Chapter 7

An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time unless it blew more of a breeze."

THE HOME-BEACON.

By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood Impels the foamy mill, Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom, A mansion crowns the hill.

A pharos true, light ever new Streams through its friendly pane, To guide and greet benighted feet Which thread the winding lane.

Lofty and lone, that light has shone, Alike o'er green or snow, Since first a pair their nest built there, Two hundred years ago.

Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk To cheer the dismal way, That light shall tell of marriage-bell, Of moon and merry sleigh.

The ancient home to which we come These scenes revealed one night; As the beacon true, so old, yet new, Flung wide its cheery light.

Go back threescore long years, or more: Old Time the latch shall lift, And, from his urn, once more return The home of love and thrift.

A noble sire, with nerves of wire, Warm heart, and open hand,-- A worthy dame, nor shrewd, nor tame,-- Lead forth the phantom band;

Three girls, three boys, with fun and noise, Next gather round the hearth; Reenter, then, dear friends, again All full of life and mirth.

"My pretty nuns, 't is late! My sons, Bring out the 'Sliding Car.' For one fair bride, you all must ride The snows both fast and far."

First darts away the bridegroom gay, Nor waits the well-aimed jest: To shed and stall they follow, all, To speed their sire's behest.

In full array, the spacious sleigh Glides through the pillared gate: Each prancing steed, straining to lead, Draws no unwilling mate.

Full moon and bright loops up the night Above the starry sky. Runner and heel, well shod with steel, Cut sharply as they fly.

Along they go, o'er sparkling snow, Shrill bells to song oft ringing; By oak and birch, to Gladstone church A bridal party bringing.

On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls, And silvers o'er the spire, While diamond-pane and giddy vane Repeat the heavenly fire.

From lofty tower to maiden's bower, And wide o'er hill and dell, Of earthly heaven, to mortals given, Sweet chimes the marriage-bell.

With open book, and solemn look, All robed in priestly lawn, The Rector stands,--but counts the sands, Right willing to be gone!

(The evening mail and nut-brown ale, His pipe and rocking-chair, Are waiting long, while the bridal throng Still lingers unaware.)

An ancient gloom fills all the room, And dims the lamps above, Though wall and aisle in verdure smile, Through wreath and Christmas grove.

By branching pines and graceful vines, Slow glides the youthful pair To the altar green, with brow serene, And kneel together there.

Soft breathes the vow, responsive now, In calm but earnest tone. The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing! Fast binds the twain in one.

The solemn word no longer heard, With chastened steps and slow, And heart in heart, no more to part, To "Home, sweet Home," they go.

Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main, The winged steeds return: On roughening rock, with shriek and shock, The flashing runners burn.

O'er cradling drift, secure though swift,-- Now smooth, now rough, the track,-- The furious sleigh devours the way, As lash and harness crack.

Through furs and wool, the air, so cool, Is felt or feared no more; Though gay the steeds with icy beads, And their flanks are frosted o'er.

A fitful light, scarce yet in sight, Gleams through the opening wood: Ah! now they come to their hill-side home, In merry, merry mood.

Four lovely girls, a string of pearls, Are found in place of three: Four daughters fair are gathered there Around the Christmas-tree.

As roars the fire, their loving sire A warmer welcome deals; And, stooping low, on one fair brow His heart's adoption seals.

A dearer bliss, a mother's kiss, Awaits the blushing bride: One look above! then smiles of love Express her joy and pride.

Once more good cheer removes the tear, Returns the joyous smile; Soon laughter, poured around the board, Rings through the spacious pile.

While dance and song employ them long, Steals in the cold, gray dawn! Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn, And vanish o'er the lawn.

Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears, Time scattered all those pearls! They fell, unstrung, old graves among; O'er all the snow-wreath curls!

Yet shines that light from lattice bright, Wide o'er the grass, or snow; Still all the room its rays illume, As when, so long ago,

Its arrowy star recalled the car Then winding round the wood, And lime-rock gray threw back the ray Across the rapid flood.

Though cold each form, their _love_, still warm, From hearth and lattice glows: Hearts kind and dear yet linger here, And bid us to repose.

The skies are dark! No moonbeams mark Or wall, or traveller's way: O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood, And doubts our steps delay.

No beacon-light yet cheers the night: How gloomy grows the hour! Ah! there it shines, in lance-like lines, Sharp through the misty shower.

Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar! Still bless the nightly way! Always the same, a vestal flame, Love shall maintain thy ray.

THE FOURTH OF JULY.

It was the anniversary of our Glorious Fourth. The evil genius who specially presides over the destinies of unoffending college boys put it into the heads of five of us to celebrate the day by an excursion by water to Nahant Beach. The morning was delightful,--the cool summer air just freshening into a steady and favoring breeze, the sun tempered in his ferocity by an occasional cloud above us, the sea calm and pleasant--and all that sort of thing, you know--just what you want on such occasions,--and we set sail from Braman's, resolved to have "a jolly good time." I can't describe our passage down. It was altogether too full of fun to be written on one sheet. Suffice it to say, we laughed, and sang, and joked, and ate, and drank ('t was when we were young), and so on, all the way, and in fact I felt rather disappointed at arriving so soon as we did at our destined port. Here new pleasures awaited us, in the shape of acquaintances unexpected and unexpecting, rides on the beach, bowling, and loafing in general,--much too rich to be described here and now. But there is an end to all sport, and ours came quite too soon. The shadows had begun to lengthen considerably before we thought of starting on our return, and certain ominous indications in the heavens above us warned us, that, as our passage homewards was not by land, further delay was unadvisable.

Dolefully we set our sail, and made for Boston Harbor. We began to feel the reaction which always follows a season of extreme joviality, and our spirits were down. Our chief wit, Tom B----, who had before kept us in a perpetual roar all the way, sat moody and desponding, and answered gruffly every question put to him; speaking only when spoken to, and then in monosyllables rarely used in polite circles. Our _other_ joker, second only to Tom, the above named, having amused us during the whole day by long yarns spun out from a varied experience and a rich imagination, betook himself to slumber, and tried to dream that he was safe home again. The rest of us performed our duties about the boat in gloomy silence, looking occasionally with some anxiety at the clouds gathering slowly over our heads, but keeping our opinions within our own breasts. I had no apprehension of danger, for nothing indicated a gale; in fact, the breeze was gradually deserting us. All that was to be feared was a calm, steady rain, which, visiting us at a distance of several miles from home, and late at night, promised any thing but an agreeable conclusion to our day's excursion. At last it came. First, a heavy drop, then a few more, and then a regular, straight, old-fashioned pour.

Our sail hung motionless, and we seemed to stand still and take it. Our companions were soon roused from their abstraction by the very unpleasant circumstances, and we hastily took counsel together.

"Unship the mast," says Tom, "and over with your oars."

We obeyed our captain sulkily, and soon were moving on again. We pulled away for an hour or so, drenched with the rain, which seemed to come down faster than ever, and were about as miserable and down-cast a pack of wretches as ever lived; for there is nothing like a good ducking (to use the common expression) to take the life and spirit out of a man, not to mention the other discomforts that attended our situation.

Silently we rowed, and not a sound was heard above the plashing of the rain upon the surface of the sea, and the regular stroke of the oars.

"It's very strange that we don't reach old Point Shirley," says Tom, who had been on the look out for this landmark during the last half-hour.

"Very strange," said we, and pulled away as before.

Thus passed another half-hour in silent, ceaseless occupation, when, from the mere force of habit, I dipped my hand over the boat's gunwale, with the hope of cooling my blistered palm in the salt water. Judge of my surprise, when I found my hand immersed in _thick black mud_.

"By Jove, fellows," cried I, "we're floored!"

There was no mistaking the fact; we were aground. At that instant the moon burst out from between the drifting clouds, and, as if in derision, threw a streak of light over our melancholy position. There we were, high and dry on a bank of mud, a scooped furrow on each side of us attesting the frantic efforts of our oarsmen to get a headway, and a long wake, ten feet in extent, marking our distance from the sea behind us. Such was our position as the moon revealed it to us. We looked dolefully in one another's faces for three minutes; then a grim smile gradually stole over Tom's expressive countenance, as he slowly ejaculated, "Point Shirley it is!" when the ludicrous side of the matter seemed to occur to each of us simultaneously, and we indulged ourselves with a roar of laughter,--the first since we had left Nahant.

Of course, nothing could be done under the circumstances; but we must wait patiently for the rising of the tide to float us off. So we sat there in our wet garments until the dead of night, when our boat gradually lifted herself off and we started again, and finally arrived at Braman's early in the morning.

The moral of this tale may be summed up in a single word,--TEMPERANCE.

FROM THE PAPERS OF REGINALD RATCLIFFE, ESQ.

In college I was the "Illustrious Lazy." In my professional studies and avocations, I have been so hard driven, in order to make up for four idle years, that I am wasted almost to a shadow, and fears are entertained that I shall wholly vanish into thin air. My physician talks gravely about my having exhausted my nervous energy, and sends me to Ratborough, as the place of all others the most favorable for entire intellectual repose. I am living with an old aunt, Tabitha Flint, who was wont to rock me, and trot me, and wash my face, in my helpless infancy, and can hardly yet be convinced that I have outgrown such endearing assiduities in the twenty-five years that have intervened. I let her pet me, so far as I find it convenient, and, indeed, farther, because I feel grateful for the kind feelings of which I am the object.

There is another personage in the household, who probably thinks that in the exuberant kindness of my aunt I have a full average of civility, without the least interest on her part. Do not for a moment imagine that I am piqued at her insulting indifference of manner towards a young man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly without claim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady's eye. You must not suppose I care at all about the matter. But as I have not even a book allowed me to take up my thoughts, my curiosity fixes itself strangely upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person, who takes about as much notice of me as of the figure of Father Time over the clock.

What can such a body have to think about the livelong day that is so absorbing that all one's bright thoughts, and one's most whimsical sallies, pass without notice? Should I see her once move a muscle of her very plain, doggedly inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, I should jump up and cry, "Bo!" with surprise.

She vanishes several hours at a time, and I hear her humming to herself, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another. I wish I knew how she amuses herself, for I find self-amusement the hardest drudgery I ever tried. I could stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing but lounge about; I am as snappish as a chained cur, as cross as a caged bear. And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear that contented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step on the stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent. What can she find to be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happy in this dull house alone?

There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do not see her wince, though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and sing false on purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask her if she can play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine in self-defence.

There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily by stage-coach. "Flory," says my aunt, "sings like a canary-bird, and plays a sight,"--and _at sight_ too, it seems. This Miss Flora will be found to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give it exercise. I do not know certainly that Miss Etty--By the way, what is her real name? I won't condescend to ask any question about her. But really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. Perhaps Henrietta. No, no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her _Little Ugly_.

Hark! I have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in the direction of the kitchen. Heigh-ho! How can any mortal laugh in Ratborough! Having nothing better to do, I will go and see who this very merry personage may be. I will inquire into this gay outbreak, in a land of stupidity. Hark, again!--how refreshing! I must and will know what caused such a gush of mirth. Irish humor, perhaps, for Norah is laughing, after her guttural fashion, too.--

As I popped my head into the kitchen, Little Ugly was just vanishing at the opposite door. I could not make Norah tell me what Miss Etty put under her arm, as she looked over her shoulder at me, and darted out of sight. O my noisy boots! I might as well wear a bell round my neck.

Stage-wheels are rattling up the road. Now they run upon the grass before the door. I rush in undignified haste to the window. Shall I--will I--go and help this long-expected Miss Flora to alight? No,--for I see forty boxes on the coach-top. A very handsome girl, really! I will get out a blameless dickey,--if such there be. First impressions are important. I wish my hair was cut!

I hear my aunt coming to inform me of Flora's arrival. I shall be hugely surprised! Humph!--will it be worth while to trouble myself about the lop-eared dickey? Little Ugly will be amused, if I do. She _can_ laugh, it seems. I had thought there was no fun in her mental composition. Yet I have imagined a glimmer or so in her eyes, when she thought I was not looking at them, and the shadow of a dimple in her cheek now and then.

Instead of Adonizing, I will set my long locks on end, and don my slipshod slippers. "Yes, Aunt; I hear, good lady! I will presently arrive, to make my bow to _Little Handsome_."

* * * * *

_Journal, Sept. 23d_. Truly, the presence of Miss Flora Cooper makes Willow Valley a new place. At least six hours are taken from the length of the days, though I have given up my afternoon slumber, and play chess and backgammon instead of drumming on the table or piano. Now am I relieved from that tedious companion, my own self. I never liked him very well; I had rather do any thing than have a sober talk with a serious personage, who always takes me to do for not making more of him. He scolds me, just as a stay-at-home wife lectures a gay husband, who never returns to his better half when he finds any thing to amuse him abroad. Good-by, old fellow; I have found better company than your rememberings or hopings; to wit, Miss Flora Cooper, alias Little Handsome, alias Aunt Tabby's Canary.

The first day or two after her arrival, Miss Flora pouted at me. I was exceedingly well amused, making all the saucy speeches I could think of, in the pure spirit of mischief, and taking no notice of her tossing her pretty head, and turning her back upon me. Finding that her displeasure was not producing any particular effect upon the object of it, I imagine the indignant beauty begins to plot a different revenge on me. "Ha, ha! Miss Flora! It is not because you like me better than you did, that you are all smiles, and grace, and sunshine. I shall not flatter you the more, I am determined. I am on my guard. You shall never boast of me on your list of obsequious admirers. No, no, Little Handsome! I am no lady's man, and never was flirted withal in my life. I defy your smiles, as stoutly as your frowns. I like your pretty face; yes, it is exceedingly beautiful, as far as form and coloring go to make up the beauty of a face. And the play of the features,--yes, very lively and pretty, only too much of it. You should not smile so often; and I am tired of your pretty surprise, your playful upbraidings, and the raps of your fan. I want more repose of feature, Little Handsome. Now, what a contrast you and sedate Miss Etty present! Ah, very good! I am glad you have given up following Little Ugly out of the room the moment we rise from table. You sit down to your tiny basket, and demurely take out something that passes for work. I don't see you do much at it, however. I give you warning that I never hold skeins to be wound, not I. I will not read aloud; so you need not offer me that 'Sonnet to Flora,' in manuscript, nor your pet poet in print. We will talk; it is a comfort to have my wit appreciated, after wasting so much on my aunt, who cannot, and Miss Etty, who will not understand. I am glad to have a chance to speak, and to hear a human voice in answer. I like especially to rattle on when any nonsense will do. Chat is truly agreeable when one's brains are not severely taxed to keep it going."

_Sept. 24th_. Charming little Canary! I have spent the forenoon with her at the piano. I like her playing when she does not attempt my favorite tunes. It must be confessed she is apt to vary somewhat, and not for the better always. Her singing,--Aunt Tabitha well describes it as that of a canary; sweet and liquid, and clear, and sustained, but all alike. Her throat is a fine instrument; I shall teach her to use it with more expression and feeling. We will have another lesson to-morrow.

I thought, though, there was a shadow over her face when I called it _practising_. Etty's eyes met mine at the moment, a rare occurrence. What was her thought? One cannot read in her immovable face.

_Evening_. I am booked for a horseback ride with Little Handsome to-morrow morning. How did she make me offer? I did not mean to. All country girls ride, I believe. I often see Miss Etty cantering through the shady lanes all by herself. I saw the bars down, at the end of the track through the wood, one day. I immediately concluded that Little Ugly had paced off that way, that I need not see her from my window. I put the bars up again, and lay in wait behind the bushes. Soon I heard her approaching. I come forward as she comes near, on that rat-like pony of hers, who holds his head down as if searching for something lost in the road. I stand in doubt whether to laugh at her predicament, or advance in a gentlemanly manner to remove the obstacle I had put in her way. When lo! the absurd little nag clears it at a bound, and skims away over the green track like a swallow, till he vanishes under the leafy arch. I am left in a very foolish attitude, with mouth and eyes wide open.

Now this independent young lady shall be at liberty to take care of herself, with no officious interference of mine; I will not invite her to join us to-morrow morning, as I intended. I wonder if any horses are to be procured that are not rats. I hope Miss Flora knows enough to mount her pony, for I am sure I do not know how to help her. Whew! I hope we shall meet with no disasters! I feel certain Little Handsome would scream like a sea-gull, pull the wrong rein, tangle her foot in the stirrup or riding-skirt, faint, fall, break her neck--O horrors! Will not the dear old Aunt Tabitha forbid her going?

What a well-proportioned and ladylike figure it was, now I think of it! How gracefully she sat upon her flying Dobbin!

_Sept. 25th_. Rainy. Glad of it. Breakfast late. Miss Etty did not appear, having been up some hours, I imagine. What for, I wonder? What can she be about? One thing pleases me in her. If Aunt Tabitha wants any little attention, a needle threaded, or a dropped stitch taken up, Miss Etty quietly comes to her aid. It is so entirely a matter of course, the old lady only smiles, but any service from Flora calls forth an acknowledgment; it being a particular effort of good nature, and generally the fruit of a direct appeal. Miss Etty talks more than she did, too. While I am talking nonsense with Little Handsome, I hear her amusing my good aunty, and I catch a few words, her utterance having a peculiar distinctness, and the lowest tones being fine and clear, like those of a good singer on a pianissimo strain. It is a peculiarly ladylike articulation; was she born and bred in Ratborough, I wonder? She never speaks while we are singing. Does she like music, then? I asked her once, but what sort of answer is "Yes!" to such a question? And that is all I elicited.

Music again, the forenoon occupation. Miss Flora does not like being criticized, I find. One must not presume to set her right in the smallest particular. Singers are proverbially irritable! I am not certain _I_ could belong to a glee-club, and never get cross or unreasonable. I hate to be corrected; but I hate more to be incorrect. I could give Canary a hint or two now and then that would be serviceable, if she would permit it. I have no right, however, to take it upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a pet. She laughed it off, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing glance. I am an impudent fellow, I suppose. Honest, to boot. I think she need not take offence at what was intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer, at least. Really, I am hurt that I might not take so trifling a liberty in behalf of my favorite song. I'll walk off as often as she sings it. Can her temper be perfectly good? And yet, one could not expect--I ought not to be surprised. Yet I can't help thinking, suppose--just suppose I _had_ a right to find fault,--suppose I were a near friend,--would she bear it then? Supposing she were my companion for life--Humph! that startles one,--was I near thinking of it in earnest? She is beautiful; I should be proud of her abroad. But at home,--at home, where there should be confidence, would there not be constraint? Must no improvement ever be suggested, because it implies imperfection? I hope none of my friends will ever be on such terms with me; if I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me hard, and fear me not.