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Read Ebook: Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 3 September 1848 by Various Conrad Robert Taylor Editor Graham George R Editor
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Ebook has 414 lines and 35104 words, and 9 pages
"Take this pistol with you also."
"But why?" inquired Julia, with a woman's instinctive dread of such weapons.
"O, I don't mean you should shoot any body, but if the boat drifts a little out of the brig's course, you might not be able to make yourself heard on her deck."
"True, true."
"The night is so still that a pistol-shot would be heard at a good distance."
"O, yes, I see it all now; I was so anxious to escape from this terrible ship that I thought of nothing else; and there is poor John."
"You must not think of him--it will be no worse for him if you go, no better if you remain. Here, take the lantern--say nothing as you hand it to the man at the tiller, but do as I told you."
Pressing the hand of Florette, Julia mounted to the deck with a painfully beating heart, but with a firm step. She handed the lantern to the steersman, who received it surlily, growling some rough oath, half to himself, at her delay, and leaning upon the tiller, proceeded to relight the binnacle-lamp. Julia fell back cautiously, and in another moment the light form of Florette filled her place.
"I was very careless, Diego," said she.
"Yes," replied he, gruffly.
"Well, I will be more careful next time."
"You'd better."
Julia, during the short time of this conversation, had disappeared over the stern, and as the vessel was sailing before a steady wind, found little difficulty in sliding down the painter into the yawl. She could hardly suppress an exclamation when a moment afterward she found the ship rapidly gliding away from her, and leaving her alone upon the waters in so frail a support. Her situation was, indeed, one that might well appall any of her sex. To a sailor it would already have been one of entire safety, but to her it seemed as if every succeding wave would sink the little boat as it gracefully rose and fell upon their swell; but seating herself by the tiller, she managed to guide its motions, and with a calm reliance upon that God whose supporting arm she knew to be as much around her, when alone in the wide waste of waters, as when beside her own hearth-stone, in quiet and happy England, she patiently awaited the issue of her bold adventure.
She had but a short time to wait when she perceived the dark outlines of the Raker bearing directly down upon her. As it approached it seemed as if it would run directly over her boat, and excited by the fear of the moment, and the anxiety to be heard, she gave a louder shriek than she supposed herself capable of uttering, and at the same time fired off her pistol.
Both were heard on board the Raker.
"Man overboard!" shouted the look-out.
"Woman overboard, you lubber," said a brother tar; "didn't you hear that screech?"
"Hard a port!"
"Hard a port 'tis."
"Right under the lee bow."
"Well, pitch over a rope whoever it is. What does this mean?" said Lieutenant Morris, as he approached the bows.
"Can't say, sir--some deviltry of the pirates, I reckon, to make us lose way."
The rope, skillfully thrown by the young lieutenant, struck directly at the feet of Julia. With much presence of mind she gave it several turns around one of the oar-locks, and her boat was immediately hauled up to the side of the brig, without compelling the latter to slacken sail.
In another moment she was lifted to the deck of the Raker.
"Julia! thank Heaven!" exclaimed her father.
With a cry of joy she fainted in his arms, and was borne below, where she speedily recovered, and related the manner of her escape from the pirate.
All admired the courage of the attempt, and Lieutenant Morris, as he gazed upon the lovely countenance, which returning sensation was restoring to all its wonted bloom and beauty, one day of intense sorrow having left but slight traces upon it, he felt emotions to which he had hitherto been an entire stranger, and sought the deck with a flushed brow and animated eye, wondering at the vision of beauty which had risen, like Cytherea, from the sea.
When Mary's brother went to sea, He lingered near the door, Beside the old, familiar tree, He ne'er had left before,
And though gay boyhood loves to seek New regions where to tread, A pearl-drop glittered on his cheek As tenderly he said--
"The gentle dove I reared with care, Sister, I leave to thee, And let it thy protection share When I am far at sea."
Whene'er for Willy's loss she grieved, His darling she caressed, That from her hand its food received, Or nestled in her breast;
And sometimes, at the twilight dim, When blossoms bow to sleep, She thought it murmuring asked for him Whose home was on the deep.
And if her mother's smile of joy Was lost in anxious thought, As memories of her sailor-boy Some gathering tempest wrought,
She showed his pet, the cooing dove, Perched on her sheltering arm, And felt how innocence and love Can rising wo disarm.
When summer decked the leafy bowers, And pranked the russet plain, She bore his cage where breathing flowers Inspired a tuneful strain;
And now and then, through open door, Indulged a wish to roam, Though soon, the brief excursion o'er, The wanderer sought its home.
She laughed to see it brush the dew From bough and budding spray. And deemed its snow-white plumage grew More beauteous, day by day.
The rose of June was in its flush, And 'neath the fragrant shade Of her own fullest, fairest bush The favorite's house was staid,
While roving, bird-like, here and there, Amid her flow'rets dear, She culled a nosegay, rich and rare, A mother's heart to cheer.
A shriek! A flutter! Swift as thought Her startled footstep flew, But full of horror was the sight That met her eager view--
Her treasure in a murderer's jaws! One of that feline race Whose wily looks and velvet paws Conceal their purpose base.
And scarce the victim's gushing breast Heaved with one feeble breath, Though raised to hers, its glance exprest Affection even in death.
Oh, stricken child! though future years May frown with heavier shade, When woman's lot of love and tears Is on thy spirit laid--
Yet never can a wilder cry Thy heart-wrung anguish prove Than when before thy swimming eye Expired that wounded dove.
FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION.
A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE.
For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, dark and tall. Who enters by such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.--WALTER SCOTT.
It would be wonderful, were it not of daily occurrence, and to be observed by all who give attention to the characteristics of the human mind, how quickly confidence, even when shaken to its very foundations, and almost obliterated, springs up again, and recovers all its strength in the bosoms of the young of either sex.
Let but a few more years pass over the heart, and when once broken, if it be only by a slight suspicion, or a half unreal cause, it will scarce revive again in a life-time; nor then, unless proofs the strongest and most unquestionable can be adduced to overpower the doubts which have well-nigh annihilated it.
In early youth, however, before long contact with the world has blunted the susceptibilities, and hardened the sympathies of the soul, before the constant experience of the treachery, the coldness, the ingratitude of men has given birth to universal doubt and general distrust, the shadow vanishes as soon as the cloud which cast it is withdrawn, and the sufferer again believes, alas! too often, only to be again deceived.
Thus it was with St. Renan, who a few minutes before had given up even the last hope, who had ceased, as he thought, to believe even in the possibility of faith or honor among men, of constancy, or purity, or truth in women, no sooner saw his Melanie, whom he knew to be the wife of another, solitary and in tears, no sooner felt her inanimate form reclining on his bosom, than he was prepared to believe any thing, rather than believe her false.
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