Chapter 3

For forty days, like a winged thing She went before the gale, Nor all that time we slackened speed, Turned helm, or altered sail.

She was a laden argosy Of wealth from the Spanish Main, And the treasure-hoards of a Portuguese Returning home again.

An old and silent man was he, And his face was yellow and lean. In the golden lands of Mexico A miner he had been.

His body was wasted, bent, and bowed, And amid his gold he lay-- Amid iron chests that were bound with brass, And he watched them night and day.

No word he spoke to any on board, And his step was heavy and slow, And all men deemed that an evil life He had led in Mexico.

But list ye me--on the lone high seas, As the ship went smoothly on, It chanced, in the silent second watch, I sate on the deck alone; And I heard, from among those iron chests, A sound like a dying groan.

I started to my feet--and lo! The captain stood by me, And he bore a body in his arms, And dropped it in the sea.

I heard it drop into the sea, With a heavy splashing sound, And I saw the captain's bloody hands As he quickly turned him round; And he drew in his breath when me he saw Like one convulsed, whom the withering awe Of a spectre doth astound.

But I saw his white and palsied lips, And the stare of his ghastly eye, When he turned in hurried haste away, Yet he had no power to fly; He was chained to the deck with his heavy guilt, And the blood that was not dry.

'Twas a cursed thing,' said I, 'to kill That old man in his sleep! And the plagues of the sea will come from him; Ten thousand fathoms deep!

And the plagues of the storm will follow us, For Heaven his groans hath heard!' Still the captain's eye was fixed on me, But he answered never a word.

And he slowly lifted his bloody hand His aching eyes to shade, But the blood that was wet did freeze his soul, And he shrinked like one afraid.

And even then--that very hour The wind dropped, and a spell Was on the ship, was on the sea, And we lay for weeks, how wearily, Where the old man's body fell.

I told no one within the ship That horrid deed of sin; For I saw the hand of God at work, And punishment begin.

And when they spoke of the murdered man, And the El Dorado hoard, They all surmised he had walked in dreams, And had fallen overboard.

But I alone, and the murderer-- That dreadful thing did know, How he lay in his sin, a murdered man, A thousand fathom low.

And many days, and many more, Came on, and lagging sped, And the heavy waves of that sleeping sea Were dark, like molten lead.

And not a breeze came, east or west, And burning was the sky, And stifling was each breath we drew Of the air so hot and dry.

Oh me! there was a smell of death Hung round us night and day; And I dared not look in the sea below Where the old man's body lay.

In his cabin, alone, the captain kept, And he bolted fast the door, And up and down the sailors walked, And wished that the calm was o'er.

The captain's son was on board with us, A fair child, seven years old, With a merry look that all men loved, And a spirit kind and bold.

I loved the child, and I took his hand, And made him kneel and pray That the crime; for which the calm was sent, Might be purged clean away.

For I thought that God would hear his prayer, And set the vessel free,-- For a dreadful thing it was to lie Upon that charnel sea.

Yet I told him not wherefore he prayed, Nor why the calm was sent I would not give that knowledge dark To a soul so innocent.

At length I saw a little cloud Arise in that sky of flame, A little cloud--but it grew and grew, And blackened as it came.

And we saw the sea beneath its track Grow dark as the frowning sky, And water-spouts, with a rushing sound, Like giants, passed us by.

And all around, 'twixt sky and sea, A hollow wind did blow; And the waves were heaved from the ocean depths, And the ship rocked to and fro.

I knew it was that fierce death-calm Its horrid hold undoing, And I saw the plagues of wind and storm Their missioned work pursuing.

There was a yell in the gathering winds, A groan in the heaving sea, And the captain rushed from the hold below, But he durst not look on me.

He seized each rope with a madman's haste, And he set the helm to go, And every sail he crowded on As the furious winds did blow.

And away they went, like autumn leaves Before the tempest's rout, And the naked masts with a crash came down, And the wild ship tossed about.

The men, to spars and splintered boards, Clung, till their strength was gone, And I saw them from their feeble hold Washed over one by one.

And 'mid the creaking timber's din, And the roaring of the sea, I heard the dismal, drowning cries Of their last agony.

There was a curse in the wind that blew, A curse in the boiling wave; And the captain knew that vengeance came From the old man's ocean grave.

And I heard him say, as he sate apart, In a hollow voice and low, 'Tis a cry of blood doth follow us, And still doth plague us so!'

And then those heavy iron chests With desperate strength took he, And ten of the strongest mariners Did cast them into the sea.

And out, from the bottom of the sea, There came a hollow groan;-- The captain by the gunwale stood, And he looked like icy stone-- And he drew in his breath with a gasping sob, And a spasm of death came on.

And a furious boiling wave rose up, With a rushing, thundering roar,-- I saw the captain fall to the deck, But I never saw him more.

Two days before, when the storm began, We were forty men and five, But ere the middle of that night There were but two alive.

The child and I, we were but two, And he clung to me in fear; Oh! it was pitiful to see That meek child in his misery, And his little prayers to hear!

At length, as if his prayers were heard, 'Twas calmer, and anon The clear sun shone, and warm and low A steady wind from the west did blow, And drove us gently on.

And on we drove, and on we drove, That fair young child and I, But his heart was as a man's in strength, And he uttered not a cry.

There was no bread within the wreck, And water we had none, Yet he murmured not, and cheered me When my last hopes were gone; But I saw him waste and waste away, And his rosy cheek grow wan.

Still on we drove, I knew not where, For many nights and days, We were too weak to raise a sail, Had there been one to raise.

Still on we went, as the west wind drove, On, on, o'er the pathless tide; And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death, And the child was at my side.

And it chanced as we were drifting on Amid the great South Sea, An English vessel passed us by That was sailing cheerily; Unheard by me, that vessel hailed And asked what we might be.

The young child at the cheer rose up, And gave an answering word, And they drew him from the drifting wreck As light as is a bird.

They took him gently in their arms, And put again to sea:-- 'Not yet! not yet!' he feebly cried, 'There was a man with me.'

Again unto the wreck they came, Where, like one dead, I lay, And a ship-boy small had strength enough To carry me away.

Oh, joy it was when sense returned That fair, warm ship to see. And to hear the child within his bed Speak pleasant words to me!

I thought at first that we had died, And all our pains were o'er, And in a blessed ship of Heaven Were sailing to its shore.

But they were human forms that knelt Beside our bed to pray, And men, with hearts most merciful, Did watch us night and day.

'Twas a dismal tale I had to tell Of wreck and wild distress, But, even then, I told to none The captain's wickedness.

For I loved the boy, and I could not cloud His soul with a sense of shame:-- 'Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast A sinless orphan's name! So he grew to be a man of wealth, And of honourable fame.

And in after years, when he had ships, I sailed with him the sea, And in all the sorrow of my life He was a son to me; And God hath blessed him every where With a great prosperity.

_The Amulet for 1830_.

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THE LITTLE MAJOR'S LOVE ADVENTURE.

You must know, when I was in the 18th light dragoons, I was quartered in Canterbury; and having got some introductory letters, I contrived to make out a pleasant time enough. One of my visiting-houses was old Tronson's the banker's--devilish agreeable family--four pretty girls--all flirted--painted on velvet--played the harp--sang Italian, and danced as if they had been brought up under D'Egville in the _corps de ballet._ The old boy kept a man-cook, and gave iced champagne. Now, you know, there is no standing this; and Harriette, the second of the beauties, and I, agreed to fall in love, which in due course of time we effected. Nothing could be better managed than the whole affair; we each selected a confidant, sat for our pictures, interchanged them with a passionate note, and made a regular engagement for ever.

Such was the state of things, when the route came, and my troop was ordered to embark for Portugal. Heavens! what a commotion! Harriette was in hysterics: we talked of an elopement, and discussed the propriety of going to Gretna; but the hurry to embark prevented us. I could not, you know, take her with me. Woman in a transport! a devilish bore; and nothing was left for it but to exchange vows of eternal fidelity. We did so, and parted--both persuaded that our hearts were reciprocally broken.

Ah!--if you knew what I suffered night and day! her picture rested in my bosom; and I consumed a pipe of wine in toasting her health, while I was dying of damp and rheumatism. But the recollection of my _constant Harriette_ supported me through all; and particularly so, when I was cheered by the report of my snub-nosed surgeon, who joined us six months after at Santarem, and assured me on the faith of a physician, that the dear girl was in the last stage of a consumption.

Two years passed away, and we were ordered home. O heavens! what were my feelings when I landed at Portsmouth! I threw myself into a carriage, and started with four horses for Canterbury: I arrived there with a safe neck, and lost not a moment in announcing my return to my constant Harriette.

The delay of the messenger seemed an eternity: but what were my feelings, when he brought me a perfumed note (to do her justice, she always wrote on lovely letter-paper), and a parcel. The one contained congratulations of my safe arrival, accompanied by assurances of unfeigned regret that I had not reached Canterbury a day sooner, and thus allowed her an opportunity of having her "dear friend Captain Melcomb" present at her wedding; while the packet was a large assortment of French kid skins and white ribbon.

That blessed morning she had bestowed her fair hand on a fat professor of theology from Brazen Nose, who had been just presented to a rich prebend by the bishop, for having proved beyond a controversy, the divine origin of tithes, in a blue-bound pamphlet. Before I had time to recover from my astonishment, a travelling carriage brought me to the window; and quickly as it passed, I had full time to see _ma belle Harriette_ seated beside the thick-winded dignitary. She bowed her white Spanish hat and six ostrich feathers to me as she rolled off, to spend, as the papers informed me, "the honey-moon at the lakes of Cumberland.' There was a blessed return for two years' exposure to the attacks of rheumatism and French cavalry.--_Stories of Waterloo._

* * * * *

When the celebrated Philip Henry was ejected from the establishment, Dr. Busby (who had been his tutor) meeting him, said, "Who made you a nonconformist?" "You, Sir," replied he, "I made you a nonconformist!" "Yes, Sir, you taught me those principles which forbade to violate my conscience."

TOSCAR.

* * * * *

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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ANTWERP CATHEDRAL.

(_For the Mirror_.)

Antwerp possesses considerable interest to an Englishman, as a place of great importance during the late war, when there was a sort of mystery attached to it, as the secret grand naval depot of Napoleon, which our Government thought to "cripple France for ever," by getting into our own hands! But what the Earl of Chatham, with an army of twenty thousand men, aided by a fine British fleet, could not do, I did: I made my entry into Antwerp--without molestation, thanks to the benign Spirit of Peace--towards the evening of a fine day in July; and while the impression of novelty was still fresh, enjoyed a rich treat in viewing its noble Cathedral. The interior is grand, but simple--striking the beholder more by its loftiness and spaciousness, than by any profusion of glittering ornament, so common in Catholic churches--although the forest of pillars, the altar-piece, the statues, and above all the splendid pictures which grace the walls, form a rich variety to the eye. It would be useless to enter into a minute detail, for no description can give a stranger a perfect idea of one building distinct from others of a similar kind, and those who have seen the object itself do not require it. Antwerp may be called the country of Rubens: at every turn you meet with monuments of his genius; and here (in the Cathedral) you have what is esteemed his masterpiece--the "Descent from the Cross"--which surprises you with a boldness of drawing, vigour and richness of colouring, and an animation in the grouping, that can scarcely be excelled; and when you discern the colossal figures from a little distance amongst the pillars and arches of the nave, you feel inclined to bow in reverence to the divinity of the genius which has portrayed so wonderful a conception of the mind. It is needless to say that this was one of the works of art carried to Paris to enrich the gallery of the Louvre, together with one placed in a corresponding situation, "The Assumption of the Virgin," which is more in Rubens' florid style than the former. There is also, by the same master-hand, a noble picture, "The Elevation of the Cross," in the artist's happiest manner; and the exquisite altarpiece, "The Ascension," is also his work. There are several other fine paintings here--one of them said to be the best performance of Quintin Matsys, who, under the inspiration of love, deserted the anvil for the pallet; and another by his father-in-law, Flors, supposed to be the identical picture upon which the _ci devant_ blacksmith painted a bee, with such skill as to obtain the old artist's cordial consent to the marriage of Matsys with his daughter. Amongst the carved wood-work in the aisles, we admired the execution of several statues of Saints, male and female, whose features and drapery are finished with all the delicacy of marble.

The shades of evening now began to add to the solemnity of the scene, by the indistinctness that was gradually enveloping the more distant objects; and, alone, we almost dreaded to break, with our own whispers, the silence which reigned around. In the midst of this "stillness audible," the fine bell of the cathedral struck the hour, and its melodious tone seemed at once to reach the heart. We sat down to listen to the prolonged note, as each successive toll reverberated through the expanse--lingering like a halo around the walls, and appearing to awaken echoes from the guardian spirits of the night. I fancied I had never in my life heard so full-toned--so musical a bell: certain it is, none ever gave me the same sensation of delight. Indeed, the whole belfry is well assorted, for the _carillons_, which play certain airs at intervals, produce a sweeter effect than I remember any where else; and one of the pleasant recollections I retain of Antwerp arises out of the frequent, but unobtrusive, chimes that salute the ear during the day. We left Notre Dame this time with "lingering steps and slow."

But how can I give an idea of the exterior? The tendency to placid reflection which we had caught within found ample food for indulgence when we came to witness the effect of the architecture without, combined with the particular time of night--about nine o'clock--different tints and shadows displaying themselves upon the angles of the building, as the light decreased. Imagine a spire of light, ornamental, elegant open-work, carried up about a hundred feet higher than St. Paul's. I believe it is the loftiest in Europe, with the exception of Strasbourg, than which, in the opinion of many, it is more handsome. The only drawback upon its beauty is the glaringly large dial of the clock; but even this may suggest appropriate reflection: for may we not consider it an emblem of Time, whose course it measures, intruding upon the fairest prospects of our lives, to remind us that all human monuments and enjoyments must yield to his irresistible hand? The spire rises on one side of the principal entrance; and there is a corresponding tower on the other, to the height of the base of the steeple part, as if there had been an intention to erect one of similar dimensions there also, like the twin towers of Westminster Abbey; but I cannot help thinking, that as two and two are said not always to make four, the projecting counterpart, instead of doubling the effect, would have lessened the feeling of stupendous height with which the present single pinnacle inspires the beholders. As there cannot be two suns in the same sphere, neither could the spire of Antwerp have borne a rival near its solitary, aerial throne. It soars aloft with such grandeur, that in gazing upon it my brain actually grew dizzy with the sight: never was I conscious in an equal degree of such a feeling of awe from a work of art, and my mind really ached with the intensity of the impression.--We seemed to view this sublime object with mutual wonder and admiration--gazing upon it in one position, then in another--walking about--stopping--excited as it were by the same impulse. Once, when nearly dark, as our eyes were fixed upon the top, a gentle light suddenly appeared upon the very summit, crowning the majestic fane with glory, as if pointing it out for admiration to a surrounding world: it was a star twinkling upon the very spot where the highest point of the spire rested on the sky.

The name of Antwerp is derived from _Hand-werpen_ or _Hand-thrown_: so called from a legend, which informs us that on the site of the present city once stood the castle of a giant, who held the neighbouring country in thraldom, and who was accustomed to amuse himself by cutting off, and casting into the river, the right hands of the unfortunate wights that fell into his power; but that being at last conquered himself, his own immense hand was disposed of, with poetical justice, in the same way. With the impression of this story on my mind, it came into my head that the giant was personified by the towering spire: no wonder, thought I, that Don Quixote mistook a windmill for a giant, since I, even in my sober senses, cannot get rid of the idea that I see the mighty hand-thrower before me. With a little confusion of the image, I then imagined the spire to be the guardian of the city--that it took cognizance of all its affairs, and that it would watch me even into my retreat for the night. Like the adored phantom of youthful love, it pervaded every place, and haunted me in my dreams. Often the motion of the clouds seemed to be transferred to the lofty spire, which again assuming the giant character startled me with the impression that it was falling towards me, or rushing to crush its victims, like the horrid car of Jaggernaut.

Through the Giant's Gate, so called from a colossal statue reclining upon it, there is an opening to the Scheldt;--without is the quay, covered with merchandize unloading from the ships in the river, and serving as an evening promenade. Here you may see the other eminences of the city occasionally, but the gigantic one--always: it stalks out from amidst the cluster of buildings your constant companion wherever you go--as you walk along, it appears to move with you, and when you stop it waits with patience until you go on again. On another occasion we took a boat on the Scheldt, and landing at some distance below the town, had a delightful walk along its banks, which are elevated like part of Milbank, near Vauxhall-bridge; and the situation has much the same character. The river, however, is grander, as I should judge it to be twice the width of the Thames at London-bridge, and it flows with great rapidity. It was a charming evening, and we saw the sun set in all his glory down the Scheldt, in the bosom of which were reflected the endless tints of the sky, whose golden brilliancy was beautifully relieved by the intervention of some cottages near us, and a pretty village, with its church-spire a little further off. On one side was the flat cultivated country of Flanders, and looking up the river, we beheld the shipping and the whole city: all the churches and towers raised their varied forms, but still only to do homage, as it were, to the great pile which outstripped them, and which was lit up by the radiance of the departed sun. Model of splendour! "from morn 'till dewy eve" how must thy elegant form be engraven on the hearts of the natives of the city thou overlookest, exciting emotions of home, like the craggy rock of the Highlanders, when they are absent in distant lands! and how must the youth, whom the love of art carries to study the treasures of Venice and Rome, when returning to shed a lustre upon his natal place--of being one day named with Matsys and Rubens, and the other splendid painters by whom it has been adorned--how must the first glance that he catches of thy hallowed height make his heart throb with endearing thoughts of the friends he left under thy shade, and absorb for the moment all feelings of ambition in the recollection of the boyish days passed within thy ken--but now, alas, departed for ever! May the fires of heaven, and the tremblings of earth, never injure thy venerable beauty; but may thousands, and tens of thousands, in time to come, as in time past, gaze upon thee--as I, an obscure, nameless stranger, have done--with thoughts too deep for words!

During the evening I have alluded to we were accompanied by the accomplished Miss ----, whose talents must be well known to many of our own artists who have visited Antwerp; and this being her native place, her conversation gave us those kindly associations of home, without which no scenes, however beautiful or however uncommon, can penetrate the inmost recesses of the soul.

W.G.