Chapter VI (1)

Talbot and Mary were successful in reaching the city unpursued, and had been four days in the American Consul’s house, before, through his exertions, they discovered the departure and destination of Frank Gillespie. The sister was grievously distressed, and mourned her brother as dead, but Talbot pledged himself to follow and attempt his rescue, and although the fractured bone of her arm was not well knit together, she determined to accompany her lover as far as she could. Talbot was provoked to the resolution, to say nothing of a more generous impulse, by the refusal of the Spanish authorities to take cognizance of the subject. And Mary felt that without impropriety she could proceed to some one of the small ports on the route to Vera Cruz, if not to the latter place itself. She hired a servant to supply the place of the one drowned in the privateer, and felt more reconciled to the peril to which Talbot would be exposed, from the assurance of Gonzalez that he would share the enterprise. The latter, dreading more assassination by some of the connections of the late count, than any legal investigation, kept himself secreted in the city, but was frequently visited by Talbot.

The only vessel in port bound in the direction of Vera Cruz was an American brig, advertised for Sisal. In her they engaged their passage, and after night-fall Gonzalez, in disguise, accompanied them on board. At break-of-day the next morning, they sailed with a fair wind, and had gained some distance by sunset, when it fell calm, and with the land upon one side, and an expanse of water on the other, the vessel rode with graceful ease upon a prolonged but gentle undulation. The golden rays of the setting sun mingled in the zenith with the soft and silvery light of the moon in her meridian, and a long and lovely twilight followed. Seated on deck, apart from their companions, (for Gonzalez was too considerate to intrude,) Mary and her lover mused long and deeply. The hour and the scene were calculated to dispel their anxieties and to soothe their cares. When either was depressed—he, with the sad thought that of all his race he stood alone—she, that she was an orphan, and that her brother was perhaps lost to her forever, a glance around and above would give their thoughts a holier and more soothing direction; for the works of the Great Architect, the teeming earth, the slumbering sea, the brilliant sky, all proclaimed in language unheard but _felt_ that mercy is His great and most peculiar attribute. It was indeed a lovely scene! Directly overhead, the moon shone forth in serene and unclouded lustre; a little lower, the fiery Mars peered forth; then the resplendent orb of Jupiter, and in the same direct line, but just above the horizon, the beautiful Venus sunk to rest, enveloped in a mantle yet rich with the gorgeous rays of the sun which had preceded her. They remained on deck until a late hour of the night, for whenever they went below they were annoyed with the hum and fretted with the sting of the mosquito. At last they parted, Talbot throwing himself upon the deck, and Mary retired to her berth and soon fell asleep. If the waking hours of that pure-minded girl had been those of endurance, the visions of that night were ample compensation. Reclined upon her narrow bed, with the folds of the mosquito-net tucked closely around her, while, like the Cossacks before Ismael, the multitudinous insects strove to enter, she was either in fancy communing with the man she loved, or with Frank and her father knelt beneath the cotton-tree which shaded the grave of her mother, and listened to the gentle wave as it rippled upon the beach, while from the jeweled sky, fit canopy, for such a scene, the Omniscient eye seemed to look down approving.

Among the crew there was a dandy sailor who took especial pride in his flowing locks, and evidently sought to attract the notice of the lady passenger. The day before they reached Sisal, seizing an opportunity when Talbot and Gonzales were below, he passed once or twice by the place where she sat on deck, and at length catching her eye, with a meaning look dropped a letter at her feet, and immediately retired. Mary had been beset with so many dangers of late; had been so often nearly ensnared by plots, that she at once imagined the letter to contain a friendly warning. She therefore hastily picked it up and ran below. It proved to be a genuine love-letter, and despite her sadness and the anxiety of her position, she laughed outright as she read it. Her unusual merriment drew Talbot to her side, and after exacting a promise from him that he would in no manner notice, or betray a knowledge of its contents, she placed the letter in his hands, saying, “Don’t be jealous—I will be true, although the offer is a tempting one.” Verbatim et literatim, it ran thus:

“dear Mary is a name so sweet,

“i loves to spell it as i loves to eat. i kiles the ropes to
spell it, i scratches it with a marlingspike on the rale,
charming Miss Mary i addores you when you walkes the deck so
gracefull as a swan a swimming of a Rivver, i looks down upon
you from the top as you moves backards and forrards so
musically, i wishes that I was a hauk to pounce down upon you
and carry you of like a Duv in my Arms to sum luvly ileand in
the sea. Sweetest Miss Mary i isent a Lofer, for my Parrents is
respectible and my father ones a Large factory in New Jersy,
whar he makes a Grate quontity of paper, not your common Rapping
paper, but big sheets for the Nusepapers, and sum a grate deal
Finer for Riting upon than this, which is the best i can gett. i
is unfortunit Miss Mary but i isent a imposter for my Father is
ever so Rich and will give plenty of munny if i will cum home
and help him in his bizziness, but i cant go home nor no whars
els onless you will smile upon me i offers you all my prospicts.
if you will eccept my sute if your charming buzzom feels any
pitty for a poor Retch who loves you to dispare, and you will
cast them sweet killing ise on me, as you aires the deck, you
will liten my hart of its hevvy lode and make it swim in Blis.
Yours furever until deth.

“CIRUS LAMBERT.”

Poor Lambert!

“It were all one,
That he should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it.”

But love, like faith, comes by inspiration, and whether it be a milk-maid or a goddess, a man has a right to worship the object of his affections. As we have seen, the maiden’s first impulse was to merriment; but she soon perceived that the man was in earnest, and from motives of delicacy and compassion she remained below the remainder of the passage. The confinement was a brief one. The next afternoon they reached Sisal, and were hospitably welcomed by an American merchant, to whom Talbot had letters from our consul in Havana. Mary was immediately taken to the gentleman’s house and cordially greeted by his wife, who insisted upon her becoming an inmate of the family during her stay. An offer most gratefully accepted. When the merchant was told of their contemplated adventure he became a zealous coadjutor; chartered for them a small, fast-sailing felucca, and purchased a cargo of salt, in order that it might be supposed she was on one of her usual trading voyages. He also procured for Talbot and Gonzalez, dresses such as are worn by the crews of these vessels.

Determined not to lose a moment, as soon as the arrangements were completed our adventurers set sail, Talbot with difficulty tearing himself from his mistress, who clung to him in all the reckless abandonment of grief. Coasting along the shore, they passed Alvarado and anchored the second evening under Anton Lizardo, until the moon went down. They then lifted their anchor, and passing between Sacrificios Island (where a Spanish corvette lay) and the main land, they entered the port of Vera Cruz unobserved.

Although necessary for the prosecution of their plan, yet coming to Vera Cruz, in one contingency, very much increased their difficulties. It was indispensable that tidings of their arrival should not reach the castle, and yet they would certainly be communicated by the first flag of truce that passed over. They therefore determined to dispose of their small cargo at once—lay in a return one, make their remaining preparations, and with a telescope examine the works of the castle, to decide on which point they could with least danger approach, until near enough to execute the stratagem they had devised.

The south front of the castle, facing the city, was 223 varas, or four hundred and forty yards, including the south-west and south-east bastions. Along this front were 34 guns mounted en barbette, i. e., without embrasures. The south-west curtain was the nearest, directly facing, and half a mile distant from the town. Toward the north east, protecting the sea front, was a tower bastion, which mounted a heavy gun on a pivot. This tower bastion, nearly triangular in shape, was completely isolated—its base line being fifty yards distant from the north-east, or outside curtain of the castle, with the water flowing between them—as also between the north-east and north-west faces of the tower bastion and the outwork—in a space forty-two feet in width. The outwork itself was very strongly fortified—indeed the strongest part of the fortification, as defending the point which, at the time of its construction, was deemed most likely to be attacked—as the engineer had not foreseen that before an attack, the castle and the town might be separately held by belligerents. The adventurers determined to make direct for a postern in the south-east front, where there was a landing of 2 or 3 steps, leading to a narrow platform, also of stone, which opened into a covered way. Along the wall, between the south-west bastion and the postern, were three or four rings inserted, to which, in time of peace, vessels were ordinarily made fast, to ride under the lee of the castle during the terrific gales so prevalent in the winter months.

At an early hour the next morning they started, and a number of the inhabitants who had heard of their intention to sail, were gathered on the sea-wall to see if they could escape both the fire from the castle and the pursuit of the corvette, then getting under way from her anchorage at Sacrificios. They cheered the boat as she left the harbor, and the loud vivas being heard by the garrison of the castle, several shot were fired from the south-west bastion, which dispersed the assemblage. A moment after the little felucca was seen standing boldly out, and a signal was made from the castle to the corvette, while several guns were brought to bear upon the daring little vessel—for hitherto all attempts to pass had been made at night. The gunner stood by one of the guns on the ramparts, and was about to apply the lighted match, when his movement was arrested by an officer calling out, “Hold! it is a friend.”

As soon as the felucca was well outside the pier, she hoisted the Spanish ensign, and with a loud hurra from Talbot and Gonzalez, stood directly for the castle. From the ramparts of the town were instantly heard shouts of execration, and several muskets were discharged, but without effect, and before one of the heavy guns could be prepared and trained, the felucca was close under the walls of the castle. As supposed deserters, they were received with apparent cordiality mingled with distrust, and were conducted forthwith before the commandant, who interrogated them long and closely. They represented themselves, Talbot as a merchant whose property had been confiscated in consequence of his inability to meet his portion of a forced loan, and subsequently sent to Xalapa for some remarks he had made on the tyrannical course of the government. Gonzalez professed to have been a resident of the latter town, and that he had long been placed in surveillance for his political opinions. That with his companion he had concerted and carried into execution their plan of escape. The tale seemed plausible, but the commandant was not thoroughly satisfied, and although he let them go at large, directed that they should be strictly watched.

The boat was made fast to one of the ring-bolts secured in the wall in the south-east face of the castle near the postern, and kept in her position by a line fastened to a light kedge astern. Her bow was about two fathoms or twelve feet from the landing. From the surface of the water to the summit-level of the parapet was about thirty-five feet.

The two friends had feigned to be anxious to get away, but the commandant withheld his consent, intending first more thoroughly to satisfy himself of their character. They rejoiced at the delay, even while they knew that it exposed them to increased hazard of detection.

Availing themselves of the privilege to wander about the works, they looked anxiously in every direction for Frank. In every direction but one they had looked in vain, and at last, almost in despair, Talbot approached the quarters of the commandant. Here, in the last place to have been expected, he found the object of his search in a kind of open office, employed in converting into intelligible English some documents written by an illiterate translator. At the sight of him Frank started up, and was about to rush toward him, but resumed his seat when he saw Talbot place his finger on his lip, and by a gesture indicated that the sentry who stood near by, was observing them. On a small shelf just within the door, stood a can of water, with a drinking-cup beside it. Talbot stepping quickly within the door-way, asked the youth in Spanish for a drink of water. The latter, understanding him, handed the cup, at the same time closely watching every movement of his friend. The sentry had in the meantime advanced to the door, and stood looking in. Talbot drank with seeming thirst, and returning the cup with a simple “_gratias_,” contrived to slip a bit of paper, unseen, into the hands of Frank.

That night, Frank, complaining of the heat, obtained permission of the officer of the day to sleep on the south-east bastion, or bastion of St. Crispin, upon which the land-breeze blew, provided that he did so under the eye of the sentinel posted there.

Gonzalez laid himself down at the foot of the stone stairway or ramp, which led from the court of the castle below to the parapet above.

Between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning, shortly after the sentinels had been relieved, when the moon had set, and the light of the stars was intercepted by masses of clouds wafted over from the land, Talbot, with his cloak thrown around him, and a cap on his head, such as were worn by the officers, ascended the stairway, mounted the parapet, and advanced directly toward the sentinel near whom Frank had laid down.

The sentinel, taking it for granted that it was the officer of the day who approached, (for Talbot had observed, and now closely imitated his gait,) did not challenge until the latter was almost within the point of his bayonet. As he brought his musket to a charge, demanding the watchword, Talbot pushed the point of the weapon suddenly aside, and rushing upon, threw over and fell upon the sentinel. Frank now sprung up, and found that Talbot held the soldier by the throat with so much force that he was nearly strangled. Together they soon securely tied and gagged him. At a motion from Talbot, who, putting on the soldier’s cap, and shouldering his musket, resumed the round, Frank fastened a cord (which the former threw to him) to one of the barbette-guns, and let himself down the face of the wall, landing upon the narrow stone ledge a short distance from the boat. While he was doing this, Gonzalez had stealthily crawled up the ramp or stairway, and creeping along the parapet, in like manner, lowered himself down beside the youth. Talbot then placing the musket by the gun, with the soldier’s cap upon, and his cloak around it, followed their example, and reached his companions in safety. One of them then swam out and cut the rope which held the boat by the stern, but, on his return, found his companions in consternation. A padlock had been put upon the chain, and in vain they strove to part the bolt. At this moment the clouds had swept by, and they were thrown into despair by hearing the sentinel on the south-west bastion call out, “_Qui viv_.” In desperation they all sprung into the boat as the sentinel discharged his musket, and gave the alarm. With the strength which despair alone can give, they seized the chain, and with one mighty effort tore the bolt from the stern of the boat with a crash. The alarm was now general, and there was not an instant to be lost. Pushing boldly from the landing, they hoisted their sail with expedition, and stood diagonally across toward the main land, carefully keeping themselves in a line with the angle of the south-east bastion. There was great confusion in the garrison, several of the large guns were discharged, and volleys of musketry were fired in the direction they pursued. The balls flew wide of the mark, and as the felucca was now under rapid headway, they began to congratulate themselves that they were out of danger, when, by a discharge of the heavy pivot-gun on the tower-bastion, loaded with grape, Gonzalez was struck down, mortally wounded.

The felucca reached Sisal in safety, but Talbot and Mary deeply and unceasingly mourned the loss of their true and invaluable friend. And Frank bitterly grieved that his freedom should have been purchased at such a sacrifice. He was, indeed, worthy of all regret—but a cloud had overshadowed his sun of life. He would have brooded over his sister’s shame until existence had become a burthen, and his impulsive nature might by unlawful means have sought relief in the cold embrace of death. He perished in a work of charity, and it is to be hoped that He who,

“When all our souls were forfeit,
Could the advantage best have took,
Found out the remedy,”

in His abounding mercy, forgave one act of passion for the redeeming merits of the cause wherein the unhappy Gonzalez met his death.

There was only one vessel at Sisal, bound at an early day to the United States, and her destination was New Orleans. Frank, his sister and Talbot, accordingly took passage in her, and reached the south-west pass of the Mississippi just as a gale was coming on. The country above had been overflowed by recent heavy rains, and what between the current from within, and the swell without, they were greeted with a magnificent spectacle. The waves of the gulf, driven before the gale, which had soon become terrific, encountered the onward sweep of the waters of the mighty river. The sight forcibly reminded them of Rebecca’s exclamation in Ivanhoe, “God of Jacob! it is like the meeting of two oceans moved by adverse tides!”

Nearly the whole period of their stay was embraced in one uninterrupted storm, but the magnificence of the scenery compensated for the inclemency of the weather. Vegetation was still in full luxuriance, and the moss, pendent from the trees, and saturated with incessant rain, like dripping garments swayed to and fro in the wind, while low, rugged clouds trailed along but a short distance overhead, and a gray semi-transparent mist floated above the surface of the ground. The “Mississippi,” unusually turbid, and swollen to the utmost capacity of its banks, with its mighty whirls and eddies, rushed impetuously on, bearing on its surface many a vestige of the devastation it had caused. Nor were the works of art, clumsy and unsymmetrical though they were, wanting to the scene, spreading no sail to the breeze, but drifting idly with the current, the arks and the broad-horns were whirled by with a rapidity that seemed to defy management. Wafted over the water frequently came the wild and not unmelodious sound of the bugle, while in the stillness of the night were heard the manly and sonorous voices of the boatmen singing,

“The boatman dance, the boatman sing,
The boatman up to every thing.
When the boatman gets on shore,
He spends his money and works for more.
Dance, boatman, dance—
Dance, boatman, dance—dance all night till broad daylight,
And go home with the girls in the morning.”

Steam was just beginning to be introduced, and the soothing solitudes of nature to be disturbed by the monotonous clank of machinery. Our party availed themselves of an upward-bound steamboat, and slowly ascended the Mississippi, whose turbid and swollen waters rolled far and wide beyond their usual boundaries. The river was filled with broken rafts, drift logs, and half-sunken and floating trees. The danger of running upon a snag, or encountering a sawyer, was great and impending. The current was so strong that their boat, although striving to keep in shore, would frequently be caught by a whirl or an eddy, and like a stray leaf upon a rivulet, would be turned round and round until striking against a tree, it would be sent into the mid current and again be carried for miles among the trees, from whose verdant tops the birds that had remained undisturbed by the rush and the roar beneath, flew at the boat’s approach, as if aware that their only enemy was man. They also ascended the Ohio, whose limpid waters, gliding with a strong but not impetuous current, have won for it the name of beautiful. When they stood upon the crest of the Alleghany, and saw mountains, “hills and plains as graceful in their sweep as the arrested billows of a mighty sea, and recollected that more boundless than the view, that verdant sweep is uninterrupted until the one extreme is locked in the fast embrace of thick-ribbed ice, and the other is washed by the phosphorescent ripple of the tropic, while on either side is heard the murmuring surge of a widespread and magnificent ocean,”[2] their hearts bounded with exultation as they thought of the unrivaled destinies of their country. As if on the high altar of the land of his nativity, Talbot, who had wandered far and wide, could not withhold his pledge of devotion, and the heartfelt exclamation escaped him,

“By travel taught, I can attest
I love my native land the best.”

The commissioned officer, not unknown to fame, met with none of the obstacles which the friendless orphan had encountered, and Talbot’s estate was settled without difficulty.

When the chastening hand of time had hallowed the memories of the dead, and substituted a Christian resignation for the bitterness of early grief, Edward and Mary were united, and through a since much checkered life, neither time nor circumstance, nor prosperity, nor distress, has for one instant abated a feeling which is fixed and unalterable as their future destinies.

-----

[2] From a speech of the author’s, 1844.

* * * * *

THE RUSTIC SHRINE.

BY GEO. W. DEWEY.

Their names were found cut upon a rural bench, overgrown with
vines, which proved to be at once Love’s shrine and
cenotaph. _Legends of the Rhine._

A shadow of the cypress bough
Lies on my path to-day—
A melancholy—which in vain
I strive to chase away.

The angel Memory hath flown
To old and cherished things,
To bring the light of early years
Around me on her wings;

And where the love-lorn birds complain
Within their green abode,
Between two elms, a rustic seat
Invites her from the road.

There shall she sit, as oft before,
And sigh as oft again,
O’er names engraved, which long have braved
The sunshine and the rain.

And one—it is the dearest name
On Love’s unnumbered shrines:—
So dear, that even envious Time
Hath guarded it with vines;

And wreathed it with his choicest flowers.
As if the bridal claim,
Which Fate denied unto her brow,
Should still adorn her name!

Ah, well do I remember yet
The day I carved that name!
The rattle of the locusts’ drum
Thrills o’er me now the same;

Adown the lane the wayward breeze
Comes with a stealthy pace,
And brings the perfume of the fields
To this deserted place:—

Unto her blushing cheek again
It comes—the blessèd air!
Caressing, like a lover’s hand,
The tresses of her hair.

The brook runs laughing at her feet,
O’erhead the wild-bird sings,
The air is filled with butterflies,
As though the flowers had wings:—

But this is Fancy’s pilgrimage,
And lures me back in vain!
The brook, the bench, the flowers and vines
I ne’er may see again;

For this is but an idle dream
That mocks me evermore—
And memory only fills the place
My loved one filled of yore!

* * * * *

TORTOSA, FROM THE ISLAND OF RUAD.]

* * * * *

LUNA.—AN ODE.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

_Casta Diva, che inargenti_
_Questi sacri antiqui piante_
_A noi volge il bel sembianti_
_Senza nube e senza vel!_ NORMA.

The south wind hath its balm, the sea its cheer,
And autumn woods their bright and myriad hues;
Thine is a joy that love and faith endear,
And awe subdues:
The wave-tost seamen and the harvest crew,
When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew
Hangs like pure tears—all fear beguile,
In glancing from their task to thy maternal smile!
The mist of hill-tops undulating wreathes,
At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof,
And curling incense fainter odor breathes,
And, in transparent clouds, hangs round the vaulted roof.
Huge icebergs, with their crystal spires
Slow heaving from the northern main,
Like frozen monuments of high desires
Destined to melt in nothingness again,—
Float in thy mystic beams,
As piles aerial down the tide of dreams!
A sacred greeting falls
With thy mild presence on the ruined fane,
Columns time-stained, dim frieze, and ivied walls,
As if a fond delight thou didst attain
To mingle with the Past,
And o’er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast!
Along the billow’s snowy crest
Thy beams a moment rest,
And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away;
Through forest boughs, amid the withered leaves,
Thy light a tracery weaves,
And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play.
With thee, ethereal guide,
What reverent joy to pace the temple floor,
And watch thy silver tide
O’er statue, tomb and arch its solemn radiance pour!
Like a celestial magnet thou dost sway
The untamed waters in their ebb and flow,
The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray.
And poet’s visions glow;
Madonna of the stars! through the cold prison-grate
Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent.
To cheer the desolate,
And usher in grief’s tears when her mute pang is spent!
I marvel not that once thy altars rose
Sacred to human woes,
And nations deemed thee arbitress of Fate,
To whom enamored virgins made their prayer,
Or widows in their first despair,
And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state,
As, with a meek assurance, gliding by,
In might and beauty unelate,
Into the bridal chambers of the sky!
And less I marvel that Endymion sighed
To yield his spirit unto thine,
And felt thee soul-allied,
Making his being thy receptive shrine!
A lofty peace is thine!—the tides of life
Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears,
And passion’s fevered strife
From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the spheres!
O twilight glory! that doth ne’er awake
Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond,
Allays the immortal thirst it cannot slake,
And heals the chafing of the work-day bond;
Give me thy patient spell!—to bear
With an unclouded brow, the secret pain,
(That floods my soul as thy pale beams the air,)
Of hopes that Reason quells, for Love to wake again!

* * * * *

FROM BUCHANNAN.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

IN ZOILUM.

Frustra ego te laudo; frustra me Zoile lædis
Nemo mihi credit, Zoile, nemo tibi.

TO ZOILUS.

Zoilus, in vain thy praise I spread;
And vainly thou hast slandered me!
No one believed a word I said,
No one on earth would credit thee.
—
Qui te videt beaties est;
Beatior qui te audiet
Qui basiat—semi deus est!

TRANSLATION.

He who beholds thy charms is blest;
More blest is he thy voice who hears;
But he thy ruby lip that pressed,
To me a demi-god appears.

The above was unquestionably suggested by the lines of Catullus to Lesbia, beginning—

Ille mi par esse Deo videtur
Ille, si fas est, superare Divos
Qui sedens adversus identidem te
Spectat, et audit, etc.

This poem of Catullus is nothing more than a translation from the Greek of Sappho, which has been rendered familiar by Ambrose Phillips’ version.

“Blest as the immortal gods is he;
The youth who fondly sits by thee:
Who hears and sees thee, all the while,
Softly speak and sweetly smile, etc.”

It would seem that Horace when composing his beautiful ode of “Integer Vitæ,” had these verses of Sappho in mind, when he exclaims—

Dulce ridentem, Lalagen amabo
Dulce loquentem.

The “_Dulce ridentum_” is also beautifully applied in the translation by Catullus.

* * * * *

THE RECLUSE. NO. II.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

IV.

From Paris, on the 28th of February last, about four o’clock in the afternoon, a rainbow was distinguished in the heavens. “Bravo!” cried a workman of the Faubourg Saint Antoine—“See how le bon Dieu (the good God) also acknowledges the French Republic—he hangs out the tricolored flag.”

This anecdote, though singularly French, who are noted for irreligion, does not strike me as betraying any lack of reverence. Could not the poor _ouvrier_ in his ignorance really have presumed the rainbow to be a providential token? Instances of greater blindness might be recounted, which have happened at our own doors. Who does not know the stories of Millerite fanaticism? Are not the impostures of Matthias too recent not to be remembered in detail? The miracles which they pretended, and which were not too monstrous for the capacious maw of respectable credulity, were much more marvelous than the tricolored flag of the poor Paris laborer.

V.—TO AN OLD FLAME.

_Written on one of the bitterest days of Winter._

Ah, Mary, thou art far away,
And never dost thou think of me,
But unto thee my visions fly
Like birds across the sea.

I loved thee once with such a love
As manhood only knows and feels,
Less shown by actions and by words
Than what the eye reveals.

Within the warm and sunny South
Thy form is folded like a rose,
While I, in Northern realms afar,
Am wrapt in wintry snows.

Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose
The treasure I’d have died to win,
So that desire for thy sweet face
Is very like a sin.

But I’ll not think it—let me dream—
Since dreams alone such bliss bestow—
That, ere we meet in climes above,
We yet may meet below.

And I again may feel a thrill
Of rapture as I sit and gaze
Into thine eye’s delicious depth
Till all my heart’s ablaze.

And I can hear thy tuneful voice,
With melody almost divine,
Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear
In days of auld lang syne.

But all in vain I strike my lyre,
In vain my burning thoughts unfold,
For, though my heart is warm with love,
My hands are numb with cold.

VI.—SHIPWRECK.

There is no event, by which sorrow is brought to mankind, which arouses in the mind of old and young a livelier horror than “shipwreck.” There is something so terrible in the loneliness and obscurity of the sea, something so deplorable in the utter helplessness of the sailors, that there is scarcely any danger which we would not rather encounter. When we read of one, either near at hand or afar off, we involuntarily close our eyes, as if to shut out the awful scene; the noble ship helplessly reeling and tumbling on the billows, the pall of clouds, the driving rain, the white spray and foam drifting like ghosts over the water, some boat perhaps crowded with human beings, some broken mast or spar to which cling drowning wretches, and alone, all alone on the ocean-desert, with no hope of aid or succor. Vainly do we strive to shut our ears to the cries of misery and despair, to the wail of the wind, the loud lamenting of the surge, the deep groans of the vessel as her timbers part, and the noblest fabric of human skill is about to be torn to fragments and utterly destroyed.

Lord Byron, describing a ship under full sail, uses the forcible expression,

“She walks the water like a thing of like.”

There is as much truth as beauty in this. Indeed it is difficult to imagine so proud and glorious an object, moving obedient to reason and command, to be nothing more than an inanimate mass. Behold her, as she sets out upon her voyage, with a fair sky and favoring breeze! How gracefully she parts the waters and sweeps onward! Is not that form instinct with feeling and endowed with intellect? No! she is but a wonderful piece of mechanism; but the dullest fancy might imagine her a being, an intelligence, capable of volition, powerful in deed. Observe her, too, when overmastered by the tempest and made subject to the waves, she drifts powerless along! Does she not seem to suffer human pangs in her struggles, and to die with all of mortal agony?

The attachment, I might say friendship, which seamen entertain for particular vessels is not to be wondered at. The deck is the home of the mariner: here the greater number of his days are spent: the masts, sails, rigging are to him familiar objects, the objects of his constant care and solicitude, and he feels for them a species of paternal love. When these are destroyed, lost, wrecked, he mourns them with a real sorrow.

It is my lot to live within constant sight of the sea. I am on one of the grand highways from Europe to New York. Ships of all nations pass my door. Many a noble vessel has been wrecked within a mile from my dwelling. My mind therefore often reverts to this most fearful calamity, and it is difficult for me to expel even from my dreams visions of shipwreck.

VII.—DR. SYNTAX.

Will nobody republish “A Tour in Search of the Picturesque?” Will nobody print it and give us the original pictures, colored engravings of the richest sort—none of your meager outlines—your skeletons of sketches—but the rotund figures in full of the veritable hero of that glorious poem, and all the scenes and adventures through which he passed?

Darling old Dr. Syntax! How many a sad, long year has droned away since I, a merry boy, used to read thy most fascinating of Tours! Nothing ever so captivated my young imagination as thy solitary rambles on thy faithful steed through town and hamlet—now taking up thy abode with some lordly proprietor, and now sleeping contentedly beneath the roof of some sturdy yeoman—now kissing the squire’s wife and sister, and now giving sympathizing advice to the dairy-maid, who was, like poor Ophelia, disappointed in love. Oh, Doctor! thou wast never above humanity. Though never frail thyself, yet wast thou no inexorable judge over the frailties of others.

I long, most patient and peculiar of travelers, I long sincerely to accompany thee once more in thy rambles. Most charitable of divines, most lenient of pedagogues, “take thee for all in all, I shall not look upon thy like again!” _Interestingest_ of all authors, I would enter into thy feelings once more. I would feel the joy thou feltest in quitting thy spouse (no _dulcis uxor_) and mounting thy famous mare, Grizzle, and setting forth on thy most speculative and picturesque expedition. You were a creature of the brain, Doctor, I suppose—but to me you are a reality. I remember you perfectly. I loved you when a boy at school with all my heart. Orthography, Etymology and Prosody I hated—but I loved Syntax.

Which of you generous and gentlemenly booksellers will immediately send me a copy (bound or unbound, but it must have the pictures,) of Dr. Syntax’s Tour in Search of the Picturesque? Speak not all at once! I will promise you “a first-rate notice in the Boston Post.” It would afford me “a wonderful sight” of fun, as they say in Androscoggin, to read that book. I should be _rejuvenesced_. Kind Mr. Hart, be so obliging as to ransack your shelves and transmit an old English copy, directed TO THE RECLUSE, _aux soins du redacteur en chef de_ GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VIII.—A CHARACTER.

My friend, Ralph Willinton, is a man of adventures. More strange things have happened to him than to any dozen people I ever heard of, in what are called “the common walks of life.” Ralph is by no means an extraordinary individual. If the North River waited for him to set it on fire, it might flow on through the Highlands unscorched forever. He was not born to greatness; he will never achieve greatness, nor will greatness be thrust upon him. But do not misunderstand me: Ralph, as the gentleman felicitously remarked of Shakespeare, “is no fool.” On the contrary, he is a fellow of parts. He never dazzled in conversation by a coruscation of mother-wit; but when he has heard a happy rejoinder, he remembers it, and has the skill to use it to advantage.

Ralph is the happiest mimic in these _Untied_ States, as they may sooner or later be called. There never appeared an actor in any one of our theatres whose voice and manner he cannot imitate with marvelous verisimilitude. Moreover he sings a very good song, though with no very powerful or melodious voice. He can write Magazine articles on music, composes occasionally himself, and writes love ditties, such as they are. Add to these accomplishments a manner irresistibly winning, and tones in speaking as sweet as those which the author of Guy Mannering gives to Rashleigh Osbaldistone, and you are possessed of the sum total of Ralph’s recommendations. The sum total do I say? when I have but obscurely hinted at his extraordinary gift or faculty of story-telling, by which, like Hamlet’s Yorick, he can set the whole table on a roar. In sooth, he is the most diverting of dinner-table companions. He richly earns his invitations, of which no man has more. You can bear to listen to those stories of his (which are nothing when any one else tells them) a hundred times. They are “ever charming, ever new.” Age cannot mar nor custom stale his infinite variety. His profession is the law, and his practice is amusement.

Ralph is, in fine, a capital fellow. It is a pity that he should have a capital propensity. He is the hero of all his romances. Had he been Macbeth, he never would have exclaimed, “Thou canst not say _I_ did it!” He would rather have had the _credit_ of murdering Duncan himself than have been thought to have no hand in the “bloody business.” Ralph is the most ubiquitous of mortals. To have effected an iota of what he attributes to his own talents, valor and industry, to have done one in fifty of those deeds of which he asserts “_quorum pars magna fui_,” he must have been in a very considerable number of places at once. Nevertheless and notwithstanding Ralph Willinton is a glorious good fellow. Reader, did you ever meet with Ralph Willinton?

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE:

ABOUT A GENIUS.

BY CAROLINE C——.

We wither from our youth, we waste away,
Sick, sick, unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst.
BYRON.

In summer time there are few things more delightful than an occasionally wet day to “out-of-towners.”

Then we of the country, in our almost noiseless homes, may delight and rejoice in the strange and pleasant quietness attending a still, steadily-falling rain; we can watch with admiring eyes how the fields and the well-draperied woods grow bright and cleanly, ’neath the hand of that pattern housekeeper, Dame Nature; we can listen undisturbed by the multitudinous noises which infest a city, to the dear wild-birds, who, impatient of the long-continued weeping of the skies, occasionally break forth into the merriest songs, as if questioning each other as to how they stand the charges of the elements.

And then there is the generous Sun King, (I acknowledge, however, he does not shine for country-people _only_,) glancing out at intervals from between the heavy clouds, smiling upon us joyously, and looking for all the world as though he would say if he could, “never mind, children, the storm will soon be passed!” And then the after-part of a summer shower! the freshened fragrance of the flowers—the purified atmosphere—the bright blue sky—the increased glory of the setting-sun—the rainbow in the east—the drops of water glistening on the flowers and on the grass, so pure and bright, that one might almost imagine them the tears of spirits—the glad songs of innumerable birds—the groups of children exhibiting in various ways their nautical daring on and about the newly-formed lakelets in the roads and fields—the many evidences of life awakened out of doors—then the holy calmness of the ensuing summer night—the soft light of the stars—and after that the trembling glory of the new moon! Oh, beautiful, beautiful summer! with thy rain-storms and thy sunshine, hasten to us again!

But—a rainy day in winter! its horrors encircle me at this moment; I forbear entering into its details. However much _you_ may delight in a day like unto this, oh, listen to the humble voice now emerging from the way-side, _I_ have no courage to speak even of the stubborn, hard-headed, cheerless figure Nature presents when she stands gazing in such mute dismay upon her domicil.

It is in human nature, at least in mine, and I claim to be human, to be always looking for _a something better_, and despite all this dreariness without, my heart is even now continually singing, “Spring is coming! spring is coming!” but a few weeks! and then, instead of the dismal trappings of winter, how beautiful and bright all without and around us will be! the very thought is enough to make every soul shout, “Hasten the time! Amen!”

There is such a desolateness in the court of the white-headed old king which people very naturally shrink from as they grow older in years!

Looking back into childhood, these stony-hearted months when frost and snow reign king and queen over earth, seem, indeed, the most joyous—and not without reason. For then the “Christman” and the youth so full of promise, the bright New Year, are never-failing guests by the mid-winter fire-side. There is joy for the child on the ice-bound hill, on the glassy, frozen lake, in the gurgling, merry sound of the sleigh-bells, in the sight of the cheerful home-fire, in the bracing out-door air, in the huge snow-drifts—everywhere, everywhere there is joy for the child!

And why? Because of bounding hopes and joyous dreams, and the careless yielding up of oneself to every passing enjoyment—because of freedom from labor—because of ignorance of the worth and supremacy of gold—because of utter innocence of the strict “proprieties” of life! There is joy for the child, because he has not yet learned much of disappointments; he does not know how uncomfortable is the close-fitting garment of manhood. He is not wise enough to see in the winter storms, in the driving blasts in which he so much delights, the type of what assuredly awaits him. He does not know that the life-storms with which he will have to struggle, will come suddenly and furiously upon him—that he will, perforce, then fling aside his mittens and grapple open handed with his foes. And it must certainly be at the warm and genial hearth-fire of truth and honesty, and no stifling stove-heat by which he must keep his heart, and its hopes and affections warm and in health, else they will die away suddenly and utterly, even as the fire of the “patent air-tight” dies!

Hark! now I hear the flapping of wings; and lo, here, almost close beside my window, are passing pigeons—snow-white pigeons; and, where _could_ it have streamed from, there is a ray of sunlight on their wings! and since I have begun writing, the clouds seem to have “spent their fury,” they are less dull and dreary—they are slowly breaking away.

The view from the window by which I am writing is not especially charming. In one direction there are sheds, and barns, and barren trees, and a little farther on, the spire of an unpretending church, and sundry chimney-tops, together with the roofs of a few loftier buildings meet my eye. These are all certainly very _suggestive_ scenes, and might make so many important heads of a very interesting discourse; but, in another direction from this same window there are great fields, and farther on, woods and hills, and between them and me, there are two points in the landscape on which very often my eyes rest, and many are the recollections, bitter and sweet, they awaken. One is a village school-house, the other a thickly-populated grave-yard.

Over those hills, and through the woods, and by the sandy shores of our beautiful lake, I was once a frequent wanderer, and with me invariably in all those rovings, was a child of somewhere near my own age, to whom, good reader, you may now consider yourself introduced.

When the week, with its disappointments, and hopes and joys has passed, and Saturday afternoon, the child’s holyday the world over, comes round again, how often my thoughts have turned back to her, and to the time when _we_ also were young; oh, how much of meaning there is in that word, _youth_!

But looking back into the past is not an over-pleasant business at any time. There are very many reasons why people, for the most part, dread the rolling up of that curtain within which lies buried much of destroyed confidence, and happiness that died of fearful wounds; but I am willing to trespass on my own feelings at this present, that you may know something of Lily Reeve.

People said she was a genius. They said rightly—she was. And to complete the interest attachable to her therefor, Lily was poor—_very_ poor, and had been all the days of her life.

When the Reeve family moved among us they had no acquaintance or relative in our village—and their circumstances and business were not such as attached any importance or attracted any notice to them. Had it not been for Lily they would probably have remained long enough in our midst, unknown and uncared for. The mother was a middle-aged woman, a widow; of the children I knew not much, save that with much appropriateness their name might have been “legion.” Lily was the eldest child—not beautiful—and far from being even interesting, personally.

Why her parents had bestowed on her so decided a name as Lily was always a mystery—for very far from a resemblance, even the slightest, to that graceful flower, was she. Neither was she a brunette, but of complexion rather dark, hair _very_ black, and always curled, which gave her a decidedly Mrs. Hemanish look at times. Her features were irregular—oh, certainly, she was _far_ from beautiful, and yet there was much sweetness of expression in the mouth, and much of vigor and determination perceivable in her dark eyes.

It was a good many years ago, but I remember distinctly the first time I ever saw Lily. With a number of juveniles I was returning from a _very_ long walk—all our foot-jaunts were long in those days—when, on passing by an old-fashioned frame-house, brown with age, and poor and disconsolate in its outward appearance, one of the group said, “Let’s go into that house; there’s a girl living there who paints.”

And we went in. One of the more confident of our number said to the woman who received us, “Will you show us some of the pictures your daughter has painted?”

With a smile of satisfaction, as though she were pleased that even we children should have heard of her daughter, the woman bade us sit down; and then she brought from an old chest a handful of papers, and spread them on the table before us. Some of these were pictures of warriors on their steeds, others landscapes, and some were heads. There was one which more than all the others attracted my attention—it was a portrait of a sleeping child. We asked if this were one of her children, or only a fancy sketch.

“That was her little brother who died,” replied the woman, with a sigh. “Lily drew it when he was dead.” There was something so sad in the mother’s voice as she said this, that it checked our gay spirits, and tended to subdue our loud expressions of admiration. While we yet stood there turning over the papers, and gazing in wonder on the productions of a girl no older than the youngest among us, the subject of our thoughts and curiosity came into the room.

When she saw what was our object there, she came up to the table, and putting her arm around me, as though confident she was with friends, she asked if we liked her drawings. I remember well the thrill which passed over me at this simple act of hers, for I had begun to regard the girl as something quite extraordinary, and almost more than human. From that day I date a friendship I am proud to have formed, one which, while it lasted, delighted me more than any similar tie I have ever known.

It was very easy to see that the heart of the mother in those days was full of hope—that the mind of the daughter teemed with ambitious desires, and a determination, apparently invincible, to accomplish great things. About that time there were many people who turned prophets, and looking into the future, they saw a great name added to America’s illustrious daughters of song—the name of Lily Reeve. Do you think their prophecy has proved true?

In the old school-house, (which I heartily regret to say has been of late abandoned, and its former inmates have taken possession of a more stately edifice up-town,) in that little old brick building, _we_ in the years long, long gone by, were wont to assemble—and Lily joined us there. And although on the humdrum route of _learning_ we were quite in the advance, she soon very far outstripped us, and moved on with most rapid strides through all the first branches of education. It was impossible for us dullards to see her strange advancement, and not feel a little envious of her ability, notwithstanding we liked Lily so well. In one short year she had acquired nearly all the instruction it was possible for our teacher to impart, and as may be supposed for his part, he was watching her progress with somewhat of anxiety. But his honor as a teacher was not destined to be sacrificed to the young girl’s genius.

One afternoon, when school was dismissed, Lily said to me, “You and I will go home by the other street. I have something to tell you, and the way will be longer. Besides, I want to be away from these rough boys and girls.”

So we crossed the road, and entered a path which led us by a long way home. When we had reached the bridge, which crossed a deep, rapidly running brook, we sat down on the bench, placed in the shade of an old tree, which from “time immemorial” has stood there, with the most of its tangled roots buried in the water; then Lily spoke again, for the first time since we went out from the school-house.

“Do you know they are going to send me to the other school—they think I can learn more there, and have teachers in the higher branches, and in the languages. Oh, dear!”

“But why that ‘oh, dear!’ Lily? I only wish I were ready to go there too, but I am such an ignoramus, and you know every thing!”