Part 7

The sea rolls lazily, and whist. As the motions of the whirling mist; A pantomime of air and sea, That hath a solemn witchery, Which puzzles the cock, who has the right If any one has, to know day-light; But tired at last, he gives up, dumb With wondering when the morn will come; And after straining his lungs all day, Kicks up a row in his family. The porpoise out on the fishing ground With a running start, comes upward-bound, Then skimming along the ocean's brim, And just in tone with its solemn hymn, He snorts and blows, with a careless fling Of his short bob-tail, as it suited him Exceedingly, that sort of thing; Or, startled from her easy swing, The fluttering of a sea-bird's wing, The moaning cry of some lost bird, Or the dropping of a spar, is heard. And sudden, as from eternity, Quick to the eye and quickly missed, Just in and out of the driving mist, A something white moves slowly by, And you know that a ship is drifting nigh; A moment in, and a moment out, And then with the lull, a smothered shout, And all is dull and hushed again To the still small talk of the mighty rain; Or the '_Graves_,' that never can quiet be While a pulse is left in the heaving sea; The gossiping Graves, now off the lee You may hear them muttering; either side, As the ship heaves round with the lazy tide; And weary and faint, as a sick man raves, Is the senseless talk of the gossiping Graves.

Farther down in the outer bay, Knocking about as best they may, The ships that rounded the cape to-day Lie off and on, with a slow chasseé; All sorts of freight, from tar to teas, All manner of craft, that skim the seas: Some, just come in from an eastern cruise, Are big with the latest China news; Some, ballasted with golden sand, Are perfumed from Arabia's strand; Some with a crust from the Levant, And some _without_, are from Nahant; (Oh, sweet to them as Sabbath bells Would be the ring of its rocky wells!) And many an enterprising Noah Is there, with latest news from shore; With pilot-boat so snug and taut, And motion of grace, like an æronaut Caught in a cloud, when the wind is low, The sky above and the sea below: But sauciest, among them all, The harlequin of the mist-masked ball, And livelier than the fisherman, With jaunty roll the pinkie trim Turns up his tail to the Indiaman, (Either end is the same to him,) Or skips around the steamer that plays Like a thing bewitched in the general maze; Feeling about, as shy of her limbs, And careful and slow as a blind man swims. And many a turn-coat stomach below, That held out bravely until now, Rises with every swell of the yeast Peculiar to No'th-East by East.

II.

'TIS the morning hour by the Old South clock, But the light is hardly enough to mock The candies lit in the breakfast-room: Ugh! ugh! Ugh! ugh! Nobody up, but the maid and groom, And not a spark to cheer the gloom: Ugh! ugh! Unless they get one up, those two, By the candles lit in the breakfast room.

Is the day foggy and cold? _Decidedly_--both foggy and cold; And so for three long days shall be, While hangs this mist o'er land and sea; Three days and nights, like a frightful dream-- Some say the earth is blowing off steam.

Boston is up, and its noisy blare Strikes heavily on the muffled air; Like the growling of some savage beast, Hidden away at his morning feast: A faint, dull light is off the east, A trifle of cream, that mingles there With the milky hue of the thick, dull air; And by that light in the east, you guess That the Sun is somewhere up to dress, But, held back by some fond caress, Has caught his night-gown over his head, And----Boston, breakfasted, Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up, One hand holding the coffee-cup, The other with the 'Morning Post' To 'calculate' how long, at most, 'This heavy weather will hold on'-- So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston. Oh! pleasant _reflections_ are every where Except in this cursed atmosphere; But nothing whatever, unless their priest, Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least; Not even a storm, No'th-East by East.

III.

THE iron chariots bowling on From Albany and Stonington, Are chiming with their thousand wheels, And within, the living cargo reels And nods about familiarly, Each to the other, as he were a brother, And all as the mist falls silently. Five hundred noses point ahead, And a thousand eye-lids closed, as dead As already the silver coin had pressed, And sealed them in their final rest; So chill, from the mist of the neighboring deep, Is the nodding, nibbling, icy sleep; And dreams confusing go and come, Which blessings are and a curse to some; But all with a feeling of 'Devil-may-care,' Peculiar to the rail-road car, Or such as you fancy a witch's are On a broom-stick ride in the midnight air; Some 'promenade all' at Symms's Hole, Or, 'Hands all around' at the Northern Pole; The spot, where the earth having come to a crisis The Sun goes around on the tops of the ices, A weary Anchises; Ices, like Alps, of all shapes and devices; The pyramid, dome, the temple, and all That seemed 'frozen music' to Madame DE STAEL; While cluster of stars, with their beautiful eyes, Just peep in between, with a kind of surprise; Some fading, some flashing, all grouping anew, Like the lights of a city, when passing: in view, Or laughing young girls, all crowding for places In windows brim full of (God bless!) their sweet faces; And thus night and day, vis-à-vis to each other, Waltz round the horizon like sister and brother; While deep in the vault, with a hand unseen, (The 'unknown God' of the shifting scene.) From the morning of Time, one star has stood And ruled that glittering multitude.

Or, some may prefer, as it's here rather cold, To mount on a streamer of crimson or gold, And shooting off in a shaft of light, Ride tangent up to the top o' the night, And dip in the slant of the Sun, as he Wheels up somewhere in the Indian sea; Or wink to the wink of a new-made star, Not yet rolled round, and 'caviare To the general;' but here with a jar That murders sleep, old Beelzebub, With a kind of 'hip-hurrah!' hubbub, A snort and a scream, has startled all; And the lady in the travelling shawl Has dropped her babe, too drugged to squall; And stiff as a shaking Quaker sits The gentleman in summer 'fits,' No'th-East by East, a point too far; His dream is true, that he left last night New-York, at eighty of Fahrenheit-- And his coat in the baggage-car!

But dreams must change; and now they wake To run on coffee and beef-steak; The latest 'Picayune,' and then A southern climate, to read it in; A flower or two, a light and table, To make the thing more passable; A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath-- All the dear _comforts_ Boston hath In such rich store; and _her's_ so much, No other rail-road leads to such: But some, with stubborn memories Of last night's ugly-sounding seas, The few, with stomachs out of tone, Dream every thing; but, senses gone, Have no distinct conception what, Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot, In (oh, so like a home to one!) The pleasant rooms at the Albion.

IV.

ALL night long, in the outer bay, The ships have rocked with the lazy sea, Off and on, with a slow chasseé, And all night long, on top of the mist, The stars have danced unceasingly, And the moon has smiled her prettiest; Yet not one ray has wandered by: Oh! when shall we have a brighter sky!

The wind is light and the light is dim, But a single star worn pale and slim, As though the journey had wearied him, Has just come down from Heaven, to say That the Sun is coming up this way, With promise of a gala-day. Great wonder had been, up there, he says, That Boston lay so long in a haze; And strange they hadn't invented a way, Some patent or other, to blow it away; No'th-East by East had gone ashore Below, some twenty leagues or more; He had weathered the Cape about midnight, And was taking a nap, to come up bright; An hour, or two at the most, and he Would bring the bloom of the orange-tree, And swear it was just from Florida, Caught last night at the fall of the dew; He left as the stars came out of the blue, And shunning the breath of the land, by sea Has kept all fresh it fragrancy. Thus spake, or looked the star, and soon The air is soft as a breeze in June; The sun comes down by way of the moon, And all the sister stars and brothers, And other lights, if there _are_ others, Mars, and his Tiger,[C] _all_ are out; And right glad they look, as about to shout, At sight again, their right good will On Boston heights and Bunker Hill: And Bunker Hill's great Orator,'[D] Catching a ray from every star, Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen, And silent, smiles upon the scene. The mists have gone off silently, And scarcely whispered their good-bye; They have crept away with a stealthy roll, Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll; You may see them yet, as they glide away, And hang their curtains about the bay; While the pointed seas flash out between, Like the spears of a host, in battle seen; Or lift their white caps, one by one, A welcome to the rising sun: A moment's hush, on sea and air, Still, as an angel passing were, To bid them breathe a silent prayer, And then, all free and gloriously The Sun comes mounting from the sea, As lightning had sprang sudden there, And lingered in the atmosphere! Again the languid pulses start Like a rush of joy to a weary heart, That hardly hath left a hope for such, So mild its quick but gentle touch: And now it clasps in warm embrace All living things, and face to face And lip to lip, shall cling all day, Still giving life, unceasingly. Beneath the clear unclouded sky All quiet and still the islands lie, Like monsters of the deep, couchant; And farther out is cool Nahant, A finger pointing the sea aslant; The light-house top, and Nix's Mate, And tall ships moving by in state, With top-sails and top-gallants bent To catch each wandering breeze that's sent; Some, just come in from Labrador, Sweep by with the nod of an emperor; And some are there, have dipped their spars In waters that flash back of stars A sky-full from each wave that swells Its mounting crest in the Dardanelles; Some, that have iced them at Cape Horn; And some dash in, with topsails torn In some such trifling matter as A rough-and-tumble at Hatteras; And some, still warm from southern seas And cotton bags, hail out, 'Balize;' A long procession, dashing on, Like the march of men to a clarion.

They may do these things in Italy In a different way; but enough for me The off-hand manner, the tone, the style, The 'keeping' of all, and the glorious smile Of earth and air, and sky and sea, So gayly decked and brilliantly; Why, Heaven has left a door ajar This side the world, to show how fair May be a land, and sky, and air, Where bold and free are 'heart and hand'-- And such is this, our glorious land! Beside, your Greece and Rome, and all Who hold themselves so beautiful, Have no such charming mists as these, No climate changing with each breeze; And nothing to compare, in the least, With a Boston storm, NO'TH-EAST BY EAST.

[C] A small star near Mars.

[D] The monument: vide WEBSTER.

THALES OF PARIS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

ONE of the hobbies cherished in the most especial manner by the good citizen of Paris, is Philosophy; not that he takes delight in the cultivation of wisdom, or makes the study of nature his pursuit: but when things go well with him in the world; when his fortune has reached the limit of his desires; when age has abated the ardor of his passions, and in the bosom of his family he finds himself surrounded with every comfort and luxury that heart could wish; he fancies himself beyond the common accidents of life; he becomes a philosopher. His philosophy is his pet, his play-thing, his hobby-horse upon which he gets astride, and gambols like a frolicsome child. Should his wife scold, should his roast-beef be burnt, should a sudden shower break up a party of pleasure, he alone preserves his equanimity; is smiling, soothing, and consolatory; he is a philosopher. Philosophy is his sovereign panacea; with the understanding that no precautions have been neglected to secure him as far as possible against the weightier mishaps of life. His houses and furniture are insured, and his money, instead of being exposed to the hazards of joint stock companies or rail-roads, is safely invested in the royal funds.

Monsieur d'Herbois was a happy example of this consolatory system, and seemed to have been sent into the world expressly for the purpose of sounding the praises of philosophy, without ever being obliged to test its efficacy in his own case. Wealthy by a paternal inheritance, which thrift on his part had increased, he had early in life married the woman of his choice; and his only son, about twenty-two years of age, was now in his turn about to espouse a young lady, whose character, fortune, and family all exactly suited the fortunate father. And so Monsieur d'Herbois, a man of a naturally placid and even temper, was now busying himself in preparing the dower, or if you please the appanage of Gustavus, with the benignity and disinterested solicitude of a sage.

'My friend,' said he to Monsieur Durand, who was not a philosopher, 'I shall give to Gustavus my house at Sussy. I well know that this will be a great sacrifice, and that we cannot pass the summers there any more, because it is possible that my wife cannot agree on all points with her daughter-in-law; but we love Gustavus so dearly!--and beside, one must be a philosopher. We shall therefore live in Paris on the second floor; the first will be occupied by the young folks. My wife grumbles a little at this; but says I to her: 'My dear, suppose some unexpected calamity should occur, to sweep away all our property?--what would then become of us? Then we should have to climb up into the garret, and would be forced to summon up all our philosophy, of which we shall scarcely stand in need, merely to ascend a few additional steps. Thales of Miletus acted in this manner, one of the seven wise men of Greece, who endured all sorts of troubles without complaint, and in fact defied all mankind to disturb the serenity of his soul and the tranquillity of his spirit.'

'And do you give the same defiance to men as Thales did?' asked Monsieur Durand.

'To be sure I do. You, my friend, ought to know whether I have not the right to do so. Have you ever known me to depart from my principles?'

'I know,' replied M. Durand, 'that during the time since you and I left college together, which is now upward of thirty years, I have never known you to be afflicted with any personal misfortune; and if Thales of Miletus, whose story I do not now remember, was always as lucky, his philosophy would not have cost him more than yours does.'

'To speak candidly,' replied M. d'Herbois, with a good-natured-smile, 'I think that I am a little more of a philosopher than Thales himself was; for I have never been inconsistent with my professions, although a husband and a father, while Thales was a bachelor.'

'But still,' said his friend Durand to him, 'you have never been put to the test.'

'Let the test come; I am ready.'

'Suppose your wife should prove false to you, or your son not turn out in accordance with your expectations?--do you think you would support these misfortunes with the constancy of Job?'

'Of Thales, my dear friend, of Thales, if you please; do not confound them:

'For all events the wise man is prepared.'

Thus said a poet who talked Greek, and not an Arab like your Job.'

M. d'Herbois, proud of Thales, of himself, and of philosophy, proceeded to make careful preparations for the nuptials of his well-beloved son; and already in his mind's eye beheld himself dandling his little grand-children that were to be.

One morning he was about entering the apartment of Gustavus, for the purpose of consulting him on the purchase of some jewels, intended as a present for the bride. The chamber of the young man was situated at one end of the room of M. d'Herbois. The entrance to it was through this latter, and also by a private staircase, which allowed the young man to go in and out without disturbing any body. D'Herbois, just as he was about turning the handle of the glass door, the curtain of which was on his side, checked himself, on hearing the sound of voices. His son, he found, was not alone.

'Oh, ho!' thought he, 'Gustavus is perhaps bidding farewell to the bachelor's life. Can he be consoling some little beauty, who is reminding my young master of his broken vows?'

He raised the corner of the curtain, and was a little tranquillized. The companion of Gustavus was a man. 'May be it is a creditor,' thought he; 'but this is a lesser evil.'

He placed himself so as to see and hear what was going on. Opposite to him, in the middle of his son's room, stood a man of about the age of M. d'Herbois, gray-headed, with a sharp and crafty expression of countenance, and person enveloped in a large farmer's riding-coat.

'My dear Peter,' said this person, 'listen to me----'

'Peter?' replied d'Herbois junior; 'you are mistaken, Sir; my name is Gustavus.'

'I am not mistaken, for all that,' continued the stranger; 'listen to me, I entreat you, my good Sir; I am about to communicate a piece of news which fills me with joy; my only fear, (and I confess it is a natural one,) is that it will not give you as much pleasure.'

'Go on, Sir,' said Gustavus; 'nothing that is agreeable to an honest man can give me pain; speak out.'

The man, whose presence singularly annoyed M. d'Herbois, deliberately took a seat, and commenced thus:

'You know, my good Sir, that it is now about twenty years since Madame d'Herbois gave birth to a son. On account of the weak state of her health, she was not able to afford him nourishment herself. A nurse was sought for, and it was my wife, Margaret Pithou, of Pontoise, who was selected.'

'Ah! you are then my foster-father,' cried Gustavus, with open arms; 'walk in, walk in; my father and mother will be delighted to see you.'

'Softly! softly!' said Pithou; 'neither Monsieur nor Madame d'Herbois must know that I am here, or have spoken with you, until we have had a little explanation together, and you know all.'

'Until I know all! What is it, then, Monsieur Pithou? Pray go on,' said Gustavus, impatiently.

'Patience, my good Sir; you shall hear all in good time.'

The more interesting and mysterious this conversation became, so much the more immovable did his philosophy hold Monsieur d'Herbois, who scarcely dared move, or even breathe.

'My wife and I,' continued Pithou, drawling out his words, 'like most of our neighbors, were at that time dealers in a small way in cattle. But provided the murrain did not get among the beasts, and our cows kept healthy, we managed in one way or another to make both ends meet at the end of the year. We were young then, and had one child, a few months older than the son of Monsieur d'Herbois.'

'Than me?' exclaimed Gustavus.

'You shall see. As ill luck would have it, a speculator came down from Paris, with plenty of money, and established himself at Pontoise; bought up the finest cows, built large stables, raised the price of hay and feed; and in short, broke up all the small dealers like us; for the veal and mutton of this Parisian were always the fattest and brought the best prices. One bad year ruined us. My wife took it sadly to heart, and fell ill; her poor foster child felt the effects of her malady; we dared not say any thing, lest it should be taken from us; in fine, my wife and the child of Monsieur d'Herbois both died on the same night. My poor Peter!' continued Pithou, addressing Gustavus, 'my poor Peter, I was then indeed in a situation to excite pity: nothing left me, no wife, no money, plenty of debts, and an infant in the arms, which looked up to me for support. A thought from heaven suddenly seemed to strike me. Said I to myself, 'The rich are placed here to succor the poor, and render them assistance; but as they are often hard-hearted, selfish, and avaricious, we must have recourse sometimes to stratagem to obtain from their credulity what their indifference refuses.' In pursuance of this idea, I gave out every where that my son was dead, and sent you, my own offspring, to M. d'Herbois, under charge of cousin Potard, who was herself the dupe of my trick. Yes, you are my own son Peter! my dear Peter!'

At the conclusion of this strange story, Pithou arose, drew Gustavus to him, kissed his forehead, his eyes, his hair, and bedewed the young man, who seemed lost in amazement, with paternal tears. 'How otherwise, my dear child,' said he, 'could you have wished me to have acted?' The time passed with Monsieur d'Herbois has procured for you the advantages of a good education, and beside that, has been so much exemption from suffering for you. In truth, when I examine my motives, and think seriously of my conduct, I cannot repent of it. Since then, fortune has been more propitious to me. I came to Paris, engaged in trade, and as others have done before me, have made a handsome fortune. You see that I am too honest to allow you to profit by the riches of M. d'Herbois; we will confess all to him. Adieu, my dear Peter! I have full proofs of what I have told you; I am going to get them, and will take them myself to M. d'Herbois.'

So saying, Pithou again embraced Gustavus, and departed by the private stairs.

Monsieur d'Herbois, upon whom not a word of this conversation had been lost, knew not what to do or think. What! Gustavus, his son! the child of whom he had not lost sight for twenty years; whom he loved more than ever parent loved a son; for whom he had deprived himself of so many comforts; who bore his name; Gustavus to be called Peter! Peter Pithou! to be the son of another! Monsieur d'Herbois was astounded, and in the utmost consternation ran to seek his wife.

'Madame!' cried he, 'Madame d'Herbois, I have no longer a son; my son has been dead for twenty years!'

Madame d'Herbois was a woman of a lively disposition, who knew her husband well, and did not always take his words literally.

'You frightened me,' said she to him, laughingly; 'but as you say that Gustavus has been dead for twenty years, I reassured myself when I thought of the good appetite he had at breakfast this morning.'

'Gustavus is not my son, Madame!'

'What do you mean by that, Sir?'

'Good heavens, Madame, you do not comprehend me! I mean that he is no more your son than he is mine. Poor Gustavus died while nursing; we have got the son of Pithou, Peter Pithou!'