Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive (https://archive.org) GRAHAMâS MAGAZINE. Vol. XVIII. February, 1841. No. 2. Contents Fiction, Literature and Articles The Blind Girl of Pompeii The Reefer of â76 (continued) My Grandmotherâs Tankard The Rescued Knight The Silver Digger The Syrian Letters (continued) The Saccharineous Philosophy The Confessions of a Miser Sports and Pastimes. Shooting Review of New Books Poetry, Music and Fashion The Dream of the Delaware Little Children Skating The Soulâs Destiny Winter The Fairyâs Home Not Lost, But Gone Before Not for Me! Not for Me! Fashions for February, 1841 Transcriberâs Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. * * * * * [Illustration: _J. Sartain sc._ The Blind Girl of Pompeii _Eng^{d} for Grahamâs Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the possession of J. Sill Esq. Phil^{a.}_] * * * * * GRAHAMâS MAGAZINE. Vol. XVIII. FEBRUARY, 1841. No. 2. * * * * * THE BLIND GIRL OF POMPEII. Who that has read the âLast Days of Pompeiiâ can forget Nydia, the blind flower-girl? So sweet, and pure, and gentle, and devoted in her unrequited love, she steals insensibly upon the heart, and wins a place therein, which even the brilliant Ione fails to obtain! Poor, artless innocent, her life, alas! was one of disappointment from its birth. We cannot better portray the character of this guileless being than by copying the exquisite description of Bulwer. The scene opens with a company of gay, young Pompeiiansâamong whom is Glaucus, the hero of the storyâtaking a morning stroll through the town. We let the story speak for itself. âThus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music, or in compassion to the songstressâfor she was blind. ââIt is my poor Thessalian,â said Glaucus, stopping; âI have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let us listen.â THE BLIND FLOWER GIRLâS SONG. Buy my FlowersâO buyâI pray, The Blind Girl comes from afar: If the Earth be as fair as I hear them say, These Flowers her children are! Do they her beauty keep? They are fresh from her lap, I know; For I caught them fast asleep In her arms an hour ago, With the air which is her breathâ Her soft and delicate breathâ Over them murmuring low!â On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet, For she weeps,âthat gentle mother weeps (As morn and night her watch she keeps, With a yearning heart and a passionate care,) To see the young things grow so fair; She weepsâfor love she weepsâ And the dews are the tears she weeps From the well of a motherâs love! Ye have a world of light, Where love in the lovâd rejoices; But the Blind Girlâs home is the House of Night, And its Beings are empty voices. As one in the Realm below, I stand by the streams of wo; I hear the vain shadows glide, I feel their soft breath at my side, And I thirst the lovâd forms to see, And I stretch my fond arms around, And I catch but a shapeless sound, For the Living are Ghosts to me. Come buyâcome buy!â Hark! how the sweet things sigh (For they have a voice like ours,) âThe breath of the Blind Girl closes The leaves of the saddening rosesâ We are tender, we sons of Light, We shrink from this child of Night; From the grasp of the Blind Girl free us, We yearn for the eyes that see usâ We are for Night too gay, In our eyes we behold the dayâ O buyâO buy the Flowers!â ââI must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,â said Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the basket; âyour voice is more charming than ever.â âThe blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenianâs voiceâthen as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples. ââSo you are returned!â said she in a low voice; and then repeated, half to herself, âGlaucus is returned!â ââYes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care as before, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.â âNydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing the violets he had selected in his breast, turned gayly and carelessly from the crowd. ââSo, she is a sort of client of yours, this child?â said Clodius. ââAyâdoes she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor slave!âbesides, she is from the land of the Godsâ hillâOlympus frowned upon her cradleâshe is of Thessaly.ââ How exquisitely is the love of Nydia told in her joy at the return of Glaucus! Only a master-hand could have described it in that blush, and start, and the glad exclamation, âGlaucus is returned!â The revellers meanwhile pass on their way, and it is not till the following morning that the flower-girl appears again upon the scene. But though she comes even while the Athenian is musing on his mistress Ione, there is a beauty around Nydiaâs every movement which makes us hail her with delight. It is her appearance at this visit which the artist has transferred to the canvass. Lo! are not the limner and the author equally inimitable? âLonger, perhaps, had been the enamored soliloquy of Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she held a bronze water vase; her features were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their outline, and without being beautiful in themselves they were almost made so by their beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in her aspectâa look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something timid and cautious in her stepâsomething wandering in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from her birthâshe was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible defect, their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. âThey tell me that Glaucus is here,â said she; âmay I come in?â ââAh, my Nydia,â said the Greek, âis that you? I knew you would not neglect my invitation.â ââGlaucus did but justice to himself,â answered Nydia, with a blush, âfor he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.â ââWho could be otherwise?â said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice of a compassionate brother. âNydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his remark. âYou have but lately returned? This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii. And you are well? Ah, I need not askâfor who that sees the earth which they tell me is so beautiful can be ill?â ââI am wellâand you, Nydia?âhow you have grown! next year you will be thinking of what answer we shall make your lovers.â âA second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she frowned as she blushed. âI have brought you some flowers,â said she, without replying to a remark she seemed to resent, and feeling about the room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it: âthey are poor, but they are fresh gathered.â ââThey might come from Flora herself,â said he, kindly; âand I renew again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.â ââAnd how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are they thriving?â ââWonderfully soâthe Lares themselves must have tended them.â ââAh, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.â ââHow shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?â said the Greek. âGlaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.â âThe hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. âThe sun is hot for the poor flowers,â said she, âto-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.â ââIll, Nydia! yet your cheek has more color than it had last year.â ââI am often ailing,â said the blind girl, touchingly, âand as I grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!â So saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers. ââPoor Nydia,â thought Glaucus, gazing on her, âthine is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earthânor the sunânor the oceanânor the starsâabove all, thou canst not behold Ione.â Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in winning Ione; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii; but Nydia, uncomplaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears mysteriously from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate? * * * * * THE REEFER OF â76. BY THE AUTHOR OF âCRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.â FORT MOULTRIE. How often has the story of the heart been told! The history of the love of one bosom is that of the millions who have alternated between hope and fear since first the human heart began to throb. The gradual awakening of our affection; the first consciousness we have of our own feelings; the tumultuous emotions of doubt and certainty we experience, and the wild rapture of the moment, when, for the first time, we learn that our love is requited, have all been told by pens more graphic than mine, and in language as nervous as that of Fielding, or as moving as that of Richardson. The daily companionship into which I was now thrown with Beatrice was, of all things, the most dangerous to my peace. From the first moment when I beheld her she had occupied a place in my thoughts; and the footing of acquaintanceship, not to say intimacy, on which we now lived, was little calculated to banish her from my mind. Oh! how I loved to linger by her side during the moonlight evenings of that balmy latitude, talking of a thousand things which, at other times, would have been void of interest, or gazing silently upon the peaceful scene around, with a hush upon our hearts it seemed almost sacrilege to break. And at such times how the merest trifle would afford us food for conversation, or how eloquent would be the quiet of that holy silence! Yes! the ripple of a wave, or the glimmer of the spray, or the twinkling of a star, or the voice of the night-wind sighing low, or the deep, mysterious language of the unquiet ocean, had, at such moments, a beauty in them, stirring every chord in our hearts, and filling us, as it were, with sympathy not only for each other, but for every thing in Nature. And when we would part for the night, I would pace for hours, my solitary watch, thinking of Beatrice, with all the rapt devotion of a first, pure love. But this could not last. The dream was pleasant, yet it might not lead me to dishonor. Beatrice was under my protection, and was it right to avail myself of that advantage to win her heart, when I knew from the difference of our stations in life, that it was madness to think that she could ever be mine. What? the heiress of one of the richest Jamaica residents, the grand-daughter of a baron, and the near connexion of some of the wealthiest tory families of the south, to be wooed as an equal by one who not only had no fortune but his sword, but was the advocate, in the eyes of her advisers, of a rebellious cause! Nor did the service I had rendered her lessen the difficulty of my position. These feelings, however, had rendered me more guarded, perhaps more cold, in the presence of Beatrice, for a day or two preceding our arrival in port. I felt my case hopeless: and I wished, by gradually avoiding the danger, to lessen the agony of the final separation. Besides, I knew nothing as yet of the sentiments of Beatrice toward myself. I was a novice in love; and the silent abstraction of her manner, together with the gradually increasing avoidance of my presence, filled me with uneasiness, despite the conviction of the hopelessness of my suit. But what was it to me, I would say, even if Beatrice loved me not? Was it not better that it should be so? Alas! reason and love are two very different things, and though I was better satisfied with myself when we made the lights of Charleston harbor, yet the almost total separation which had thus for nearly two days existed between Beatrice and myself, left my heart tormented with all a loverâs fears. It was the last evening we would spend together, perhaps for years. The wind had died away, and we slowly floated upward with the tide, the shores of James Island hanging like a dark cloud on the larboard beam, and the lights of the distant city, glimmering along the horizon inboard; while no sound broke the stillness of the hour, except the occasional wash of a ripple, or the song of some negro fishermen floating across the water. As I stood by the starboard railing, gazing on this scenery, I could not help contrasting my present situation with what it had been but a few short weeks before, when I left the harbor of New York. So intensely was I wrapt in these thoughts, that I did not notice the appearance of Beatrice on deck, until the question of the helmsman, dissolving my reverie, caused me to look around me. For a moment I hesitated whether I should join her or not. My feelings at length, however, prevailed; and crossing the deck, I soon stood at her side. She did not appear to notice my presence, but with her elbow resting on the railing, and her head buried in her hand, was pensively looking down upon the tide. âMiss Derwent!â said I, with a voice that I was conscious trembled, though I scarce knew why it did. âMr. Parker!â she ejaculated in a tone of surprise, her eyes sparkling, as starting suddenly around she blushed over neck and brow, and then as suddenly dropped her eyes to the deck, and began playing with her fan. For a moment we were both mutually embarrassed. A woman is, at such times, the first to speak. âShall we be able to land to-night?â said Beatrice. âNot unless a breeze springs upââ âOh! then I hope we shall not have one,â ejaculated the guileless girl; but instantly becoming aware of the interpretation which might be put upon her remark, she blushed again, and cast her eyes anew upon the deck. A strange, joyous hope shot through my bosom; but I made a strong effort and checked my feelings. Another silence ensued, which every moment became more oppressive. âYou join, I presume, your cousinâs family on landing,â said I at length, âI will, as soon as we come to anchor, send a messenger ashore, apprising him of your presence on board.â âHow shall I ever thank you sufficiently,â said Beatrice, raising her dark eyes frankly to mine, âfor your kindness? Neverânever,â she continued more warmly, âshall I forget it.â My soul thrilled to its deepest fibre at the words, and more than all, at the tone of the speaker; and it was with some difficulty that I could answer calmly,â âThe consciousness of having ever merited Miss Derwentâs thanks, is a sufficient reward for all I have done. That she will not wholly forget me is more than I could ask; but believe me, Beatrice,â said I, unable to restrain my feelings, and venturing, for the first time, to call her by that name, âthough we shall soon part forever, never, never can I forget these few happy days.â âWhyâdo you leave Charleston instantly?â said she, with emotion, âshall I not see you again after my landing?â I know not how it is, but there are moments when our best resolutions vanish as though they had never been made; and now, as I looked upon the earnest countenance of Beatrice, and felt the full meaning of the words so innocently said, a wild hope once more shot across my bosom, and I said softly,â âWhy, Beatrice, would it be aught to you whether we ever met again?â She lifted her eyes up to mine, and gazed for an instant almost reproachfully upon me, but she did not answer. There was something, however, in the look encouraging me to go on. I took her hand: she did not withdraw it: and, in a few hurried, but burning words, I poured forth my love. âSay, Beatrice?â I said, âcan you, do you love me?â She raised her dark eyes in answer up to mine, with an expression I shall never forget, and murmured, half inaudibly,â âYou knowâyou know I do,â and then overcome by the consciousness of all she had done, she burst into tears. Can words describe my feelings? Oh! if I had the eloquence of a Rosseau I could not portray the emotions of that moment. They were wild; they were almost uncontrollable. The tone, the words, everything convinced me that I was beloved; and all my well-formed resolutions were dissipated in a moment. Had we been alone I would have caught Beatrice to my bosom; but as it was, I could only press her hand in silence. I needed not to be assured, in more direct terms, of her affection. Henceforth she was to me my all. She was the star of my destiny! The first dawn of morning beheld us abreast of the town, and at an early hour the equipage of Mr. Rochester, the relative of Beatrice, and whose guest she was now to be, was in waiting on the quay for my beautiful charge. âYou will come to-night, will you not?â said she, as I pressed her hand, on conducting her to the carriage. I bowed affirmatively, the door was closed, and the sumptuous equipage, with its servants in livery, moved rapidly away. It was now that I had parted with Beatrice, that the conviction of the almost utter hopelessness of my suit forced itself upon my mind. Mr. Rochester was the nearest male relative of Beatrice, being her maternal uncle. Her parents were both deceased, and the uncle, whose death I have related, together with the Carolinian nabob, were, by her fatherâs will, her guardians. Mr. Rochester was, therefore, her natural protector. Her fortune, though large, was fettered with a condition that she should not marry without her guardianâs consent, and I soon learned that a union had long been projected between her and the eldest son of her surviving guardian. How little hope I had before, the reader knows, but that little was now fearfully diminished. It is true Beatrice had owned that she loved me, but how could I ask her to sacrifice the comforts as well as the elegancies of life, to share her lot with a poor unfriended midshipman? I could not endure the thought. What! should I take advantage of the gratitude of a pure young beingâa being, too, who had always been nourished in the lap of luxuryâto subject her to privation, and perhaps to beggary? No, rather would I have lived wholly absent from her presence. I could almost have consented to lose her love, sooner than be the instrument of inflicting on her miseries so crushing. My only hope was in winning a name that would yet entitle me to ask her hand as an equal: my only fear was, lest the length of time I should be absent from her side, would gradually lose me her affection. Such is the jealous fear of a loverâs heart. Meanwhile, however, the whole city resounded with the din of war. A despatch from the Secretary of Slate, to Gov. Eden, of Maryland, had been intercepted by Com. Barron, of the Virginia service, in the Chesapeake. From this missive, intelligence was gleaned that the capital of South Carolina was to be attacked; and on my arrival I found every exertion being made to place it in a posture of defence. I instantly volunteered, and the duties thus assumed, engrossing a large part of my time, left me little leisure, even for my suit. Still, however, I occasionally saw Beatrice, though the cold hauteur with which my visits were received by her uncleâs family, much diminished their frequency. As the time rolled on, however, and the British fleet did not make its appearance, there were not wanting many who believed that the contemplated attack had been given up. But I was not of the number. So firm, indeed, was my conviction of the truth of the intelligence that I ran out to sea every day or two, in a smart-sailing pilot-boat, in order, if possible, to gain the first positive knowledge of the approach of our foes. âA sail,â shouted our look-out one day, after we had been standing off and on for several hours, âa sail, broad on the weather-beam!â Every eye was instantly turned toward the quarter indicated; spy-glasses were brought into requisition; and in a few minutes we made out distinctly nearly a dozen sail, on the larboard tack, looming up on the northern sea-board. We counted no less than six men-of-war, besides several transports. Every thing was instantly wet down to the trucks, and heading at once for Charleston harbor, we soon bore the alarming intelligence to the inhabitants of the town. That night all was terror and bustle in the tumultuous capital. The peaceful citizens, unused to bloodshed, gazed upon the approaching conflict with mingled resolution and terror, now determining to die rather than to be conquered, and now trembling for the safety of their wives and little ones. Crowds swarmed the wharves, and even put out into the bay to catch a sight of the approaching squadron. At length it appeared off the bar, and we soon saw by their buoying out the channel, that an immediate attack was to take place by sea,âwhile expresses brought us hasty intelligence of the progress made by the royal troops in landing on Long Island. But want of water among our foes, and the indecision of their General, protracted the attack for more than three weeks, a delay which we eagerly improved. At length, on the morning of the 28th of June, it became evident that our assailants were preparing to commence the attack. Eager to begin my career of fame, I sought a post under Col. Moultrie, satisfied that the fort on Sullivanâs Island would have to maintain the brunt of the conflict. Never shall I forget the sight which presented itself to me on reaching our position. The fort we were expected to maintain, was a low building of palmetto logs, situated on a tongue of the island, and protected in the rear from the royalist troops, on Long Island, by a narrow channel, usually fordable, but now, owing to the late prevalence of easterly winds, providentially filled to a depth of some fathoms. In front of us lay the mouth of the harbor, commanded on the opposite shore, at the distance of about thirty-five hundred yards, by another fort in our possession, where Col. Gadsen, with a respectable body of troops was posted. To the right opened the bay, sweeping almost a quarter of the compass around the horizon, toward the north,âand on its extreme verge, to the north west, rose up Haddrellâs point, where General Lee, our commander-in-chief, had taken up a position. About half way around, and due west from us, lay the city, at the distance of nearly four miles, the view being partly intercepted by the low, marshy island, called Shuteâs Folly, between us and the town. âWe have but twenty-eight pounds of powder, Mr. Parker, a fact I should not like generally known,â said Col. Moultrie to me, âbut as you have been in action beforeâmore than I can say of a dozen of my menâI know you may be trusted with the information.â âNever doubt the brave continentals here, colonel,â I replied, âthey are only four hundred, but we shall teach yon braggarts a lesson, before to-day is over, which they shall not soon forget.â âBravo, my gallant young friend! With my twenty-six eighteen and twenty four pounders, plenty of powder, and a few hundred fire-eaters like yourself I would blow the whole fleet out of water. But after all,â said he with good-humored raillery, âthough youâll not glory in rescuing Miss Derwent to-day, youâll fight not a whit the worse for knowing that she is in Charleston, eh! But, come, donât blushâyou must be my aidâI shall want you, depend upon it, before the day is over. If those red-coats here, behind us, attempt to take us in the rear, we shall have hot work,âfor by my hopes of eternal salvation, Iâll drive them back, man and officer, in spite of Gen. Leeâs fears that I cannot. But ha! there comes the first bomb.â Looking upward as he spoke, I beheld a large, dark body flying through the air; and in the next instant, amidst a cheer from our men, it splashed into the morass behind us, simmered, and went out. âWell sent, old Thunderer,â ejaculated the imperturbable colonel, âbut, faith, many another good bomb will you throw away on the swamps and palmetto logs you sneer at. Open upon them, my brave fellows, as they come around, and teach them what Carolinians can do. Remember, you fight to-day for your wives, your children, and your liberties. The Continental Congress forever against the minions of a tyrannical court.â The battle was now begun. One by one the British men-of-war, coming gallantly into their respective stations, and dropping their anchors with masterly coolness, opened their batteries upon us, firing with a rapidity and precision that displayed their skill. The odds against which we had to contend were indeed formidable. Directly in front of us, with springs on their cables, and supported by two frigates, were anchored a couple of two-deckers; while the three other men-of-war were working up to starboard, and endeavoring to get a position between us and the town, so as to cut off our communications with Haddrellâs Point. âKeep it upârun her out again,â shouted the captain of a gun beside me, who was firing deliberately, but with murderous precision, every shot of his piece telling on the hull of one of the British cruizers, âhuzza for Carolina!â âHere comes the broadside of Sir Peterâs two-decker,â shouted another one, âmake way for the British iron among the palmetto logs. Ha! old yellow breeches how dâye like that?â he continued as the shot from his piece, struck the quarter of the flag-ship, knocking the splinters high into the air, and cutting transversely through and through her crowded decks. Meanwhile the three men-of-war attempting to cut off our communications, had got entangled among the shoals to our right, and now lay utterly helpless, engaged in attempting to get afloat, and unable to fire a gun. Directly two of them ran afoul, carrying away the bowsprit of the smaller one. âHuzza!â shouted the old bruiser again, squinting a moment in that direction, âtheyâre smashing each other to pieces there without our help, and so here goes at smashing their messmates in front hereâwhat the devil,â he continued, turning smartly around to cuff a powder boy, âwhat are you gaping up stream for, when you should be waiting on me?âtake that you varmint, and see if you can do as neat a thing as this when youâre old enough to point a gun. By the Lord Harry Iâve cut away that fore-top-mast as clean as a whistle.â Meantime the conflict waxed hotter and hotter, and through the long summer afternoon, except during an interval when we slackened it for want of powder, our brave fellows, with the coolness of veterans, and the enthusiasm of youth, kept up their fire. A patriotic ardor burned along our lines, which only became more resistless, as the wounded were carried past in the arms of their comrades. The contest was at its height when General Lee arrived from the mainland to offer to remove us if we wished to abandon our perilous position. âAbandon our position, General!â said Colonel Moultrie, âwill your excellency but visit the guns, and ask the men whether they will give up the fort? No, we will die or conquer here.â The eye of the Commander-in-Chief flashed proudly at this reply, and stepping out upon the plain, he approached a party who were firing with terrible precision upon the British fleet. This fearless exposure of his person called forth a cheer from the men; but without giving him time to remain long in so dangerous a position, Colonel Moultrie exclaimed, âMy brave fellows, the general has come off to offer to remove you to the main if you are tired of your post. Shall it be?â There was a universal negative, every man declaring he would sooner die at his gun. It was a noble sight. Their eyes flashing; their chests dilated; their brawny arms bared and covered with smoke, they stood there, determined, to a man, to save their native soil at every cost, from invasion. At this moment a group appeared, carrying a poor fellow, whom it could be seen at a glance was mortally wounded. His lips were blue; his countenance ghastly; and his dim eye rolled uneasily about. He breathed heavily. But as he approached us, the shouts of his fellow soldiers falling on his ear, aroused his dying faculties, and lifting himself heavily up, his eye, after wandering inquiringly about, caught the sight of his general. âGod bless you! my poor fellow,â said Lee, compassionately, âyou are, I fear, seriously hurt.â The dying man looked at him as if not comprehending his remark, and then fixing his eye upon his general, said faintly, âDid not some one talk of abandoning the fort?â âYes,â answered Lee, âI offered to remove you or let you fight it outâbut I see you brave fellows would rather die than retreat.â âDie!â said the wounded man, raising himself half upright, with sudden strength, while his eye gleamed with a brighter lustre than even in health. âI thank my God that I am dying, if we can only beat the British back. Die! I have no family, and my life is well given for the freedom of my country. No, my men, never retreat,â he continued, turning to his fellow soldiers, and waving his arm around his head, âhuzza for liâiâberâtyâhuzâzaâaâa,â and as the word died away, quivering in his throat, he fell back, a twitch passed over his face, and he was dead. Need I detail the rest of that bloody day? For nine hours, without intermission, the cannonade was continued with a rapidity on the part of our foes, and a murderous precision on that of ourselves, such as I have never since seen equalled. Night did not terminate the conflict. The long afternoon wore away; the sun went down; the twilight came and vanished; darkness reigned over the distant shores around us, yet the flash of the guns, and the roar of the explosions did not cease. As the evening grew more obscure the whole horizon became illuminated by the fire of our batteries, and the long, meteor-like tracks of the shells through the sky. The crash of spars; the shouts of the men; and the thunder of the cannonade formed meanwhile a discord as terrible as it was exciting; while the lights flashing along the bay, and twinkling from our encampment at Haddrellâs Point, made the scene even picturesque. Long was the conflict, and desperately did our enemies struggle to maintain their posts. Even when the cable of the flag-ship had been cut away, and swinging around with her stern toward us, every shot from our battery was enabled to traverse the whole length of her decks, amid terrific slaughter, she did not display a sign of fear, but doggedly maintained her position, keeping up a straggling fire upon us, for some time, from such of her guns as could be brought to bear. At length, however, a new cable was rigged upon her, and swinging around broadside on, she resumed her fire. But it was in vain. Had they fought till doomsday they could not have overcome the indomitable courage of men warring for their lives and liberties; and finding that our fire only grew more deadly at every discharge, Sir Peter Parker at length made the signal to retire. One of the frigates farther in the bay had grounded, however, so firmly on the shoals that she could not be got off; and when she was abandoned and fired next morning, our brave fellows, despite the flames wreathing already around her, boarded her, and fired at the retreating squadron until it was out of range. They had not finally deserted her more than a quarter of an hour before she blew up with a stunning shock. The rejoicing among the inhabitants after this signal victory were long and joyous. We were thanked; feted; and became _lions_ at once. The tory families, among which was that of Mr. Rochester, maintained, however, a sullen silence. The suspicion which such conduct created made it scarcely advisable that I should become a constant visitor at his mansion, even if the cold civility of his family had not, as I have stated before, furnished other obstacles to my seeing Beatrice. Mr. Rochester, it is true, had thanked me for the services I had rendered his ward, but he had done so in a manner frigid and reserved to the last degree, closing his expression of gratitude with an offer of pecuniary recompense, which not only made the blood tingle in my veins, but detracted from the value of what little he had said. A fortnight had now elapsed since I had seen Beatrice, and I was still delayed at Charleston, waiting for a passage to the north, and arranging the proceeds of our prize, when I received an invitation to a ball at the house of one of the leaders of ton, who affecting a neutrality in politics, issued cards indiscriminately to both parties. Feeling a presentiment that Beatrice would be there, and doubtless unaccompanied by her uncle or cousin, I determined to go, and seek an opportunity to bid her farewell, unobserved, before my departure. The rooms were crowded to excess. All that taste could suggest, or wealth afford, had been called into requisition to increase the splendor of the _fete_. Rich chandeliers; sumptuous ottomans; flowers of every hue; and an array of loveliness such as I have rarely seen equalled, made the lofty apartments almost a fairy palace. But amid that throng of beauty there was but one form which attracted my eye. It was that of Beatrice. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and I felt a pang of almost jealousy, when I saw her, as I thought, smiling as gaily as the most thoughtless beauty present. But as I drew nearer I noticed that, amid all her affected gaiety, a sadness would momentarily steal over her fine countenance, like a cloud flitting over a sunny summer landscape. As I edged toward her through the crowd, her eye caught mine, and in an instant lighted up with a joyousness that was no longer assumed. I felt repaid, amply repaid by that one glance, for all the doubts I had suffered during the past fortnight; but the formalities of etiquette prevented me from doing aught except to return an answering glance, and solicit the hand of Beatrice. âOh! why have you been absent so long?â said the dear girl, after the dance had been concluded, and we had sauntered together, as if involuntarily, into a conservatory behind the ball room, âevery one is talking of your conduct at the fortâdo you know I too am a rebelâand _do_ you then sail for the north?â âYes, dearest,â I replied, âand I have sought you to-night to bid you adieu for monthsâit may be for years. God only knows, Beatrice,â and I pressed her hand against my heart, âwhen we shall meet again. Perhaps you may not even hear from me; the war will doubtless cut off the communications; and sweet one, say will you still love me, though others may be willing to say that I have forgotten you?â âOh! how can you ask me? But youâwillâwriteâwonât you?â and she lifted those deep, dark, liquid eyes to mine, gazing confidingly upon me, until my soul swam in ecstacy. My best answer was a renewed pressure of that small, fair hand. âAnd Beatrice,â said I, venturing upon a topic, to which I had never yet alluded, âif they seek to wed you to another will youâyou still be mine only?â âHow can you ask so cruel a question?â was the answer, in a tone so low and sweet, yet half reproachful, that no ear but that of a lover could have heard it. âOh! you know betterâyou know,â she added, with energy, âthat they have already planned a marriage between me and my cousin; but never, never can I consent to wed where my heart goes not with my hand. And now you know all,â she said tearfully, âand though they may forbid me to think of you, yet I can never forget the past. No, believe me, Beatrice Derwent where once she has plighted her faith, will never afterward betray it,â and overcome by her emotions, the fair girl leaned upon my shoulder and wept long and freely. But I will not protract the scene. Anew we exchanged our protestations of love, and after waiting until Beatrice had grown composed we returned to the ball room. Under the plea of illness I saw her soon depart, nor was I long in following. No one, however, had noticed our absence. Her haughty uncle, in his luxurious library, little suspected the scene that had that night occurred. But his conduct, I felt, had exonerated me from every obligation to him, and I determined to win his ward, if fortune favored me, in despite of his opposition. My honor was no longer concerned against me: I felt free to act as I chose. The British fleet meanwhile, having been seen no more upon the coast, the communication with the north, by sea, became easy again. New York, however, was in the possession of the enemy, and a squadron was daily expected at the mouth of Delaware Bay. To neither of these ports, consequently, could I obtain a passage. Nor indeed did I wish it. There was no possibility that the Fire-Fly would enter, either, to re-victual, and as I was anxious to join her, it was useless to waste time in a port where she could not enter. Newport held out the only chance to me for rejoining my vessel. It was but a dayâs travel from thence to Boston, and at one or the other of these places I felt confident the Fire-Fly would appear before winter. The very day, however, after seeing Beatrice, I obtained a passage in a brig, which had been bound to another port, but whose destination the owners had changed to Newport, almost on the eve of sailing. I instantly made arrangements for embarking in her, having already disposed of our prize, and invested the money in a manner which I knew would allow it to be distributed among the crew of the Fire-Fly at the earliest opportunity. My parting with Col. Moultrie was like parting from a father. He gave me his blessing; I carried my kit on board; and before forty-eight hours I was once more at sea. * * * * * THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE. âSleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.â On Alligewiâs[1] mountain height An Indian hunter lay reclining, Gazing upon the sunset light In all its loveliest grace declining. Onward the chase he had since dawn Pursued, with swift-winged step, oâer lawn, And pine-clad steep, and winding dell, And deep ravine, and covert nook Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell, And silent cove, and brawling brook; Yet not till twilightâs mists descending, Had dimmed the wooded vales below, Did he, his homeward pathway wending, Droop âneath his spoil, with footsteps slow. Then, as he breathless paused, and faint, The shout of joy that pealed on high As broke that landscape on his eye, Imaginings alone can paint. Down on the granite brow, his prey, In all its antlered glory lay. His plumage flowed above the spoilâ His quiver, and the slackened bow, Companions of his ceaseless toil, Lay careless at its side below. Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter, More pure, more holy, and serene; Who might not feel existence lighter Beneath the power of such a scene? Marking the blush of light ascending From where the sun had set afar, Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending With the pale azure; while each star Came smiling forth âmid roseate hue, And deepened into brighter lustre As Night, with shadowy fingers threw Her dusky mantle round each cluster. Purple, and floods of gold, were streaming Around the sunsetâs crimson way, And all the impassioned west was gleaming With the rich flush of dying day. Far, far below the wandering sight, Seen through the gathâring gloom of night, A mighty river rushing on, Seemed dwindled to a fairyâs zone. No bark upon its wave was seen, Or if âtwas there, it glided by As viewless forms, that once have been, Will flit, half-seen, before the eye. Long gazed the hunter on that sight, âTill twilight darkened into night, Dim and more dim the landscape grew, And duskier was the empyrean blue; Glittered a thousand stars on high, And wailed the night-wind sadly by; And slowly fading, one by one, Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain pass Grew darker still, and yet more dun, âTill deepâning to a shadowy mass, They seemed to mingle, earth and sky, In one wild, weird-like canopy. Yet lo! that hunter starts, and one Whom it were heaven to gaze upon, A beauteous girl,âas âtwere a fawn, So playful, wild, and gentle too,â Came bounding oâer the shadowy lawn, With step as light, and love as true. It was Echucha! she, his bride, Dearer than all of earth beside,â For she had left her sireâs far home, The woodland depths with him to roam Who was that sireâs embittered foe! And there, in loveliness alone, With him her opening beauty shone. But even while he gazed, that form, As fades the lightning in the storm, Passed quickly from his sight. He looked again, no one was there, No voice was on the stilly air, No step upon the greensward fair, But all around was night. She past, but throâ that hunterâs mind, What wildâring memories are rushing, As harps, beneath a summer wind, With wild, mysterious lays are gushing. Fast came remembârance of that eve, Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss Was but to gaze, and to receive The boon of hope so vast as thisâ To clasp that being as his own, To win her from her native bowers; And form a spirit-land, alone With her amid perennial flowers. And as he thought, that dark, deep eye, Seemed hovering as âtwas wont to bless, When the soft hand would on him lie, And sooth his soul to happiness. Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low, Like the first warm breath of spring, Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow, Or the ring-doveâs fluttering wing, Came swelling along the balmy air, As if a spirit itself was there, So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain, It might not bless the ear again, Now breathed afar, now swelling near, It gushed on the enraptured ear;â And hark! was it her well-known tone? Noânaught is heard but the voice alone. âWarrior of the Lenape race, Thou of the oak that cannot bend, Of noble brow and stately grace, And agile step, of the Tamenend, Ariseâcome thou with me! Echucha waits in silent glade, Her eyes the eagleâs gaze assume, As daylightâs golden glories fade, To catch afar her hunterâs plume,â But naught, naught can she see. Her hair is decked with ocean shell, The vermeil bright is on her brow, The peag zone enclasps her well, Her heart is sad beneath it now, She weeps, and weeps for thee. With early dawn thou hiedst away, In reckless sports the hours to while, Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray, Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile, When again she looks on thee! Oh! come, come then with me.â Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep, As broods oâer an unbroken sleep, Seemed hovering round; then slowly came A glow athwart the darkling night, Bursting at length to mid-day flame, And bathing hill and vale in light. While suddenly a form flits by With step as fleet, as through the sky The morning songster skims along Preceded by his matchless song. So glided she; yet not unseen Her graceful gait, her brow serene, Her finely modelled limbs so round, Her raven tresses all unbound, That flashing out, and hidden now, Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,â As springing from the mountainâs brow, Eager and wild that one to know, The hunter hurried to behold her. On, on the beauteous phantom glides Beneath the sombre, giant pines That stud the steep and rugged sides Of pendant cliffs, and deep ravines; Down many a wild descent and dell Oâergrown with twisted lichens rude; Yet where she passed a halo fell To guide the footsteps that pursued,â Like that fell wonder of the sky That flashes oâer the starry space, And leaves its glittâring wake on high, For man portentous truths to trace. And onward, onward still that light Was all which beamed upon the sight. Of figure he could naught descry, Invisible it seemed to fly; Alluring on with magic art That half disclosing, hid in part. Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate! Oh! what is like thy magic will, Which men in blind obedience wait, Yet deem themselves unfettered still! By thee impelled that hunter sped Through shadowy wood, oâer flowery bed; When angels else, beneath his eye, Had passed unseen, unnoticed by. The Indian brave! that stoic wild, Philosophyâs untutored child, A being, such as wisdomâs torch Enkindled âneath the attic porch, Where the Phoenician stern and eld, His wise man[2] to the world revealing, Divined not western wildness held Untutored ones less swayed by feeling; Whose firm endurance fire nor stake Nor tortureâs fiercest pangs might shake. Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole, In apprehension revelling free, Evolved that fearlessness of soul Which Greece[3] saw but in theory. Still on that beauteous phantom fled, And still behind the hunter sped. Nor turned she âtill where many a
{'title': "Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}