Newspaper Page Text
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
(Driginol
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MOONLIGHT IN SPRING.
The moonlight creeps from plain to grove,
The green to silver turns, and soon
The bird of Spring, made glad with love,
As grateful for the generous boon,
Pours forth his tune.
His song finds echoes in my heart,
But moves me not like him to sing,
K„r 1 have seen my hopes depart,
VI v moonlight with my dreams takes wing,
And leaves no Spring.
Vet, better thus the memories keep,
Os bliss that once the heart hath known :
They soothe, even while they make us weep,
And though the flow’r they brought hath
flown,
The scent's our own.
Thus watching through the night, I see,
As glides the moonlight to the grove,
The shapes of bliss that brought to me,
With dreams that still the heart will move,
My boyhood’s love ! [LI,AN.
Charleston, April , 1850.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
VISIONS.
Visions that won me,
Why do ye shun me,
Now that my heart hath been blessed by your
lure ;
Why did ye waken
Hopes that, forsaken,
Leave the poor heart greater griefs than before.
Still let me slumber,
Still, without number,
Weave the dear fancies that gladden the heart!
Come with caressing,
And, with a blessing,
Leave me your memory when hade to depart.
He who, with sorrow,
Looks for tiie morrow,
Well the dear coming of night may implore ;
Smiles all Elysian,
Cheering his vision.
Troubled with sorrow and daylight no more.
NOX.
Savannah, Ga.
(Driginol Coin.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAROON.
A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Author of “ The Yeniassee,” etc.
IV.
The doom was pronounced—the
hand of the executioner, —the hand of
<>f his most bitter enemy, Juan de Syl
va, —was laid upon the shoulder of the
victim, —but he refused to yield his
liiith to his own fears. lie still hoped
against conviction—still shrunk from a
belief in that punishment which, to the
timid and dependent nature, such as
his, seemed to involve terrors much
more extreme than any threatened form
of death. But when he at last yielded
to the conviction which had long been
entertained by all around, —unless, per
haps, by the woman, his supposed asso
ciate in crime, —then the whole strength
of his soul, —feeble in its best moments
—seemed to give way on the instant.
Every show of manhood was forgotten.
There was no pride to keep up appear
ances—no strggle to maintain a decent
show of fortitude and firmness—but
the miserable culprit sunk down into
the most lamentable imbecility to the
shame of all around him.
“Mercy! mercy! For the sake of
the Blessed Virgin, have mercy upon
me. 1 )on Velasquez,” he shrieked rather
than pleaded, when the determined as
pects of the men appointed to convey
him to the boat, and the violent grasp
of .Tuan upon his shoulder, silenced all
doubts as to the real intentions of his
tyrant to carry out his sentence, in full,
as it had been delivered. The hard
souJed sailors, as much in scorn as in
pity, recoiled from the piercing femi
nine entreaty of the victim, and left
him free for the moment, as if in doubt
whether Velasquez might not yield to
the supplications which were urged with
such a humiliating disregard to man
hood. Falling upon his knees, he
crawled toward the spot where sat the
arbiter of his fate, glowring in the en
joyment of that bitter-sweet morsel of
revenge which is so grateful to the ma
lignant nature. In his eyes —had those
of the victim not been blinded by
liis own tears—had he not been too
base to venture to accompany his en
eutreaties by a resolute look upon the
face of him upon whose word his fate
rested—he might have seen how hope
less were all his pleadings. But he
saw nothing—as he crawled along the
deck to the feet of the tyrant —but the
terrible danger which he was anxious to
escape. Could he have seen the inex
pressible scorn which dilated the nos
trils and curled the lips of the woman
—could he have heard her bitter find
only half suppressed accents of loath
ing— muttered between her gnashing
teeth! But they could not have changed
his nature!
“Can he not die! Can he not die!
Anything but this! And vet,” she
eontinued—herself unconscious that she
spoke—“ Yet how should it be that
‘>ne who had not the soul to slay his
enemy, in the moment when all that
made life precious lay in the blow, —
how should it be that he should aim the
sifflfiHH Mimi Aim? osum
a imiu mmmk wmmm to mmmmL w am aib aib to biimal mwMmmi
weapon at his own bloodless heart,
though to escape this most loathsome
tyranny.”
■’ Beware! was the single word whis
pered close beside her ear, from the
lips ot Juan de Sylva. “Beware! lest
a worse fate befall thee even than his!
\V ould’st thou peril life for such a rep
tile!”
She was silent at the suggestion.
Not that she had any fears of death;
but, just then, her quick thought and
resolute spirit suddenly conceived its
own method for escape and vengeance.
Other emotions than those of scorn fill
ed her bosom, as the whisper of J uan,
like the hissing of a hateful serpent,
filled her ears; and in their sudden con
sciousness, she trembled lest her feel
ing should declare itself aloud, in spite
of the resolute will which she invoked
to curl) and keep it in. The emotion
which her lips did not declare, was con
spicuous, for the instant, on her coun
tenance, and remained unseen only in
consequence of the absorbing nature of
the event in progress at the feet of Ve
lasquez. To this spot the abject cul
prit had continued to crawl, unrestrain
ed by the stern command of his tyrant
not to approach him. To his knees he
clung, though the latter strove to shake
him ofi, and to spurn him away with
the members which were too heavily
swathed and bandaged to suffer him to
use them w ith any efficiency for such a
purpose. Ilis pleadings, which wore
ot a sort to move loathing rather than
P'ty? produced no feeling of either kind
in the breast of Velasquez. They pro
voked his merriment rather, lie grin
ned as he beheld the writhings of the
wretched creature before him. He had
a sorry jest for all his contortions. Ve
rily, the Spanish adventurers of that
day in America, were a terrible ban
ditti ! Os these, Velasquez was a pro
per specimen. V hen his victim ap
pealed to him for the sake of his wi
dowed mother at Segovia, he answered:
“1 shall tell her of thy possessions,
Lopez; she shall hear of thy elevation.
Site was always a woman of rare am
bition. Did 1 not know her in her
younger days ? Know’st thou not that
she once disposed her mantilla so that
she might make a captive of me? Had
she done so, verily, it might have been
mine own son, for whom this Isle of
Lovers hath been found. I shall tell
her of thy fortune Lopez. She shall
rejoice in thy principality ; and, it may
he, will find her way out to thee, seek
ing to share in the wealth of thy do
minions. Enough now, —take him
hence, 1 tell thee; —Juan, son, wilt thou
not see the Prince bestowed upon his
empire! 1 begin to weary of this gra
titude.
Again the officers approached, and
again they hesitated—all but Juan—
as the cries of the wretched imbecile
rang through the vessel. The sailors
would still have suffered him to urge
his prayers for mercy, hut J uan had no
such yielding nature, and he knew, bet
ter than they, how* profitless were all
entreaties. He had resolved, for his
own purpose, that there should be no
relentings in the brutal spirit of Velas
quez. lie left the side of Maria de
Pacheco, at the summons of his uncle,
and, with his own hand, grappled the
victim, while giving the word to the
sailors chosen to assist him. But, ris
ing to his feet, Lopez dashed away from
the grasp of his assailant, and once more
rushed in supplication to Velasquez.
Ilis terrors gave him wonderful strength
and a faculty of speech scarcely less
wonderful. 11c was positively eloquent.
Never was prayer for mercy more pas
sionate, or more pregnant with the best
argument in behalf of mercy. They
touched all hearts hut the two, alone,
whom it had been of any avail to move.
These were i mmoveable. Again w r ere
his entreaties answered by seurril jest,
mocking suggestion and derisive laugh
ter. The taste for the sports of the
tauridor, who tortures the hull to mad
ness before he bestows the coup de
(/race, could alone afford any likeness
to the sort of pleasure which this sea
despot enjoyed in the fruitless agonies
of his victim. It was in a sort of de
fiance, produced by very shame and
despair, that the culprit rose at length
to his feet, and folding his arms upon
his breast, submitted to his fate, from
which, it was evident that no degree of
humiliation could possibly suffice to
save him. A smile softened the fea
tures of Maria de Pacheco.
“It is well!” she murmured to her
self. “A little sooner and the shame
would have been spared to both!”
Die victim seemed to hear her ac
cents, though not to understand them.
He turned a timid glance toward her,
but her eye no longer sought his own.
She was conscious that other eyes were
then keenly fixed on both.
The boat was declared to he in readi
ness. The month’s store of provisions,
accorded by Velasquez, were thrown
into her; —the spear and the crossbow
followed; and the hands of the seamen,
appointed to convey “the Maroon,”
were fastened firmly on his shoulder.
He was now r subdued to submission, if
not reconciled to his late. lie no
longer opposed himself to their efforts,
and though he still spoke the language
of entreaty, it was no longer addressed
to his tyrant.
“Oh! my countrymen,—Antonio,
Pedro—it is you who do me thus—is
it you, my countrymen, who help to
give me up to such a dreadful doom!”
Such w r as the touching appeal, made
to ancient comrades, which the poor
wretch uttered at the parting moment.
They looked downward in silence, but
did not relax their hold upon him.
“ And I am to perish on that deso
late island; —and the people of my own
land, leave me to this solitude! They
hear the voice of my prayer, and shut
their ears against it! lam never more
to hear human speech—never more to
look upon Christian face—nor call any
man brother or friend. Oh! Spaniards,
brothers, friends, countrymen!—will
you doom me thus—will you desert
me thus to the solitude of the sea,
which is w orse than any death. Chris
tians ! help me —speak for me—save
me!”
There was a moisture in the eyes of
the weather-beaten seamen who stood
around him. At this moment the wo
man advanced suddenly and stood be
fore \ elasquez. Juan beheld her pur
pose in her countenance, and w hispered
as she passed him, “Beware!” She
heard, but did not heed the warning.
“ elasquez! —she spoke with firm
ness—“ Surely, you have carried this
jest far enough. You cannot mean
really to devote this wretched man to
this place of desolation!”
“Jest!” exclaimed the other; “Jest,
call you it? By my faith, but you
have very merrily described a very se
rious ceremonial. Yet, if there he a
jest designed at all, 1 see that it hath
been omitted. Ho, Juan, bring forth
the guitar of our Prince. See you that
it be slung about the neck of Don Lo
pez. It hath a hand of crimson—truly,
the fitting collar for a sovereign. It
w ill help him to remember his old songs
w hen in the enjoyment of his new seig
niory. He shall have his ditty and jest
together. It were cruel, Lady mine, to
deprive him of that which hath been so
much his nightly solace! Eh! what
say’st thou ?”
The person addressed recoiled as if
from the tongue of the viper. She was
silent, unless the thought which moved
her lips, but did not escape in w'ords,
might he construed into speech.
“ At all events —it is but death— but
death, after all! He hath weapons, and
the sea rolls at his feet. He hath but
to will, and his exile ends in a moment!”
We shorten a scene which was only
too painfully protracted. The victim
was hurried to the boat. His feet
pressed the lonely islet of which he was
mockingly declared the Prince. He
stood erect, but not in the conscious
ness of sway. His eyes were fixed upon
the vessel from which he was torn, and
in which he saw* nothing but the coun
try, the friends, the familiar faces, from
which he was forever sundered, lie
was unconscious of the mocking per
formance, when Juan de Sylva hung
the guitar about his neck. The awk
ward appendage was no burden to him
at such a moment. The faces of those
who had placed him upon the sands
were turned away. The sound of their
parting voices had died away upon his
ears. The boat was pushed from the
shore—yet he still stood, with a stare
of vacant misery in his aspect, upon
the spot where they had placed him.
Long after the prow of the boat had
been turned for the ship, he could be
seen in the same place, with the ludi
crous decoration upon his breast, while,
with still uplifted hands, he seemed to
implore the sympathy of his comrades
and the mercy of his tyrant. But of
neither was he vouchsafed any proofs.
Mercy was none —sympathy was pow
erless to save. Even she! But of her
he dared not tlunk! She had been his
fate; and though, in his soul, he dared
not blame her, yet when she rose to re
collection, it was alw'ys to provoke a
sentiment of bitterness which a nobler
spirit never could have felt. He saw
the boat rejoin the vessel. He saw r
once more her broad sails spread forth
to catch the breeze. Gradually, they
lessened beneath his gaze. The world
which held his soul and his hope, grew’
smaller and smaller, contracting to a
speck, which, at length, faded utterly
away in the deepening haze which gir
dled the horizon. Then, when his eyes
failed any longer to delude him with a
hope, did he fall prostrate upon the
sands, in a swooning condition, which,
for the time, wholly and happily oblite
rated the terrible sense of his desolation.
V.
It will not he difficult with many per
sons, to comprehend how r a condition
of utter solitude should not necessarily
produce a sense of pain. To the man of
great mental resources, and of a habit
contemplative and thoughtful, such a
condition would be apt rather to sug-
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, MAY 11, 1850.
I gest ideas of complete security and re
pose, which would be friendly to the
! enjoyment of a favourite indulgence.—
| To spirits whom the world has soured
—whom the greedy strifes of men have
offended, —men of nice sensibilities and
jealous affections, whose friendships
have proved false, and wounded —as
so many deceitful reeds which have bro
ken and pierced their sides ; —to the
heart of deep and earnest passions rob
bed of those upon whom all the heart’s
affections have been set; —these, all,
might rejoice in an abode from which
the trying services, and vexing neces
sities, and disquieting obtrusions, of so
cial life, w'ere shut out and excluded
forever. But Lopez de Levya was not
one of these ! He was young, and hand
some, and hopeful, and this was his
first trouble. The world still loomed
out before his vision, the gay and song
ful paradise which youthful fancies des
cribe it still. There were warm pas
sions and eager sympathies in his soul
still to he gratified; and though we
may not regard him as a person to
whom affections of any kind were very
necessary, yet had he a bosom filled
with those which grow from an intense
appetite for praise—which could have
their gratification only in a world of be
ings like himself. It would be impos
sible to describe the utter desolation
which possessed the bosom of the un
happy wretch when he did finally
awaken to realize the fact that he was
left alone—utterly abandoned by’ his
comrades, —upon an obscure islet of
the ( arihhean Sea ! It was a long time,
indeed, before he could utterly conceive
his own situation—along time before he
could persuade himself that the stub
born and unrelenting spirit of Velas
quez had absolutely resolved that such
should be his doom. For hours—until
the midnight came with its sad and
drooping stars, looking down mournful
ly’ upon the billows of the ever chiding
ocean; —until the daylight dawned, and
the red sun, rushing up from the East
ern waters, rose angry and fiery, and
blazing down upon the little islet with
the fiery glance of a destroying despot;
—for the first dreary interval, from sun
to sun, —he still cherished the hope
that this was but a trial of his strength
—a cruel experiment upon his youth,
and courage ; —and, recovering from
the first feelings of consternation, when,
at sunset, the dusky white sails of the
vessel finally disappeared from sight,
the unhappy wretch still flattered him
self that, with the morning, he should
hail her outline once more upon his
horizon, and catch the glitter of her
foaming prow coming to his rescue.—
And with this hope he clung to the
beach all night, lie slept not —how
could he sleep ? Even for one night
how intense was the desolation of that
scene. ’There was the eternal sighing
and moaning of the sea, which, toward
the morning, subsided into calm and
slept on, as if still dreaming of future
tempests. And there were voices all
around him of strange animalsand wild
fowl, —sometimes a chirp, as of an in
sect, and sometimes the scream of some
passionate bird ; —and, anon, a great
plunge in the waters as if of some
mighty beast leaving its place of sleep
upon the land. It was among the mis
fortunes of Lopez de Levya that he
was no hero, and ali these sounds in
spired him with terror. Not less ter
rible to him were those wild, deep mys
terious eyes of the stars, slowly pass
ing over him, and looking down, as if
to see whether he slept, in their pas
sage to the deep. Never was night
and situation so full of charm, y'et so
full of the awful and the terrible. Beau
tiful, indeed, surpassingly beautiful and
sweet, was the strange wild charm of
that highly spiritual mingling of land
and ocean ; —that small and lovely islet,
just rising above the deep, so thorough
ly environed by its rocking billows,
shone upon by that wilderness of stars;
breathed over by that pure zephyr, glid
ing in with perfume and blessing from
the South; and haunted by unknown
sounds, from strange creatures of the
sea and sky, who, in a life of perpetual
freedom, could never know the feeling
of desolation or of exile.
But the wild romance and the won
drous beauty of the scene, were lost
upon the man who had no higher idea
of the possessions of the intellectual na
ture than such as could be drawn from
association w'ith his fellow. The re
gion, unoccupied by man, however beau
tiful in itself, could bring no joy, no
peace to the bosom of the exile. Ve
lasquez knew the real nature of his vic
tim. lie well knew that Lopez had no
sympathy with the mute existences of
sea and sky*; of earth and air ; and of
those more exquisite essences, w hich,
in such a situation, the imaginative na
ture would have joyed to conjure up
from the spiritual world, he thought on
ly w ith terror and reluctance. He did
fancy that voices came to him upon the
night air ; —the voices of men and hi a
strange, unusual language ; —and he in
stantly trembled w'ith fears of the can
nibal—the anthropophagi, who were
supposed, at that period, to he the only
inhabitants of these regions.
But the night passed over in securi
ty. He opened his eyes upon another
day, in the solitude of that wild abode,
ere yet the sun had warmed with his
gay tints the gray mansions of the East.
He opened his eyes upon the sea and
sky as before. The billows were roll
ing slowly away at his feet, in long low
courses, but slightly lifted by the
breezes of the dawn. Vainly were his
eyes stretched out over the watery
waste, in the pathway of the departed
vessel. The vast plain of ocean spread
away before him unbroken by a speck ;
and when the sun rushed up visibly in
to the heavens, and laid bare the whole
bright circumference of the deep, for
many a league, undarkened by r an ob
ject—then the conviction of his utter
loneliness—his life of future loneliness
—forced itself upon the heart of the
wretched youth; and flinging himself
once more upon the earth, he thrust his
fingers into the sands, and cried aloud
in the depth of his agony —
“ Jesti ! it is true !—it is true !—and
1 am left—left by my people.—to per
ish here alone!”
We spare his lamentations, —his en
treaties, —as if there were still some hu
man being ut hand, who might afford
him relief and consolation, —to w hom
he might appeal for succor and protec
tion. Prayer he had none. The name
of the Deity, of the Saviour, and the
Virgin, were sometimes upon his lips;
but the utterance was habitual, as he
had been accustomed to employ them
in mere idleness and indifference. Three
days passed in which despair had full
possession of his faculties. In this time
he lay crouching upon the beach du
ring the day, and gazing vacantly in
the direction in which the ship had gone.
At night he retreated to higher ground,
filled with apprehensions ofgreat mon
sters of the sea, —of the seas them
selves, —lest, rising suddenly, endued
w'ith a human or a fiendish will, they
might gather round him w hile he slept, i
and hurry him off, beyond escape, to
their gloomy abysses. A small clump
of trees afforded him the semblance of
a shelter. Here he lay from nightfall
to dawn, only sleeping in the utter ex
haustion of nature, and suffering, at all
other times, from every sort of terror.
The stars, looking down through the
palm leaves overhead, with their mild,
sad aspects, seemed to him so many
mocking and malignant angels exulting
in his condition. The moaning of the
sea, and the murmurs of the night-wind,
were all so many voices of terror ap
pointed to deride him in his desolation,
and impress his heart with a sense of
unknown dangers. The rush of great
wings occasionally along the shore, or
the rust le of smaller ones in the houghs
above him—perhaps of creatures as
timid as himself, —kept him wakeful
with constant apprehensions; and, at
moments of the midnight, a terrible
bellowing, as of some sea-beast rising
to the shore, or leaving it with a plunge
that echoed throughout the islet, —struck
a very palsy to his heart, that, for the
time, seemed to silence all its vibra
tions. Let us leave the miserable out
cast, thus suffering and apprehensive,
while we return to the inmates of the
vessel by whom he was abandoned.
VI.
He was not wholly abandoned. Ma
ria de Pacheco, the women, who, like
himself, was in some degree a victim
also to the will, if not the tyranny, of
Don Velasquez, was not the creature
tamely to submit to injustice, however
she might prudently seem to do so.—
We need not ask whether there was
any real attatchment between herself
and the poor creature whom we have
seen “ marooned.” It is probable that
the degree of regard which she enter
tained for him was small. He was not
the man to fix the affections, to a very
large extent, of a women of so proud
and fearles a soul. The feebleness
which he laid shown, had probably less
ened the attachment of a heart, which,
in the possession of large natural cour
age of its own, might w'ell despise that
of one who had displayed so little. But
as little did she love the man of w horn
she had become the slave —we may add
—almost without her own conscious
ness, and at the will of another, by
w hom she had been sold at a very ear
ly age. She was still comparatively
young; hut with advanced intellect,
and an experience that left it no longer
immature. Born under the burning
sky of Andalusia, tutored in the camp
of the Gitano, though not of Zingaro
race, she had soon acquired an intensi
ty of mood w hich was only surpassed
by her capacity of subduing it to quiet,
under a rigid and controlling will.—
Loathing the sway of her tyrant, re
volting at his person, she was as little
disjxtsed to regard with favor the affec
tions w hich had been proffered her, of
his more subtle and malignant nephew*.
The person of Juan de Silva, graceful
and show'y as it was, could not blind
her to his heartless vanities, and that
dangerous cunning of character, which
so admirably co-operated with the
mocking and fiendish coldness of his
soul. If she loathed Velasquez, she
feared, as well as loathed, De Silva;
and feared him the more, as, in posses
sion of the secret of his infidelity to his
uncle, she was yet made fully conscious
of the truth of his boast, that any rev
elation of it, which she might make to
the latter, would avail but little against
him. But, though anxious, she was
not the woman to despair! She re
volted too greatly at her own condi
tion of restraint, bondage and denial,
to yield even temporarily to despon
dency. t In the moment that saw her
feeble and wretched lover consigned to
the lonely islet of the Caribbees, she
made a secret resolve to avenge his
fate or to peril her own person upon
her vengeance. She clearly had no
absorbing passion for the victim. It
was evident that she could still main
tain a prudent restraint upon her feel
ings at the moment of their greatest tri
al ; —but the highest and proudest heart
needs something for affection—some
other one upon which to lean for sym
pathy—and which, at least, makes a
show of responsive interest in its affec
tions. It was thus that she had turned
a willing car to the professed devotion
of Lopez de Levya,—to his tastes and
his gentleness, contrasting as they did
with the brutality of all around her, and
making her somewhat indifferent to his
feebleness of will and lack of courage.
But she had not fancied his imbecility
to be so great as the hour of trial had
show'll it. Though scorning his weak
ness, she sympathized in his cruel des
tiny. The respite which had been given
him from death, by the capricious ty
ranny of Velasquez, suggested to her
mind a hope of his future extrication.
Food had been left with him sufficient
for a month. What might not be done,
in that space of time, by a subtle
thought and a determined spirit ? In
a moment, Maria de Pacheco had her
plans conceived, and her soul nerved to
the prosecution of a single purpose.
But she had an opponent, not less sub
tle than herself, in the person of J uan
de Silva; and the keen, scrutinizing
eye which he fixed upon her, as she
turned from the spot upon w hich Lopez
had been left, seemed to denote an
indistinct conception of the purpose
which had passed that very instant
through her soul. But she was not dis
couraged by this fear.
“Well,” said he in a whisper, “you
see how hopeless is the struggle!—
What is left for you, but—■” and a
smile of mixed fondness and signifi
cance closed the sentence. The ready
expression of the woman’s face was
made to accord happily with the single
word with which she furnished an equal
ly expressive conclusion:
“ Death!”
“No!no !” said he. “ You will not
die—you shall not! You shall live to
be tar more truly the mistress of the
Dian de Burgos, than she finds you
now. Why should we be enemies,
Maria ?”
“Beware! your uncle’s eye is upon
us!”
lie turned away, and this single sen
tence, as it seemed to denote a disposi
tion to make a secret between them,
brought a fresh hope to the soul of the
young man. He smiled, and glided to
his uncle. Maria smiled also, but it
was with a sterner feeling—not a less
hopeful one, perhaps, but one in which
bitterness was a much more positive
ingredient than delight.
“ 1 must bathe his vigilance,” she
muttered to herself. “ lie only need i
be feared, and he must be met and
vanquished ! Ay ! but how ! How !
I must manage this—and 1 will!”
Her eyes followed his retreating form
as she spoke. They noted quickly the
jaunty air of selfconceit which marked
his movements; they scorned the showy
and quaintly cut garments which he
wore, and the profuse decorations of his
neck and breast —and the quick in
stincts of the woman at once suggested
an answer to her doubts.
“ Kow, but through his vanity! lie
would be loved, as he would be ad
mired and watched. Well!—he shall
be loved, loved as he desires! The j
task is a hard one enough truly—but it
shall be done! J uan de Silva, you
shall be loved! You, at least, shall
believe it —you will believe it; and
this will suffice!”
In this she expressed a portion of her
policy. It will be all that we need to
show’ at present. How she pursued
this policy —by what constant, hourly
practices —by what adroit feminine arts
—and with what fixedness of purpose —
need only be suggested. The details
would be too numerous. But she was
encouraged to perseverance by success.
She had reason to believe that she had
succeeded in disarming the jealousies,
and in awakening the hopes, of her en
emy. They both maintained a judi
cious regard for the exactions of Velas
quez; but there w r ere hours when he
slept, or w hen he suffered, w'hen they
might throw’ aside their caution, and
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 2 WHOLE NO. 102.
speak together without fear or inter
ruption. It is by no means strange
that the most artful should he imposed
upon by arts such as he himself em
ploys. But what is so blind as vanity?
What creature so easily baited as the.
self-w orshipper, w hen the food tendered
him is that which increases his love of
self. To make such a one satisfied
with himself, is most surely to gain his
confidence in you —to persuade him
that he is as much ail object of your
idolatry as of his own, is to obtain ac
cess to the few open avenues which con
duct to liis affections.
Mt iria de Pacheco had not been vain
ly tutored in the arts of the Gitano.
Beautiful in person, graceful in carriage,
skilled equally in the song, the dance
and the story, she put in exercise all
her powers of attraction, to bind more
securely the spells which she aimed to
put upon the creature whom she yet
loathed with most complete aversion.
In two w'eeks after “ the marooning” of
o
her timid lover, she had succeeded in
possessing Juan de Silva with the no
tion that the victim ceased to lie re
membered. So credulous do the most
vigilant and suspicious become, when
blinded by an absorbing passion.
The two w'ere alone together on the
vessel’s deck, as she swept, one gloomy
night, along the w aste of sea in silence.
Don Velasquez had but a little before
been conveyed below*. He slept! Ma
ria had ministered to him in song and
story as was her wont, with Juan be
side her. The departure of Velasquez
had left them free to resume a conver
sation which had been begun before. —
He had been emboldened by the tenor
of a previous dialogue. Ilis hand grasp
ed tliat of the lad)'. She sutlered him
to retain it. He carried it to his lips.
It was not withdrawn ; hut, could her
features have been seen, through the
dim veil of night which covered them,
the infatuated youth beside her, blind
ed by her charms, and beguiled by her
arts, would have shrunk with fear from
the deej) and vindictive loathing which
they betrayed, even while she submit
ted so quietly to his caresses. The se
cret thought of J uan de Silva was one
of delighted vanity. Could that thought
but iiave found its way into speech, it
would have congratulated himself upon
the admirable address which lie himself
had shown, in subduing a spirit which
he had hitherto found invincible. He
did suffer some words to escape him
which conveyed to her mind this idea ;
and she compressed her lips more close
ly together, with difficulty maintaining
the silence, which, if broken at that mo
ment, would have overwhelmed him
with her loathing and her scorn.
“ You have forgiven me all, Maria?”
he whispered tenderly, fully assured of
her answer.
“ What was there to be forgiven ?”
“ The fate of Lopez!”
A slight convulsive shiver passed
over the form of the woman, and it re
quired a strong effort to keep from
withdrawing herself from his embrace,
w ith a show of horror such as one might
express in detaching himself from the
folds of a serpent. He continued :
“ But it was in iny devotion that 1
sought to destroy. It was because you
were so loved, that he was so much
hated. I was well assured that, for so
mean a spirit, you could not long have
suffered pain, and now”
“You w ere right,” she said, interrupt
ing him ; “right—but you?—what is
your spirit, Juan?”
“ My spirit!”
“Yes! your spirit! your courage,
your pride, your character? Your per
son is pleasing to the eye —your tal
ents to the mind! You have grace,
beauty and accomplishments, but”
“ But what!”
The vanity of the youth had taken
the alarm. lie spoke eagerly and with
anxiety. She hesitated to reply, the
better to increase this anxiety ; and he
renewed his entreaties for explanation.
She at length gave it.
“ Shall 1 always he loved by the su
bordinate ? Shall the person whom I
love, be always the creature of anoth
er’s win r
“You mistake, my Maria. You
should know by this time, that I can do
what I please with my uncle.”
“Why, so you may, hut in what
manner is it done ? By treachery,—
by falsehood, —by meanness, —by de
scending to low arts and petty false
hoods. Let the truth hut reach the
ears of Velasquez, and he will maroon
you as quickly its he did Lopez de
Levya.”
“ Perhaps so—but there’s no reason
that the truth shall reach his ears ?”
“ That may he, hut shall we live al
ways in terror of the truth—always in
the base security of a lie. I tell you,
Juan de Silva, such is my spirit, that
I demand in the object of my devo
tion, manliness of soul—the courage of
speech without fear—the spirit to act
without subterfuge—the will to com
mand for himself, and through himseif,
and not as the mere creature of another!
And, why should you, and with your
I talents for command —why should you
i be the lackey of your uncle ?—that fee
ble despot, w'ho—but no! no! —what
need? You will not, you cannot under
stand the nature which 1 feel —the spirit
which sways sovereign in my soul!
“Ay, Maria, but 1 do feel, I do un
derstand you.”
“Impossible, Juan, or you would
rather be with me the sole possessor ot
some desolate isle such as that given to
Lopez de Levya, than —”
“But how, if w r e be sole here—here,
with the lovely Dian de Burgos for our
palace, and the seas of the west for our
empire ?”
She laid her finger upon her w’rist—
but a single singe lowly mur
mured in his ears :
“This w'ere, indeed, something, but 1
tell you, .Juan de Silva, you are not the
man for this. Your uncle! ”
“ And if I prove to you that I am,
Maria—if I show you that I can fling
aside my scruples when it will serve my
purpose to do so; and that no ties which
deny me the gratification cf my pas
sions, have the power to keep my af
fections—if, in short, I can say to you,
Maria de Pacheco, the Dian de Bur
gos, henceforward, is mine solely—wilt
thou share with me the sovereignty?”
“Alas! Juan, I should dread lest old
age seize me, ere I ascend my throne!”
“Demonios! but another week shall
not pass ere thou hast it all!”
“Were it so ! —but —.” The pause
w r as full of meaning.
“ Wilt thou promise me, Maria! —”
“Will I not?”
“ And thou wilt deny me no more, if
I show thee that no voice speaks in au
thority here but mine ?”
“Show me that Juan —make thyself
supreme, and thou shalt be as a sover
eign over Maria de Pacheco, as thou
wilt then be over the Dian de Burgos.
But thy uncle!”
“ Speak not of him! Enough!—
Think’st thou I love this servitude any
more than thou dost ? Think’st thou
it better pleases me than thee that I
should minister to one, brutal and bed
ridden, whose feebleness checks our ad
venture and lessens our spoils.”
“ But how wilt thou ”
“ Nay, sweet, let not the manner of
the thing disturb thee. Better, indeed,
that thou should’t not know. Thou
shalt see if 1 lack manliness. Thou
shalt see if I fail when the moment
needs. lam no Lopez de Levya—no
mere singer, my Maria. Ah ! if I prove
not myself worthy of thy spirit—if I
show thee not! Thou didst not know
me, Maria—thou doubtest still—thou
dost not know me yet. Yes, I tell
thee, for a love such as thou can’st give
me, thou shalt see me do such deeds as
were terrible as death to other men !”
The unresisting hand of the woman
was carried to his lips as he spoke, as
if he would affirm thereon the resolu
tion which he had expressed. Yet,
even as he kissed them, her fingers,
moved by the feeling in her soul, could
have grappled his throat in mortal
struggle. They seperated for the night,
and the exulting spirit of Maria de
clared hei’ conscious triumph in secret
soliloquy.
“Ay! av! methinks T have thee. It
is sure. Ido not mistake the blind
ness which is in this passion. He will
do! He will perform what he doth
not yet promise. The son of the sister,
shall do murder upon the life of the
brother that has murdered him. He is
mine! The 1 Man de Burgos shall be
mine. Yet, it will need that it be done
quickly. The month is nearly gone!
Another week ! —but one—one week !
\\ ell! I must be patient. I must
subdue my soul, while I work with other
weapons. Juan de S\ lva, I shall take
thee in my own snare, or 1 have never
used the snare of woman !”
(Continued in ocr next.)
ibrigitml
FOR THE FOFTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
XIII.
Constructiveness. The test tor hu
man progress in civilization is the de
velopment of the constructive faculty,
ft is true that man shares the antago
nist quality with the brute, and is de
structive in quite the same degree; but
he has the corrective in the opposite
endowment of constructiveness, and his
labor is quite legitimate when he de
stroys to build. Destructiveness, in
deed, is absolutely essential to the pro
per exercise of ingenuity in art.
XIV.
Friendship. It is frequently the case
that you lose your friend in the saga
city which perceives his imperfections.
1 rue friendship implies the privilege of
sorrowing over the infirmities of your
favourite, and curing them whenever
you can. et, though we know our
danger, and believe in the skill of the
surgeon, it seems to be very rational
that we should recoil from his instru
ment. To be properly susceptible ot
friendship, in its highest capabilities, it