“There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”
“Maurice stay and go with me to the ball at Mrs. Wilson’s this evening,” said a fairy formed creature with eyes that sparkled with anticipated delight, as she rested her hand upon a young naval officer’s arm and gazed upon his manly features.
“Mary, dearest Mary,” replied the young man in a hesitating manner. “The stage will leave here at eleven to-night, and if I miss it I shall lose my only chance of reaching my Frigate. She is under sailing orders—and will be off in the twinkling of a marline spike, and there’s glory to be won and——”
“A seaman’s sepulchre—” said the lovely girl, as the tears started into her eyes and glittered like tiny pearls upon her long dark eye-lashes.
“But Maurice, you can go at eleven and accompany me to the ball beside. The last evening you spend at Belleview should be spent with your friends.”
The young man hesitated no longer. “Mary,” said he, “you have conquered, I will accompany you to Mrs. Wilson’s and leave at eleven—I shall then bear with me your last impression; and when the tempest howls and the billows toss their snowy spray around me, when the never wearied Petril sings in the hollows of ocean astern, and the thunder awakes the echo of the deep—then while the good ship scuds along her lightning way, will I recall this evening of light and beauty, and with my dread-nought wrapped about me, keep my midnight watch, happier far, than the lazy commodore who snores in a velvet night-cap in his luxurious cabin.”
“Well, Maurice, you have finished at last,” said the laughing girl leaning upon his arm, “I never expected to hear the end of your rhapsody when you commenced—but come let us go in for I have much to do and the evening approaches.” The young man returned her animated glance with a gaze of deep devotion and following her, entered the house from the garden Verandah. There was no one in the drawing-room when Maurice Fitzgerald and Mary Howard entered.
“Maurice,” said the young maiden as she pointed out upon the ocean, and then turned to a table of magazines and annuals, “Nature and art are placed before you, and I shall leave you to be amused by them until my father’s return.” Thus saying, the light hearted girl bounded away to dress for the coming rout. Fitzgerald answered with a smile and then turned to gaze upon the prospect that spread out before his uncle’s mansion. The broad Atlantic was seen for several miles rolling in the crimson light of the setting sun, and the hollow roar of its distant breakers burst upon his ear. The sea-birds in forked trains were seen winging their garrulous flight toward the land, and the successful fishermen were casting their scaly spoil upon the beach. It was a quiet evening, notwithstanding the wind in cat’s paws ruffled the surface of the deep, and wailed sadly amid the branches of the elm trees that lined the avenue in front of the mansion.
As Fitzgerald gazed upon the scene he thought of his lovely cousin and then of the glorious profession that he had chosen. The eye of the mariner loves the ocean. His ear delights in its hollow murmurs, its lashing surges, its misty shadows, and its constant motion. He feels that the land is not for him and that his home is on the deep, deep sea. He sickens in the forest. He grows weary upon the mountain side, the fairest valley smiles in vain for him, and the babbling river but carries him away to that mightier deep whose ebb and flood surrounds the world. The very air—the scent of the sea is far more pleasant to him than the spicy breezes that sigh o’er India’s isles, and the stout ship with its tar and rope-yarn, its salt junk, called by sea-men mahogany, and its duff puddings that defy the tooth of time, is far more agreeable to him than the altar’d palace of an eastern prince with tables crushing beneath the weight of costly viands and richest wines. No one can appreciate the beauty and majesty of the heavens but him who has been shut out from every other prospect for days and weeks together. How beautiful it is to lean upon the taffrail in a moonlight night upon an eastern sea while the sails of the gallant ship from sky to water are gently filled by the dying Levanter, and watch the broad bright moon as she travels up the high way of heaven and sheds a brighter lustre upon the stars. Then the eye penetrates, aye even into the deep blue space beyond her and as when gazing upon the calm bosom of the middle ocean sees naught but mysterious shadowings—a waving curtain of eternal blue.
The topsails of a ship now flashed upon the edge of the horizon, the quick eye of Fitzgerald soon discovered her to be a vessel of war. He watched her with intense interest, and as she approached the land the sun went down to his rest in the deep.