GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. August, 1847. No. 2.

Table of Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^t. Martin, 61

Chapeaux de M^me. Penet, r. N^ve. S^t. Augustin, N^o. 4,

Plumes et fleurs de Chagot—Robes de M^me. Leymerie—Mantilles de Violard, r. Choiseul, 2^bis.

Mouchoirs de L. Chapron & Dubois, r. de la Paix, 7—Ombrelle de Lemaréchal, b^t. Montmartre, 17.

Graham’s Magazine.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. PHILADELPHIA, August, 1847. No. 2.

THE SLAVER.

A TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES.

———

BY A SON OF THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

———

(Continued from page 12.)

CHAPTER V.

All lost! To prayers, to prayers!

All lost!

. . . . . . . . .

He’ll be hanged yet;

Though every drop of water swear against it,

And gape at wid’st to glut him.

Tempest.

The next morning, at the appointed time, accompanied by a young Spaniard, as second, Willis was on the beach, where he found De Vere and his friend. The foes saluted each other with the most scrupulous politeness. Ten paces were measured as the distance, and they took their positions.

The signal was given, and both fired, but with unequal success; at the report De Vere sprung up, and then fell senseless at full length upon the sand; Willis was unharmed, and merely asking his opponent’s second if his friend wished another shot—to which, of course, he replied in the negative—he got into his boat, and without even looking at De Vere, pulled back to the harbor.

Anxious to get away from Havana as soon as possible, for, since his rencounter with De Vere, he was confident that Francisca must know his true character, or rather the character De Vere had falsely given him, and not desiring to meet her or her father, Willis made all possible dispatch to get through with his business; and in two days after the duel he was again at sea, and bound for Africa.

The cargo he would bring with him was engaged to a trader on the other side of the island, and he did not intend returning to Havana.

He had a quick and fortunate run over, and was four days out, on his return, with the best lot of negroes he had ever obtained, all grown men, strong and healthy, when he fell in with a sail.

He discovered it to be a large ship, to leeward of him some six or eight miles; he knew her to be a man-of-war, by the squareness of her yards, and who, as soon as she saw the Maraposa, took another pull at the lee-braces, and put her helm a little more a-lee; but she might as well have tried to sail in the teeth of a tornado as out-weather the schooner, though the accuracy with which she maintained her distance and position proved her to be a remarkably fast sailer. Willis had no fear of the ship overtaking him, and held on his course; day after day, for nearly a week, the two vessels were in the same relative position, almost on parallel lines, but between six and eight miles apart; both under all the sail they could carry. On the eighth day it fell dead calm, and both the ship and schooner lay motionless on the smooth water.

The scorching beams of an equatorial sun rendered the heat insufferable, even on deck; but in the hold of the slaver the heat and the stench were absolutely awful! and the poor negroes, nearly frantic, were continually shrieking for water and air.

Their cries brought them small relief. The attention of Willis and the crew was too much occupied by other matters, to pay any more attention to the blacks than see they were secure; for as soon as the wind died away, the ship had commenced getting out her boats. Already had Willis seen three of them lowered over, and he felt confident the captain of the sloop-of-war intended attacking him with the whole strength of his crew.

One! two! three! more boats he counted, as they swung an instant in the air, and then dropped in the water. Aided by his glass, he saw the men hurrying down the ship’s side to man them.

But he knew it was a work of time and labor to row eight miles in the intense heat, and it was not until he had seen the launch, four cutters, and even the gig, six boats in all, pull round the sloop’s bows, crowded with men, and forming a line, stretch out toward the Maraposa, that he commenced preparations to repel the attack.

The force approaching was formidable, nearly an hundred men, and the crew of the slaver, counting all hands, even Willis and the cook, was barely half the number.

The schooner, acting only on the defensive, and being so much higher out of the water than the boats, made this disparity in numbers less to be dreaded; and the confidence Willis had in his men, and they in him, made the slavers feel secure in the result of the approaching struggle; and it was with a loud and hearty shout that his crew answered, when Willis called —

“All hands to quarters!”

“Open the magazine! Trice up the boarding-nettings! and stand by, to give those English fools h—l! for meddling with what don’t concern them.”

These orders were soon obeyed, and the schooner with her six caronnades looking through the port-holes, double boarding-nettings triced up, and her desperate crew armed to the teeth, with calm, determined resolution printed on their countenances, quietly watching the coming foe, was the personification of men “grown old in desperate hardihood;” fortified with the determination of resisting to the death.

The line of black boats, with their long oars regularly rising and falling, resembled huge beetles, as they came across the glass-like sea; and in an hour and a half they were within a mile of the schooner. Shot after shot was fired at them from the long gun of the Maraposa, but unharmed they steadily approached to within the distance of a hundred yards, when, with a loud huzza, they formed abreast, the launch a little in advance, and made a dash at the schooner, with the intention of all boarding at once.

Then was heard the thunder of the three larboard caronnades, as they hurled forth their iron hail, and a yell of agony, and the sudden swamping of the launch and fourth cutter attested the deadly effect of the fire; but the other boats undaunted, before the guns could be again loaded, had reached the vessel, and, with shouts and hoarse huzzas, were trying to board her.

But the attempt was futile! with boarding-pike, cutlas point, and pistol shot, her hardy crew repulsed them. Again! and again! with the determined and dogged courage of English tars, they endeavored to get on deck, but the men of the slaver, cheered on by Willis, drove them back each time with loss, and the lieutenant in command of the expedition, fearing all his men would be lost, drew off. Another broadside from the schooner sunk one more of the boats, and pulling as quickly as possible out of the range of the slavers’ guns, with slow and feeble strokes, crest fallen, and deprived of half their boats and men, the attacking party proceeded toward their ship.

Ere they had accomplished a third of the distance, the ship was seen to square away her yards, and commenced moving through the water to meet them; the wind had sprung up again, but coming out from the south’ard, it brought the ship to windward, instead of to leeward, as she had been before the calm, and feeling its effects first, she was gathering way before the schooner felt it; soon however it reached the slaver, and with her sheets eased off, the Maraposa commenced merrily to continue her course.

Willis had only four men killed in the late action, and with his feelings elated at the severe repulse he had given the men-of-wars-men, whom he cordially hated for their incessant persecution of the slavers, and whose boasted philanthropy, the motive which they pretend actuates them, he was aware was only practiced for the effect it had upon the world, and not for any benefit the Africans derived; for he knew that the condition of the recaptured negroes, as English apprentices, was infinitely worse than as Spanish slaves; for in the one case they had all the horrors of slavery without the name or benefits, in the other the name without the horrors.

He was congratulating himself on his good fortune, and the prospect of making a safe and profitable voyage, when the current of his thoughts were changed by the appearance of a sail on his weather bow. The sloop lost time by heaving-to, to get in her boats, and was about ten miles astern; and the strange sail was some six miles ahead, standing to the northward and eastward, a course that would bring her exactly across the schooner’s track.

“Take the glass, Mateo,” said Willis, “and jump up on the fore-topsail yard, and see if you can make out that chap ahead; he may be only some merchantman after all.”

Mateo took the glass, and rapidly going aloft, sung out in a voice of surprise—“Soul of my mother! if it is not our old friend the Scorpion! who must have a new captain, for you left the other past service!”

Willis was at a loss how to act. If he kept on he would meet the Scorpion, and the sloop behind would soon be up, and then he would have them both on him, and the brig alone was more than a match for the Maraposa; eat them out of the wind he could not, for they were both to windward of him; to bear away dead before it was only the same thing as keeping on, for both vessels, spreading a great deal more canvas, would have outsailed him, going with the wind over the tafferel.

“Well, Mateo, what do you think of the prospect?” asked Willis of his mate, as he joined him on deck.

“Pretty squally, sir! we can’t run either way!”

“No! but we can keep on and fight!”

“Yes, sir! but if the brig wings us, and we can hardly expect to get off again with sound spars, we will only fall into the clutches of the sloop, even if we whip the brig.”

“Well,” said the captain, “we can’t do any better, and must make our wits help us. To begin with, set the Portuguese flag, and let each man arm himself with four pistols and a cutlas, and be ready to obey orders.”

The vessels were rapidly approaching one another, and the brig, getting within reach, fired. The ball struck in the water so close to the schooner as to cast the spray on her deck; but another shot coming through the bulwarks, and lodging in the heel of the bowsprit, Willis lowered his ensign, in token of submission; and putting his helm up, lay-to, by bringing the schooner in the wind.

When the ensign was lowered, the brig ceased firing; and getting within hailing distance, an officer on her forecastle, ordered the Maraposa to round-to under her lee-quarter.

“Ay, ay,” answered Willis, as he heard the order given on board the brig to back the main-topsail. Shoving his helm shear a-port, he brought the schooner directly athwart the brig’s weather bow. As soon as he heard the vessels grate, as they came in contact, he sung out, “Away, ye butterflies! away!” and springing up his own fore-rigging, leaped, cutlas in hand, down on the deck of the brig, followed by his whole crew, with the exception of two or three, who remained behind to take charge of the schooner.

The brig’s crew had not time to rally from the surprise of this unexpected and desperate onslaught; for the slavers rushed upon them with the ferocity and vindictiveness of bloodhounds. Discharging their pistols as they jumped on board, they threw them at the heads of their foes, with wild yells, and then, with boarding-axe and cutlas, they joined in the deadly encounter.

Surprised by the suddenness of Willis’s attack, and unprepared for it, the Englishmen gave back before the impetuosity of his first burst, and he was soon in possession of the forecastle; but, rallying in the gangways, the slaughter on both sides was immense—hand to hand, toe to toe, they fought; and as a man on either side fell, another stepped into his place.

The shouts and huzzas that resounded from both parties, at the commencement of the affray, had now died away, and the only sounds heard were the clink of steel, as their weapons came in contact, or the sullen, dead sound of a boarding-axe, as it crushed through a skull, and an occasional groan, uttered by some poor fellow in his death-agony. The termination of the conflict was doubtful, when the state of affairs was altered, by an event equally startling to both sides.

The negroes confined in the hold of the Maraposa, frantic from their confinement and suffering, and finding the crew had left her, succeeded in breaking their bonds, and rushed on deck, wild with delight at being loose, and burning for revenge, they threw overboard the few men left in charge of the schooner, and hearing the conflict on the brig, some sixty of them, armed with handspikes, iron belaying-pins, monkey-tails,[^[1]] and whatever they could pick up, came tumbling on board, and falling upon the rear of the slavers, with unearthly and savage noises, they threw them into great disorder, and created a diversion in favor of the man-of-war’s men, which they were not slow in taking advantage of, and with a loud hurrah, they charged over the Maraposas, and thought the day was already theirs; but the negroes, who had only attacked the slavers because they met them first as they came over the bow, knew no difference in the white men; and as the brig’s crew came within their reach, were assaulted as fiercely as the slavers; and not until every African had been slain, or forced overboard, was the brig once more in the possession of her own crew.

The Maraposa, after the men in charge of her were thrown overboard, had forged clear of the brig, and was now drifting about, sometimes with her sails full, and then all aback, some quarter of a mile off—the negroes dancing, jumping, and fighting on her deck like a drove of monkeys.

Willis, who, looking around when the slaves first fell upon his men to see what was the matter, had received a severe blow on the back of his head from a cutlas. His hat turning the edge, he was only stunned by the force of the blow, and gradually recovering his senses, he raised himself on his elbow. At first his mind wandered, and he did not recollect where he was; but soon the familiar faces of many of his own men, and the bodies of the English sailors who lay around him, covered with ghastly wounds, and stiff in the cold embrace of death; the groans of the wounded, as they were borne past him, on their way to the cockpit, recalled vividly to his imagination his melancholy situation.

Rising to his feet, and looking around, he found that, for the present at least, his position was nearly hopeless. Scarce half a dozen of his men had escaped with life, his vessel out of his reach, and he a prisoner to those from whom he did not expect civil treatment; then with the certainty, nearly, of the dangling noose, and foreyard-arm in the future.

A few months previous it would have caused the slaver’s captain not a moment’s uneasiness, had he been in even a greater strait. If the gallows-rope had been quivering over his head, its noose gaping to receive his neck, it would not then have caused a difference in his pulse, or a pang of sorrow in his heart—for he was then both brave and reckless; and knowing when he entered his present life that the penalty was death, he would but have thought the deal had been against him, the game lost, and he, of course, must pay the stake. For what is life worth without an aim—an object; living but to eat, drink, and toil. With nothing to look forward to in the future but a cessation from monotony, is worse than death. And Willis, driven from the field of honorable ambition, at enmity with his relations, and loving or beloved by no one, had little to fear from death or disgrace.

But now, his feelings were altered. Love, that all powerful passion, had brought about a change; not that he now feared death, but the manner of it; and the thought that the last Francisca would hear of him, as the condemned felon, who had paid the penalty of the law without even repenting of his course, was harrowing. And he had thought, too, that time, which brings about the most apparently improbable things, might so arrange events, that he would not always be the outcast he now was; and even in the dim future he had pictured to himself Francisca as being his.

It seemed, however, as if his course would now soon be run, and his hopes blighted; and, steeped in intense agony of mind, he was insensible to aught around, when he was aroused by a rough grasp on the shoulder, and a sailor asked if he was not the captain of the schooner.

He answered in the affirmative, and was told the captain of the brig wished to see him. Following the sailor, he was led to the cabin. Coming from the light of the sun, it was comparatively dark, and at first Willis did not observe that any one was in it; but becoming accustomed to the light, he discovered the figure of De Vere, pale and attenuated, lying on a sofa.

At first Willis was somewhat shocked; for he thought that De Vere had been killed in the duel, which belief was confirmed by not seeing him on deck during the fight; but knowing, now, that he had been only wounded, he quickly regained his look of quiet composure, and fixing his eye on De Vere’s, he stood silently before him.

A smile of gratified hatred was playing over De Vere’s white face; and the sight of Willis, knowing him to be completely in his power, seemed to afford him so much pleasure, that, gloating on him with a sparkling eye, he did not break the silence for some moments.

“You thought I was dead, did you, my noble captain?” he at last said, in a satyrical tone; “but you find I have life enough left yet to be at your hanging; and I have a mind, for fear I should not, to have you strung up now. Twice you have had the luck—the third time is mine.”

Willis deigned not an answer; and with a curled lip, expressive of his scorn, remained motionless.

For a short time the captain of the brig looked at him in silence, and then, apparently overcome by bodily fatigue, ordered Willis to be put in double irons, which being put upon him at once, he was carried on the berth-deck, and placed under the charge of a sentinel.

As soon as the wounded had been carried below, the brig sent a prize crew on board the captured slaver; and after a short struggle, they succeeded in reducing her negroes to submission.

By this time the ship that had been chasing the schooner, and whose boats had been repulsed in the morning, came up, and proved to be the Vixen, whose captain coming on board of the Scorpion, in consequence of Capt. De Vere’s inability to leave his cabin, and congratulated him on his good fortune in capturing the Maraposa, ordered him to proceed to Havana with the prize, and have her condemned, and her crew, or what remained of them, tried by the mixed commission;[^[2]] and leaving them to make the passage, we will return to where we left De Vere, on the beach, after his duel with Willis.

——

CHAPTER VI.

Jul. What villain, madam?

Lady Cap. That same villain, Romeo.

Jul. Villain and he are many miles asunder

God pardon him! I do, with all my heart:

And yet no man, like he, doth grieve my heart.

Romeo and Juliet.

When De Vere’s second picked him up, he was senseless; and his shirt, stained with blood on the left breast, made him think he had been shot through the heart. But the surgeon of the brig, who was in attendance, examined him more closely, and found that he had made a narrow escape; he was not mortally, but still dangerously wounded; the ball had struck directly over the heart, but taking a diagonal direction, it had passed out under his arm, without touching the seat of life.

Carefully raising him, they carried him to the boat, and supporting him on their knees, he was conveyed to his vessel, then at anchor in the harbor.

De Vere had promised to dine at Don Manuel’s the day of the duel; and the old gentleman, surprised at his absence—for he had always been most punctual in keeping his appointments there—sent a servant down to the brig to see if the captain was unwell.

The man came hurrying back with a long, exaggerated report of the affair, and said that “Captain De Vere had been shot by a notorious slave captain; and was dying, if not already dead.”

Alarmed at this information, the old gentleman went at once to see De Vere; and finding he was only badly wounded, by the consent of the physician, had him removed from the brig to his own house.

So occupied was Don Velasquez with attending on the sick captain, that for a day or two he neglected to call on “Brewster,” though he was constantly endeavoring to think of some method by which he could express the gratitude he felt for the preservation of his beloved daughter; and he wondered why “Brewster” had not again been to the house.

On the third day, however, his sense of duty not permitting him longer to neglect one to whom he was under such great obligations, he went out to see the captain of the schooner, and was surprised to find the vessel had left the port.

Feeling vexed and mortified with himself that he had not more promptly called upon “Brewster;” and believing his unceremonious departure was occasioned by his own lack of proper attentions, he returned home, and told his daughters of the disappointment he had met.

Clara, whose pride was hurt, that one to whom the family were indebted had been permitted thus to depart, with the obligation unrequited, freely expressed her sorrow. Francisca said very little, nothing more than was absolutely necessary, but felt far, far more than either of them.

Pleased by the favorable impression Willis had made upon Clara, and knowing that her father would naturally feel kindly toward one who had rendered her such valuable service, she had been permitting herself to indulge in pleasant visions of the future, in which she saw every thing “couleur de rose,” and a happy consummation to her heart’s passion.

These bright day-dreams were now all dispelled; and with a sad heart she retired to the privacy of her chamber, to mourn over her hard lot; for she thought “if Brewster had cared any thing for me, he would at least have said, adieu, before leaving, perhaps for ever.”

De Vere, knowing the obligations Don Velasquez was under to Willis, had, from a gentlemanly feeling, refrained from telling him that Captain “Brewster, of the Portuguese navy,” was no other than Willis, the notorious slaver, and the person who had so nearly killed him; but when the old gentleman told him of “Brewster’s” sudden departure, he apparently suffered so much from mortification and self reproach, that De Vere thought it would relieve his mind to know the true character of the person in whom he took so much interest; he therefore told him, giving Willis, not his true character, but the false one public report had fastened upon him.

Don Manuel listened to this narrative with varying emotions. At first he could not credit it, so much was Willis’s appearance, manners, and air distingué, at variance with his calling; but De Vere insisted upon the correctness of his statement, and then the Don was sorry, that one fitted to move in so much more elevated a sphere, had no higher ambition or aim.

Upon the whole, however, Don Velasquez’s wounded self-esteem was soothed; for though the obligation was in reality the same as before, believing, now, that Willis’s mind must necessarily be sordid and base, he thought money would liquidate the debt, and he would still have an opportunity of acknowledging it. In the other case, with a high-minded and gentlemanly man, as he had supposed him to be, courtesies and attentions were the only return he could have made; and to do this he had lost the opportunity.

Soothing his feelings, therefore, by resolving handsomely to reward Willis, if ever he had the opportunity, he determined to give himself no further trouble about the matter.

Clara, when she learned that “Brewster” had shot De Vere, and was a negro trader, was loud in her reproaches; and calling him many hard names, wondered how he had the impudence to enter the house of a gentleman, and congratulated her sister upon her lucky escape, after being in the power of such a wretch.

Poor Francisca, when she first heard the intelligence, felt as if her heart had been shocked by an earthquake; for it seemed as if an insurmountable barrier had now been raised between her and Willis.

True to her woman’s heart, she still loved him as much as ever, and would not believe the reports to his detriment. She thought of him but as she had known and seen him—kind, gentle, and noble; and that if he was a slaver, it was not his own choice, but the result of some dire necessity; and each time she heard De Vere or her sister berate him, though it deeply wounded her, it only made the remembrance of him more dear; for she felt the slanders were false. Silently, however, she bore her sorrows; for, fearing to increase her sister’s animosity, she never took the part of Willis when his name was slurred.

The old duenna was the only one that stood out openly for the defamed Willis; she stoutly declared “that Brewster, or Willis, slaver, or man-of-war, she did not care which, he was the handsomest, the most gentlemanly, and the kindest man she had ever seen; and if ever she was in danger, she hoped he might be near to protect her; and that it was a shame for them thus to run him down behind his back, when he saved Señorita Francisca’s life, to say nothing of her own.”

Balm it was to Francisca, to hear the old lady thus give utterance to the thoughts she did not dare to speak; and in her daily orisons, regularly did she supplicate the Virgin to protect the slaver’s captain, and keep him in safety.

Captain De Vere’s wound, by assiduous nursing, did not prove fatal; but his anxiety to be revenged on Willis was so great, that before he was able to leave his couch, and against the advice and entreaties of Don Manuel, Clara, and the physician, he insisted upon joining his vessel, and going to sea, with the hope of capturing the Maraposa on her return passage.

The result of his cruise has already been given in the preceding chapter.

——

CHAPTER VII

Be not afraid!

’Tis but a pang, and then a thrill,

A fever fit, and then a chill,

And then an end of human ill;

For thou art dead.

Scott’s Lay of Louise.

The Scorpion and her prize had arrived safely in Havana. Willis, heavily manacled, was brought on deck, where, joined by the small remnant of his crew, amongst whom he was glad to discover the face of Mateo, though its symmetry had been spoiled by a cutlas-cut, extending from under his right eye to the left corner of his mouth, entirely severing the end of his nose. The captain of the Maraposa was kept a few moments waiting, and then, under a strong guard, they were all carried to the Moro Castle, and lodged in its dungeons, were left to await their trial.

Mateo and the rest of the men were put in a cell together, Willis, for greater security, had been confined in a strong apartment alone.

It was the first time the slaver had ever been in prison, and the close, dank air, the gloom, the high, dull, cold, stone walls, the heavy fetters upon his limbs, the entire lack of any thing external to distract his thoughts from his situation, all together, produced a feeling of depression he had never known before.

Thus was he four days, with naught to while away the time but his own thoughts, and they brought any thing but comfort to his mind, for the past scenes of a misspent life were constantly presenting themselves with the vividness of a panorama.

His early youth, when a good and gentle boy he had listened to the kind admonitions of his excellent mother; then the loss of his sweet parent, throwing him amongst selfish and careless relations; his first steps in vice; then his desire to repent and reform; the cold looks and want of sympathy with which he had been met; and bitterly cursing the want of charity that had been so parsimonious of kindness, when a few soothing words would have established him in the road to rectitude, he looked at the darker deeds of the few last years, and the end to which they would soon bring him.

Harassed by such painful reflections, it was a relief when the jailor came to conduct him to trial, though he knew that with him the road would be short from the tribunal to the gallows.

He felt that his fate was sealed; he had mortified De Vere so much, by dismantling his vessel and killing so many of his men, besides wounding him in the duel, that he knew the Englishman’s influence would prevent his being treated with the least leniency, and that the utmost penalty of the law would be exacted. He lacked also that powerful friend, gold. Aware of the uncertain tenure one in his profession had of life, he squandered the immense sums he made as he got them, and he had not been allowed an opportunity of obtaining aid from his associates.

It was with a mind conscious of the worst, and prepared to bear it, that with a calm, determined countenance, and collected air, he was confronted with his judges.

The indictment was read, and the presiding judge asked him if he was “Guilty, or not guilty?”

“Guilty I am!” said Willis, “as who that hears me is not? but, that I am more worthy of condemnation than even you, my judges, or than the accuser, I deny! ’Tis true, I have been guilty of bringing negroes from Africa to this island. But wherein am I thereby more guilty than you? Do you not eagerly buy them as soon as landed; and so hold out the temptation to bring them? ’Tis also true, that on the high sea I did, with force and death, resist ‘her Britannic Majesty’s vessel.’ Were moral right to prevail for once, her captain would be in my situation; for by his intervention the slaves that I would have brought here, to live in comfort to a good old age, will now be condemned to hard and short lives, as apprentices, in Brazil. But what avails my talking! My life, I know, is forfeited! and I will not degrade myself by making useless efforts to save it.”

The counts in the indictment were all sustained. After a short consultation, he was adjudged to die. And standing up to hear his sentence, he found he was to be hung, the day after the morrow, to the fore-yard of his own vessel. He then was carried back to his dungeon.

After the captain had been sentenced, the rest of the crew were brought up for trial; but being all men of little notoriety, and pleading their necessity to obey the commands of Willis, and that when they had joined the Maraposa they did not know she was a slaver, they were all pardoned except Mateo, who was compelled to pay a fine.

De Vere, after the trial, returned home exultingly; the man that had caused him to be laughed at by the whole squadron, the one who had nearly killed him, and again came within an ace of capturing his brig, was about to be punished.

Clara was likewise glad to hear of Willis’s fate, for she hated him for wounding her betrothed.

But Don Manuel learned the result of the trial with sadness; he had tried to prevail upon De Vere not to prosecute, but the Englishman said it was impossible; his sense of justice, his oath and honor as an officer, all, he contended, compelled him to have the law enforced; he had even made an effort to influence the court, but found De Vere’s influence governed them all; he had not, however, given up all hope yet.

Well was it for the secret of Francisca’s heart that the sentence of Willis was conveyed to her in her own chamber, by the faithful duenna, for as soon as she heard the awful news she sunk senseless on the floor; swoon succeeded swoon for some time, but recovering, in a degree, her composure, her eye brightened and her cheek flushed, as if some happy idea had flashed across her mind, and leaving the room she sought her father.

It was the night after the day of the trial, the bells of the many churches had just ceased chiming ten, when the silence that reigned in the slaver’s cell was broken by the sound of a key grating in the lock of his door.

Surprised at having a visiter at so unusual an hour, Willis turned to see why he was disturbed, and was astonished to discover, as the door opened, by the light in the hands of the jailor, who remained in the passage, a female figure, closely enveloped in the folds of a large mantilla, glide into his dungeon. When within a few feet of Willis, the lady paused, and, save the convulsive motion of her breast, stood for a moment motionless. Then, slowly dropping the mantilla from about her face, she revealed to the startled gaze of the prisoner the features of Francisca, not as he had seen them, but pale as death, and thin, as if she had lately been very ill.

Willis was about to speak, but raising her finger as a sign for him to be silent, she said —

“Time is precious, Captain Willis, waste it not in inquiries or conjectures of the cause of my being here, but believe that I am deeply grateful for the life I owe you, and am desirous of repaying it in kind. Every exertion has been made without success by my father to procure your pardon, but my efforts have been more blessed. In two hours the turnkey, who has been bribed, will let you out; proceed to the nearest quay, where you will find all that is left of your crew, waiting for you in a boat; take them to your schooner, which is at anchor in the same place she was when you were brought here; the few men in charge of her have also been bought; and then to make your way out safely will have to depend upon yourself.”

Again Willis endeavored to speak, and express his thanks, but Francisca motioned him to hush.

“One moment more, and I must be gone. In this package,” she handed him a small bundle, apparently of paper, “you will find that which will be useful to you, if you get to sea. And praying that the blessed Virgin will protect you, I wish you God speed.”

She turned, and was going, but Willis seized her hand for an instant, and imprinting upon it a kiss, said, in a voice tremulous with emotion,

“The gratitude I feel, lady, after years shall prove;” and letting her hand go she vanished, and the door shutting, Willis was again in the dark.

Had it not been for the palpable evidence of the package, still in his hand, he would have thought the interview had been a dream; as it was, he could hardly convince himself it was aught else. So sudden had been the entrance of Francisca, she had looked so much an angel, so quickly vanished, that the two hours had elapsed before he was really certain he had not been only blest by a vision.

But the noiseless entry of the turnkey established the fact of mortal agency. And his fetters being unlocked, he once more was comparatively free. With deep feelings of gratitude and love toward Francisca, for her noble conduct, he left his cell, and in silence followed the unechoing steps of his former jailor, through many long passages and winding ways that led at last to a small private door, built in the outer wall, opening toward the harbor.

Here Willis paused, to bid his conductor good-night, and thank him. But the man said his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase if he were found there in the morning, and he had been paid well enough to leave his situation, and that if el Señor Capitan had no objection, he would go with him.

Willis of course could not have refused; but he had no such intention; and knowing the sparseness of his crew, was very glad thus to obtain another able-bodied man.

Much pleased at the captain’s ready acquiescence, the obliging turnkey locked the door on the outside, and put the key in his pocket, saying he never liked to part with old friends, and it might be of use to him again.

Quietly continuing their way, Willis and his quondam jailor walked out to the extremity of the nearest quay, where, in a boat laying close in the shadow of the wharf, he found Mateo and the remnant of his former crew. Brief, but cordial, were the greetings that passed between the slavers and their recovered captain, who, telling them how much he was indebted to his companion, stepped with him into the boat.

The night was dark; thick clouds of misty vapor obscuring the light of the stars; and every thing seemed to be slumbering; even the “alerto sentinelo” of the guards on the castle, and in the city, as it broke the silence, had a sleepy sound; and the safety with which the boat shoved off and pulled into the basin proved they were not very wide awake.

The tall masts of the Maraposa were dimly seen by Willis, as his boat, slowly and with muffled oars, made toward her, and the ebb tide was running out with all its force by the time he was alongside.

“Who comes there?” some one hailed, in a stifled voice, from the schooner, as the bow of the boat slightly touched her side.

“Friends!” was Willis’s reply, and with the celerity and noiseless tread of Indian warriors, he and his boat’s crew transferred themselves to the deck of the schooner.

As the foot of Willis once more pressed his own quarter-deck he seemed a new being, and felt as if he were already safe, but a glance at the dark pile of the Moro, and the black hull of the Scorpion, just visible in the haze behind him, reminded him of the dangers still to be overcome.

“Silently! silently, men! on your lives!” he whispered; “put the helm hard a-port, one of you! and, Mateo, forward and slip the cable.”

With the silence of men who knew their lives depended on their quietness, but with the dispatch engendered by long habit, his orders were obeyed, and the schooner forced from her anchor, swung round with the tide and began to drift toward the sea.

Not a word was spoken, or a foot moved; had the vessel been unmanned, until the castle had been passed, she could not have been more silent; unchallenged she floated on.

So excited and alert were the organs of her men, however, that when Willis ordered them to hoist away the jib, though speaking in a low tone, it caused them all to start. The jib greatly increased the Maraposa’s way through the water; and as soon as he thought it would not excite the attention of the sentinels at the castle, he hoisted his main-sail and fore-sail, loosing his square-sails quietly, the yards rose to their places, and in half an hour more the gallant schooner, under all sail, was standing out to sea. With a wild huzza, the crew gave vent to their feelings, and Willis, rejoiced to be again at liberty, and in safety, could not help joining them.

Upon examining the state of his vessel, which he did at once, he was gratified to find every thing undisturbed in the hold—all the provisions and water were still in her—the powder had not even been removed from the magazine, and the only things missing were the schooner’s papers.

His crew, indeed, instead of numbering fifty men, as it had, now only mustered ten beside himself—Mateo, and his six companions, with the two men who had been in charge of the Maraposa, and the turnkey. Though too few to fight with, they were amply sufficient to manage the vessel.

The course he intended ultimately to pursue Willis had not yet decided. The first and most imperative object was to get beyond the reach of pursuit; and leaving Mateo in charge of the deck, with directions to steer to the eastward, and to call him if he saw a sail, he descended to the cabin, to reflect on the eventful changes of the last few hours, and think about his future line of conduct.

The first thing that attracted his attention, when he entered the cabin, was a small, strong wooden box, well secured with cords, setting on the table. Never having seen it before, and curious to know why it was so carefully fastened, he approached the table, and with surprise discovered the box was directed to “Captain Willis, of the Maraposa.” Hastily undoing the rope that bound it, and lifting the lid, he found the box full of Spanish doubloons, and a note, likewise endorsed with his name, lying on the top of them. Opening it, he read —

“Sir,—Having in vain endeavored to find some other method by which I could testify the gratitude I feel to the preserver of my beloved Francisca, I hope you will accept of the enclosed contents, as a slight evidence of the obligation I feel; and sincerely desiring it may prove useful, I have the honor to be,

“Very respectfully,

“Manuel Velasquez.”

Willis was mortified to think the old Spaniard believed he was actuated by any hope of gain when he saved Francisca; and had he been able, would at once have returned him the money. But, situated as he now was, to return it at once was impossible. So, replacing the cover on the box, and putting it in his chest, he took from his breast the package given him by Francisca in the dungeon, which his constant occupation had prevented him as yet from examining.

Undoing the wrapper, he found the bundle contained nothing but Portuguese papers, regularly authenticated for a vessel exactly of the size and build of the Maraposa. In vain he looked amongst their folds, and on them, for a note, or even a line, from the fair donor, but nothing of the kind was to be seen; and disappointed, he scarce knew why, for he had not the slightest reason to expect any thing of the kind, he sat down by the cabin table, and with his face buried in his hands, the following thoughts, reflections, and resolutions, passed through his mind.

For some time the image of Francisca usurped his thoughts. He felt confident she took a more tender interest in his welfare than she had expressed; for there is a species of clairvoyance in love, that enables one to see things that are meant to be hidden; and though gratitude had been assigned as the cause of her efforts in delivering him from death, he believed it was only an excuse, and his heart warmed with love as he thought of her. With the long frozen springs of his better feelings thus thawed by tender sentiments, the kind and impressive lessons of virtue that had been inculcated by his departed mother, and which had been allowed to slumber in forgetfulness for many years, now all distinctly and forcibly presented themselves; and the hardened slaver, the stern man, shed bitter tears, as he thought of the happy days of his youth, and the slight regard he had paid to the teachings of his once dearly loved parent.

It seemed as if a veil had been removed from his sight; and he now saw, in all its deformity, his present course of life, and the desire became strong within him to reform. He now had an object to strive for—the possession of Francisca’s love.

But how was he to begin? All he possessed in the world was his vessel, and the money on board of Don Manuel’s. He could not hope to win the consent of the proud Spaniard, even if his daughter was willing, while he was poor. He knew no profession but that of ploughing the deep; and as merchant captain, who would employ him?

A short time longer he sat, and then rising, spoke aloud. “I cannot reform yet; one more voyage I must make—one more voyage in the slave-trade. I will use the old Spaniard’s money to buy a new cargo, sell it, and repay his doubloons; and with the capital remaining I will begin a new and honorable career, and win, spite of all opposition, the hand of Francisca.”

——

CHAPTER VIII.

Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited!

I am no spy, and neither are we traitors.

Byron.

On the following morning the sentinel on the forecastle of the Scorpion was the first one who discovered the disappearance of the captured slaver. Looking in the direction the schooner had been the evening before, he missed her. As it was hardly light, he thought the fog must have hidden the vessel; but it cleared away, and still nothing was to be seen of her. Rubbing his eyes, to be sure he was awake, he took a long and careful survey of the harbor, but without finding any traces of the object of his search, and hastening to the officer of the deck, he reported the news of the Maraposa’s departure.

The officer of the deck, equally astonished, hastened to let the first lieutenant know of the strange event; for they were all concerned in the loss of the schooner, as the price she would have sold for was to be divided amongst the brig’s crew as prize money.

He had a boat called away, and getting into it, was rowed over to the castle, to see if he could hear any thing of the missing vessel there; but instead of getting information, found the whole garrison in a state of excitement at the unaccountable events of the night—Willis and the turnkey having just been missed.

As soon as the lieutenant of the brig learned of Willis’s escape, he very readily and truly conjectured the whereabouts of the schooner; and knowing it would be useless to seek her in the harbor, went ashore to inform his captain that Willis and the Maraposa had both again escaped, and were probably on their way back to the coast.

This intelligence, like that of the trial, affected the members of Don Manuel’s family differently. De Vere was very angry, and would have gone to sea at once, and chased Willis to Africa; but Clara made him promise he would not go more than fifty or sixty miles; and if he did not meet him, then to return, as it was not to be very long ere their nuptial day. De Vere agreed to gratify his lady love; and after taking a short cruise, returned without having seen any thing of the Maraposa.

Clara comforted him on his return, by telling him Willis would live to be hung yet, a notion that the old duenna vigorously opposed, and contended that “the handsome captain of the slaver would die in his bed, in spite of all the navy officers on the station;” for, for some reason, the members of the R. N. were no favorites with the old lady. Don Manuel was more than pleased to hear of Willis’s escape, and expressed a hope that the warning he had received might be the means of reforming him.

But Francisca was overjoyed, and did nothing but offer up thanks to the Virgin the remainder of the day; and she also prayed fervently that Willis might embrace some less dangerous and more honorable pursuit.

De Vere, feeling assured that Willis had escaped by the agency of some one in the city or castle, and anxious to have them punished, made every exertion to discover who they were. He had some suspicion of Don Manuel; but all his efforts to get any clue from the Spaniard were unsuccessful.

He complained to the Governor-General of the Island, and had all the garrison of the castle, from the commander down, rigorously examined. But it was all of no avail; the only person who could be charged with conniving at Willis’s escape, or in any way aiding him, was the jailor who had him in charge; and their efforts to retake him proved as futile as to find the captain.

De Vere could comfort himself in no other way, and therefore made a mental resolve to hang Willis at once, if he ever was so fortunate as to get possession of him again, and leave him no chance for another escape.

——

CHAPTER IX.

Lord! how they did blaspheme!

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack’d,

Drinking salt water like a mountain stream,

Tearing and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing,

And with hyena laughter, died despairing.

Byron.

In the last chapter but one, we left Willis on his way once more to the coast of Africa. We will now join him, as he is about starting back for Cuba, with a cargo of negroes, purchased with the money Don Manuel had sent him.

His crew being too small to do any thing more than navigate the schooner; and having been unable, on the coast, to increase their number, he had, prior to taking in his cargo, dismounted his guns, and stowed them, with their carriages, in the hold, under the ballast.

This change of weight he now found altered much and greatly retarded the schooner’s speed; but it was now too late to make any alterations; and it was with greater anxiety than he had ever felt on any former voyage that he looked out for men-of-war. He could neither fight, nor confidently trust to his vessel’s speed; and he was particularly anxious to get in safely with this, if he could land them, his last cargo of Africans.

The schooner was within ten days of making land, and had not seen a vessel. All hands were congratulating themselves on their good fortune, when, far astern, and to windward, a sail was discovered just on the verge of the horizon. It did not appear larger than a speck, and to any but most practiced eyes, would have been invisible. Had the Maraposa been in her usual trim, they never would have had a clearer view of the stranger; but now, to Willis’s mortification, the distant vessel gradually became visible; first the royals were seen, then her topgallant-sails, and in three hours they could even make out the head of her courses; enough to confirm the feet of her being a man-of-war, and she gaining rapidly on the schooner.

Though in consequence of the Maraposa’s being so much smaller, it was not probable that the stranger had yet observed her, but was only steering in the same direction. But Willis knew that if he had not yet been seen, if the distance was still lessened, he could not escape, and it behooved him to increase his speed by all means, and avoid being chased. Captured he had sworn never again to be, let the consequences be what they might.

How to accelerate the Maraposa’s way was a question of some difficulty. Already was every stitch of canvas that would draw, and some that did not, set; and there was nothing on deck he could throw over to lighten his vessel, except his anchor and cable; as the other had been left in the harbor at Havana, she had but one; the guns he could not get at, covered as they were by the ballast and provisions in the hold; and feeling uncertain how to act, he called his mate to him to get his opinion.

“Well, Mateo, this is the squalliest prospect we have ever had, and the first time we could neither fight or run. What do you think we had better do? That fellow astern will be down on us before night, unless we can get along faster.”

“Why, sir, the only way we can make the Butterfly fly faster, is by taking some of the load off of her; and there is only two ways we can do that—and it will have to be done quickly to be of any avail—for that chap astern is coming along as if he carried a tornado with him.”

“What can we start over to lighten her?” asked Willis.

“Why nothing but the niggers, or the water—either of them would do it. Those ten pipes of water, if they were overboard, would let the schooner along as she used to go; but without the water the niggers would die. So that I think, sir, we had better heave over half the niggers, and half of the water.”

This the mate said with as much nonchalance as if he had been recommending the drowning of a score of hogs; for he had been engaged in the slave-trade for many years, and had learned to regard negroes, not as human beings, but as he would any other species of merchandize with which the vessel might be loaded. And as to his thinking it murder, or a sin to kill a “woolly-head,” as he called them, it never entered his mind, and he would have jerked the whole lot overboard, had it been necessary for his own safety, with as little compunction as he would so much old junk.

But Willis’s mind had been too much under the influence of better feelings, for the last few weeks, to think of drowning in cold blood, one hundred and fifty mortals, if they were black, to save his own life; he therefore resumed the conversation with Mateo by saying, —

“I know it will be a chance if we don’t lose all the negroes if we start over the water, but I cannot think of drowning the poor devils; so they will have to take their chance of dying with thirst, and you must start over all the water but one pipe.”

The water was in large pipes, some lashed amid-ships, abaft the fore-mast, some on the quarter-deck, and a couple on the forecastle. The casks being unlashed, and the bungs turned down, soon emptied themselves of their contents, and the schooner sprung forward as if she felt the relief, and was soon speeding along at her old rate of sailing, which by the next morning had left the strange sail so far astern that she was out of sight.

Though he had succeeded in eluding pursuit, Willis’s troubles still came thick upon him. The cask of water that had been left was the one from which they had already used, and it was found to have not more than sixty gallons of water in it to last over three hundred men ten days, in the heat of the tropics.

Willis called up his crew and proposed dividing it out equally amongst all hands, negroes and all, and then there would have been hardly a gill a day for each man, but enough to sustain life. The men would not hearken to him, swore they were not going to be put on such short allowance for the sake of the d—d niggers; and said if there was not enough to go round, to throw the blackbirds into the sea.

Willis, by persuasion, at last succeeded in getting his men to agree to be allowanced to half a pint of water per diem, and let him portion the rest out to the negroes as he chose. This he did impartially, as far as it went; but the quantity was so small that the slaves, confined as they were constantly in the hold, on account of the smallness of the crew, could not exist upon it—and the hold of the slaver became a perfect pandemonium. Daily the poor Africans were attacked with brain fever, and, perfectly crazy, would shout, yell, cry, sing, and shuffle about as well as their fetters would permit, until they were relieved by death; and so many died each day, that the whole crew were kept busy getting them out of the hold, and heaving them into the ocean. Ere land was made, the last of the three hundred were dead; and Willis, putting into the first bay he came to on the coast to re-water, was worse off than when he started for Africa, having made nothing, and spent all the money given him by Don Manuel, and which he wished to repay.

His hopes of being able to quit the traffic, which was now becoming odious to him, were thus deferred; for the money he had used, and which he was most anxious to refund, was an additional argument in his mind for taking another voyage to the coast; and hoping it would prove more profitable, and enable him to quit the trade then forever, he made sail again, and running into the same river in which we first found the Maraposa, he left her there, in the charge of Mateo, and disguising himself, for fear of being recognized by De Vere, Don Manuel, or Francisca, he proceeded by land to Havana, for the purpose of increasing his crew, and obtaining funds from some of his friends to enable him to get another cargo.

In a few days he had been able, by constant exertion, to enlist from amongst the numerous desperadoes that are ever to be found in Havana, forty new men, nearly all good sailors. The bravery and skill of Willis being well known amongst the merchants who were engaged in the slave-trade, he found no difficulty in borrowing from them the amount of money he wanted, on the security of the cargo he was going to bring.

The day he was to leave Havana, Willis was strolling along the streets, and accidentally came in sight of the Cathedral. Before the entrance were numerous carriages drawn up, the splendor of the equipages, and the bridal favors with which the servants and horses were decked, were evidence that the nuptial knot was being tied in the church between some of the magnates of the city; and having nothing else to engage his attention, Willis walked in to witness the ceremony.

Entering the spacious temple, he saw in front of the high altar, a large and brilliant group of elegantly attired gentlemen, and magnificently dressed ladies, in attendance on the couple whom the priest was just in the act of joining together.

From the door, the air and figures of the principal persons seemed familiar to him. Keeping in the shade of the pillars that ran along the side aisle, he approached nearer, and discovered in the bride and bridegroom, Clara and De Vere. He gave them but a glance, for just behind them, and leaning on the arm of her father, he saw Francisca.

Lovely she looked—more lovely than he had ever seen her; but the brilliancy of her glorious black eye contrasted strangely with the deathly pallor of her cheek, and her thoughts seemed far away from the scene before her; and Willis, during the ceremony, intently watching her, hoped the next time they met before the altar, it might be to claim her as his bride, and wondered if that distracted air with which Francisca regarded the passing event was at all occasioned by thoughts of him.

Clara was beautiful—proudly, haughtily beautiful; and a smile of gratified pride lighted her face as she surveyed the surrounding throng, and felt herself the most brilliant and beautiful of the group. De Vere seemed proud of his haughty beauty, and Don Manuel appeared perfectly contented, and felt assured that he was consulting his daughter’s happiness by consenting to her marriage with the Englishman.

Willis had not, however, wasted a glance on them; concealed by the column near which he was standing, he had feasted his eyes on Francisca; and when, after the benediction, the party moved away, he still continued to gaze on the spot where she had been. The noise made by their carriages, as they rolled away, aroused him, and he left the church.

Gathering up his new men at nightfall, he returned to his vessel, to which he had already sent provisions. Hard all that night did they work, getting up and remounting the guns; and the next morning, as the Maraposa went to sea, she was again the same looking craft that she was when we first saw her leaving the cove, both beautiful and dangerous, with her guns all ready for use, and a large crew to handle them; and leaving her to make her last voyage to the coast, in the capacity of a slaver, let us rejoin De Vere and his new bride.

[Conclusion in our next.

LINOLEE.

———

BY JOHN WILFORD OVERALL.

———

She always seemed, I know not why,

Too beautiful and bright,

For aught but yon pure golden sky,

And heaven’s fairest light.

Oh! one would think, to see her smile,

She was a sinless thing,

And slept the night, nay, all the while,

Beneath an angel’s wing.

The sky bent down to kiss the hill,

That girt her cottage home,

And laughingly the silver rill

Stole through the leafy loam;

And Tempe, with its dreamy vale,

Its sunny stream and grot,

And balmy flower-scented gale,

Was ne’er a sweeter spot.

Here first she taught me how to love,

And dream of woman’s eyes;

Here first I turned from things above,

To passion’s paradise.

There came an hour when we should part—

How dark that hour to me—

She dwells a picture in my heart,

My lost, loved Linolee.

We laid her in a summer tomb,

And wept that spirit fled,

Where honeysuckle blossoms bloom,

The lily hangs its head;

And at the midnight’s dreary hour,

They watch by that sweet earth,

And weep for her, a sister flower,

Who loved them from their birth.

CORA NEILL,

OR LOVE’S OBSTACLES.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the delighted Mons. Lunoyer.

“Beautiful! exquisitely graceful!” repeated the young ladies that filled the dancing room, as Therese Wilson, a fine looking girl of fourteen or fifteen, went through a fashionable dance with Harry Belton, a handsome youth near the same age. It was the “practicing afternoon” of the young ladies belonging to Madame Chalon’s fashionable boarding-school—and a pretty sight was Mons. Lunoyer’s rooms on those afternoons. Stylish-looking girls of all ages, from the dainty little miss, just lisping her French phrases, up to the dashing school-belle, just on the eve of making her entrée into “society,” panting for the heart-conquests her imagination pictured forth in her future. And right lucky were those youths, who, having sisters, or sweet pets of cousins at the school, were permitted by Madame Chalon to take part in these practicings—a privilege which caused many an envious thought to their less favored school-fellows.

At the close of the dance the beautiful Therese approached her young companions, with cheeks glowing, and young heart beating high with gratified pride. What more could her girlish ambition desire? Harry Belton, the favorite beau of the school, stood by her, fanning her, and saying a thousand pretty things, while the young ladies, her class-mates, looked on. The dance had been performed with grace and beauty; and every one in the room expressed aloud their admiration.

“See, Therese,” said a little girl, anxious to attract the attention of the envied school-belle, “see what wonders your lovely dancing has performed; the little cry-baby creole, Cora Neill, has quite forgotten her tears; and her nurse, Rita, will tell you she has done nothing but weep since she left her father’s plantation up to this moment.”

Therese shook back her curls carelessly, without deigning to notice the compliment intended to be conveyed; but Harry Belton instantly turned his eyes toward the poor little Cora. The child was, indeed, lost in admiration. She leaned her tiny form against her black nurse, while her large, dark eyes, swollen with incessant weeping, flashed brightly, as they met the boy’s inquiring gaze. She seized his hand with childish earnestness, and exclaimed in Spanish, “Ah venga danza vmd. conmigo?” “Ah, come, dance with me,” and raising herself, her little feet went quickly over the first movements of the dance. The young girls surrounding Therese, seeing her smile contemptuously, laughed aloud at what they called the child’s presumption. Poor Cora stopped suddenly as she heard their laughter, then, with a burst of passionate tears, she hid her little head on her nurse’s shoulder. The indignant nurse poured out in a breath, soothings to her darling, and invectives upon the young ladies.

“Poor child!” said Harry. “You must not be so angry. Pray, stop weeping—do you not know you are to be my little dancing partner? Come, Cora, show these doubting young ladies how well you can dance.”

Although the child could hardly understand his imperfect Spanish, still she gathered sufficient from his tone of voice to know that he intended kindness. Gradually he succeeded in persuading her to leave nurse Rita’s shoulder, and obtaining permission from the dancing-master, he gave orders to the musicians to repeat the dance. At the introduction of the air, little Cora’s eyes flashed, and she seemed to forget all cause of discontent and sorrow. The dance proceeded, and those who had looked on at first from mere curiosity, found themselves applauding quite as much as they had a little while before the graceful execution of Therese. The floating, airy figure of the child, gave her a sylph-like appearance; and as she entered into the spirit of the dance, her dark cheeks glowed, and full lips seemed still redder; and then her bright eyes beamed forth such a childish lovingness in the concluding waltz movement, that quite bewitched them all. Mons. Lunoyer complimented her, and the young ladies pronounced her a “little love.”

“And who taught you to dance so prettily, Cora?” asked Harry.

The large eyes of the child again filled with tears, for the question carried her childish memory back to her island home, and the happy days when her mother, now no longer living, had taken delight in teaching her graceful child the dances she herself excelled in. Her sobbings commenced anew, and with agonizing exclamations she begged her dear Rita to take her to her own guerida madre. Harry assisted the nurse in soothing the unhappy little creature, while the rest of the school joined in the concluding dance. After it was finished, the attendant governess gave the signal for departure. The little weeping Cora clung to her nurse as her only friend.

“Adios mi queridita Cora,” said Harry, as he stooped down his tall, graceful, though boyish form, and looked affectionately into her dark eyes. She brightened as she saw his kind, brotherly look, and with bewitching naïveté held up her pretty, cherry lips to kiss him. The boy blushingly caressed her, and drove away his confusion by teaching her to call him in English her “dear brother Harry,” telling her she should be his own querida hermana. His kind words comforted her, and with the happy forgetfulness of childhood, she laughed aloud merrily, as she repeated after him, “dear brother Harry;” then, after caressing adieus to her adopted brother, she accompanied Rita and the governess to her new home, happier than she had been since her mother’s death.

Cora Neill was the daughter of an Irish gentleman who had resided at Havana for many years. There he had married a young and lovely girl belonging to one of the resident Spanish families. Many beautiful children had his gentle wife borne him, but one after another had bowed their little heads like drooping blossoms, and had been laid in the grave. At last the little Cora alone remained to them—the idol of both mother and father. Scarcely had she passed the age of infancy, when her beautiful mother’s cheeks glowed with a hectic flush, and her eyes burned with unnatural lustre. Poor Cora was but eight years of age when her mother was laid down to rest beside her other children. A year or two passed, and the bereaved father endeavored to soothe his grief in the caresses of his daughter. At last, when he reflected how unable he was to give her those advantages of education she needed, he resolved, though with a severe struggle, to part with her for a few years, and accordingly sent her to Madame Chalon’s establishment in one of the large Atlantic cities of the United States. She had only arrived a few days previous to the dancing lesson, and her poor little aching heart had throbbed with intense agony when she found herself surrounded by strangers. True, she had her black nurse, Rita, with her, and in the old woman’s nursery soothings she sometimes forgot her troubles; but there were moments when even the good old nurse failed to quiet her, and the poor little Cora refused to be comforted. But from the day when Harry plighted to her his brotherly faith, the school-home seemed more bearable. All in the establishment became interested in the little West Indian, and she seemed in a fair way to be spoiled; even the vain Therese was seen to caress her. The dancing reunions, as they came around weekly, were bright suns in her existence; for then she met again with Harry, and again renewed their brother and sister troth. Two or three years floated sunnily by, when her first unhappiness was caused by Harry’s receiving a summons from his Southern home. They parted at Mons. Dunoyer’s rooms on one of the practicing reunions, where they had first met. All the girls, and even the assistant governesses sympathized with little Cora; and she was permitted to converse apart with him at this sad time.

“Do not forget me, Cora,” said the boy, as he affectionately wound his arm around the tearful girl. “When I grow to be a man, I will visit your beautiful island, and you shall introduce your brother Harry to his sister Cora’s father.”

With renewed protestations of constancy the children parted.

Madame Chalon’s fine house was brilliantly lighted; carriages were rolling to and from the door; the sound of gay music could be heard by the passers-by; and from the large balconied windows of the drawing-rooms might be seen, group after group of gayly dressed women, and distingué looking men in the promenade. The elegant and courteous lady of the mansion was receiving her dear five hundred friends at one of her annual balls, given to introduce the young ladies who had finished the course of studies at her school into general society. Delighted and satisfied, she moved quietly and smilingly through her rooms, receiving her friends, and superintending her young élèves. Every thing was as it should be—the most fastidious could not fail to be satisfied, either as they looked at the tasteful decorations of the rooms, the entertainment, the music, or the guests; therefore, knowing all this, Madame Chalon’s heart was at rest. Of her young ladies who were at this season making their entrée into the fashionable world under her auspices, Cora Neill created the greatest sensation; and even in such an assemblage of beauty as was here on this night, she was universally admitted to be the belle of the room. Years had rolled by since she had first entered the school—years, which had changed her into a beautiful, accomplished woman. Her docility of disposition, her winning manners, and quickness of intellect, had endeared her to the governesses and pupils; and her approaching departure from the school, which was to take place in a few months, at the close of the season, was looked forward to by them with great regret.

Cora had just finished a dance, when Madame Chalon came up to her, leaning on the arm of a gentleman.

“Allow me, my dear,” she said, “to recall to your memory a friend of your little girlhood. He was too timid to trust to your recollection. I need not call him Mr. Belton—you already remember him, I am sure, although the years that have passed since you met, have changed you both.”

The rich color mounted to Cora’s cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with pleasure as, with a frank expression of joyful greeting, she extended her hand to her old playmate. They had not met since Harry had been summoned home, years before, to attend the death-bed of his mother. Shortly after that sad event he had entered the navy, and had passed from boyhood to manhood. He often thought of the little West Indian, Cora Neill. Her sweet winning ways would come before him in his lonely night-watches, and her graceful, floating form would be recalled to his memory, when in southern climes he would bear through the voluptuous waltz some brilliant maiden. But only as little Cora had he thought of her; and when he saw her at Madame Chalon’s ball, so dazzlingly beautiful, instead of renewing instantly, as was his intention, their old friendship, he hesitated, and at last called on the Madame to present him; but Cora’s frank manner threw aside all reserve, and they were in a little while waltzing and talking, as they had years before at Mons. Dunoyer’s reunions. The following day found him a visiter at the Madame’s; and as his sisters had been favorite pupils of hers, he was greeted with a pleasant welcome.

It was Cora’s first winter in society, and under Madame Chalon’s chaperonage she frequented all the gay resorts of the fashionable world. Beautiful, and a reputed heiress, of course, she was a belle; but prominent amongst her admirers was the young lieutenant. It was not long before they made the mutual discovery of their love for each other—and they both yielded themselves without reflection to this first love. They dreamed only of happiness, and fondly imagined no clouds could hang over their future. Madame Chalon was finally consulted by both, and she enclosed in a letter of her own, Harry Belton’s application for Cora’s hand to Mr. Neill. The hours floated joyously by, and Cora thought life increased in beauty daily, when all her rosy dreams were dispelled, and she rendered miserable by the receipt of three letters from her father. One contained a brief, polite dismissal to Mr. Belton. The second was a civil acknowledgment to Madame Chalon for her kind care of his daughter for so many years, and a request that she should prepare Cora to accompany some West India friends, then traveling in the United States, who, in the following month, were to return to Cuba, and would take charge of her. The third was a letter to Cora—not a severe, upbraiding one, but one filled with sorrowful lovingness and fatherly entreaties. He pictured his solitary life since her mother’s death; how earnestly he had devoted himself to business, that he might accumulate enough to lavish freely on her, his only one, every luxury, when she should be old enough to take her mother’s place. He described the day-dreams he had indulged of an old age that was to be cheered by his only child.

“I know, my own idolized girl,” he wrote, at the conclusion of his letter, “that I am submitting myself to the imputation of selfishness; but when you reflect upon my past desolate life, and my future, you will pardon, I am sure, this selfishness. I am an old man, Cora; I need kindness, nursing, and love—I pine for a daughter’s care. Many years, have elapsed since your blessed mother’s death; and I might have, with propriety, married again, in order to guard against a lonely old age. Regard for her memory, and for your future prospects, Cora, have deterred me from taking this step. I have submitted willingly to the penance of a solitary life, when I reflected it was for the mental benefit of my daughter, comforting my weary hours by looking forward to the period when we should be again united. Your letters, heretofore, have been filled with affection for me, and a similar desire for this reunion. Come to me, my Cora—come to your old solitary father, who needs your society. Let not a stranger usurp my place in the heart of my only, my idolized child.”

Cora shed bitter tears on reading this letter, but her heart was filled with sad reproaches. Her memory reverted to the days of her childhood, when her mother and father watched over her with fondness. She recalled the agonizing moments that followed her mother’s death, when no one was permitted to approach her father but herself. She remembered the intense look of devotion with which he used always to regard her; and then she thought of the solitary, unhappy years that he must have passed while she, with the unthinking spirit of youth, had been seeking happiness for herself, independent of the kind, old, forsaken father, who had no one on earth to love but her. In vain were Harry’s entreaties, or Madame Chalon’s proffers of assistance and interference. She resolved, though with a sad, aching heart, to renounce all expectation of ever marrying Harry, and made preparations for her departure.

“Give me some period to look forward to, Cora,” was her lover’s last entreaty.

“I cannot, Harry,” she replied, “henceforth I belong only to my father; I never shall marry so long as he lives.”

“And will you forget me?” exclaimed her lover, passionately.

Tears of reproach started to Cora’s eyes as he asked this angry question, but she refrained from assurances to the contrary. “Forget me, dear Harry,” she said, so soon as she had mastered her emotion. “It will be better for us both; my duty lies in a different path from yours; my heart should go hand in hand with duty.”

Prudent and cold were her words, and the lover would have felt wounded, had he not seen her swollen eyes, cheeks flushed with weeping, and whole frame agitated with emotion. They parted, and in a few weeks she had bidden adieu to her kind teacher and friends, and was on the broad ocean, each day lessening the distance between her and her island home. As the hour of meeting with her father approached, her heart sunk within her, and she could scarcely restrain her emotion; but the sight of his sad face beaming with fatherly gratification, and the broken words of welcome with which he greeted her, completely over-powered her, and she threw herself upon his bosom with a burst of self-reproaching tears. He soothed her, and with loving words expressed his gratitude to her for having thought of his happiness in preference to her own.

“If you value my peace of mind, dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you must never allude to the past—in the future you will find me, I trust, all you can wish. I have no other desire than that of making you happy.”

Cora’s home was a luxurious though a solitary one. Her father had purchased a fine plantation, where, surrounded by slaves, she scarcely ever met with any society. With the families of some neighboring planters she occasionally mingled, but from preference both her father and herself preferred seclusion. The most rare and costly specimens of art surrounded her. Her father had spared no expense in preparing the house for her reception. He had employed a trusty friend in Europe to purchase every luxury, and she found her drawing-rooms, music-room, conservatory, boudoir, and bed-room fitted up in the most exquisite and elegant style.

“You are a person of perfect taste, dear papa,” she said. “Every thing I see around me gives evidence of the most refined and cultivated mind.”