it, they thankfully accepted his proposal. The schooner’s course was altered a little more to the westward, and the Maraposa was once more heading for Havana.

They were thirty days on the passage; during which time both De Vere and Clara had an opportunity of impartially judging Willis, and were so much prepossessed in his favor, that De Vere wondered how he could have ever entertained such an opinion as he formerly had of him; and in their conversations together, the English captain and his wife both expressed a great desire to prevail upon Willis to leave his present profession. But how to influence him they knew not, for though he was most affable and communicative on all other topics, whenever he was asked about his present pursuit, he would only say that circumstances, over which he had no control, had first compelled him to enter, and still retained him in it; and then he would turn the conversation, so that delicacy forbade his passengers saying any thing more to him.

It was a bright clear day when they arrived in sight of the Havana light-house; a gentle breeze was blowing, and the water was nearly smooth. Clara was on deck with her husband, and was in raptures at the sight of her native isle, and the thoughts of soon seeing her father and sister again, and comparing in her mind the beauty and apparent security of the present scene with the late fearful ones she had passed through, as the rich voice of Willis sounded close to her.

“Your late dangers, fair lady, I hope, have not so much impaired your nerves, that you would be afraid to trust yourself in a small boat on this quiet water for a short time?”

“Oh, no, Captain Willis! I assure you, I am now quite a sailor, and would think nothing of it!”

“I am very glad to hear it, lady, and trust you will not think I am inhospitable if I soon put your courage to the test. Had you been fearful, I should have run into the harbor; but as you are not, it will be much to my convenience to go only to the entrance of the port, and send you in in a boat.”

De Vere, who had been standing near enough to overhear the conversation, now stepped up, and said he sincerely hoped, indeed he asked it as a personal favor, that Captain Willis would go into Havana, to enable him to show his gratitude, and repay him for his vessel’s loss of time in bringing them there.

Clara, too, joined her husband in urging Willis to go into the harbor, and come to her father’s house with them; saying Don Manuel would hardly forgive Francisca for not bringing him before, and now that he was a second time the preserver of the family, she was sure her father would never forgive her.

Willis had now approached the shore as close as he wished, and laying the schooner to, he ordered his men to get out the launch, and informed De Vere and his lady that he was now prepared to carry them ashore. Their arrangements were soon made; and they, with the remnant of the Scorpion’s crew, all bidding Willis an affectionate farewell, and expressing their many thanks, got into the boat, and, steered by Mateo, pulled for the harbor.

Until the boat was out of sight Willis stood on deck looking after her; and when she disappeared from his sight, he imagined her having accomplished the rest of her way, and the joy of Francisca at so unexpectedly seeing her sister, and learning that she had been rescued by him; and knowing that Clara and De Vere could not but speak favorably of him, was also much consolation. And then he thought of the strange fate that had thus twice compelled him, after starting for the last time, as he thought, to the coast, to return to Havana, against his intentions, and obliged him now, for the third time, to head for Africa, when he was so anxious to quit the trade. He knew that the gratitude and liberality of De Vere and Don Manuel, had he gone into Havana this time, would have given him money enough to have enabled him to leave the slave-trade; but at this his pride revolted; he wished to be independent by his own exertions, and without their aid; and walking the deck, these and such thoughts, occupied him until the return of his launch. As soon as the boat came alongside, without asking any questions of her crew, he ordered her to be got on board again with all speed. This was soon done, and filling away, heading to the eastward, the Maraposa was once more standing for the coast.

Mateo, as soon as the launch was secured, joined his captain, who was still walking the quarter-deck, and reported having landed his passengers safely, though, said he,

“If I had not known it was your express wish they should go safe, I would much rather have thrown them all overboard to quarrel with the sharks.”

Willis, engaged by his own thoughts, made his mate no reply, and Mateo continued.

“If it is not taking too great a liberty, captain, I wish you would tell me why, when you had that cursed English captain and his men, who have given us so much trouble, and put us all in limbo, and would have hung you if you had not made sail out of their hands, when you had them in your power, why you did not cut all their throats, so that we might never be worried again by them, instead of treating them as if they had been your brothers, or messmates, at the least?”

“Why, Mateo,” replied the captain, “if I tell you, you will hardly understand. It was not because I loved them, but it is a much greater and sweeter revenge to do your enemy a great good, when you have it in your power, than to kill him. And, besides, you would not have me take advantage of a man when he could not help himself.”

“Well, captain, I know you are very different from me, and, indeed, from all the skippers I have ever known; but I would rather take satisfaction with my knife, then I can see it, and feel it. This other way of yours I can’t understand, but I am much obliged to you for telling me; and the next time I fall athwart the English captain’s hause, now he is from under your protection, I will give him a few inches of my knife, in part payment of the fine and imprisonment he caused me.”

Willis, not feeling like entering into an argument, observed to his mate that the wind had come round more, and told him he had better ease off the sheets, and set the square-sail and studding-sails. Mateo proceeded to attend to these duties, and left him, as he wished to be, alone.

——

CHAPTER XI.

They say that Hope is happiness.

But genuine Love must prize the past;

And memory wakes the thoughts that bless—

They rose the first—they set the last.

Byron.

The surprise of Don Manuel and Francisca was unbounded, when they saw De Vere and Clara return, though their fears were relieved by seeing they were both in good health; and soon as the old Don had learned the dangers through which they passed, he embraced Clara again and again, and vowed that as long as he lived, neither of his children should ever again leave him; “for both of you, the first time either has left me, have been exposed to the most imminent perils, and wonderfully have both been rescued by the courage and gallantry of the same individual,” and asked Clara how she now liked Willis.

Francisca at this question changed color, to even a paler white than she had been before, and looked eagerly toward her sister as she replied; and sweeter than music was it to the gentle Francisca to hear her haughty sister, who had formerly said so many hard things against the slaver captain, now give utterance to nothing but praises and compliments, and such opinions as a fond girl would best like to hear spoken of the one she loved.

More pleasant dreams had Francisca that night than ever before blessed her pillow; and she chid the morning light for breaking the images of her fancy, and bringing back to her remembrance that Willis was, she knew not where; and that though she knew now no opposition would be offered by her family to his visiting the house, she might never again see him.

Don Velasquez felt so grateful to Willis for thus having saved his other daughter, and her husband, when he knew the trouble that husband had taken to bring him who thus delivered them to the gallows, that he was determined this time to try at once to show his gratitude and respect for Willis, and hastening, with De Vere, down to the harbor, chartered a steamboat to pursue the schooner and try to overtake her before she got far from the coast.

Plying the firemen and engineers plentifully with money, that most powerful stimulant, to increased exertion, the old Don soon had a fine head of steam on the boat, and promising a large reward to the captain of the steamer, if he succeeded in overtaking the schooner; the “Aguila,” went puffing out to sea, at a rate altogether new to her, and one that astonished the numerous lookers-on from the shore, who thought nothing less than a government dispatch could have need of such speed.

“How shall we steer, sir?” asked the captain of the Aguila of Don Manuel, as soon as they were clear of the light-house; but he was at a loss how to answer, and had to ask De Vere; he thinking Willis would go again to the coast, told them to hold to the eastward; and though they were on the right track, and still kept the steamer at the top of her speed, the Maraposa had too much the start of them; and after holding on for twenty-four hours, they were obliged to return without success.

“Twice, now,” said Don Manuel, “has Willis done me the greatest service that one man can do another, and neither time have I been able to repay him; but I now declare, that, if I ever meet him again, I will give him a hundred thousand dollars, and at least have the satisfaction of knowing he will be comfortable the rest of his life, without having to expose himself in his present dangerous calling; and I am certain he would adorn any circle in society.”

To this De Vere assented, and hoped they both would soon have an opportunity of seeing him. When De Vere and his father-in-law returned home, both the ladies were disappointed that they returned alone—they had been certain the steamer would overtake the schooner.

De Vere remained some ten days, or a fortnight, quietly in Havana, recruiting, after his late excitements, and receiving the congratulations of his numerous acquaintances, on his fortunate escape, before he mentioned to Don Velasquez, his intention of again starting to England.

The old Spaniard was surprised; for now that De Vere had no vessel, he could see no reason why he could not just as well write as go himself; and begged him to do so, and resign his commission.

This De Vere was not willing to do, and told his father-in-law if he did resign, it would be more necessary for him now to return personally than if he still had his brig, for that now it touched his honor that he should give to the admiralty an account of the manner in which the Scorpion had been lost.

Finding De Vere was determined to go, Don Manuel thought this would be a good time to put in execution a project, of which he had been thinking ever since the death of his wife, but had put it off from time to time, waiting until his daughters were settled. It was to revisit his native land, Spain, which he had never seen since he first left it in his youth. And rather than let Clara go away from him again, he determined, if De Vere would accompany him, to go now, and after visiting Madrid, the place of his birth, to proceed to England with De Vere.

This arrangement was readily agreed to by the Englishman. Clara, too, was delighted when she heard of it; and Francisca was the only one of the household that was not pleased at the thought. Even the old duenna was in raptures; but Francisca thought it would be placing even a greater distance between herself and Willis, and was sad. But Spain had been the dream-land of her youth; and she had, in years gone by, so often expressed a desire to visit that land of the romantic and picturesque, that now she was compelled to appear pleased as well as the rest.

Fortunately for Don Manuel, there was a large and splendid new Spanish merchantman in port, taking in sugar for Cadiz, and the captain told him he would be ready to sail in a week. Velasquez engaged the whole of her cabin for himself and family; and when the ship was ready to sail, they were all on board, and bidding adieu to Havana for a time, they were soon on the trackless main.

Again Clara gazed at the fast fading heights of her beautiful native isle—but with what different feelings; now she had all her family with her, and was leaving none behind; and even if she should be again wrecked, death itself would not be half so awful where they could all die together; and her heart was light and buoyant.

But Francisca, though she endeavored to look cheerful, could not suppress the tears that rose fast and unbidden to her beautiful eyes, and over-running them, would trickle slowly down her cheek.

“What ails you, sister mine?” said Clara. “Are you crying for some gay Habenero you are leaving behind you? Cara mia! dry your eyes! You will find beaux as plenty as stars in the bright land to which we are going! And if you don’t like the Castilians, I will get you a fair, handsome Englishman, like my husband! only not quite so good-looking, when we get to Albion’s Isle!”

This, though said in jest, came near touching the source of Francisca’s tears, though the object was Willis! and not a Havanarian! and she replied, as she brushed away her tears,

“Did you not cry, and feel sad, when you, for the first time, saw the hills of your beloved home sinking from your sight?”

“Oh yes! yes!” answered Clara; “and I wont plague you any, if you promise me not to cry more than an hour!”

Francisca soon dried her eyes, and in the company of her father, sister, and De Vere, in a fine ship, and with a good breeze, she, and all, had every prospect of a speedy and happy voyage to the shores of Spain.

Leaving them to pursue their way, let us once more rejoin the Maraposa, and see the fortunes that befell her in her trial again to make a final voyage to Africa.

——

CHAPTER XII.

The burning sun

Blistered and scorched; and stagnant on the sea

They lay like carcases: and hope was none.

Byron.

The schooner had made an unmolested run across the ocean, and was now standing out of the river, to the southward of St. Felipe de Benguela, upon which the factory was situated where she always obtained her cargo of Africans, as when we first saw her coming out of the same river on a farmer voyage; her hold was crowded with miserable captives, and her crew were armed and vigilant, as they always were when they had slaves on board. Willis and his mate were standing far aft, near the tafferel, in conversation.

“I feel, Mateo,” said the captain, “as if we were going to have a safe and a quick trip this time, to make up for the two or three failures we have had lately; and I suppose you know, if we get in safe this time, I am going to cut and quit the trade. And we are now making a good start for a lucky run, for the wind is fair, and nothing in sight.”

“By St. Jago! I wish we may have a lucky run,” replied the mate. “Not because I wish you to quit the trade, for a better or a braver captain to sail with I never expect to mess with again; and I know you believe what I say, though it is spoken to your face, sir. It has now been four years since we first sailed together, but I have a dread or presentiment that the Maraposa will never see Cuba again, and that both our voyages are nearly over.”

“Pooh! pooh, man!” said Willis, “you have been drinking, and have the vapors; that is all that ails you. Go below and take another good nip of cogniac, and you will feel as well and confident as ever!”

“You can laugh at me as much as you please, captain; but I have not drank of any thing stronger than coffee these three days; and I only hope I will prove as false a prophet as that d—d negro Obi man we hung two years ago, for trying to burn the schooner; and who said you and I both would stretch hemp before the year was out.”

“We have had time to prove, Mateo, he did not know what he was talking about, and in a month more, when we have landed this cargo, and handled the dollars, you will find you are as much mistaken as he was. But I wish you would jump up to the fore-topsail yard and see if you can make out any thing. I fear that infernal sloop-of-war that chased us so hard, when we had to run to the northward, more than any thing else.”

Mateo, taking a glass, was soon sweeping the horizon from his lofty perch, and in a few moments he sung out —

“There she is, blast her! just where she has always managed to be yet, dead to windward! and ahead!”

“How is she heading?” asked Willis.

“To the nor’ard, sir; and about fifteen miles off.”

“Very well, Mateo, we will try to get to the westward of her before she makes much more northing, and if I can show her the Maraposa’s stern, then we will get in before she can overhaul us.”

But Willis, this time underrated the speed of the vessel in sight, which was a new sloop, and one of the fastest square-rigged vessels that ever carried a sail; and long before he got on a line with her, she had lessened the distance between them to seven or eight miles, and, having seen the schooner, was now crowding on more duck, and heading a little to the eastward; she would, in less than an hour more, be right on board the slaver.

This was an arrangement that did not suit Willis at all, but there was nothing for it but to try his heels. And hoping they would stand him in as good stead now as they had on many a former occasion, he put the Maraposa’s helm a-port and ran off before the wind to the northward.

Square-sail, studding-sails, ring-tail and water-sails were all set and full; every place an inch of canvas could be put there was one, and the schooner rushed through the water like a mad creature, heaving high the waves, until they ran over her bows and deck in a perfect cataract. But all would not do! Steadily astern of them came on the sloop-of-war, with her lofty sails piled upon one another, until she looked like a mountain, moving in the schooner’s wake. Every moment she gained upon the slaver.

In four hours, so rapidly had the sloop come up, she was within gun-shot of the Maraposa, whose doom seemed sealed, as a shot from the sloop’s bow gun fell into the water, just ahead of her, showing she was within range, and also as a signal to the slaver to surrender.

But Willis had no such intention; and in answer to the shot ran up to his main-gaff the flaunting ensign of Spain.

“That proud Englishman thinks he is certain of the little slaver, but if ever he gets any prize money out of her sale I will be very much mistaken!” said Willis, as another shot from the sloop struck the Maraposa’s starboard quarter, carried away the quarter davit, and dropped one end of her stern boat in the water, just as the flag unfurled itself in the wind; but the man-of-war knew the schooner was in her power, and did not wish to cut such a beautiful craft to pieces with her shot, and determined to carry the slaver by boarding.

On she came, therefore, silently, until her flying-jibboom was even with the schooner’s tafferel, when the captain of the man-of-war, jumping up on the hammock-nettings, ordered the schooner to surrender or he would board her.

The slaver’s crew were all at quarters, and looked as quiet as desperate men, determined to die rather than surrender, always do.

When the English captain hailed, Willis cast a glance at his men, and reading their courage in their looks, said nothing. The sloop drew by until she was abreast of the Maraposa. As soon as Willis saw that all his guns would bear, he sung out—“Fire!” The loud report of his three carronades and long gun instantly resounded; and fired, as they had been, with their muzzles nearly touching the sloop’s sides, the shot did fearful execution; leaving four gaping holes in the man-of-war’s hull, and wounding many of her men.

The audacity of this attack, for a moment, seemed to paralize the Englishman; but recovering from his surprise, the captain of the sloop cried out —

“Heave over the grappling-irons, and away, ye boarders, away! Spare none of them but the captain; take him alive if you can.”

Like an avalanche, the sloop’s boarders poured down upon the deck of the schooner, but her stern crew gave back not an inch! Heroically they stood their ground! In a better cause their deeds would have been immortalized in song and story; but they knew their cause was hopeless, and they were only fighting for revenge: and deep, deep did their cutlases and boarding-axes drink of English blood that day!

But they could not contend long against such fearful odds; one by one, they fell dead in their tracks, suppressing even their groans as they died. Soon all that were left alive of the slaver’s crew were Willis, Mateo, and the old captain of the forecastle, who, back to back, on the quarter-deck, were fighting like tigers; and a ring of dead and dying foes around them proved their prowess and strength of arm.

A cutlas stroke over the head laid low the hardy old captain of the forecastle, and Willis was alone with Mateo. With a loud huzza, when the old seaman fell, the sloop’s men made a rush to encircle Willis, and capture him alive, but he had heard the English captain’s orders, and determined never again to be in chains.

Willis made a desperate effort, and with three strokes of his cutlas, felling a foeman at each, he brought himself opposite the cabin companion-way; quickly from his belt he drew a pistol and fired it down into the cabin.

A bright flash followed, and then a noise as if heaven’s artillery had pealed forth a salvo; and all was silent!

The lofty sloop, and the graceful schooner, where were they? They had entirely disappeared; and in the place they had occupied nothing was now to be seen but a confused mass of spars! splinters! cordage! dead men’s bodies! legs! arms! heads! floating about; and here and there a few who had escaped with their lives, swimming and endeavoring to get on some floating spar, to prolong for a little time their existence.

Willis, before the combat, had placed a train from his magazine to a keg of powder at the foot of the cabin companion-way, and finding he was about to be captured, he had set fire to the train, by firing his pistol into the open keg, and blown up his own vessel and the sloop, which was lying close alongside.

Sitting on a large spar, which had formerly done duty as the Maraposa’s main-mast, was the figure of a man, the calm and philosophical expression of whose countenance was strangely at variance with the scene of confusion and death that surrounded him; and the current of his thoughts was equally uncommon for one in his situation.

“Well!” soliloquized he, “that was the tallest hoist I have ever had yet. I fell from a frigate’s topgallant-yard once, but, by the Virgin’s Son, that was nothing to this! First, I went up, until I thought I was on a voyage to the moon, and then I came down like a burst rocket, and sunk into the sea, down, down, until I was sure I would come out on the other side; and then I came up in the midst of this infernal mess, safe and sound, and am booked for a cruise on this old spar. Maldito! I wish the berth was a better one! But after getting alive out of that hot fight, and coming off safe from a blowing up, I know I am not going to be drowned or starved to death! No, no, hanging will be my lot yet! and I could make out well enough here, for a while, if I only had a shipmate; messmates we would not be, for there is no grub—and, blast me, if there is not another chap alive, if he only has strength enough to get here.” As he said this, he stretched out his arm to aid a man, who, with feeble effort, was endeavoring to get on the spar.

The new comer’s face was grimed and black with powder, and he was stained with blood that was exuding from a deep gash in his shoulder; for a moment he sat motionless to recover himself, and then exclaimed, extending his hand to his companion on the mast,

“My God, is that you, Mateo!”

“Madre de Cielo!” said Mateo, who was the individual that had been philosophising. “Is that you, captain? By St. Antony, I am glad to see you! I was just wishing for a shipmate, but had no thought I would be lucky enough to fall in with you; for I thought it hardly possible we should both escape.”

“Nor have we yet,” said Willis; for it was he. “We have a poor chance of ever going from here, but to the fishes; but even that is better than to be carried into Havana again and hung. And it is some consolation that the sloop’s gone to Davy Jones’ locker as well as the Maraposa. I said this would be her last voyage to the coast, but I had no idea the poor craft would come to an end altogether.”

“Keep up your heart, captain,” said Mateo, “for I know I am going to die by hanging; and as you could not find the means of doing the job for me here, even if I wished it, we must necessarily get safe somewhere; and you know I am a true prophet!”

For three days, on the bare mast, exposed to the burning heat of the sun, without food or water, and hope dying in their hearts, Willis and Mateo lived. Their sufferings were awful: daily their strength failed: and Willis, who was weaker than Mateo, from loss of blood, and stiff from his wound, would have fallen off the mast, had not his mate taken the belt from around the captain’s waist, and bound him on with it: and feeling his own strength failing, he got to the other end of the spar, propped himself in between the cross-trees, and took a long look around the horizon, to see if there was not a sail in sight; but no such blessing greeted his eyes.

They were alone on the great and boundless solitude of the wide ocean—out of reach of all succor—and thus they floated on.

——

CHAPTER XIII.

The web of our life is of a

Mingled yarn, good and ill together.

All’s Well that Ends Well.

“El Diamente,” to avoid the bad weather, usually met with in the Gulf Stream, had taken the eastern passage, and, after clearing the Bahamas, had held her course about east north-east, and getting far to the eastward, was rapidly ploughing toward her destination.

She had been fortunate in having fair winds and good weather, and the voyage to Don Manuel and his family had been a very pleasant one. In the security and calmness of this passage, Clara had nearly forgotten the dreadful horrors and mischances that can take place at sea, and which she had experienced on her former voyage.

It was after sundown, the day had been intensely warm, and Clara and Francisca were sitting on the ship’s high poop-deck, enjoying the pleasant, and now cool air, and admiring the placid beauty of the smooth sea.

“What is that dark object, sister?” asked Francisca, pointing to a large, black-looking substance, floating to leeward.

“Indeed, I don’t know, Niñetta! It looks like a whale.”

“Oh! I want to see one so much; call Captain De Vere, and tell him to bring the telescope, so that we can have a good look at it,” said Francisca.

Clara called her husband, who came laughingly upon the poop, with a telescope; and adjusting the glass, he looked through it to see that the focus was right, before giving it to the ladies.

But as he looked his countenance changed, and taking the glass from his eye, in a voice of pity, he said, “that is not a whale, ladies; but two poor men on a floating mast.” Both the ladies expressed the greatest pity, and begged De Vere to have the poor men picked up: this he intended to do; and calling to his side the captain of the ship, pointed out to him the floating wreck.

The captain was a kind-hearted man, and there is nothing that excites the sympathy of a sailor quicker than a wreck, for it is a peril to which they are all and always exposed, and he at once ordered the man at the wheel to keep away. Soon the figures of the men on the spar were visible from the deck, and they looked as if they were both dead.

Getting near them, the Diamente’s top-sail was hove aback, and a boat lowered, to bring the sufferers on board. When she brought them, both men were insensible, though their faint breathing gave evidence that life had not yet departed.

All the crew and passengers were gathered around the gangway, to see the rescued ones as they were passed on board. As Willis came over, Francisca, with the quick eye of love, recognized him, and, shocked at his dreadful appearance, fainted.

None else recognized the handsome slaver, in the begrimed, sunburnt, blood-stained, and skeleton figure before them. And attributing Francisca’s swoon to pity, for a sight so horrible, carried her below.

Mateo and Willis were laid on deck, for the purpose of being resuscitated before they were carried below. Willis, who was much the most debilitated of the two, from the loss of blood he had sustained, for a long time resisted all efforts to restore animation. But Mateo, who had swooned but a short time before they were discovered, more easily recovered his faculties. But only partially and confusedly had his mind been restored, for, startled by the noise and bustle around him, bewildered, and remembering the desperate fight before the schooner was blown up, and seeing bending over him the face of De Vere, whom he had always known as an enemy, he thought he was again in the hot and heady fight, and staggering to his feet, before any one could stop his movements, he had drawn his sheath-knife, and shouting feebly, in Spanish, “Give it to the English dogs!” he plunged his knife to the hilt in the breast of De Vere; and overcome by the exertion, sunk again senseless on deck; falling across the body of the English captain, who had dropped dead.

Clara sprung forward, and pitching off Mateo, took her husband on her lap, and eagerly tried to staunch the fast welling blood, but it was useless.

The spirit had already fled; in her arms she held but an inanimate corse! She fainted, and fell by the side of her husband, and looked as if her soul had also taken its departure. So cold and deathlike did she look, that it was impossible to tell in which the principle of life still existed, the husband or the wife.

The crew, ignorant of all former acquaintance between the murderer and the murdered, were exasperated that he had met his death from the hand of the man he was trying to aid, and would have thrown both Willis and Mateo again into the sea, from whence they had just taken them, had not Francisca, whose anxiety to learn the fate of Willis had brought her on deck again, told her father who the men were; and the old Don, getting between the crew of the Diamond and the objects of their fury, explained to them their obligations to one of the party, and begged them to pause. He promised to be responsible for Willis himself, and persuaded them to put Mateo in irons, and carry him into port to be tried, instead of executing him themselves.

By the next day both Clara and Willis sufficiently recovered to attend the solemn commitment of De Vere to his last resting-place. Solemn it is, and heart-touching at any time, to see a man committed to a sailor’s grave, but on this occasion the feelings of the lookers-on were peculiarly harrowing—and a gloom, dark and drear, was cast over the rest of the voyage, that had commenced so pleasantly.

Clara was deeply affected by the fate of her young husband, thus cut off in the prime of his manhood, without a moment’s warning. Her character was changed; no longer proud and haughty, she determined to devote the rest of her life to the service of God.

Francisca and Don Manuel were serious and sad at the thought of De Vere’s sudden death and Clara’s distress, though a feeling of joy, like a spring rill, trickled along the bottom of Francisca’s heart, at the sight of Willis’s daily improvement in health, and from knowing he was near her.

Even the crew looked glum and sulky, for there is a superstition amongst sailors, that a murder on board gives a ship bad luck—and they feared a fatal termination to their voyage.

Mateo, the cause of all this suffering and mental commotion, was the only one on board who was totally unaffected by it. He was placed under the break of the forecastle, heavily ironed, and was perfectly calm; and when Willis asked him how he came to kill De Vere, and told him he would certainly be hung when they arrived at Cadiz, he said that he was sorry he had knifed De Vere when he did, but it was no more than he had intended to do some time; and as for being hung, it was what he had always expected—and he would grace a rope as well as another.

Willis, who liked the man for his faithfulness and dogged courage, had all his physical wants attended to; but no change took place in Mateo’s hardened mind.

Don Manuel took an opportunity, before the ship got in, to tell Willis how grateful he felt, and how much he respected him for his conduct in saving the lives of Clara and De Vere; and that though the captain, unfortunately, had not lived long enough to express his feelings otherwise than in words, he hoped Willis would permit him to be his friend, and told him that he had left a hundred thousand dollars for him, in the hands of his agent in Havana, in case Willis returned there before he saw him again; but as he had been fortunate enough to meet him, he insisted upon being Willis’s banker, and begged him to go to Madrid, and then return to Havana with him.

Willis thanked Don Manuel for the high opinion he was pleased to entertain of him, and for the kindness he had shown by leaving the large amount of money for him in Havana, but begged Don Velasquez to excuse him from accepting it; and told him he would have returned the box of doubloons he had sent him, had not the loss of his schooner put it out of his power, and expressed his intention of proceeding to the Chinese seas, after their arrival in Cadiz, to prosecute his fortunes in a new field.

Don Manuel listened until Willis had finished speaking, and then, taking his hand, he said, —

“Excuse me for what I am about to say, Captain Willis, but I am an old man, and mean nothing but kindness toward you. Pride, Captain Willis, I know, prevents your acceptance of my offer; but lay it aside as a favor to me, and believe that it is you who will be conferring the favor. The money to me is nothing, I have plenty of it, and have lived long enough to appreciate it at its just value; and I mean not to offend, but I must speak plainly. You are doing wrong to waste the fine feelings and mind that I know you to possess, in an occupation so much beneath you as that in which you have been engaged, or will be likely to get into without money or friends, so at the least promise me that you accompany us to Madrid, and give me a favorable answer to my request when we return.”

Willis was much affected by the kindness of the old Spaniard, and promised to stay with them until they were ready to return to Cuba.

Notwithstanding the fears of her crew the Diamente arrived safely in port, and Mateo was given up to the civil authorities to be tried. The evidence against him was clear and conclusive; and he was condemned to be hung the day after his trial.

Willis accompanied him to the foot of the gallows; but Mateo gave no evidence either of fear or repentance, and remarked to the hangman, as he reached the platform, that the knot on the end of the noose was made in a d—d unseamanlike manner, and he was afraid it would jam—but it did not; and the sailor died as he had lived, in the midst of sin.

It gave Willis a sharp and disagreeable pang to think of the narrow escape he had in Havana from finishing his career in the same dishonorable manner; and he felt thankful he had been able to avoid it. Giving a priest a handful of doubloons to say masses for the soul’s rest of his departed shipmate, he returned to the hotel to report to Don Manuel the fate of Mateo.

The next day they all departed for Madrid; but though the season was unusually gay, none of the party experienced much pleasure from the gayeties of the city.

Don Manuel was treated with much attention; but every thing had changed since he had been there before. The friends of his youth had died, or were now all old men, and immersed in the cares of business or ambition, were vastly different from the youths he remembered, and his heart yearned to be back in Cuba, amongst the more familiar scenes and friends of his latter years.

Clara was too sad to be happy any where; and Francisca, finding pleasure in nothing but the society of Willis, liked not the flirtations and compliments of the Madrid gallants.

The death of De Vere did away the necessity of going to England; and Clara now had no desire to outshine the English belles—and the trip was given up. All were glad when Don Manuel told them, if they were willing, he would return to Cuba in the same ship in which they came out, as she would return to Havana.

They all expressed their satisfaction; and Willis was now so much enamored with Francisca, that the Don had but little difficulty in persuading him to accompany them.

Again was Don Manuel and his family on board the good ship Diamante; and with a fresh breeze, and with more pleasure than they had experienced for some time, they bade farewell to the shores of Spain, and were heading for home. Home! in that name there is something that excites pleasant feelings in the breast, no matter how torn by sorrow. Even Clara felt more happiness than she had known since the death of her husband.

It was a bright, star-light evening; the ship was slowly moving through the water, that rippled in small waves around her bows. All was still, silent, and beautiful; and Willis and Francisca were walking up and down the poop quarter-deck, which was untenanted, save by themselves; every thing seemed fitted for love and sentiment, and Willis—but I will not repeat what he said—sufficient is it that he confessed to Francisca the deep, deep love he entertained toward her; and she, happy girl, blushingly, acknowledged that it was reciprocated.

Happy, indeed, was Francisca that night; her day-dream and her night-vision of the last eight months had at last come to pass. Willis loved her, and had acknowledged his passion.

Willis had not intended to mention his feelings to Francisca until after he had spoken to her father. But the stillness of the evening, the fine opportunity, and a something in his heart, he knew not what, had overpowered his resolution, and he yielded to circumstances. He now sought Don Manuel to tell him, feeling as if he had been guilty of a crime; but the kindness with which the old Spaniard listened to him, soothed his agitation; and the cup of his happiness was running over when the old man gave his consent to his marriage.

The rest of the voyage passed away, to Willis and Francisca, like magic; and when the cry of “land ho!” resounded from the mast-head, they could not believe that it was Cuba; but the light-house ere long was visible, and they could doubt the evidence of their senses no longer. For the first time Willis felt really glad to enter the harbor; and the remembrance of his situation, and the manner in which he had left, when last there, added to the pleasantness of his present feelings.

A fortnight after the arrival of the Diamente in port, there was a gay bridal party before the high-altar of the Cathedral, and in the same church he had witnessed the nuptials of Clara and De Vere, now stood Willis, happy and proud, with his heart overflowing with gratitude, waiting to receive the benediction that would make the beauteous, the lovely, the pure, and virtuous being at his side, his own forever; and even as that benediction was being pronounced, he remembered the misery he had felt, when he stood behind the pillar at his right, and witnessed the ceremony of De Vere’s marriage, and felt that he was an outcast, branded, desperate, poor. But his fortune now was changed, the benediction was given, and Francisca, in the sight of God and man, was his for evermore.

Stooping over, he imprinted on her ruby lips the first warm kiss of love he had ever given her; for he respected her so much, and so keenly remembered what he had been, that he avoided every thing he thought could possibly shock her delicacy; and, overwhelmed by the congratulations of his friends, amongst whom none were as loud as the old duenna, the party left the church.

A gay and brilliant assembly there was that night at the mansion of Don Velasquez, crowded by the élite, the young, the fashionable of Havana; but prominent above all the couples in the mazy dance, or stately promenade, for grace and beauty, shone the new bride and bridegroom; and the appearance of perfect contentment and joy that lighted their countenances, added a charm the most lovely, and without which the most perfect features lack beauty.

Shortly after the marriage of Francisca, Clara retired to the convent of our Lady of Mercy, and devoting the rest of her life to deeds of charity and acts of self-denial, endeavored to expiate the sins she thought her pride and haughtiness had made her commit in her earlier years.

At Francisca’s request, Don Manuel presented Willis with his plantation and the country-house on the bay, where, with his loved and lovely bride, he settled. And no one who had looked upon them four years afterward, would have recognized in the loving father playing with a little boy about three years old, and laughing as heartily as the child, Willis, the Slaver, had they not looked around and espied the beautiful Francisca, now a settled matron, with an infant on her knee, but as lovely as ever; and a little further off, through an open window that led to the piazza, was seen the cheerful face of Don Manuel. And glimpses might be caught of the old duenna, as she bustled about the house, in all the pride of chief manager.

In all that vicinity, no one has a higher character for kindness, charity, or benevolence, than Don Carlos Willis; and no one is more ready to relieve the wants of his fellow man, either moral or physical; but none know that the good man, whose name they all unite in praising, was formerly the notorious slaver! the outlaw! the desperado of the “Maraposa!”

TO A CENTURY PLANT.

———

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

———

An hundred summers, and the sun

Hath poured on thee his light;

An hundred winters, and the storm

Hath swept the earth in night.

Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,

Art standing firm and green

As when by bright eyes long ago

Thy broad dark leaves were seen.

Art standing stately in thy pride,

While fragrant flowers unfold

From every branch of thy tall stem,

As if thou wert not old.

Not old! an hundred years has time

Borne silently away;

Of all who saw thee first, not one

May look on thee to-day.

I would that every flower of thine

Were gifted with a spell,

Which, whispering to this heart of mine,

Of all the past might tell.

For much I love the olden time,

And many an olden theme;

Their pleasant memories haunt my heart

Like shadows in a dream.

And I from thee a tale would hear

Ere thou dost fade away,

For thou, with all thy thousand years,

Art hasting to decay!

A true, true tale of human hearts,

Of human hopes and fears,

And I will give to joys a smile,

To griefs will give my tears.

And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,

To wake the solemn past,

Or break the darkly-woven chain

By silence round it cast.

Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,

And yet the thoughtful mind

Will love the lore of human hearts,

That links it to its kind.

Thou of the hundred years! what change

Hast seen around thee wrought?

Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,

To tell of buried thought?

Still silent—but thy rustling leaves

Whisper in spirit-tone,

“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,

Look, then, into thine own.

“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprung

Within thy youthful breast,

Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrung

For dear ones laid at rest.

Think what a mighty lore remains

Still to be read by thee;

The past—the present—future—all

Blended in one Eternity!”

THE RING.

OR FIBBERS AND FIBBING.

———

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “AARON’S ROD,” “PRIZE STORIES,” ETC.

———

CHAPTER I.

“I hope no one will come in this morning,” said Alice Livingston to her cousin, Emma Percival. “I am tired after last night’s dancing, are not you Emma?”

“Yes,” replied her cousin, yawning, “and sleepy too.”

“I love a long, quiet morning now and then,” continued Alice; “and it looks so like rain that I think we are pretty safe to-day.”

“Don’t think it, my dear,” replied Emma. “This is just the kind of weather that people you don’t want to see are sure to call. I hate these cloudy mornings for that reason. You can’t say you are out such a day as this, and yet it don’t rain positively, so that others are obliged to stay at home, whether they will or no. Now there’s Mrs. Gardiner regularly chooses these days for her inflictions. I’ve no doubt, by the way, she will be here this very morning, for I met her yesterday, and she stopped to say she had not seen any of us for a long time, and all that. Beside she is sure to call in disagreeable weather.”

“What a strange fancy,” said Alice.

“Oh, she’s one of those restless gossips who cannot stay at home a day for her life,” replied Emma. “And then, beside, she’s a bore, and loves to pin you for half the morning; and, moreover, she’s only sure of getting in when you cannot possibly say you are out. Depend upon it she’ll be here this morning—I am sure she will. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, I feel that something evil this way comes.’ ”

“I hope your mesmeric thumbs are mistaken this once,” said Alice, laughing.

“I’ve no doubt but that’s her ring now,” replied Emma; and, sure enough, as the door opened, Mrs. Gardiner entered.

“Ah! Mrs. Gardiner,” said Emma, going forward in the most gracious, pleasant manner, “I thought I knew your ring. We were just speaking of you, and I told Alice that I was sure it was you.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased as she replied, “How came you to expect me just now?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mesmeric sympathy, I suppose,” replied Emma, smiling, “with which I am endowed. Alice was laughing at me just as you came in, for putting so much faith in my feelings. But you see, Alice,” she said looking at her cousin, “that my impressions are quite worth your anticipations. Alice,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Gardiner, “has been watching the clouds, thinking no one would take pity on us this morning; but I knew better.” And Emma again looked at her cousin with an expression of amusement that Alice, knowing what she meant, could not respond to. Being embarrassed between truth and civility, she made a slight and rather cold reply, which added considerably to Emma’s mirth.

“Is Mrs. Percival at home?” inquired Mrs. Gardiner, presently; and as she spoke, she rather turned to Alice, who replied, —

“Yes, I believe so.”

“No,” said Emma. “Alice, she went out some time ago.”

“It’s an unpleasant day for her to be out,” remarked Mrs. Gardiner, fixing her piercing eyes upon Emma with a very incredulous stare.

“She has gone to see old Mrs. Haight,” replied Emma. “She is quite ill, you know.”

“If she does not return soon, she will be caught in the rain,” pursued Mrs. Gardiner, who had heard the story of “mamma’s having gone to Mrs. Haight’s” too often, to put implicit faith in it; “it was sprinkling as I came in.”

“Is it?” said Emma. “She will probably stay and dine there, then. Mamma has not been there for some time, and so she will probably now ‘make a day on’t.’ ”

Mrs. Gardiner had nothing more to say on the subject; so the conversation turned to other things.

“By the way, Emma,” she said, presently, “did you get a hat the other morning? I left you, I believe, at Dudevant’s.”

“Oh, yes, I have one,” replied Emma.

“Do let me see it,” said Mrs. Gardiner, who took an intense interest in the subject of dress. Emma rung, and had her bandbox brought down.

Mrs. Gardiner eyed the bonnet suspiciously, as Emma presented it to her, and said, —

“Who made it, Emma?”

“It’s a French one,” replied Emma, promptly.

“Where did you get it?” pursued Mrs. Gardiner.

“At Dudevant’s,” said Emma, in the same decided manner.

“At Dudevant’s?” repeated Mrs. Gardiner, looking full at Emma. “Why I was there at the opening—I did not see this hat there.”

“It was in one of the cases,” replied Emma.

“Oh—!” said Mrs. Gardiner. The manner was as if ‘that may be.’ “I did not look in the cases,” she added. “And what did Dudevant ask you for that hat, Emma?”

“That’s between me and my conscience,” replied Emma, laughing. “I never tell Dudevant’s prices.”

“She is an extortionate creature,” said Mrs. Gardiner; and there the subject dropped.

“Well, Emma,” said she, after some time, “if you think your mother will not be at home to dinner, there’s no use in my waiting for her, I suppose.”

“I do not think there is any chance of your seeing mamma this morning, Mrs. Gardiner, for I’ve no doubt she’ll stay and dine at Mrs. Haight’s. But won’t you stay with Alice and myself?”

“Thank you, my dear,” replied the lady. “I wanted to see your mother, but since she is out, I believe I must be going. Good morning.”

“Good morning;” and the door had hardly closed upon her, ere Emma exclaimed,—

“She’s gone at last, thank heaven! She came to spend the day, I expect. I was so afraid that mother might come in. I thought I actually heard her at one time on the stairs.”

“Why, is not your mother out?” inquired Alice, opening her eyes very wide.

“Lord, no, my dear,” said Emma, laughing. “Did you think she was?”

“Certainly,” replied Alice, “when you said so. And all that about Mrs. Haight’s illness is not true either? Oh, Emma!”

“Oh, that’s true enough, Alice. You need not look so shocked. The poor old soul has been ill ever so long; so I always send mamma there when I want to make an excuse for her. She does go, in fact, pretty often; but I make her the most attentive, devoted friend that ever was.” And Emma laughed heartily at her own cleverness, and seemed to enjoy the idea excessively; but Alice looked grave, as she said, —

“How can you, Emma?”

“How can I what, Alice?”

“Why, tell so many—what shall I call them—fibs, for nothing.”

“I never ‘fib for nothing,’ Alice,” replied Emma. “That would be downright extravagance and waste. My fibs always have a reason. I knew mamma did not want to see Mrs. Gardiner—so I said she was out.”

“Why, then, did you not say she was engaged?” pursued Alice, reproachfully.

“Because, my dear, that would have been quite as much of a fib as the other, and not near as effectual. Mamma was not dressed to see company, and was only reading a novel. I could not very well say that, you know. I presume even your penchant for truth would not have carried you so far. Beside, every body is said to be ‘out’ when they don’t mean to see company. They are words, of course, to which no one attaches any ideas of either falsehood or truth.”

“I am not certain of that,” said Alice, “even as a general thing; but when a person enters into such particulars as you do, Emma, I am sure of the contrary. You not only sent your mother to Mrs. Haight’s, but kept her there to dinner. It really does seem to me that that was most gratuitous fibbing.”

“No such thing,” said Emma, laughing. “It was a very bright idea, that; for I saw she thought of waiting till mamma came home, and wanted, moreover, to dine here—and I had no idea of that, I assure you. I was tired to death of her as it was.”

“And yet you received her as if she were the very person you were wishing for,” continued Alice.

“I am sure,” said Emma, laughing, “I repeated, verbatim, what we had been saying.”

“Yes—but with such a different inference,” said Alice.

“Oh, if I keep to facts,” said Emma, gayly, “I do not feel responsible for other people’s inferences.”

“And about your hat,” continued Alice, reproachfully, “why, Emma, should you not have told the truth?”

“Because,” replied Emma, indignantly, “she would just have sent for Henrietta, and had hats made for both her girls precisely after mine, which, by the way, she would probably have sent to borrow as a pattern, if I had let her know she made it in the house. Mrs. Gardiner has no conscience, no decency about those things. She don’t scruple imitating any thing you have, if she can.”

Alice could not but smile in her turn at Emma’s ideas of ‘conscience,’ and ‘scruples,’ but she said,

“Do you think she believed you, Emma?”

“I don’t know whether she did or not, and I don’t care. She did not find out the truth, and that’s all I care about,” replied Emma, still quite indignant with Mrs. Gardiner. “No, I don’t suppose she did,” she continued, carelessly. “Nobody who saw the hat, and has eyes in their head, can mistake a home-made hat for a French one. But she could not tell me so, you know; and I don’t care what she thinks. I could not help laughing, Alice,” continued Emma, more in her usual gay manner, “to see you look so confounded when Mrs. Gardiner came in. You certainly have the most tell-tale face in the world. But it wont do, Alice. Now, as you have been lecturing me, I am going to return the compliment. Something is due to the bienséances of society, and you, with your truth, are really sometimes downright rude. Now last night, after Fanny Elton sung, you never said a word to Mrs. Elton, who sat beside you. Your coldness cost me a double dose of civility. I had to say all I could to make up for you. Do, pray, Alice, do your own civilities in future, for I have quite enough fibbing to do on my own account, without undertaking yours.”

“What could I say?” said Alice. “You would ask the girl to sing, and you know she has no voice, and is so dreadfully false, too. I really felt pained for her mother.”

“The more reason, my dear, why you should have said something civil to her,” replied Emma.

“But I could not, Emma. It was out of the question to say any thing complimentary; and so I thought it best to say nothing. How you could go on as you did, amazed me, for you gave me such a funny look, which, by the way, I was so afraid Mrs. Elton would see, when she came out with those horrid false notes.”

“It was dreadful, to be sure,” said Emma. “But I think it not only uncivil, but really unamiable, Alice, not to stretch the truth sometimes. I declare I was quite delighted with myself for making the old lady so happy as I did, by praising Fanny’s music; and as for not asking her, that would never have done. They think at home she is the greatest musician in the city. One has got to fib sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t say so,” said Alice, earnestly. “I do love the truth—it’s a —”

“A jewel, no doubt,” said Emma, interrupting her. “I agree with you; but it’s in bad taste to be in jewels always. If you persist in telling the truth in season and out of season, you’ll be as outré as poor Mrs. Thatcher, with those eternal diamonds of hers. And then it’s so tiresome,” pursued Emma, “always to stick to facts so. You must embellish a little if you want to make a thing amusing.”

“There I entirely differ from you,” said Alice, decidedly. “The truth may not always be polite, but it’s always refreshing. I think there is nothing that is not only so beautiful, but so agreeable as the truth. It really sometimes has the effect of wit. There’s Mrs. Kemp, for instance, who everybody calls so agreeable; and I do think the great charm is in her being so perfectly true. She always gives you her real opinions and sentiments, and tells you things just as she sees them; and it gives a freshness to her conversation that very few people have. Most persons just repeat what others say, because they think it wont do to differ from the majority. Now truth gives life, freshness, individuality, every thing that is to me delightful, in both people and conversation.”

“Mrs. Kemp has an odd way of coming out with all that comes into her head,” replied Emma, “and I agree with you that it is amusing; but, really, I think it would hardly be put up with if she were not so rich, and a person of so much consequence as she is. I think people would call it right down impudence; and, moreover, she is a woman of a good deal of wit. If she were as dull as old Mrs. Elton, she might be as true as the sun, and she would never by any accident make you laugh. So, you see, my dear, it’s wit, and not truth, that is the refreshing quality. There’s Miss Ellis, who is not famous for her accuracy, and yet is one of the most amusing persons I know.”

“She would be, if one could place any reliance on her narratives,” replied Alice. “But the feeling of doubt and uncertainty that I have in listening to her anecdotes, dashes, if it does not destroy, the pleasure her conversation would otherwise give me.” Emma laughed as she answered, —

“Your dissatisfied look always amuses me when Miss Ellis is talking. But what difference does it make, after all, whether the thing is true or false, as long as it amuses? Half the time you don’t even know the people discussed. Where is the use of being so particular in trifles?”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, seriously, “don’t talk so. It’s a shocking habit. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness,’ is one of God’s own commandments.”

“Who is talking of ‘bearing false witness,’ Alice?” said Emma, quite angrily. “You good people are so civil! I do hate such exaggeration. One would really think that to fulfill the courtesies of society and to commit perjury, were equal crimes. Because I am good-natured enough to say a civil thing to an old woman, you are pleased to imply that I may ‘bear false witness against my neighbors.’ ”

“No, I do not, Emma,” replied Alice, firmly, “but the habit of trifling with the truth, is a fearful one; and you may depend upon it, that no one who ever was careful of it in little points, was ever led to swerve aside in great things. Those who are in the habit of yielding to small temptations are those who most readily fall under great ones.”

“May be,” said Emma, weary of the discussion, “but I think you had better cultivate the habit of not looking so tired when you are bored, and I’ll try and be rude the first opportunity that offers, if that will suit you; so now go and put on your bonnet, for the carriage is at the door.” And so the conversation ended.

——

CHAPTER II.

“Is it not too bad,” said Emma, one day to Alice, “in Charles Cooper to wear that ring of mine; and before Mr. Dashwood, too?”

“You did give it to him, then?” said Alice, quickly. “I thought so; and yet you looked so unconscious, and joined in so carelessly when Mr. Dashwood was talking about it, that I supposed I must be mistaken.”

“Did I?” said Emma, evidently relieved. “I was so afraid I colored, or looked guilty; for I was so startled and frightened, that it was as much as I could do to command myself.”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly, “since you had given the ring, why did you not say so frankly?”

“How could I?” exclaimed Emma, looking aghast at the idea, “when Mr. Dashwood spoke of such things as being vulgar. If he had not made use of that horrible word, ‘vulgar,’ may be I might; but I could not acknowledge it after that, you know.”

“What did he say?” inquired Alice. “I did not hear the commencement of the conversation. How came he to speak of it?”

“Oh, he happened to say he did not like Charles Cooper, (another reason, by the way, for my saying nothing of my old flirtation,) that he was so full of little vanities; and mentioned, as an instance, that he wore a lady’s ring, which he was very fond of displaying and having noticed, which Mr. Dashwood said was ‘very contemptible;’ but the dreadful part of it was, that he added, ‘To be sure he did not suppose the lady could be very fastidious, or she would not have given a ring to such a man as Charles Cooper; and, indeed, for his part, he thought such flirtations vulgar things always.’ Ah! I almost gasped for breath; and I was so thankful I had not said the ring was mine, which I was on the point of doing, when he began the story.”

“Oh, how I wish you had!” exclaimed Alice, fervently.

“Heavens, Alice!” said Emma, reproachfully; “how can you? Do you really wish to see me lowered in his eyes?” and the tears gushed into hers at the bare suggestion.

“No, Emma,” said Alice, affectionately. “But that would have been far from the case. If you had said frankly, and in your playful way, ‘Ah, take care, for I gave him that ring,’ Mr. Dashwood would have thought nothing of it, or only admired you the more for your sincerity.”

“Do you think so?” said Emma, doubtingly. “If I thought that—yes—I believe you are right I wish I had; but I was so frightened at the time—and it’s too late now.”

“Oh, no, it is not, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly. “Do tell him this evening.”

“What, tell him I did a ‘vulgar’ thing, in the first instance, and told a fib about it afterward! Why, what can you be thinking of, Alice?” and Emma actually turned pale at the idea. “You know how scrupulous he is in such matters. You really seem anxious that I should make him despise me,” she added, reproachfully.

“No, indeed, Emma; but he is so noble and upright, that I cannot bear that you should deceive him in any thing; and I am sure you may trust his admiration and affection to any extent, Emma. Why should you be afraid of him? If you begin so now, what will it be after you are married?”

“Oh,” replied Emma, laughing, “when we are once married, he takes me ‘for better or worse,’ and so must put up with me, faults and all; so I shall not be afraid to tell him any thing.”

“Better begin now,” urged Alice.

“Well, I will next time,” said Emma, impatiently. “But there’s no use in bringing this up again. It has passed off now, and he’ll never think of it again; so let the matter rest—it is ended now.”

But here Emma was mistaken. She met Mr. Cooper at a small party in the evening; and to her annoyance, the ring was on his little finger. Some one said, “Cooper, what ring is that you are flourishing?” and the young man smiled in reply, and looked at his little finger caressingly, and said it was “a ring he valued very highly.” Whereupon some badinage followed; all of which Mr. Cooper took very kindly. Emma was excessively vexed and annoyed, although she commanded herself to look calm and indifferent; but afterward she took an opportunity to say to him, in a low voice, “You must return me that ring.”

“You surely are not in earnest. You will not be so cruel,” he replied in a tone equally low.

Just then she caught Mr. Dashwood’s eye, who looked surprised at the sort of intimacy with which they seemed to be talking, and she hastily turned away. Mr. Cooper caught the look at the same time; and the idea instantly occurred to him that Dashwood was jealous. The idea both gratified and amused him; and in a spirit of fun, which often animates young men under such circumstances, he determined to add to his uneasiness. Beside, he saw that Emma was decidedly annoyed; and as she had treated him with some caprice, he thought this a good opportunity for ‘paying her off;’ and so he took particular pleasure in displaying the ring whenever he could. Emma could bear it no longer; and the first time he was by her, and no one else in the group, she said,

“I wish you would give me that ring.”

“What, now?” said the young man, glancing his eye toward Mr. Dashwood, who was just then approaching.

“No,” she replied, almost with a shiver, feeling at once how that would betray her. “Not now; send it to me to-morrow.” And then, as Mr. Dashwood joined them, she continued, in the same tone, to talk of other things.

Cooper saw his power over her, and determined to use it, partly in the spirit of fun, and yet not without a dash of malice in it either. So the next morning he wrote her a few lines, enclosing another ring of more value than hers, and “begging that it might be substituted in the place of one he treasured so highly, he could not readily bring himself to part with it.”

Emma was exceedingly angry. “Did you ever know any thing so impudent?” she said to Alice, with tears in her eyes. “Hateful creature! how could I be such a fool as ever to have let him take it at all!” And she opened her writing-desk to take out some note paper, when Alice said,

“What are you going to do, Emma?”

“Why, return it to him, of course,” she replied, indignantly, “and insist upon having my own again.”

“Oh, don’t write to him, Emma,” said Alice; “pray don’t. Depend upon it, he will take advantage of it if you do.”

“What shall I do, then?” said Emma, despairingly.

“He will probably be here this evening,” replied Alice, “and if you take my advice, you will give it back to him before Mr. Dashwood, and ask for your own at the same time. He’s only trying now to annoy you, because he sees that you are afraid of Mr. Dashwood’s knowing the truth.”

“Well, so I am,” replied Emma. “That’s just the thing. If it was not for Mr. Dashwood, there would be no difficulty about it.”

“Ah, Emma, if you would——”

“But I wont, Alice,” said Emma, interrupting her impatiently. “I know what you are going to say—but I wont—I can’t tell Mr. Dashwood. If you can suggest nothing better than that, leave me to take my own way.”

“Don’t write, then,” said Alice, imploringly.

“Why, Alice, what else can I do!” replied Emma, much vexed. “You make objections to every thing, and yet don’t suggest anything better.” And so she wrote a few rapid lines, enclosing the ring, and dispatched a servant with it to Mr. Cooper’s. He was out. The note was left; and she received no answer that day.

The next morning, however, brought a reply, apologizing, in the first place, for not answering her immediately; but he had been absent from home; then, half expostulatingly, and half playfully, protesting against her exactions—in short, a very flirty note, and without the ring.

Emma was very angry, and foolishly wrote a spirited reply, which, of course, brought a rejoinder; and thus, in spite of Alice’s entreaties, several notes passed between them, and Emma was no nearer her object than before. When they met, he sometimes promised to give up the ring, sometimes playfully evaded the point; but still always kept her in hopes and suspense. Mr. Dashwood noticed the kind of growing intimacy that seemed to subsist between them, and noticed it, too, with displeasure; not that he was jealous at all—for he was of a noble, confiding temper; but he was a proud, reserved man, and did not like the peculiar manner in which Emma allowed Mr. Cooper to address her; and was still less pleased with the low, earnest tones in which he sometimes heard her speaking to him.

Mr. Dashwood was the soul of truth and honor himself, but was of a reserved and even stern temper, too; and in spite of the witchery Emma’s playfulness exercised over him, he would occasionally bend his eyes upon her with a stern look, that frightened the soul almost out of her body—for Emma, like all fibbers, was a coward. She was desperately in love with him, but at the same time desperately afraid of him.

“Oh, if I only get out of this scrape safely,” she said to Alice, “I’ll take care how I get into another.”

“Well,” said Alice, cheerfully, “that is the best thing I’ve heard you say yet, Emma. Pray tell him the truth always in future.”

“It was a pity I did not in the beginning,” said Emma; “for I do believe with you, that he would have thought nothing of it then. He does not suspect any thing now; but still it is unlucky.”

Emma had no feeling about deceiving one who trusted her so fully, but only thought that she was very ‘unlucky’ and in a ‘scrape.’

The next time she met Mr. Cooper, the subject of the ring was resumed. He protested he had it not with him, or he would give it to her. “Will you allow me to call this evening,” he said, “and I will bring it?”

She immediately remembered that Mr. Dashwood would be at her house in the evening, and she said,

“No, I shall not be at home. I am going to spend the evening with Miss Pearsall. Will you not be there?”

“If you are, certainly,” he replied, in a manner implying that it was an appointment, which was the fact, though Emma was vexed at his letting it appear.

Mr. Dashwood said to her afterward, “I will bring the book you wish this evening,” but she answered, to Alice’s surprise, “No, don’t, for I am going with mamma to old Mrs. Haight’s to drink tea; so you must pass the evening at the club for this once,” but, she added, holding out her hand, “come to-morrow; until when, good-by.”

“Why, Emma, what on earth takes you to Mrs. Haight’s to tea?” said Alice, afterward.

“I am not going to Mrs. Haight’s,” she coolly replied. “I am going to Ellen Pearsall’s. Mr. Cooper has promised at last to give me that tiresome ring, and my notes, too.”

Alice looked quite shocked.

“Emma, Emma!” she said. “How can you?”

“How can I what, Alice?” said Emma, impatiently. “You know I can’t let him come here, for Mr. Dashwood is always here.”

“But why say you are going to Mrs. Haight’s?”

“Oh, Alice, how tiresome you are? Because, if I had said I was going to Ellen’s, of course, Mr. Dashwood would have offered to go, or call for me. Now, he knows Mrs. Haight never receives any one but our family; so that matter is settled.”

“But suppose he finds it out?” persisted Alice.

“Oh, he wont find it out,” returned Emma, who was always confident in any expedient that saved her for the time being.

In the evening, it so happened, that one or two gentlemen called also at Miss Pearsall’s; and the circle was so small, that the conversation being general, as they sat round Miss Pearsall’s tea-table, Emma had no opportunity of effecting the object she came for; and she returned home quite provoked, and out of spirits. But it so happened, that one of the young men who had chanced to be there, on his way home, went into the very club-room where Mr. Dashwood was sitting.

“You are a very pretty fellow, are you not!” exclaimed the young man, gayly, as he saw Dashwood. “And this is your engagement, is it? ’Pon my word, I think Miss Percival is very good to make your apologies in this way, and let you come off to a club-room.”

“What are you talking of?” said Dashwood, looking up surprised.

“Why, of your letting Miss Percival go alone to Miss Pearsall, saying you were engaged. She has just gone home with her brother, while her most devoted of lovers sits smoking his cigar in a club-room.”

Mr. Dashwood could scarcely believe his senses. He doubted, for the moment, whether he was smoking—whether he was in a club-room—whether he was sitting or standing. But, too proud and reserved to betray his emotions to a casual acquaintance, he asked no questions; and observing that the room was cold, buttoned up his coat, and left the house.

The next day he said to Emma,

“Did not you tell me you were going last evening to Mrs. Haight’s with your mother?”

“Yes,” she replied, “mamma and I went early to an old-fashioned cup of tea.”

“Hawthorn told me,” he said, bending his eyes upon her with an expression that brought her heart to her lips in an instant, “that he met you at Mrs. Pearsall’s.”

“Yes,” she replied, with a presence of mind worthy of a better cause—for she felt it was what is vulgarly called “neck or nothing”—“yes, it was so dull, that I could not bear it long. All my humanity and kindness for poor old Mrs. Haight could not stand her prosing; so I left mamma there, and went into Ellen’s—they live next door, you know.”

“Hawthorn said you apologized for me, saying I was engaged,” he continued, not yet quite satisfied.

“I said nothing of the kind,” she said, feeling that her only resource was to deny this in toto. “What could Mr. Hawthorn be thinking of? I said you were going to the club.”

His countenance cleared immediately; indeed, he was angry, and despised himself that he could have been uneasy, or doubted her for a moment. He grew animated and cheerful, and asked so pleasantly who she had met there, that, excited by her success, or “escape,” as she would have called it, she mentioned the gentlemen, among whom she even boldly named Mr. Cooper, who had been Miss Pearsall’s guests.

“Emma,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “perfect confidence must exist where there is perfect affection; so I will be frank with you at once. I do not like that gentleman’s manner toward you. It seems to me as if there were some secret between you;” and he fixed his searching eyes upon her with an inquiring expression.

She felt now that he had seen too much to be satisfied of the contrary, even if she denied it; so she said,

“Well, to be frank with you, there is something between us; but as it is not a secret of mine—I do not know that I am authorized to tell even you of it.”

He looked grave, as he replied,

“Certainly, if it is the secret of another, I have no right, nor wish, even, to inquire further. But I hope in future, Emma, you may have no secrets, even of others, from which I am excluded.”

It was half affectionately, half gravely said; and Emma promised most fully to have no reserves from him henceforth.

“Do you know,” continued he, smiling, though still not looking quite satisfied, “that I imagined it was something concerning that ring that Cooper sports?”

Emma felt again that she was treading on ice, that might give way the next instant, and that denial was unsafe, so she answered boldly,

“You are right again. And, upon the whole, I don’t know why I should not tell you the truth just as it is. I do not suppose Ellen will care about your knowing it, particularly as you, of course, will not repeat it. She gave him that ring, and wanted me to get it back for her.”

“Why did she not ask for it herself?” he said, somewhat sternly.

“She was afraid of her mother’s knowing it,” replied Emma. “You know what a prim, particular old lady Mrs. Pearsall is.”

“Foolish girl,” he said, contemptuously, “and worse than foolish, to be deceiving those she should most trust.”

Emma felt her heart die within her; but there was no help for her—so she agreed to all his animadversions on Miss Pearsall, and only said,

“Yes, so she is; but say nothing about it. Make no allusion to her, or to any one else.”

“Of course not,” he replied; and the subject dropped.

To Emma’s great relief she heard, a few days afterward, that Mr. Cooper was going to Europe very soon. Expected to sail, indeed, in the course of a fortnight.

“I have a little package for you,” he said; “when can I call,” he added, smiling, “when Mr. Dashwood is not at your house?”

Emma saw that he thought she was afraid of Mr. Dashwood, and supposed, too, that he was jealous; and the idea that he should presume to think Dashwood jealous, and of him, too, roused her temper; and she said with spirit,

“You may call whenever it suits you. Mr. Dashwood’s visits need not interfere with yours.”

“Indeed!” he said, looking at her inquiringly.

“Why,” said she, scornfully, provoked with his impudence, “do you imagine that Mr. Dashwood cares about that ring?”

“Does he know it to be yours?” he asked, with surprise.

“To be sure he does,” she boldly replied; and, to her great satisfaction, she saw at once that all the peculiar pleasure and interest in possessing the ring was dispelled.

“I will send you the package to-morrow,” he said, quietly, “if I have not time to call myself before I sail.”

He was very much occupied, however, during the day, and forgot it; but the evening prior to his departure, Dashwood called at his rooms to entrust him with some European letters. He found him making a few last arrangements, and a couple of gentlemen were with him. After some general conversation, just as Cooper was closing his writing-desk, where he had deposited Dashwood’s letters, his eye happened to fall upon Emma’s package, which he had forgotten in his hurry until then. Supposing that Dashwood knew all about it, and not wishing to mention names before the strangers, who were with him, he said, handing it to Dashwood, “I wish you would hand this to its fair owner; and tell Miss Percival,” he said, “that I should have called to make my adieux, if I had not been so pressed for time.”

It was a small package addressed to “Miss E. P.” which Dashwood, remembering his conversation with Emma, supposed he was to hand to Miss Ellen Pearsall; so, asking no questions, he put it in his pocket, and after bidding Cooper farewell, left him to go to a large party where he expected to meet Emma, and probably Ellen.

In the course of the evening he said,

“I have a small package for you, Miss Pearsall, which I will give you when you leave.”

“A package for me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “What can it be! Oh, give it to me now.”

As Mrs. Pearsall, the “prim, particular old lady,” was not near, he handed Ellen the package, who instantly broke the seal of the envelope, from which fell two or three notes, while the young lady exclaimed,

“Why this is Emma’s ring. What were you thinking of, Mr. Dashwood?” she added, laughing. “You must be an absent gentleman, to be sure, to mistake me for Emma. Is not that a good joke?” and she laughed heartily, as he stooped to pick up the notes, which to his amazement he saw were directed, in Emma’s handwriting, to “Charles Cooper, Esq.”

“That Miss Percival’s ring?” he said, bewildered, and not knowing what to think.

“Yes, certainly!” she replied. “See, there is her name engraved inside”—and so it was. “Is not that amusing, mamma?” she continued, turning to her mother, and explaining what she seemed to think an excellent joke. Dashwood saw the truth at once in her tones and whole manner.

“What is that,” said Emma, crossing the room to join them, “that seems to be amusing you all so?”

“Only, my dear,” said Ellen, laughing, “that Mr. Dashwood has mistaken me for you. Very complimentary to me, certainly; though I don’t know what you’ll say to such compliments.”

“This package,” said Mr. Dashwood, gravely, without raising his eyes to Emma’s face, “is, it seems, addressed to you. Miss Pearsall broke the seal under a mistake. But there is no mistake now, I believe,” he added, with an emphasis that sent Emma’s blood tingling to the tips of her fingers. He handed her the package, slightly bowed and passed on.

Emma saw him no more that evening. Startled and terrified by the facts, which she felt even her powers of dissimulation were unequal to cover, she was yet more alarmed by the manner in which he had received them. Had he seemed angry, though frightened, she still would have had hope. Had he reproached her, she might have wept and apologized. But his manner had been cold and stern; he had merely bowed, he had not even looked at her, and left her.

She passed an agonized night of doubt and suspense.

He suffered no less than herself, but not from doubt and suspense. Unhappily, there was no room for that. He was a man of firm mind, and decided character. His sense of honor was fine, almost romantic; and he was the soul of truth and integrity. He was not angry, but worse than that, he was shocked; and, shall we say it, disgusted. He had been easily blinded, because he fully confided. He was too upright, too high-minded, readily to suspect others. But his eyes once opened, and his rapid, clear mind saw the whole at once. The falsehoods that Emma had told him, much as they pained him, were not to him the worst part of the affair. He remembered her innocent looks, her unconscious air, her apparently frank and careless manner; and his soul sickened—for he felt, in the emphatic language of the ritual, that “the truth was not in her.”

Confidence was destroyed forever. Happiness between them was out of the question. He wrote to her, “freeing her from an engagement with one whom she evidently not only did not trust, but feared.”

The letter was a manly, feeling letter; short, but breathing the anguish of a deeply wounded spirit.

Emma wept passionately over it; mourned, and mourned again, that she had not told him the truth in the beginning. “It was so unlucky,” as she kept repeating—for beyond that her sense of right did not go, even yet.

But Mr. Dashwood was on his way to New Orleans. He left the Percivals to tell what story they pleased; and it was soon announced by her friends that “Emma had dismissed him.”

When the reason was asked, Emma said “she felt she never could be happy with him;” and her mother intimated that his temper was a stern, unpleasant one.

“And I always should have been afraid of him,” said Emma to Alice, beginning to draw consolation as soon as she could from the first source that occurred to her. “He thought so much of trifles that I know that I should always have been in trouble, and horribly afraid of him.”

Alice sighed, for she believed so too. She had once hoped much from the influence of Dashwood’s superior character over her; but she now saw how fallacious those hopes would have been. Emma, she felt, was incorrigible, for she had no perception even yet of her fault. Dashwood had been right—“the truth was not in her.”

ELVA.

———

BY EDWARD POLLOCK.

———

Old Elva’s walls are leveled with the earth,

And weeds are green where glowed the blazing hearth;

The stately trees that once the roof topped o’er,

Now shed their brown leaves on the broken floor:

Where bloomed the rose and lily, browse the deer;

And springs the oak the cherished fruit tree near;

Where once were arbors, now, through thickest brake,

Slow winds, in many a fold, the glancing snake.

Time, tempest, violence, and dull decay,

Have worn at length the latest marks away;

One tower alone stands grimly where it stood,

Gray, torn, dismantled, frowning o’er the flood,

The dreariest mark those mournful ruins bear,

That human forms have been—but are not there.

Yet, Elva! once with thee it was not so:

Ere ruthless hearts and hands had wrought thee wo,

Thy long dim halls with happiness were rife,

And glad hearts to thy solitudes gave life.

And though nor gladsome voice, nor glancing oar,

Now stir the echoes on thy lake’s green shore,

That lake hath borne full oft the bark where sate

Forms warm with love, and hearts with hope elate,

And young bright eyes have bent with starry gleam

Above the mazy windings of thy stream.

From the dark turret, where the sweet bells swung,

All winged with joy the wedding peals have rung,

While Mirth, with kindling glance and rosy smile,

Kissed each young cheek and blessed each heart the while,

And Song sat, silver-tongued, and filled with sound

Those echoing walls, now sadly scattered round!

Oh list the lowly and the simple lay

The minstrel sings of Elva’s earlier day.

I.

Old Elva’s halls have many a guest to-night,

Yet the lamps shed not their accustomed light,

Nor music’s strain, nor garnished feast is there,

But all is sentineled by anxious care.

For they who rest within, in act and word,

Are leagued in hostile guise against their lord;

And much they dare who aid with kindly hand

The attainted members of that patriot band:

Men who had cast with daring hands aside

The cankering chains of feudal pomp and pride,

And roused by wrongs, long suffered, long forgiven,

Will now be free, if not on earth—in heaven.

Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil—

But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil—

On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay,

And wait their arms beside th’ approaching day—

Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare—

Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare.

II.

As one who watched his slumbering band to guard,

Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward.

His ebon locks thrown back to catch the breeze,

Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees,

His small hand resting on his dagger’s hilt,

Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt,

With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene,

Marks each faint motion of the foliage green,

Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye,

To where the stars hang brightening o’er the sky.

Why waits he here when all the rest are deep

In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep?

What thought—what scene doth hope or memory trace,

Which gilds and glooms alternately his face?

Dreams he of glory?—of revenge?—or love?

Or seek his eyes those silent suns above,

With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore

The eastern Magi proudly held of yore?

When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee

To their far thrones, the future there might see—

Or why hath power so soon her mantle flung,

On one so fair, so slender, and so young?

III.

Vain questions all! But ask the bold of deed

Who scarce can follow where he dares to lead,

Whose form is foremost in the reeling fight?

Whose arm is last to stay and first to smite?

Whose voice still rings the wavering ranks to cheer?

Whose counsel still partakes of aught but fear?

Whose face, when all was chill with blank despair,

Ne’er yet has worn one shade that looked like care?

Or whose the hand, when some well-won success

Might sure have named revenge a just redress,

Was still most prompt the conquered foe to save?

All his—the young—the beautiful—the brave!

He who had lightly held that slender hand,

Would scarce have scorned it when it grasped the brand;

And he who marked at rest that eye and cheek,

In war so wild, in peace so soft and meek,

Might well have wondered whence the spirit rose,

So dear to friends—so terrible to foes!

IV.

He came—they knew not whence—nor much they cared;

Yet seemed he one in luxury lapped and reared:

Some hideous wrong, perchance, they thought, had stung

Into rebellion one so soft and young.

A home laid desolate—a father slain—

Or else redress for injury, asked in vain;

But all was wild surmise—they questioned not,

But in the present soon the past forgot.

So mild his face, serene and calmly bright,

Like a sweet landscape in the morning light,

You might not guess what passions lurked apart

In the dim caverns of his hidden heart;

And in his eye gleamed such uncertain ray,

Full rarely sad, and still more rarely gay,

You ne’er could tell if joy or rage would speak

In the next moment from his changing cheek.

If wreathed in smiles, his beaming features shone

Like a breeze-dimpled streamlet in the sun;

But when the glance of anger fired his eye,

It struck like lightning from a cloudless sky.

Still in his glance, and in his lifted hand,

Was that which showed the soul that would command;

It might be art, or nature—none could tell—

But if a mask, he wore it rarely well.

V.

The western clouds have lost their purple dye,

A silver radiance tints the eastern sky—

That dream-like glory tells the eye, that soon

Above the hills shall sail the summer moon.

And Gilbert passed within that silent hall,

Lit by a dim lamp trembling from the wall,

His steps he turned by that uncertain ray,

Where stretched along his sleeping warriors lay.

’Twas a strange sight! each swart and stalwart form,

So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm,

There seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest,

As lulls the infant on its mother’s breast.

But when the form in deepest trance lies still

Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will,

And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern,

Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern.

Here one, whose quivering eyelids shunned the light,

Seemed struggling with some phantom child of night;

Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess

In dreams anticipates revenge—redress!

And there be fingers wandering to the brand,

And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand;

And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp

The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp.

VI.

Where through the window, opening o’er the glade,

The shivering winds of night an entrance made,

There was an old man—old in years and care—

With wrinkled brow and scant and frosty hair,

Stretched out in sleep; the earliest moonbeams played

On the hard pillow where his cheek was laid,

And, with her spirit hand, the wind of night

Lifted the thin locks from his temples white.

Such ghastly pallor o’er the features spread,

So marble cold appeared the silent head,

That one might start, despite the deep drawn breath,

At life that looked so fearfully like death.

And Gilbert gazed, and as he gazed, a change

Passed o’er those features—beautiful but strange—

Such magic change as one might guess would be

When bursts the morning o’er a moonlit sea;

His brow relaxed, his thin lips dropped apart,

More boldly heaved his breast and leaped his heart,

And a faint smile, the ghost of gladness gone,

Played round his mouth like radiance round the sun.

Now sinks his breathing indistinct and low—

Hark! from his lips unmeaning murmurs flow—

He speaks: “Dear father—mother—” Heaven above!

That old man dreams of childhood’s guiltless love.

The daylight shines not on a fiercer brow,

A fiercer eye, a haughtier lip, and now,

Serenely, sweetly, there, a sinless boy,

He smiles in slumber o’er a childish joy.

To Gilbert’s eyes those words recalled a scene,

That ah! no more for Gilbert shall be green;

And at those syllables so lightly spoke,

Long channeled fountains in his bosom broke;

Along his cheek faint flushes went and came,

As o’er an evening cloud the lightning’s flame;

And his frame thrilled and trembled as the trees

All quivering bend them to the autumn breeze.

Hell has no fiend like memory, when she brings

Repentance without hope, remorse’s stings,

And a long file of days, in sable weeds,

Mourning and weeping over past misdeeds.

Like a pale ghost that shuns the rising day,

Strode Gilbert fast, but stealthily, away;

Nor paused he till again the dewy sod

With lighter heart and firmer step he trod.

VII.

Like warriors of the knightly times of old,

All sheathed in armor rough with fretted gold,

So seem the trees round Elva’s mansion white,

So glance their wet leaves in the silver light.

Still Gilbert watches—still his eyelids keep

At bay the approaches of deceitful sleep;

The sun was sinking when his watch begun,

Now far beneath him rolls the unwearied sun;

The moon, whose glory woke a fainter day,

When on the hill-tops died the gold away,

Now from mid-heaven, with face serene, looks down

On lake and stream and Elva’s forest brown.

He leaned against a tree, whose trunk around

With hoary moss and ivy green was bound,

His flashing eyes were turned upon a scroll

Whose pictured words drew echoes from his soul:

As the Æolian harp, by night winds stirred,

By turns is silent, or by snatches heard,

So wildly sweet, in fitful fragments rung

The syllables unconscious from his tongue.

THE LETTER.

Sweet land of shadows—dear, delightful shore—

Oh could I seek thee to return no more!

What dreams of joy each misty valley fills,

What scented blossoms fringe the sparkling rills,

What angel visions float through rainbow skies,

Where rich and warm a sunless glory lies!

There, ’mid the blossoms, love lies stretched along,

And fills the air with passion and with song,

And dancing waves below, and winds above,

Seem warm with kisses from the lips we love.

Ah! Gilbert, shall our spirits haunt no more

Those bowers of love on fancy’s airy shore?

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fierce as the waves of ocean lashed to strife,

Wild as the winds that wake them into life,

Through my sore heart the crimson billows roll,

And rush the thoughts tumultuous o’er my soul,

When to my memory’s eye returns that day

They tore thee bleeding from my heart away.

O cursed, yet blessed, all wild with joy and pain,

How cling those moments to my tortured brain—

That last embrace my bosom answers still,

Still to that kiss my lips responsive thrill.

Again mine arms are wildly round thee flung—

I drink each accent falling from thy tongue—

Again—again—O God!—the steel gleams bright—

As speeds the deadly blow before my sight,

I see the warm blood gushing from thy breast—

But grim despair and darkness hold the rest.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

High hangs that blade above my chamber-door—

The fiend that from my heart its idol tore,

Before my gaze displays the unwiped steel,

And feeds his vengeance on the pangs I feel.

There must I see, each morning’s life begun,

Thy best blood rusting in the rising sun;

By night—by night, whene’er the moonbeams pale

Have wreathed the chamber in their mystic veil,

Through the dim haze, like spectral lamp, it gleams,

Or fills with baleful light my midnight dreams.

From hideous sleep with quivering limbs I start—

That blade seems rusting in my throbbing heart;

Like a red cloud it shuts the light away,

And glooms with horror all the joys of day.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

I know thou didst not die—this much I know

From him who wert thou dead were still thy foe;

I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess

Of the greenwood’s remotest wilderness,

And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me,

How my heart bounded at the thought of thee.

Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand,

The outlawed leader of an outlawed band;

I heed not that, I only joy to hear

Thy name as one the boldest hearts must fear;

Would only pray, that fate would kindly twine.

In life or death, my destiny with thine.

Alas, how vain! my love, my spirit’s pride,

A hunted lion, roves the mountain-side.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

There is a fairy spot, thou knowest it well,

By Elva’s stream, in Elva’s deepest dell,

Where oaks and larches bend their heads above,

And flowering shrubs beneath are thickly wove,

While through the boughs, in many a broken beam,

Dances the sunlight on the sparkling stream;

There, when my guardian’s eyes I can elude,

I sometimes steal and sit with solitude;

But all too dreadful is the contrast there,

Where hope lies tombed and guarded by despair,

To the dear joys, all passionate and wild,

With which we once the passing hours beguiled.

Oh there be times when nature’s every voice,

All tuned in one sweet descant, sing, “rejoice!”

When rolls the sun refulgently away,

And strives the red moon with the dying day,

When golden tints and misty gleams of snow

Have met and mingled in the vale below,

When winds and waters, sweetly toned and clear,

In melting murmurs strike the raptured ear;

The rippling sound by waving branches made,

The varying cadence of the far cascade,

Now high, now low, as sweeps the breeze along,

Now calmly faint, now tremulously strong;

There is a spirit thrills the sense, the soul,

Till the full heart spurns reason’s cold control,

Steeps anxious care and coward fear in sleep,

And melts the bosom into raptures deep!

Such have we known full oft in that lone dell,

How dear—how dear—the thought—our hearts can tell!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Like a green island, poised on ocean’s brim,

Seem these last scenes in distance faint and dim;

The swift, deep gulf my helmless bark floats o’er

Still bears me further from that lovely shore;

I stretch my arms, I shriek, but dark and strong

Rolls the wild flood of destiny along—

Oh, there are hours of rapture buried there

That envying angels might have longed to share!

Dear hours of love! delusive if thou wilt,

But wild with passion—stained perchance with guilt;

Yet would I peril for such joys again,

Life—time—eternity—but all is vain!

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Farewell! I ask thee not if day by day

Thy heart hath cast its young romance away;

I could not doubt thy truth—I ask thee not

If Clara’s image be at last forgot;

O! love like ours, impetuous, wild and high,

Drinks at one draught the spirit’s fountains dry!

Farewell!—it chills my blood that lonely word;

My heart is sinking like a wounded bird;

The sky that once with gladness lit my life

Is dull with gloom and desolate with strife,

Yet still, methinks, there dimly shines afar,

Through the rent clouds, one little lonely star—

The star of Hope. I suffer not in vain

If life return thee to my arms again.

——

He pauses—starts—what sees he in the brake?

What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake?

“Stand, on thy life!” His knife hath left its sheath,

And the poised pistol grimly threatens death.

No answer comes—but light as forest fawn

Glides a slight female o’er the dewy lawn.

Why tempts that tender form the midnight air?

What makes she here so fragile and so fair?

Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below

A demon sprung, it had not moved him so.

To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed;

With a strange light his eyes dilated—flashed.

“Great God, ’tis she!” the accents trembling rung

On his pale lips, when to his breast she sprung;

Oh, to that moment what were years of pain,

For young life’s glory has returned again!

Nor words nor murmur break the night’s profound—

Thus still the full heart robs the lips of sound;

And save the glances from their eyes that shoot

There is no sign—for happiness is mute.

VIII.

Oh she was beautiful, that lady fair,

Though pale her seeming in the midnight air;

The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine

Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine;

The snowiest that e’er the moon looked on

Than her white forehead less serenely shone;

The wavy billows in the morning light,

Now tinged with red, now melting back to white,

Have less of heaven’s serenest dyes than wore

That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o’er.

With trembling hand she dashed the locks away,

And from her damp brow swept the glittering spray,

“And have we met, and most we part—alas!

Must this long looked for bliss so quickly pass?

Patience, my heart—” and then the accents broke

In calmer tones, though hurriedly she spoke;

“Gilbert, within Gleneden’s halls to-night

Are armed forms that counsel hold of fight;

In ruthless hands are weapons bared for strife,

I scarce need tell thee what they seek—thy life.

’Tis known to-night in Elva camps thy host,

Few, worn, asleep—unarmed and weak the post—

Thus ran their words, and much they talked of gold,

And chieftains by repentant rebels sold;

Unseen myself, I heard their counsel; fear

Has winged my steps to warn thee—I am here.”

Kindly he smiled—“And didst thou dare, dear maid,

For one like me, the midnight forest’s shade?

Thy robes are torn and wet, thy parched lips dry.

And a wild fire is glancing in thine eye—

Poor trembling heart—” and closer still he pressed

The exhausted maiden to his throbbing breast.

“Ten thousand curses strike the onward hind

Who haunts thee thus with cruelty refined!

Alas, my Clara! I could weep for thee,

But tears have long been strangers unto me.

But let him come—” a scornful tone he took,

Darkened his brow and deadly grew his look—

“ ’Tis time this hand had wreaked its treasured wrong,

And vengeance has delayed her sweets too long;

Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red,

But fate befriended still his guilty head.

Ay, let him come—my band, in one short hour,

Shall equal his, whate’er may be his power,

For long before these hills shall hail the dawn,

Five hundred blades shall glance on Elva’s lawn;

Even now, methinks, the bugles faint I hear,

Which warn their leader that his troops draw near.

But thou, my gentle love, thou ill may’st brook

On scenes of battle and of blood to look!

Small refuge can these feeble walls afford

From war’s rude shocks, the musket and the sword.”

Fierce flashed her eye, and proudly rose her head—

“Think not my woman’s heart so weak,” she said—

“No, from this hour, whatever fate betide,

My post is ever by my Gilbert’s side.

Mine were thy wrongs, my vengeance shall be thine,

Through danger or success, thy path be mine!”

“A thousand thanks, my Clara, for that word!

Thy voice has nerved my heart—has edged my sword!

Nor deem thy lover weak—this peril past,

On different scenes thine eyes thou soon shall cast,

For in these wars my hand shall carve a name

Whose sheen shall dim my sires’ ancestral fame—

Enduring as the stars—and thou shall be,

First in a land where every heart is free—”

Quick he breaks off—for glancing through the trees,

Rank after rank of bayonets bright he sees.

“Clara! they come—the blood-hounds would not wait

The morning light, so eager burns their hate;

’Tis fearful odds, my Clara, but away,

Awhile at least we’ll hold their ranks at bay.”

Around her slender waist his arm he flung,

And lightly through the opened door he sprung,

Noiseless behind the heavy portal turns,

Before him still that glimmering taper burns;

He reached the centre of that chamber wide,

Where slumber still his warriors side by side—

“Now to your chamber haste, my Clara, haste,

For life hangs on each moment that we waste!

How goes the battle, soon myself shall tell;

One kiss—one more—now, Clara, fare thee well!”

IX.

He watched her glide reluctant from the hall,

Then snatched an unsheathed sabre from the wall,

One instant’s glance around the chamber cast,

Where sleep so many that have slept their last;

“Rouse ye, my mates!” Upspringing at the sound,

From their rough couch the startled warriors bound,

Noiseless they start, and all prepared they stand,

Glances the knife and shines the ready brand,

Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise,

But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes.

He stands their centre; round his form they wheel,

A dusky phalanx, lit by gleams of steel,

Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone

His cheeks—while in his eye there coldly shone

A wintry starlight—well ’tis understood,

That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood.

Proud he looked round, yet struggling with his pride

Was something of regret he strove to hide,

And low, though resolute, those accents clear,

That fired the listener’s heart and thrilled his ear.

“Comrades and friends—my trusty, fearless few,

Still to yourselves and injured freedom true,

Our foes are here—we are at last beset—

Be calm, be firm, and we shall foil them yet.

They think us helpless, hopeless, all undone,

And scorn their conquest as too easy won;

But can we hold our post—ere morn be gray

We’ll change their triumph into blank dismay.

Yet—for I scorn the hope one hour may blast,

Nor speak through fear—this fight may prove our last;

If one half hour unmastered we hold our post,

All shall be well—if broken, all is lost.

So friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare,

This closing game twixt triumph and despair,

One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh,

We have been true, and as we lived we’ll die.

Now then, all’s well—be resolute—be dumb,

Let your good rifles speak—ah, hark! they come!”

X.

Flew from its massive hinge the shattered door,

The splintered fragments strewed the marble floor;

Wild through the breach like flashing waves they rolled,

All plumed and armed, and glittering o’er with gold;

Up to the aim rose Gilbert’s rifles all,

Rung the report and sped the deadly ball.

Th’ exulting shout that swelled the foeman’s breath,

Is quenched in yells of anguish and of death—

Once more they crowd—once more the volley came,

They sink like withered grass that feels the flame,

A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore

Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door,

But fast and thick, on numbers numbers press,

And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less,

Till in one mass, confused and fierce they close;

Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows,

Useless the rifle now in that red strife,

Swings the short sword and speeds the gory knife,

The sulphurous smoke hangs o’er them like a pall,

While reeling round they struggle, strike and fall.

Foremost of all, conspicuous, Gilbert stood,

His whirling sabre dripping red with blood;

Gleamed his gray eye, his lordly brow was bare,

In tangled masses fell his raven hair,

Like weeds they fall where’er his weapon swept,

Still round his form a vacant ring he kept,

Where his blade gleams they sink with quivering cry,

And still through all one plume attracts his eye.

As through wild waves the vessel hold her course

Straight for the port, so through the serried force

He cleaves his way—as winds and waves will turn

The bark aside, that struggles to her bourne,

So still opposing numbers bar his way,

And rush between the avenger and his prey.

XI.

Borne back—repulsed—defeated—conquered—no!

Not while one wearied arm can strike a blow—

Stand the lorn few, and deeply draw their breath

For one last stroke, one struggle more with death

As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves,

Comes a short lull along the flashing waves,

So seemed that pause in havoc’s mad career,

So deep you almost might their breathing hear.

Then, too, oh contrast strange! who looked might see

The moonlight sleeping on the hill’s green lea,

The trees where ’mid the boughs the wild bird swings,

And rocked in slumber folds her wearied wings,

The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip

Fresh health and beauty from the night may sip,

The rippling streams that feed with ceaseless flow

The pulseless bosom of the lake below,

Where, glassed between long shadows dusk and brown,

In lines of light the mirrored skies sweep down.

Oh, gazing on such scene, how sweetly come

O’er the full soul dear memories of home!

And were but griefs forgot, and faults forgiven,

The heart might dream this earth should yet be heaven;

All this the long wide window could disclose,