Part 6

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.”