THE SPECTRE STEAMER, OR, HUGH NORTHUP'S OATH. A Tale of the Mississippi.
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It was in the spring of 1839, that I left
New Orleans, in the splendid steamer
Saint Louis, for Saint Louis. The morning
was clear and brilliant, and the atmosphere
of that agreeable elasticity which inspires
the dullest with good spirits. We backed
out slowly and majestically from our birth at
the pier, and, gaining the mid-river, began
to ascend the stream with rapid but stately
motion. I stood upon the `hurricane-deck,'
with fifty other passengers, admiring the
view of the city as we ran swifty past it.
Street after street terminating in a straight
line in the cypress swamp, appeared and disappeared,
and turret, spire, and terrace receded
rapidly in the distance. The half league
of shipping lying `three deep' against the
pier, and waiting for their freight of cotton,
presented a grand and imposing spectacle.
They were Americans and of all European
nations, principally English and French;
and as every ship wore her flag half-mast in
honor of a captain of one of them who had
died the day previous, their appearance was
at once solemn (from association) and brilliant.
Who that has ever visited New Or
leans in the winter season, can forget the
fine effect of this wide-stretching crescent of
shipping that enfolds the city at either extremity
like wings?
At length we left behind us the shipping
and the huge cotton-presses lining the river
shore abreast of it. The Capitol-like dome
of Saint Charles, the dark tower of the Cathedral,
and the lofty roofs of hotels, sunk
rapidly from the eye, or were lost in the
smoke that overhung the city; and on either
shore the eye was relieved by the agreeable
substitute of sugar-fields, woodlands, and
pretty villas. We shortly passed the picturesque
village of Carrolton, with its handsome
racing buildings and fine `course,' and
the remainder of the day, sailed between
noble sugar-plantations, extending a league
inland from the river. The eye never wearied
gazing on the pleasant residences of the
planters, with their steep dark roof, light
verandahs and vine-clad galleries, and upon
the orangeries, gardens and groves of old
trees, that thickly adorned the river banks
for full thirty leagues above the city. The
whole shore was, indeed, a continuous
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village of villas—a rural street, thronged with
horsemen, private equipages, visiting from
plantation to plantation, foot-travellers, lads
and maidens, negroes and negresses! As
we ran along close to the bank, it was like
driving through a village street; we could
converse with the pedestrian on shore, peep
upon the tea-table party in the open hall,
and keep company with the bonnetless ladies,
taking an airing, driving in their rapid
barouches, on the levee.
At length night came on, and the horizon
on every side was illumined with vast flames
rising from pyramids of dried sugar-cane,
which the slaves take pleasure in kindling
at night. From the upper-deck the sight
was grand, and as the darkness deepened
and the fires increased in number and size,
it became truly sublime. Before us, half an
hour after sunset, the whole horizon seemed
in a blaze, and the red glare glowed and
flushed the sky to the zenith. It seemed as
if Tartarus was ahead, and that we were
rushing into its fiery caverns! and, with the
streaming sparks pouring from our black
chimneys, the roar of the escape-pipes, and
the thunder of the dashing paddles, the
`infernal' idea was, on reflection, by no
means diminished in its force. The night
was still, and the flames rose in vast columnar
height, o'ertopped by clouds of murky
smoke,that rolled sluggishly onward,eclipsing
half the stars. The river, reflecting on its
breast so many fires, seemed itself a lurid
lake. I had never before, nor have I since,
beheld so singular and wonderful a spectacle!
We remained on deck till near morning,
deeply interested in the extraordinary
scene. For the distance of one hundred
miles, which we run in the night, the fires
blazed on either shore till morning! We
seemed to be sailing along in a sort of majestic
triumph, our way illumined by bonfires!
Conceive a river a mile in breadth,
lighted for a hundred, nay, two hundred and
fifty miles, as it proved to be, by columns of
flame half a mile from each other, on either
bank of the river. Such was our first night
on the Mississippi!
The next day we ascended between shores
less highly cultivated and far less picturesque.
We had exchanged the wide sugar
fields and the noble villas of the planters for
cotton plantations and their ruder habitations.
Baton Rouge, with its French-loooking edifices,
its old church and handsome barracks,
with its beautiful suburban lawns and green
esplanade, wooed and won our passing admiration.
As the sun set, its last rays gilded the
summit of the bold promontory on which
Natchez is situated, and its effulgence was
reflected back to us from its towers and
domes and thousand windows. The next
morning, we beheld the sun rise over the
romantic city of Vicksburg, which is certainly
one of the most imposing towns in the
valley of the west, beheld from water. On
leaving this place, we began to enter the
wild and vast region of that portion of the
great valley, watered by the Mississippi,
upon which the hand of cultivation has been
but little bestowed. For hundreds of miles
this noble stream winds its majestic and tortuous
way through an almost unbroken wilderness,
save here and there, where an
adventurous woodman has planted his hut,
and at long intervals on some favorite site
some new settlement. It was on the fourth
day after our departure from New Orleans,
that our huge steamer entered the wildest
portions of this dark and inhospitable region.
The gigantic forests stood silent and vast on
either shore, as they had stood for centuries.
Evening approached and we entered a narrow
shute, but little broader than to give
room for the passage of the steamer, so that
the shadows cast from either bank met mid-way
in the channel, and while twilight was
yet in the sky, enveloped our course in the
deepest gloom. Thus we went on, now
winding our way between an island and the
main, now stemming the broad current of
the full river, now hugging the shore to take
advantage of the eddy. I had gone below
at ten o'clock to retire; but feeling wakeful
I took up `Hoffman's Winter in the
West,' and read until the steward
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simultaneously pronounced over my head—`It is
twelve o'clock, sir,' and extinguished the
cabin lamp. I then went to the deck to
breathe a little fresh air before going to my
state-room. On gaining the hurricane deck
I was struck with the brilliancy and beauty
of the night. The stars really sparkled and
danced in the deep heavens, and the dark,
still bosom of the river was as thick and
dazzling with them as were the skies. How
silent and dark reposed the walls of forests
of cypresses on either hand! How black
their shadows that seemed to descend below
the very foundations of the river! We were,
at the moment, in the very centre of the
stream, crossing over from one point to
another to enter the `cut off,' across the
peninsula of `Horse-Shoe Bend,' the mouth
of which was indicated by a break in the
shadows in the water ahead of us, rather
than visible in the shore itself, which was
dark and impervious to the eye. I walked
forward as we neared it, to the pilot's house,
within which he stood at the wheel. He
was a fine old weather-beaten man, about
fifty-four or five years of age, with just gray
enough sprinkled amid his black locks to
bear testimony to the long service he had
seen. Loitering by his wheel of nights, I
had gradually formed an acquaintance with
him, and found he possessed a noble frankness
of manner, good common sense, though
uneducated, and much general intelligence,
united singularly enough, to a strong bias
towards superstition. He had been a boatman
on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, before,
said he, `sich varmint as steamers was
thought on.' His name was Paul Fink, and
he was cousin to the celebrated Mike Fink,
whom the lamented Morgan Neville has immortalized
in one of the happiest American
tales ever written.
I now approached him as he stood alone
at his wheel, his head enveloped in a foxskin
cap, and his person wrapped in a white
shaggy pea-jacket (for we were now in a latitude
many degrees higher than New Orleans),
where four days before we had worn
straw hats and summer garments. Forward
of the wheel-house, twenty feet from us on
the part of the deck above the boilers, sat
one of the passengers smoking a German
pipe—a very extraordinary looking man—
dark, silent, and mysterious, who had attracted
much curious notice on board, both
from the passengers and crew, otherwise we
were alone on the vast and silent deck.
`A fine night, pilot,' I observed, in an indifferent
tone, as I wrapped my cloak closer
about me and leaned against the window of
the wheel-house.
He made no reply at first, but fixing his
eye steadily upon the boat's course as she
approached the mouth of the `Horse Shoe
cut off,' gave the wheel two or three rapid
revolutions and shot into its narrow inlet
with that skilful and unerring certainty for
which the pilots of the Mississippi are so remarkable.
We now seemed sailing, so dark
and gloomy was this passage, through a
forest cavern, with only a narrow opening to
the stars overhead. The long, pendant
branches of the willows and cypresses,
swept our decks, and the deep roar of our
escape-pipes penetrated the lofty avenues of
the eternal forest, and echoing and re-echoing,
filled the wood with a continuous resounding
thunder. Onward we went, our
only guide through the gloomy passage the
stars twinkling between the trees, that, towering
from either bank, nearly met their tops
midway the channel.
`Yes, sir, a pretty night,' responded the
pilot, after we had fairly entered the `shute,
and casting a glance at the stars, he rolled
his quid in his cheek, expectorated the superfluous
juice, and gave his wheel a half
turn to starboard.
`It surprises me,' I said, after a moment's
silence, wishing to draw Paul into conversation,
`that you can steer with such accuracy
amid this deep darkness. The water and
the forests are equally black to my eye—it
is impossible for me to distinguish the bank
and waterline of either side of the channel.'
`It's all come o' practice,' he said, carelessly,
`and then there's somethin', too, in
the boat's being used to the channel. Why
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this steamer knows every inch of the way
between Orleans as well as I do. She'd
make the trip alone, if she only know'd how
to keep her steam up herself! Her old
nose is just as familiar with the mouth of
every `shute,' as you are with the way to
your own mouth! I could go to sleep here
at my wheel, if 'twant for the discredit o'
the thing, if the cap'n should come up and
catch an old pilot at it, and she'd run herself!
But, talking o' steamboats running
themselves,' said Paul, ceasing his professional
praise of his steamer, lowering his
voice and speaking in an awed under tone;
`there's a boat on this river, sir, that has
been runnin' alone this last twelve-month,
and has never yet got to her port.'
`Ah, what is the story about her, Paul?'
I inquired, seeing my superstitious friend
was in the humor of talking.
`I'd tell it to you, especially as we are off
agen Horse Shoe Bend, if—' and here Paul
cast a suspicious and uneasy look towards
the silent passenger, who, at that instant,
rose from his seat and wrapping himself in
his long, black cloak, began to pace the
deck athwart ships; `I'd tell it you, sir, if
that old hunks was out o' the way. There's
somethin' about that varmint I don't much
like! He's on deck always all my watch,
and the other pilot swears he is all his'n.
Now a man what sits up all night and no
watch to stand, is queer! I give such critters
a wide berth as I would an ugly snag.
Do you like the varmint's looks, stranger?'
And all this was spoken in a low tone close
to my ear, as I leaned in the window of the
pilot-house.
`I don't see any thing very suspicious in
his loving the deck in these fine nights,' I
said, laughing; `you always find me here,
Paul, during the most of your trick at the
wheel.'
`That's true, and glad I am to have you
on deck in my watch; but there's a mighty
difference, I tell ye, stranger, between a
man that comes and talks like a Christian
man with the pilot while the boat is running
steady and he can listen to him, and one
who never opens his crackers to man or
beast, but goes stalking about the decks like
a shadow in black, or sittin' in the cap'n's
chair there, smoking a pipe as if his insides
was a furnace. No, no,' continued Paul,
bringing his wheel to half a dozen spokes,
and eying the passenger suspiciously; `I
tell you there is no good in him, and you'll
see before the trip is through.' Here the
old pilot shook his head ominously, renewed
his quid, and brought the boat to a point and
a half, which he had let her fall off while
talking.
I watched a few seconds, unconsciously,
the movements of the mysterious passenger,
againt whom Paul had taken up so strong a
prejudice, as he slowly paced the deck a
few feet forward of the wheel-house, the fire
in the bowl of his pipe glowing at every
whiff and lighting up his thin, swarthy visage.
I could see in him, however, no more
than a tall, thin, bilious looking gentleman,
either Portuguese or an Italian, with dignified
yet taciturn manners, one who loved the
company of his pipe better than the companionship
of his species. So turning from him
I asked Paul to explain to me what he
meant by his wandering steamer, that had
never reached her port.
`Well, I'll tell it you, and there was never
a better place to tell it than here in the
Horse-Shoe Bend, which God grant we were
well out of.'
`Is it a dangerous place?' I asked, struck
by Paul's earnest manner.
`For one league above and one league
below, I never go through it without the
prayers my mother taught me, on my tongue.
God help me! did you hear that?'
`What!' I exclaimed, starting.
`That steamer ahead! Do you hear her
blow?' he cried, in such real alarm, that I
could not help sympathizing in it. After
listening a moment, I could hear nothing
but our own boat. He seemed also in a
moment after to be convinced that he was
mistaken, and was inclined to attribute the
supposed noise of a coming boat to his
fancy.
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`By heaven, I could have sworn it!' he
said, taking a relieved breath.
`Why should a boat coming down alarm
you, Paul?' I inquired.
`Did you ever hear of an earthly steamer
coming down a shute, stranger?' he asked,
with something like slight contempt. `Don't
every Christian boat in descending the river,
take the broad open stream to have the full
advantage of the current? You don't know
every thing, stranger, yet!'
I acknowledged my ignorance of a great
many things, and begged him to relate what
he knew about the lost steamer. Paul gave
a preliminary turn to the wheel, discharged
half a gill of distilled tobacco into the huge
spittoon at his feet, and casting a suspicious
glance after the mysterious passenger, who
had walked aft, and was now indistinctly
seen a hundred feet distant from us, standing
over the stern of the boat, gazing down into
the boiling wake—he thus began—
`You must know, stranger, Saint Louis
has the finest steamers that run on the Mississippi
river! She takes a pride, as she
ought, in makin' 'em larger, handsomer,
and faster than those of any other city.
Louisville and Cincinnati has more of 'em but
none can come up to the Saint Louis craft for
prettiness from stem to stern, and real racehorse
speed. This here very identical animal
we are now walking at ten knots through
this `shute,' is a specimen! Well, you see,
the merchants vied with each other who
should make the shortest trip between Saint
Louis and Orleans. This very Saint Louis,
you are now on board, I saw built and
launched, and a prettier varmint never swam
than she was when she had got her engines
and boilers aboard, and started from the
pier on the first trip to Orleans, with sixty
thousand dollars in freight! Was'nt she a
beauty? I was the first man that took her
wheel and stuck her nose down stream! She
steered like a duck! and she had scarcely
shaken off the smell of the nigger-tracks on
her decks in Saint Louis, before she was
along side of the levee in Orleans! Three
days and twenty-one hours running eleven
hundred miles! See her walk up stream
now. Is'nt she a picture, stranger?'
I here assented to the truth of his panegyric
upon his favorite boat, and Paul having
brought the boat to from a yaw she had unkindly
taken as he was warmly speaking in
commendation of her, he thus continued—
`Well, you see, the trip we made was a
brag! Not a captain in Saint Louis could
hold up his head after we got back in five
days against stream! There was living there
then, one Captain Hugh Northup, who had
always hated our captain, the two having
commanded rival steamers. It was said he
had been engaged in no honest livelihood
before he came to St. Louis, where he
brought a great box of gold and silver with
him and another of jewels. But somehow
he grew in favor and invested money in
steamboats, one of which he went captain of
himself, and it was while running this boat
he fell out with our captain for always beating
him in his trips. So, you see, when he
heard of our brag trip he swore like a pirate
that he would beat it or be blown to the
devil. Well, he sells out all his shares in
other boats, gets together all his money and
turns too to build with it a steamer that shall
beat every boat on the river. Well, stranger,
he was a year at work on her, and a
power of money he laid out on her, and a
pretty thing she was as ever two eyes looked
upon. She was just the size and tonnage
of this here boat, the Saint Louis—but her
model! wasn't it a beauty to look at? Our
captain could never see it as she lay upon
the stocks, without swearing and spitting
out his quid Many a good quid o' old Virginny
did that new boat make the cap'n lose.
Well, stranger, this new boat was launched,
and when she had got all her fixins aboard
and lay along side the levee, she, a leetle bit, cut out in shine the Saint Louis, I tell ye.
All her cabin works was mahogany and
bird's eye, touched off with gilding. Her
furniture was rich enough for the President's
house, and her carpets alone cost twenty-four
hundred dollars! Her engine and boilers
were the best that could be made in
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Ameriky. All Saint Louis came on board
to see her, and Captain Northup gave a ball
to a thousand people in her cabins. Well,
he got her ready for her voyage; nothing
was lackin' to make her complete—not even
a silver tooth-pick for the steward! The
day she was to sail, Captain Northup invited
all the masters of the steamers in
port and some of the big merchants to
a sort of a dinner-breakfast at eleven
o'clock, in the forenoon. Every body
went that was invited, because they knew
the champaign would be spilled a few. And
want it? I reckon it would take three school-masters
to count the empty bottles! When
the last bottle was brought on, and every
toast drunk under the sun, Captain Northup
got up on his feet, and with his champaign
glass in his hand, said, in a loud tone so as
to be heard by all—
“`Now, gentlemen, I'll give you a sentiment—
The Lucifer!” (for so he had named
his boat) and her crew!'
`The Lucifer and her crew,' repeated fifty
voices, and the toast was drank standing.
`Thank you, gentlemen,' said Captain
Northup, with a flushed cheek; `now listen
to me. There have been boasts of brag
trips between Saint Louis and Orleans!
Such boasters shall be for ever silenced by
the Lucifer. I am her captain, and I've
got the devil for my chief-engineer. I sail
this day for New Orleans, and if she is one
hour over three days on her trip, I'll up
steam and drive her to the devil! I here
swear that, slow trip or quick trip, I will take
but one meal between the two ports!'
`This mad oath was received by the excited
table with uproarous applause, to
which every man gave coup, by dashing his
empty glass upon the board. Hugh Northup
looked round with triumph.
`The company broke up, and that afternoon
the Lucifer left Saint Louis, in the
sight of ten thousand spectators. I saw her
from this very deck, for we lay there as she
got under headway. In ten minutes she
was out of sight, beyond the southernmost
bend of the river! Never did I see a steamer
walk out as she did! You'd have thought
seventy devils were flying off with her down
stream! Not a soul in Saint Louis but belived
Hugh Northup would beat every other
boat that ever floated!'
Here the `reach,' opened a little, and
Paul suspended his narration to bring the
boat's stem more sharply to current, and as
he did so, he looked around and listened
with apprehensive expectation of hearing or
seeing something unpleasant.
`Hark! by my soul that was the blow of a
boat!' he suddenly cried, grasping his wheel
with a firmer hold.
`I hear it,' I said, after a moment's listening,
`but it is a great distance off. Probably
a steamer in Horse-Shoe Bend, going
down.'
`No—the Bend is off to the south-east of
us, five miles across, and this comes from the
north and west—dead ahead! Do you hear
it? It is coming nearer,' he cried, with a
voice husky with emotion and terror, if a
stout old pilot like Paul Fink could feel terror.
True enough, I could hear, as if about two
miles ahead of us, through the forests, the
deep regular blowing of a large class steamer.
I listened, after witnessing Paul's emotion,
not without singular sensations as each
booming note succeeding a louder and louder,
reached my ear.
`Why should this coming boat alarm you,
Paul?' I asked, on observing by the light of
the wheel-house lantern that his face was
rigid and pale, and that his lip muttered broken
sentences of the Lord's prayer.
`It is the Lucifer, Captain Hugh Northup,'
he said, hoarsely, `from the day she left Saint
Louis, she has never been heard of, in an
honest and Christian way, and it is the seventh
day of this month, a twelvemonth, since she
sailed. Lord have mercy on the souls of
those who sailed with that captain!'
`She has been heard of then?' I asked,
with much interest, as the regular blow of
the still distant boat fell on our ears.
`She has been seen and passed by more
than one boat since then—but ne'er a pilot
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who laid eyes on her lived seven days after
it.'
`Where and how was she seen?' I inquired
with wonder.
`Here! in the neighborhood of Horse-Shoe-Bend,
and only in the middle watch!
It is said she is always seen coming down
with a full head of steam on, with a skeleton
figure at the wheel, who hails in an unearthly
voice, and implores to be told the way to
New-Orleans, saying in a most pitiable tone,
that he has got lost among the shutes, and
that it seems to him instead of going toward
his port, that he is going round and round in
a sort of Horse-Shoe-Bend, and for ever sailing
in a circle. This, it is said, he utters
with mingled groans and curses, enough to
chill mortal blood; and when he can get no
reply, he begs mournfully for something to
eat, saying he has eaten but one meal for
many, many a long month. There is nobody
else to be seen on board, but a tall, black
looking man, who acts as engineer.'
`This is a strange story, Paul,' I said,
amused, yet seriously impressed by his superstition.
`If 'tis strange, 'tis true, sir,' answered
Paul, with solemnity. `God in mercy keep
me from meeting the Lucifer with her skeleton
captain and infernal engineer this night.
I shall be glad when I'm well out o' the
Horse-Shoe.'
`But no boat could pass us in this narrow
channel, Paul, not even the Lucifer, if she
should be coming down.'
Paul shook his head and sighed, while his
lips audibly pronounced a short prayer.
`I don't hear the blow of the boat now,
Paul,' said I, listening; `it must have been
some boat passing by in the main bend of the
Horse-Shoe.'
`The wind has changed,' he said. The
pilot then bent his head forward to listen, but
the roar of our own escape-pipes prevented
his hearing, and he pulled the little bell for
the engineer to stop the boat. The signal
was immediately obeyed, and for an instant
we remained motionless and silent, save a
low, suppressed respiration from the steam
pipes. The regular blow of a steamer, but a
short distance above us, was now distinctly
heard. A few moments suspense convinced
us that it was descending the `shute' which
we were ascending. Paul looked at me as
much as to say, `Do you hear the Lucifer
now?' and breathed hard and heavily. I was
silent from an indefinable awe. The sound
was heard also by the mate and his watch on
the forecastle below us. He sprung up the
ladder and leaped from the fly-wheel upon the
hurricane deck.
`Mr. Fink, I do believe there is a boat
ahead, in the `shute,” he cried, hastening
to the wheel-house, and addressing the pilot.
`I know it,' said Paul gravely, `and we
shall all know it before long. It's Hugh
Northup's boat.'
`Then the devil will have his pick out of
our crew before the week's out,' said the
mate, with a reckless manner to which sudden
fear gave a kind of desperation. `I
shouldn't care myself,' he added after a moment's
silence, `if it were not for Anna and
my little boy at home.' He then folded
his arms and leaned moodily against the
wheel-house, with his head fallen upon his
breast.
The descending steamer, of whatever
character she might be, was now rapidly approaching
us through the darkness of the
forest-walled passage. Her blow echoed
through the glades of the wood sharp and
clear, and the dash of her paddles in the water
could be plainly distinguished. Paul stood
firmly at his wheel and kept the boat closely
hugging the starboard shore, to give the
stranger a birth, though there seemed to be
only room for us alone in the confind and
tortuous channel. He was pale as death, his
lips set, and his eyes fixed upon the point
where he expected to behold the boat appear.
Louder and louder resounded the deep roar
of her escape-pipes, and the dashing of the
water, as her paddles strongly beat it. Suddenly
through the gloom and intervening
trees, her furnace-fires gleamed along the
water! Above her prow was set her blood-red
signal lantern, and on her stern a blue
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one! These lights plainly designated her
character.
`It is the Lucifer, Mr. Fink. God help
us!' groaned the mate.
`Amen!' responded Paul, with emotion,
whirling his wheel like lightning to bring the
head of his boat as close shoreward as possible,
for the strange steamer was bearing
directly down the middle of the `shute,' under
a full head of steam.
`She will sink us as true as heaven!' cried
Paul, putting his helm hard down, 'til he almost
forced the boat in among the trees.
`Never fear,' said a voice close beside us,
`for the Lucifer can find water where other
boats would ground.'
We turned with suspicion to where the
words came from, and beheld the passenger
in the black cloak. He immediately passed
on to the forward part of the hurricane deck,
and stood there, calmly surveying the alarming
approach of the other steamer. Down
she came upon us with fearful speed. She
was but twice her length off and when I expected
that the next breath we should come
together with fearful collision, to our surprise
and wonder, we beheld her turn from her
straight course directly into the forests.
The huge trees bent low with their tops of
thick foliage before her path, and seemed to
form a sea of green billows, lighted up by
her furnace, over which she rode proudly
and majestically. Making a graceful sweep
athwart our bow, we heard her bell ring to
stop her engines, and our engineer in his terror,
stopped his also. A thin, ghastly figure,
attenuated to a skeleton, now sprung out of
her wheel-house, with a trumpet in his hand,
while a fearful looking being leaving the engine
came upon the guard, and laughed
mockingly as the other hailed us, in a shrill,
horrible voice—
`What steamer is that?'
No one answered on board, though the
whole of our crew of boatswain and firemen,
with the captain and numerous passengers,
now crowded our decks, gazing with horror
and suspicion upon the hellish steamer, as
she rode on the billowy trees of the forest.
`For the love of—'
`Ha ha, ha!' laughed the infernal engineer,
and we could not hear whether the
wicked and miserable being said `God,' or
not, but he continued in a most piteous tone—
`Tell me the route to New Orleans! I
have been sailing, 'till my crew have died
one by one—my mates have died, my pilots
grew mad and drowned themselves, my engineer
is dead—'
`Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the fearful being
beneath him on the deck, `ha, ha, ha! you
lie, Hugh Northup!'
The poor wretch moaned and groaned
enough to melt a stone; and walking aft as
his boat drifted away on its green sea, he
cried—
`Oh, then, for the love of—'
`Ha, ha, ha!' laughed his infernal engineer,
and we could not hear his adjuration,
but we could hear him continue—
`Give me some food, some food, some
food! I perish with hunger. I have eaten
but one meal for more than a year! Oh,
give me food, if you will not show me the
way to New-Orleans, that I may eat again!'
Not a word was spoken on board our boat—
but a deep groan was emitted from every
bosom. The poor wretch then clasped his
hands, and seemed lost in hopeless despair,
such as no mortal man could look upon without
fear. At length he cried, imploringly—
`Send me then, I beg of you, good christians,
a pilot for I am too ill to steer my
own vessel longer—perhaps he would bring
me to Orleans.'
There was a dead silence for an instant,
when the passenger, whom Paul had taken
such a prejudice against, answered from the
hurricane deck—
`Ay, ay, send your boat!'
The poor, miserable captain, at the sound of
his voice, uttered a piercing shriek, and falling
on his knees, he wrung his hands piteously,
as if a fearful fate, more dreadful far
than that he still endured, awaited him.
The infernal engineer immediately sprung
into the boat, and sculled towards our steamer.
It was dry and leaky, and threatened
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
to sink with him. The Lucifer, herself, was
also old and tumbling to pieces; her chimneys
were red with rust; her guards broken;
her wheel-houses torn, and the paddles
on the wheels half gone, and her whole appearance
that of premature decay and neglect—
a splendid wreck!
We watched in silent expectation the approach
of the yawl. It came along side, and
the passenger in the black cloak sprung into
it. The next moment he stood beside Captain
Hugh Northup, on the deck of the
Lucifer.
`How do you, captain,' he said, in a voice
which we all distinctly heard; `you look ill,
methinks. Well, you have been twelve
months making your voyage, instead of `three
days.' Slow sailing, captain, for a `brag
trip.' Well, it can't be helped. You know
the alternative of your failing?'
The poor captain remembered his oath,
and covered his face with his withered hands.
`As you may be more fortunate in finding
the way to the infernal regions, than you
have been in finding that to New Orleans, I
have come to pilot you.—Ho! sir engineer,
up steam and drive to h—!'
Immediately the forecastle was thronged
with a demon crew, who began to `fire-up'
with appalling activity. The boilers and
chimneys grew red hot with the intense
fires, on which, with hellish cries, they never
ceased piling wood. The engine was set in
motion—our black cloaked passenger took
the wheel, which at his touch, became a
wheel of fire, and the accursed steamer got
once more under full headway. The poor,
miserable captain the while, paced his decks
with looks of despair and speechless horror.
Away flew the doomed boat, illumined from
her red hot chimneys and enveloped in a veil
of lurid light. We gazed in silent terror.
Onward and downward went the doomed vessel.
The forest yawned—the earth opened,
and she entered a vast inclining cavern on a
river of molten fire. Downward and onward
she descended beneath the forests—beneath
the water, and gradually disappeared in darkness
and gloom from our horrified gaze. As
she sunk from our sight a scream that made
the blood curdle in our veins, mingled with
demoniac laughter, reached our appalled and
shrinking ears. Then all was still, and darkness
and gloom took the place of the late
fearful spectacle. The forests stood around
us as before, in stern and silent mystery; the
water wore its former placid look, reflecting
the stars from its bosom, and all nature was as
before.
For a few minutes not a word or sound
escaped the breathless crowd upon our decks.
Paul was the first to recover his presence of
mind, and pulled the bell for the boat to proceed.
I was gazing upon his face at the
moment he did so, and saw that it wore a
look of melancholy resignation—such as a
condemned man shows when at last he has
resigned himself to his fate.
In a short time, the throng, more or less
affected by the terrible spectacle it had just
witnessed, silently dispersed. I was left
alone with Paul and the mate, who had all
the while, from the first, remained immovable,
moodily leaning against the wheel-house.
We had by this time cleared the `shute,'
and were running at large in the open river,
with the broad, bright skies open all around
us.
`Well, Paul,' I said, by way of an interjection,
as an assent to the truth of all he
had related to me in reference to `Lucifer.
'
`Seeing is believing,' he said, in the deep
tone of subdued emotion. `Sir, I am a dead
man!'
`Oh, no, Paul,' I said, laughing, to cheer
him in his gloomy forebodings.
`Sir, I shall not live a week.'
`Why do you think so?' I inquired,
touched with his serious manner. He made
me no answer; and after addressing one or
two more remarks to him, and receiving no
further reply, I was about to leave the wheel-house
and descend to the cabin, when the
mate caught my hand as I was passing by
him.
`Pardon me, sir; but if you will be so
good as to give these little things to my wife
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
Paul will tell you where to find her—and tell
her—' Here his voice choked with emotion.
`Tell her I died blessing and praying
for her.'
He grasped my hand warmly, pressed it
hard, and then clasping his hands above his
head, leaped into the deep river. A boat
was lowered, but the doomed mate was never
seen more!
When the steamer reached Saint Louis,
the body of her pilot, Paul Fink, was borne
on shore upon the shoulders of four men!
Reader, this story is no dream, like many
of this marvellous and supernatural kind,
which, when you get to the end, the writer
very coolly tells you that he dreamed it all!
It is a true and veracious story, all but the
incredible part of it, which we will not insist
too strongly on forcing upon the belief of the
skeptical.
`There are more things in Heaven and
Earth,' dear reader, `than are dreamed of
in philosophy.'
-- --
THE FRIGATE'S TENDER. A TALE OF THE LAST WAR.
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I.
It was early on Sunday morning, during
the progress of the last war with Great Britain,
that a young naval officer, walking on
the Battery at New York, had his attention
drawn to a group of persons earnestly engaged
in watching two vessels just visible far
down the harbor.
`What is it, my friends?' he asked, in a
frank, hearty tone, as he joined them.
`The tender, again chasing a schooner,
sir,' answered an old tar, touching the point
of his hat, as he noticed the anchor button
on the officer's coat.
`Here's a spy-glass, sir,' said a master's
mate who stood near, and at the same time
respectfully handing it to him.
`Thank you, my man,' answered the lieutenant
with a smile, as he took the instrument
and placed it to his eye.
By its aid he could clearly distinguish an
armed schooner, of about ninety tons, crowding
sail in chase of a `fore-and-after,' that
was making every exertion to escape, both
by towing, and throwing water upon the sails.
`The chase is about half a mile ahead, sir,'
said the master's mate; but the tender sails
like a shark in chase of a dolphin. The fore-and-after
don't stand a chance of getting in
past the fort.'
`The tender can sail, and I am the one
that ought to know it,' said a stout, weather-beaten
looking man. `She was a pilot boat,
and the fastest craft that ever danced over
the waves. Three weeks ago I and my crew
were out in her, when yon English frigate
suddenly made her appearance out of a fog
bank and brought us to. But I took to my
yawl and pulled for the land, a league away,
and escaped; for the fog was so thick the
Englishman could not get a glimpse of me.
It's my schooner they've turned into a tender,
sir, and that's made so many captures
the last three weeks of our small coasters.'
`She carries forty men, and a long thirty-two,
so I hear,' observed a seaman in the
group.
`And is commanded by a luff and a reefer,'
added the master's mate.
`It would be a blessing,' observed a man-o'-war's
man, who had not yet spoken, `if
that craft could be caught napping. It ain't
safe for a sloop to put her nose out of the
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
harbor, beyond the cape; but while the frigate
was there alone, they could slip along in
light water, and show her their heels. But
now, everything that ventures out is brought
to by that long gun of the tender's.'
`That's fact,' responded another seaman.
`She has taken or driven back to port no less
than twenty-six craft in the last three weeks.
I shall be glad, for one, when our frigate lying
off there gets her armament aboard, for
then I think we'll swallow the English frigate
outside, and pick our teeth with the tender.'
All these remarks were heard by the young
officer, who all the while continued to look
through the spy-glass at the tender and her
chase.
`There goes a gun!' cried several spectators,
as a flash and a jet of azure smoke
came from the tender's bows.
`That is bold enough,' observed the young
officer, as if speaking his thoughts aloud:—
`the impudent tender is almost up with the
fort, and dares to fire at the chase in the very
face of the batteries.'
`It is only to try and do her mischief, sir,'
said the master's mate; `for she finds the
fore-and-after will escape her—so she fires a
gun to cut away something.'
`You are right, my man,' observed the
officer, `for she has put about and stands
seaward again.'
He continued to watch the retiring tender
for some moments in silence.
`It's a pity we hadn't an armed cutter in
port that would sail faster than she can, so
that we might give her a chase out,' said a
lad, approaching the group. His dress was
that of a midshipman, and his air singularly
free and fearless.
`Ah, Frank, are you there?' said the lieutenant.
`when did you get back from your
father's?'
`Last night. I was in hopes to find the
ship ready for sea, Mr. Percival; but I am
told it will be three weeks before we can get
away. I want to have a brush with John
Bull's frigate, who hovers off and on the harbor
with such bravadoing. When did you
get in town, sir?'
`Yesterday morning. Have you been
witnessing the pretty chase down the bay,
Frank?'
`Yes, I would give a year's pay if I could
have a hand in catching that rogue.'
`Come aside with me,' said the officer,
putting his arm in that of the midshipman.
`Your words but express my own wishes.
I have conceived a plan for capturing that
tender.'
`In what way?' demanded the youth with
animation.'
`I will show you. The tender's game appears
to be coasting vessels, from which she
takes men to impress in the British navy, and
also plunders the craft of such things as they
contain which are of any value. My plan
is to charter a sloop, the worst looking one
that it is possible to find in port, yet a tolerable
sailor, for she must work well, and readily
obey her helm. I will load her decks with
hen-coops, filled with poultry, pens crammed
with pigs, and a few sheep and a calf or two
by way of variety. You laugh, Frank, but
the commander of the tender will find it no
laughable matter, if I succeed as I anticipate.
I shall ship about thirty-five men and conceal
them in the hold, and taking command of my
craft with one hand only visible on deck, I
shall set sail out of the harbor. When I get
outside, I think I shall be able to show John
Bull a Yankee trick he will not be likely to
forget very soon. But all will depend on
our good managemont of the affair. Now
you see what I would be at, Frank! Will
you join me?'
`Heart and hand, sir,' responded Frank
Talbot, with enthusiasm. `Will you allow
me to be the hand on deck to help to work
the sloop?'
`Yes, if you can talk Weathersfied Yankee.
'
`Wal, I rayther guess I ken; tho' I an't
been to Connecticut among 'em since last
grass.'
This reply was pronounced with such an
inimitable Yankee dialect that the lieutenant
burst into a hearty laugh.
`That will do, Frank! Now we want to
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
proceed at once to action. I want you to go
to the Anchor rendezvous in Pearl street and
drum up about five and thirty men. Take
only those that are daring and ready for any
thing. Let none of them know your object,
lest we be betrayed by information being conveyed
to the tender. You will find men
enough in these times that will ask no questions.
Meet me at twelve o'clock, at the
Exchange Reading Room and report to
me.'
The midshipman then took leave and hastened
up the battery. The lieutenant then
returned to the group and taking aside the
master's mate, whom he knew, laid briefly
before him his project. The old tar entered
into it with all zeal. Together they went to
the docks, where, on account of the blockade,
lay idle a large number of vessels of
every description. They were not long in
discovering such a craft as suited them; a
Hudson sloop of seventy tons. She was immediately
put in trim for sailing, by the master's
mate and three or four men whom he
employed—while the officer proceeded to buy
up and send on board the live stock.
-- --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
On the morning which followed these
events, the tender of the British frigate was
standing off and on under easy sail, close in
with Sandy Hook. The wind was from the
southwest, and blowing a five knot breeze.
The sky was without a cloud, and only a
gentle undulation lifted the surface of the
ocean. The tender was a clipper built vessel,
very long and narrow in the beam; and
constructed wholly with an eye to her fastsailing
qualities and she gave proof of them
by over-hauling every thing. She carried
amidships a long thirty-two pounder. Her
crew consisted of about forty men in the
uniform of the British Navy. They were
now principally assembled in the bows or on
the windlass, talking together or watching
the shore. Aft, the officer of the deck, a
bluff, full-faced young English `middy,' was
lounging over the quarter railing smoking a
cigar. The man at the helm had a sinecure
of his post, for the vessel skipped along so
easily that she seemed almost to steer herself.
`Sail, ho!' cried the look-out, from the
heel of the bowsprit.
`Where away?' quickly demanded the
officer.
`In shore, two forward the beam.'
`Aye, aye, I see! answered the middy,
levelling his glass at a sloop just stealing out
of the harbor, closely hugging the shore.
It's another of the Yankee coasters. A
sail in shore, Mr. Stanly,' said he, speaking
through the sky light.
The lieutenant, a stout, fleshy, port-wine
visaged John Bull, came on deck and took
sight at the stranger, which was about a
league distant.
`It is a lumber sloop; but we will bring her
to if she dares to venture out, for we may get
some fresh provisions and vegetables from
her, if nothing more.'
`Shall I put her on the other tack, sir?'
`Not yet. Keep on as we are, till the
sloop gets an offing. If we run for her now,
she will take refuge in the harbor!'
The sloop stood out half a mile, and then
hauling her wind, beat down along the land.
The tender delayed the chase until she had
got too far from the entrance of the harbor
to get back again, and then putting about,
began to make the best of her way toward
the harbor she had left. Confident in the
speed of his own vessel, the English lieutenant
felt satisfied that the chase was already
his, and laughed at the efforts of the sloop to
get away.
At length they came near enough to see
that her decks were covered with pigs and
poultry.
`A rare haul we shall make this morning!'
said the middy. `Enough chicken-pie for
the whole of the frigate's crew, to say nothing
of turkeys and roast pig for the cabin.'
`What a regular slab-sided Yankee skipper
she has at her helm! Man and boy, she has
a stout crew!' said the lieutenant laughing.
`They look frightened out of their senses, as
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
they begin to think they are gone for it!
Sloop ahoy!'
`What do ye want?' came across the water
in the strongest nasal Yankeedom.
`I want you to heave to, brother Jonathan!
'
`I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you—
I'm in a mity hurry! Frank!' added the
distinguished American officer, in an under
tone, `when I order you to let go the jib,
haul it aft as hard as your strength will let
you. I, at the same time, will put the helm
hard up, so the sloop will pay rapidly off and
fall aboard of the tender; for I'm determined
to fall aboard of her. I shall curse your
blunders and order you to let go; but don't
mind me, keep pulling the jib-sheet hard to
windward. Leave the rest to me. Now,
my men,' he said, speaking through the
companion-way, `take a good grasp of your
pistols and cutlasses. When I stamp my
foot on the deck over your heads, throw off
the hatches and leap on deck and follow
me.'
`Heave to, or I will sink you! What are
you palavering about?' shouted the Englishman.
The two vessels were now side by side,
steering on the same course, abeam of each
other, the tender being to leeward, and about
a hundred fathoms off.
`Wal, don't be too free with your powder,
and I will. Aminidab, let go that arjib-sheet!'
`Yes, I will,' answered the young reefer,
and with a hearty will he began to draw it to
windward. At the same moment the American
officer put his helm hard up, and the
sloop rapidly played off right towards the
tender.
`Let go that jib-sheet!' shouted the English
officer.
`Yes, Aminadab, you tarnal fool you, let
it go, I say. Let it go! Don't you see we
are coming right aboard the Captain's vessel?
'
But `Aminadab' pulled the harder, and
fairly took a turn with the sheet about a belaying
pin.
The English officer was about to pourout
apon him a volley of oaths, seeing that the
sloop would certainly fall foul of him, he
turned to give orders for the peotection of
his own vessel, but ere he could utter them,
the sloop's bows struck her near the fore
rigging, and swung round stern with stern.
At the same instant, the American officer
stamped on the deck, and forty armed men
made their appearance from the hatches,
forecastle and cabin, and leaped after Percival
upon the tender's deck. The Englishmen,
taken by surprise, surrendered without
scarcely striking a blow; and getting both
vessels under sail, in the very sight of the
frigate, the gallant young captor sailed with
his prize back into harbor, and safely anchored
her off the Battery, after an absence of six
hours and twenty-seven minutes.
This exploit is doubtless one of the boldest
and most spirited affairs that come off during
the war. The account given above is a
faithful narrative of the transaction, and the
chief circumstances will be recognized, both
by the brave officer in question, as well as
by his friends.
-- --
THE CASCADE: OR THE EXILE'S ROCK. A Tale of the Vally of the Kennebec.
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
It is nearly half a century since that this
story opens in the beautiful valley of the
Kennebec. At that period there were but
few inhabitants, and the fine town of Hallowell
was then a mere hamlet upon the river's
bank. There was, nevertheless, one mansion
of wealth and refinement situated amid
its scenery. It was the abode of an English
gentleman who had held an influential position
in the politics of England; but his party
becoming the minority, he left his native
country and purchased a domain on the Kennebec.
Here he established himself for life,
and although he lives no longer, he has left
behind him a grateful memory in the hearts
of many to whom his benevolence and riches
have administered.
He had been but two or three years in his
romantic home upon the Kennebec, when a
stranger landed from an ascending fur-boat
at the foot of his grounds and walked up to
the villa. His appearance was striking from
the dignity of his air, his tall figure, and a
certain air of birth and command. He was,
however, dressed in very much worn appar
el, as if he had seen much travel in his present
garb.
He was seen to debark from the boat by
the dwellers in the hamlet, and as every
stranger was an object of interest to them,
they watched him with curiosity as he wound
his way up to the mansion; and when the
fur-boat reached the landing where they
awaited it, they began to question the men
in it touching their passenger.
`He's a foreigner and I guess a Frencher,'
answered the owner of the boat. `We took
him in down to Phippsburg, where he came
in a Boston schooner. He seems a quiet,
nice man, but don't speak English no better
than the Indian chief Sagadock.'
`What does he want, think?' asked one
of the curious. `Think he's after furs, or
land?'
`Can't say. I asked him—but if he know'd
what I said, he didn't know enough English
to answer and tell his business. He's got
money, for he paid me these three Spanish
silver dollars for bringing him up.'
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
Not far from the mansion of the English
gentleman, and within the limits of his estate,
is one of the most wildly romantic water-falls
that ever sent its echoes through a rock-bound
glen. It is now known as `The Cascade,'
and has been for years a favorite resort for
those youths and maidens who love to ramble
along the dreamy shades of the overhanging
woods and listen to the murmur of the
flowing water. At the period of our story
there was a small cabin upon this brook
about a mile and a half from the villa. In it
dwelt an elderly female and her son, a lad
about fifteen years of age. She subsisted
chiefly upon fish caught in the stream and by
knitting stout woollen hose for the people at
`the Hook,' as the infant town was then denominated,
from a bend in the river. This
woman one morning, about three weeks after
the arrival of the stranger in the fur-boat,
was seated in her cabin door knitting and
enjoying the warmth of the sun, which shed
its cheering autumnal beams broadly down
upon her roughly-boarded floor. She was
about forty-eight, with the appearance of a
person who had seen better days. Indeed,
she once contributed not a little to render the
best society of Boston the best in New England;
but the reverses had taken hold of her
husband, and at length he sought the wilderness
to endeavor to retrieve his fortunes.—
Here sickness followed unusual exposure,
and by and by she laid him in his grave.
She now lived mainly by the bounty of the
family at the villa, though rarely would she
suffer them to bestow anything upon her, so
long as she could have health to knit, or
Howard, her son, skill in trouting.
He was now down the glen with his spear
and lines while she sat in her door. Suddenly
she heard a loud outcry down the brook.
It was the voice of Howard, and its tone was
that of alarm, like a call for aid. She dropped
her knitting and hastened along the wild
pathway by the edge of the foaming torrent,
and soon came in sight of her son standing
at the foot of a cliff which overhung a dark
basin in which the water was many feet deep.
He was mid-waist in the water and support
ing with difficulty the head of a man above
the surface, his body being entirely beneath
it.
`Come quickly, dear mother! Help me
soon, for I can hardly keep him above water!
'
`It is the foreign gentleman from the
house,' exclaimed Mrs. Holley, on seeing
the pale and lifeless features; but without
pausing to express her surprise or at that
time put questions as to the manner of the
accident, she clambered down the rocky sides
of the basin and gave Howard her assistance.
With great difficulty they succeeded in
drawing him from the basin and laying him
upon a rock covered with thick moss like a
couch of velvet. Here they both applied the
best means in their power to restore animation.
`How did he fall?' asked his mother, as
she was rubbing his temples.
`You see, mother, I was down there upon
that rock watching for the trout to dart by
and spear them,' answered Howard, a finelooking
boy, with a free, spirited air. `This
foreign gentleman came up the path, and
smiling, asked me in his bad English if I
caught many fish; and then, after looking at
me a little while, he went round the basin
and began to ascend the crag. He had got
up about twelve feet, when a part of the rock
on which he pressed his foot broke off, for
you know what a heavy man he is, and he
fell over into the basin. I shrieked out and
ran to his aid. He didn't rise, and suspecting
he had struck his head, I jumped in, and
diving down, raised up his head out of the
water.'
`What a providence you were by, my
child! What shall now be done?'
`He is not dead, is he, dear mother?'
`No. He is only insensible. Can't we
get him to the cottage?'
`Not alone. Ah, here is John, the farm
man from “the House.” John come here
quickly,' cried Howard to a country fellow.
`Here is your master's guest, who has had
a fall, and is now almost dead. Help us get
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
him into the cottage, and then run and tell
him what has happened.'
`My master is as good a doctor as the
best,' responded John, as he looked upon
the gentleman. `Well, it is a pity he should
have had such a fall; but what can be expected
o' foreigners that don't know how to
climb nor move about in the woods? I've
prophesied this afore, when I've seen him
walk up and down the rocks.'
The stranger was borne to the cabin and
John sent off after his master. In the meanwhile
the mother and son, by the aid of
vinegar and other stimulants, were so successful
as to restore animation. The gentleman,
after opening his eyes and looking
around him a moment wildly, at length
seemed to recollect himself and be conscious
of his situation. He sat up, and looking
gratefully upon them, he said in broken
English:
`I have had a fall, I believe. I remember
falling. I find myself here, and I owe
you my life; for my wet garments tell me I
was plunged into the basin.'
`I saw you falling, sir,' answered Howard.
`You must have struck your head
against the bottom, for you did not rise
again. I dove down and got your head
above the surface. We then brought you
here, and have sent for the English gentleman.
'
`How can I ever repay you for your act,
my lad?' said the foreigner, taking his hand.
`And you too, madam?'
`I don't wish any other reward than seeing
you well again, sir,' answered both.
`You are very good, and have noble natures.
I trust I shall be able one day to reward
you.'
While he was speaking his host entered,
followed by three or four men. The pleasure
of the former on finding his guest revived,
and less hurt than he expected, was
very great. He repeated also expressions
of thanks to the family who had done so
much for the stranger, and assuring Mrs.
Holley he should never forget her or her
son for her act of mercy and kind attentions,
he soon departed with the stranger leaning
upon the shoulders of the two men.
After a few days the foreigner entirely
recovered, and prepared for his departure.
Before leaving, however, he called at the
cottage and warmly renewed his expressions
of gratitude, calling Howard the preserver
of his life. Upon each of them he bestowed
a trifling present.
`I am poor, or I would reward you with
much money to make you comfortable,' he
said. `But I am a wanderer, an exile, and
am dependent upon the bounty of others.'
Thus speaking, he left them, and the same
evening descended the river. The proprietor
of the villa did not forget the residents
of the cabin. He made their situation more
comfortable, and gave Howard the privilege
of studying at `the great House' with his
own children, who had an English tutor.
Ten years passed away. Howard had
gone to sea at the age of sixteen, and at the
age of twenty-four became a captain. He
had made more comfortable his mother's
cabin, converting it into a beautiful cottage.
Here she lived with Howard's young wife;
for he had married at twenty-two. At length
one day news came from him that he had
lost his ship and all that he was worth
Thankful that his life was spared, they both
forgot the loss of mere worldly goods. He
wrote that he should be at home on a certain
day. The eve of that day came. They
conversed together, the mother and daughter,
of the happiness of the coming morrow.
That night fire seized upon their dwelling
and consumed it with all its contents.
`We have our lives given to us, and God
be thanked,' was the Christian remark of
Mrs. Holley. `Howard will think nothing
of this so he finds you and your little infant
boy alive to welcome him.'
Howard came home that day. He came
home a poor man. He found no house of
his own to receive him. He found, however,
two warm, loving hearts, and when he
gazed upon his little boy's smiling brow he
felt that all was not taken from him.
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
`You all live, and so do I. Worldly
goods may be obtained again. Life can
never be restored. Let us take heart and
look upward. All will yet go well with us.'
While he was speaking, the English gentleman
from the villa rode up to the neighbor's
house where Edward met his mother
and wife. He alighted, and calling to
Howard, took his hand, and then placed in
it a package with a note.
`Read this, Captain Holley. It came this
morning under an envelop to me. You see
that a good deed never goes unrewarded;
and that the darkest hour is just before day.'
`Sir,—Ten years ago you saved my life.
I am now in a situation to show you substantial
gratitude. I learn from your friend,
my host, that you are a seaman and are doing
well. Yet you may do better. I enclose
you five bank of England notes for five hundred
pounds each. Accept them as your
right. They are nothing in my estimation
put side by side with the life you saved. I
wish you and your noble mother all happiness
and health.
Your friend,
`The Stranger.'
`I assure you, Captain,' said the English
gentleman, after the surprise of all had in
some measure subsided; `that this person is
well able to give you this expression of his
regard for you, and his estimation of your
services.'
`Who is he, sir?'
`A French nobleman. He is now restored
to his country and estates. I congratulate
you on your good fortune.'
The joy and surprise and deep gratitude
of Howard cannot be expressed. He was
now rich, and happiness once more smiled
where misfortune had so lately frowned.
Twenty years after this event a party of
naval officers were presented to Louis Philippe
by the American minister. The name
of one of them as he was announced arrested
the monarch's ears. He fixed upon the
handsome young lieutenant his gaze so
closely that he colored and drew back.
`Monsieur,' said the French king, advancing
and speaking with kindly courtesy,
`your name is familiar to me. Perhaps you
are related to Captain Howard Holley, of
Hallowell, who died a few years ago?'
`I am his son, sir.'
`His son!' cried the king with joyful surprise.
`Let me embrace you. Your father
saved my life. I am the foreigner of whom
doubtless you have heard him and your excellent
grandmother speak.'
The astonishment and pleasure of the
young American may be imagined. He
was compelled by the grateful monarch to
make his palace his home while he remained
in Paris; and when he quitted France he
was loaded with costly gifts as expressions
of his majesty's lively remembrance of his
father.
The rock from which the exile fell is still
pointed out by `John,' now an old grey-headed
man, who is never weary of telling
the story, and of exhibiting a gold cross
which the `furreigner' had bestowed upon
him.
-- --
ILDEFONSE; THE NOBLE POLISH MAIDEN. A TALE OF WARSAW.
`Marvellous is woman's love! strong and deep,
Like a full river that o'erflows its banks,
It rushes on, nor Death itself hath power
To put a barrier to its rolling flood.”
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
It was a soft balmy night of June. The
moonlight converted the broad flowing Vistula
into a moving mirror, lighting up many
a snow-white sail, and sparkling from many
a flashing oar. Warsaw lay beneath its
beams like a silver city in the green embrace
of gardens and groves! Ever and
anon, music rose from the water, and the
sound of a sentinel's cry swelled along the
battlements. It was midnight, and the
whole scene was peaceful as it was beautiful;
but not so the hour and the time. Amid all
this repose, throbbed a thousand anxious
hearts; for war wasted the borders of Poland,
and the tread of the Russian barbarian
almost shook the capital he menaced.
An hour before, an express had entered
Warsaw, with the startling intelligence that
the Gothic invader, with a conquering force,
thirsting for slaughter and conquest, was
within thirty leagues from this place.
At this time, the situation of Poland was
most critical. In 1795, it will be remembered
that the political existence of Poland
ceased, and that it was subsequently divided
between Prussia, Austria and Russia. Under
Napoleon, a joint part of Poland was
constituted the Dutchy of Warsaw, including
within its limits the city of Warsaw.
This portion, after Napoleon's fall, was
erected by the Russian Emperor into a
kingdom, governed by a king, senate and
diet; but the king was the Emperor's brother,
the Archduke Constantine, and his rank
was only that of Emperor's viceroy, the
royal dignity being really vested in the Emperor
Nicholas, who assumes, as one of his
titles, that of King of Poland. The
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
tyrannical conduct of the Archduke who represented
the Emperor's person on the throne
of Poland, and the unsubdued desires of the
Poles for freedom, finally caused an insurrection
of the people, which commenced at
Warsaw, on the 29th of November, 1830.
Thirty thousand citizens armed themselves,
drove the Russian troops stationed there with
the Archduke's guard out of the city, and
compelled Constantine himself to flee thirty
leagues beyond the suburbs, for safety. No
sooner had these daring patriots driven out
their masters, than they assembled in the
Hall of State, and formed an administrative
council, to preside over the destinies of the
liberated country; and this council soon
after declared the throne vacant and Poland
independent. All eyes were directed towards
Poland. The great heart of the United
States throbbed in sympathy with her new
life. But gigantic Russia was active, powerful,
irresistible. She assembled a force of
160,000 men, and entered Poland under
Diebitsch. It was on the evening of our
story, that an express spread the intelligence
of his approach, which, however, had been
anticipated. Instantly the council assembled,
and after a hurried, but calm discussion
of their situation, the patriot Prince
Czartowitz was chosen President of Poland;
and General Skryznecki appointed commander
of the army. The council then broke up
and separated, to put Warsaw into a state
to meet the overwhelming power of Russia.
Never was a country placed in a more interesting
position in the eyes of civilized nations.
All Europe looked on to behold the
issue. But no arm was lifted; no sword
drawn to aid poor Poland at this crisis of her
fate. It was a great political game of chess
in which the kings of Europe were only
deeply interested spectators. Even our sympathy
was exhausted in newspaper paragraphs,
and Poland was left to defend, alone
and single handed, the glorious liberties she
had recovered, with her best blood spilled,
like water, in the streets of her capital.
It was a calm, bright, serene moonlight,
when the council broke up, each member of
it to go to his post. At the same time, the
tocsin of war rung from the cathedral towers,
and the cry of `to arms!—to arms!' resounded
through the streets. This fearful
cry, besides the thousand sleepers it aroused
from their deep repose, reached the ears of
a maiden, who slept in a noble chamber, in
the wing of one of the most magnificent palaces
of Warsaw. She flew to the terrace
on the tesselated pavement of which, the
moonlight streamed between the columns,
creating almost the brilliancy of day. She
cast her eyes over the gardens and roofs,
and listened for a moment in silent awe, as
the booming tones of the tocsin of alarm fell
upon her heart, and the shrieking shout `to
arms!—to arms!' pierced her ear.
She was very beautiful. The moon shone
upon her snowy night-robe, till it looked like
a robe of light enfolding her. Her form was
slender and graceful as a bending flower;
her hair had escaped its confinement and
covered her ivory shoulders in a dark glossy
cloud, rich and softly waving in the cool
wind that lifted it. Her brow was black and
arched; her eyes very large and deep, and
dark as midnight, shaded by the largest
lashes ever fringed a woman's eyelid. The
expression now to her beautiful face was
that of fear and solicitude. She held up by
one hand the folds of her robe, together
across her young bosom, and with the other
half raised, stood like a statue, in the attitude
of liberty.
`Hark; it is the Russian comes; they
cry—Cartowitz, dear Cartowitz!' she articulated
in a tone so soft and musical, touched
as it was with tender solicitude that never
name of love was sweeter spoken than the
harsh sounding one she uttered.
`Alas, dearest, Carl, now must I steel my
heart to hope, to trust, and perhaps to despair.
'
`Who speaks of despair?' said at this instant
a tall, handsome youth, richly dressed
in the uniform of a Polish officer of high
rank, `who speaks of despair, that is so
loved by me, when I am near her;' and the
young soldier clasped her, unresisting and
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
uttering a low exclamation of surprise, and
joy, to his mailed breast.'
`Carl, dear—this fearful cry that appals
the ear and withers the soul. Oh, what
means it! Danger to thee I know and feel!'
and she clasped his hand between her's and
leaned her cheek upon it, while her bosom
heaved and tears fell, glistening in the
moonlight, to the marble floor of the terrace.
`Nay—give not away to grief, dearest
Ildefonse,' he said, tenderly embracing her,
and smiling proudly upon her, as he felt
how much he was beloved by the lovely girl
reposing tearful upon his arm. `'Tis too
true that the hour is near we have long
looked for when we must withstand the
power of Russia. An express arrived an
hour since to the council, bringing intelligence
that the fiend Diebitsch is on the frontier,
and menaces Warsaw. I was present
at the council that assembled to deliberate
upon the course to pursue. It is decided
that we defend Warsaw, while a true breast
stands to make a bulwark between her and
her foes. My uncle, the noble Prince Czartowitz,
is chosen President for this crisis,
and I am appointed a colonel, and aid de
camp to Skrzynecki. We have forty thousand
brave men, and our defences are good.
But if the Russian will have Warsaw, he
shall find neither a live Pole nor a standing
roof. We will imitate his Moscow, and
give our city to heaven in flame!'
`How fearful,' answered Ildefonse, clasping
her hands together with anguish. `Oh,
Carl, dearest Carl, I fear—I tremble for
you, in these terrific scenes to come. Let
us fly together.'
`Fly; Ildefonse, what mean you?' he inquired
almost sternly, and holding her back
from him at arm's length.
`O, forgive me, Carl; but I cannot live
in the midst of all the conflict of which poor
Warsaw will soon be the scene, knowing
your heart is exposed to every ball that flies.
You will be slain. Then, oh, then, what
will become of me, unless I can die with you?'
`I will remove you, dear Ildefonse, to a
place of safety. It is for that I am now here.
Warsaw will be no place for you.'
`No, no—never will I go away from Warsaw
while it holds you, dear Cartowitz,' she
said, decidedly; `I will remain—you may be
wounded and need my care. I will not go
from you. But, oh, that you would think of
our betrothed love—think of me, dear Cartowitz,
and fly with me, to some place where
we may live and love.'
`Nay, this from thee, dear Ildefonse, from
thee, the grand niece of Kosciusko,' he said
with grief and reproof in his expressive face.
`If one, the most trusty and veracious in all
Poland had told me you had said `flee,' when
Warsaw was in peril, I would have told
him he lied; for that a daughter of a Polish
soldier could never utter such a craven
word; Ildefonse!' he mournfully repeated,
and his head dropped upon his breast.
`Forgive, forgive, dearest Cartowitz!'
cried the maiden, throwing herself upon his
shoulder. `I know not what I say. My
love for thee makes me a traitress to Poland!
But, oh, God, I cannot exist here, amid the
roar of cannon, the clash of arms, and the
shouts and groans of combatants. I would
fly; but not to save myself from such scenes,
for I have nerve to bear them. I would
stay, and hourly offer prayer for my bleeding
country, and this would help me to endure
such scenes. But when I felt that my heart's
love, the idol of my bosom, thee, dear Carl,
wert risking thy precious life in every struggle
beneath or within the walls, my heart
would sink within me. I could not stay in
Warsaw. Fly, oh, fly to a place of safety,
till this storm be overpast.
`You grieve me, Ildefonse,' he said, tenderly;
`I pity and feel for you; but, dearest,
bride of my soul, honor is dearer to me than
my life, and even thine own. Much as I
love thee, closely as the strings of my heart
are entwined in thine, I would rather see
thee lying here at my feet, and the still
moon shining on thy pale white corpse, than
that love for thee should make me prove a
traitor to Poland in her hour of greatest
need! Tempt me not, Ildefonse! If you
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
love me, you will love my honor, for that is
part and parcel of my nature, you will love
Poland, for her interests are identified with
the closest and nearest feelings I possess;
you would—'
`Nay—I will speak no more of it; but,
oh, if dear Carl, thou canst not appreciate the
depth and power of woman's love, thou
wouldst pity and forgive. I am a daughter
of illustrious men, and the blood of Poland's
best patriots shall never be tarnished in my
veins. My heart and not my head, Carl,
has made me traitress to her in my thoughts.
I will remain in Warsaw, and live or die
with thee and Poland!' She had elevated
her person while she spoke, and the young
soldier was struck with the calm energy and
dignified firmness with which she uttered
these words. His heart bled for her. He
felt she was sacrificing herself to her love
for him. He gazed upon her animated but fixedly
pale features, and taking her cold hand in
his, knelt at her feet and pressed it to his lips.
`Dearest Ildefonse, pardon me for speaking
harshly to you. I did not believe you
loved Poland less but me more. I know you
could not be false to her being so true to
me. Thou didst speak from thy deep love
and from thy better judgment. 'Tis true
the times that come are evil, and teem with
fearful events. The issue of our struggle is
known only to God, to whom we leave it, doing
our duty as men. You say you will not
leave me in Warsaw. Your love has led you
to resolve to sacrifice yourself; be it so then,'
he added with melancholy animation; `better
to die, true to our country, than live false to
her. God rules all events. Neither you nor I
will be injured without his permission. We
are under his protection, as well here, amid
the roar of battle and siege, as in the farthest
vale of free America where the lightning
or fell disease might deprive us of that life and
that love we would shamefully flee to preserve.
We are here and every where under the government
of God. Let this reflection dearest
Ildefonse, sustain our courage, strengthen our
hearts, and render us calm and unmoved in
the hour and moment of greatest trial.'
`Your words, dear Carl, have made me
firm;' said the maiden, smiling upon him, and
looking serene and happy; `we will remain
in Warsaw. Go where duty calls you, to
the battlements or the field! I will go where
mine calls me, to the altar and to prayer.
My prayer shall be a shield to thee in fight;
my faith shall at length return thee in safety
to my arms!'
`Sweet love, thou art now worthy to be
the bride of a Polish soldier,' he said, embracing
her. `Now, farewell till morning,
and return to thy couch. The enemy is yet
distant two days' march. I must go to my
post of duty. Good night, sweet betrothed!
I will see you in the morning. Seek sleep,
for thou wilt need all nature bestows, to enable
thee to bear all thou hast so nobly
resolved to meet and endure!'
Thus speaking, the noble Cartowitz hastened
from the terrace, and soon afterwards
his form was lost to her lingering gaze amid
the shadowed avenues of the palace of Poniatowski,
that led in the direction of the castle.
The unhappy Ildefonse still suffered
her eyes long to rest upon the spot where
his form had disappeared, and then sighing
as if her heart would break with the deep
emotion that surcharged it, she entered her
chamber—glad to find some refuge from the
tolling bells and the cries of alarm that
filled the city. She did not sleep, however.
Her mind was too agitated, and she strung
her harp to soothe her spirits with music.
And this she sang, now in a plaintive strain,
now in a lofty style, now with tender and
touching pathos, as she changed the subject
of her impassioned improvisatore:
Farewell, farewell! the war-cry is whirled
Through the green vales of Poland, land of the free!
Her flag to the breeze is broadly unfurled!
To maiden no longer may youth bend the knee.
Hark, to the tocsin! clang, clang, clang!
“To arms, to arms!” oh list that fearfuly cry!
Farewell, forewell! Oh, thy bosom be shielded
By my love, worshipp'd one, from war's fierce melee!
So long as for Poland thy sword shall be wielded,
So long shall my bosom throb, loved one, for thee!
Hark, to the tocsin! clang, clang, clang!
“To arms, to arms!” oh, list that fearful cry!
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
Farewell, farewell! in battle contending
'Neath the flag of our country, broad waving and free;
My prayers, oh, beloved one, to Heaven ascending,
Shall be for dear Poland, for Warsaw and thee!
Hark, to the tocsin! clang, clang, clang!
“To arms to arms!” oh, list that fearful cry!
The succeeding day and night were passed
by the citizens of Warsaw in preparations,
anxiety and expectation of the coming
foe. Couriers were constantly arriving and
reporting the fearful progress of the invaders,
whose march was preceded by slaughter
and flight, and followed by conflagration, and
woe, and devastation. The last intelligence
represented them within four leagues of the
capital, and told the Poles that now was the
time for action. The unanimous decision of
the rulers of the council and of the army was,
to march out and meet them, and offer them
battle; for they wished to remove as far from
their own firesides as possible the scene of
contest. Cartowitz hastened to Ildefonse,
to bid her a brief adieu. It was just at sun-rise,
and he found her waiting for him on the
terrace, which commanded the approach to
the palace.
`The hour has at length come, then, dear
Cartowitz, that we must part,' she said, advancing
calmly to meet him. Her manner
was quiet, and her whole bearing exceedingly
proper for the occasion. He gazed on
her pale but resigned face, with a look of
gratitude to heaven. He had anticipated a
sad last interview. He took her hand and respectfully
pressed it to his lips. The time was
none for light gallantry; both were serious,
both dignified and as become the moment.
`Ildefonse,' he said in a low tone, `I have
indeed come to bid you farewell. The Russian
is at hand. Behold, from this very spot
where we stand, we see his floating banners
and steely sea of arms flashing and glancing
in the sun. In three hours, he will be at the
gates of Warsaw. Dear to us are our homes,
our temples, and our pleasant gardens that
surround our capital. We would not make
them the scenes of war. General Skrzynecki
is already in the saddle, our little army
are filing out of the city to offer Diebitsch
battle. My own horse neighs impetuously
at the portal. I must fly to the defence of
Poland. Farewell, and heaven protect you,
my beloved Ildefonse.'
He hurriedly pressed her to his heart, and
ere she could recover from the deep grief
that sunk into her soul, she heard the thunder
of his horse's hoofs along the outside of
the garden wall.
`He is gone. Oh, God of battles, protect
our country; and shield, oh, shield him in
the wild warfare that soon will rage over the
green fields that now glow in the golden light
of thy sun. Save, oh, God; save my country.
But thy will be done,'
And she bowed her head with humble resignation,
and sought her chamber to pray,
with no eye upon her but Heaven's, for her
lover and her country.
Night spread her sable mantle over Warsaw,
which, three hours before had poured
across her bridges her thousands of brave
defenders, to encounter the Russians in the
open country. Every roof, tower and spire,
was thronged with mothers, wives and maidens,
the aged and the invalid, and all eyes
were fixed in one direction—that in which
their army had marched. Every one was
listening to catch the most distant sound that
should indicate their progress! Ildefonse
had been kneeling three hours before her altar
in speechless prayer for Cartowitz—for
Poland! At length, her mother, came and
conducted her to the highest balcony of the
palace. She passively followed her. The
night was beautiful! The late moon was
just rising over a distant forest, and silvering
with its radiance a bank of white clouds
which hung suspended in her path. The
large stars and planets, which her light could
not dim, shone with clear and sparkling brilliance;
and all nature reposed beneath the
deeper repose of heaven. Ildefonse strained
her eyes towards the east, and listened, while
she ceased the beating of her heart, lest its
faint dull throb might prevent her hearing
what she fain would not have heard. At
length a faint flash lights up the distant horizon,
and ten thousand eyes see it, and ten
thousand hearts stand still as Ildefonse's, to
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
hear the dreaded sound. Hark! A moment
of dread silence over the living masses,
and the deep boom of a cannon is borne
heavily on the night air to their ears. It is
answered by a groan from every bosom—a
moaning groan so deep, that the city seemed
moved by the first throes of an earthquake.
Oh, God! What a moment was this to all
on Warsaw's crowded walls! Hark! another
deep note of cannon strikes the ear;
another follows it, another and another in
rapid succession! The horizon on the northeast
is lighted up with a broad fitful glare
like lightning playing from a summer cloud,
while the deep continuous roar of artillery
reverberates like thunder along the air!
There was then but one mouth in Warsaw,
but one posture!
`Oh, God, remember Poland!' rose from
every lip, as the multitude bent the knee to
Heaven.
Ildefonse sank on her knees beside her
mother, and buried her face in her hands!
Every report made her shrink as if the iron
death that accompanied it, menaced her own
life! The roar of artillery grew louder and
fiercer, and was now mingled with the sharper
rattle of musketry, with a sound as if a
hurricane were sweeping down a forest—
One hour elapsed, and the cannonade grew
sensibly louder and ncarer!
`They fly, they fly before the Russians,
my mother!' she cried, with the energy of
despair! `Oh, Poland! Cartowitz, art thou
safe amid yonder terrific scenes? Would I
were by thy side, I would then share with
thee thy death! Hark! I hear a distant bugle
winding not a league distant! List! that
firing is closer! Hear, how terrible! See
the long lines of flame that seem to belt the
earth! What human life can there escape
death? Cartowitz, dear Cartowitz! God
protect thee! I have prayed for thee 'till the
fountains of my heart have dried up, and I
have no more utterance! Mother, oh, mother!
That terrific roar of battle! Would
to God it were morning! I would seek Cartowitz,
and die by his side! Hear! hear!
the very earth shakes with the tramp of con
tending armies, and Warsaw's very walls
vibrate with the shock of the near artillery!'
And thus giving way to her fears for her
lover, Ildefonse fell upon her mother's bosom,
and seemed ready to die.
`Hark, my daughter!' hear that shout
from the roofs and towers towards the gate
of the bridge! List, I hear the clatter of
horsemen's feet galloping down the street!
Look up! news, news from the field, Ildefonse!
The maiden raised her head, and
followed the eye of her mother in the direction
of the north gate, where she heard the
approach of a small squadron of horse. As
they came nearer, she saw they were lancers,
and belonging to the regiment Cartowitz
commanded. Uttering a cry of mingled
hope and dread, she flew to the outer gate,
and wildly waved to the leader her snowy
arm as they were thundering past.
`Ho, lancers, ho, noble Tochman, stay!'
she shrieked to the leader whom she recognized;
`what news for poor Poland?' for true
to her country, the fair Polish girl first asked
after its fate, before her lover's, though
her heart was bleeding to ask.
`Ah, Lady Ildefonse,' answered the noble
Pole, `I was now hastening to you with a
message, having just delivered one from our
general to the President. Poland is hard
beset, lady. The Russians have pressed us
back a league; but we have taken a position
on the heights by the village, and I think
we shall be able to maintain it, at least 'till
day. We trust in Heaven and our righteous
cause for victory.'
`Amen,' devoutly replied the maiden.
`Major Tochman, you had a message from—
' she was about to say, Cartowitz, but
checked herself as if she felt it to be unworthy
of her to think of her lover in her
country's great peril.
`From Colonel Cartowitz, Lady Ildefonse,
' answered the officer, courteously, not
forgetting amid the hurry of war the graceful
suavity of social life; `he bade me call
past as I returned to the field, and say that
he was well, and that he had every thing to
hope for ultimate success of the Polish arms.'
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
`Heaven preserve his life and thine, brave
Tochman; for thou hast a sister and a mother.
Alas, how many bosoms will be pierced
this night! Has Cartowitz been exposed,
sir?' she asked with anxious solicitude.
`Nay, Lady Ildefonse, I should be doing
him injustice to say no; on the contrary, he
has been where duty called; and that was
ever, it seemed to me, in the thickest of the
battle. But fear not, lady, God protects the
brave. Farewell. I must return and give
my poor aid to him.'
`Have you been near him, much, sir?'
she asked, detaining him with a gesture of
her arm.
`Close by his side 'till General Skrzynecki
despatched me hither with a message to
Prince Czartoriski.'
`I do envy thee, brave Tochman! would
I were in thy saddle.'
`Nay, Lady Ildefonse, thou wouldst not
maintain it long in younder fierce field, I fear.
Fare thee well—I must ride,' and he spurred
on at the head of his body guard of lancers.
`Not maintain it?' said she; `so I were
nigh Cartowitz, I care not what danger
threatens. He mingles in the thickest of
the fight, did Major Tochman say? He will
surely be slain. Oh, that I were by his side!
I cannot endure this fearful suspense. That
terrific incessant roar of cannon. It will
drive me frantic. I can endure this suspense
no longer. Cartowitz, my beloved Cartowitz
in danger, and I in safety? No, it shall
not be thus. I will to the field, and share
his fate whatever it be.'
`Nay, my dear Ildefonse,' cried her mother,
seizing her arm as she would have rushed
away; `come in to thy chamber and try
and sleep till morning.'
`Sleep, sleep, my mother! when Cartowitz
may be lying wounded on the cold ground,
or the pale light of the moon resting ghastly
upon his corpse. Let me go. I would involve
my fate in his. Release me, mother,'
and the impassioned maiden freed herself from
her mother's grasp, and fled into the palace.
In a moment she had traversed a long corri
dor, and reached a narrow flight of steps that
descended to a postern on the street. This
she opened, and fled along the street with a
light step, and a look not of insanity, but of
settled and firm purpose. She took her way,
unpursued, for, save her mother, in that hour
of horror and suspense, there were none to
pursue—along the street, 'till she came to the
entrance of a court leading to the palace of
the Prince Czartoriski. The lower corridor
and halls she found deserted, for the household
were all on the battlements, gazing on
the struggle which was to make their country
free, or a province of Russia. On reaching
the front, she lightly ascended the palace
steps, and took her way, without meeting any
one, to a wing in which was a chamber well
known to her, hung with soldier's apparel and
arms. She soon singled out a suit of uniform
that had belonged to Cartowitz when eighteen
years old he was a cadet of lancers. She
retired to an ante-room, and soon re-appeared
transformed into a soldier. All these movements
were performed rapidly but coolly.
The suit fitted her well. Her tread was firm,
her eye resolute, her bearing and look
prompt and decisive. She was the young
cadet to the life. Girding a sword to her side,
and placing pistols in her belt, which the
times had taught soldier's daughters like her
the use of, she left the armory without seeing
a servant or a human being. The city was
all a desert below its roofs and towers. She
took her way to the stables, and finding there
a horse she had often rode, with Curtowitz
prancing at her side, she saddled, bridled,
and mounted him, and spurred, unopposed,
out of the gate, and took the direction out of
the city that would lead her to the field where
the roar of battle still rolled fearfully towards
the trembling capital.
The Polish army, not one fifth of the number
of the Russian forces, had, as morning
approached, succeeded in entrenching itself
upon a low swell of ground overlooking the
Vistula. Here they fought with a courage
and daring seldom paralleled in battle. The
Russians planted their artillery against their
position, charged with their cavalry, and
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
assaulted with their infantry. Still the Poles,
who had retreated to this point over a league
of hard fought ground, maintained their post,
and checked the further advance of the Russians
upon their devoted capital.
It was just at dawn when Cartowitz, at the
head of his regiment of lancers, decided on
making a charge upon a post of artillery that
greatly annoyed the right wing, sending into
its ranks, at each discharge, a shower of
deadly iron, that slew hundreds of his countrymen,
while they had not cannon to return
the fire. The charge was gallantly made;
the flanking artillery was carried with great
loss on both sides, and turned upon the Russians.
This fine exploit produced a temporary
advantage in favor of the hardly beset
Poles; but Diebitsch determined to restore
the fortune of the hour to his side again,
despatched two battalions of Cossacks to
recover the cannon. Cartowitz had already
been reinforced by three thousand infantry,
and he resolved to defend the artillery, as on
its possession he felt the fate of the battle
would turn. The Cossacks came thundering
down upon them like a tornado! the earth
shook with their terrible advance. Cartowitz
rode every where among his soldiers; encouraged
them to defend their post to the
last; pointed to the spires and towers of
Warsaw, visible in the grey dawn of morning,
and reminded them of the thousands dear to
them there that looked to them for protection!
On rolled the tide of Cossacks like a resistless
wave of the enraged sea; they break
like a surge upon the firm lancers, who stand
like rocks to meet the shock. Rank mingles
with rank; Cossack combats with Pole, and
a wild, fearful, and most deadly carnage now
takes place. One moment the Russians are
victors; the next, the Poles! Thrice the
lancers, with Cartowitz at their head, recovered
the captured cannon, and a fourth time
the Russians, by superior force, compelled
them to retire. At length Diebitsch, seeing
the importance of re-possessing the cannon,
of which there were thirty-six pieces, made
his appearance on the scene at the head of
his best troops. The Polish general, who had
been defending the high road to Warsaw,
with twenty thousand of his army, now seeing
that this point was becoming of such importance,
led six regiments of cavalry in
person to the assistance of Cartowitz. The
place around the artillery now became the
centre of the battle field! and both sides
seemed disposed to decide the fate of Warsaw
and of Poland on this spot! But one hundred
and sixty thousand Russians were opposed
by but forty thousand Poles! Numbers promised
to gain the victory over valor and right.
The Poles at length were driven on every
side, pitifully falling like grass before the
scythe of the mower. They retreated to their
height from which they were forced, and from
thence they retreated slowly, fighting every
inch of the way, upon Warsaw.
In a defile, the lancers commanded by Cartowitz,
took a position to defend it until the
infantry and artillery should pass and man
the defences of the city. Cartowitz had lost
half his regiment, and had received five
wounds! He was anxious to stop the Russians,
and his orders from his general were
to do it at all sacrifice. He well obeyed his
orders. With a few pieces of artillery and
his horse, he withstood for half an hour. At
length, he was opposing the Russian advanced
phalanx alone. There were but thirty
of his lancers left, and not two artillery men,
The cannon were silenced, and Cartowitz with
his brave friend, Major Tochman, by his
side, and the thirty lancers for many minutes
defended the important pass, and stopped
there the whole Russian army.
`We must die here, dear Tochman,' said
Cartowitz, as they fought hand to hand with
the Russian officers of the highest rank, who
had sought in person to engage in this contest
of personal bravery. `Poor Ildefonse!'
`Let us be proud of he privilege, dear
Cartowitz, to place our bodies barriers between
the Russians and our homes.
They had little space for exchanging words;
the Russians bore upon them fiercely, and
with loud revengeful shouts. Tochman soon
fell. Cartowitz was born to the ground, and
the gory sword of a Cossack chief was at his
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
breast, He breathed the name of Ildefonse,
and committed his soul to God! But the
sword did not enter his bosom. It was suddenly
struck up, and the Cossack fell dead
with a stroke from an intervening sword, and
Ildefonse cast herself upon his breast.
`Cartowitz, dear Cartowitz, I have found
thee to die with thee;' and she clasped his
bleeding head to her heart, and kissed his
pale forehead. He recognized her, smiled
upon her, and died.
She gazed upon him an instant with a look
of holy and elevated affection, and then
starting to her feet, threw open her bosom to
a Russian officer who had stood still, half
suspending his sword, wondering at what
he beheld, though ignorant of the cadet's
sex. On seeing her suddenly rise to her
feet, he meditated an attack, and levelled
his sword at her breast just as she had exposed
it to its point. He saw that she was
a female, and half checked the fatal thrust;
but it was too late to turn it aside—the
steel entered her snowy bosom, and she
fell upon the body of her lover which she
retained consciousness enough to fold in her
embrace—and so she died, even as she
wished, by the side of her beloved Cartowitz.
Thus sadly ended this little romance of the
Polish struggle for liberty. It is but one
painful incident of a thousand that occurred
during that lofty struggle for independence,
which, Heaven, for some mysterious end did
not smile upon, as it did upon our efforts to
shake off the yoke of Great Britain. Poor
Poland; thou hast the sympathy of America.
Thy children shall find home in the
bosom of our own happy land. Our hands
grasp yours as we would those of our kindred.
Our tongues welcome you as brothers.
The result of the advance of the Russians
upon Warsaw is familiar, or ought to be,
to every American reader. Numerous battles
were fought between the two armies
before Warsaw fell, and prodigies of valor
unequalled in any country, were performed
by the noble Poles; but at last they were
compelled to submit to Russia, about the
close of the year eighteen hundred and
thirty one. The Emperor sent thousands
to Siberia, executed many of the leading
men, and altogether in his disposition of the
conquered country, evinced a tyrannical
and blood-thirsty spirit of cruelty that entitles
him to the universal execration of
mankind.
-- --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
THE FRENCH JEW, OR `KILLING TIME' IN THE JERSIES. Taken down from the mouth of Tom King.
`Who is Tom King?'
Marry come up! not to know Tom King,
thou art thyself unknown. I will tell thee,
and so enlighten thy ignorance. Tom King
is a wit and a wag—a gentleman of infinite
humor, and overrunning with mirth. His
head is as crammed with funny stories and
humorsome anecdotes of his own time, as is
a Quaker's measure with good wheat when
he heapeth it up and runneth it over. He is
past forty, yet he hath the juvenility of twenty;
his jocund whiz giving the lie to full the
half of his years. He loveth a good dinner;
rejoiceth in good wines, and holdeth fast on
good company or, rather, it is the good company
that hold fast upon him; for few that
get him at their table, are willing soon to let
him off. Ah! he is a gentleman of infinite
jest, Tom! I wish you could see him tell one
of his stories—see him, I repeat, for he talks
with his face and twinkling gray eyes better
than with his tongue, and that he knoweth
how to use most cunningly for our divertise
ment. Oh, he is a rare wag! He will make
you run over—not with tears of sorrow,
(for grief and Tom King are strangers,) but
with tears that are the expressed essence of
delight. Thou hast not seen him neither?
He carrieth himself, then, with a goodly
height, being five feet nine, his abdomen of
a rotund shape, like a full wine skin, and
his face hath that round fullness that good
natured men do often show. His profile is
like unto Bonaparte's, more so than any man's
living, probably; in support of which assertion,
I will mention that the count Survilliers
spoke of it one day when Tom called on
him to ask leave to shoot woodcock on his
grounds eight days before the fourth of
July. He loves to stand with his arms folded
across his chest, à la Napoleon, and,
assuming the proper attitude, give you what
he calls Napoleon en bivouac; and, my
certes, when you look at Tom in this attitude,
you would swear a little distance off
he was Nappy himself. Tom has two profile
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
portraits hanging in his bed-room, each side
of the mantel-piece—one of Napoleon cut
from a book, the other of himself, done by
an itinerant genius with a pair of scissors,
for which Tom paid him the sum of twenty-five
cents; and the two are, in verity, as like
each other as two peas. Tom used to live
in town; but the gout growing upon him,
for which the doctors recommended the
country, and the New Albany bank having
made him a little sore by a fall of stock, he
left the city for a white cottage on a hill
half a mile beyond the last house in the
suburbs, with a patch of seven acres about
it. Here he took to farming on a scale
commensurate with the breadth of his acres.
Having a rare gift of foresight, he planted
the morus multicaulis ten years before people
began to think of it, and put his trees in
market; but nobody offering to buy, he
rooted up the whole plantation, and filled a
dry ditch with the trees. Alas, poor Tom!
he was fifteen years too early in the field.
He could have made a fortune now with his
multicaulis trees if he had them, selling each
shoot for a dollar. But Tom got the fever
prematurely. After the failure of his morus
multicaulis, Tom began to speculate in cabbages;
and with his own hands transplanted
eight rows reaching from one extremity of
his seven acre lot to the other. But one
night his cows got in and ate up all but five
of the plants, and these Tom tore up himself,
to make, as he said, a `clean sweep' of it.
Although his farming speculation have not
turned out as well as might be expected,
working in the fresh loam has quite cured
Tom of his gout, and has given a fine healthy
tan to his complexion.
How Tom came to be travelling in a stage
coach between Philadelphia and New York
he has never told; but it is sufficient for our
purpose to know that he did once travel so,
and that of the adventure related in the following
dramatic sketch `he was a part.' The
months of October and November, be it
premised, for the better understanding of
Tom's story, have been, time out of mind,
`killing time' in New Jersey. At this event
ful season, from Cape May to her northern
boundary, from the Delaware to the ocean
that laves her eastern shore, there is one
universal squeal within her borders: while
the rivulets run swine's blood, and men go
about every where with ensanguined knives
in their right hands, and wearing long white
frocks, spotted with the blood of porkers. It
was, then, in the latter part of November,
1822, that a stage filled with passengers
took its departure from the `Indian Queen'
hotel, in Philadelphia, on its way to New
York. At this period, when the land was
innocent of steamboats and railroads, the
journey between the two cites, which is now
performed in less than six hours, occupied
the best part of three days, especially when
the roads, as their condition now was,
chanced to be heavy. Among the passengers
in the stage was our friend Tom King.
`After we left the city,' says Tom, `I began
to take a view of my fellow-travellers.
None of them are worth particularizing,
though all well enough in their way, save a
cadaverous Frenchman, who sat vis à vis
with me on the middle window seat, I being
stowed in a corner on the front seat. His
extraordinary appearance instantly struck
me, filling me at once with wonder and entertainment;
for he was a bird of the sort
that I looked to have no little amusement out
of before we got to our journey's end. I
took a survey of his person and apparel.
He was about six feet in height, standing
with a long face, à la General Jackson, a
high wrinkled forehead, an eagle's beak
shaped nose, large lips and mouth, and a
pair of little, keen, snaky, black eyes, surmounted
by bushy black eyebrows, with
whiskers and moustache to match. His
complexion was very dark, and from the
general character of his physiognomy, I
knew he was a French Jew. Beneath a little
cloth cap he wore a red bandanna handkerchief,
tied smoothly on his crown. His lean,
gaunt frame was encased in a long waisted,
gray, French surtout, buttoned up to his
throat in a military style, while thick knit
gloves protected his hands from the cold.
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
Seeing me so attentively observing him, he
called up to his features a sickly, yet courteous,
smile, and with the air of one who
sought sympathy and desired to be social,
addressed me in bad English—
`Sare, eet ish verra foin veddare, is
he not?'
`Yes, sir, very good weather.'
`Von leetle cold,' with a slight shrug, `ish
he not, sare?'
`Yes, sir,' I replied, quietly.
`Eh, bien! vill you obligshe me, Monsieur,
to tak' von pinshe of de snoff?' he continued,
handing to me, as a farther incentive
to social feelings, an antiquated, heavy silver
box, half filled with rappée.
`Do you go all de vays to Newe Yorrk?'
he asked, as he returned the box to his surtout
pocket.
`Yes, sir.'
`You live in dish countree, sare?'
`Yes, sir.'
`'Tish verra sangulare de vay dat you
'ave to live here. C'est une chose tres drôle.'
`In what way, sir?'
`Mais! c'est une chose si drôle!' and he
laughed such a laugh as famine herself would
have uttered—a laugh in which there was
any thing but droll.
`How droll?'
`Ah, mon dieu! In dis pays—dis countree
vous mangez rien—nothing but cochon—hog.'
`My dear sir, why, what do you mean by
our having nothing to eat here but pork?' I
asked of him.
`Ecoulez! Listen donc, Monsieur,' he
said, with indignant animation. `Quand je
quittais Paris, je me trouvais en bon point
Eh, bien! Je me trouvais myself ici—mais!
gentilmen,' interrupting himself, and looking
round upon all in the stage, as if he desired
their attention; `I vill tellee you all vat it
ish. I come to dis countree, I land in Newe
Yorrk, and I go to Philadelfie from dere.
I have some little lettare d' introduction. I
don't know no bodee in dis countree, ma foi!
Bien! I come to Philadelfie and I bring
some lettares to some of de principle peoples
dere. Eh, bien! Dey say to me, after talk
som toime, you go Mishtress Vebb, de best
boardin' house in Pheeladelife. Bien! I go
dare. Ven I left Paris, I vas verra fat—oh
verra fat indeed! Mais, de diable cochon—
dat you call de hog, almost killee me. Sare,
Ma foi! I hate de pork as I do de devil.
Now, messieurs, you see vat dat landladee
do! She give noting but de pork for six
veek. Ven I com to dis countree, in de first
place I com to Newe Yorrk. I vas den en
bon point—so fat. Now, sare, you see my
situation; de manner which I look. Now I
go back to Newe Yorrk, I am all-e-mostee
starve!' Here his voice became exceedingly
sad and touching, and he looked as if he
could weep his spirit from his eyes. While
throwing open his surtout, he knocked his
knuckles, in attestation of the truth of his
words, against his ribs and stomach till the
one rattled andibly, and the other gave back
a hollow, empty sound.
`Eh! you see dat? Youhear dat, ma foi?'
He looked round with sad triumph to see
the effect produced, and then slowly rebuttoning
the surtout, added, with a sign, as he
fastened the last button—
`Ah, jentilmen, you would not believe you
see me in Paris dis a way (filling his stomach
with wind and swelling out) and you
look at me now! Drivare!' he suddenly
called, thrusting his head out of the window,
`drivare, how far he is to Bristole?'
`Short distance, sir,' replied the respectful
Jarvey.
`Mais, tonneur de Dieu! I vas een Bristole
vonce ven I com frome Newe Yorrk. Dey
givee evra ting bat vas nice! Dey givee me
roastee bif—dey givee shickens and pomme
de terre, and all sorts of noting. Bien,
Bristole be von nice place!' And rubbing
his hands and moistening his lips, with anticipation
of the good things that would fall
to his share in Bristol, he closed his eyes
and gave himself up to (by the still smile
about his mouth) a delicious reverie.
`By-and-by the roofs and towers of Bristol
appeared, and, as if scenting `roastee bif'
afar off, the Frenchman opened his eyes,
and thrust his head out of the window.
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
`Vat place is dat, drivare, eh?'
`Bristol, sir.'
`Ah, ha! den I know I get someting to eat.
Now, jentilmen, I tellee you I'ave som meat
dare. Ven I vas dere I'ave got roastee bif,
roastee shickens,—ah, Bristole de good
place.'
`The coach rattles up to the principal hotel,
and ere the horses were reined up, out
briskly steps the jocund landlord. The
Frenchman, taking off his hat, instantly
thrust his red bandaged head from the window.
`Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, ah, ha! I so
glad to see you. I'ave been in dis countree
eight veek; for six veek my landladee givee
me noting but pork. Now, sare, ven I vas
here som toime dis seven veek ago, you giv
me som verra nice dinnare—roastee bif,
shicken, and every ting nice dat vas good.
Naw, Monsieur Bizanet, I am almostee
starve. Six veek my landladee give me
noting but pork—all de time, pork—and I
hate de pork as I do ze devil. Now, Monsieur
Bizanet vat you giv uz for de dinnare,
eh?'
`As he put this query, he stepped out of
the coach, and approached the landlord,
rubbing his hands together with great gout.
`Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, vot is it dat you
have goode for me, now?'
`Well, sir,' said Bizanet, with a great
pomposity of manner, like a host confident
in the quality and abundance of his larder,
`well, sir, we have some very fine tender loins.
Tendare loing—don' knaw vat he is, but
I sposhe he ish somting verra goode. Naw,
jentilmen,' he added, with an expression of
much pleasure on his hungry visage, `naw
you tak all de oder tings; I take de tendare
loing for my share. Vaitare, giv me glass
brandy vater, he cried, entering the barroom,
his stomach growing brave and dilating
with anticipation.
`After drinking his brandy vater' with apparent
satisfaction, he took his station at the
dining-room door opening towards the kitchen,
and surveyed with great complacency
each dish as it was carried in, though he
knew not the meats of which any of them
consisted. When he found, by glancing back
to the kitchen, that no more were to come,he
skipped into the dining-room and placed
himself in a seat to which the landlord
pointed him. Now be it known to the
hitherto uninformed that in `killing time,'
landlords give, literally, nothing but pork,
cooked different ways—spare-ribs, tenderloins,
pork-chops, pork-steaks, sausages,
kidneys, souse, hog's-head, hog's-head
cheese, and, in fine `noting but pork.'
`Now, Monsieur Bizanet, I am so glad
to see you! Ah, Monsieur Bizanet, vere is
de tendare loing?' and his eyes wandered
eagerly over the various modifications of
grunter which loaded the table.
`There it is, sir before you,' said the polite
landlord, with a slight bow and gesture
with his right hand.
`Ah bien bien!' replied Monsieur, delightedly;
and with the eager satisfaction of
a half-starved wretch, he seized his knife
and fork, and commenced cutting into it.
Suddenly he stops, raises the knife, and
then the fork, to his nose, smells and snuffs,
snuffs and smells, and then quickly drops
them upon his plate, and pushes back from
the table with an expression of misery and
despair. Yet it is only suspicion.
`Monsieur Bizanet! Qu'est ce que c'est
diable! tendare loing? Vat is he de tendare
loing? Tellee me vat he is made of, Monsieur
Bizanet?'
`Why, sir, that is acknowledged by epicures
to be the choicest part of the hog.'
`With a look of mingled anguish and
horror, he clasped his bony hands together,
and for a moment appeared the perfect image
of wo.
`Vaitare,' he said, at length, rising and
turning to the waiter, and speaking in the
subdued voice of patient suffering, his flexible
features twisted into almost a cry;
`Vaitare, 'ave you noting else but de pork?'
`No, sir.'
`Vell, den villee you bringee me glass
brandy vater, som onion and cracker? I
am almostee starve. I'ave live in
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[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
Philadelfie wid my landladie six veek and she
giv me noting but de pork—I almostee
starve! I come to Monsieur Bizanet, and
he giv me noting but de pork. Tonneur de
dieu!'
`Having as he dilated on his wrongs,
grown ireful, and ended thus with a deep
oath, he strode to the bar and received his
brandy vater, som onion and cracker,' and
sitting down in a corner with his handkerchief
spread across his knees, dined solitary and
alone. He was yet engaged in his frugal
repast when the stage-horn wound sharp and
loud, and with an onion in one hand, and a
fragment of cracker in the other, he took his
seat beside his fellow-passengers, and the
stage once more rolled on its way.
`Never mind, sir,' says Tom King, putting
on a face full of sympathy, `never
mind it; wait till we get to Trenton.'
`Trantong! Ai dat ish de place vere
de prison is! I see him ven I com on from
Newe Yorrk. Mais, dis done, vere we is
now?'
`Ten miles off.'
`Ah, Trantong! I stop dere at Monsieur
Bispham, vere I get someting verra good to
eat, I tell you. Now jentilmen, ven ve get
dere you may take de tendare loing, and I
take som oder ting goode.'
`By-and-by, the stage begins to descend
a hill towards a covered bridge stretched
across the Delaware, and on the opposite
shore appears in full view a large town.
'Drivare,' cried Monsieur, thrusting his
head out of the stage window, `drivare tellee
me vat place he is, eh?'
`Trenton, sir.'
`Trantong! Bien, bien! Now I sall get
someting nice to eat. Ha, ha!' and rubbing
his palms with delightful anticipation,
he eagerly watched for the hotel from the window,
as the stage rolled through the streets.
`Ah, vat is he dat maison, Monsieur
Tomkin? (for Tom had given his fellow
traveller his name.) I tink I know him.'
`'Tis Mr. Bispham's.'
`Ah, Monsieur Bispham! Now sall I
get some ting nice to eat!'
`As the stage drove up to the door, the
travellers were welcomed by the courteous
host.
`Ah, ha, Monsieur Bispham!' cried the
Frenchman, as the landlord stepped up to
open the door of the coach. `Je suis charmé
de vous voir! I'ave com from Philadelfie;
my landladie giv me nossin but pork. Naw
sare ven I vas here six veek ago, I got von
verra nice dinnare—ah mon dieu it vas too
moche goode! You givee me roastee bif,
roastee shicken, mouton—avery ting dat vas
nice. Naw, Monsieur Bispham,' he continued,
smiling most insinuatingly in the landlord's
face, and rubbing his palms together,
vat 'ave you got for my dinnare? I am almostee
starve. Six veek my landladie giv
me noting but de pork; I com to Bristole,
and Monsieur Bizanet giv me noting but de
pork; and I hate de pork as I do ze devil.
Naw, Monsieur Bispham, vat you giv uz for
de dinnare?'
`There was a merry twinkle in Tom
King's eye as he caught that of mine host
which told volumes, and which the other
was not slow in taking.
I can give you som very fine spare-ribs,'
replied Mr. Bispham, in his blandest manner.
`Spare-reeb! vat he is? Spare-reeb! I
sposhe he verra goode! he muttered half to
himself, as he descended to the pavement.
`Now, jentilmen, you take de tendare-loing
for your share, I will tak de spare-reeb for
minself!' and with a step made light with
delight he skipped into the bar-room.
`Vaitare!'
`Sir.'
`Glass brandy vater; it make de appettie
sharp for de spare-reeb! Ah Monsieur Bispham,
you von verra nice jentilman. Sparereeb!
eh, I vill now 'ave someting goode to
eat.'
`With impatient gratification he watched
the entrance of each dish, and then, with his
fellow-passengers, seated himself at the table
before a dish which mine host, with a
peculiar smile lurking in the corner of his
eye himself placed there.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
`Eh, Monsieur Bispham, vere is de
spare-reeb?'
`The dish immediately before your plate.'
`C'est bien! Je le vois! Ah, Monsieur
Bispham, I likee you vera moshe for von
jentilman's. I vill cot him maintenant.
`With these words of gratitude and hope
on his lips Monsieur buried his knife into the
crisp meat before him, and the pleasant
odor followed the knife as it was drawn
forth, and ascended to his nose. With dilated
eyes and nostrils, he hung suspended
over the unsavory dish an instant, his knife
and fork elevated in either hand, looking as
if the truth were too great for belief. Twice—
thrice he bent his head towards it, ad
each time snuffed and snorted not unlike the
uclean animal of his holy abhorence. Conviction
flashes upon him. Pale as a corpse,
he drops the knife and fork and pushes back
from the table.
`Monsieur Bispham!' in tones of pitiful
distress, while his pathetic glances from the
spare-rib to mine host, and from mine host
to the spare-rib, nearly brought tears (from
hardly suppressed laughter) into Tom King's
eyes, and filled every bosom around with
manly sympathy. `Monsieur Bispham!'
`Sir.'
`Ave you no oter ting but dis hog?'
`No, sir; but I will tell you what I can
do for you,' said the feeling landlord; I can
give you'—
`Notin more, sare; I vant notin! Vaitare!
'
`Yes, sir.'
`Give me glass brandy vater, cracker, and
som onion,' and with a sigh that seemed to
come from a half-empty wind-bag, he proceeded
to dine off the grateful comestibles
he had named.
`Ah, never mind it, sir; don't be alarmed,'
said Tom, after he had got into the stage,
putting on a face of inimitable commiseration;
`you'll make it all up when we get to
Princeton.'
`Prancetong! dat is de place vere de collegshe
ish. I see him dere. Ah, I stop at
Monsieur Joline. I get someting verra
goode to eat, Monsieur Joline; he givee me
roastee chickens, roastee sheep, nice fricasee
de poulet, de pudding—de avery thing nice.
Ah, Monsiur Tomkin, I sall get some ting
verra goode for to eat now, parbleu!'
When the coach came in sight of Princeton,
out popped the Frenchman's head.
`Drivare, vat place he is, eh?'
`Princeton, sir.'
`Prancetong, ah! Naw, jentilmen, ve sall
ave someting goode to eat!' and his haggard
features became luminous at the thought.
`Ah, ah, Monsieur Joline,' he cried, as
the coach drew up to the door of the hotel;
`I am so rejoice to see you! Sare, I 'ave
com from Philadelfie; my landladie giv me
noting but de pork—six veek she giv me
noting but de pork. I almostee starve. I
com to Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet giv me
noting but de pork. I com to Trangtong—
Monsieur Bispham giv me noting but de
pork. Naw, Monsieur Joline, my goode
frien',' he added, stepping from the coach,
and pathetically putting his hand on mine
host's shoulder, while his voice was dropped
to a low insinuating tone, `will you givee me
someting good for my dinnare?'
`Oh yes, sir,' replied the landlord, who
had caught a twinkle of Tom King's eye;
`oh, yes; I can give you a tender-loin.'
`Bah!' with supreme disgust.
`I can give you a spare-rib, sir.'
`Bah, bah! 'ave you noting else?'
`Ah, yes; I will let you have a very fine
chop.'
`Schop—schop! I don' knaw vat he is.
Monsieur Tomkin, vill you telle me vat he is—
de schop?'
`It is my favorite dish, sir,' said Tom,
licking his chops; `we are lucky in getting
at Mr. Joline's to dine.'
`Ah-h-h! Monsieur Tomkin,' he cried,
shaking Tom by both hands, `I vill den 'ave
somting goode to eat. I vill tak som de
schop, Monsieur Joline. Jentilmen, you
hear me! you may tak de tendare-loing and
de spare-rib for yourself—I vill 'ave de schop
for my share. Ah, jentilmen, did I not tellee
you I get someting goode to eat Monsieur
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
Joline? Vaitare, giv me glass brandy vater!
'
With moist lips and longing eyes, did
Monsieur survey the serving-up and entreé
of the various dishes, (if there can be variety
where all the dishes are of like meat).
At length, came out `mine host,' and announced
dinner. The famished Frenchman
glided in strait to one of the chairs, and was
about to take it—
`Pah! spare-reeb!'
He darted to another—
`Pah! tendare-loing!'
`Here, sir,' said Tom, pointing to the
chair next to his, `you will find this seat
pleasanter—besides, here are chops placed
for you.'
Grace! bien, bien! You are tres polite,
Monsieur Tomkin,' and sliding into the chair,
he seized his knife and fork, and commenced
upon the delicate dish prepared for him. No
sooner, however, did the porkerous odor
that freely rose with the steam on being disturbed
by the knife assail his nostrils, and
convince him that swine's flesh was set before
him, than he sprung from the table as if
the porker had come bodily to life in the dish.
`Oh, mon dieu—mon dieu! Monsieur Joline!
Comment l'appelait-on? Qu'est ce que
c'est diable de schop? Vat you call de schop,
Monsieur?'
`Why, my dear sir,' replied mine host,
with gravity, `that, sir, is acknowledged on
all hands to be one of the most delicious parts
of the hog.'
`Hog—cochon? Tonneur de dieu!' and
with a backward leap, Monsieur placed ten
feet between himself and the object of his
abhorrence. `Monsieur Joline!' and he
approached the landlord with a tale of wo
written in his sad visage, `ah! Monsieur
Joline, I 'ave com from France. I 'ave
been in Philadelfie six veek; my landladie
givee me noting but de pork—six veek she
giv me noting but de pork. I com Bristole—
Monsieur Bizanet givee me noting but de
pork. I com Trantong—Monsieur Bispham
givee me noting but de pork. I com Prancetong,
and you givee me noting but de pork.
I almostee starve.' Then placing his open
palms over his collapsed stomach, and almost
weeping his spirit from his eyes, he called in
a tristful tone—
`Vaitare, givee me glass brandy vater,
som onion and cracker.'
`Never mind, my dear friend,' said Tom
King, with well-feigned sympathy, after they
were once more in the coach; `never mind;
wait till you get to New Brunswick, and
Mr. De Graw will give you a good dinner.'
`Ah, ha! I knaw Monsieur De Graw, he
said, brightening up, `I knaw him verra
well. He giv me von verra nice dinnare—
roastee bif, bif-stick, schicken, som pie, som
nice pudding. Ah, jolie ville Newe Bronsvicke!
I get someting goode to eat, Monsieur
De Graw. Drivare, how far he is
Newe Bronsvicke?'
`Soon be there, sir.'
`Eh, bien! now you sall see, jentilmen—
you sall see, Monsieur Tomkin, vat good
dinnare I vill eat at Monsieur De Graw! Oh,
oh! I knaw verra well Monsieur De Graw.
You sall see naw vat you sall see.'
The symmetrical snow-white spire of the
Episcopal church, and the old Spanish looking
tower of the Dutch, at length rose above
the distant fields, and caught the eye of the
vigilant Frenchman.
`Drivare, vat place he is coming, eh?'
`New Brunswick, sir.'
`Newe Brunsvicke! Bien! Now you sall
see, Monsieur Tomkin—now you sall see,
jentilmen, vot I vill 'ave to eat. Ah, ha! I
sall 'ave de nice dinnare—de roastee bif, de
bif-stik, de shicken, de nice pudding, some
pie—avery ting!' and in renewed pleasurable
anticipation, Monsieur's hungry countenance
was wreathed with ghastly smiles, and he
seemed several times as if, in his joy, he was
about to hug his friend, “Monsieur Tomkin,”
to his shrunken breast.
The stage rolled rapidly down Albany
street, and drew up at a spacious hotel, at
the entrance to the antiquated bridge that
spans the beautiful Raritan. Out stepped
Mr. De Graw, smiling welcome to the goodly
company of travellers.
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
`Ah, ha, Monsieur De Graw,' cried the
Frenchman, taking off his cap, and thrusting
his red bandanna pate out of the coach window;
`ah, ha, Monsieur De Graw, how you
do? I am so enjoyed to see you. I am com
from Philadelfie—my landladie for six veek
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I com Trantong—
Monsieur Bispham givee me noting but
de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur Joline
givee me noting but de pork, and I hate
de pork, sare, as I do ze devil. Ah, bon
dieu! I almostee starve. Naw, Monsieur
De Graw,' he added, in an insinuating tone,
and with a winning smile that would have
melted the heart of Robespierre, `now, Monsieur
De Graw, vat 'ave you got good for
my dinnare?'
`I have some very fine steaks.'
`Stik! stick! ah, jentilmen,' he cried, delightedly,
`I tol you I get someting goode to
eat Monsieur De Graw. Stik! I remembare
him—he verra nice! Jentilmen, you may
'ave de tendare-loing, de spare-reeb, de
schop, and all de oder ting—I vill tak de
stik for my share. Vaitare,' he cried, with
additional animation, `bring me glass brandy
vater!'
The `brandy vater' was brought and
drank with great gusto, and then with a
gleam of high satisfaction on his features,
he took his stand by the dining-room door,
and watched the entrance of each savory
dish with curiosity.
`Monsieur De Graw!'
`Sir.'
`Vere is my stik?'
`It is coming, sir—here it is.'
`Ah, bien! I see him,' and following the
last platter in, he seated himself before it.
A cloud of steam rose from the insertion of
the ready knife, and the accursed flavor of
pork ascended to his olfactory organs.
`Qu'est ce que c'est diable de stik, Monsieur
De Graw? Mais dis donc! Vat you call
dis stik?'
`Why that, sir, is acknowledged to be
one of the most delicious parts of the hog.'
Down dropped the poor French Jew's knife
and fork, and rising up, he thus addressed
himself to `mine host,' at first more in sorrow
than in anger, though with the recital
of his griefs his indignation rose—
`I am com from Paris. I go Philadelfie—
six veek my landladie givee me noting but
de pork. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I com Trantong—
Monsieur Bispham givee me noting
but de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur
Joline givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve, sare, and I nevare been so
maltreat in my life. Ven I was in my own
countree, nobody nevere serve me so, and,
sare, I tink it is blackguard manner, and no
jentilman. Vaitaire,' he cried, in a subdued
tone of sorrow, not unmingled with offended
dignity, turning from the landlord with supreme
contempt, having expended upon him
his short-lived wrath, his stomach, doubtless,
being all too weak to hold much anger; vaitaire,
you givee som cracker, vater, and som
onion, if you pleas.'
`Ah, sir,' said Tom King, as they entered
the coach, squeezing the Frenchman's attenuated
fingers in his consoling grasp; `ah,
my dear sir, let it not disturb you, lest you
impair your appetite; for I assure you, sir,
that you will find at Newark every thing to
gratify it.'
`Newarke! Bien! I remember him,' he
cried, catching at the brittle straw of hope
Tom had kindly thrown out. `I 'ave stop in
Newarke one time. I nevare got suche good
dinnare as I got dere!'
`They give very good dinners at Gifford's,
' said Tom.
`Gifforde! ah, I knaw him; he is de landlord.
Ah, I knaw Monsieur Gifford verra
well. He givee me roastee torkey, roastee
shickens, voodcock, bif-stick, some pie—ah,
mon dieu! every ting dat was nice he gave
me! Ah, you sall see, Monsieur Tomkin,
vat you sall see, ven I com Newarke.'
By-and-by, the spires of Newark rose in
sight, above the green meadows and pleasant
woods that surround it, and caught the
quick eye of the Frenchman.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
`Drivare, vat he is?' he eagerly asked.
`Newark, sir.'
`Newarke! Eh, bien, bien! now, jentilmen,
you sall see!' and rejoicing in the good
things in store for him, he sung, whistled,
and said something pleasant to each one of
his fellow travellers. The coach at length
stopped at the door of `Gifford's,' and out
came the portly landlord himself, to do honor
to his newly-arrived guests.
`Dat ish Monsieur Gifford, ish it not, Monsieur
Tomkin?' he asked, as he caught sight
of him from a distance.
`That is he, and he will give you a capital
dinner,' replied Tom.
`Ah, Monsieur Gifford, how you do? It
make me verra rejoice to see you. You look
verra fat, Monsieur Gifford. Now, Monsieur
Gifford, I 'ave com from Paris; I com to
Newe Yorrk, den I go Philadelfie. I stop
wid you ven I go, six veek ago. Oh, de nice
dinnare you giv me—roastee torkey, roastee
shicken, voodcock, roastee bif, bif-stik, som
pie—avery ting dat vas goode you give me.
Now, I go Philadelfie—my landladie givee
me, for six veek, noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur
Bizanet givee me noting but de pork. I com
Trantong—Monsieur Bispham givee me noting
but de pork. I com Prancetong—Monsieur
Joline givee me noting but de pork. I
com New Bronsvicke—Monsieur De Graw
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. Naw, Monsieur Gifforde,' he added,
with a pathetic look, working his features
into a coaxing smile, `naw, Monsieur Gifford,
vat vill you givee me goode for my dinner?
'
In the meanwhile, sundry signs and words
had been interchanged between Tom King
and `mine host,' and Mr. Gifford answered
with ready civility.
`Why, in the first place, sir, we have some
very excellent tender-loin.'
`Bah!'
`We have a very fine spare-rib, sir.'
`Bah!'
`We have some capital chops.'
`Bah!'
`Well, sir, perhaps you would like a nice
steak.'
`Bah, bah! noting but de hog. Monsieur
Gifford! sare! ven I vas here last, you givee
me avery ting—de roastee bif, de voodcock,
de bif-stik, some pie. Now, Monsieur Gifford,
'ave you not got noting good?'
`Ah, sir, there is one thing I had forgotten—
we are going to have a fine roaster.'
`R-roastare! Ah, jentilmen, you hear!
r-r-roastare!' he cried, sounding the r like a
watchman's rattle; and, turning to the company,
he shook each one by the hand, while
his hollow visage was illuminated with the reflection
of his inward joy. `I tol' you, jentilman,
we get something to eat here! Now,
you tak de hog vid twentie name, I vill 'ave
de roastare for my dinner.'
Feeling now sure of a dinner, he became
magnanimous, and calling for `brandy vater'
in a more confident tone than he had hitherto
used, he turned blandly to his fellow travellers—
`Monsieur Tomkin—jentilmen—you tak
glass brandy vater?'
After drinking, he began to rub and expand
his abdomen, and to swell out like the
frog in the fable, while he walked impatiently
to and fro before the dining-room door.
`Vill dat bell never ring for my dinnare?'
he muttered every few turns. Not a dish
that went in, escaped his scrutiny. As each
passed him, he would recognise and name it
with disgust.
`Bah! porkee-stik!'
`Bah! spare-reeb!'
`Bah! tendare-loing!'
`Bah, bah! schop!'
`Ah, ha, jentilmen, you bettare go get
your dinnare,' he cried jocosely, as this array
of swine's flesh passed him towards the
table, `I vait for my roastare!' and folding
his arms, he leaned against the side of the
door, and fixed his eyes musingly on the door
of the kitchen. In a few moments, Mr. Gifford
made his appearance, hat in hand.
`Dinner is ready, gentlemen.'
The Frenchman did not hear; his waiting
eyes were bent on the door leading
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
kitchenward, while his lips moved in something like
a soliloquy.
`Roastare—roastare! Qu'est ce que c'est
roastare? I shpose he roastee bif, or som
soche ting! roastee shicken, I shpose! He
must be something verra nice! Roastee
mouton, perhaps!'
`Dinner is served, sir,' said Mr. Gifford.
`Mair pardi! Monsieur Gifford, vere is
my roastare, sare?'
`It is coming now, sir.'
The Frenchman looked, and beheld borne
past him, on a broad platter, a roast pig, with
a potatoe in his jaws.
`Sare, vere is my roastare?'
`This is it.'
`Is dat de roastare, sare?'
`Yes, sir; and one of the most delicious
things in the world.'
`Sare—Monsieur Gifford! I'ave com from
Paris. My landladie, Philadelfie, six veek
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Bristole—Monsieur Bizanet
givee me noting but de pork. I almostee
starve. I com Trantong—Monsieur Bispham
give me noting but de pork. I com
Prancetong—Monsieur Johne give me noting
but de pork. I almostee starve. I com Newe
Bronsvicke—Monsieur De Graw givee me
noting but de pork. I com Newarke, sare,
and you givee me noting but de pork—nossing
but de hog. I al-e mostee starve. I
nevare been so maltreat in my life before.
Ven I vas in my own countree, nobody not
nevare serve me so. Sare, I tink it is blackguard
manner, and no jentilman. You 'ave
usee me loike von scoundrele rascaller.
You are not content wis giving me de differen
kind of de pork—de spare-reeb, de tendare-loing,
de schop, de stik, and noting but
de pork—but now you bringee me de CHILDE
OF DE HOG!'
-- --
THE LOTTERY TICKET.
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
Donald Fay was a young and industrious
farmer, blessed with a beautiful and
virtuous wife, and surrounded with every
comfort that the heart of man could desire.
But, unluckily becoming acquainted with
some thoughtless companions, who preferred
pleasure to industry, he was progressively
and insensibly led, step by step, to idleness,
intemperance, and finally to gambling. Frequently,
in his sober moments, he formed
the resolution to break from their society,
but no sooner did he encounter them than
reason, judgment, principle, all took flight
and he became a ready victim to their vicious
and designing arts. His conduct before
and after drinking, illustrates in a
strong manner the folly and degrading effects
of intoxicating drinks. Alas, that `men will
put an enemy into their mouths to steal
away their brains!'
One morning, Donald got up very late,
with a headache, and a parched and feverish
palate.
`Donald, dear, you look ill this morning,'
said his young wife, laying her hand upon
his soft temples.
`And can't a man be a little ill without
such a fuss being made about it,' he said,
testily, throwing aside her hand. The tears
came into Sarah's eyes, for Donald had never
spoken sharply to her before.
He went out to look after his farm, but
felt disinclined to exert himself. He leaned
upon a gate aud began bitterly to reflect
upon what he had done the day before.
`Yes, I have disgraced myself, and lost
my self-respect. Instead of returning directly
home and spending my few leisure
moments with Sarah and the child, I preferred
lounging in the market; and then
this low drunken fellow persuades me to go
into a drinking cellar with him. I wouldn't
have been seen with him by any respectable
person, but—but—' and Donald could
not conceal from himself that his love of
money had been the temptation that drew
him after gain. `If I had drank nothing now,
I should not condemn myself so much—for it
was business I had with him. But that I
should drink, and not once, but twice! And
then I don't know hardly what I did—I
have some remembrance of riding in a
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
coach, and I do recollect distinctly purchasing
this lottery ticket, and foolishly paying
sixteen dollars for it.' And he took from
his pocket book the ticket and looked at it
with a melancholy air. `Sixteen dollars
thrown away! What a fool I have made of
myself! If I had been sober, I should no
sooner have gone into a lottery office than
into a gambling house. And then to purchase
a ticket, too. To throw a stake for
chance. Ah, Donald Fay, I would not believe
yesterday morn you would have done
all this. Truly, if any man had said to me
then, `Donald, before sunrise to-morrow,
you will have cronied with Jim Talbot, gone
arm in arm with him down into Burling's cellar,
drank with him, got drunk with him, rode
in a hackney coach with him, bought a lottery
ticket, and paid sixteen hard earned
dollars for it,' I would have knocked him
over! And yet it is all true; oh, Donald
Fay!' And Donald placed his hand on his
brow and groaned aloud. `And what would
poor Sarah say, if she knew all? She would
despise me; and I spoke cross to her; that
is the top-stone of my madness! Oh, that
I should have spoken a cross word to the
young wife of my bosom, the mother of my
little girl! Oh, Donald Fay, Donald Fay,
what bitter repentance has an idle moment
cost thee!'
`Nay, dear Donald,' said his wife's soft
voice close to his ear, while her arm fondly
encircled his neck: `do not grieve, Donald.
Now I know all, for I have listened as I
came near you, and know all you have done.
You have been tempted and have fallen!
But God will forgive; and think not of
speaking sharp to me! I don't mind it. I
knew something had gone wrong with you,
and I anxiously followed you as you went
out looking so ill at case, and when I saw
you lean over the gate so miserably, I came
to bring you into the house and nurse you.
Never mind it now, Donald, dear! Let the
yesterday's folly be buried with the yesterday!
Come, do not grieve so! You will
break my heart if you do! Nay, nay, dear
husband.' It is a fearful thing to see a
strong man sob. And this true wife and
woman, pressed his head to her bosom, on
which he lay for several minutes, sobbing
like a child.
His spirit was broken by her forgiveness
and tender sympathy, which he felt he did
not deserve: he was humbled too, with
shame at his fault, and could have sunk on
his knees before her, and before his
God! At length he became calmer, and her
few but healing words, soon brought a smile
to his face.
`Ah, Sarah dearest, you are indeed a
help-mate to me! I felt so wretched at
what I had done, that I feel, if you had met
me with reproaches and harsh reproofs I
should have fled to the cup for relief from
my remorse. But you acted like an angel.
You have acted like a wife. God bless you:'
and the humbled, grateful, penitent husband
clasped his noble wife to his swelling heart.
Donald now went about the duties of his
farm with a light and cheerful spirit, while
Sarah returned to the house to enjoy in the
recesses of her own bosom, the generous
joy that follows noble conduct. Sweet wives!
ye that love to upbraid a husband's faults and
rail at his lapses, and weaknesses, adding
bitterness to the cup, his silent conscience
has already sufficiently drugged, and by your
coldness, or silence, or reproofs, or tearful
and angry upbraidings, convert penitence
into despair, and increase the evil you foolishly
hope by this treatment to cure, take
pattern by the sensible and loving wife of
Donald Fay. Think not it is noble and spirited
to resent! When man wrongs another,
he is met with resentment; but when he
wrongs his wife, he should be met with forgiveness.
This is feminine, this is generous,
this is the temper that will liken you indeed,
to that similitude with angels, which you so
love to have said of you. Every true wife—
I mean the still young and lovely in the
husband's eyes—holds in her own hands the
magic wand of domestic peace and happiness.
I say the young and lovely, because
it is then, before beauty wanes and the power
of the eye and voice and smile is gone,
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
that she must gain that sweet control over
his heart which is to last, and bind him to
her for life! Few women who neglect it till
their peculiar youthful fascinations are in
the wane, will be likely then to succeed if
they attempt it; therefore I have said that
every young wife may rule her husband, if
she will, by sweetness, gentleness, affection,
forbearance, and forgiveness,—laying on
these the golden foundation of the beautiful
temple, in which Domestic Love delights to
dwell!
`Oh woman, wife! didst thou but know the power
Held in each gesture of thy snowy hand;
Couched in thy smiles; flashing from thy glance;
Dwelling in each lineament and look of love;
Round every motion thrown; in step and air
Concealed—hidden, yet stronger for being hid—
On thee bestowed to captivate and bind,
Thou wouldst, alone, with these thyself engird,
Cuirass, and helm, breast-plate, and sword and shield,
A glorious panoply of wifely
Armor! Sweetness doth temper, and true love
Polish it, and bright and spotless kept by daily use!
Oh, didst thou know this power that dwelt in thee,
Heaven bestowed, such as seraphs wield,
Thou wouldst not more th'unsexly weapons use
Of frowns and nails, and words of high abuse!'
So much for our poet, who writes like an
honest old English husband who hath learned
his wisdom herein by experience.
That evening, Donald sat in his door with
Sarah affectionately seated beside him. He
thought she never looked so lovely, and was
sure that he had never loved her so dearly.
`Sarah,' he said smiling, yet blushing
with ingenuous shame, `I find on looking in
my pocket-book, I have not told you all the
evils that resulted from my idle moment yesterday.
I find I have in some way lost a
twenty dollar bill. I can form no idea how
it is gone? But a man who drinks must expect
to pay for his folly.'
`Never mind it,Donald; you will never
lose any more in that way, and we will work
a little harder and try to make it up.'
`But I don't mind that so much as that I
should be guilty of buying a lottery ticket,
besides the risk of losing sixteen dollars
more. I am heartily ashamed of myself. I
have a good mind to destroy the ticket and
think no more of it, for I did a wicked thing
to purchase it.'
`It would be better to remove the evil
from sight, and thought, Donald,' said Sarah,
quietly, and looking pleased at this suggestion
coming from him.
Donald took the ticket from his pocket-book,
and looked at it with the resolution to
destroy it. But his eye was arrested by the
deceitful and alluirng figures of thousands of
dollars, and by the tempting promises to the
adventurous spirit that covered its face. Sarah
saw that his love for money was tampering
with it, and that he might yet keep it;
she therefore playfully snatched it, saying,
`Come, Donald, I will tear it up myself,
and then it will go into oblivion with every
thing of that unlucky yesterday.'
`No, stay a minute, Sarah,' he said, withholding
it; `it will be no harm to look at it.
It says the highest prize is $100,000, and
that the drawing takes place on the 27th;
that is next Saturday. Suppose we don't
tear it up, but wait till after Saturday.
There is no knowing what it may bring
us; and as it's bought, destroying it wont
give me back the sixteen dollars I so foolishly
paid for it.'
`No, Donald, do not keep it. Your resolution
to destroy it was a virtuous one.
You wont be happy while you have it on
hand, but always be thinking about it, do,
dear Donald!'
`But it may be the means of making us
both rich; who knows? I don't think it
would be wise to throw it away till we
know the result.'
`But you was so sorry you bought it,'
said Sarah, gently.
`So I am. But to tear it in pieces wont
make me any sorrier, wife. I am resolved
to keep it till after Saturday, and then if there
is no prize, I'll throw it away and never
think of lotteries again.'
His wife saw that it was of no use to
urge him farther, and was silent; though
her face was sad as if she instinctively
foresaw the evil that would come of keeping
it.
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All the week, Donald, sure enough, was
thinking every leisure moment about his
ticket: and when at work on his farm visions
of wealth would fill his imagination, and
he would pause over, his plough or spade
and idly give rein to his fancies. When
the day approached on which the drawing
was to take place, he became restless and
anxious; Friday afternoon he left the field
early, and came to the house and walked
about uneasy and in a feverish state of mind
until bed-time. Sarah saw the change in
his conduct, and her heart told her the
cause of it. She sighed, and trusted that
the next day would forever put an end to
this unhappy disposition, and that the smile
would once more gladden his cheerful brow
as before his temptation by honest Jamie
Talbot. That night he scarcely closed his
eyes; and rising early he made his milk-man
stay at home and fodder the cattle,
while he went himself to town with the
wagon. After he had hurriedly seryed his
customers, he put up his horse at a stall
near the market, and hastened towards the
lottery office. He looked warily round
before entering lest any of his customers,
or persons who knew him, and whose opinion
he respected, should see him go in,
and then slipped in as well as he could for
a crowd that thronged the door. He here
learned that the drawing took place in another
part of the city, that as soon as it closed,
which would be about three o'clock, the
fate of his ticket would be immediately
made known on his application where he
now was. It was now ten o'clock, and
there were five hours yet for him to wait.
He left the office, and reflected what he
should do with the time in the interval, his
heart heavy with the increasing weight of
his conscience.
Slowly he walked along Nassau street
towards the park, reflecting upon the state
of mind the possession and retention of the
lottery ticket had produced. He felt he had
been guilty of a great evil in keeping it, and
almost wished he had destroyed it. He could
not but confess he had spent a very nervous
and unhappy week thinking about the drawing,
and his conscience now loudly reproved
him for spending a whole day in idleness till
the fate of his ticket should be known. All
these reflections filled his thoughts and weighed
down his mind till he became hateful to
himself—yet he would not destroy the cause
of all his guilty misery, which he still held in
his pocket-book. He readily assented to all
the open and stern admonitions and reproaches
of his conscience in relation to his conduct,
but had not resolution enough to be guided
or influenced by them: weakly and deluded,
he yielded himself up to the current into
which he had launched,, without making an
effort, though conscious of the dangers, to
save himself from the probable shipwreck of
his peace of mind, perhaps of his little fortune
and of his character. So deluded is man
when he once gives the rein to criminal
indulgence—the reproofs of his better nature,
instead of correcting him, irritate and increase
the evil it is their province to lessen.
Donald felt so unhappy that he could have
wished any society to help him to beguile the
time, and relieve him from his thoughts. As
he walked along in this mood of mind, he
entered the park; and as he lifted his eyes to
the City Hall clock to see how slowly lagged
the hour, he beheld at a distance in one of
the walks the figure of Jim Talbot. Jamie
had also recognized him, and remembering
the abstraction of the twenty dollar note,
began to feel the fears of suspicion coming
over him, and turning his back was shuffling
off with his shape so altered by an ingenious
twist of his body and a stooping of the shoulders
and a bowing in of the legs, that when
Donald's eyes first beheld him, he hesitated
in deciding whether it were Jamie or no. He
was, however, too familiar with Jamie's longworn
habiliments, and the peculiar angles
and cock in his hat to be wholly at fault. A
closer inspection assured him of his identity.
His first emotion was that of pleasure; for he
felt wearied of his own reflections, tired of
himself, and any company was relief! Alas!
how had Donald Fay fallen! He, therefore,
quickened his pace after Jim, who as he was
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making off was looking at him beneath his
arm. The natural thought that occurred to
him on now beholding Donald start after him,
was that he was about to charge him with the
theft of the note; he, therefore, incontinently
set off at a round pace, listening to hear the
cry in his ear of `stop thief!' Donald, seeing
him run, increased his speed of foot, and Jim
ran the harder; his rags flying, his hands
holding his trowsers up, and his feet slipping
from his old shoes at every third step. Donald,
however, was clean shod and had
suspenders to hold up his trowsers, thus he
had that great advantage of using the hands
in running, as well as being light heeled, and
of a most vigorous constitution. Poor Jamie
was overtaken by him at the south gate with
his hand on the latch ready to open it.
`What in the nature, man, set you getting
up sich a running,' said Donald, grasping him
firmly by the arm; `is it this way ye treat a
friend, Jamie?' he asked, reproaching him.
Jim saw at a glance that all was right, and
he had no more to fear from Donald on account
of his theft of the bank note, which
he was now satisfied he had not missed, or
having missed, supposed he had lost it out of
his pocket-book. It was, therefore, with an
open brow and a heart relieved of much
solicitude for the safety of his precious person,
which, as he fled he imagined tenanting
one of the cells in the Tombs, that he replied,
while he grasped Donald warmly by
the hand:
`Oh, Donald, man, is it you I heard running
behind me? I am glad you spoke—for
you see I should have missed you—for I
was, you see—going—where in the devil
was I going?—Oh, to see if that ticket you
bought had been drawn a prize! Yes, I
was going there, Donald! You see I don't
forget my friends.' And here Jim gave his
friend another hearty shake of the hand.
`Where are you going, Donald?'
`Why, I came over with my milk-cart,
and as I had a little time to spare, I thought
I would just stop till the drawing was over.
I have no way to pass it, and so seeing you,
thought I'd call you!'
Donald colored as he answered, for he
knew he had lied when he said he had no
time to spare—the best part of a whole day,
too—when he knew his farm and family required
every hour he had resolved to waste
in the city, waiting for the result of the
drawing morning. Thus falsehood was
added to the other vices of which his few
idle moments in the market house were the
prolific parent. The first indulgence in sin
is like the first step down a flight of stairs
descending mid-way into a fathomless abyss,
with all fearful dizzy space below! It is
useless, however, to make reflections here
for the reader; for no one can fail to see all
that we could point out with but little reflection
on his own part. We will, therefore,
give our pen more closely to the incident
and action of the story, leaving it to convey
its own moral.
`You are just the man, then, for my morning,
' said Jim, enthusiastically clapping his
hand on his empty pocket, for not a `red
cent' had Jim remaining of his twenty dollars;
`come with me, I will show you a way
to pass it. How long afore the drawing?'
`Three o'clock—four hours and a half,'
answered Donald, looking at the clock.
`Good—come on, boy. You are a good
fellow, Donald! In five hours you'll be a
rich fellow. Good; let us go.'
`But where?' asked Donald, a little
ashamed of his company, yet glad to get it
to fly from self-upbraidings.
`Come with me, I'll show you where;'
was the satisfactory reply of Jamie, as he
passed his arm under Donald's, and pulled
him along in the direction of Centre street.
Donald gave himself up to his guidance,
and under his care at length reached the
market. On the way he had been met by
two or three respectable persons of the city,
and by one of his neighbors a wealthy lawyer,
who, each of them all stared first at
Jim, and then cast an inquiring look at him.
He felt excessively ashamed, but his avarice
lay deep in his heart, and so he drove the
idea of what they would think from his
mind.
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`Come, Donald,' said Jim, with a patronizing
air, `come, man, as I have taken you
under my care, you must do as I say. Let
us go in here!'
`That is a drinking place,' said Donald,
holding back.
`Well, it wont bite! Let us go in and
take something, and then I'll show you what
I have got to show you. Come along, and
don't be bashful. You'll be as rich as Jack
Astor to-morrow, and then you wont look
at folks like me. So I'll have as much of
you to-day as I can get.'
Donald was flattered by the allusion to his
anticipated riches, and suffered Jim, who, it
appears, was a perfect devil for temptations,
to conduct him up two or three wooden steps,
into a long narrow room with a bar on one
side, a table covered with dominoes on
another, and a black, dirty, torn billiard
table visible in a room. There were but
two or three persons in the bar, and these
were drinking and talking in a loud tone
about bets and cock-fighting. Donald's
purer nature revolted at their presence, but
Jamie would give him no time for reflection.
He took him up to the bar and ordered
drinks, and prevailed upon him to take brandy
and water; and as Donald's mind was in
an uneasy and wounded state he was the
more readily tempted to take something to
drown his reflections and raise his spirits.
How much better it would have been for
him to have used the power he still held in
his possession, by tearing up the fatal ticket
which had been the instrument of all this
evil. But, though the idea flashed instantly
upon his mind, his avaricious hopes conquered,
and so he preferred his misery with
prospective and criminal wealth to happiness
and his present independence. Therefore,
unwilling to restore his mind by this
sacrifice, he preferred drowning his self-reproaches
in the intoxicating cup. To what
a fearful brink had he now approached!
After drinking, he felt lively and cheerful,
for false elevation of spirits is the temporary
bait which the Demon of intemperance holds
out to the unhappy victim who seeks peace
of mind in the goblet he proffers to all mankind.
`You havn't paid for the drinks, sir,' said
the bar-keeper to Donald, without even
glancing at Jim, who had called for them,
but whom experience told him not to look to.
Jim, however, heard, and found it convenient
to be at the other end of the room looking
very attentively at a crack in the plaster.
Donald, without hesitation, paid down the
money, when Jim suddenly recollected to
pay for the drinks himself, and came forward
with both hands diligently searching for
nothing in pockets that were not!
`Oh, Simpkin, I'll settle for the drinks,
now;' and Jim, in his energy, made a dive
into his breeches so deep, that he drove his
hand clear through a hole in the knee.
`The gentleman has paid,' said Mr. Simpkin,
with a smile, seeing Jim draw back the
unlucky hand as quick as lightning.
`Oh, ah, Donald,' said Jim; you are a too
good fellow—too generous. It was my
treat, and you ought to have let me paid.
Never mind, you shall not pay next time,
unless you ask me to drink, which in course
you will do, seein' I axed you now; but the
next time after that I'm whipped if I don't
pay. Come, let us go. Are the boys at it
in back, Simp?'
`Yes, Jim,' answered Mr. Simpkins, briefly,
at the same time rinsing the sugar out of
the bottom of a tumbler.
`Where do you go, now, Jamie,' inquired
Donald, as his friend dragged him through
the billiard-room.
`Just in here. I know you like a good
fowl. All farmers do; and I've seen cocks
of first rate breed at your place.'
`Yes, that is true—I keep a good lot of
fowls, Jim; it makes the poultry better to
have trained birds.'
`I knew you thought so. I have got some
birds to show you, Donald! If, when you
see 'em, you don't thank me for taking you
there, then I'll never do a friend a good service
again.- Come; don't you hear the
shouts. This way, and across the yard.
That is the building.'
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
`Where are you taking me?' asked Donald,
as Jim led him through the billiard-room,
and down a flight of steps into a back lot, on
the other side of which was a small rough
shed of boards, on the top of which was
stuck a pole, with a game-cock cut of a
shingle, and gilt on the summit. From this
rude building came loud and mingled shouts,
cries, clapping, yells, whistles, and curses,
in hellish confusion! No wonder Donald
stopped, and demanded where Jim was taking
him?
`Never mind,' replied Jim; if you don't
like it now, you will when you get inside.
Come on; they are at it bravely, I know by
the shouts!' and Jim hauled him in a dark
doorway and along a boarded passage, at the
end of which stood a short, fat, blackleg
looking man, to whom Jim advancing before
Donald, said a word, glancing over his
shoulder at his friend.
`Well, go in; I'll take care he pays for
both when he comes out,' said the man,
winking; `if he is a pigeon, you're lucky
to have him for your friend.'
`He is a moral man, you know—wouldn't
pay for me, nor go in himself, you know,
Bill, if he knew it was a cock-pit—but all
will be strait, you know! Come, Donald;
don't stumble over that loose board! Here
we are. Come in and let this gentleman
shut the door behind you;' and Jim, partly
by pulling, partly by coaxing, drew Donald
into a scene such as he had never conceived
as existing. He had entered a sort of low
circular room, surrounded on all sides by
benches, tier above tier, crowded with people
of the lowest, roughest, and most vicious
class; these seats surrounded a small
fenced ring on the earth, about twelve feet
in diameter, in which two game-cocks were
pitted against each other, and upon whom
all eyes were fixed. The fight had been already
long, for they were bleeding and staggering
from weakness, and could hardly
keep up the sport for the spectators, who
cheered them on with loud cries. Each
cock was attended by its keeper, who stood
by it in the pit to set it on, encourage it and
see fair play. These men were nearly
stripped and wore handkerchiefs tied about
their heads, and looked as eager and absorbed
in the combat as if it were engagement
between armies of men. The spectators
were leaning over the sides of the pit in
every possible attitude, expressive of eagerness
and interest, and altogether Donald
thought that he had got into a place of
amusement in hell, rather than on earth.
`There they go at it!' shouted Jim. `Look,
Donald! aint they beauties? See the bets
go around! I bet on the red cock! Wasn't
that a good stroke? He handles his spur
as well as a soldier his sword! Do you bet,
Donald?' he added, as they crowded into
seats.
`No—what is all this, Jamie?' asked he,
bewildered, and not half himself with the
noise, the sight, and the effect of the brandy
he had drank.
`A cock-fight! See that red chap! how
he drives it into the other! Which will you
bet on?'
`I wont bet, I never bet, Jamie.'
`Because you never was at a cock-fight,
afore. You must bet now, man! Every
body bets! See the money fly! See the
stakes! Here's a gentleman'll bet with
you,' he added, addressing a crony of his,
and tipping him the wink; `I say, Mister,
take this gentleman's bet, and,' he added
in a low tone of voice—`and I'll go you halves,
Jerry, if you win.'
`And if I lose?' asked the other, cautiously.
`I'll see you don't have to pay—my friend—
green—plenty of pewter—methodist sort
or so—you,' and Jim winked profoundly at
each dash in his words.
`Oh,ay, I take,' said the gentleman, laying
his fore-finger sagaciously against one
side of his nose; and then addressing Donald,
he said, bluntly,
`You offered to bet.'
`No, I didn't sir,' answered Donald, with
surprise.
`Your friend said so.'
`Yes, I told the gentleman so, Donald,'
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
said Jim, in a low voice; `it wont do to refuse
him now.'
`I can't bet—besides, I haven't watched
the cocks.'
`If that's all, these will soon be drawn off,'
said the man, and we'll have a pair of fresh
cocks in the pit. There, the grey cock has
got his breakfast settled! Hurrah for little
bob red!'
`Hurrah, hurrah!' rung in a hundred victorious
voices through the room, while the
losers mingled oaths loud and deep, as they
saw their cock fall over dead on his back,
pierced by the steel spur of his adversary,
which penetrated the bleeding breast like a
needle. The victor cock was immediately
caught up, and carried out by his keeper,
to have his wounds washed, while the owner
of the dead bird hung over him cursing in a
manner fearful to hear.
`Clear the ring! Throw out that carrion!'
cried the spectators, in a momently increasing
uproar, and at length the defeated cock-fighter
took up his slain cock, and left the
arena. An attendant now lightly passed a
fine rake over the surface of the pit, and
soon after, amid the acclamations of the
multitude, two other cocks were brought in
by their keepers, who entered the area,
each with his bird on his arm, and after holding
them up to the view of the crowd, prepared
them for the combat, by fastening on
their steel spurs, or gaffs. There seemed
now to be the most eager and exciting
interest felt by every one present in the
approaching fight between the cocks, as they
were large, well made, full eyed, and
carried themselves with bold and courageous
looks. Donald, himself could not
help catching the contagion, and feeling an
interest in the novel scene. He was, as
Jim had intimated, a great lover of fine
cocks, and had paid some attention to breeding
them, but without any other end than
the improvement of his barn-yard stock.
He now thought he had never seen two such
noble birds, and although he wished himself
away from such a place and company,
he thought that now he was there, he might
as well interest himself in what was passing;
and he thought as he must while away
the time till three o'clock, in some way, he
might as well do it there as any where. So
he looked on, and began to take a deeper
interest in the animating scene. At length
the game-cocks were ready, numerous bets
were made, and the birds set down upon
the ground. It required no effort on the
part of either cock-fighter to set them fighting.
No sooner did they feel themselves
free, than true to their instinctive hostility
and warlike spirit, they engaged each other
with a deadly fierceness that would been
terrific in human combatants.
`Now your bet,' said Jim's friend, laying
his hand on the arm of Donald, who was
leaning over the heads of those in front of
him, eagerly watching the fight.
`I'd rather not bet, sir,' he said, though
not very decidedly. `See! the black cock,
is the best bird!'
`I'll bet a five on the speckled cock,
said the man, decidedly.
`I'll see the sport awhile, first,' answered
Donald, too deeply absorbed in the combat
to turn around.
`There was a good stroke. The speckled
cock will be beaten.'
`A five the speckled cock beats,' said the
man, promptly, and fluttering a bank note
before Donald's eyes.
`No, the black cock has the true mettle!
See how boldly he carries himself.'
`D—n the black cock,' said the man,
coarsely, `he is a coward—see him run
back!'
`To gather force,' answered Donald,
warmly; `see how he has knocked the other
over and over.'
`I'll bet you for all that, the black cock
you brag so on, is whipped.'
`Done—I bet,' cried Donald, in the intense
eagerness of the spot, and fully entering
into the spirit of the sport and place.
`Plank the money, Donald,' said Jim, who
had anxiously watched this progress
events so interesting to himself personally;
`I'll be holder; where's your pocket-book!
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Donald put down the money in Jim's
open palm—Jim's gentleman placed his upon
it and Jim's digits clasped over it with a
significant emphasis. At length the combat
terminated, and Donald won.
`Never mind, take up the stake,' said the
loser coolly, as Donald turned round to remove
the deposits from Jim's grasp. `Double
the stakes, and I'll bet you on the next
cock.' Donald elated by the scene, and by
his triumph, instantly placed a ten dollar
bill down, forgetting to take up the five, for
he was a little under the influence of the
brandy he had drank, and Jim was not one
likely to remind him of it. The cocks appeared,
were pitted, fought, and Donald lost!
Angry at his loss, he rose and left the cock-pit
in spite of all Jim could say or do to detain
him; this worthy, however, had made
seven dollars and a half by this operation,
and had secured it, save the fifty cents, after
settling with his croney, safely in a receptacle
in his garmente, known or suspected
only by himself.
At the door, Donald was stopped by the
keeper, who was about to demand half a
dollar for admittance for him and Jim, when
the latter, who saw Donald was vexed at
his loss, prevented him, by thrusting the
half dollar he had reserved for this purpose,
into his hand; for Jim was too wise to run
the risk of losing so valuable a friend as
Donald, by having his annoyance increased
by the demand of a paltry four shillings. So
Donald left the cock-pit, and returned to the
bar-room—a gambler!
Irritated at his losses, angry at himself
for being tempted to bet, self-condemned for
idleness, overwhelmed with a flood of self-reproaches,
and goaded by a stinging conscience,
he walked deliberately up to the
bar and asked in a loud tone for brandy. It
was placed before him, and he poured out
and drank a large quantity to drown his reflections.
He then threw down a shilling,
and was walking out, when Jim caught him
by the arm to detain him for some purpose
of his own; but Donald rudely thrust him
aside, and run into the street, for he had
reason and reflection enough left to know
who had been the main instrument of his
guilt and misery. Jim, finding this mood
not so congenial to his feelings as he could
have wished, did not follow him, but turned
back to amuse himself in the cock-pit.
Donald walked rapidly along the streets,
he scarcely knew whither, and at length
found himself at the slips. Walking had
excited his blood, and the brandy his brain,
while his reflections on his departure from
the path of rectitude maddened him; it
seemed to himself that he had sacrificed in
one short week, reputation, peace of mind,
life, body and soul! He loathed himself—
he detested the life which his folly had
made so miserable—he felt weary of himself.
He advanced along the wharf, and stood on
the farther verge of it, looking into the deep
water as it surged against the pier-head.
`Yes' he said to himself, `I will live no
longer! I am ashamed to meet Sarah—
ashamed to confront myself—I will live no
longer. God forgive me—but I cannot—
cannot endure this weight upon my heart!'
He struck his breast violently, pressed his
throbbing forehead in his clasped hands,
and plunged madly into the flood. This act,
however was not unwitnessed, for some
painters, slung on a stage over the side of a
vessel near by, which they were painting,
saw the plunge, and instantly put off in a
skiff tied to a raft beneath them, to his rescue.
Donald, now become a suicide, rose to
the surface, and the love of life, of his family,
of the blue skies and fair green earth
with all its pleasant sounds and sights,
rushed back upon his soul; and he struggled
with the death he had courted.
He was soon taken from the water by the
painters, placed on the pier, and after some
rudely given advice to keep away from water,
was left to his own reflections. The
bath sobered him in a degree, and had the
effect to calm his mind, and enable him to
judge and act with reason. Ashamed of his
conduct, he moved away, and taking a position
on some steps where the sun shone
warmly upon him, he remained there till his
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
clothes were dried, and he had come to the
resolution to return home after the lottery
was over, and confess all he had done, to
his wife, and seek, by repentance, the forgiveness
of that Being whom he had offended.
How much better it would have been
for him to have destroyed that fatal ticket,
and departed at once to his peaceful and
virtuous home! But avarice ruled still,
and he hoped that he might yet draw a
prize!
It was now nearly three o'clock, and rising
from the steps, he took his way to the
lottery office. When he arrived there, he
saw that it was surrounded by a crowd of
low people, the interest, anxiety and hope,
doubts, fears and evil passions strongly
marked on their countenances. He felt
ashamed of being seen among them at such a
place, but love of money—his hope of being
rich, held ascendency over moral feeling.
The director of the lottery was announcing
the drawings. He saw every ear open,
every eye set, as the numbers drawn were
read off. He saw the hopes of many
around him crushed, silent expectation
changed for curses, and anxious inquiries for
the fate of a ticket turned into execrations
upon the director! he saw, too, in striking
contrast, but affording no better moral
picture, the insane joy and boundless ecstacy
of three or four who had drawn small
prizes, and witnessed their capering, their
silly laughter, their affectionate huggings of
those nearest them, their unmeaning shouts,
and their wild impatience to get possession
of their money. `God,' says a Persian sage,
`gave man sobuiety, chastity and charity; but
the devil would give something,too,and counterfeiting
these divine bestowments, gave to
man, avarice, lust, and the love of wine.'
Donald could not but acknowledge that avarice
was at least the gift of Satan, as he
witnessed the scene which it produced before
his eyes.
At length he heard the announcement of
his own number! He was all feverish attention!
He gave utterance to a cry of joy—
he had drawn a prize of five hundred dol
lars! Better, far better, for thee, Donald,
if thou hadst drawn a blank!
After the crowd had withdrawn, he entered
the office, and received the money
down, the lottery vender retaining fifteen
per cent.
`Come, sir, now you can afford to buy
another ticket,' said the man, as Donald
was placing the money in his pocket-book;
you have a prize, and may draw
a larger one. You have luck on your side
the first time, and it'll follow you awhile.
Come, sir, here is a package of quarters.
You owe it to us to try again, sir.'
Donald was tempted, for the second
temptation is easier than the first, and in the
face of all his bitter remembrances of the
follies his first ticket had led him into, he
purchased the package, and left the office.
But that package contained to him all congregated
guilt, suffering and misery packed
together. He hastened home, and communicated
his good fortune to Sarah. She
did not look happy, for she feared he would
henceforth love lotteries rather than work.
Her fears were sound and too truly realized.
The money Donald had drawn, he
did not lay out in improving his farm or adding
to his stock, but he purchased a gold
watch, handsome clothes, and a saddle-horse.
At length the next drawing took
place, and his package proved to be blanks.
He was easily induced to try again, and a
second time drew a prize of fifty dollars.
Thus Donald went on from month to month,
till he spent more time at the lottery office
than at home, and till he had got confirmed
habits of idleness, drinking and dissipation.
In the course of the ensuing year, he found
himself in debt, for he had neglected his
farm for this quicker `road to wealth,'
which was proving his road to ruin. At
length he became too intemperate to work,
was compelled to sell his stock, then give
up his farm, and take a low house in Jersey
City. Two years after the purchase of his
first ticket, he was the habitual frequenter of
the lowest tippling shops, and the boon companion
of Jim Talbot and his cronies; like
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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
Jim, his clothes were ragged, his eyes red,
his face bloated, his constitution broken.
Every five dollars he could obtain from
the pawn broker, he spent on fractions of
lottery tickets, but never did Donald draw a
third prize. Finally, his wife, who silently
pined in grief, died of a broken heart and
broken hopes; the child was taken and
adopted by a charitable lady; and Donald
had no home but the street or some old railroad
car about the depot, that he would
crawl into. At length, the web of his fate
was woven. One morning a few weeks
ago, the following paragraph appeared in
the morning papers.
`Shocking Accident.—We are sorry to
learn that as the line from Philadelphia was
coming in late yesterday evening, having
been detained five hours near Trenton, by
an accident to the engine, a drunken man
who lay across the track was run over before
the engineer could stop the locomotive,
and his head was severed from his body as
if it had been done by a butcher's cleaver.
It was a horrid sight. His name, we learn,
was Donald Fay. The coroner's inquest
was, that, “he came to his death through
intemperance.”'
Thus died Donald Fay, the victim, as the
coroner's jury should have rendered it, of a
lottery ticket, which one moment's idleness,
acting upon a naturally avaricious mind,
tempted him to purchase.
-- --
ANNETTE, THE HEIRESS; OR, THE FORAGING PARTY. A Tale of the last War.
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
Edward Ogilvie was the youngest of five
brave brothers who served their country,
both in the field and on the sea during the
last war. Their mother was a widow of
comfortable estate, who dwelt in a pleasant
homestead facing the waters of Boston
Bay. Large elms overshadowed the roof,
and broad fields interspersed with woodlands
extended away on the right, till they
met the fields and woodlands of the property
of Squire Harwood, a man of substantial
wealth, who had an only daughter of eighteen,
who was a belle and an heiress. The
road from the widow Ogilvie wound along
the sea-beach, with a hedge and green
fields on one side bordering it, and the
white, sparkling sand, and blue waves on
the other. The distance between the two
mountains was little less than a mile, and
about half way between was a bridge of
stone, spanning a small rivulet, that had a
course of half a dozen miles from the interior.
It was about an hour before sunset, near
the close of the war, in the month of October,
that Edward Ogilvie was crossing this
bridge on his way to visit Annette Harwood,
the beauty and heiress; for the charms of
the rustic belle had taken captive the young
student's heart, and every evening for the
last month he had directed his walk in the
direction of her abode. Edward was in his
twentieth year, of good figure, of a pleasing
but somewhat diffident address, and with
that calm, meditative aspect peculiar to
students; for such was this young man.
Annette was not loved without giving her
heart in return; but the Squire, although
he had observed with apparent indifference
this mutual attachment, had a mind of his
own touching a matter so interesting to the
lovers themselves.
Edward had got upon the bridge, where
he used to linger for a few moments as he
crossed, to watch the flowing sea rush
through the arch up the creek, and gaze
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
upon its expanse of waters, or from the opposite
side of the bridge contemplate the
dark inlet, as it lost itself amid overhanging
trees in a dell where stood a mill belonging
equally to the two manors.
Edward had paused a moment on the
bridge to watch the effect of the purple light
of the western sky reflected upon its mottled
bosom, when his eyes were arrested by
a sail in the offing. He continued to watch
it for a few moments, and then went on his
way, from time to time glancing seaward to
admire the stately and slow motion of its
trackless passage over the ocean. As he
came near the dwelling of Squire Harwood,
he discovered that her course was towards
the land; but seeing Annette on the piazza
he forgot the vessel to hasten to her. The
meeting was more like that of brother and
sister than lovers; that is, it was affectionate,
frank, and free from restraint.
`We shall have a lovely evening to walk,
the sunset will be so pleasant,' said Annette,
whom we would stop to describe, if our pen
could do justice to her beauty. We will,
however, say that the color of her eyes was a
deep sea-blue, and they sparkled like waves
glancing in the sunlight; her lips had doubtless
once been a pair of cherries, stolen
from Cupid, to make her mouth the prettiest
mouth imaginable. Her smile was sunshine,
her form sylph-like and blooming
with youth, her voice full of music, and
every motion as graceful as a fawn's. She
was good-humored, intelligent, and suitably
grave, and was just the maiden to ensnare
a student like Edward Ogilvie.
`Yes, Annette, the air is rich with golden
tints and soft as a June evening. Suppose
we ramble towards the village, and
listen to the martial music of the soldiers
as they march from the ground?'
`I should like it of all things. My father
says our company, the blues, made the finest
show of any on parade, to-day.'
`He was at the review, then?'
`Yes, and acted as a major or colonel, I
believe. At any rate, he has just come home,
on horseback, in full uniform, with a sword
by his side, and looks as brave, I tell him,
as a crusading knight. He told me to hold
my little tongue, and so I have for full a
minute.'
`And the longest time you ever held it,
Netty,' said the Squire, coming out of the
house, his chapeau in his hand and his sword
unbelted and beneath his arm. Ah, Edward,
good evening, man. Fine day we have
had for the general muster?'
`Yes, sir, are the troops dismissed yet?'
`Not all.'
`We were going up the road to the hilltop,
to listen to the music, father,' said
Annette.
`No—no, stay at home, child,' said the
Squire, gravely. I suppose Master Edward
has asked you to go?'
`I did, Mr Harwood; I thought the walk
might be pleasant.'
`Humph! Look you, young man,' said
Squire Harwood, bluntly; military music is
not made for the amusement of studious
youths after idling the day over musty books,
nor merely to please a lassie's ear. It is
the voice of the spirit of liberty, and calls
the young men of the land to fight her battles,
and the maidens to make them clothes
to fight in, and colors to fight under. You,
I see, like my Annette, and so far as I can
see, she likes you back again. Now, Edward,
you are a very correct, excellent
young man, that I know; but you see I
havn't but one daughter, and I don't mean
she shall marry any man who, excellent as
he may be, through all this war has never
drawn a blade nor pulled a trigger for the
love of his country. Your brothers are all
brave fellows and serving her with honor.
You stay at home to pore over dictionaries
in the day time, and come to make love to
Annette by moonlight. Now, I have nothing
against you, as I said before; but I've
made up my mind Annette shan't marry a
man that hasn't had a hand in this war
against the English. If you are a mind to
follow the example of your brothers, and let
me hear something that you have done I can
tell my neighbors of with pride, then you
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
shall have my consent to marry Annette;
for her's I dare say, she's given you long
ago. A text you, know, is as good as a
sermon, Master Edward. So, if you want
my daughter, you know how she is to be
won.'
`Thus speaking, Squire Harwood took
Annette under his arm, and bowing very
kindly but firmly, to the astonished lover,
disappeared within the house.
Edward remained standing a moment upon
the spot where they had left him, as if
trying to realize what had passed. He then
turned away in silence, his cheek burning
with the glow of a mortified and sensitive
spirit.
The profession which he had in view was that
of a clergyman; and although not deficient
in courage nor patriotism, he had suffered
his brothers to take the field and the deck
while he remained at home. The words of the
Squire sank deep into his spirit. He walked
slowly homeward, very sad, and filled with
the painful idea of losing her who was so
very dear to him. As he came upon the
bridge he made up his mind. He stopped,
and, speaking aloud, said, firmly—
`If Annette is only to be won by my taking
up arms I will enlist to-morrow! It is
honorable to serve one's country. I am not
yet a clergyman, and I can therefore act
freely. This is the last day the reproach
shall be thrown upon me, that I remain dallying
at home while my brothers are abroad
exposing their bosoms to the weapons of
their country's foes!'
While he was speaking, he saw that the
ship, which he had noticed half an hour before
at a distance, had drawn close in with
the land, and had dropped anchor about a
mile abreast of the inlet. The sun had already
set, yet he could see her distinctly,
and discover that she was a merchant-ship.
He remained for some time watching her,
and listening to the distant drum of a detachment
of the neighborhood, which was retiring
homeward from the muster field. The
sound of the drum died away in the distance
beyond the mill; and the low dashing of the
waves against the bridge fell upon his ear.
`Well, to-morrow, I too shall march to
the measure of fife and drum. I will enlist
as a private and make my way up. Annette
shall be won.'
He paused, thinking he heard the sound
of oars. He looked sea-ward, but twilight
rendered objects too obscure to detect any
boat approaching. Yet each moment the
fall of the sweeps came clearer and nearer,
and he soon was enabled to discover a barge
pulling in towards the bridge: his position,
in the shadow of an overhanging limb,
shielded him from observation; he saw that
the boat contained at least twenty men. It
moved slower as it drew near land, and a
person standing up in the stern directed its
landing. It struck the shore close by the
bridge within the inlet; and almost beneath
where he stood the party debarked; he now
saw that half of them were seamen and half
marines, and that all were armed. They
were commanded by a young midshipman,
who forming them into a column, marched
them up the bank and on the bridge. Edward
as they came near, drew himself up into
the limb, and was concealed by its foliage,
while he observed with surprise their
stealthy movements.
`How far is the grist mill, hence, Sambo?
' asked the young officer, looking about
him, after all his party had got on the bridge,
save a man to guard the boat.
`The first mill am bout a third of a mile
up de creek, and the tother one, where the
most grist be, is a mile. There is a good
path along the creek shore!' answered a
man in the true Yankee negro intonation,
but speaking with manifest reluctance.
`If you deceive me, darkie, you are a dead
man!' said the middy, very positively.
`I knows dat well 'nuff, so I tells you de
truth, tho' I hate to mightily. I knows all
'bout dis place coz I used to lib here once.
Ober dar is whar Squire Harwood live, and
ober dat way am widdur Ogilvie, an' wish I
dis nigger was safe in dark kitchen. I never
go cook agen in Boston ship, nor no oder
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
one a'ter being taken pris'ner by the British,
as I am dis time! I wish I may neber see
blue water agen, if I gets my liberty dis
time!'
`Silence with your noise, each of you
march forward in silence. We are in an
enemy's country, and must be cautious.'
`Yes I guess you better,' said the negro,
sulkily. If de country people know'd you
was skulkin' here arter corn, and flour, and
sheep, and oxes, to keep from starvin' to
death, as we have been a week past, they
be 'round as thick as snakes in de grass,
and debble one ob you get back to your
boat? So I adwise you massa, to keep
sharp eye to windward! Guy! how mad
all on 'em be in de mornin,' wnen dey find
out you land here in a prize-ship wid on'y
two guns aboard and thirty men, an' carry
off clear to Halifax de grist from dese two
mills, and sheep, and turkeys, too, for de
lieutenant's dinner! Dey sware den, and I
expec' de Squire swore enuff for a whole
regiment!'
`Forward!' cried the middy. Silence, all
of you and advance swiftly and with caution!
'
They filed off the bridge, and taking the
path along which the negro led the way, they
were soon lost to the sight of Edward in
the gloom of the overhanging banks of the
creek.
`These men then are English,' he reflected
as he let himself down upon the bridge;
the vessel is a prize bound to Halifax, with
a midshipman and two-and-thirty men—
twenty here and ten remaining on board!
My course is decided on! It will take them
an hour to visit both mills. Half of that
time is enough for me. I shall know where
to seek the militia party with the fife and
drum; and if I can find twenty brave men
among them to put themselves under my orders,
I will win Annette before to-morrow's
sun rise!'
As he spoke, he glided noiselessly away
from the bridge, and, after getting beyond
hearing of the man in the boat, he flew like
the wind across a meadow in the direction
of what was called the `Cross Road,' a
cluster of village habitations, the principal
of which was a large country tavern where
he knew he should find assembled many of
the militia-men who had borne a part in the
review in the neighboring town. This inn
was about half a mile distant from the bridge,
on a road in the rear of Squire Harwood's
farm, across which, leaping fence after fence,
Edward Ogilive was now flying with the
speed of a deer.
The tavern as he came near, was so quiet
that he feared that the men he sought had
left for their respective homes. Seeing a
light in the tap, however, he hoped yet to
find some persons assembled there. Through
the windows, as he approached the door, he
saw that the bar-room was nearly filled with
men. The next moment he was in their
presence. His manner was divested of all
excitement, and a spirit calm and resolute
beamed from his eyes. There were at least
twenty men in the apartment, most of them
with knapsacks and bayonet-belts upon their
persons, and some leaning upon their muskets;
while the guns of the rest of the party
were stacked in a corner of the room. Some
of them were smoking, others drinking, and
all listening to a long yarn told by one of the
party, of certain exploits by himself, personally
performed at the battle of Plattsburgh.
On Edward's entrance, the landlord first
noticed him.
`Ah—so you can enter a tavern on a
training day, Mr. Ogilvie; glad to see you.
Though you are not much of a fighting man,
I like you for your brothers' sake, who are
all serving their country. But there must
be parsons as well as soldiers, and every
man to his trade.'
All eyes were turned upon the young
man. Advancing a little way into the floor,
he said with a firm tone;
`I am glad to find so many of you assembled.
If the brave men among you are willing
to place yourselves under my direction
for the next two hours, I will lead you where
you can win both honor and prize money!'
`Spoken with spirit!' exclaimed several.
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
`That rings like your brother George!'
said the landlord. `But what is it?' cried
all, crowding round.
`Will you be lead by me? There is danger
to life and person; but I ask no man to follow
me where I fear to lead!'
`The man has courage if he is a student,'
remarked one to the other with surprise.
`What have you discovered?' demanded
two or three of the most forward of the men.
`Will you follow me and obey my orders,
if I can place in your hands, as prisoners,
twenty English seamen and an officer, who
who have just landed?'
`Yes—lead on!' was the general response,
and the men commenced arming themselves.
Briefly Edward told them what he had
witnessed. All were enthusiasm. Among the
militia-men was a young man whom he despatched
to Squire Harwood. In twenty
minutes the Squire was on the spot, mounted
on his horse, and armed with his broad
sword. Five of his farm-men followed him.
Others came in from all sides.
Edward with great coolness and skill,
took upon himself the conduct of the whole
affair. He suggested that the Squire, with
thirty men, should cut off the retreat of the
foraging party and take them prisoners.
`And what will you do?' asked the
Squire. `You are not going to keep out of
the danger?'
`No, sir! If there are twenty brave men
who will volunteer to go with me, I will proceed
to their boat take possession of it, and
embark for the ship. In the night we can
board her without difficulty, as we shall be
taken for their own party. Once on board,
the ship will easily fall into our hands, for
the most of her prize crew are ashore! Who
will volunteer?'
This bold proposition at first startled the
boldest man among them. But in less than
five minutes twenty of them had volunteered;
and in two minutes more he was at
their head, leading them to the bridge,
while the Squire, with his detachment, proceeded
to cut off the retreat of the enemy.
The result was in all respects successful.
The English party at the mills surrendered
after a brief skirmish, and were taken to the
tavern as prisoners within an hour after the
Squire had left it. Edward and his brave
band boarded the ship without suspicion,
and, after a short conflict, he was master of
her. He took her, by the aid of the released
American crew, into Boston harbor the next
day; and we need not add that within less
than three months, he was rewarded with
the hand of the beautiful Annette Harwood.
-- --
DONA INEZETTA; OR, THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER. A TALE OF SPAIN.
`I ask not for honor, I ask not for fame,
I ask but a true heart that knoweth love's flame.'
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
There dwelt in an old-fashioned castle,
not many leagues from Madrid, a certain
nobleman of Spain, called Don Diego, Duke
of Arvalez. Don Diego was descended
from the oldest families of the realm, his ancestors
having been hidalgos since the departure
of the Moors under Boabdil. It was,
moreover, a warlike race, this of the Arvalez,
and Don Diego himself had won a distinguished
name as a soldier. But the wars
ended, and Spain, being at peace, the Duke
returned to his castle to solace himself in the
society of his daughter, the Dona Inezetta.
This maiden was his only child; and, as
her mother having died when the lovely Inezetta
was very young, the bereaved widower
turned the channel of his affections into
the bosom of his daughter. At the age
of seventeen, Dona Inezetta was without exception,
the loveliest maiden in all Spain.
The Duke had lavished upon her every advantage,
and, in person, superintended an
education that was not excelled by that of
the king's daughters. She had the first masters
in the kingdom, in music, painting, riding,
waltzing, in foreign languages, and all
arts and sciences then taught to high-born
ladies. She grew up in great seclusion,
nevertheless, her father suffering her neither
to go abroad nor to visit Madrid. The
fame of her beauty and accomplishments at
length reached the court, and one morning
as the Duke was about to ride forth with his
daughter, and a train of attendants, to hunt,
a courier arrived in sight, when, seeing the
party, he stopped, and sounding his horn
thrice three times, again spurred down the
slope towards the gate.
`Three times three!' cried the Duke, as
he threw his heavy body, for he was the
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
fattest Duke in Spain, across his saddle. `That
is a king's courier, by Santiago! Hold
rein, Lopez! let us await his coming!'
The courier, who was habited in a green
jacket under a scarlet short cloak, and wore
upon his head a crimson cap, now riding up,
alighted within a few feet of the Duke, and
casting his rein to a page, approached the
Duke, and taking from his pocket a billet,
handed it to him with a low bow.
`From the king!' said the Duke, as he
glanced at the seal. Hath war broke forth
again, sir courier, that the king hath sent
for me?'
`All is at peace, in Madrid, my lord
Duke.'
`Let us see, then, what this purports,'
said the old noble, breaking the seal, and
fixing his eyes upon the contents. `Eh! By
the mass! This is for thee, girl,' he added,
smiling, and turning to Dona Inezetta, who,
in all the pride of beauty, was seated upon
her palfrey near him; beauty which was so
remarkable, that the youthful courier could
scarcely keep his eyes from her.
`For me, mon padre!' she exclaimed,
with delight. O, how rejoiced I am, at last
to get a letter from somebody! It is the
first I ever had in my life!'
`I should hope it was, girl; letters are
dangerous things—very dangerous things
for maidens to have to do with. I should
hope you had never seen a letter in your
life. But I dare say you'd had many a one,
if I had not kept such watch and ward against
the gallants. And now you see what comes
of keeping you away from the world's
eyes! Here is a letter in especial from
the king to me, and I dare say this other
one within it, is from the Queen addressed
to thee!'
`Pray, then, father, let me read it.'
`Nay, hear the king's first. I will read
it. Ye villains round, doff hats while the
king's letter is read out!'
The retainers respectfully lifted their
hats and bonnets, and the Duke began,
Dona Inezetta, leaning forward in her saddle,
peeping over his shoulder:—
`To our Beloved Cousin, Diego of Arvalez—
Greeting:
`Whereas, it having come to our ears that you
have a fair daughter, of rare beauty, and wonderful
accomplishments, shut up from the world's
eyes, like a precious jewel in a casket, we do,
herewith, signify our royal pleasure that you present
her before us within ten days, that we may,
with our own eyes, judge if rumor hath spoken
truth touching her charms and graces.
`Your loving cousin,
`Ferdinand, the King.'
Ere the Duke had finished aloud the letter,
the quicker glances of the maiden had
run over the lines, and taken in their sense.
Glowing blushes of pride and pleasure mantled
her cheeks at this good news, for she
had long been sighing to visit the capital, of
which she had heard and read such delightful
accounts.
`'Fore God, daughter,' said the Duke, as
he finished the letter, `this is an honor done
both me and thee. The king must be obeyed.
We must, next Wednesday, start for Madrid.
'
`O, I do thank the good king, father!'
`I dare say. Never a maiden yet reached
sixteen—
`I am full seventeen, dear father.'
`Well, seventeen. Never maiden reached
seventeen, who wished not, prayed not, that
she might see Madrid. Well, the king must
be obeyed. I must go to court, and I dare
swear, the king means to look you out a
husband. You shall wed none less than the
Infanta, Don Carlos, who is now two and
twenty, and the handsomest man in Spain,
as well as the bravest prince in Europe.'
Dona Inezetta blushed, and then a shade
of anxiety passed across her beautiful face.
Some thought, it would seem, had suddenly
risen to her mind with her father's words,
and troubled her.
`Pray, father, let me see the letter which
is inscribed to me.'
`It bears the queen's seal, and, from the
delicate writing upon it, must have been
written with her own hand, for she is as fair
a penwoman as any clerk of Cordova.
What says our royal mistress?'
`I will read it, father. It begins:—
`Sweet daughter and gentle friend!—'
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
`That is like the good queen. She is a
mother to all the maidens in her realm,'
said the Duke, with emotion. `Read.'
`I have heard of your beauty of person
and charms of mind, and have resolved that
the Duke, your father, is doing all Spain
injustice, in converting, as it were, Arvalez'
castle into a nunnery, and himself into an
abbot.'
`I' faith, the queen is merry,' said the
Duke. `But, go on.'
I, therefore, join the king in the request
that you speedily leave your retirement,
and honor our court with your presence.
There is the greatest curiosity to see you,
among the cavaliers, and also, with the ladies,
who, having heard that you will eclipse
them all, desire to have it tested by your appearing.
Please, therefore, sweet daughter,
come to Madrid, that we may behold you
and love you. It shall be our pleasure,
also, to find you a husband worthy your
rank and beauty. `Isabella, Reina.'
`This is great honor to us, daughter,'
said the Duke. `I heartily thank the good
king and queen; but i' faith, it makes me
sad to think of giving you up to a husband.
But, much as I love you, I will not let my
weak fondness step between you and your
happiness; all maids will marry.'
`Nay, father,' said Dona Inezetta, whose
cheeks had lost color since she had done
reading the queen's letter, `I do not wish
to marry. If going to the court cannot be
without a husband given me by the queen,
I never wish to behold Madrid.'
`Thou art a good girl, to love thy father
better than lover or husband.'
`Nay, I—but—' here the maiden stopped,
confused, and looked as if she did not deserve
altogether the praise conveyed in her
father's words.
`But you are a good girl. I will not,
however, stand in the way of a proper husband.
But he must be worthy of you. He
must be of equal rank and wealth, and honorable
in name and descent. By the mass!
I cannot think of one man in all Spain, under
Don Carlos, that I would wed you to.'
`Do not speak of this, dear father,' she
said, sadly. `If you please, I would rather
not ride forth this morning. I am not well,
and will retire awhile to my chamber.'
`If we are to go to Madrid so soon, we
shall have little time for sports. We have
much preparation to make. So we will have
the hunt stayed. Lopez, put up the horses
and hounds, and you, Juan, take care of the
king's courier, and see that he and his horse
lack nothing. Sir courier, by-and-by, when
you are ready to depart, come to me, and
I will give you a billet for the king's majesty.
How odd,' added the Duke, as he returned
slowly and thoughtfully into his hall,
`how odd that such news as this from court
should have produced such an effect upon
the child. Other maids would have gone
mad outright with joy, while Inez looks sad,
and seemed ready to weep. It is, I dare
say, because she fears that we may be separated.
She looks upon a husband (for it was
this word in the queen's letter that paled her
cheek most,) as a sort of monster, who is
to tear her away from my bosom, where she
has nestled since she was an infant. Well,
poor child, she shall not be led to do any
thing she don't wish to do. If she loves me,
I will stand by her. But, surely, these letters
are a great honor, and a father ought to
be proud that his daughter's fame hath
reached so far. But who of the court hath
seen her? Faith, I know not; she hath never
seen a gallant in gold and scarlet that I
know of. I have kept them aloof from my
gates as I would a wolf. Perhaps the rumor
of her beauty had gone from her attendants,
and so from lip to ear, till it hath
reached the king's. Ho, varlets, bestir you
here! Know you not your master is going,
forthwith, to court? I must have new finery,
and my room well furnished, or 'fore
God! these gay popinjays that flutter about
the court will laugh at me, and ask me what
was it o'clock a century ago, when I buckled
on my belt.'
When Dona Inezetta regained her chamber,
she seated herself by her casement,
with the queen's letter in her hand, and a
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second time perused it. When she had
ended it, she sighed heavily, and her virgin
bosom heaved with inward emotion. With
her snowy hand she pressed her brow, and
put the raven tresses backward from her
brow and temples, so that they fell upon her
shoulders in a dark cloud. Her glorious
Castilian eyes were brilliant with tears
floating in them.
`Three months ago what joy this letter
would have given me,' she at length said,
sadly. `But now it comes to me laden with
a thousand painful fears. I have, indeed,
wished to go to court. I have panted for
these scenes of life in Madrid; and now,
that I am about to have my wishes realized,
I am unhappy. Oh, my heart, my poor
heart! how it flutters and trembles, lest the
queen should bid it give its love to some
one at her court. Oh, rather than be thus
given to a husband, would I this night fly—
fly even from my father, and hide in some
distant retreat. My heart is already given.
My affections already cling to the only support
about which they can ever entwine.
How, oh, how shall I escape this mandate
of the queen. It must be obeyed. I must
go to her court and be presented to the
world. Little do I care for that world so
long as Don Feliz is not there. He is my
world; I know no other than his noble heart.
Fear not, Feliz, I will be true to thee,
though cavaliers without number kneel at
my feet; though Don Carlos, the king's
son, should sue for my hand. Humble,
poor, unknown, as you are, you are dearer
to me than the homage of all the princes
of Europe.'
This was spoken with that noble and
sweet dignity which true love inspires. And
truly and faithfully did the maiden love,
though her affections were set upon a youth
humble and unknown. She had first met him
three months before the opening of this story.
One evening, just as the sun had descended
behind the snow-capped ridge of the
Sierras, and while twilight was yet shedding
its golden radiance upon the landscape,
Dona Inezetta, after a hawking excursion,
which had led her a league up the valley,
was riding slowly homeward. She was near
the castle gate, when her father, who had
been riding behind her, talking with his
falconer, reined up to speak to two of his
tenants, who, cap in hand, came toward
him. She was attended only by a page, a
youth of fifteen, who carried upon his wrist
her ger-falcon, and rode a little way in the
rear. Dona Inezetta was in all the splendor
of her beauty. The hunting jacket and
flowing skirt she wore, displayed her superb
figure to the highest advantage; while the
green hat, curved back above the brow, like
a shell, and shaded by a white plume, which
mingled with her dark ringlets, increased
the effect of her charming countenance.
Her oriental eyes were sparkling, and her
cheek flashed with success in the chase and
the exhilaration of her ride. She was
mounted upon a white palfrey, limbed like
an antelope, and who, with tossing mane
and champing bit, stepped as featly and
proudly over the road as if he were fully
conscious of the lovely burden he bore.
Not far from the castle was a clump of
orange trees, under which was a fountain,
and around which seats were placed for the
repose of the passing foot-traveler. As the
maiden drew near she saw a young man
seated by the fountain. His dress was plain
and neat, but travel-worn. He had his cap
off, and was bathing his brow in the cool
water of the fountain. Hearing the foot-fall
of the palfrey, he looked up, and coloring,
replaced his cap, but not before the maiden
had discovered that he was a young man of
about twenty-one or two, with a face of singular
beauty and modesty of expression. As
she came nigher, he took up his little bundle
and staff which lay by him, and advancing
towards her with a respectful and deferential
air, said, lifting his bonnet:—
`Lady, may it please thee to permit me
to lodge in the castle to-night. It is late,
and I am told that there are robbers on the
road.'
`Robbers,' repeated the page, pertly, and
with a sneering laugh; `I wonder what
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robber would take the pains to stop thee, with
thy beggar's wallet.'
`Hist, Panuelo,' answered Dona Inezetta.
`Have none of thy sauciness. The young
man shall lodge within the castle, for this
thy impertinence, and shall sup with thee at
thy own table.'
`If he does, I'll put henbane into his
wine-cup,' returned the page, in a tone that
his mistress overheard, but, without heeding
him, she turned to the young wayfarer, and
said—
`Sir traveler, you shall remain; go forward
into the gate.'
`Thanks, noble lady. Although I have
not much gold to be robbed of, I have a life,
which I care not to give up to the hands of
banditti. They take men's lives first, and
then search them for money afterwards. I
could tell you, noble Senora, many a tale of
these bandits, and especially one of a cavalier
and a maiden, who were taken captives
by them, and how they escaped, and what
amazing adventures they passed through ere
they reached their own city.'
`He is a troubadour,' said the page.
`But where is thy guitar, fellow?'
`There are guitars in every castle, sir
page.'
`True, and it would seem castles for
every wandering rogue.'
`Panuelo, go to your apartment, and le
me see you no more to night,' said the maiden,
with displeasure. `Sir troubadour, I
will hear your tale of this maiden and her
lover by-and-by. Be ready when I shall
send for you.'
`I will wait you commands, noble and
beautiful lady,' answered the young traveler,
gazing upon her with looks of the profoundest
admiration and respect.
That evening the humble guest recited
before the maiden a tale of love and chivalry,
the hero and heroine of which were a
cavalier and lady of Seville. The Duke was
a listener, and so heartily approved of the
story, that he gave the youth a golden
sequin, and ordered him a cup of his best
wine, and then bade him think of other ro
mances for the entertainment of himself and
his daughter; for the youth was of such
humble exterior and low degree, that Don
Diego thought no more of danger to his
daughter's heart from him than from his
daughter's page, or his own serving man,
who were ever in and out of her presence.
But love knows neither degree nor estate of
rank. Nay, he delights in showing his power
over such distinctions, and to manifest his
sovereignty over the heart. As Dona Inezetta
listened to the rich voice and gentle
words of the reciter, and marked the depth
of expression in his fine eyes, which seemed
afraid of her glance, as they ever drooped
modestly before it, while his cheek reddened,
a sentiment of tender interest in him
pervaded her soul. She listened with eager
attention, and when he discoursed of the
love the knight had for the maiden, and how
she loved him in return, and told of the
deeds he achieved in her behalf, her cheek
glowed and her heart throbbed violently.
Insensibly the young troubadour, through
the medium of his romaunt, stole into her
heart, though she knew it not.
`Come, sir troubadour,' said the Duke, we
will now hear thee sing. Dona Inez, let
him have thy guitar!'
`What shall I sing?' asked the youth, fixing
his deeply impassioned, yet well covered
gaze upon the face of the maiden.'
`Sing what thou wilt, sir stranger,' answered
the maiden, casting down her eyes:
`for I know thou canst sing nothing that
will not be well worth the listening!'
`Thanks, noble lady, for this praise! I
will sing thee a French ballad I learned in
Gascony!'
`My father knows no French. Sing a
Spanish one!'
`Nay, daughter let him on with his French,
as thou understandest it! I have heard
French ballads afore, and though I got not
much wit out o' the words, there was a
right pleasant jingling of music. I liked it
much. Let him sing his French ballad,
and after that you can translate it to me!'
The troubadour then taking up the guitar,
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began a song which he called, `The Knight
of France and the Maiden of Castile.' It
recounted how a young knight, having heard
of the beauty of a maiden whom no one was
permitted to see, disguised himself as a forester
or hunter, and placing himself in her
way, when at times she went forth to hunt
with her father, joined the party, and so aided
in saving the maiden from the attack of a
band of robbers who would have carried her
off, but the disguised knight slew the chief,
and bore her unharmed to the castle. There
he was graciously entertained with the retainers
for many days, and his degree not
being suspected, he had opportunities for winning
her hart, ewhich was his object, especially
as he found her beauty, great as it was, surpassed
by the charms of her mind. At
length he won her heart, and by-and-by
took his leave of her, saying he would see
her again. The maiden wept his departure,
and kept the secret of her love from her father,
who she knew would not rest if he discovered
it, until he had slain her lover. At
length there was a tournament given and
the baron and his daughter were present, by
command of the emperor. One knight in
green armor, with his visor down, carried
off the palm in every achievment of the day.
At length the emperor told him that such
valor as he had shown, was ill rewarded by
crowns and wreaths and gold rings, and he
would, therefore, bestow upon him the hand
of the fairest maiden in the land under the
daughters of the throne. The knight then
riding round the lists alighted from, his
horse, and kneeling before the maiden whose
heart he had won, and who loved him, said
in a low voice:—
`Here, then, oh, emperor, do I take my
reward!' The maiden trembled, for she had
no heart for any one but her young forester.
Her surprise, therefore, was only equalled
by her joy, when the knight lifting his visor,
displayed the face that was enshrined upon
her heart.
Such was the subject of the ballad which
the young troubadour sang with much expression,
feeling, and romantic sentiment.
His voice was melody itself, as its cadences
were enriched by the thrilling emotions of
love for Dona Inezetta, she could not but
listen with the most lively feelings.
`It is a rare tune, daughter, a right merry
and sad tune,' said the Duke. Now for the
Spanish of it!'
`I will tell thee some other day, father!
It is late!'
`Marry so it is! Come, sir troubadour,
hie thee to thy bed! Sleep sound and breakfast
roundly; for by the rood, I would have
of thee another ballad and a romaunt or two
ere thou depart!'
Three weeks the young stranger lingered
in the castle, entertaining them with his tales
and ballads, and making himself, by day, so
useful to the Duke by his various talents,
the latter could not let him go. There was
nothing about horses or hounds, or hawking,
fishing or knightly feat of arms that the
young troubadour was not skilled in. The
Duke swore seven times a day, he had never
met such a clever rogue as that story-telling
ballad singer. He offered him the
place of his chief falconer, but the young
man gratefully refused it, saying that his
time was limited and that he must be on his
way; yet he lingered, day-by-day, so long
that it was nearly a month ere he took his
leave; and when he did go he bore away the
heart of Dona Inez, which he had come
like the Gascon Knight in the ballad, to try
and win. He had been gone some weeks,
when the command came from the king for
the Duke to bring his daughter to court.
The reception of the lovely maiden at the
brilliant Spanish court was such as might
have been anticipated. She burst upon
them like a newly arisen star. There was a
constellation of beauty at the palace; but
Dona Inez shone among them like the evening
planet. Her beauty, as she moved
through the hall of festivity, called forth the
admiration and homage of the cavaliers, and
the astonishment and envy of the ladies.
The reigning beauties were neglected, that
men might worship at the new shrine. Yet
all this made no impression upon her. Her
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heart was not in it. Her thoughts were
with the troubadour!
The residence of the Duke and his daughter
was at the palace. The queen, charmed
as much with the graces of her mind as by
her matchless loveliness, took her under
her patronage, and this, in connection with
her rank and wealth, made her the most distinguished
person at court. But all this
homage was received by her with indifference.
Men wondered at her coolness and
imperturbability. She seemed to move among
them as if she had been accustomed always
to a world's admiring eye and worshipping
knee.
She had been three weeks at court, when
one evening as she was standing upon the
balcony, which looked towards the mountains,
at the foot of which her castle stood,
and was thinking upon home, and of him
whom there she had first met and last parted
with a foot-fall arrested her ear! She looked
and beheld, within a step of her the young
troubadour! He was habited just as she
had first seen him, and in his hand carried
his bundle and staff. She would have yielded
to the impulse of her loving and true heart,
and rushed into his arms! But he knelt before
her, and looked so sadly upon her, that
she drew back her face suddenly, reflecting
the sorrow of his.
`Lady, pardon my presence here! I have
heard of your fame at court, and that the
best knights in Spain do homage to you.
Among them you will find a lover worthy of
you. I have come, therefore, to restore you
your troth generously plighted to me! You
shall not be bound to one so humble as I am,
when nobles are rivals for your hand! Farewell!
You are free. I shall ever carry
with me wheresoever I wander, the sweet
recollection of the hours we have loved together,
and my heart will be grateful for
your condescension to a poor and nameless
stranger!'
As he spoke he rose up, and looked as if
he would retire.
`Stay, Feliz, stay!' she cried, with emotion.
`This language of yours makes me wild! Am
I to believe that you then cast my heart
away, as worthless! that you can forget me
thus lightly! that you can coolly surrender
me to others! am I not loved then? Have I
not been loved? Have I been deceived?
Cruel, cruel Feliz!'
The young troubadour cast himself at her
feet! His face expressed the most joyful
surprise—the most animated delight.
`No, Inez, no!' he cried, taking her hand;
`you have not been deceived, nor have I! I
did but fear that you would forget me in the
splendor and temptations of a court! I see
that I have wronged you. Forgive me! I
will no more doubt! But I can hardly realize
that you are willing to forget all else for
one like me!'
`One like you, Feliz!' she cried with warmth.
`You are Feliz and I ask no more. I love
you for yourself, not for rank, or title, or
name! I know that you are worthy of me,
or I never should have loved you! The instincts
of my heart are the securities for your
honor. Humble though your birth is, I will
share with you your lot. I would rather be
a wandering troubadour with thee, Feliz, than
sit upon the throne of Spain with another!'
`Sweet, truthful Inez!' he cried, clasping
her to his heart. `But, alas! How can we
ever be happy. The Duke will never consent
to our union!'
`I will fly with you! He will forgive you
afterwards, when he knows how much I love
you and how noble you are. He loves you
now, as the troubadour! Nay, I will first
seek him and tell him all! He may consent!'
`I fear not. But wait until to-morrow
evening at this hour. I will see him, in the
interval, and try and prevail upon him. If
he consents not we fly together!'
The next evening at sunset Dona Inez was
about going to the balcony to meet Feliz,
resolved to fly with him, ere she should be
forced to marry any one of the nobles of the
court, when the Duke entered.
`Ah, girl, you look confused,' he said smiling;
`I have news for you. You remember
the troubadour, Feliz!'
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[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
Startled, she could scarcely falter forth a
trembling:
`Si, senor!'
`Don't tremble. I know all. You love
each other. He has been to me and told me
all about it! What a pair of rogues you have
been! Secret as moles, and right under my
eye billing and cooing! Well, I don't blame
you for loving him. He is a noble fellow,
and I dare say will make you a good husband.
Here he comes, already, and the priest and
two other persons as witnesses. I will have
you married on the spot, lest you wont trust
me, you baggage and run away with him!
Come, padre, lead on to the chapel!'
Who shall describe the joy, surprise and
amazement of Inez!
The ceremony took place in the chapel,
and although Inez saw, in the shadows of the
place, many persons as spectators, she did
not regard their presence. She was happy
in the love of Feliz, in the approbation of her
father. What was all the world else to her?
From the chapel the bridegroom led his
bride through into a magnificent hall, which
was lighted by a thousand waxen candles and
panelled with mirrors. It was the throne
room. At the extremity was the throne itself.
Before it was a long line of guards, and
around it was assembled the whole splendor
of the court. Feliz led his trembling bride
towards the throne. She knew not what the
scene could mean; or how one so humble
as her husband could find presence there!
Still she suffered him to lead her passively
on. They reached the foot of the throne,
when two knights came forward and cast upon
the shoulders of Feliz a regal cloak, and
placed a crown upon his head! Two noble
ladies at the same time threw an ermine robe
around Dona Inez, and encircled her brow
with a glittering coronet. Don Feliz then
took the hand of his bride to help her up the
steps of the throne where sat the king and
queen!
`What means this, Feliz? I am bewildered!'
`Keep heart, dear wife!' answered Feliz,
as he drew her gently on.
`Welcome, daughter!' cried the king, rising
and embracing Dona Inez.
`Welcome, sweet Inez, my child,' said the
queen, folding her to her bosom, and seating
her by her side.
`What, oh what is this! Tell me am I in
a dream!' she cried, looking around, and then
clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes upon
Feliz.
`No, gentle Inez,' answered Feliz with the
smile of love triumphant.
`Who then are you, Feliz,' she cried with
tears of mingled joy and fear.
`The Infanta, Don Carlos, Prince of Castile!
'
`Let the trumpets sound,' cried the king,
and proclaim the union of Don Carlos the
heir to the throne of Spain and the Indies, to
Dona Inez, daughter of Diego, Duke of
Arvalez!'
The proclamation echoed and reechoed
through the hall, and the lovely bride, whose
truth and fealty had thus been nobly rewarded,
fell upon her husband's neck, and softly
whispered, amid the acclamations and clangor
of trumpets:
`Feliz, as I would have loved and honored
you as your troubadour, even so will I love
and honor you as your princess; nor can I
love you any more as Don Carlos, than I have
loved you as the lowly Feliz! But I will not
conceal from you the fullness of my great
joy! My heart trusted in you and it was not
deceived!'
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THE BIVOUAC; OR A NIGHT AT THE MOUTH OF THE OHIO. a Sketch of Western Doyaging.
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
A few years since I was on my way to St.
Louis, and took passage at Cincinnati on
board the steamer Chief Justice Marshall,
which was bound to New Orleans, but from
which I was to disembark at the mouth of the
Ohio, there to wait for some New Orleans
boat going up to take me to my destination.
Our travelling party consisted of three ladies—
a mother and two lovely daughters—deep
in their teens, and a young gentleman and
his bride from Louisiana, with her brother
just from college. The boat was large and
comfortable; a spacious state-room offered
us all the retirement of a private apartment
in a dwelling.
It was a bright morning in October when
we got under head-way from the landing,
and bending our course down the river, left
the queen city receding in the distance. The
prospect from the decks as we swept round
the noble curve which forms the peninsula of
this great metropolis, was unequalled for
beauty and variety. To the eye of the voyager,
who gazes on the city and its opposite
suburban shore, the river seems to flow
through a valley peopled for centuries, rather
than a region but fifty years ago a desolate
wilderness. Crowded population, taste,
wealth, and a high degree of agriculture on
the banks, all indicate the home of a long
settled people, instead of the emigrant of
yesterday. Astonished at what he beholds,
the traveller's mind is overpowered at the
contemplation of the future destiny of the
land. This feeling is not only awakened by
the sight of Cincinnati and its environs, with
its fleets of steamers, but it is kept alive as
he proceeds down the winding and romantic
river. On either bank noble farms descend
with their waving fields to touch the lip of
the laughing wave, and at short intervals
thriving villages meet his never wearying
sight. Unlike the monotony of the Mississippi,
the Ohio ever presents objects of interest.
The voyager of taste is ever upon
deck, as he is borne through the picturesque
regions, and exclamations of surprise are
exhausted only to be repeated and renewed
again and again.
The next morning after quitting
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Cincinnati we reached Louisville, its levee as we
approached presenting a scarcely less business
like air than that of her rival city.
Situated just above the `Falls,' it was then
the head of large boat navigation. But a
deep canal has since then been constructed
around the falls nearly two miles in length,
by which steamers laden in New Orleans
can pass through without as heretofore,
being detained and transferring their freight
by drays to smaller boats above the falls,
and pursue their way to Cincinnati or Pittsburg.
The river being now unusually high,
the rocks of the rapids were nearly covered,
and with skilful pilotage they might be
ventured. After an hour's delay at the
landing we shot out into the middle of the
stream, and then set the boat's head to
descend the rapids. As we approached
them with the velocity of an arrow, there
was not a word spoken on board save by
the pilot, who stood forward, giving brief
orders to the helmsman. Black rocks appeared
on every side—the rapids reared
and foamed before us, seemingly in our
very path; but onward we went with irresistible
power, the vast steamer rolling to
and fro like drunken. But we passed them
safely, the captain having risked boat and
cargo, and put in jeopardy his own life and
those of all on board. But human life is
of little value in the West, where there is
so much of it floating about, none knowing
whence or whither!
Among our passengers were two, a father
and daughter, that particulary attracted my
attention, from the indifference to danger
which both exhibited during the perilous
descent of the rapids; the elder standing
with folded arms looking upon the deck,
gazing on vacancy,—the younger admiring
with a calm but delighted look the velocity
of the boat—the curling waters around
her, and the wild roar and sublime confusion
of the scene through which she was borne.
He was about fifty-six years of age, with a
noble countenance, which care and grief
had deeply lined, his hair gray and his form
somewhat bent, less with years than sor
row. An air of melancholy pervaded his
appearance and irresistibly interested the
beholder in him. His daughter had fair
hair and blue eyes, and seemed destined by
nature to be happy-hearted; for she spoke
to him always with a sweet smile, and
always smiled at seeing any scenery that
pleased her. But there was a pensiveness
in her look that harmonized with the sadness
upon his brow. Her attentions to him,
I had observed, were tender, devoted, and
full of anxious solicitude to draw him away
from his own thoughts. At times she would
succeed, and he would look up and around
at the green wooded banks and smile with
momentary interest, when she would appear
perfectly happy, and tears would come into
her eyes—tears of joy.
During the course of the day I had an
opportunity of rendering him a slight assistance
as he descended from the deck, for
which the daughter gratefully thanked me,
adding, `My father is a little feeble, sir; I
am in hopes this voyage will be of great
service to him.'
I warmly expressed the same desire, and
as they immediately retired to their staterooms
I saw no more of them that day.
The ensuing morning I ascended the deck
a few minutes after sun-rise and found them
already promenading together, the father
on the daughter's arm. The incident, and
brief interchange of words the day before
had conferred upon me the privilege of approaching
and inquiring after his health.
`Better, sir, I thank you,' he answered
with a grateful look, `but,' he added in a
half tone which I could not help hearing,
`it is not the body—it is the spirit that is
sick.'
`Oh, dear father!' said his daughter,
glancing at me quickly, to see if I had overheard.
`Oh, my son, my son! would to God I
had buried thee in thy infancy,' said Mr.
Townley, for such I learned was his name;
and he wrung his hands and threw himself
upon a seat. His child seemed much distressed,
and I was turning away lest my
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[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
presence should invade secrecy that she
seemed solicitous to preserve, when he said,
extending his hand, `Sit down. I am told
you are from the South—from Natchez.'
`Yes,' I replied.
`I am glad to meet you. I am going there,
to —'
`Dear father, hush!' cried the maiden
with a look of distress.
`I will inquire of him, Charlotte. Perhaps—
'
`You can hear nothing, alas, but what
you already too well know. Pray, father,
do not speak of Henry!—Nay, then let
me inquire. `Sir,' she said, clasping his
hand, and looking up in my face with tearful
eyes, `we have a relative—a dear relative,
sir, in Natchez, who, we have heard has
wandered from the path of honor.'
It is my son, sir,' said Mr. Townley,
firmly. His daughter hung her head, and
I could see the blush of shame mounting
her forehead. `He is my only son. He
was a clerk in New Orleans, and in an evil
hour was tempted to gamble and lost all of
his own money, and then embezzled that of
his employer. To escape punishment he
fled and joined the gamblers at Vicksburg.
We have since learned that he has now
become a principal leader among them, and
that he remains mostly in Natchez. I am
on my way to try to reclaim him. It is
painful to a father to speak thus of a son!
Did you ever see him, sir?'
`Townley,' I repeated,—`I never heard
of the name in the South except associated
with men of honor.'
`We have discerned that he goes by the
assumed name of Frank Carter,' said Mr.
Townley.
I could not confess my ignorance; for I
recognized the name of the most notorious
gambler or `sportsman,' in the South, who
from his influence with the different bands
that infested the West, from Louisville to
New Orleans, was called `Prince Frank.'
I gazed upon the father with pity, and upon
the sister with feelings of the most painful
sympathy. I felt that their hope of reclaim
ing him was destined to perish. They
remarked my silence, and the daughter,
now that there was no more to be told to
call the tinge of shame into her cheek,
lifted her head and looked into my face with
anxious interest. Mr. Townley also waited
earnestly to hear at least a reply from one
who might have seen his son, and who could
tell him something about him less evil than
he had heard. I recollected him as a fine
looking, richly dressed young man, who
used to make a dashing appearance at the
St. Catharine's race course, in a barouche
drawn by a pair of spirited bays, with a
beautiful girl, his mistress, seated by his
side. He had become rich by his reckless
profession, and it was said owned several
dwellings in `Natchez under the Hill,' the
empire over which, as `Prince Frank,' he
ruled. But recently, since I had left the
South in May, there had been a war of
extermination against the gamblers, beginning
at Vicksburg and sweeping the whole
South-West. What had become of `Prince
Frank' in this well remembered and bloody
crusade of the roused citizens of Mississippi
to redeem their towns and cities from the
hordes of blacklegs who infested them, I
was ignorant.
`Do you know him, sir? — Pray speak
freely;' asked the daughter, after watching
my countenance for some time.
I frankly informed her that her information
had been correct, and while I expressed
my hopes that their pious journey to effect
his reformation and restoration to society,
might be successful, I told her that I feared
there was little prospect of it.
From this time I saw much of them, for
Mr. Townley loved to sit and talk to me of
his son. At length we approached the
mouth of the Ohio where we were to separate,
myself and my party to wait and take a
boat up to St. Louis, — they to continue
their sad and hopeless voyage for the recovery
of a lost son and brother.
As the boat was rounding too at the beautiful
point of land now the site of the infant
city of Cairo, Mr. Townley came to me and
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asked how long I and my friends would
remain in St. Louis?
On learning it would be but for two days,
and that we should then proceed directly
down the Mississippi to Natchez, he asked
if it would be agreeable to us for himself
and daughter to attach themselves to our
party. This accession was gladly received
by all my friends to whom I had communicated
the interesting object of their journey,
and who were as deeply touched as myself
with their peculiar affliction. Mr. Townley
and his daughter, therefore, quit the boat
with us; and the steamer landing our large
party with our baggage upon the shore,
resumed her swift course down the river,
Captain Clark receiving our good wishes
for his safe and speedy arrival at New Orleans.
It was late in the afternoon when we
landed upon the point, and as we learned a
boat was looked for momentarily from below,
bound to St. Louis, we concluded not
to remove our large quantity of baggage to
the tavern, but remain with it, at least till
night by the river side. Cairo city, as this
place is now denominated, was then comprised
in a two story tavern, called `Bird's
Hotel,' with a double gallery running
around it,—in a sort of grocery store, one
or two log huts and a vast forest of gigantic
trees that covered nearly the whole place
except `the clearing' on the extreme point.
It was a desolate looking spot, especially on
the approach of night. The tavern, too,
had a bad name, the point being, from its
central position, a rendezvous for gamblers,
and from its retired character, and the
peculiar facilities it afforded for evading
justice, the refuge of criminals and all kinds
of desperate characters. Flat boats, also,
always hauled up here on their trips for the
crews to take a frolic, and here were always
sure to be landed from steamers, mutinous
`hands,' or detected rogues. We had
some knowledge of the character of the
spot, and therefore chose to remain as long
as we could on the levee, hoping the boat
would soon appear and render further inti
macy with the suspicious tavern unnecessary.
We therefore placed our trunks in a hollow
square, and seating ourselves upon
them, waited patiently for the expected
boat.—When the sun at length set, and no
signs of her rewarded our long and intense
gazing, we began to wish we had waited at
Cincinnati for a St. Louis boat, as the
Broadway House we all acknowledged, was
far more comfortable than the broad side of
a river bank. The landlord, now, on our
application to him, roughly replied that his
rooms were full. We had observed as we
went to the house, several suspicious men
lurking about the tavern, one of whom I
recognized as a well known Natchez gambler.
We felt no disposition to remain in
their company at the tavern, well knowing
the vindictiveness which they entertained,
since their expulsion, against all Mississippians,
and the annoyance we might expect
if we were recognized to be from the South.
As the night promised to be clear, and the
moon rose as the sun set, we decided on
remaining on the bank all night. We
arranged couches for the ladies with cloaks
and buffalo skins within the space enclosed
by the trunks; and suspending on four
stakes a large crimson Mexican blanket
that belonged to the travelling equipment
of the Louisianian, formed a serviceable
canopy to protect them from the dew. We
then opened our trunks and took out our
knives and pistols, and the brother of the
bride unlocked from his case a new, double-barreled
fowling piece he was taking home.
There were of our party seven men, including
two young merchants returning home
to St. Louis from the East, who were
bivouacked a few paces from us, but who
on invitation joined us. We had arms,—
the double-barreled fowling piece just named,
nine pistols and five bowie knives, and
powder and ball: we therefore felt very sure
of giving a good reception to any who molested
us; for we knew that defenceless
parties of bivouacking travellers had been
attacked by armed banditti, and robbed of
every article of baggage, and their jewelry
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[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
stripped from their persons; we had heard
also of travellers landing to the point who
never embarked again. We therefore quietly
loaded our arms, and having established
a watch both for security and at look out
for a steamer, and awaken the rest on its
approach, we settled ourselves about our
bivouac for the night. The ladies soon
went to sleep, confiding in our guardianship
as women should ever do. Mr. Townley
all at once showed himself to be a man of
resolute character; for the probable danger
of the party roused him from the contemplation
of his own sorrows to sympathy
with the feelings of those around him.
The moon shone very bright, and the two
great rivers flowed majestically past, their
broad surfaces looking like torrents of
molten steel, meeting a mile below the
point, and blending into one dark flood
which lost itself in the gloomy forests to
the South. It was two in the morning. I
was standing watch with Mr. Townley and
the knight of the fowling piece, and one of
the young merchants, when we observed a
party of men suddenly issue from a path
leading into the forest in the direction of
two or three log huts. Hitherto the night
had been still; the lights had been early
extinguished in the tavern, and the groups
of boatmen that were lingering about the
shore had returned on board their flat boats.
The party which we now saw was, when
we discovered it, about three hundred yards
off, moving at a quick tramp directly
towards our bivouac. We instantly wakened
our companions without disturbing
the ladies, and having prepared our arms to
give them a good reception should they
prove hostile, we remained seated upon our
trunks watching them. The moon now
shone upon them so clearly that we could
count their number—fourteen men, marching
three and four abreast; it also gleamed
upon weapons which some of them carried.
We were now satisfied that we were the
object of an open attack by some of the
desperadoes who infested the point, who
probably expected to find us unarmed and
sleeping, and so pillage our baggage and
persons, if not do murder, if resisted. We
let them advance within fifty paces and
then challenged. One who walked by the
side of the first rank then spoke to them
and they halted.
`If you approach any nearer, be your
errand peaceful or hostile, we shall fire upon
you,' we said firmly.
`Ha! they are prepared!' said one.
`No. It is bravado. Let us on!' shouted
another.
`On, then,' was the general cry, and they
rushed towards us in an irregular body.
We let them come within close pistol
shot,—all fired a regular discharge—but
over their heads.
They suddenly stopped, with a cry of surprise,
fired a pistol or two, and then retreated
a few paces and made a stand.—
One of them was evidently wounded, for we
saw him fall, and with difficulty and groaning
drag himself after his companions.—
The challenge and firing aroused the females
of our party, who at first shrinked, and were
in great terror, but were prevailed upon to
keep their recumbent positions sheltered
from any fire of the assailants, by the trunks
we had fortunately piled around their lodging
place. We now reloaded our pistols,
and prepared to receive them if they again
attempted to molest us. Before we all got
prepared for a second defence, they rushed
upon us, firing pistols as they advanced, the
balls of which whizzed over us, and, as we
afterwards saw, pierced our trunks. Reluctant
as we were to shed blood, we did not
hesitate to return their fire, when they had
got within five yards of us brandishing their
knives and as desperate a looking set of
black-legs as I should ever wish to encounter.
A ball from Mr. Townley's pistol
brought down their leader, and we were in
the act of engaging with our knives, when a
happy diversion was made in our favor by
a shout close at hand, and a crew of gallant
Kentucky boatmen, consisting of a father
and five sons, roused by the skirmishing,
came up from their boat to our rescue.
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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
They rushed upon the gamblers so unexpectedly,
that, after making slight defence,
they fled into the forests, leaving their chief
dead not four yards from our bivouac. At
he same moment, the deep `boom' of an
ascending steamer reached our ears. We
were congratulating each other upon our
escape, and thanking the brave boatmen,
when a loud wild cry from Mr. Townley
chilled the blood in our veins. We looked,
and saw him leaning over the body of the
slain robber. His daughter flew to him,
gazed at the face of the dead, shrieked and
cast herself upon the body.
It was his son—her brother! He had fallen
by his father's hand. Poor Mr. Townley!
he never came to his reason, to realize the
full extent of his misery. He grew imbecile,
and perished a few months afterwards,
a broken-hearted wreck. Charlotte
Townley still lives, but consumption is
eating the bloom from her cheek, and her
fading form will soon lie in the grave beside
her father's.
-- --
THE HAND OF CLAY. OR, THE SCULPTOR'S TASK. A TALE OF MYSTERIES.
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I.
It was a summer's night in Italy. The
still heavens were tinted with the softest
blue, amid which the stars burned like eyes
of intelligence. The pure-rayed planets,
seen through the translucent atmosphere,
seemed near and low as they shed their
gentle lustre down. The young moon was
just venturing her bark upon the eastern
verge of the sky, a glittering star hanging
above its brow. Music rose at intervals
upon the soft, evening wind, and the voices
of nightingales rung melodiously from many
a shaded grove and palace garden. It was
a night in Rome! As the moon rose above
the level horizon of the Champagna, she
touched with a trembling line of gold the
rippling waves of the Tiber, and enriched
with amber lights the lofty crosses and towers
of the imperial city. Among the numerous
casements into which its soft lustre penetrated,
was that of the lovely Countess,
Isabel di Valoni. It was the eve of her bridal
with the Prince of B—. She was not
twenty-four, and yet had been two years
widowed. Her attendants had just left her,
and she was sitting alone by the casement,
looking upon the Tiber, which flowed sparkling
by at the foot of the gardens. Around
her rose, and extended, terrace and balcony,
and towers and palaces, all being recreated
from darkness, touch by touch, by the pencil
of the advancing moon. Yet she heeded
nothing of the lavish beauty of the scene,
nor did the notes of far off music upon the
water mellowed into heavenly harmony by
the distance touch her ear. Her face was
pale and tearful, and rested upon the fair
hand which looked like alabaster contrasted
with the raven tresses that fell across the delicately
veined wrist.
Isabel di Valoni was the most beautiful
woman in Rome—nay, in Italy! kings had
bent the knee before the shrine of her smiles,
and princes were willing attendants of her
footsteps! Yet now, alone, with glittering
tears stealing slowly across her cheek, her
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
heavily lidded eyes cast down, and an air of
touching sorrow pervading her whole person,
she reclines by the moonlit casement.
To-morrow is also to be her bridal night!
and she marries the man who is her heart's
choice; yet she is unhappy. Fear, as well
as grief, is couched in the expression of her
features! Her bosom heaves at intervals
with agitation, and her hands convulsively
clasp! At length she gives utterance to her
thoughts:
`Shall I thus weakly give way to wretchedness
for an idle dream! Yet thrice have
I dreamed of the fearful doom! thrice have
these words rung in my ears in my sleep,
from an unseen voice.
`Beware, Isabel di Valoni! the death of
Medici Valoni hath not unwedded thee!
Thou art his bride, living or dead!'
`Alas, what fearful doom hangs over my
head! can this dream be sent by Heaven to
warn me of danger! Can Medici, my deceased
husband, have power thus to bind
me! It is too horrible! Defend me, holy
saints, from evil!'
After bending before her crucifix a moment,
she rose and left the casement, to
seek relief in the society of her friends,
from the fears that weighed down her
soul.
-- --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
The following evening, the gorgeous
apartments of the palace of the Valoni were
thrown open to the guests of the bridal.
The princely and the noble; the talented
and the beautiful; the sculptor, the painter,
the scholar, men of genius and of rank
thronged thither; for the Prince gave out
invitations to embrace all who usually had
the honor of visiting him. At seven o'clock
the more favored guests, the relations of the
bride and bridegroom attended them into
the private chapel of the palace, where the
ceremony was to be performed. The Countess
had been laughed out of her fears on
account of her dream by her friends, and
encouraged by the cardinal, to whom she
had made confession. Yet she approached
the altar with a pale cheek, and unsteady
step, glancing with a timid look on every
side, as if she expected to behold start before
her gaze some fearful spectre! The
cardinal opened the massal, and bade them
kneel! Around them stood four gentlemen,
relations of the Prince, whom, to relieve
her fears, he had stationed near her person
to protect her from any danger that might
menace. Each of these gentlemen held in
his hand a naked sword, nor did they once
take their eyes from the bride! The rumor
that something was anticipated that night,
to interrupt the ceremony, had been buzzed
about, and the throng of guests who were admitted
into the chapel crowded close around
the altar. The cardinal began the service!
The Prince and Countess were kneeling at
his feet, and the former was about to place
the ring upon her finger, when a glittering
stiletto, grasped in a naked arm, descended
from behind into the bosom of the bride!
The Countess gave a wild shriek and fell into
the arms of the Prince.
So instantaneous was the blow with the
appearance of the arm thrust from a cloak,
hat there was no time to warn—no time to
defend her! But ere the dagger was withdrawn,
the hand of the assassin fell to the
ground, cleft at the wrist by the sword of
one of the gentlemen. The chapel was simultaneously
filled with a cry of horror. The
assassin, in the commotion, had instantly
fallen back and hid himself amid the throng!
The loss of his hand had given advantage of
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
escape as its fall to the ground and the flow
of blood, drew the attention of the others
for an instant from him.
`Seize him!' cried the Prince. `He cannot
escape! He will be detected by the loss
of his hand! Close all the palace doors,
and guard them well! He must not escape!
'
The excitement was now intense. Every
man looking upon his neighbor with
horror and suspicion, and each shrieking at
the idea of a bleeding assassin mingling
among them.
`It is a woman's hand, by Heaven!' cried
the Count Parma, the cavalier who had
severed it; `and a well-born woman's, too!'
And he held up to view a very exquisitely
formed female hand, the drops of crimson
gore staining its blue-veined skin and contrasting
its whiteness! The fingers were
singularly symmetrical, and on one of them
was a ring of a peculiar setting.
`This ring,' exclaimed the Count, `will
detect the murderer? See, your highness,
it is a ruby set with turquoise?'
The Prince glanced at the ring, grasped
at it wildly, uttered a deep groan, and sunk
senseless by the side of his dead bride.
The murderer was no where found in the
chapel! No traces of blood were visible in
any of the apartments beyond the altar, and
the whole terrible affair remained wrapped
in mystery.
`Count Parma,' said the Prince, in a distressed
tone, having been recovered from
his swoon, the chapel being by this time
emptied of all the guests, `give me that
hand which you have cast upon the altar for
public recognition!'
The Count obeyed, fixing upon the Prince
an inquiring gaze; for he, as well as many
present, now believed that he could tell
better than any one the history of the beautiful
hand.
The Prince took it and gazed upon it with
a look of painful interest, and then removing
the ring, placed it, to the wonder of
all, upon the answering finger of the dead
countess, murmuring, `Nevertheless, thou
alone art my wedded wife!' He then placed
the hand upon the altar, and kissing his
murdered bride upon the cheek, left the
chapel.
That night the Prince of B— died!
There was no wound upon his person, nor
were there found any signs of poison! He
was entombed by the side of his intended
wife, the Countess di Valoni.
This extraordinary assassination, with the
wonderful escape of its perpetrator, the sudden
death of the Prince of B—, and the
marvellous circumstance of the severed
hand, which was placed publicly upon the
altar for many days, caused no little sensation
throughout Rome, for some weeks.
But at length, it still remaining a mystery,
the public interest in it subsided, and in a
few weeks died away; for, startling events
follow upon the steps of each other too frequently,
and men also have too much of
their own concerns to regard, to suffer any
one particular subject long to engage their
minds.
-- --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
Frederick Rother was a young German
sculptor. He had been a pupil of Thorwaldsen,
but now had his own studio, being considered
in Rome equal in genius and art to
his master. This was many years ago, before
the immortal Swede had attained that
celebrity which has given him an imperishable
fame. The German was a young man
of high and commanding intellect. His imagination
was lively, yet not untinctured
with the gloom of German superstition.
He loved night and solitude; the reading of
books touching the dark lore of necromancy;
and research into the mazes of metaphysics
was a passion with him. He also
was a poet, and would have been a lover if
he had not been wedded to his sublime
art.
One night, he was seated in his studio,
wrapped in his evening robe, smoking his
meerschaum, and, with his eyes fixed upon
the ceiling, was buried in deep musing upon
the spiritual world of Swedenbourg, whose
writings he had just laid down, when a slight
knock at his door aroused him.
`Come in,' he said, without changing his
reclining position, for he supposed it to be a
little Italian boy who attended upon him at
his rooms.
The door slowly opened, and a full-sized
middle-aged man, enveloped in a grey cloak,
entered. On his head was a low cap like a
priest's. The studio was strongly lighted,
for Frederick was to complete a bust that
night, and had all his tools ready to work
when he should have finished his meerschaum.
There was something in the air of
his visitor that instantly impressed him with
awe; and rising, he awaited his wishes.
The man came near him, and taking a seat
to which the sculptor pointed, waved his
hand for Frederick to be re-seated. The
artist obeyed in silence. There was something
in the expression of the stranger's
eyes that made him feel uneasy, and he
could not keep his gaze from them. They
arrested his like a basilisk's. The stranger's
features were dark and intellectual, his face
thin, and his hair black, long and flowing.
His brows were heavy and projecting; and
beneath them, like lamps, burned a pair of
deep-set eyes that were inconceivably penetrating.
`Are you the sculptor, Frederick de
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
Rother?' he asked, in a mild tone, the voice deep
and musical.
The sculptor replied in the affirmative,
not a little relieved to have the silence
broken.
`You have the reputation of being the first
sculptor in Rome?'
`I am but a pupil still,' answered Rother,
modestly.
`I require the aid of your art,' said the
visitor, without remarking his reply.
`I am honored by your notice of me,' said
Frederick, `but I regret to say that I have
on hand unfinished engagements for many
months to come!'
`I want your service to-night,' answered
the stranger, sternly.
`Impossible! I have to put the finishing
chisel to that bust of Cardinal R—,
which will occupy me till midnight. He
leaves Rome in the morning, and takes it to
his country-place with him.'
`I must have my wishes complied with,'
said the man in the grey cloak, imperatively,
and he fixed his eyes so steadily upon Frederick,
that he dropped his own with a sensation
of pain.
`You are unknown to me,' he began to
object, `and—' here hesitated, and became
suddenly silent. The eyes of the stranger
rested upon his forehead so intently, that he
was deprived of the power to articulate.
He felt indignant, and would have risen, but
found he had no power over his limbs. His
eyelids fell, and he began to experience a
chilly sensation pervading his frame. Gradually
he felt himself losing all sense of external
things! his mind became all at once
wonderfully clear and perceptive; the most
beautiful images passed before him; music,
such as mortal ear never listened to, floated
around him; soft voices whispered sweet
and strange words, which his heart, not his
ears, heard; his spirit expanded, and became
like air, and he seemed to be borne on
wings of light, through a universe of happiness
and splendor inconceivable! and then
sudden darkness veiled all things; silence
unbroken reigned, and the deepest oblivion
followed! He sat like a marble statue, colorless
and motionless.
The stranger rose with a smile of power
upon his lip, and approached him, and waved
his hand! The young man rose with ready
obedience, and stood before him immoveable!
The stranger placed his hand upon
his eyelids, and they flew open with startling
brilliancy, his eyes looking unnaturally lustrous
and beautiful, like those in a wax figure!
They were neverthless, without expression,
and unwinking! The man then
bade him take clay and his moulding-tools,
and follow! With his eyes still closed like
one in sleep, the young man obeyed, and
followed him to the street, keeping a pace
behind.
Wrapping himself in his cloak, the stranger
took his way along a narrow street that
led by the Tiber, and crossing a bridge not
far from Trajan's pillar, ascended a terrace
that led to a range of palaces. He followed
the marble paved way beneath lime and orange
trees, until it terminated in a grand
stair-case! This he ascended; and after
crossing a magnificent garden, adorned with
fountains and statues, closely followed by the
sculptor, who bent not his fixed eyes for
one instant during the whole way, from the
person of his mysterious conductor, they
came to a portico which led them into a hall
of one of the finest mansions in Rome. It
was dark, save where the moonlight streamed
in through stained casements, yet the
stranger kept on his way to an inner suite of
apartments, furnished with princely grandeur.
Room after room he passed through,
and then opened a door leading into a small
but elegant chamber!
`Is he with you, signor?' cried a young
female of exquisite beauty, rising from an
ottoman, and looking eagerly towards him!
`He has obeyed my will, as thou seest,'
answered the other, taking the sculptor by
the hand, and leading him into the room.
`This is well. There is now no danger of
betrayal if he is returned in the same way,'
she said with energy.
She was about twenty years of age, and,
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
with a faultless figure and face, her features
were also characterized by the finest expression
of Italian beauty. Her dark eyes were
large, languishing, yet full of latent fire;
and her mouth was beautifully haughty in
its ruby outline. Her cheek was now pale,
as if from recent illness, and the soft languor
peculiar to a convalescing invalid,
heightened the grace of her manner, and
gave a touching infantile character to her
loveliness. There was, however, with all
that was pleasing and fascinating in her appearance,
much to fear.
`How handsome he is! Heavens! what
eyes!' she said, as Frederick stood before
her in an attitude of natural elegance that
would have been a noble study for himself,
could he have been conscious of himself!
But he stood there the body of man, living
and breathing, strong and beautiful, but destitute
of the soul! And what wonderful being
was he, who had, by a look, thus subdued
him, and made him submissive to
the slightest motion of his will. It was
Mesmer!
`Lady,' he said, `the time flies, and I
would have the artist do his work!' She
turned pale, and slightly trembled. He then
turned to Frederick, and fixing his eyes
intently upon him, waved his hand slowly
upward, and, strangely with the progress
of the motion, came expression and intelligence
into the wildly brilliant eyes color to
the cheek, and the animation of mind to the
countenance! The lady watched the change
with enthusiastic delight! It was like the
breaking of morning!
As if by magic he had been restored to
the exercise of all his faculties. He looked
about him with amazement! The gorgeous
chamber bewildered him; where could
he be? The beautiful being reclining upon
the couch, was she mortal? was he mortal?
or was he dreaming? His eyes fell on Mesmer,
and instantly his face became pale, and
he recollected the last moments of consciousness
in the studio! The `magician,' as
men, in those days, termed him, smiled kindly
upon him, and approached him with his
hand extended. Frederick grasped it with
strange warmth of feeling, and felt his heart,
he could not conceive wherefore, felt kindly
affectioned toward him. But where was
he? He put the question to him.
`In the presence of her for whose service
I come for you. How you came here, you
shall learn hereafter. Now you have a delicate
task. Prepare your clay and tools, and
take your station by this lady's couch!'
He complied, overwhelmed with wonder
and curiosity, and still questioning whether
he was awake? He had never beheld such
earthly beauty as her's before him! His
gaze rested upon one of her arms, which,
partly bared to the elbow, displayed a contour
so faultless, that he could have worshipped
it! The hand, too, was divine! The
pearly hue of the surface, the azure-tinted
veins, like those in delicate marble, the tapering
elegance of the fingers, never had he
dreamed of such perfection! He was enraptured
as an artist, and quite in love as a
man!
The lady smiled with a melancholy expression
as she witnessed his admiration; and
Mesmer said, to his surprise,
`Sir, you are brought here, thus secretly,
to mould a hand like that, as perfect
and faultless in every respect!'
`Impossible!' he exclaimed.
`It is rare workmanship, but thou hast
genius to do it!' said Mesmer, quietly. Signore,
unrobe your right arm?'
She obeyed; and to the sculptor's horror
and surprise, he beheld a freshly-healed
stump; the fellow to the hand he had worshipped,
was gone. Instantly the story of the
Countess di Valoni flashed upon his mind,
and he started back with an exclamation of
intense feeling. He immediately felt Mesmer's
eye upon him, and recollecting that it
might be dangerous to betray his suspicions,
he remained standing, gazing upon the mutilated
member with strange and hardly
suppressed emotion.
`It is a painful loss,' said the magician.
`Kneel beside her, sir artist, and mould and
fit accurately to that arm a hand the match
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
to the other in every part. Ask me no questions—
make no objections! Obey.'
Frederick knelt, and for a few moments
was silently engaged in shaping the lump of
pink-tinted clay he had brought into a rough
resemblance of a human hand. He then
bent over the other, and for some time studied
its inimitable proportions. At length he
commenced his task.
Mesmer bent over him and watched his
proceedings in silence, while the lady conversed
and smiled and completely bewildered
him with the power of her charms.
At the expiration of two hours, the work
was completed. A hand of clay, accurately
fitting the wrist whence the other hand
had been cloven was made, and, save, in
life, was the counterpart to the other!
`Thou hast done thy work well,' said
Mesmer, as he took it up and examined the
hand. `Now thou shalt witness mine.'
`First tell me who art thou?' asked the
German youth.
`I will answer thee—for thou must be my
disciple. I am THE MESMER!'
`I now know thy power, and by what
means I am here,' said de Rother, with animation,
after recovering from his surprise,
`I have read thy mysterious books, and
heard of thy miracles. Initiate me into the
mysteries of thy dark philosophy, wonderful
man, and I will serve thee with all my
soul!'
`Take thy first lesson! Behold!'
The female extended her mutilated arm,
and he firmly bound with silk the clay to the
flesh. Then, while she instinctively shuddered,
he fixed upon her his burning gaze!
In a moment, her eyes closed and her head
sunk upon her bosom. Then Mesmer knelt
before her, and bowing his head upon her
hand of clay, clasped it between his, and
thus remained several minutes. The sculptor
stood looking on with wonder and fear!
At length, the `magician' rose and addressed
her:
`Is it animate, lady?'
`Yes,' was the low answer, which seemed
to come from her chest, for her lips moved
not.
He removed the silk, and the horrified
Frederick fell upon his knees and crossed
himself! The hand he had moulded of clay
had become a living member, kindred in
sympathy and loveliness with the other!
Mesmer turned and looked upon him with
triumphant power. He now waved his hand
to awake her, but lo, a new horror was to
paralyze both! The face of the mesmerized
had begun slowly to change into clay before
their eyes. The glorious beauty of her
countenance became dark and earthy, and
the eyes were extinguished in eternal
night. The neck and arms became rapidly
converted to earth, and in a few minutes
there reclined on the couch before them a
statue of clay, like Eve's, before the breath
of life had been communicated; save the
hand which the sculptor had made, which
remained adhesive to the dead clay warm,
throbbing, living flesh.
When satisfied that what he beheld was
real, Mesmer uttered a cry of horror, and
fled! Frederick stood paralyzed with fear,
and fascinated by the hand from which he
could not turn his gaze. At length, overcome
by terror as he beheld the finger lift in
warning, he sunk upon the ground insensible,
when the writer awoke and found he had
been dreaming upon a volume on `Mesmerism,
' over which, while reading it late at
night, he had fallen asleep.
-- --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
OTHO VISCONTI: OR, THE BRIDAL PRESENT. A TALE OF FLORENCE.
The golden sunlight of an Italian autumn
evening poured through a gorgeously stained
window of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del
Fiore, in Florence, and fell upon the Mosaic
pavement in a flood of mingled crimson
and gold. In the light, knelt the figure of a
graceful girl before a crucifix; her veil had
fallen back from her face, and showed a
countenance very youthful, but exquisitely
beautiful. She could scarcely have passed
her fourteenth year; yet that nameless
charm of expression, that belongs to a lovely
woman, was already hers. Her eyes were
as black as night, and so very large and expressive,
that one instinctively shrunk, to
penetrate the secrets of the soul which were
so unguardedly laid open. The rose of
youth and health was on her cheek and lips;
and so bright was the smile that dimpled her
mouth, while she said her pretty prayers, as
if the duty were a pastime, that one could
not think of her and sorrow in the same
moment. Near her, but where the gorgeous
sunbeam did not shine upon her, knelt
a female attendant; while behind her, leaning
against a pillar, was a youthful page
scarce her own age; and further beyond
still, stood, silent and stern, three men-at-arms.
This tale is laid in the thirteenth century,
and in warlike times. The civil wars and
intestine turmoils caused by the feuds of the
rival houses of Guelph and Ghibeline, filled
all Italy; and the opposing combatants,
whenever they chanced to encounter—in
the street or on the highway, at mass or
marriage—were sure to come to blows.
This fair maiden was a daughter of the
house of Guelph, and therefore was she thus
formidably attended. As this story is founded
on an incident of this celebrated feud,
it may not be amiss here, to refresh the
reader's recollection of its origin and character.
In the beginning of the tenth century, a
German noble, whose castle, called Gueibelinga,
was situated in the mountains of
Hertfeld, became a warm partizan of the
German emperor; and, by his power and
influence, contributed greatly to the stability
of the empire. But his attachment to the
imperial throne was not less distinguished,
than his hostility to the papal power. On
the other hand, the Pope received the
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
support of Duke Guelph, of Bavaria, a bigoted
Roman Catholic, and who laid claim to the
crown of Germany, whose adherence to him
was not less strong, than the attachment of
the lord of Gueibelinga to the emperor.
During the life of Henry V, these two
houses made no open advances of hostility;
but his death, without issue, gave rise to a
contest for the crown, that has more or less
affected the present state of every European
dynasty. Guelph, duke of Bavaria, died
not long after Henry's decease, and his
countess, Matilda, soon afterwards bequeathed
all her immense possessions to the
See of Rome. The pope then took up the
quarrel for the Guelphs, against the defender
of the German crown, Duke Gueibelinga;
and the names Guelph and Ghibeline
soon came to denote the different parties
of the pope and emperor, having in both
cases lost their particular application to individuals.
Thus, all the families that adhered
to the pope were denominated Guelphs, and
all that adhered to the emperor, Ghibelines.
As many of the Italian cities had belonged
to Duke Guelph, and others to the Ghibeline
chief, Italy became divided by the feud;
and even those cities that owed fealty to
neither one nor the other, took sides and
plunged into the quarrel. In many instances,
a single city was divided by its
knights, half taking one side of the feud,
and the other half the opposite. Thus Florence,
itself, at the period of this historical
tale, contained forty-two noble families of
the Guleph party, and twenty-four of the
Ghibeline faction. All Italy was in arms
with the quarrel, and every day some new
murder alarmed the citizens of every city,
within the walls of which those two parties
stood opposed to each other; and although
often reconciled, every little accident renewed
their animosity, and they again flew
to arms to avenge their wrongs, and give
vent to their mutual hostility. The maiden
who knelt in the cathedral was a Guelph, of
the noble Florentine family of Donati. Her
name was Elise. She was an only child;
but her high name and exquisite beauty, as
she was still a child, had not yet brought
suitors to her feet.
Having ended her prayers, she rose from
her knees, while the attendant advanced,
and lifting the silked mat on which she had
knelt, placed it across her arm to follow her
out of the cathedral. But ere she moved
Elise turned her head to re-arrange her
veil, when her eye fell on a youthful knight,
who, half concealed in shadow, by the
shrine before which she had been kneeling,
had evidently been a witness to the whole of
her devotions. But Elise, after the first
blush of surprise, did not see that she ought
to be ashamed of being seen at prayers,
and so she completed the arrangement of
her veil; and beckoning to her page, who,
in his turn made a signal to the men-at-arms,
she tripped lightly along the marble
pavement of the cathedral, and, with the
young knight in her mind, disappeared.
As she did so, he stepped forth from the
concealment of the shrine. He had entered
the cathedral by a side door unobserved,
and struck with the girlish beauty
of the worshipper whom he discerned before
it, he had obeyed the impulse of the moment,
and sought, unseen, its shelter, to
gaze upon her face without interruption.
This young knight was Otho Visconti, the
nephew of the Archbishop of Milan, and the
son of the chief of the Florentine Guelphs.
He had that evening reached Florence from
Milan, after an absence of several years,
and had entered the church to lounge away
the half hour preceding vespers, when the
kneeling girl arrested his admiration. The
quarter of an hour he spent in gazing upon
the lovely face of the bright maiden, had
been sufficient to captivate his heart. He
felt she was a mere child, but he knew also
that she would not always remain a child;
and he inwardly resolved to watch the budding,
and then pluck the flower. He was
not quite in love with Elise, indeed, but he
was ready to be so when she was of the age
for wooing.
He had been so engaged in admiring her,
that it never occurred to him to look at the
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
bearings of the page, or the coats of the
men-at-arms, till their intervening forms, in
the far distance of the aisle, hid hers from
his gaze.
Otho Visconti had left Florence in his
boyhood, and so none of the faces of the
maidens of the city were known to him.
The instant his negligence to ascertain who
had so suddely ensnared his heart, occurred
to his mind, he hastened to follow her. On
gaining the street, neither she, nor page,
nor men-at-arms, were visible; and from
that time Otho Visconti searched Florence
in vain to behold once more the bright and
beauteous maiden who had appeared and
disappeared so mysteriously, leaving such
an impression upon his senses. Finally, he
came to regard the whole as a vision he
had seen in a waking dream, and strove to
banish the recollection of it from his mind.
Three years passed away, and Otho
Visconti ceased longer to think of the beautiful
girl he had seen in the cathedral, yet
her image remained indelibly impressed upon
his heart. He had now become one of the
gayest gallants of the Florentine court, and
as supremely favored by the smiles of
grace and beauty, as beseemed a cavalier
who was as handsome as he was gallant,
and, as he had often shown, was as bold in
battle as in boudoir.
At day-dawn one bright June morning, he
sallied forth from his palace in full armor,
mounted on a sable charger, whose broad
chest glittered with the steel plates with
which it was overlaid. He was preceded
by his gonfaloner, and attended on either
hand by a knight of lesser degree, and followed
by a hundred men-at-arms, all clad
in steel, with their battle axes swung at
their saddle-bows. Two and two trotting
beneath the stone arch of the Visconti palace,
the cavalcade took its way along the
street of the Palazzo Vecchio, in the direction
of the Milan gate. They rode on without
interruption, or meeting any one, save
now and then a cowled monk, or a veiled
devotee gliding along to the cathedral, or the
mounted page of some noble Guelph lady,
spurring on an errand for his mistress. At
length they entered the Place of the Loggia,
and moved forward towards the outlet at its
northern extremity. Ere they reached it
the young knight discovered that a chain
was drawn across from house to house, and
that their way was completely barricaded.
`How is this, Egidio?' he said, turning to
one of the knights that rode by his side;
`dost know its meaning?'
`I know not, my lord. There hath been
no open quarrel for the last three days between
the factions, that precautions taken
only in the midst of fight should be now
maintained.'
`It hath a hostile face upon it,' said Otho
Visconti, with haughty anger. `There
bends a monk of the Santa Croce over a
dying man. I will know what this means.
Ho, sir priest, hither! We would inquire
of you the meaning of this stoppage of the
public ways. Who hath drawn this chain
across?'
`Salvestro de'Medici,' answered the
monk, without looking up, or ceasing from
his spiritual duty with the soul of him who
lay upon the pavement.
`Ha, the Ghibeline chief? Hath he
known of my expedition to Milan, and would
he bar my road.'
`The Ghibeline chief doubtless knew of
thy expedition, my lord Visconti,' said a man
that stood near, leaning upon a broken
pike; `but this barricade hath another cause.
It chanced that half an hour since, Astor
de'Manfredi, the Guelph, attended by a
small company of his retainers at arms was
riding along this street, when meeting on
this spot, with the mad-cap son of Salvestro
de'Medici, they had some words together,
touching a maiden who equally favored
both, and drawing weapons, put their quarrel
to issue.'
`This is well. And how hung the victory?
' asked the young knight, with animated
interest.
`At first on the side of Astor de'Manfredi,
but a re-inforcement coming to the aid of
the Ghibeline, the Guelph was beaten off,
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
with the loss of four of his men. The elder
Medici, who headed the new force, on coming
up, barricaded the street to prevent
succor.'
`And this hath just happened?' demanded
the knight, impatiently.
`'Tis scarce ten minutes since Manfredi
fled towards the gate, pursued by the Medici
who outnumbered him four to one. Yonder
lies one of his esquires, at the last gasp.'
`So! my friend,' exclaimed the knight,
`this is a matter touching ourselves and our
honor. Let us to the rescue of young de'Manfredi,
and avenge the insult offered to
our faction. Send a smith hither! Nay,
break the stone in which the bolt is bedded,
with the heads of your battle axes!' he shouted.
`The Medici hath never driven bolt to
withstand the stroke of a Visconti!'
In a few moments the rough marble
block, in which the bolt upholding the chain
was imbedded, was shattered by the heavy,
smith-like blows of the men-at-arms.
`Now onward, to the Medici palace, to
which this passage leads. If our friends
are driven beyond it, we will assail the palace.
This stain de'Manfredi hath put upon
us must be wiped out! A Visconti! a Visconti!
'
`A Visconti', shouted the knight, and
men-at-arms, and at full speed the fiery
Guelphs galloped along the silent streets.
The sun was just rising, and gilding the topmost
towers of the Medici palace as they
came in sight of it; but the ardent knight
gave little heed to the effect of the sunlight
upon the blazing pinnacles, for at the end of
the street, and directly opposite the gate of
the magnificent mansion of his hereditary
foes, he saw Astor de'Manfredi, and the
remnant of his party, whose flight had been
checked at this spot by a chain thrown
across the street, gallantly defending himself
against nearly the whole of the Medici faction.
`Dost see the cowardly villains, how they
set upon and worry the brave knight like a
pack of hounds driving at a single stag! Ho,
my friends! Let us aid them, if we have to
do it with our lives! A Guelph! a Guelph!—
A Visconti! To the rescue.'
With those fierce and warlike cries, the
Guelphs headed by the fiery Visconti, came
down the narrow street with a noise like
thunder, and ere the Medici were well aware
of their presence, they were upon them!
In a few moments the tide of battle turned,
and the Medici retreated towards the gates
and porticoes of their palace. But Astor
de'Manfredi, burning with rage and shame
for his defeat, and Otho Visconti, animated
by a desire to punish the haughty victims,
were neither, by any meansd isposed to let
the affair terminate with the retreat of the
foe. The two young knights, as the Medici
were retiring, merely exchanged glances,
and the next instant the rival factions were
fighting hand to hand in the galleries and
courts of the palace. In vain old Salvestro
de'Medici shouted his war cry of `A Ghibelinga!
A Medici!' In vain the young defended,
with lion-like courage, the chief entrance
to the palace. Every where the
Guelphs effected an entrance and dispersed
the Ghibelines.
The young Visconti, seeing the Mediciean
chief fly along up the broad marble steps
leading to the interior of the palace, left his
knights to take possession of the lower
court, and followed in pursuit, ambitious of
making prisoner, in his own house, the head
of the opposing faction. On gaining the top
of the grand stair-case, he discovered him
just entering a distant door at the extremity
of a gorgeous saloon. Without hesitation
he followed, and entered after him. The
door instantly closed behind, and shut out
the noise of the conflict below. He found
himself, not without surprise, in the wing of
the palace appropriated to the ladies. His
first impulse was to withdraw, for feudal
hostility had its courtesies, and not less remarkable
was the gentleness with which the
females of the opposing parties were treated
on occasions like the present, than the hatred
that existed between the males. As he
was in the act of turning round to retire, a
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[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
female, who evidently did not divine his intention,
but only saw in his presence there
the most hostile purposes, suddenly threw
herself at his feet!
`Knight, save—spare my father!'
`Lady, I obey,' answered the youth respectfully.
`The lord of Medici is safe. Had I known
he had fled hither I should not have intruded.
Art thou, then, the lady Bianche?' he
asked, admiringly, as he gazed upon the
beautiful maiden.
`I am, my lord Visconti.'
`Ha, knowest thou me?' he demanded in
surprise.
`As other maidens of Florence do, by
seeing thee often ride by with thy men-at-arms.
'
`And I have heard of thee, lady, and of
thy wondrous beauty; but, by the rood, the
half hath not been told, now mine eyes behold
thee.'
Lady Bianche looked up into his face as
he spoke, for there was a frank sincerity in
his voice that impressed her; she then
blushed, and dropped her eyes.
`Santa Croce,' cried the knight, bluntly,
`thou hast beauty enough to make me turn
traitor.'
`Good Knight, unless thy words are the
breath of idle mocking, prove their sincerity
not by becoming a Ghibeline, but by staying
the slaughter in the palace!'
`It shall be as you say, fair Bianche, and
for thy sake, tell thy father, that in ten minutes
hence there shall not be one of his foes
within his palace. Fare-thee-well, sweet
Bianche. Hadst thou been Eve and I Adam,
I should have lost Paradise also.'
Lightly touching his lip to her snowy
fingers, the free young knight quitted her
presence. Bianche stood an instant with
her gaze fixed on the door through which
he had disappointed, and then clasping her
hands together, with a joyful smile said, in a
low tone,
`And have I then met face to face Otho
Visconti, whom for one year I have so devotedly
loved. Have I spoken with him?—has
he pressed his lip to my hand? Oh, too, too
happy, the bliss has been bought, I fear me,
with the loss of many a Medici's life; yet
therefore should I prize it more! and what
said he? `that my beauty would tempt him
to turn traitor—to forfeit Paradise!' and
these were not coined compliments of the lip!
I marked his eye and tone well as he uttered
them. But, alas! why have I been so mad
to cherish this love for the foe of my
house? why do I rejoice at a meeting which
will only be followed by long hours of useless
grief. We can never wed! A Ghibeline
and a Guelph. It has been done, though,
and may be done again! But why do I hope
this? He loves me not—nay—ne'er saw or
thought of me till to-day—though, alas, his
dear image has been months graven on my
heart! He thinks me beautiful. My face
struck him! He seems free and frank, and
might be won by my beauty, though my
love (which yet he dreams not of) may not
touch his heart. If heaven aid me I will
boldly seek to win him. My beauty shall
be the snare. If I but please his eye a
maiden, I will have time to win his love a
bride. Now, Bianche Medici, if thou wouldst
not have thy rich love cast back upon
thy heart, and perish there, and thou with
it, awaken thine energies! Otho Visconti
may yet be won.'
Thus soliloquized the haughty and beautiful,
yet deeply enamored Bianche, of
Medici; and boldly, perseveringly, and successfully,
did she make use of the power her
wonderful beauty had given her over the
senses, (not the heart,) of the young knight
of Visconti.
The passion of Bianche de'Medici was
singularly forwarded by a treaty between
the Guelphs and Ghibelines of Tuscany;
ratified a few days after the attack on the
Mediciean palace. It was to a diet called
for this purpose that Otho Visconti was on
his way when the discomfiture of Astor
de'Monfredi drew him and his party into the
melee.
The fruits of this treaty after thirty-three
years of constant hostility, were equally
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[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
enjoyed by both parties; for both sides were
well weary of fighting, and had long sighed
for a temporary suspension of arms. The
young knight of Visconti, remembering the
beauty of lady Bianche, soon became, therefore,
a voluntary visitant at the palace
which he had once entered as a foe.
The sweets of peace soon won the Florentines
to prize their truce, and in the interchanges
of mutual courtesies, and in repairing
the rents made in their fortunes and estates
by the protracted civil war, they were
not unwilling to let it remain undisturbed.
Bianche Medici soon established her power
over the mind of the gay Visconti; his
heart he had lost three years before in the
cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore! At
length, captivated by her illustrious beauty,
the young chief of the Guelphs offered his
hand in marriage to the daughter of the
leader of the Ghibeline faction. This intelligence
created throughout Florence no little
sensation. The body of the people received
it with joy as the precursor of a permanent
peace between the two rival houses. The
majority of the nobles on both sides were also
gratified to learn the contemplated union;
for one year's quiet and social intercourse
had made them in love with peace. There
were some few influential nobles of both
parties, who received the intelligence of this
contemplated union between the heads of the
belligerent houses with disapprobation; but
no one spoke openly his opinion. Thus the
nuptials were confirmed, and the day of the
ceremony of marriage was appointed.
The morning was not more bright and
cloudless than the spirit of Otho Visconti as
he pranced forth from the stately palace of
his ancestors in bridal pomp on his way to
the Mediciean palazzo to receive his bride
and conduct her to the church. He was
attended by a brilliant retinue of knights
and nobles, himself most conspicuous of all,
in silver armor and snowy casque, mounted
upon a milk white charger, which daintily
spurned the earth it moved upon. Beside
him a page led a beautiful palfrey for the
bride.
There was now no massive chains or oaken
barriers to disfigure, and give a warlike
aspect to the gay streets of Florence: but,
instead, the dwellings were hung with silken
banners, and the doors and windows were
filled with ladies waving scarfs, and dispensing
smiles on favored knights, which the
eyes of love singled out from the cavalcade.
The bridal cortege had passed the Ponte
Vecchio, and was winding round the statue
of Mars to enter the street leading to the
abode of Bianche de'Medici, when as the
bridegroom approached the Donati palace
which stood-near, he was thus addressed by
Astor de'Manfredi, who rode at his right
hand.
`Dost thou see, my lord, yonder tall and
stately matron, standing amid that galaxy of
maidens on the balcony of the Donati palace?
'
`I do, Manfredi,' answered the youthful
knight; `and, save my own noble mother,
never have I beheld a lady with such dignity
of presence. She doth remind me of one of
our ancient Roman matrons. See, does not
she look earnestly upon us?'
`She does, my lord. As I rode past an
hour since, she sent her page to ask me if it
were true the lord of Visconti were really to
wed with the Medici?'
Methinks she should have known it ere
she put such question!'
`'Twas not asked, I thought, as if for information,
my lord, but as if she sought
particular confirmation of a fact before well
understood.'
`And what answered you her page?'
asked the knight carelessly, at the same
controlling the fire of his steed, who started
at the fluttering pennons from the balconies
opposite to the Donati palace.'
That this day the factions of Guelph and
Ghibeline were to be united by the union of
the Visconti and Medici.'
`You answered well. Ha, dost mark?
There is no banner or sign of compliment
from the palace!'
She doubtless hath taken offence at this
marriage,' answered de'Manfredi as they
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
came opposite the palace, `but which all
men hail as the bond of peace in Florence.
She is too much Guelph to give her favor
to a Ghibeline. Look my lord! she waves
her hand to you.'
`In truth she doth! But we will pass on
nor heed her.'
`By her manner she will address you.'
`Then we will pause and listen; for ne'er
would I be so discourteous as to be wanting
in reverence to the noble lady Donati.'
As he spoke he reined in his charger, for
the matron in the meanwhile had stepped
forth upon the portico beneath which he was
passing, and again waved her hand commandingly.
`Stay thy gallant train, Otho Visconti,
till thou alight and enter my abode. I am
a Guelph as well as thou, and on this thy
bridal day, I would shame to have thee pass
my door unhonored. I have hung abroad no
silken banners to greet thy passage, but I
have prepared for thee a bridal gift meet for
a Visconti to receive, meet for a Donati to
bestow. Alight and enter that thou may'st
behold it!'
`Thou speakest fairly, noble lady!' answered
the knight courteously, `and the grace
of thy speech doth cancel thy want of banners!
Good knights, and gentlemen, by
your leave we will delay a brief moment,
that we may receive the gracious bridal
present of the noble lady.'
With these words the bride-groom alighted
and ascended the portico of the Palazzo,
`Follow me, Otho Visconti, to the room
where I have placed thy bridal gift. Know,
that my late lord Albert of Donati, conjointly
with thy noble father, the lord Valentino
Visconti, did before their deaths settle upon
this very bridal present for thee. In offering
it to thee now, I am but fulfilling their intentions.
'
Thus speaking, the dignified matron led
the way to an inner apartment, the sides of
of which were tapestried with silver cloth,
while the ceiling was vaulted and of a cerulean
hue spangled with stars. She silently conducted
him to the opposite side of this cham
ber to an ottoman, over which was cast an
ample veil.
`Beneath this veil Otho Visconti, lies the
bridal gift I have seventeen years guarded
for thee;' said the matron. `Behold,' she
cried, preparing to lift the screen, `the
bride thy father chose, and which I have reserved
for thee. Like thee she is Guelph;
whilst thou takest one from the enemies of
thy church and race!'
She drew aside the veil as she spoke, and
the astonished young knight beheld, reclining
upon the ottoman, a virgin of dazzling
beauty. A second glance was not necessary
to assure him that she was the mysterious
maiden who had robbed him of his heart
before the shrine of Santa Maria del Fiore!
She was in the full bud of Italian beauty at
seventeen! And she in return recognized
the handsome knight who had been the witness
of her devotions!
`Signora,' he answered, dazzled and enamored,
`I do accept the bridal gift thou hast
reserved for me; if,' he added, kneeling beside
the lovely maiden, `the gift itself have no dissentient
voice against such bestowal of her
hand and person?'
`The daughter of a Donati has no other
will than that of the head of her house!' answered
the Signora with firmness.
The knight looked at the lovely Elise,
and her blushes were more eloquent than
speech. She in her turn had not forgotten
the knight of the shrine, and the more she
let her thoughts run upon him the more she
suffered his memory to impress itself upon
her heart. Her eyes answered to his, and
love was triumphant!
`The bridal procession awaits thee!' said
the lady of Donati, sternly.
`I obey,' answered the young knight, and
taking the hand of the beauteous virgin, he
led her forth to the portico of the palace.
`Behold,' he said, standing beside her, her
hand held in his, `while on my way to seek
a Ghibeline bride, I have here found one of
our own race and faith. Let us proceed to
the church, my friends, and leave Ghibeline
to wed with Ghibeline.'
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Thus speaking, the fickle, yet also true
young knight, Visconti, mounted his bride
upon the palfrey, caparisoned and designed
for Bianche of Medici; and the cavalcade
turning from the street that led to the Mediciean
palace, proceeded to the Cathedral of
Santa Maria del Fiore; and there before the
shrine and altar where first he beheld the
lovely child who won his heart, he was united
to her, now become the most beautiful
maiden in Italy.
The bride elect, the haughty Bianche de'
Medici, with her train of maidens, knights,
and nobles, were impatiently awaiting the
arrival of the Visconti party when a messenger
came and communicated the news of
Otho Visconti's nuptial treachery. In an
instant the Ghibeline cavaliers were in the
saddle, and as the bridal procession reached
the Porte Vecchio, on its way to the Visconti
palace, it was attacked with a decision
and ferocity unparalleled in the wars of the
two factions. The Plaza Loggia was at
once turned into a battle field! Otho Visconti
while defending his bride fell by the
hand of the younger Medici at the foot of
the statue of Mars. At the same instant
Bianche de'Midici, the outraged bride of
the false and inconstant knight, appeared
sword in hand, mounted on her father's war
horse, her hair streaming in the wind, and
her whole bearing and aspect that of an
avenging Amazon. Her base bridegroom
had fallen ere she reached him; but the bosom
of Elise lay open to her vengeance,
and her glittering blade was instantly dyed
with the blood of the virgin bride! Elise
fell and expired upon her husband's body!
`No,' she cried springing to the ground
and casting her aside; `even in death they
shall not be united. This place alone is
mine!'
With these words she passed her sword
through her own bosom and fell dead, clasping
the recreant bridegroom's corpse in
her arms.
Thus once more was revived the feud between
the Guelphs and Ghibelines, which
continued for more than a century, without
cessation. Blood atoned for blood, and
Florence, and the major part of Italy, was
daily the scene of sanguinary contests.
Once more chains were thrown across the
streets, and barricades constructed in every
quarter, and around every palace. The
Ghibelines at length became masters of
Florence, and banished every Guelph noble
from the city. The palace of the Visconti,
and thirty-six others belonging to illustrious
families of that party, were demolished, and
peace was once more established to be broken
by some cause as light as that which has
furnished the subject of this feudal tale.
-- --
MY UNCLE THE COLONEL, With the Story of MY UNCLE'S FRIEND THE PICKPOCKET.
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
My uncle, the colonel, was a handsome
bachelor of forty, and a lustre over, and
lived in hired `lodgings' in Liberty street.
He chose this street on account of its name,
wishing thereby to illustrate his own liberty
from the vinculi matrimonii. For the same
reason his landlady was an old maid. My
uncle had many peculiarities. My uncle,
the author of `Howard Pinckney' would have
called him a `character!' One of his most
marked peculiarities was a constitutional
fear of the female sex. It was genuine fear.
He was afraid of them just as children are
intimidated by strangers. In walking the
streets he would shy away from the path of
an elderly personage of the sex, and almost
leap into the gutter if he unexpectedly met
a pretty black-eyed maiden. Boardingschools
were his horror. He would go round
three squares to avoid passing one, and an
advancing group of misses of `sweet sixteen,'
tripping along to school, would drive him
down the first by-street. `Stewart's,' in
Broadway, was his terror. Once his way
was blocked up there by a bevy of beauties,
chatting, and ever taking leave, and
stopping to chat again, again to take leave.
His first impulse was to turn back, but
three lovely girls were coming directly behind
him. He would have darted into the
first store, but it was thronged with ladies!
In despair he waved his gold-headed cane to
an advancing omnibus. It drove to the curbstone.
His foot was on the step, his hand
upon the side of the entrance.
`Go on;' cried the fickle-faced ticketboy.
My uncle, at this instant, made a
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
desperate and successful leap backward. There
were five females and three babies in the
omnibus!
`Stop! the gem'man's out!' cried the boy,
pulling the bell. `No, go on. He don'
wan' ride—he's flunk!' growled he as Jehu
whipped up his high-ribbed steeds. My uncle
succeeded in gaining the Park side of
Broadway, and eventually in reaching his
lodgings.
Of all things, he most disliked to have a
pretty woman look at him with any attention.
Thrice he exchanged rooms on this
account. In the first instance, in the front
window of the house next to his own dwelling,
there was for ever seated a young lady,
not very pretty, but very vain and bold, before
whose unwinking eyes he had to run
the gauntlet from the moment he closed the
street door till he got out of sight, and from
the moment he came in sight till he was
safely sheltered with the door closed behind
him. He bore until the first of May, and
then finding that family were not going to
move, moved himself. From these rooms
he was driven by a saucy, laughing, handsome
chambermaid opposite, who, it seemed
to him, had nothing to do but to look out of
the upper windows into his own, and watch
him whenever he went out or came in from
the street. In the end she drove my uncle
away, and so he came to Liberty street.
Nearly opposite his rooms was a row of
ware-houses, from the sheet-ironed plated
windows of which he had no danger to apprehend;
and the mayor and one of the
aldermen living within a door or two, he felt
he had nothing to fear. It is true, since
occupying these rooms, he had caught a
glimpse of the face of a very pretty girl between
the Venetian blinds of a window
which starled him not a little (for he had,
as he thought, previously well surveyed the
neighborhood), but not discovering her a
second time, his apprehensions, which had
began to take the alarm, subsided. Venetian
blinds made him nervous! He felt,
while walking through those streets mostly
composed of private dwelling-houses, as if
passing between masked batteries. It was
sufficiently dreadful to be stared at openly
by female eyes, but the bare idea of being
the object of concealed glances, he could
with difficulty endure. It put him into a
perspiration. My poor uncle, the colonel!
It was constitutional with him. His heart,
too, was large and generous—the best woman
in the world would have been honored
and happy in its love.
My uncle had a great horror of being
suspected of being a rogue! With the exterior
of a respectable middle-aged gentleman,
slightly distinguished by the high air
of the `old school,' possessing a handsome
fortune, and holding a highly honorable position
in society, he was, singularly enough,
constantly in fear of being taken for a pickpocket,
a counterfeiter, or, more latterly,
for a defaulter. He never met `Old Hays,'
without suddenly turning pale, and looking
so very like a rogue, that were it not for
the undoubted gentlemanly air and address
inherent in him, and not to be mistaken, he
might have had the honor of cultivating
that gentleman's acquaintance. Once, indeed,
to his utter consternation and vivid
alarm, the High Constable fixed on him his
keen, penetrating glance with such a look of
suspicion, that my uncle did not leave the
house again for several days. He never
passed the Egyptian tombs; nor sallied by
Sing-sing or Blackwell's Island without a
sinking of the heart. In travelling, this apprehension
of being taken for a rogue was
most active. At one time, he used to wear
a costly watch, a massive gold chain across
his vest, a diamond broach, and a rich signet
ring, all of which, in the cars, or on steamers,
he anxiously displayed, so that no one
might suspect him of need, and of having a
design upon their pockets. But having
learned that such lavish display of jewelry
was characteristic of finished rogues, and
that the gamblers at Vicksburg might have
been hung in the gold chains they wore
about their necks, he at once laid them aside,
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
and henceforward was as destitute of ornaments
as a Methodist divine. Lucklessly,
this amiable sensitiveness of my uncle, on
one occasion, was seriously tried. He was
passenger on one of the North River night
boats from Albany to the city, when, just before
her arrival, at seven in the morning, a
gentleman on board announced the loss of
his pocket-book, containing bank notes to
the amount of eight thousand dollars. My
uncle was on the promenade deck when the
rumor reached him. He became as pale as
death, and looked on every side as if seeking
a way of escape. The boat was brought
to, men were posted at the various avenues
of the boat, a police officer was sent for,
and an individual search of the passengers
began. At length the searching committee
ascended to the upper deck. Besides my
uncle, there were five or six other gentlemen
there, one of whom, a well-dressed gentleman
of high-toned manners, observing his
pallid looks, approached him as the search
was going on below, and said, sympathizingly,
`My dear sir, I see by your countenance
you have the pocket-book, but I will not betray
you.'
`I, sir—I—God forbid. No, sir—no!'
gasped my uncle.
`I see how it is with you, my dear sir; but
don't let them search you. They have no
right to search any gentleman.'
`Search me! Suspect me, of being a
pickpocket! I have feared this all my
life!'
`Take my advice; do not let them search
you.'
They shall not search me; no! I, Colonel
Peter Treat, a pickpocket, sir! I will blow
out my brains! I pick a pocket for eight
thousand dollars, sir! I have checks for
twice that sum in my own pocket-book?
See there, sir!' and my uncle, with the energy
of despair, fear and grief, took out his
pocket-book and displayed them. I, a pickpocket,
sir!'
He returned his book to his pocket, and
buttoned up his coat. `They shall not
search me!' he said, resolutely.
`No, sir. It were as well to be guilty as
to be suspected. What is a man's fair character
good for if it will not protect him from
insult at such a time as this?' said the stranger,
indignantly.
`True, sir! You speak very truly, sir.
I like your sentiments, sir. I should be
happy to know you better, sir! There is
my card, sir—Colonel Peter Treat, sir!
No. —, Liberty street.'
The searchers for the lost pocket-book
soon afterwards ascended to the upper deck,
and the stranger walked carelessly towards
them as if intending to pass by them and go
down.
`Stay, sir, if you please,' said the captain
of the boat. This gentleman here has
lost his pocket-book, and that it has been
cut from his pocket is plain, because the
lining of the pocket is also cut out. Of
course we cannot suspect you, sir; but every
gentleman among those who are strangers
to him, will certainly wish to place himself
above suspicion. I need not, therefore, ask
you, sir, if you will permit yourself to be
searched.'
`I had the vanity to suppose, sir,' said the
stranger, smiling blandly, `that my personal
appearance and address would have been a
guarantee for my honesty. Is that your
pocket-book, sir; or are the contents yours,
sir?' he asked, turning his back towards my
uncle, as he took out and opened a large red
pocket-book.
`No, sir.'
`You may search me farther, officer,'
said the stranger, with complacency.
The search of his person proceeded, and
then the captain, Gil Hays, the officer, and
the loser, passed on to the others, while he
disappeared below. My uncle, in the meanwhile,
by his evident desire to avoid them,
attracted the sharp eye of the officer, who,
from his very singular conduct, set him down
in his heart as the pickpocket, and kept his
eye upon him. He hurried over the search
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
of the remainder, and walked towards my
uncle, whispering in an undertone to the
gentleman with him,
`He has it, on my life!'
His pale face and rigid features, on which
sat mingled despair and resolution, were certainly
very much against my uncle. The
fatal moment to which his spirit seemed, for
years, to have looked forward, had now
arrived. He sat like death as they approached.
`Your pardon, sir, but we must be allowed
to search you,' said the captain, with far
less courtesy than he had used to the other—
for most convincingly was my uncle's appearance
against him.
`Are you the captain of this boat, sir?' he
demanded, with the pride of a true but sensitive
gentleman at such a crisis.
`I am, sir. And for the honor of it, must
take the liberty to see that its character does
not suffer through rogues. Will you suffer
yourself to be searched, sir?'
`Searched! Rogues! Sir, I will not be
searched. I am no rogue! No, sir. Am I
not a gentleman? Do I not look like one?
Have I any gold chains, rings, or diamond
pins about me? Look at me, sir! I am a
gentleman of honor and respectability. As
my friend, who just left me, remarked, what
is character if it will not protect its owner
at such a time? Sir, I am indignant—I am
grieved! I shall never feel that I am a
gentleman after this, my birth and character
not having been sufficient to protect me
from suspicion.'
My uncle spoke with feeling. His pride
of character was wounded. The officer,
nevertheless, was inexorable, and would
have forcibly searched him, when the loser
interfered.
`I am satisfied,' he said; `the gentleman
has had injustice done him, and I shall not
let the search proceed.'
My uncle breathed again. His pride of
character was spared. He could yet respect
himself!
`But, sir, I am not satisfied,' said the cap
tain, and my uncle's heart sunk below zero.
`The honor of my boat has been injured,
and must be redeemed by the proof that you
have really lost a pocket-book. This is no
trifling matter, sir.'
`I will not sacrifice my self-respect by letting
any man search my pockets for the
honor of twenty steamboats, sir,' now spoke
my uncle, resolutely.
Hereupon, the captain was about to search
him vi et armis. when several New York
gentlemen who had heard the dispute from
below, made their appearance on the upper
deck. One of them was president of the
bank in which my uncle's funds were deposited,
and the others, men of name and note,
knew him personally, and were well acquainted
with the eccentricities of his character.
They saw, at a glance, how things
stood.
`Ah, colonel,' said the president of the
bank, smiling and extending his hand to my
uncle, so they have got you under this searching
ordeal!'
`So you know this passenger?' asked the
captain, aside.
`Certainly. I trust you have been guilty
of no rudeness. It is Colonel Treat, descended
from an old revolutionary family, a
noble and honorable gentleman, but with
some peculiarities. Will he suffer himself
to be searched?'
`No.'
`Then let him pass, Mr. Hays. He has
not the pocket-book no more than you or I
have. It is his very high but mistaken
sense of honor that leads him to repudiate
even suspicion.'
The other gentlemen bore the same testimony
to my uncle's honorable and worthy
character, and the captain politely apologized
to him, and saying that he was satisfied
from testimony of these gentlemen, that
he was innocent, left him.
Still my uncle's pride was wounded. He
was not satisfied because more weight was
placed in his friend's assurance than in his
own appearance. It was his favorite theory
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
that a true gentleman can travel the world
over without a letter of introduction. He
was inconceivably mortified to find the talisman
fail him here.
The boat was, soon afterwards, moored
alongside the pier (the pocket-book yet
unfound), and the passengers dispersed in
every direction to their hotels and homes.
On my uncle's arrival at his rooms, he shut
himself up, and paced the floor an hour before
he could reconcile himself by coolly
surveying the circumstances to the suspicion
he had incurred. At length he became more
composed, cast himself into an easy chair,
and lighted a segar to seal that composure.
But at every seventh whiff he would remove
it from his lips, and repeat with indignant
surprise, `Suspect me of having the pocket-book!
'
At one of these ejaculations he thought of
feeling to see if his own pocket-book was
safe. He placed his hand on the outside of
his coat over the usual repository. It was
not there! Quicker than lightning he felt
the other pocket, and a glow of pleasure
chased away the paleness of his cheek.
`How could I have put it in that pocket.
Ah! doubtless when I took it out to convince
that gentlemanly stranger. I liked
the sentiments he expressed. They are
those of a man of honor and chivalrous gentleman.
He, now, is one of my true, well-bred
men! His address is a passport to the
best society, and to the confidence of all
well-bred men. There is a free-masonry by
which one gentleman will recognize another.
I should be happy to know him. I should
ask no introduction. Yet I now remember
he suffered himself to be searched. But he
seemed to be in a hurry to go down, and
perhaps had no time to resent their impertinence.
If that captain were a true gentleman,
I would call him out and make him
apologize for the insult upon me. Suspect
me of having the pocket-book!'
As he repeated this he put his hand in his
pocket to change his pocket-book to its customary
pocket, and was passing it from one
hand to the other without seeing it, when
something unfamiliar in its size and touch,
caused him to glance at it. He looked
aghast! It was not his own pocket-book!
For a moment he sat gazing upon it immovable.
A sudden suspicion—a horrible idea—
a fearful misgiving flashed upon him. He
tore it open with nervous fingers. It contained
rolls of bills. With forced composure
he took them out one after another,
and counted them. There were eight rolls,
each containing a thousand dollars! There
was the name:—Russel R. Russel, written
upon the leather. He now remembered
having heard the loser, on the boat, called
Mr. Russel. With silent horror and despair,
such as my uncle, only, could suffer at such
a discovery, he rose up and approached his
bureau. On it was an ornamented mahogany
case. He opened it, took out a pistol,
and deliberately commenced loading it. Not
a word had he uttered. Not a single exclamation
had escaped him. He only sighed
from time to time heavily. It has been seen
that there was much simplicity of character
about my uncle. He assuredly now believed
that he had, tempted by the devil, in some
absent moment, picked Russel R. Russel's
pocket. Now, after all that had passed
when they would have searched him, after
the honorable testimony of his friends, what
could he do but blow out his brains? This
he now resolved to do. He at length completed
the loading of the pistol, and laid it
down. Then taking one of his cards, he
wrote in pencil upon it,
`I do believe I am innocent of this thing,
as I am an honorable gentleman. How it
came into my possession, I am as ignorant
as the child unborn.
P. Treat.'
He laid the pocket-book and card together
upon his table, and took up his pistol and
cocked it. He paused a moment to commit
his soul to God—for my uncle was too courteous
and esteemed himself too much on his
breeding, to rush rudely into the presence of
his Maker—and then placed the muzzle of
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[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
the fatal weapon against his temple. A
shriek at this moment pierced his ears—his
hand trembled—the ball shivered his mirror
into a thousand-and-one pieces, and the
smoking weapon fell at his feet:
It was his washerwoman.
My uncle sternly waved her away, but
she would not leave! He put her out and
locked the door against her.
The shriek and report of the pistol alarmed
the household, and raised the neighborhood.
The house was besieged from the street and
his rooms assailed from within. In the
street, the rumor flew that a murder had
been done. In the house, every soul believed
that the Colonel had killed himself.
The mob sent for police officers, and the
landlady screamed for `hammer and tongs.'
What was my uncle to do? His desperation
had wound his resolution once up to
the suicidal point—but the defeat of his object
had let it run down a degree or two.
He looked at the pistol, stretched forth his
hand to take it up and then slowly drew it
back and shook his hand. He felt his resolution
was no longer up to the killing point.
The cord had been drawn to its tension and
was suddenly relaxed! It would have required
precisely the same force of causes as
at first to reproduce the effect. If my
uncle had time given him, he might, by
going over the whole affair, possibly have
again worked himself a second time, up to
the critical point below which no man can
require sufficient nerve to blow his brains
out. But the sovereign people without and
the sovereign landlady within, would give
him no time to rekindle the flame of his
wrongs. The door was burst open and in
rushed the head of a human current which
reached to the street. My uncle stood in
the centre of the room with folded arms, the
discharged pistol at his feet, and in his eyes,
a look of calm desperation.
`Take me! I am the man,' he said in a
deep tone that checked their advance.
An officer forced his way through the
crowd, and glanced with a quick scrutiniz
ing eye about the apartment. He then took
up the pistol.
`Discharged! Where is the man he has
killed?'
`Surely, sir,' interposed the landlady, `he
has killed no body, but liked to killed himself,
the poor gentleman, and one of my
regulerest paying lodgers too. It would ha'
been a pity! Thank the Lord he is safe and
sound.'
`So, sir. There has been no murder
committed then,' said Mr. Hays, glancing a
second time about the corners of the room
and then looking into the muzzle of the
pistol as if he would fain read there `some
dark tale of blood.'
`No, sir, no murder. But bid these go—
bid these gazers go—I cannot bear the gaze
of human eyes! Bid them go,' he whispered
hoarsely, `and I'll tell thee what has been
done.'
The officer stared, and then cleared the
room, by saying no murder had been committed.
The crowd soon dispersed from
within and without, and my uncle was left
alone with the police officer.
`I will tell thee what has been done. Do
you remember me?' asked my uncle in a
low impressive tone, bending his face close
to his.
`Certainly I do,' answered the man who
never forgot a face, the eyes of which he
had once looked into.
`You did not search me.'
`No.'
`Ha, ha,' laughed my uncle wildly. `Ha,
ha!'
`What am I to understand by—'
`You did not search me—no—no! I
would not be searched. No, no! Ha, ha ha.'
`Why, dear sir' you are ill,' said Hays,
kindly; you had best lie down.'
`Lie down. You did not think I had it.'
`Had what?'
`The pocket-book,' answered my uncle,
bringing his lips close to the officer's ear
and speaking in a tone as if he feared the
walls would hear the communication. Alas,
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
my poor uncle, his reason was leaving
him.
`The pocket-book.'
`Ay, sir, the pocket-book,' shouted my
uncle in a voice of thunder. `Look there,
sir.' And he stood for an instant pointing
with a rigid finger and ghastly visage towards
the table.
The officer took up the pocket-book with
hesitation which was instantly followed by
an exclamation of surprise as he read the
name of Russel R. Russel, on the leather
band. It took him but an instant to count
the sum it contained. The whole of my
uncle's present conduct he now attibuted to
guilt. Without giving him any credit for
his confession, he went up to him as he still
stood pointing to the table rigidly and stiffly
with a most fearful expression on his face,
and said quietly to him—
`Sir, I arrest you as my prisoner.'
Then my uncle's hand fell powerless at his
side—the muscles of his face relaxed, his
eyes lost their hard, stony glare, and placing
his arm in that of the officer, he motioned
him to proceed.
The police judge started from his bench,
when he saw my uncle led in before him in
custody of a police officer, for he personally
knew my uncle and esteemed him.
`Some mistake, Mr. Hays! No?' he asked,
looking with anxious solicitude at the officer.
`No, sir, Mr. Russel's pocket-book is
found in his possession.'
`It is impossible. There is some error.'
`There is the pocket-book, sir, which I
myself found on his table in his private
room.'
`By — there's some mistake, Hays,'
reiterated justice Bloodgood. Colonel
Treat, be so good as to explain your appearance
here.'
My uncle made no answer, but stood with
his arms folded across his breast, gazing
upon vacancy. Several gentlemen were
sent for who were his friends, and at length
they succeeded by the tenderest sympathy
with his feelings in drawing from all that he
knew in relation to it.
`Some villain when the search commenced,
placed it in your pocket,' said the
President of the Bank when the brief narration
was ended. With checks for fifteen
thousand dollars about you, you would have
enough to do to take care of your own pockets,
without thrusting your fingers into
another man's.'
`How did you know I had these?' asked
my uncle.
`I was aware of your receiving them at
Albany, yesterday, and besides, it is not
half an hour since you sent them to be
cashed.'
`I sent them!' exclaimed my uncle—`let
me tell you, gentlemen, that my pocket-book
and all it contained, was taken, and this
was substituted for it!' This was the first
time my uncle had thought of his own loss!
The exclamations of surprise were general.
`The rogue, whoever he was, made the
exchange after the search commenced,' said
Hays, after a moment's reflection. It must
have been some one, too, who knew your
pocket-book was of the most value. You
see, gentlemen, with what refinement of roguery
this was probably done! Did you
hold conversation with any one, sir,
after the loss of the pocket-book?' asked
Hays, with deep interest.
`No, sir,' answered my uncle, `save with
a quiet gentleman, whose sentiments and
mine singularly harmonized. I could not
suspect him.'
`Who was he?' asked the officer, abruptly.
A stranger, but of most affable and commanding
address. We were discussing together
the loss, when,' added my uncle,
with great simplicity, `to assure him I had
no need to pick any man's pocket I took
my pocket-book and showed him the contents.
`That affable gentleman, is the man,' exclaimed
Hays. Which of those upon the
upper deck was he?'
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
`He who first went down—but surely, he
could not—'
`He is the man.'
`Wore he an olive green coat with velvet
collar, and a white beaver hat, and were his
complexion and hair sandy?' asked the
President, with painful interest.
`It was,' said Hays and my uncle in the
same breath.
`It is he then to whom my teller paid the
checks soon after the bank opened. You
perceive, Mr Justice, that there has been
deep roguery here, and that Colonel Treat
has been more sinned against than sinning.'
`Colonel Treat is honorably discharged,'
said the Justice. `Mr. Hays, here is a police
warant for that rogue. He must be
brought here before sunset.'
`I think I have the clew to him,' said old
Hays, who was present. If you will be so
kind as to remain half an hour, gentlemen, I
think I can show Colonel Treat his travelling
friend.'
In less than half an hour, the High Constable
returned to the police court leading in
the gentleman whose sentiments were so congenial
with my unfortunate uncle's. The
`affable gentleman' confessed and delivered
up eight thousand dollars of the fifteen he
had received. The balance, he said he
had sent out of town to a partner, but said
he would restore it if the plaintiff declined
prosecuting, within ten days. My uncle
who had heard with painful astonishment,
the confession of his friend, felt no disposition
to prosecute, and the prisoner was
permitted to address a letter to Boston,
with the understanding that he was to be
kept in confinement until the expiration of
the ten days. His companions, be it here
recorded, governed by that principle of
union and honor that exists among organized
rogues, were not tempted even for seven
thousand dollars to make a sacrifice of their
less fortunate friend to the law, and promptly
forwarded the amount to Justice Bloodgood.
From that time my uncle lost all faith in
the outward seeming of a gentleman, judged
of men and manners more correctly and judiciously,
parted from much of his sensitive
pride and exclusiveness of character, and
became wiser and happier for it. But ever
afterwards he took a higher ground than
he had built his favorite theory upon, and
contended that no man could be a gentleman
but one whose spirit was imbued with
the principles and precepts of true christianity.
THE END.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1846], The spectre steamer, and other tales (United States Publishing Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf203].
