Chapter 7

_In which the fullness of the Gentiles is accomplished._

Great was the joy of my father and mother, and good little sisters, at the unexpected appearance of Cousins Pedro and Clara. The money of the former, it may be recollected, had been brought to Boston in the Cabot, and placed in my father's hands, and though Pedro could not be called a rich man, still the sum now paid him by his uncle was very handsome. This, by advice, was invested in an India venture to send by the Gentile; and my Cousin Pedro, in consequence of this and my father's recommendation, was appointed supercargo of that ship by Mr. Selden, the merchant who had chartered her.

Captain Smith was removed to a new and larger vessel; and the Gentile's list of officers, when she cleared for Canton, stood thus, Benjamin Stewart, master; Pedro Garcia, supercargo; Micah Brewster, 1st officer; William Langley, 2nd do.; Frank Byrne, 3rd do. Jack Reeves was also in the forecastle, but Teddy staid by his old skipper.

It was a very pleasant day when we sailed from the end of Long Wharf; but we had got nearly under weigh before Captain Stewart came on board.

"That's always the way with these new married skippers," growled the pilot, as he gave orders to hoist the maintop-sail.

* * * * *

About a month ago, the senior partner of the firm of Byrne & Co. was heard to say, that he had in his employ three sea captains who had each one wooed his wife in broad daylight, in a garden of the city of Matanzas.

ILENOVAR.

FROM A STORY OF PALENQUE.

A FRAGMENT.

BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSEE," "RICHARD HURDIS," ETC.

Weary, but now no longer girt by foes, He darkly stood beside that sullen wave, Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart; Vultures, that, in the greed of appetite, Still sating blind their passionate delight, Lose all the wing for flight, And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear, Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart, Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!" Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought, Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream, When, suddenly, his ear A far off murmur caught, Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds, Up from his father's grave, That ever still some fearful echoes gave, Such as had lately warned him in his dream, Of all that he had lost--of all he still might save! Well knew he of the sacrilege that made That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings Were in their royal pomp and purple laid, Refuge for meanest things;-- Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite, And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell, By those dread magians nightly practiced there; And who the destined victim of their art;-- But, as he feels the sacred amulet That clips his neck and trembles at his breast-- As once did she who gave it--he hath set His resolute spirit to its work, and well His great soul answers to the threatning dread, Those voices from the mansions of the dead! Upon the earth, like stone, He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone, Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear! But soon he rose in fright, For, as the sounds grew near, He feels the accents never were of earth: They have a wilder birth Than in the council of his enemies, And he, the man, who, having but one life, Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife, Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies. The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins, His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath Curdles, as if in death! Vainly he strives in flight, His trembling knees deny--his strength is gone! As one who, in the depth of the dark night, Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains, The murdered man's remains-- Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief, When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound, As of a strong man's grief; His heart denied its blood--his brain spun round-- He sank upon the ground!

'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung; The murmurs grew about him like a cloud-- He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices, Most sighing sad, but with a sound between, As of one born to hope that still rejoices, In a sweet foreign tongue, That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud, To a new rapture for the first time seen! This better voice, as with a crowning spell, On the chief's spirit fell; Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud: "Ah! thou art there, and well! I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me Art life no longer--thou hast brought me life, Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife. But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine, And I will wait until the terrible hour Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine! Now am I sworn unto a wilder power, But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower, That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;-- Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep, And know not to resign-- I would, but cannot weep! These are not tears, my father, but hot blood That fills the warrior's eyes; For every drop that falls, a mighty flood Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn Begins of that last day Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray, Such as shall bring us back old victories, Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn. Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom, Where all may read the doom, But none shall dream the horrid history! I do not weep--I do not shrink--I cry For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee, No other thought I see! My hope is strong within, my limbs are free. My arms would strike the foe--my feet would fly, Where now he rides triumphant in his sway-- And though within my soul a sorrow deep Makes thought a horror haunting memory, I do not, will not weep!"

Then swore he--and he called the tree whose growth Of past and solemn centuries made it wear An ancient, god-like air, To register his deep and passionate oath. Hate to the last he swore--a wild revenge, Such as no chance can change, Vowed he before those during witnesses, Rocks, waters and old trees. And, in that midnight hour, No sound from nature broke, No sound save that he spoke, No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh! His was an oath of power-- A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race-- To twice two hundred years of royalty-- That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway, While yet one subject warrior might obey, Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace! It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years, Borne by his trampled people as a dower Of bitterness and tears;-- Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings torn By a fierce conqueror's scorn; The national gods o'erthrown--treasure and blood, Once boundless as the flood, That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eye Crept onward silently; Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands, Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands, Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy, With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.

Even as he swore, his eye Grew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight, Red-lowering like the sky, When, heralding the tempest in his might, The muttering clouds march forth and form on high. With sable banners and grim majesty. Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire, That told the lurking ire, Shot ever forth, outflashing through the gloom It could not well illume, Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fell Seem trenched with scarrèd lines of hate and hell. Then heaved his breast with all the deep delight The warrior finds in promise of the fight, Who seeks for vengeance in his victory. For, in the sudden silence in the air, He knew how gracious was the audience there: He heard the wings unfolding at the close, And the soft voice that cheered him once before Now into utterance rose: One whispered word, One parting tone, And then a fragrant flight of wings was heard And she was gone, was gone-- Yet was he not alone! not all alone!

Thus, having sworn--the old and witnessing tree Bent down, and in his branches registered Each dark and passionate word; And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides, The terrible oath abides; And the dark waters, muttering to their waves, Bore to their secret mansions and dim caves The low of death they heard. Thus were the dead appeased--the listening dead-- For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came, Wrapping with ice his frame, A cold hand pressing on his heart and head; Entranced and motionless, Upon the earth he lies, While a dread picture of the land's distress Rose up before his eyes. First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ring About his brow, the sceptre in his hand, Ensigns of glorious and supreme command, Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king. "Ilenovar! Ilenovar!" he cried: Vainly the chief replied;-- He strove to rise for homage, but in vain-- The deathlike spell was on him like a chain, And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach, Denied all answering speech! The monarch bade him mark The clotted blood that, dark, Distained his royal bosom, and that found Its way, still issuing, from a mortal wound, Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his throat! The shadow passed--another took his place, Of the same royal race; The noble Yumuri, the only son Of the old monarch, heir to his high throne, Cut off by cunning in his youthful pride; There was the murderer's gash, and the red tide Still pouring from his side; And round his neck the mark of bloody hands, That strangled the brave sufferer while he strove Against their clashing brands. Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note His noble cousin, precious to his love, Brother of one more precious to his thought, With whom and her, three happy hearts in one, He grew together in their joys and fears-- And not till sundered knew the taste of tears; Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone, Him the survivor, the avenger--he Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see! Long troops came after of his slaughtered race, Each in his habit, even as he died: The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face, Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance, Nor turn away his glance!

They melt again to cloud--at last they fade; He breathes, that sad spectator,--they are gone; He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon, A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid, Graceful as evening light, and with an eye Intelligent with beauty, like the sky, And wooing as the shade, Bends o'er him silently! With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair, That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully, While with the other she directs his gaze, All desperate with amaze, Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear! What sees he there? Buried within her bosom doth his eye The deadly steel descry; The blood stream clotted round it--the sweet life Shed by the cruel knife!-- The keen blade guided to the pure white breast, By its own kindred hand, declares the rest! Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him, And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.

His trance is gone--his heart Hath no more fear! in one wild start He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry That rings in the far sky; He does not fear to rouse his enemy! The hollow rocks reply; He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice, As if he did rejoice That death had done his worst; And in his very desperation blessed, He felt that life could never more be cursed; And from its gross remains he still might wrest A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast! His hope is in the thought that he shall gain Sweet vengeance for the slain-- For her, the sole, the one More dear to him than daylight or the sun, That perished to be pure! No more! no more! Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow, Late breathed before those spectre witnesses, His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er, As 't were the very life of him and his-- Dear to his memory, needful to him now! A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-- Then, bending to the waters, his canoe, Like some etherial thing that mocks the view, Glides silent from the shore.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

'Twas to a dark and solitary glen, Amid New England's scenery wild and bold, A lonely spot scarce visited by men, Where high the frowning hills their summits hold, And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old-- Returned at evening from the fruitless chase, Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold And laid him mournful in his rocky place, The grief-worn warrior chief--last of his once proud race.

He wrapt his mantle round his manly form, And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay; His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm, While he to melancholy thoughts gave way, And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day. Scenes of the past before his vision rose-- The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway, The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes, His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.

He sees again his glad and peaceful home, His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear; Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam, Together they their honored sire revere; But trickles down his cheek the burning tear, As fades the spectral vision from his eye: Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear, And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry, To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.

Tired of the lonely world he longs to go And join his kindred and the warrior band, Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow, Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land: Ere he departs for aye, he fain would stand Again upon his favorite rock and gaze O'er the wide realm where once he held command, Where oft he hunted in his younger days, Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.

Up the bold height with trembling step he passed, And gained the fearful eminence he sought; As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast, His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought, And urged by ruin on his empire brought, He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng, With whom in vain his scattered warriors fought And on the sighing breeze that swept along, He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song:

Fair home of the red man! my lingering gaze On thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays; 'Tis the last that I give--like the dim orb of day, My life shall go down, and my spirit away.

Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain, The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain; The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here; The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.

No longer these hills and these valleys I roam, No more are these mountains and forests my home, No more, on the face of the beautiful tide, Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.

The pale-face hath conquered--we faded away, Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray, Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished; Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.

May the Great Spirit come in his terrible might, And pour on the white man his mildew and blight May his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail, And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.

May the beasts of the mountain his children devour, And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power; May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom, Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.

Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's song Died mournful on the evening breeze away, Ere down the precipice he plunged along Mid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay: All torn and mangled by the fearful fray, Naught save the echo of his fall arose. The winds that still around that summit play, The sporting rill that far beneath it flows, Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.

DECAY AND ROME.

Methinks I see, within yon wasted hall, O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green, The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene, Throned on a crumbling column by the wall, Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame, Mocking the desolation round about, Blotting with his effacing fingers out The inscription, razing off its hero's name-- And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe, With claspèd hands, a statue of despair, Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound-- A thousand rents in her imperial robe, Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hair Dishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round! R. H. S.

THE LITTLE CAP-MAKER.

OR LOVE'S MASQUERADE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.