Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848

"In the village in which I was raised, lived one who shared with me the sports of childhood; and as we grew older, partook of the recreations and amusements of the young together. There was a strange similarity in our tastes and dispositions; and we consequently spent much of our time in each others society. There were those who sometimes smiled to see a young and sunny-haired youth so constantly with the sensitive, shrinking Mary Warner; but then they knew we were playmates from childhood, and thought no more. Mother was dead, and I was under the guidance of my remaining parent, an only child – an idolized and favored one; and in my sixteenth year, claimed as the bride of Samuel Wayland. Parental judgment frowned, and called it folly. What could I do? Our faith had long been plighted, but filial respect demanded that should be laid aside; yet what was I to find in the future, that would ever repay for the love so vainly wasted. It was all a blank. I nerved my heart for our last meeting – but the strings were fibrous, and they broke.

"'I shall go to the West, and then you must forget me,' said I, when we came to part.

"'Never, Mary, will you, can you be forgotten!'

"We parted there, forever. He is still living, a lone wanderer on the earth; we have never had any communications; but there is a unity of feeling, a oneness of spirit, that at times make me feel as if we were scarcely separated. I enjoy a pleasure in thinking of his memory, a confidence that would trust him any where in this wide world; and I now believe that wherever he is, his heart is still true to me. As for me, I have hurried through life like a 'storm-stricken bird,' no rest from the busy scenes in which I mingled. Since then, there have been proposals in which honor, wealth, and distinction were connected; and once I had well nigh sold myself for interest, and to please my father. We were promised, and I was congratulated on my happy prospects; but, alas! alas, for me; the more memory reverted to the past, my feelings revolted from the present. I sometimes used to stand where I could see him pass in the street, and exclaim 'oh, heaven! can I marry that man! can I stand before God's altar, and promise to love and honor him, when I abhor his presence.' Time was hasting; one night I went down into the study; father was sitting there.

"'Well, Mary,' said he, 'I suppose you will leave us soon.'

"That was enough for my pent-up feelings to break forth. 'I suppose so,' said I, 'but, oh! father, I would rather see my grave open to-morrow, than to think of uniting my destiny with that man. My very soul detests him."

"Mary, sit down now, and write a letter to Mr. M – , that you cannot keep your promise, and the reason why. Far would it be from me to place in the hands of my only daughter, the cup of misery unmixed. My judgment and your feelings differ.'

"It was late that night when I sealed the fated letter for M – ; but I retired and slept easy, there was a burden removed which had well-nigh crushed me. What I have experienced since, words may never tell; the young have deemed me impenetrable to the natural susceptibilities of our natures, while the old have called me trifling. But, Ella, depend upon it, a heart once truly given, can never be bestowed again. I have erred in trying to conceal my history in the manner I have. Instead of placing my dependance on the goodness of the Most High, and seeking for that balm which heals the wounded spirit, and acquiring a calmness of mind which would render me in a measure happy, I plunged into the vortex of worldly pleasure. But it is all over now; they say I have the consumption, and pity me, to think one so joyous should have to die. To-day has been spent mostly in meditation; and I have tried to pray that my Savior would give me grace for a dying hour; and, Ella, will you kneel at my bedside and pray as you used to, when a young, trembling girl?"

"Yes, I will pray for you again," said Ella; "but take this cordial to revive your exhausted frame."

As the friend raised the refreshing draught, she marked such a change in Mary's countenance, that her heart quailed at the thought of the terrible vigil she was keeping, in the silence of night, alone. She kneeled by the sick, and offered up her prayer with an energy unknown to her before, such a one as a heart strong in faith, and nerved by love and fear alone could dictate; a pleading, borne on high by the angel of might, for the strengthening of the immortal soul in prison-clay before her. There was a sigh and a groan; she rose hastily and bent over the couch – there was a gasping for breath, and all was still. Ella's desolate shriek of anguish first told the tale, that Mary was dead.

Thus passed again to the Giver, a mind entrusted with high powers, and uncontrolled affections, who, in the waywardness of youth, cast unreservedly at the shrine of idolatrous love, her all of earthly hopes, then wandered forth with naught but their ashes, in the treasured urn of past remembrance, seeking to cover that with the mantle of the world's glittering folly.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE RAVEN."

BY MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW

Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore —Hear once more that friend infernal – that grim visiter nocturnal!Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:Oh, then, tell us something more!Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearkenTo that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"Tell me truly, I implore!Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature – its distresses?Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?Stoops he not to eating – drinking? Is he never caught in winkingWhen his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?Tell me this, if nothing more!Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?Keeps he not that oath he swore?He, too, may be inly praying – vainly, earnestly essayingTo forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,Oh, renounce him nevermore.Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,No such narrow prejudices can he know whom Love possesses —Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy doorLest Love enter nevermore!Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some messageFrom that much-mourned matchless maiden – from that loved and lost Lenore.In a pilgrim's garb disguiséd, angels are but seldom prizéd:Of this fact at length adviséd, were it strange if he forsworeThe false world for evermore?Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!Tell us of that world of wonder – of that famed unfading "Yonder!"Rend – oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!Doth he answer – "Nevermore?"

SONG OF THE ELVES.

BY ANNA BLACKWELL

When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!And brightly we hover on silvery wing,And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,And music and fragrance are on the air!Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

We sat within the farm-house old,Whose windows looking o'er the bay,Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,An easy entrance, night and day.Not far away we saw the port, —The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, —The light-house, – the dismantled fort, —The wooden houses, quaint and brown.We sat and talked until the nightDescending filled the little room;Our faces faded from the sight,Our voices only broke the gloom.We spake of many a vanished scene,Of what we once had thought and said,Of what had been, and might have been,And who was changed, and who was dead.And all that fills the hearts of friends,When first they feel, with secret pain,Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,And never can be one again.The first slight swerving of the heart,That words are powerless to express,And leave it still unsaid in part,Or say it in too great excess.The very tones in which we spakeHad something strange, I could but mark;The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark.Oft died the words upon our lips,As suddenly, from out the fireBuilt of the wreck of stranded ships,The flames would leap, and then expire.And, as their splendor flashed and failed,We thought of wrecks upon the main, —Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,And sent no answer back again.The windows rattling in their frames,The ocean, roaring up the beach —The gusty blast – the bickering flames —All mingled vaguely in our speech;Until they made themselves a partOf fancies floating through the brain —The long lost ventures of the heart,That send no answers back again.O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!They were indeed too much akin —The drift-wood fire without that burned,The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,And tell your gladness to the listening skies;Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increaseTill one loud pæan hails the day of peace.Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swellsAnd heaven seems full of great celestial bells!Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hillsAnd every grove with choral welcome thrills.Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,Go age and greet her with your holiest vows; —See where she comes, her hands upon her breastThe sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.

CITY LIFE.

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD

Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dweltIn noisome cities, whence Thy sacred worksAre ever banished from my sight; where lurksEach baleful passion man has ever felt.Here human skill is shown in shutting outAll sight and thought of things that God hath made;Lest He should share the constant homage paidTo Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.O, it was fit that he 2 upon whose headWeighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,Should build a city, when he trembling fledFar from his Maker's face. And which was worse,The murder – or departing far from Thee?Great God! impute not either sin to me!

THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE.

BY FRANK BYRNE.

(Concluded from page 147.)

CHAPTER V.

In which there is a Storm, a Wreck, and a Mutiny

When I came on deck the next morning, I found that the mate's prediction had proved true. A norther, as it is called in the Gulf, was blowing great guns, and the ship, heading westward, was rolling in the trough of the tremendous sea almost yard-arm under, with only close-reefed top-sails and storm foretopmast-staysail set. We wallowed along in this manner all day, for we were lying our course, and the skipper was in a hurry to bring our protracted voyage to an end. We made much more leeway than we reckoned, however, for just at sunset the high mountains of Cuba were to be seen faintly looming up on the southern horizon.

"Brace up, there," ordered Captain Smith, when this fact was announced. "Luff, my man, luff, and keep her as near it as you may."

The old ship came up on the wind, presenting her front most gallantly to the angry waves, which came on as high as the fore-yard, threatening to engulf her in the watery abyss. We took in all our top-sails but the main, and with that, a reefed fore-sail and foretopmast-staysail set, the old ship shook her feathers, and prepared herself for an all-night job of clawing off an iron-bound lee-shore.

The hatches were battened down, the fore-scuttle and companion closed, and all the crew collected aft on deck and lashed themselves to some substantial object, to save themselves from being washed over-board by the immense seas which constantly broke over our bows, and deluged our decks. The night closed down darker than pitch, and the wind increased in violence. I have scarcely ever seen so dismal a night. Except when at intervals a blinding flash of lightning illumined the whole heavens and the broad expanse of raging ocean, we could distinguish nothing at a yard's distance, save the glimmer of the phosphorescent binacle light, and the gleam which flashed from the culmination of the huge seas ahead of us, resembling an extended cloud of dull fire suspended in the air, and blown toward us, till, with a noise like thunder, as it dashed against the bows, it vanished, and another misty fire was to be seen as if rising out of some dark gulf. At midnight it blew a hurricane; the wind cut off the tops of the waves, and the air was full of spray and salt, driving like sleet or snow before the wintry storm. I had ensconced myself under the lee of the bulwarks, among a knot of select weather-beaten tars, and notwithstanding the danger we were in, I could not help being somewhat amused at their conversation.

"Jack," said Teddy, an Irish sailor, to the ship's oracle, old Jack Reeves, "do you think the sticks will howld?"

"If they don't," growled Jack, "you'll be in h – l before morning."

"Och, Jasus!" was the only reply to this consolatory remark – and there was an uneasy nestling throughout the whole circle.

"Well, Frank," said old Jack to me, after a most terrific gust, during which every man held his breath to listen whether there might not be a snapping of the spars, "well, Frank, what do you think of that?"

"Why, I think I never saw it blow so hard before," I replied. "'Tisn't a very comfortable berth, this of ours, with a lee-shore not thirty miles off, and a hurricane blowing."

"No danger at all, Frank, if them spars only stay by us – and I guess they will. They're good sticks, and Mr. Brewster is too good a boatswain not to have 'em well supported. The old Gentile is a dreadful critter for eatin' to windward in any weather that God ever sent; but I hope you don't call this blowin' hard, do you? Why, I've seen it blow so that two men, one on each side of the skipper, couldn't keep his hair on his head, and they had to get the cabin-boy to tail on to the cue behind, and take a turn round a belaying-pin."

"An' that nothin' to a time I had in a brig off Hatteras," observed Teddy, who had somewhat recovered his composure; "we had to cut away both masts, you persave, and to scud under a scupper nail driv into the deck, wid a man ready to drive it further as the wind freshened."

"Wasn't that the time, Teddy," asked another, "When that big sea washed off the buttons on your jacket?"

"Faix, you may well say that; and a nigger we had on board turned white by reason of the scare he was in."

"Wal, now," interposed Ichabod Green, "Teddy, that's a lie; it's agin all reason."

"Pooh! you green-horn!" said Jack Reeves, "that's nothing to a yarn I can spin. You see that when I was quite a boy, I was in a Dutch man-o'-war for a year and thirteen months; and one day in the Indian Ocean, it came on to blow like blazes. It blowed for three days and nights, and the skipper called a council of officers to know what to do. So, when they'd smoked up all their baccy, they concluded to shorten sail, and the bo'sn came down to rouse out the crew. He ondertook to whistle, but it made such an onnateral screech, that the chaplain thought old Davy had come aboard; and he told the skipper he guessed he'd take his trick at prayin'. 'Why,' says the skipper, 'we've got on well enough without, ever since we left the Hague, hadn't we better omit it now?' ''Taint possible,' says the parson. Now you all know you can't larn seamanship to a parson or passenger – and the bloody fool knelt down with his face to wind'ard. 'Hillo!' says the skipper, 'you'd better fill away, and come round afore the wind, hadn't you?' 'Mynheer captain,' says the parson, 'you're a dreadful good seaman, but you don't know no more about religious matters than a horse.' 'That's true,' answered the skipper; 'so suit yourself, and let fly as soon as you feel the spirit move, bekase that main-sail wants reefin' awfully.' Well, the parson shuts his eyes, takes the pipe out of his mouth, and gets under-weigh; but, onluckily, the first word of the prayer was a Dutch one, as long as the maintop-bowline, and as crooked as a monkey's tail, and the wind ketchen in the kinks of it, rams it straight back into his throat, and kills him as dead as a herrin'. 'Blixem!' says the skipper, 'there'll be brandy enough for the voyage now.'"

"Sail, ho-o-o!" shouted a dozen voices, as a vivid flash of lightning showed us the form of a small schooner riding upon the crest of a wave, not two cables length ahead.

"Hard-a-lee!" shouted the skipper. "My God! make her luff, or we shall be into them."

Slowly the ship obeyed her helm, and came up on the wind, trembling to her keel, as the canvas, relieved from the strain, fluttered and thrashed against the mast with immense violence, and a noise more deafening than thunder, while the great seas dashed against the bows, now in full front toward them, with the force and shock of huge rocks projected from a catapult, and the wind shrieked and howled through the rigging as if the spirits of the deep were rejoicing over our dreadful situation.

Again the fiery flash shot suddenly athwart the sky.

Good God! the schooner, her deck and lower rigging black with human beings, lay broadside to, scarcely ten rods from before our bows. A cry of horror mingled with the rattling thunder and the howl of the storm. I felt my blood curdle in my veins, and an oppression like the nightmare obstructed my voice.

The schooner sunk in the trough, and, as the lightning paled, disappeared from sight. The next moment our huge ship, with a headlong pitch, was precipitated upon her. One crash of riven timbers, and a yell of despairing agony, and all was over; the ship fell off from the wind, and we were again driving madly forward into the almost palpable darkness, tearing through the mountain seas.

"Rig the pumps and try them," cried Captain Smith, in a hoarse voice, "we may have started a plank by the shock."

To the great joy of all, the ship was found to make no more water than usual. All hands soon settled down quietly again, wondering what the run-down schooner could have been, and pitying her unfortunate crew, when a faint shout from the forecastle was heard in a lull of the storm.

"Lord save us! what can that be?" exclaimed a dozen of the crew in a breath.

"In nomine Pathris– " began Teddy, crossing himself in a fright.

"Silence there!" cried the skipper; "Mr. Stewart, can it be one of the schooner's crew, who has saved himself by the bowsprit rigging?"

"Plaze yer honor," said Teddy, "it's more likely it's one of their ghosts."

"Silence, I tell you! who gave you liberty to tell your opinion. Mr. Brewster, hail 'em, whoever they be."

"Folk'stle, ahoy!" sung out the second mate; "who's there?"

"Help! help! for God's sake!" faintly answered the mysterious voice.

"Go forward, there, two hands," ordered the captain; "'t is one of the schooner's crew."

After a moment's hesitation, the second mate and Jack Reeves started on this mission of mercy, and were soon followed by nearly all the crew. Upon reaching the forecastle we found the body of a man lying across the heel of the bowsprit, jammed against the windlass pawl. The insensible form was lifted from its resting place, and, by the captain's order, finally deposited in the cabin on the transom. The skipper, steward, and myself, remained below to try and resuscitate the apparently lifeless body. The means we used were effectual; and the wrecked seaman opened his eyes, and finally sat up.

"I must go on deck now," said the captain. "Stay below, Frank, and help the steward undress him, and put him into a berth."

Our benevolent darky had by this time concocted a glass of brandy grog, very stiff, but, alas! not hot, which I handed to the object of our care, who, after drinking it, seemed much better; and we then proceeded to help him strip. I noticed that his clothes were very coarse, and parti-colored; there were also marks of fetters on his ancles, and his back was scarred by the lash. I conjectured from these circumstances that our new shipmate was not of the most immaculate purity of character, and after I had got him into a berth, between two warm woollen blankets, I made free to ask him a few questions, not only about himself, but also about his vessel. I could get no reply but in Spanish, as I took his lingo to be, though, from his hailing for help in English, I knew that he must understand that language. When I went upon deck I reported myself to the officers, who concluded to defer any examination until morning. The gale began to abate about midnight, and at nine o'clock in the morning it had so far subsided that the cabin mess, leaving Mr. Brewster in charge of the deck, went below to get breakfast.

"The swell is tremendous," said the skipper, as we were endeavoring to get seated around the table. "I think I never saw a much heavier sea in any part of the world. Look out, there!"

But the caution was given too late; the ship had risen on an enormous wave as the skipper had spoken, and when she plunged, the steward pitched headlong over the cabin table, closely followed by the third mate, who had grasped his camp-stool for support, and still clung pertinaciously to it. The ship righted, leaving Langley's corpus extended at full length among a wreck of broken crockery.

"Well, Mr. Langley," said the skipper, "I hope you enjoy your breakfast."

"Bill," added the mate, as Langley gathered himself up, "as you've got through your breakfast so expeditiously, hadn't you better go on deck and let Mr. Brewster come down?"

"Beg your pardon, sir; but don't you see I'm laid on the table – there can be no action about me at present."

"Well, sit down and try to preserve your gravity. I hope to see no more such flights of nonsense at this table."

"Steward," asked the skipper, after we had nearly finished our meal, "how is your patient this morning?"

"It's enough to make any body out of patience, sar, to fall ober de cabin table. So tan't werry first rate."

"No, so I perceive; but I mean, how's the man who came on board us last night?"

"Oh, dat's him – excuse me, sar. Well, sar, he's quite smart dis mornin'."

"Fetch him out here, I wish to ask him some questions; give him a shirt and trowsers of mine, and fetch him out."

The steward soon made his appearance again, in company with the stranger, who, now dressed clean, looked to be a stout, powerful man, apparently about thirty-five; but his long, tangled, black hair and whiskers so concealed his features, that their expression could not be discerned. He bowed as he entered the cabin, and in good English thanked the captain for his care.

"Sit down upon the stool yonder," said the skipper, "and tell us the name and nation of your vessel, and by what miracle you escaped; and afterward you shall have some breakfast."

"The name of the vessel, señor, was the San Diego, the guarda-costa upon this station. I was on deck when your ship was first seen, and I climbed half way up the main shrouds to look out for you, by the captain's order. When you struck us, I found myself entangled in your jib-boom rigging, and held on, though much bruised, and half-drowned by the seas which ducked me every minute, until I succeeded in laying in upon your forecastle. I had had time to notice your rig, and knew you to be an American."