Chapter III: Part 3

“This,” said Aunt Mary, “is Adelan’s study and yours. That door opposite yours leads to Adelan’s room, and here you are both free to come, whenever you wish, secure from interruption. These are your own apartments, subject to your own control. Adelan has often wished I had a daughter to cheer her solitary hours—now Providence has kindly bestowed upon me a daughter.”

Both aunt and niece tenderly caressed me when my grateful tears began to flow, and tried all in their power to dispel every feeling of restraint. If I am not content here it will be my own fault—were it not for the agonizing recollection that weighs on me like lead, that never again on earth am I to see my mother, I should even be happy. But, Father above, grant unto me a spirit of resignation; let me not grieve these kind friends by my wretchedness; teach me that in another world we shall meet again.

* * * * *

My mother spent all her childhood and girlhood at this beautiful place. My Uncle Walter’s father lived here, and this was her home for many years. How often have I heard her describe every place about it. Aunt Mary tells me the house is different, and that some changes have been made in the arrangement of the grounds. My aunt brought her husband a handsome fortune, which enabled him to put up a fine, commodious mansion-house on the estate, and throw more of the land into the immediate grounds of the house.

Mountains surround us on all sides. A rapid, dashing stream rolls along some distance from the house, and an undulating lawn sweeps down from the back part of the house to it. It is a wild, romantic spot. This morning on awakening I threw on my dressing-gown, and passing through “our study,” as Adelan calls our pleasant room, stepped out on the balcony. It was early morn, and I watched the curling mists sweep up the sides of these bluish green hills, forming themselves into fantastic shapes, as they felt the penetrating heat and light of the sun. They curled, waved, rolled together, and as the sun rose higher, beaming upon them, they gradually melted away. I gazed with an elevated spirit, then turned back to my sleeping-room, and kneeling, thanked God fervently for having made so beautiful a world. In such moments I feel my blessed mother near me, and the fancied waving of her angel wings brings gentle soothings to my wailing spirit.

* * * * *

I have been here now two months, and how quickly has sped the time. I am quite domesticated. I ride on horseback in the morning and evening with Uncle Walter; walk, sing and play duets with dear Adelan; and read with Aunt Mary. She is studying German of me, and after our lesson is over I read to her from the works of my “_vaterland_.” She is fond of books and study, and her heart responded when I read to her to-day those hopeful cheering lines of Novalis.

“Let him who is unhappy in the outdoor world—who finds not what he seeks—let him go into the world of books and art—into Nature, that eternal antique and yet eternal novelty—let him live in that _Ecclesia pressa_ of the better world. Here he will be sure to find a beloved and a friend—a fatherland and a God.”

These words sound to my ears like my mother’s strong heart words. Blessed mother! thou art ever with me!

* * * * *

We paid a visit yesterday to some very nice people, who live four or five miles off, across the mountains; and yet they are our nearest neighbors. The day passed delightfully. It was a true summer outdoor visit. There was a large family of beautiful children; fine, noble-looking boys, and bright-eyed, laughing girls. They grew fond of me, and twined their arms about me tenderly. I taught them German games, into which they entered with spirit, and I quite forgot in their shouts of merry, gleeful laughter, the heavy, tearful cloud that hung over me when I awakened in the morning. We returned by moonlight; my aunt and Adelan in the carriage, uncle and I on horseback. The road for the greater part of the way lay beside the beautiful Undine stream, that gurgles and dashes daily before my eyes, as I look from the balcony. I slackened the reins of my horse, and my uncle kindly loitered with me beside the dancing waters, whose fairy billows glittered with the moon’s silvery rays. The rich silver flood of light that came pouring down from heaven touched every wavelet that went dancing along, as if rejoicing in its snowy crest. I wished I could linger by this flashing streamlet all night, and when a turning of the road bore me from the sparkling, joyous waters, I sighed inwardly a sad, unwilling good-bye, as I would in childhood to a darling playmate—nay, to crowds of playmates—for in the tiny white-crested billows I fancied the shining locks and flashing eyes of the lovely water-nymphs; the rippling dash of the waters I told myself was their sweet spirit-talk. It was a lovely, moonlight, waking dream to me.

* * * * *

Adelan is quite a pretty girl, I think—little and delicate in form, and merry and bright as a bird. She is a sunbeam to us. She chants and warbles all the day long. Her voice is very melodious, and great care has been taken in its culture—indeed much care has been given to her education. She is a great heiress, I am told, inheriting a large property; and Lizzie, the little maiden who waits upon us, said to me this morning, as I was looking at Adelan on the lawn from my room window, that old Nancy, the nurse, had told her “Miss Adelan would marry Mr. Lewis sometime.” This “Mr. Lewis” is my aunt and uncle’s only son, who I have never seen; as he is away finishing his studies at a university. In the fall he will have completed them, and will then return to his home. A picture of him as a bright-looking, handsome boy hangs in Aunt Mary’s dressing-room. She talks of him constantly, with much affection and pride, and his letters prove that he is affectionate as well as clever in mind. Adelan has never displayed any embarrassment when talking of him. Strange if she loves him and yet preserve it so secretly from me, for she is a warm-hearted, frank creature, and innocent and artless as a young child; but Love—sad, naughty Love—teaches, even the most guileless, art.

This morning we both arose very early and wandered out in the mountain paths, far from the house, long before breakfast. Nurse Nancy would make us eat before starting, one of her white rolls, which, with a glass of the sparkling spring-water, quite invigorated us. The sun shone brightly, and the clear blue sky with its wavy, wreathy clouds were reflected in the quiet parts of the stream most vividly. As we roamed along we came to a rude bridge that spanned our beautiful stream. It was a spot of peculiar beauty—high mountains environed us, covered with tall trees of luxuriant foliage. Dashing and foaming along came the mountain waters, and as they rolled away they formed cascades in their impetuous flow. The sky above was blue; rich, heavy clouds at times obscured the brilliancy of the blessed sun; but as we paused upon the bridge, the clouds swept aside and the sun shone out brightly. The dancing, coquettish waves, as they caught the glittering sunbeams, seemed to leap along their rocky bed more joyously, and made me almost certain I could see the wild, reckless Undine spirits of the flood. I had brought my camp-stool and sketching-paper with me, for it pleases my uncle to find beside his plate at the breakfast-table sketches of our morning rambles, and this beautiful view I determined to secure for him. Adelan left me making my sketch, to gather wild flowers. She came up to me at last, with a handfull of St John’s wort, fox-glove, wild roses, and sweet violets. When I was a child and used to gather wild flowers for my mother, she would repeat to me a simple little story, which she called “Woman’s Hopes.” Adelan’s bunch reminded me of it, and as she threw herself beside me on the grass I repeated it to her.

“Some merry, laughing children were tripping along gayly, one bright summer’s morning, when they stopped to admire and gather the road-side flowers. The flowers had just awakened from their sleep and were in tears.

“‘Languish not, pretty ones,’ said the children caressingly, ‘you shall be our dearly loved flowers. We will take you home with us, give you fresh spring-water, and set you before a mirror which shall reflect your beauties.’

“One gay, vain little flower, at these bright promises, lifted up its drooping head, rolling off the sparkling dewy drops proudly, but the little humble violet sighed, for it knew its moments were numbered. A few short hours passed, and the sportive children were chasing butterflies—but the poor wild flowers! where were they? Cast aside and forgotten!”

* * * * *

Summer is fast waning—a year has passed since my blessed mother died. What agony I suffered then, and how wildly I wished for death. So lonely and cheerless seemed my future without her sweet smile and heart-cheering words. But Heaven has raised up dear friends to me, and has granted unto me a sweet peaceful frame of mind. My mother’s death has been hallowed unto me. Faith and resignation have been bestowed upon me. I see before me a reunion with her in another world. Now, my life-path is no longer gloomy, and I feel that I can rouse my suffering spirit. As my mother used to wish, I have learned to _act_ as well as _meditate_. I do not often permit myself to contemplate and brood over past sorrows. I do not permit myself even to take up this little book, unless I am sure my mind is in a healthy state; but when sad, languid feelings come over me, I rouse myself, and shake off the morbid sentimentality to which woman is so prone. “I hear the voice of my soul—thy actions, and thy actions alone, determine thy worth.”

I practice with Adelan, read with Aunt Mary, and share my uncle’s outdoor exercises, of which he is so fond; and how happy it makes me to see that they look for my coming, and feel that every occupation must be shared with me. I know my mother would smile upon me if she were alive, and feel that I had tried to discover my mission, and perform its duties. How often I repeat to myself those lines of hers, and they give me strength.

Thy earthly bonds are tightening,
Thy powers are failing fast,
Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,
And break these chains at last.

Thy angel wings are drooping,
Earth clogs them all around;
The spirit’s flight is heavenward,
Why then to earth art bound?

Why thou art banished heaven,
’Twill yield thee naught to know;
Thy duties are before thee,
Why sink to rest below?

Earth slowly gathers o’er thee,
Soon, soon thou wilt be bound,
And all thy heavenly beauty
In death’s strong clasp be found.

The remembrance of thy heavenly life
Has’t left no trace with thee?
Gone, are the spirit’s longings,
The sighing to be free?

Oh! raise those wings of beauty,
Shake off each earthly clod,
And Psyche-like uprising,
Seek union with thy God!

* * * * *

Great preparations have been made—the whole house has been in a state of bustling hurry for weeks. Each one has been anxious to perform their part; and the secret of this is, that the son of the family, “the young master,” our Cousin Lewis, is to return home. To-day he is expected. The final touch has been given to every thing. I have just visited every part of the house and grounds with my uncle and aunt, to satisfy them all was right. His rooms are fairy spots. They adjoin his mother’s dressing-room—the same rooms he occupied in childhood, but newly fitted up. Adelan, Aunt Mary and myself have just completed for these rooms a set of furniture covers, of the most beautiful embroidery. Bouquets of the rarest flowers, Sandy has spared from the conservatory, for they all say “Master Lewis is so fond of flowers.” A year has passed since he visited his home—he was here just a few months before I arrived—it has been five years since he has remained any length of time at home, now he has completed his studies, and will have no need to leave his family again. He brings with him a college friend, a Mr. Turner, who will remain with him some time. I dread the change this will make in our quiet life; but I must not, it is selfish; this change, though irksome to me, brings happiness to others.

As I sit writing, I can lift my eyes and see Adelan decking her beautiful head. Her room-door is open, and she has been tripping around for the last half hour, performing her _toilette_. A grand dinner-party is to greet this arrival of our cousin and his friend, and Adelan is preparing herself for it. She does not know I am watching her. Now she holds a consultation with little Lizzie about the arrangement of a knot of ribbon, and Lizzie’s face bears such an expression of admiration and anxiety blended that it is amusing. How lovely Adelan looks; her beautiful curls sweep over her finely moulded neck and shoulders, and her bright eyes and cunning, rosy mouth have a more mischievous, saucy expression than ever. Ah! Cousin Adelan, is that little heart looking forward to the approach of a lover in this Cousin Lewis?

* * * * *

Our cousin is here, and his friend. How handsome—how spiritual-looking is he; not the friend, but Lewis. He resembles his mother most; has her high, intellectual brow, and soft, beaming, melting, dark eyes. He is very interesting. They did not arrive until just before dinner, and as many of our friends had assembled in the drawing-room, I was presented to my Cousin Lewis in the midst of this company. Dear Uncle Walter and Aunt Mary introduced me to him as his “Sister Ida.” My heart was full, my eyes became dim, and ears throbbed; but I heard his gentle greeting words with pleasure. His friend Frank Turner is pleasant looking, and agreeable, but is quite thrown in the shade in my cousin’s presence. Who would not be though? Adelan looks very happy and joyous, and Cousin Lewis regards her with evident delight. Blessed—happy girl!

* * * * *

Gay parties have succeeded one another in hasty eagerness for weeks past. All the neighbors for miles around seem anxious to make much of the new comers. At the houses of the most intimate friends I have gone, where I would meet the smallest parties, but my sombre mourning-dress keeps me from general society, and my spirit feels harassed and wearied in large companies. These gayeties bring me many lonely hours. My aunt’s German studies are laid aside for the present, and Adelan is up so late at night she cannot arise early for our morning rambles; even the horseback rides have to be given up partly, so busy are they going here and there. The house is filled with visiters, and all this will last for some weeks I suppose. I wish I could enter into this gayety, but I cannot; my thoughts are with my own dear mother; my heart is heavy, and I pine for rest. Oh how willingly would I lie beside her in the cold, damp grave!

* * * * *

How delightful is it to me to watch the father, mother and son—they are wrapt up in each other. Lewis is indeed the model of a man. He is as calm and gentle in manner as in disposition. He converses most eloquently.—I listen spell bound to his words. I do not think Adelan really loves him as he should be loved. She yawned this evening in the midst of his conversation with a gentleman on modern literature, and rose up from beside him and went into the music-room, as if wearied. I could have listened to him forever, even had the subject been one less interesting. The sound of Adelan’s rich voice, accompanied by the rippling notes of the harp, came sweeping into the drawing-room, like an angel melody, and broke up the conversation. A little after I saw Lewis leaning over Adelan at the harp, and then their voices swelled out in delightful harmony together. They looked so happy, and my uncle and aunt sat near each other with countenances expressive of content. Naughty, melancholy thoughts came brooding over my mind. An aching sense of loneliness crept over me, chilling my very heart, and I abruptly left Mr. Turner, who was kindly endeavoring to entertain me, and came to my own room. As I write, the delicious music from below comes floating in through the windows of the balcony, and mingled with it is the rippling dash of my Undine stream. How strange, Adelan is singing Thekla’s song, which I arranged for her, “_Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn_”—how true sound the words to my ears—they seem an echo of my heart.

“The heart is dead, the world is empty, and gives me nothing further to desire. Thou holy one! take thy child unto thee. I have enjoyed the happiness of this life—I have lived and have loved.”

Ah, how sad and heavy I feel! Angel mother, hast thou forsaken thy child? Why are evil thoughts and dark spirits brooding around me?

* * * * *

Several weeks have again passed. I have not been well; it pains me to sit writing, and I have, moreover, avoided it, for I fear the sad gloominess that hangs over me may be increased by communings with myself—communings which I dread. At last my eyes are opened, and opened by the trouble of another. A few days since, Mr. Turner, to my amazement, made to me a most fervent declaration of love. I had not imagined I was an object of interest to him, and I felt grieved to hear his avowal. My uncle and aunt, and even Lewis pressed his suit. Rich, good-looking, and intelligent, I suppose they wondered at my refusal; but it was useless—I could not love him, and frankly told him so. Sadly he took his leave of us all, and left me to a misery, a wretchedness, worse, fifty times worse than his. His offer disclosed to me my weakness, my wicked frailty. I love my Cousin Lewis passionately, with all the ardor of an untried heart—and, shame upon me, I love without return. Adelan and he are inseparable. He adapts his conversation and pursuits to her tastes—and they are happy lovers.

* * * * *

I have been reading over this journal, and am filled with mortification. When little was required of me, what self-gratulation I gave myself. Now, when temptation and heart-trials come upon me, I weakly, wickedly yield. Where is that inner voice of my spirit—“thy actions, and thy actions alone determine thy worth.” I will rouse myself and shake off this morbid feeling; I will bring myself to look upon the happiness of others, and be willing to sacrifice my own. I have withdrawn myself so much from the family as to excite attention. All evince a kind, tender earnestness for me; and Aunt Mary’s soft eyes filled with tears to-day when she noticed my paleness; she upbraided herself for having been so occupied with her son. How my heart reproached me for my selfishness. I _will_ rouse myself, and shake off this wicked passion. Mother, sweet, angel mother, aid me!

* * * * *

How foolish I have been in seeking and making trouble for myself. My poor head and heart are so filled with wild happiness that I can scarcely command words to express the cause of my great joy. Blessed mother! thou hast, indeed, watched over thy child; and, although undeserving and doubting, great happiness has been reserved for me. Lewis loves me with all the fond earnestness that a woman’s heart can desire. He has loved me from the first; but my own willful selfishness, and suspicious, jealous nature, blinded me. He has never loved Adelan more than as a sister, and she regards him as a dear brother. They all thought I was attached to Frank Turner, because I so freely accepted his attentions. Lewis forbore to press his suit out of regard to his friend; and, moreover, I had always observed such a repelling coldness toward him, he feared he was disagreeable to me.

When I last wrote in here, I resolved to mingle more with the family, and try to overcome my unhappy love. As the circle was smaller, our visiters having left, Lewis and I were thrown more together. The delight of listening to him overcame my fear of love; we rode together; he united in our German studies; joined my morning rambles, and unconsciously, I scarcely know how, my happiness became known to me. A mere chance disclosed his love; he intended waiting patiently. Everyone else knew it but myself—my aunt, uncle, and Adelan; while I, with mock heroism, was determining myself to be very miserable. I do not deserve this good fortune—wicked, selfish, and doubting as I have been; but I will pray for strength to guide my future. As my aunt folded me in her arms this evening, when Lewis with joyful eagerness presented me to his parents, she murmured in my ears, “My blessed child, will you not _now_ call me ‘mother!’”

My inner spirit praises Heaven for all its mercies, and bows down in serious, confiding gratitude. But the future still lies before me. Suffering I have but indifferently borne; let me pray that strength may be given me to bear my prosperity.

The angel pinions of my blessed spirit mother again float around me. A violet hue is spread before my mental vision, and the clouds of doubt and selfish jealousy, that hung curling around me like the mists on the mountain’s side, are all dissipated and melted away under the soft beams of my rising sun of love and confidence.

* * * * *

A few weeks after I attended the wedding of my dear cousin Ida—Adelan and I officiating as bride-maids to the gentle creature. She trembled at the excess of her happiness, and never realized how like an angel we all deemed her. She gave me this journal, she said, as a _penance_ for herself, to let me know how wicked she was. Many happy years have been hers, and she still enjoys life. A crowd of beautiful children troop around her; and the violet hue of an angelic atmosphere seems always to pervade her presence, to my fancy.

Her spirit has been one of those which Jean Paul says “falls from heaven like a flower-bud, pure and spotless.” Hers has remained undimmed through life’s toilsome journey, and the pure, fresh bud has opened, exhaling spiritual fragrance on all around her.

* * * * *

LUCRETIA.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

There rolled a howl along the streets of Rome,
As if its ancient patron, to the skies,
From street, arcade and pillared colonnade,
Sent up her hungry cries.

And there were sounds of trampling feet of men
Moving in haste; and each one, as he passed,
Glanced in his neighbor’s eye; then onward dashed,
Swift as the wild sea-blast.

From every hovel-door—each portico
Of marble palaces, pale faces gazed
On the pedestrians, passing to and fro—
Mute, trembling and amazed.

And, ever and anon, that howl arose—
The she wolf’s legacy—long, loud, and hoarse;
The voice of men aroused from deep repose,
And surging on in force.

Rome’s alleys, lanes and streets were all alive;
All hurrying toward the Forum, from which came
Impulsive words, followed by moans, that told
The giver’s heart in flame;

And sparks from torches, lit at quiet homes,
Waving in answer to the speaker’s tones;
And the black crowd, with thunder which was Rome’s,
Replied with ominous groans.

Occasionally the name of Collatine,
In audible whispers, slowly crept about—
And ever, as the orator’s form was seen,
Went up a mighty shout—

Another! and another! as his hand
Upheld a bloody knife—his figure bent,
Regarding them; his aspect of command
Loftily eloquent—

A bale fire flashing from his eagle eye!
As pointing unto something laid below,
He saw a shudder, followed by a sigh,
Pass trembling to and fro

Among that crowd, with eager faces bent
Up on his own; and then came words of peace.
As though he painted home, and calm content,
And joy unto surcease.

Swayed, like the ocean by the hurricane,
That sea of men responded as the name
Broke on their ears—the pale polluter’s name,
Immortal in its shame!

And mingling in a yell that shook old Rome,
“Death to the Tarquins!” every voice arose.
Women and warriors—all men and all time—
Were Tarquin’s foes!

As autumn tempests gathering break, so broke
That crowd in frenzy, rushing to and fro
With blazing torches—Tyranny’s iron yoke
Dissolved like snow.

And there were louder cries, and other flames
Sprang to the heavens, till Rome was red with fire
From Tarquin’s palaces; and Freedom rose
From pale Lucretia’s pyre.

* * * * *

THE EARLY TAKEN.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

[ADDRESSED TO THE PARENTS OF MY LITTLE FAVORITE, CAROLINE K. CHANDLER,
WHOSE DEATH HAS SADDENED MANY HEARTS.]

I stood with the childless—
A desolate pair—
When, drest for the grave,
Lay the sinless and fair,
Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,
And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.

Outshone by the curls
That the slumberer wore
Was the mid-summer light
Streaming in at the door;
And clung to her lip a more delicate red
Than tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.

More drear than a desert
Where never is heard
The singing of waters,
Or carol of bird,
Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sin
Uncheered by the music of childhood within.

And round one frail blossom
Your hopes were entwined—
One daughter of beauty
Affection made blind;
Before her ye saw a bright future outspread
But dreamed not of dirge-note or shroud for the dead.

Oh! blest is the spirit
Unstained by the clod,
That mounts, in the morn,
Like a sky-lark to God:
A glittering host the new-comer surround,
And _welcome_ the harp-strings of Paradise sound.

Ye Stricken! oh think,
While your wailing is wild
That, above this dim orb,
It is _well with the child_!
And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,
Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.

* * * * *

SUNSET IN AUTUMN.

BY HARRIET MARION WARD.

Didst ever note how pleasantly the sun of Autumn dies,
Leaving a gorgeous legacy upon the evening skies?
While quietly the gathering clouds, come trooping wave on wave,
To weave bright bowers, with blushing flowers, above the proud one’s
grave.

Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace,
Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace;
Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright,
Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight.

And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies,
All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies;
While ghosts of clouds in silver shrouds, a world of fairy things,
Are grouped around that flowery ground, like doves with snowy wings.

Now silently they melt away amid the starry showers,
Weaving the while their train of lace festooned with buds and flowers,
Gathered in rolls and crimson folds they sweep night’s palace through,
Like islands bright with liquid light, drifting in seas of blue.

Now all are gone, and in their stead a calm and cloudless heaven,
Dimpled with stars whose placid light to earth is freely given,
To blend with heart-imaginings in the still evening air,
Soft and subdued, with love imbued, an everlasting prayer.

So much of faith—so much of hope—so much of trusting love,
Seems stereotyped in glowing words on the bright page above,
That glad earth grows less beautiful—less mighty in its power,
And thoughts of death come soothingly in that calm, holy hour.

For who can watch these brilliant wrecks in all their varying forms
Nor feel a yearning wish to reach God’s haven from life’s storms;
To quit this scene of weary strife, of turmoil and unrest,
Hushed in a deep, eternal sleep on the Redeemer’s breast.

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”
“MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court
of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 192._)

PART XIII.

The gull has found her place on shore;
The sun gone down again to rest;
And all is still but ocean’s roar;
There stands the man unbless’d.
But see, he moves—he turns, as asking where
His mates? Why looks he with that piteous stare?
Dana.

Superstition would seem to be a consequence of a state of being in which so much is shadowed forth, while so little is accurately known. Our far-reaching thoughts range over the vast fields of created things, without penetrating to the secret cause of the existence of even a blade of grass. We can analyze all substances that are brought into our crucibles, tell their combinations and tendencies, give a scientific history of their formation, so far as it is connected with secondary facts, their properties, and their uses; but in each and all there is a latent natural cause that baffles all our inquiries, and tells us that we are merely men. This is just as true in morals as in physics—no man living being equal to attaining the very faith that is necessary to his salvation, without the special aid of the spirit of the godhead; and even with that mighty support, trusting implicitly for all that is connected with a future that we are taught to believe is eternal, to “the substance of things _hoped_ for, and the evidence of things unseen.” In a word, this earthly probation of ours was intended for finite beings, in the sense of our present existence, leaving far more to be conjectured than is understood.

Ignorance and superstition ever bear a close, and even a mathematical relation to each other. The degrees of the one are regulated by the degrees of the other. He who knows the least believes the most; while he who has seen the most, without the intelligence to comprehend that which he has seen, feels, perhaps, the strongest inclination to refer those things which to him are mysteries, to the supernatural and marvelous. Sailors have been, from time immemorial, more disposed than men of their class on the land, to indulge in this weakness, which is probably heightened by the circumstance of their living constantly and vividly in the presence of powers that menace equally their lives and their means, without being in any manner subject to their control.

Spike, for a seaman of his degree of education, was not particularly addicted to the weakness to which we have just alluded. Nevertheless, he was not altogether free from it; and recent circumstances contributed to dispose him so much the more to admit a feeling which, like sin itself, is ever the most apt to insinuate itself at moments of extraordinary moral imbecility, and through the openings left by previous transgression. As his brig stood off from the light, the captain paced the deck, greatly disturbed by what had just passed, and unable to account for it. The boat of the Poughkeepsie was entirely concealed by the islet, and there existing no obvious motive for wishing to return, in order to come at the truth, not a thought to that effect, for one moment, crossed the mind of the smuggler. So far from this, indeed, were his wishes, that the Molly did not seem to him to go half as fast as usual, in his keen desire to get further and further from a spot where such strange incidents had occurred.

As for the men forward, no argument was wanting to make _them_ believe that something supernatural had just passed before their eyes. It was known to them all that Mulford had been left on a naked rock, some thirty miles from that spot; and it was not easy to understand how he could now be at the Dry Tortugas, planted, as it might be, on purpose to show himself to the brig, against the tower, in the bright moonlight, “like a pictur’ hung up for his old shipmates to look at.”

Sombre were the tales that were related that night among them, many of which related to the sufferings of men abandoned on desert islands; and all of which bordered, more or less, on the supernatural. The crew connected the disappearance of the boat with Mulford’s apparition, though the logical inference would have been, that the body which required planks to transport it, could scarcely be classed with any thing of the world of spirits. The links in arguments, however, are seldom respected by the illiterate and vulgar, who jump to their conclusions, in cases of the marvelous, much as politicians find an expression of the common mind in the prepared opinions of the few who speak for them, totally disregarding the dissenting silence of the million. While the men were first comparing their opinions on that which, to them, seemed to be so extraordinary, the Señor Montefalderon joined the captain in his walk, and dropped into a discourse touching the events which had attended their departure from the haven of the Dry Tortugas. In this conversation Don Juan most admirably preserved his countenance, as well as his self-command, effectually preventing the suspicion of any knowledge on his part that was not common to them both.

“You did leave the port with the salutes observed,” the Mexican commenced, with the slightest accent of a foreigner, or just enough to show that he was not speaking in his mother tongue; “salutes paid and returned.”

“Do you call that saluting, Don Wan? To me that infernal shot sounded more like an echo than any thing else.”

“And to what do _you_ ascribe it, Don Esteban?”

“I wish I could answer that question. Sometimes I begin to wish I had not left my mate on that naked rock.”

“There is still time to repair the last wrong; we shall go within a few miles of the place where the Señor Enrique was left; and I can take the yawl, with two men, and go in search of him while you are at work on the wreck.”

“Do you believe it possible that he can be still there?” demanded Spike, looking suddenly and intently at his companion, while his mind was strangely agitated between hatred and dread. “If he is there, who and what was _he_ that we all saw so plainly at the foot of the light-house?”

“How should he have left the rock? He was without food or water; and no man, in all his vigor, could swim this distance. I see no means of his getting here.”

“Unless some wrecker, or turtler, fell in with him and took him off. Ay, ay, Don Wan; I left him that much of a chance at least. No man can say I _murdered_ my mate.”

“I am not aware, Don Esteban, that any one _has_ said so hard a thing of you. Still, we have seen neither wrecker nor turtler since we have been here; and that lessens the excellent chance you left Don Enrique.”

“There is no occasion, señor, to be so particular,” growled Spike, a little sullenly, in reply. “The chance, I say, was a _good_ one, when you consider how many of them devils of wreckers hang about these reefs. Let this brig only get fast on a rock, and they would turn up, like sharks, all around us, each with his maw open for salvage. But this is neither here nor there; what puzzles me was what we saw at the light, half an hour since, and the musket that was fired back at us! I _know_ that the figure at the foot of the tower did not fire, for my eye was on him from first to last; and he had no arms. You were on the island a good bit, and must have known if the light-house keeper was there or not, Don Wan?”

“The light-house keeper _was_ there, Don Esteban—but he was in his _grave_.”

“Ay, ay, one, I know, was drowned, and buried with the rest of them; there might, however, have been more than one. You saw none of the people that had gone to Key West, in or about the house, Don Wan?”

“None. If any persons have left the Tortugas to go to Key West, within a few days, not one of them has yet returned.”

“So I supposed. No, it can be none of _them_. Then I saw his face as plainly as I ever saw it by moonlight, from aft for’ard. What is your opinion about seeing the dead walk on the ’arth, Don Wan?”

“That I have never seen any such thing myself, Don Esteban, and consequently know nothing about it.”

“So I supposed; I find it hard to believe it, I do. It may be a warning to keep us from coming any more to the Dry Tortugas; and I must say I have little heart for returning to this place, after all that has fell out here. We can go to the wreck, fish up the doubloons, and be off for Yucatan. Once in one of your ports, I make no question that the merits of Molly will make themselves understood, and that we shall soon agree on a price.”

“What use could we put the brig to, Don Esteban, if we had her all ready for sea?”

“That is a strange question to ask in time of war! Give _me_ such a craft as the Molly, with sixty or eighty men on board her, in a war like this, and her ’arnin’s should not fall short of half a million within a twelvemonth.”

“Could we engage you to take charge of her, Don Esteban?”

“That would be ticklish work, Don Wan. But we can see. No one knows what he will do until he is tried. In for a penny, in for a pound. A fellow never knows! Ha! ha! ha! Don Wan, we live in a strange world—yes, in a strange world.”

“We live in strange _times_, Don Esteban, as the situation of my poor country proves. But let us talk this matter over a little more in confidence.”

And they did thus discuss the subject. It was a singular spectacle to see an honorable man, one full of zeal of the purest nature in behalf of his own country, sounding a traitor as to the terms on which he might be induced to do all the harm he could to those who claimed his allegiance. Such sights, however, are often seen; our own especial objects too frequently blinding us to the obligations that we owe morality, so far as not to be instrumental in effecting even what we conceive to be good, by questionable agencies. But the Señor Montefalderon kept in view, principally, his desire to be useful to Mexico, blended a little too strongly, perhaps, with the wishes of a man who was born near the sun to avenge his wrongs, real or fancied.

While this dialogue was going on between Spike and his passenger, as they paced the quarter-deck, one quite as characteristic occurred in the galley, within twenty feet of them—Simon, the cook, and Josh, the Steward, being the interlocutors. As they talked secrets, they conferred together with closed doors, though few were ever disposed to encounter the smoke, grease, and fumes of their narrow domains, unless called thither by hunger.

“What _you_ t’ink of dis matter, Josh?” demanded Simon, whose skull having the well-known density of his race, did not let internal ideas out, or external ideas in as readily as most men’s. “Our young mate _was_ at de light-house, beyond all controwersy; and how can he be den on dat rock over yonder, too?”

“Dat is imposserbul,” answered Josh; “derefore I says it isn’t true. I surposes you know dat what is imposserbul isn’t true, Simon. Nobody can’t be out yonder and down here at der same time. Dat is imposserbul, Simon. But what I wants to intermate to you will explain all dis difficulty; and it do show de raal super’ority of a colored man over de white poperlation. Now, you mark my words, cook, and be full of admiration! Jack Tier came back along wid de Mexican gentle’em, in my anchor-watch, dis very night! You see, in de first place, ebbery t’ing come to pass in nigger’s watch.”

Here the two dark-skinned worthies haw-haw’d to their heart’s content; laughing very much as a magistrate or a minister of the gospel might be fancied to laugh, the first time he saw a clown at a circus. The merriment of a negro will have its course, in spite of ghosts, or of any thing else; and neither the cook nor the steward dreamed of putting in another syllable until their laugh was fairly and duly ended. Then the cook made his remarks.

“How Jack Tier comin’ back explain der differculty, Josh?” asked Simon.

“Didn’t Jack go away wid Miss Rose and de mate in de boat dat got adrift, you know, in Jack’s watch on deck?”

Here the negroes laughed again, their imaginations happening to picture to each, at the same instant, the mystification about the boat; Biddy having told Josh in confidence, the manner in which the party had returned to the brig, while he and Simon were asleep; which fact the steward had already communicated to the cook. To these two beings, of an order in nature different from all around them, and of a simplicity and of habits that scarce placed them on a level with the intelligence of the humblest white man, all these circumstances had a sort of mysterious connection, out of which peeped much the most conspicuously to their faculties, the absurdity of the captain’s imagining that a boat had got adrift, which had, in truth, been taken away by human hands. Accordingly, they laughed it out; and when they had done laughing, they returned again to the matter before them with renewed interest in the subject.

“Well, how all dat explain dis differculty?” repeated Simon.

“In dis wery manner, cook,” returned the steward, with a little dignity in his manner. “Ebbery t’ing depend on understanding, I s’pose you know. If Mr. Mulford got taken off dat rock by Miss Rose and Jack Tier, wid de boat, and den dey comes here altogedder; and den Jack Tier, he get on board and tell Biddy all dis matter, and den Biddy tell Josh, and den Josh tell the cook—what for you surprise, you black debbil, one bit?”

“Dat all!” exclaimed Simon.

“Dat just all—dat ebbery bit of it, don’t I say.”

Here Simon burst into such a fit of loud laughter that it induced Spike himself to shove aside the galley-door, and thrust his own frowning visage into the dark hole within, to inquire the cause.

“What’s the meaning of this uproar?” demanded the captain, all the more excited because he felt that things had reached a pass that would not permit him to laugh himself. “Do you fancy yourself on the Hook, or at the Five Points?”

The Hook and the Five Points are two pieces of tabooed territory within the limits of the good town of Manhattan, that are getting to be renowned for their rascality and orgies. They probably want nothing but the proclamation of a governor in vindication of their principles, annexed to a pardon of some of their unfortunate children, to render both classical. If we continue to make much further progress in political logic, and in the same direction as that in which we have already proceeded so far, neither will probably long be in want of this illustration. Votes can be given by the virtuous citizens of both these purlieus, as well as by the virtuous citizens of the anti-rent districts, and votes contain the essence of all such principles, as well as of their glorification.

“Do you fancy yourselves on the Hook, or at the Five Points?” demanded Spike, angrily.

“Lor’, no sir!” answered Simon, laughing at each pause with all his heart. “Only laughs a little at _ghost_—dat all, sir.”

“Laugh at ghost? Is that a subject to laugh at? Have a care, you black rascal, or he will visit you in your galley here, when you will least want to see him.”

“No care much for _him_, sir,” returned Simon, laughing away as hard as ever. “_Sich_ a ghost oughtn’t to skear little baby.”

“_Such_ a ghost? And what do you know of _this_ ghost more than any other?”

“Well, I seed him, Capt. Spike; and what a body sees, he is acquainted wid.”

“You saw an image that looked as much like Mr. Mulford, my late mate, as one timber-head in this brig is like another.”

“Yes, sir, he like enough—must say _dat_—so wery like, couldn’t see any difference.”

As Simon concluded this remark, he burst out into another fit of laughter, in which Josh joined him, heart and soul, as it might be. The uninitiated reader is not to imagine the laughter of those blacks to be very noisy, or to be raised on a sharp, high key. They _could_ make the welkin ring, in sudden bursts of merriment, on occasion, but, at a time like this, they rather caused their diversion to be developed by sounds that came from the depths of their chests. A gleam of suspicion that these blacks were acquainted with some fact that it might be well for him to know, shot across the mind of Spike; but he was turned from further inquiry by a remark of Don Juan, who intimated that the mirth of such persons never had much meaning to it, expressing at the same time a desire to pursue the more important subject in which they were engaged. Admonishing the blacks to be more guarded in their manifestations of merriment, the captain closed the door on them, and resumed his walk up and down the quarter-deck. As soon as left to themselves, the blacks broke out afresh, though in a way so guarded, as to confine their mirth to the galley.

“Capt. Spike t’ink _dat_ a ghost!” exclaimed Simon, with contempt.

“Guess if he see _raal_ ghost, he find ’e difference,” answered Josh. “One look at raal sperit wort’ two at dis object.”

Simon’s eyes now opened like two saucers, and they gleamed, by the light of the lamp they had, like dark balls of condensed curiosity, blended with awe, on his companion.

“You ebber see him, Josh?” he asked, glancing over each shoulder hurriedly, as it might be, to make sure that he could not see “him,” too.

“How you t’ink I get so far down the wale of life, Simon, and nebber see sich a t’ing? I seed t’ree of the crew of the ‘Maria Sheffington,’ that was drowned by deir boat’s capsizing, when we lay at Gibraltar, jest as plain as I see you now. Then—”

But it is unnecessary to repeat Josh’s experiences in this way, with which he continued to entertain and terrify Simon for the next half hour. This is just the difference between ignorance and knowledge. While Spike himself, and every man in his brig who belonged forward, had strong misgivings as to the earthly character of the figure they had seen at the foot of the light-house, these negroes laughed at their delusion, because they happened to be in the secret of Mulford’s escape from the rock, and of that of his actual presence at the Tortugas. When, however, the same superstitious feeling was brought to bear on circumstances that lay _without _the sphere of their exact information, they became just as dependent and helpless as all around them; more so, indeed, inasmuch as their previous habits and opinions disposed them to a more profound credulity.

It was midnight before any of the crew of the Swash sought their rest that night. The captain had to remind them that a day of extraordinary toil was before them, ere he could get one even to quit the deck; and when they did go below, it was to continue to discuss the subject of what they had seen at the Dry Tortugas. It appeared to be the prevalent opinion among the people, that the late event foreboded evil to the Swash, and long as most of these men had served in the brig, and much as they had become attached to her, had she gone into port that night, nearly every man forward would have run before morning. But fatigue and wonder, at length, produced their effect, and the vessel was silent as was usual at that hour. Spike himself lay down in his clothes, as he had done ever since Mulford had left him; and the brig continued to toss the spray from her bows, as she bore gallantly up against the trades, working her way to windward. The light was found to be of great service, as it indicated the position of the reef, though it gradually sank in the western horizon, until near morning it fell entirely below it.

At this hour Spike appeared on deck again, where, for the first time since their interview on the morning of Harry’s and Rose’s escape, he laid his eyes on Jack Tier. The little dumpling-looking fellow was standing in the waist, with his arms folded sailor-fashion, as composedly as if nothing had occurred to render his meeting with the captain any way of a doubtful character. Spike approached near the person of the steward, whom he surveyed from head to foot, with a sort of contemptuous superiority, ere he spoke.

“So, Master Tier;” at length the captain commenced, “you have deigned to turn out at last, have you? I hope the day’s duty you’ve forgotten will help to pay for the light-house boat, that I understand you’ve lost for me also.”

“What signifies a great clumsy boat that the brig couldn’t hoist in nor tow,” answered Jack, coolly, turning short round at the same time, but not condescending to “uncoil” his arms as he did so, a mark of indifference that would probably have helped to mystify the captain, had he even actually suspected that any thing was wrong beyond the supposed accident to the boat in question. “If you had had the boat astarn, Capt. Spike, an order would have been given to cut it adrift the first time the brig made sail on the wind.”

“Nobody knows, Jack; that boat would have been very useful to us while at work about the wreck. You never even turned out this morning to let me know where that craft lay, as you promised to do, but left us to find it out by our wits.”

“There was no occasion for my telling you any thing about it, sir, when the mast-heads was to be seen above water. As soon as I heard that them ’ere mast-heads was out of water, I turned over and went to sleep upon it. A man can’t be on the doctor’s list and on duty at the same time.”

Spike looked hard at the little steward, but he made no further allusion to his being off duty, or to his failing to stand pilot to the brig as she came through the passage in quest of the schooner’s remains. The fact was, that he had discovered the mast-heads himself just as he was on the point of ordering Jack to be called, having allowed him to remain in his berth to the last moment after his watch, according to a species of implied faith that is seldom disregarded among seamen. Once busied on the wreck, Jack was forgotten, having little to do in common with any one on board, but that which the captain termed the “women’s mess.”

“Come aft, Jack,” resumed Spike, after a considerable pause, during the whole of which he had stood regarding the little steward as if studying his person, and through that his character. “Come aft to the trunk; I wish to catechise you a bit.”

“Catechise!” repeated Tier, in an under tone, as he followed the captain to the place mentioned. “It’s a long time since I have done any thing at _that_!”