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VOLUME I. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
P© E T Y □ |
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
THE SUMMER'S GONE!
The Summer’s gone—and every flower
That waved its beauties to the sun.
Has bloomed its brief, but lovely hour,
And shed its fragrance, and is gone.
The Summer’s gone—and many a hope
That budded with the early Spring,
Has seen its blossoms brightly ope
To wither like a blighted thing !
The Summer's gone—and many an eye
That brightly shone, in tears are shrouded,
And hearts that loved us withered lie,
Or worse than this, by coldness cloudtd!
The Summer's gone—hut soon again,
Shall blush and breathe upon the air,
The enamored flower, and paint the glen.
Cut those 1 love will not be there !
JJJ_J
SUDDEN AND SHARP DOOM.
BY JOHN INMAN.
It is hut seldom, of late years, that the
community is startled by an account of pi
racy in waters adjacent to lands of civiliza
tion” ; and still more seldom tlmt the alarm
such accounts are fitted toawaken, is height
ened to horror by details of cruelty and
bloodshed. But there was a time, within
the memory even of the present generation,
when tales of frightful atrocities, commit
ted on hoard vessels navigating to and from
the West Indies, were of very frequent oc
currence; arid such were the numbers and
audacity of the hucaniers infesting the vici
nity of those islands, that the governments
both of the United States and Great Britain
deemed it necessary to employ squadrons of
small vessels, adapted in size and speed and
armament to this peculiar service, for the
protection of their commerce and the des
truction of the marauders. The latter most
desirable object was in time effected, many
piratical vessels being captured, and fearful
numbers of the felons put to death, either
in combat or by the gallows ; but while the
evil was yet existing, deeds of enormity
were committed, of which in some instances
the details became known, while in many
others they could only be conjectured, so
frightful as almost to transcend belief—to
excite a doubt whether a process could in
deed exist so tremendous as to establish
such affinity between the natures of man
and demon. Such I would not horrify my
readers by describing ; hut one case of pi
racy, remarkable in its details, and most un
expected in its termination, has appeared to
me sufficiently interesting to deserve, with
out being so dreadful as not to bear, narra
tion.
A good ship had taken her departure from
the island of St. Croix, for New Yoik.—
She had on hoard a large sum of money in
gold, and two passengers; one a young man
of eighteen or nineteen, returning from a
winter’s residence upon the island, for the
sake of health, the other a lovely hoy of
seven, the child of the captain. Its mother
had died at West End, of consumption, hav
ing sought refuge from that fell destroyer of
youth and beauty at too late a stage of its
attack; and the captain was taking home
this his only child, intending to place it in
the care of its dead mother’s parents.
This captain was a son of New England;
still a young man, but eminently skilful in
his profession, and even more remarkable
for his moral than his professional excellence.
Modest in speech and deportment, he was
yet a man of consummate bravery, of in
domitable firmness, and of. a conscientious
ness not often exhibited either on sea or
land. He hud heard of recent piracies, al
though as yet they had not become so fre
quent as in the progress of the next year or
two, and when lie left port it was with con
siderable anxiety on account of his child,
and still more so on account of the treasure
shipped on board his vessel, because it was
not his own. His uneasiness had augment
ed by the fact that his ship was neither arm
ed nor strongly manned, as, when he left
the United States, no cause for alarm of the
kind had been known or apprehended.—
Nevertheless, trusting in Providence and
the good ship, and taking the precaution to
conceal the gold wheie it would scarcely be
found by any uninstructed seeker, he set
sail, not with a light heart certainly, but with
a steady and unflinching spirit. „
I have no skill in nautical description,
and therefore shall not attempt a nautical
account of wbat was said and done on board
the Resolution during the first two or three
days of her voyage ; only it is to bo remark
ed that the wind she had was light, frequent
ly dying away into a perfect calm, and that
her progress from the locality of apprehend
ed danger was so slow as to increase in no
light measure the anxieties of the captain ;
nor were these at all alleviated by the ru
mors that reached him from the forecastle,
of a bucanier who had given liis name a
terrible notoriety by acts of excessive daring
and cruelty, recently committed in the im
mediate vicinity of the very latitude and
longitude to which he found himself churn
ed as it were, day after day. The name
homo by this scourge of the seas—real or
assumed—was Morgan; and brief as had
& JFamtlg JLetosimpev: Srfcotctt to Hitcrature, atartculturc, JHertuuifcs, I39urTt(ou, jFoveteti ana Somtsttc StUtlUarftce, Kt .
been his career, it had already been signal
yzed, according to the stories current among
the crew of the Resolution, by exhibitions
of cold blooded ferocity never exceeded
and not often equalled even by pirates. His
vessel, a large but swift sailing schooner,
was said to be strongly armed and manned;
but there was one among the crew, so said
report, whose character and conduct were
specially dwelt upon as combining the ele
ments of wonder and of horror. He was
said to he of gigantic stature and hideous
appearance, and the possessor of enormous
strength, which, however, he never exerted
in working the Vessel, but only in conflict
where resistance was attempted. But the
most extraordinary and revolting tale con
cerning him was that his was the hand al
ways employed in putting to death the un
happy captives whom Morgan’s policy or
cruelty refused to spare; and that in his
horrible office of executioner he displayed
a savage enjoyment not less inconceivable
than frightful. He was known, the sailors
said, by the title of Jack Ketch, bestowed
on him as descriptive of his peculiar em
ployment, and originating in the deep ab
horrence with which sailors universally re
gard the professional hangman, who in Eng
land has been known as Jack Ketch from
time immorial.
The third day of the voyage was well
advanced, a good breeze had sprung up,
and Captain Fowler was congratulating
himself on his escape thus far and the in
creasing probability of ultimate safety, wdicn
a sail was descried, just rising above the
horizon. Soon it w r as made out to be a
schooner, and rapidly approaching. Cap
tain Fowler could not conceal his uneasi
ness, ami ordered every rag of canvass to
he crowded on his vessel; the stranger
might he an honest wayfarer of the ocean,
but he might also be the fearless Morgan.
It was soon apparent however, that the
schooner had the most speed, and the wind
favoring her as much as it did the ship, the
latter was sure to be overtaken. The only
hope that remained, therefore, was in the
peaceful and honest character of the pur
suer; and this hope disappeared when, as
the schooner hove full in sight, she was seen
to be large though extremely sharp, with
tall and raking masts, and an extraordina
ry spread of sail, black ns night in the hull,
her decks crowded with men, and that she
had no flag flying. Captain Fowler looked
round upon his scanty crew and with a groan
abandoned the idea of resistance ; and when
the pirate, for that such she was could not
be doubted, fired a shotted gun over him,
with the calmness of despair he ordered the
ship hove to, and prepared for his fate.
There were degrees of horror to he ex
pected in the encounter of pirates; and
Captain Fowler with his passengers and
crew, endeavored to find some consolation
in the hope that their captor was not the
dreaded Morgan. But this hope soon van
ished when a large boat from the schooner
full of armed men, drew near the ship, and
it was seen that the forward oar was pulied
by a man whose height and huge propor
tions left little room to doubt that he was
the “ Jack Ketch” of whom report had
spoken ; and suspicicion was changed into
certainty when the boat came alongside, and
this same giant stepped on board, followed
by a middle size compactly built man of
about forty, with light hair and smooth but
sunburnt face, whom, with what seemed a
mocking courtesy, he introduced as “ Cap
tain Morgan.”
There was nothing terrific or even for
midable in the aspect of the dreaded free
booter. His features were rather common
place than otherwise, both in form and ex
pression ; he was plainly dressed, and had
about his person no weapons, not even a
cutlass or a dirk. It was noticed, however,
that his orders to his men as they took pos
session of the ship’s deck were brief, and
uttered in that quiet tone of authority which
bespeaks the habit of command ; and noth
ing could exceed the promptness with which
they were obeyed. Not a man of the fif
teen or twenty whom be had brought with
him spoke or moved except as he command
ed ; each man took in silence the station
assigned by him; and Captain Fowler be
gan to cherish a hope that after searching
the ship and taking such portions of the
cargo as might suit his fancy, Morgan would
let them go unharmed, and hut little worse
for the encounter. The gold he was sure
could not he found, and he felt quite confi
dent that the fact of its being on hoard was
unknown to all except himself and the
merchant from whom lie had received it.
There was one exception to the orderly
and disciplined conduct of the pirate ciew ;
and this was in the demeanor of the huge
fellow recognized by the captives as the
Jack Ketch of the pirate schooner. It seem
ed he was not included in the brief but effi
cient orders of Morgan ; for he wandered
about the ship’s deck, paying no attention
to the proceedings of his captain or his
comrads, and finally seated himself upon
the windlass, where he amused himself with
balancing one of the capstan bars upon the
tip of his forefinger, as if utterly uncons
cious of the purpose for which he had come
on hoard, or of the business then in pro
gress.
Notwithstanding their anxiety and alarm,
Captain Fowler and his passenger could not
help watching this fellow with curious inter
est ; and they found it very difficult to re
concile his appearance and deportment with
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 5, 1842.
the horrid office ascribed to him by rumor.
His size and apparent strength were indeed
enormous. In height he was about six feet
and a half; of immense breadth in the
shoulders, long armed, and slender in the
waist; hut the expression of his face was
that of good nature, and there was an inde
cision in his movements, and a something in
his physiognomy, which awakened the sus
picion that his intellect was feeble. And
this suspicion was correct.
Silly Sam—for that was the name he bore
among the pirates—was indeed an idiot;
and instead of filling the sanguinary office
ascribed to him, he was, in truth, one of the
most harmless and kind hearted of human
beings. His real name, bis origin and his
tory were unknown ; it was believed, how
ever, that he was of English birth, and there
was some vague tale of cruelty exercised
upon him in his childhood which had un
settled liis reason. His enormous strength
and his willingness to labor made him ex
tremely useful on board of Morgan’s vessel,
although he would take part in no engage
ment ; and as he never required wages, or
a share of plunder, seeming perfectly con
tent with the food and clothing that were pro
vided for him; and as he was ready moreover,
at any time to do the work of any body that
asked, he was a universal favorite among
his fellows. To none of them, however,
nor to Morgan himself, did he acem to have
any personal attachment. The schooner
was his home—the only one he knew*—and
on board the schooner he remained, indif
ferent alike to the companions he found
there, and the business in which he was em
ployed. The stern discipline maintained
by Morgan forbade the attempt of any to
play off upon Silly Sam those annoyances
and petty torments to which his feebleness
of mind would have exposed him in such a
crew ; and even had it been otherwise, his
great personal strength, equal to a success
ful contest with half a dozen of his fellows,
would have made them cautious how they
provoked him to anger. Such was Silly
Sam—the terrible Jack Ketch of Morgan’s
rover, by report, but in reality one of the
most innocent and inoffensive creatures that
ever breathed the air.
But to return from this digression. As
soon as Morgan had so stationed his men as
to lake complete possession of the ship,
and satisfied himself that there was neither
the means nor the purpose of resistance, lie
turned to Captain Fowler, and touching his
hat with a cool courtesy that contrasted
strangely enough with liis proceedings, beg
ged permission to examine his manifest. It
was produced, and running his eyes over it,
lie marked with a pencil such articles of the
cargo us he thought proper to appropriate.
The crew of the ship and some half dozen
of the pirates, among whom was Silly Sam,
were set at work getting np the selected
eases from the hold, and into the boat fiorri
the schooner; and in the meantime Morgan
invited himself into the cabin, where he drew
Upon the captain’s hospitality for a glass of
wine and some other slight refreshments.—
His manner was polite but distant, very much
like what one might suppose that a post cap
tain in the navy would he, while making a
visit of inspection to a merchantman sus
pected of having on hoard goods contraband
of war. It was well fitted, however, to dis
sipate the alarm and anxiety of Captain
Fowler, who became every moment more
confident that the pirate would be satisfied
with the plunder he had designated, and
that when all this had been removed into
the boat, his unwelcome visiter would take
liis departure without any display of cruel
ty, satisfied that lie had got all there was on
board the ship worth taking. He even be
gan to accuse himself of injustice for be
lieving the stories he had heard of Morgan’s
cold blooded ferocity; and to look upon
him as quite a generous and gentlemanly
personage—for a pirate—altliough he could
not repress a feeling of uneasiness, a vague
emotion of terror, when his guest began to
fondle the boy—the blooming Edward—
and, taking him upon his kriee, twined his
fingers among the curling ringlets of that
dear head which the anxious father had so
often pillowed upon his own bosom, and
which his departed Mary had hallowed with
a blessing in the last moment of her exis
tence.
Still not a word was uttered, not an inti
mation of any kind was given, that seemed
to justify apprehension ; and when word
was passed below that the transfer of the
chosen articles was completed, and Morgan
returned to the deck, leading Edward by
tlio hand, the captain followed with a heart
greatly lightened, and in almost undoubting
confidence that in a few minutes he should
be left at liberty to pursue his course.
The boat was still lying alongside, but
laden with the plunder of the Resolution ;
and Morgan directed all but six of his men
to row back in her to the schooner, which,
having taken in her sail, had fallen a mile
or two astern, the ship slowly drifting to lee
ward. Those wno remained were heavily
armed, except Silly Sam ; and Morgan him
self took from one of those ordered to the
boat a cutlass and a pair of pistols, remark
ing that they would he in the man's way
while rowing, and ordering the boat to he
brought back immediately to receive him
and the others.
Captain Fowler was disappointed. Tie
had expected that the pirates would leave
his ship at once, but lie easily satisfied him
self by reflecting that the boat had really as
much on hoard as she could carry, and that
if Morgan’s intentions were dangerous, lie
Would not have left himself with so small a
number of followers. lie did not know the
man with whom he had to deal.
As soon as the boat had put off, Morgan
ordered the ship’s crew to station themselves
on the forecastle, and directed four of his
own men, a pistol in each hand, to Maud
guard over them. Then turning to Fowler,
in whom this arrangement had excited a
renewal of his fears, he said, in a cool, busi
ness like way, yet with something like a
sneer upon his countenance, “Now, Capt.
Fowler, if you please, I'll trouble you for
those fifty thousand dollars in gold that were
put on board of your ship by Steinmark &
Company.” Had a thunderbolt fallen up
on his head, Fowler could not have been
more astounded. The demand was fearful;
the knowledge it exhibited still more so.—
He could not deny that the gold was in his
keeping; it was clear indeed that denial
would be useless. Give it up he would not,
he the consequences what they might, for it
was the property of another ; yet there was
every reason to believe that should Morgan’s
search for it prove unsuccessful, torture, if
not death, would be inflicted Upon himself
to wring from him the disclosure
These thoughts darted like lightning
through liis mind, and with ar. inward groan
lie murmured, “Father in Heaven protect
my child !” Morgan waited a few moments
for ifts answer, hut none was given. Then
his brow grew stern, but still he preserved
his calmness of voice and manner as he said,
“ Will it please you. Captain Fowler, to give
up the gold, or must 1 wring it from you ?”
Fowler cast his eyes despairingly around
him, but there was no help, no manner of
deliverance. He remained silent; and in
truth lie knew not what to say. The true
character of the man into whose power he
had fallen was revealed to him, even in the
threat just uttered, and he felt that if there
was no hope in resistance, there was none
in supplication. “Once more, and for the
last time,” said Morgan, “ I demand the
gold. If you do not give it up, and quick
ly, 1 will find a way to reach it, more terri
ble than even your imagination has ever
pictured.” Still no word from Fowler. lie
was nerving himself to die—to undergo tor
tures worse than death. The trust confided
in him he would not violate. But the tor
ture was indeed to be applied in a mode
and form, as the pirate truly said, which had
never been present to his imagination.
At a signal from Morgan, the captain was
seized by Silly Sam and the other of Mor
gan’s followers, his hands tied behind liis
back, and the rope which bound them fas
tened at the other end to one of the belay
ing pins of the quarter railing, with a ‘slack’
of about three feet, so that he could move
in a semi-circle having about that length of
radius; the passenger, being evidently in
delicate health, and not likely to make any
very powerful attempt at a rescue, was left
at liberty. The crew, as has already been
said, were prisoners, in some sort, upon the
forecastle, guarded by four of the hucaniers,
each of whom could make sure of two with
his pistols, in case of their making any hos
tile movement. Thus the parties on board
the ship were in two divisions; the sailors
and their guard occupying the narrow space
forward—w hile Morgan end his two follow
ers, Captain Fowler, the passenger and the
child, were on the quarter deck.
Poor Edward looked on with amazement
at the binding of his father; his little bo
som heaved, liis cheeks were flushed with
anger, and tears were gathered in his trem
bling eyelids. He gazed at Morgan for a
moment, as if to divine his purpose, and
then rushing to his father leaped to his neck,
around which lie clasped his little arms, hid
ing his face in that bosom which was his
nightly pillow.
Fowler kissed him fondly, and, anxious
to spare his boy the sight of those cruel suf
ferings of which he expected to be the vic
tim, earnestly begged Mr. Anderson, the
passenger, to take him below and keep him
there. Anderson moved a step forward, to
comply with this request, hut Morgan bade
him halt, and there was no alternative for
obedience. Such was the situation of the
parties —Fowler bound, the child clinging
to his neck, Anderson standing near the
cabin door, and Morgan between, with his
two subordinates—Sam leaning against the
mizen mast, his vacant countenance express
ing no emotion, or even cognizance of what
was passing, while ho still umused himself
with tiie handspike which he hail taken up
when he first came on board the Resolution.
“ There is yet a moment for mercy.” said
Morgan to Captain Fowler; “ will you give
me the gold 1” A shudder passed through
the captain’s frame, but he gave no answer.
“ Take the boy from him, Harris !” said
the pirate; and it was done, though no?
without some difficulty. “Strip him!”
Fowler started as if shot, and n pang of
keenest agony thrilled liis frame, as the ter
rible purpose ot his tormentor flashed upon
his mind ; for it was Edward at whom Mor
gan pointed when his last brief command
was uttered. “Monster!” he exclaimed,
“you will not, you cannot Ire so cruel!—
Wreak your fury upon me, but spare tbe
unoffending child ! If you have the heart of
a man within you, let your savage Healing
be with men, and leave helpless infancy in
safety.” His frantic entreaties and his des
perate struggles to break loose were equal
ly in vain. Morgan looked on with a cold,
relentless eye, while the fair back awl
shoulders of the boy were exposed. That
tenderfrarqe, those clustering etu is,on which
his hand had but now tieefi laid in seeming
kindness, the surpassing loveliness of that
childish face, even now tvhen it was blanch
ed with terror, the mute appeal of that im
ploring look, and the fearful agony of the
distracted father, might have stirred up pi
ty, one would think, in the breast even of
an inquisitor; but pity there was none in
the heart of Morgan. He paused not fora
moment in his savage purpose ; and to the
prayers, the imprecations of Fowler, he
vouchsaved no other reply than a simple de
claration of the horrible alternative —“ The
money or the boy !”
And now poor Edward is ready for the
sacrlice. At the command of his tiger
hearted chief Harris piepaies a scourge
of small hard twisted cord, with live or six
distinct lashes at the striking end, and knot
ted at intervals to give its blows the more
effect. With cool, unsparing deliberation,
Morgan laid aside his hat and turned up liis
sleeves; and then, grasping the arm of the
helpless child, hegaveonesbarp, hard stroke,
every thong of that accursed whip cutting
clear through the white and tender skiu.
which in a moment was laced w ith stripes
of sanguine hue. A shriek of torture burst
from the lips of the unhappy boy ; one loud
er and of more terrific agony, from those of
the miserable father—but both were drown
ed in a horrid yell, so feaiful, so appalling,
that even Morgan started in amazement and
affright, and dropping his instrument of tor
ture, turned quickly round to see from whence
it came. He turned and saw, and tlmt look
was his last. Quick as lightning descend
ed upon his head a mighty blow, and in an
other instant he lay upon the deck, a quiv
ering, mangled corpse; his skull crushed
into a shapeless mass, ns if by the fall of a
thunderbolt, freighted with vengeance, from
the Heaven he had outraged.
Tlmt fearful yell was uttered, liir.t more
fearful stroke bestowed by Silly Sam. The
shriek of the Suffering child, the sight of
liis scored and bleeding body, had called up
in the feeble mind of the poor idiot a terri
ble memory of that cruel infliction of his
own childhood by w hich his brain was craz
ed ; and yielding to the desperateimjml.se
of the moment-—that impulse which prompt
ed icscne for the victim, and vengeance on
the oppressor, identifying himself in years
long past w ith the one and Morgan with the
other, Le had swung aloft the ponderous
bar, so providentially remaining in liis hands,
and putting his whole giant strength into
the blow, had struck the villain dead, even
before he himself was conscious of the act.
Fora moment all the spectators of this
dreadful scene were paralysed with horror
and astonishment. The first to recover pos
session of their senses w;ere the four pirates
stationed forward ; and they rushed to the
quarterdeck to avenge their leader. Two
of them fired at the executioner, hut their
shots took no effect; and the sailors of the
Resolution, arming themselves with wea
pons like that with which the slaughter had
been done, were so quickly upon them that
before they could reach the slayer, tbe pro
tection of ilieirovvn lives demanded a!! their
care. .Anderson, with great jiresenee of
mind, addressed himself first to the libera
tion of Fowler. A desperate conflict en
sued, but it was soon over. One of the
pirates was knocked down, and the other
four, seeing the odds so greatly against them,
threw away their pistols, and begged for
mercy. They were quickly seized and
bound ; and after some little deliberation as
to the course most exjiedient to he taken
with them, hurried into one of the ship’s
boats, with a single pair of oars, and the
body of their felon commander, and left to
make the best of their way to the schooner;
Captain Fowler and with
reason, that suspicion would be awakened,
and instant pursuit be made, if the ship
were getting under way while some of the
pirates were known to he on hoard.
Sail was then made upon the ship, and as
night was now setting in, arid the wind still
favorable, the rejoicing inmates of the Re
solution entertained a strong hope of gain
ing so much head way before the truth should
be known on board the schooner, as would
insure them against pursuit, especially as
they would he favored by the daikness of
the coming night; a hope which was for
tunately realized. Silly Sam, who had been
apparently stupilied by tbe contemplation
of his own deed, as soon as the excitement
which caused it had passed away, remained
on hoard the ship, unconscious, as it seemed,
of the departure of his comrades ; and it
need scarcely he added that he received ev
ery kindness, then and all his life after, from
the grateful father whose child he had saved
from cruel tortures, if not from death in n
manner so strange and unexpected.— Gift
(f 1543.
A VENETIAN INCIDENT.
In the earlier ages of the llepnblie which
in the days of “ blind old Dandolo” had be
come so illustrious that its aid was solicited
by the most powerful nation of Europe,
Isola Clivolo, one of the most desolate
and uninhabited portions of the city of
Venice, was the scene of an annual re
ligious festival. One morning, the morning
of the feast of the Purification, the Lngune
was alive with ornamented gondolas, mov
ing to the soft sound of music, and proceed
ing slowly toward the point of the island
| NUMBER 32.
\Y. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
where they were to lie moored (faring tjie
joyous festival.
The royal barge of Clenpafttf, silling
down the Cydnus, was doubtless infinitely
more splendid than the most gorgeofis of
these Venetian gondolas; but it may be
doubted whether beneath its gold-clotb can
opy beat a happier heart than might be £>ond
beneath either of the humbler pavilions.'—
Agreeably to the custom at that time pre
vailing in Venire, several betrothed parties,
of wealth and high rank. Were proceeding
to the Cathedral of Santa Maria Formosa,
to give public celebration to their espousals.
The blue waters of the Adriatic, who
was not yet wedded to her island lord, were
sparkling brightly beneath tbe cloudless sky
of Italy, and everything in nature betoken
ed a day of uiiinternqrtcd gaiety and love.
“If this be a picture, as some say, of all
our after life, what a joyous life it will be,
will it nor, Bianca 1” w hispered one of .the
happy lovers to the fair being at his side.
“Ah ! hut, Leonardo,-* Yoo will
call me su|)erstitious, 1 know; yet I cannot
hut feel that there is a cloud gathering over
us, and that the noonday will find me in
tears.”
“ Tears of joy they shall be, then, sweet
Bianca, unless, indeed, thou art about tak
ing upon dice irksome bonds.”
“ Thou well knowest, Leonardo, that no
woman ever went more willingly to the al
tar than Igo there with thee. It is not this,
believe me, which makes me sad ; but I do
assure you, some undefined misfortune is
ajiproaching us. My heart is like a baro
meter, Leonardo, it instantly detects the
coming of the storm.”
“ Thou art a timid bird, fit only for the
shelter of the cage. There thou eawst sing
most sweetly, as 1 can testify, having often,
in our luxurious summer evenings, steered
my little barque beneath thy lattice, and
lingered there to hear thee warldethy plain
tive lavs. Ah ! they melted my heart, Bi
anca !”
” And who was it that touched the soft
strings of liis guitar in response, and tempt*
ed me out tijinn the balcony, notwithstand
ing my good nurse’s cautions against the
evening damps ? Those were happy times,
were they not, Leonaidof”
“ Indeed they were ; and is not the pres
ent time also happy V ’
“ Yes, were it not for the shadow of some
approaching misfortune.”
“ Fie on these njiprehehsions, Bianca.-
They are but the illusions of thy deep sen
sibilities. Certainly nothing can happen to
disturb the joy of our bridal. Are We not,
in the midst of friends, with a cloudless sky
over our heads ? And surely all the angels
in heaven would league themselves in thy
defence, were any danger to threaten us.—
Drive away these dark fancies, and be thino
own gay self again.”
As Leonardo finished these words, the
gondolier sprang lightly upon the quay,
while the friends that were awaiting them
upon the island, crowded around with music
and congratulations. One gondola after an
other continued to arrive, until the whole
company was collected upon the shore.—
Preceded by bands of music and ranks of
kiuclred, bearing in their hands a profusion
of jewels and other bridal gifts, the lovers,
two by two, promenaded towards the Cath
edral.
It wasa brilliant and beautiful procession.
Youth, and loveliness, and gtiy attire; tbe
strains of joyous melody, tbe glitter of over
flowing caskets, the bloom of freshly gather
ed flowers, all united to present one of the
most dazzling scenes that had ever enliven
ed that desolate retreat.
They entered the beautiful church of
Santa Maria ; and as gradually the numer
ous assembly retired to the galleries, tbe
bridal parties ajrproached the altar. Beside
the patriarch, who was to perform the holy
functions of Jiis office in uniting so many
young and loving hearts in the only ties that
were now wanting to complete their happi
ness, sat the kind old Doge, Candiano, who
had come out from liis palace to witness and
sanction the ceremony. As his eye scanned
the youthful group, on no countenance did
it rest with a milder benignity than on that
of the fair and gentle Bianca. She was tbe
daughter of bis only sister, and dearly loved
by him fur her tender and amiable disposi
tion. lie observed the extreme paleness of
her cheeks, w here usually the blush man
tled in the hour of excitement; and saw al
so that the veil which fell upon her bosom
shook with the violent heating of her heart.
Biit he attributed her emotion to
omnity of the ceremony, and the deep feel
iug which he was well aware lay concealed
in her hrenst. t*
The Patriarch arose—so also*!id the Doge
—for at that moment, just while the solemn
vows were about bursting from the lips of
tqose loving and beloved ones, a loud tumult
was beard at the gates of the Cflthedrak
and almost before the citizens had time to
turn their heads to learn the cause of the
disturbance, a crowd of ferocious beings
had j>enetrated the veiy sanctuary. . no*
With screams of terroi the young brides
clung to their lovers, who, unarmed, andw
ken by surprise, could only shield them Up 1
on their bosoms, while the rest of tha eW
zens huddled together in alarm, leaving*tha
pirates to seize the costly ornaments which
had tempted them to this rude assault. Bat
not content with this, no sooner had they
made sure of their more solid prize, than
they wrested from tire arms of tlttiir grooms