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aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head
even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as
well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with
fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious
power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of
hairs at a time. The throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but
the head absolutely severed from the body. The instrument was a
mere razor. Here again we have evidence of that vastness of
strength upon which I would fix your attention. I wish you also to
look, and to look steadily, at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of
the bruises upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak.
Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor, Monsieur Etienne, have
pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and
so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse instrument was
clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had
fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea,
however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same
reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by
the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed
against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at
all.
“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly
reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far
as to combine the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility
astounding, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a
grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice
foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and devoid of all
distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued?
What impression have I made upon your fancy?”
I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I
said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a
neighboring Maison de Santé.”
“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But
the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never
found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen
are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its
words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair
of a madman is not such hair as I now hold in my hand. I
disentangled this little tuft from among the tresses remaining upon
the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”
“Good God,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most
unusual—this is no human hair.”
“I have not asserted that it was,” said he, “but before we decide
upon this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have
here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has
been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and
deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a
series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’
“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper
upon the table before us, “you will perceive that this drawing gives
the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each
finger has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the
fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt now to
place all your fingers, at one and the same time, in the impressions
as you see them.”
I made the attempt in vain.
“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The
paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is
cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is
about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the
experiment again.”
I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.
“This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”
“Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “read now this passage from
Cuvier.”
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of
the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The
gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild
ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are
sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the
murder at once.
“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of
reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no
animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could
have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft
of yellow hair is identical in character with that of the beast of
Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this
frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in
contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a
Frenchman.”
“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘mon
Dieu!’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized
by one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an
expression of remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words,
therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the
riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible—
indeed it is far more than probable—that he was innocent of all
participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The
Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it
to this chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which
ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is still at large. I will
not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more
than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which they are
based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own
intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to
the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses
then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be
indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement,
which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le
Monde,’ (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought
for by sailors,) will bring him to our residence.”
He handed me a paper, and I read thus:—
 Caught—In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of
the — inst., (the morning of the murder,) a very large,
tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The
owner, (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a
Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon
identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising
from its capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——,
Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième.

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to
be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”
“I do not know it,” said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here,
however, is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its
form, and from its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in
one of those long queues of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this
knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the
Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It
could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all,
I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman
was a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no
harm in stating what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error he
will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance
into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right—a
great point is gained. Cognizant of the murder, although not guilty,
the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about replying to the
advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will
reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of
great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why
should I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is
within my grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast
distance from the scene of that butchery. How can it ever be
suspected that a brute beast should have done the deed? The police
are at fault—they have failed to procure the slightest clew. Should
they even trace the animal, it would be impossible to prove me
cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of
that cognizance. Above all, I am known. The advertiser designates
me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his
knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so
great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the
animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract
attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the
advertisement—get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this
matter has blown over.’ ”
At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.
“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither show them
nor use them until at a signal from myself.”
The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter
had entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps
upon the staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently
we heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door,
when we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second
time, but stepped up quickly, and rapped at the door of our
chamber.
“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.
The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly
sunburnt, was more than half hidden by a world of whisker and
mustachio. He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to
be otherwise unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good
evening,” in French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatel-
ish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “I suppose you have called
about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the
possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable
animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of
some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,—
 “I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five
years old. Have you got him here?”
“Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at
a livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the
morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”
“To be sure I am, sir.”
“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.
“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a
reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in
reason.”
“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me
think!—what reward ought I to have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power
about that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.”
Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.
Just as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put
the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and
placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.
The sailor’s face flushed up with an ungovernable tide of
crimson. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next
moment he fell back into his seat trembling convulsively, and with
the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a single word. I pitied
him from the bottom of my heart.
“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I
pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we
intend you no injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of
the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny
that you are in some measure implicated in them. From what I have
already said, you must know that I have had means of information
about this matter—means of which you could never have dreamed.
Now the thing stands thus. You have done nothing which you could
have avoided—nothing certainly which renders you culpable. You
were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have robbed with
impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for
concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle
of honor to confess all that you know. An innocent man is now
imprisoned, charged with that crime of which you can point out the
perpetrator.”
The sailor had recovered his presence of mind in a great
measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness
of bearing was all gone.
“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I will tell you all
that I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe
one half that I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I am
innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”
I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative
which he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He
had lately made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of
which he formed one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior
on an excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured
the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his
own exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the
intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at
length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in Paris,
where, not to attract towards himself the unpleasant curiosity of his
neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it should
recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on board
ship. His ultimate design was to sell it.
Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather
in the morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his
own bed-room, into which he had broken from a closet adjoining,
where he had been, as it was thought, securely confined. The beast,
razor in hand, and fully lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass,
attempting the operation of shaving, in which he had no doubt
previously watched his master through the key-hole of the closet.
Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession of
an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man, for some
moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed,
however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the use
of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight
of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the
chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
unfortunately open, into the street.
The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer,
until the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again made
off. In this manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets
were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning.
In passing down an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the
fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light (the only one apparent
except those of the town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of
Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in the fourth story of her house.
Rushing to the building, he perceived the lightning-rod, clambered
up with inconceivable agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown
fully back against the wall, and, by its means swung himself directly
upon the head-board of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a
minute. The shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang
as he entered the room.
The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He
had strong hopes of now recapturing the ape, as it could scarcely
escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod,
where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand,
there was much cause for anxiety as to what the brute might do in
the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to follow the
fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a
sailor; but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far
to his left, his career was stopped; the most that he could
accomplish was to reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the
interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold
through excess of horror. Now it was that those hideous shrieks
arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the inmates
of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited
in their night clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging
some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been
wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents
lay beside it on the floor. Their backs must have been towards the
window; and, by the time elapsing between the screams and the
ingress of the ape, it seems probable that he was not immediately
perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter they would naturally have
attributed to the wind.
As the sailor looked in, the gigantic beast had seized Madame
L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing
it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the
motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she
had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old lady (during
which the hair was torn from her head) had the effect of changing
the probably pacific purposes of the Ourang-Outang into those of
ungovernable wrath. With one determined sweep of his muscular
arm he nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of blood
inflamed his anger into phrenzy. Gnashing his teeth, and flashing fire
from his eyes, he flew upon the body of the girl, and imbedded his
fearful talons in her throat, retaining his grasp until she expired. His
wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the
bed, over which those of his master, glazed in horror, were just
discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind
the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into dread. Conscious of
having deserved punishment, he seemed desirous to conceal his
bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an apparent agony
of nervous agitation, throwing down and breaking the furniture as
he moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion,
he seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the
chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, with which he
rushed to the window, precipitating it immediately therefrom.
As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor
shrunk aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down
it, hurried at once home—dreading the consequences of the
butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about
the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon
the staircase were the Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and
affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have
escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of
the door. He must have closed the window as he passed through it.
He was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for
him a very large sum at the Jardin des Plantes. Le Bon was instantly
released upon our narration of the circumstances (with some
comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Préfet de police. This
functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not
altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken,
and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, in regard to the
propriety of every person minding his own business.
“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to
reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied
with having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too
cunning to be acute. There is no stamen in his wisdom. It is all head
and no body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least
all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after
all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he
has attained that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I
mean the way he has ‘de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est
pas.’ ”

Philadelphia, March, 1841.

 AN APRIL DAY.
The spring has come, the low south wind
Is breathing sweet,—
The showers are patt’ring in the wood,
Like fairy feet.

Hark! in yon silent grove a bird

Pours out its lay,—
Such strains, I ween, have not been heard
For many a day.

The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,

The sun between,—
A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,
Upon the green.

And such is life—an April morn,

A changing sky,—
To mingled joy and grief we’re born,
And born to die.
A. A. I.

Philadelphia, March, 1841.

 TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP.
Say magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?
Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?
Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,
Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?

Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,

Perchance the music of some distant sphere,
That faintly echoes on the gales of even,
To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?

Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,

Tripping the dewy world fantastically,
To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,
Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?

Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,

A voice, that calleth tremulously low;
To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,
Far from deluding joys it meets below?

Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,

A melody, unearthly and unknown;
A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,
Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.

Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,

The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;
The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,
Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.
Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,
Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,
Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,
Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—

Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,

The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;
Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,
That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.

And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,

Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;
Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,
Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.

Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,

The touching softness of her gentle things;
And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,
Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.

Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,

To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;
Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,
That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?

This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,

To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;
To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,
This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.
A. F. H.
 THE REEFER OF ’76.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”
———

THE MESS-ROOM.
It is scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that
celebrated cruize. Success appeared to follow us wherever we went.
After our escape from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently
learned to be the Solebay, mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran
farther eastward, and soon fell in with several prizes. One morning,
however, our look-out detected a strange frigate hovering upon the
sea-board, nor was it long before we discovered her to be an enemy.
We made her out, by the aid of our glasses, to be a light frigate,
pierced for sixteen guns on a side. Every rag that would draw was
instantly set. With equal alacrity the stranger followed our example,
and a running fight was commenced, which lasted nearly the whole
day; for our daring leader, finding that we could easily outsail the
enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so that, although she
maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short. Toward night-fall,
however, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and, to the
astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in a
few hours.
After hauling aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and
for some time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen,
around the coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than
sixteen sail, some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our
late exploits, and swept down the coast toward Montauk.
It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as
the sun set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a
thousand varied dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along
the deep, we beheld a small schooner, close-hauled, opening around
the northern extremity of the island. In less than a half hour she was
close to windward of us. As it was the first friendly craft we had seen
for weeks, we were all naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs
on land. Paul Jones himself leaped into the rigging and hailed,
“Ahoy! what craft is that?”
“The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low
deck of the stranger, “what vessel air you?”
“The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and
send a boat aboard.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the same voice, but in an altered tone,
and with the ready alacrity of a true seaman, “round her to, boys;
but may be,” continued he, again addressing us, “you hain’t heerd
the news yet. I calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t
to be made slaves of arter all—independence is declared.”
“What!—the Congress declared itself independent of Great
Britain?” asked Paul Jones, quickly.
“Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away
in a prolonged whistle, as he remembered how unbecoming an oath
would be from a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a
profound silence, while we gazed into each other’s faces, with
mingled wonder, delight, and pride. The news was not wholly
unhoped for, though we had scarcely ventured to expect it. A
topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every thing in his
enthusiasm, he shouted,
“Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—huzza!”
And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering
shout, which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that
of the schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It
was a stirring moment. A universal transport appeared to have
seized upon our gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook
each other’s hands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile
even danced; while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and
kindling eye, timed the huzzas of his patriotic crew.
Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and
almost the first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy little
Fire-Fly. The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not
attempt to describe. Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to
the narrative of their adventures since our parting, and rehearsed in
return my own. My arrival was opportune, for the schooner expected
to sail in less than a week, and had I been delayed many days
longer, I might have found it impossible to have rejoined her during
the war. The little time that we remained in port after my arrival,
was spent in a constant round of amusements, such only as a set of
gay reckless reefers know how to indulge in. Many a gay song was
trolled, and many a mirthful tale related by lips that have long since
been stilled in death.
But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear
creature had availed herself of one of the rare opportunities which
then presented themselves occasionally of communicating with the
north, to answer a long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance
vessel, we met a few days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what
simple, yet nervous eloquence did she assure me of her unabated
love, and how sweetly did she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner
that I was—whispered respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again
and again; I read it over and over a thousand times; I treasured it
the more because I knew not when the chances of war would suffer
me to hear from her again. I feared not now the influence of her
uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that Beatrice was too pure, too self-
devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it for lucre. And as I felt this it
flashed across me that perhaps she might have heard of my being
lost overboard from the merchantman; and who knew but that even
now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a brig was now in
port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the opportunity, and wrote
to inform Beatrice of my safety.
In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my
friends on board the Providence, we set sail from Newport. The day
was bright and glorious, and the sunbeams danced merrily upon the
waves. A light breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song
of the sailors from the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and
the scream of the sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear
blue sky.
As the day advanced, however, a thin, gauze-like vapor gradually
spread over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the
afternoon watch to an impervious canopy of black, which stretching
from pole to pole, obscured the whole firmament, and threw a
premature and sickly gloom over the deep beneath. The wind, too,
began to rise, blowing in irregular puffs, and whitening the surface
of the sea in patches over the whole of its wide extent; while
occasionally a low, half-smothered murmur, as if arising out of the
very heart of the ocean, betokened that the elements of the storm
were at work far down in their wild recesses. As the day advanced
the sky became even more ominous, until long before night-fall its
weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld. By this
time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and with
every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast
whitening billows with an exhilarating velocity that only a sailor can
appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on
the watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty
were soon congregated in our mess-room.
“A wild night,” said the last comer, as he shook the wet from his
shaggy jacket, “and I see you’re determined to make the most of it,
my boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in
passing. Here’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!” rung around the crowded
room, as we drank off our bumpers.
“Can’t you give us a toast, O’Shaughnessy?” sung out Westbrook.
“Shure and what shall it be?” said he, with humorous simplicity. A
general roar of laughter followed.
“Any thing, my hearty,” said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk
into his mouth as he spoke.
 “Arrah thin, and ye’ll not refuse to dhrink the memory of our
gallant comrade,” said he, looking hard at me, “present this blessed
minit, who fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I
mane, boys.”
The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like
successive peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the
schooner off bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of
all was the amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to
understand this new burst of merriment, looked from one to another,
in humorous perplexity. As soon, however, as the company could
compose itself, the toast was drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I
rose to return thanks.
“Hear him—hear him,” roared a dozen voices. I began.
“Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of,” but here I
was interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head
through the narrow doorway, said,
“Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it
continues.”
The purser was a stiff, starch, precise old scoundrel, with a squint
in his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even
that of Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest
shifts. But this would not have irritated the mess so much, even
though he had at one time or another fleeced every member of it,
had it not been his constant practice to inform on such of the tricks
inseparable to a set of youngsters as came under his notice. He was,
in short, a skulking spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a
strictness of morals which was more than suspected to be
hypocritical.
“And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience?—eh! old
plunderer,” said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s
head.
“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—”
“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our
reckless comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul
him in there, O’Shaughnessy.”
Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the
door shut, and he stood turning from one to another of our group in
speechless amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The
rattling of the cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the
deafening whistle of the hurricane we knew would drown all the
uproar we might occasion, and afford us impunity for any offence.
Besides it was no part of his duty to be intruding on our mess, and
threatening us with punishment. We had a long account to settle
with our extortioner.
“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a
good fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices
as biscuit after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while
Westbrook mixing a stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our
victim to drink.
“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty
of—of the regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you
shall, so help me God.”
“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we
punish such immorality?”
“Cob him,” said one.
“Keel-haul him,” said another.
“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third.
“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt
and water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers
held the loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to
administer the draught.
“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—
you shall—”
“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the
purser a shake.
“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising
his voice.
 But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in
one hand, he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the
struggling man, and gravely commenced haranguing him on the
enormity of his offence.
“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his
hand upon his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such
language as you have been convicted of, especially in the presence
of these misguided young reprobates,” here there was a general
laugh, “example, example, my dear sir, is every thing. But the deed
is done: the penalty alone remains to be paid. With a heart torn with
the most poignant anguish I proceed to execute your sentence.”
“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.”
But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The
mess was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second
forced open his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity,
apologising for, and bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it
—in the same breath, poured the nauseating draught down the
victim’s throat, amid roars of laughter.
“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the
purser, almost choked with rage.
“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook.
The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang
out of the mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their
sides, laughed until the tears ran out of their eyes.
“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the
foot of the table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but
renewed again and again, had finally died away.
“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-
room song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m
confoundedly dry.”
Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and
sang in a fine manly tenor, the following stanzas:
 “Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!
With his junk and Jamaica by him,
He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.
He seeks but the foe to defy him;
He fights for his honor and country’s laws,
He fights for the mother that bore him,—
And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause
Will quail, like a coward, before him.

“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,

The heavens their thunders awaken,
The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—
He smiles at all danger unshaken;
With an unblenched eye, and a daring form
He fearlessly gazes before him,
Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,
His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.

“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fair

To greet us from battle returning,
With their song and smile to banish each care
By the hearth-fire cheerily burning.
Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,
For mothers, for grandsires hoary?
Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,
Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”

“Bravo! three times three!” and the triple sound rolled stunningly
from our throats.
“Hark! wasn’t that the boatswain’s whistle?” said I, and for a
moment we paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the
storm drowned everything in its fierce uproar.
“Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” and the cheers were
renewed with redoubled vigor.
 “Gentlemen, all hands on deck,” said the quarter-master, opening
the door at this moment.
“Ay! ay! sir,” was the simultaneous response of every member of
the mess, and in less than a minute our late noisy apartment was as
quiet as the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is
discipline.
The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove
at once, all the excitement of our potations off; and we were as calm
and collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had
kept above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that
moment. The rain was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly,
however, but slant-wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now
it beat fiercely into our faces, and now was whirled hither and
thither in wild commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could
not see a dozen fathoms in any direction, except where the white
crests of the surges flashed through the gloom. These could,
however, be detected close under our lee glancing through the
darkness, while the dull continued roar in that quarter, betokened
our immediate vicinity to breakers. They were in fact, close aboard.
Had they not been detected the instant they were, we should have
run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul. Happily we
had just room to wear. This had been done before we were
summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and
were endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore.
The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense,
for more terrible than death itself, which men experience when the
king of terror smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow.
As we gazed out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen
breakers on our starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous
roar as of hounds yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressible awe
stole upon our minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet
appalling. Who knew but that, before another hour, aye! before a
quarter of that time, our mangled bodies might be floating at the
mercy of the surge? Every moment deepened our anxiety, for
though our little craft breasted the waves with gallant determination,
sending the spray as high as her mast head at every plunge, yet
there was no perceptible increase in our distance from the shore.
Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The surge roared
under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the damned;
and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the
scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare,
and then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of
doom. At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling
in prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and
quivered in every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now
wallowed in the abyss. The men, grasping each a rope, looked
ominously at the scene around, or cast hurried glances aloft as if
fearful that our masts would not stand the strain.
“Hark!” said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “was not that a
gun?—there again?”
As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep,
and for several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder,
followed the same awful sound. We looked at each other.
“They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “God have mercy on
the sufferers! for man can afford them no help.”
I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succession of rapid, vivid
flashes of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for several
minutes, as with the light of day; and for the first time we caught a
glimpse of the rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was
breaking in a hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of
our own danger, it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager
gaze. About a cable’s length ahead, and a few points on our lee
bow, was a tall and gallant bark, dismantled and broached to, upon
a reef of jagged rocks, now buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay
high upon the ledge, and was crowded with unfortunate human
beings, men, women and children, over whom the surges broke
momentarily in cataracts. I hear now their wild despairing cries,
although years have passed since then. I see their outstretched
hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the cold chill,
freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my heart, as I
thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a few
moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a
deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The
tears were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his
tones were husky and full of emotion as he said,
“It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker.”
“It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears?—cheer up, man—it’s
not all over with us yet,” said I.
“Ah! sir, it’s not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what
my little ones, and their poor mother would do for bread to eat,
should I be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker.”
“God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your
emotions,” said I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to
conceal my own feelings. But as I did so, I felt something hot fall
upon my finger. It was the old man’s tear.
“We must give her another reef, I fear,” said the captain, as he
saw how fearfully the vessel strained, “no, no,” he added, as he
glanced again at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he
thundered, raising his voice, “keep her to it, quarter-master.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
We were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving
rapidly along, the dark waters sinking in foam beneath our lee as we
breasted the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same
with that of the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We
were in dangerous proximity to the dismantled ship; and the least
falling off would roll us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we
could weather the reef, should we still hold our own. At this moment
a ray of hope appeared. We perceived that the shore shelved in just
beyond the wreck, and that, if we could escape the ledge, our safety
would be ensured. The captain took in at a glance this new situation
of affairs, which, by holding out hope, redoubled every motive to
action.
“How bears she?” he anxiously inquired.
The man answered promptly.
 “Hard up—press her down more,” he shouted, and then
muttered, between his teeth “or we are lost.”
“She is almost shaking.”
“How does she bear?”
“A point more in the wind’s eye.”
“Harder yet, harder.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“How now?”
“Another point, sir.”
The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under
the enormous press of her canvass, the schooner groaned and
struggled against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony,
during which we held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries
of the sufferers upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but,
although the schooner staggered under the successive shocks, she
did not yield, and as the last billow sank away, whitening beneath
her lee, and we rose gallantly upon its crest, the rocky reef shot
away astern, and we were safe. As the wreck vanished in the gloom
behind, the cries of her despairing passengers came mingled with
the roar of the tempest, in awful distinctness, to our ears.
THE OUTLAW LOVER.
———
BY J. H. DANA.
———
 Chapter I.
Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?
Comus.

It was a summer afternoon, and the sunlight, glimmering

through the branches of the old oak trees, fell with a rich glow upon
the green sward beneath, lighting up the dark vistas of the forest,
and disclosing long avenues of stately trees, through which the deer
trotted in the distance, presenting altogether a picture of woodland
scenery such as the eye rarely beholds, when two females might
have been seen sauntering idly along, listening to the gay echoes of
their own voices as they conversed in those light-hearted tones,
which only youth and innocence employ. The foremost of the two,
by the stateliness of her mien, and the richness of her dress,
appeared to be of higher rank than her companion; and as she
turned occasionally to converse with her attendant, she disclosed
one of the most beautiful countenances that poet ever dreamed of,
or painter pictured. A noble contour; a snowy forehead; a finely
chiselled mouth; and a pair of dark lustrous eyes that shone like a
cloudless night into the gazer’s soul, made up a face of surpassing
loveliness. And as she conversed, each successive thought would
flash up into her countenance, making it, as it were, the mirror of
the pure soul beneath, and giving it an expression, such as the pen
would find it impossible to describe.
“Ruth! Ruth!” said this fair vision, suddenly pausing, “hear you
nothing—surely that was the cry of dogs—can we have wandered so
far from the lodge?”
The color faded from the attendant’s cheek as her mistress
ceased speaking, and the deep bay of approaching hounds floated
down the avenues of the forest.
“Let us fly—fly, dear lady,” said the terrified girl, “or the stag will
be upon us.”
 The words had scarcely left her mouth before a crashing was
heard in a neighboring thicket, and before the females could move
more than a few steps from their position, a huge antlered stag,
dripping with blood and foam, burst out of the copse, and made
toward them. The attendant shrieked, and clasping her mistress’
robe, stood unable to move. Had the maiden been equally paralysed,
their destruction would have been unavoidable. But in that moment
of peril, though the cheek of the lady Margaret became a trifle paler
than usual, her presence of mind did not desert her. Seizing her
attendant’s arm energetically, she dragged her toward a huge oak
behind them, whose giant trunk would afford a momentary barrier
against the infuriated animal. Had the lady Margaret been alone and
unencumbered, she would have succeeded in her endeavor, but her
nearly senseless companion so retarded her progress that the stag
had almost overtaken them while yet several paces from the tree.
Another instant and their fate would be sealed. But at that crisis she
heard a whizzing by her ear, and an arrow, sped by an unseen hand,
pierced the heart of the stag, who leaping madly forward with a last
effort, fell dead at her feet. At the same moment a light and active
form, arrayed in a dress of Lincoln green, sprang out from a
neighboring copse, and lifting his cap to the ladies, begged to
enquire after their affright, in a tone so courtly for one of his
apparent station, that Margaret involuntarily looked closer at the
stranger.
He was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with an open
and generous countenance, enlivened by one of those merry blue
eyes which were characteristic in those days, of the pure Saxon
blood of their possessor. A jaunty cap, with a long white feather
drooping over it, was set upon the stranger’s head; while a green
coat, made somewhat after the fashion of a hunting frock of the
present day, and crossed by a wide belt from which depended a
bugle, set off his graceful form. Altogether the intruder was as
gallant a looking forester as ever trod the greensward.
“The hounds are in full cry,” continued the stranger, without
shrinking at the scrutiny of the lady, “and will soon be upon us. Will
you suffer me to be your protector from this scene?”
The lady Margaret bowed, and pointing to her attendant, who
had now fainted, thanked their preserver for his offer, and signified
her willingness to accept it. The youth made no answer, but seizing
the prostrate maiden in his arms, he pointed to the copse from
which he had emerged, and hastily followed Margaret into it. The
branches, where they passed in their retreat, had scarcely ceased
vibrating, when the hounds dashed into the space they had left, and
in a moment after a gay train of hunters followed with horn and
halloo.
Meantime the young stranger, bearing the form of Ruth in his
arms, hastily traversed the forest, by paths that others could
scarcely have detected, until he reached the margin of an open
glade, at whose extremity stood a low-roofed lodge, such as was
then used for the residence of a keeper of the forest. Here the
stranger hesitated a moment, but finally perceiving that no one was
in sight, he pressed across the glade, and only paused when he had
deposited his now reviving burden on a cot in the lodge. The next
moment he turned to depart.
“May—may we know to whom we are indebted for this timely
aid?” faltered the lady Margaret, crimsoning as she spoke, with an
agitation of manner unusual to the high-bred heiress.
The youth hesitated a moment, looked wistfully at the maiden,
and seemed on the point of answering, when footsteps were heard
approaching. Hastily bowing to Margaret, he ejaculated,
“We may meet again, farewell!” and vanished from the portal. His
form disappeared in the forest as the keeper entered and saluted the
lady Margaret and his daughter.