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(Original }Mnj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE UNLOVED.
“ My life is read all backward,
And the charm of life undone.”
Elizabeth liarrett Browning,
Hope spans no longer with her iris tc ken,
The darkened heaven of my dreams ;
Life’s fairest promise to my soul is broken, —
The Real is —no more the Ideal seems,
And, bowing neath the shades of sorrow’s
night,
I dare not even pray— O! give me light!
1 list no more to Summer-songs of gladness;
The Summer of my life is past,
And Autumn daysbut deeper tinge the sadness,
Now o'er the current of my being cast,
And in my pain I crush the withered flowers,
Which mock my heart with thoughts of hap
pier hours.
I had a dream—a dream of love and beauty,
And blindly, madly trusted in its truth !
‘Tis gone !—believing is no longer duty,
So here I ca s t away the trust of youth,
And, since I’ve trusted, dreamed and loved my
last,
Life is henceforth but memory of the past!
Back to their source those tides are coldly
rushing,
Which lately tlowed so warmly from my
heart;
Larih’s icy atmosphere repels their gushing,
And turns them backward whence they
throbbing start,
Sent forth o’er desert wastes, like Noah’s dove,
My weary soul returns, unble.-t with love!
W hy am I cursed with this unceasing yearning,
Why there bright dreams of what can never
be;
Are all these warm affections but for spurning,
That on this earth no beittg loveth nte?
Why, longing tor the joys of love and home,
Must I in loveless exile ever roam ?
Sadly I list to sounds of pleasant voices,
Since one iny captive ear no longer thrills ;
1 he song from beauty’s lips no more rejoices
I’he heart which hopeless sadness fills:
No more the music of vibrating wires,
W ith love or joy my drooping soul inspires.
Ambition points in vain to fields of glory,
One word ol love were sweeter far to me,
Than pages in my country’s proudest story,
Or name upon the poet's roll could be:
Life, aimless now, flows onward to its close,
Its only earthly goal the grave's repose!
•September, 18 —.
(Original (fairs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAROON.
A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES.
BV W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Author of “ The etc.
\\ ith her whole soul set upon a fa
vourite project, Maria de Pacheco was
not a person to slumber or prove afraid,
bhe was not less sure of herself than
ot others. She knew the general char
acter and temper of the Spaniard. She
knew the spirit which prevailed among
the crew of the Dian de Burgos.—
i hough young and a woman, she had
been by no means an unobservant
spectator of the various events which
had taken place on board since she had
become an inmate of the vessel. Be
sides. she was a sagacious student of
character, as a e all women of any na
tive intelligence. She possessed the
faculty, which seems like an instinct, of
seeing, as it were, at a single glance,
into the moods of those around her.
She knew that Velasquez, her master ,
was no longer the master in his own
ship. She as well knew’ that Juan de
Sylva was not very popular as his suc
cessor. One event, which had taken
place a few months before, now pressed
upon her recollection, and suggested to
her anew auxiliary in working outlier
scheme.
One of the lieutenants, or as he
might be called in our time, a mate,
was a Biscayan named Diego Linores.
lie was a stout and somewhat surly
fellow, habitually; and, in the exercise
of his common character, had given a
rude or insolent reply to Juan de Syl
va, who had rewarded him for it, very
promptly, with a blow upon the mouth.
The dagger of the Biscayan would
have answered the indignity, and was
drawn for that purpose, when other
parties interfered; and Juan, after the
first feeling of excitement had passed
over, sought, in various ways, and by
various civilities—which he never made
unnecessarily cheap —to atone for the
rashness and folly of his act. The in
terposition of Velasquez, himself, was
finally addressed to the conciliation of
the parties, since 1 )iego was a man not
easily to be dispensed w ith. llis ef
forts were apparently successful. The
anger of Biscayan was seemingly sub
dued, but it was in seeming only.—
The wound still rankled and might
easily be re-opened. Maria de Pacheco
saw more deeply into the secret feel
ings of the injured person than either
•1 uan or Y elasquez. She better knew the
vindictive temper of Biscayan blood,
w hich is perhaps much more tenacious
ot its resentments, than that of almost
all other Spaniards, all of w hom are
vindictive.
M ith the first inception of her own
” solution, she at once conceived that
‘his resentment might serve her pur
pose hereafter, and had, accordingly,
s °me time before, addressed herself to
task of making a friend of the dis
content. She sought him at periods
a mum mumAk smmrn m mmww i. tm Ann mb mb m mumi* nysn.
when the eyes of Juan were withdrawn
Lom her. She sought him with an art
which none possess in any degree to
compare with her who has been tutor
ed in the camp of the Zingali. She
knew the habits of the Biscayan, could
rejoice his ear with songs and ballads
from the native province of Diego; arid
frequently, even when she sang before
V elasquez, she adroitly chose for her
themes such as were familiar to the
ears of the former. These still drew
him, loitering nigh, to listen, as he tra
versed the deck upon his midnight
watch. Gradually, the parties came to
speak together; and, by degrees just as
insensible as those by which she had
brought Juan do Svlva to believe in
her newly-born affections for himself,
she found her way into the confidence
of Linares tin - another purpose. She
fomented his hate for Juan; and, at
length, when sure of this future purpose
of the latter, she kindled the other’s
fears for the safety of Velasquez. It
would have been easy to a arouse Li
nares to such a degree of fury, as to
prompt him to rush upon and slay Ju
an, with the hope, subsequently, of jus
tifying himself before Velesquez; and
such was the wish of” Diego;—but the
more vigilant woman saw how futile
such a proceeding would be. know ing
how completely Juan was in the pos
sesion of his uncle’s confidence. Be
sides, of what use to her, in her desire
to rescue Lopez de Levy a, that Velas
quez should escape the design of his
nephew !
“No! no! good Diego,” she said to
the excited Biscayan—-‘this were only
to destroy thyself. Would Velasquez
believe either tin testimony, or mine,
against J nan de Sylva ! Thou might'st
si a) the one, but thouwould'st be sure
to perish from the fury of the other.”
”1 know r not. —the crew ! “
“Soft! I understand thee! It is well
that the men love thee. They should!
Thou, in truth, dost all the business of
the vessel—Velasquez incapable, and
Juan de Sylva no seaman, and, 1 trow,
but little of a soldier. Let then the
treachery advance which thou can’st
not arrest, save at thy own peril. It
may be that Juan will repent —that he
will not do the bloody deed which he
meditates. All then will be as before,
and our secret suspicions may sleep.
But, it will be enough that we should
keep proper watch, and if thou hast
friends in the vessel ”
Bhe paused.
“1 hey are all my friends—they care
nothing for Velasquez, now that he can
do nothing; and they hate the insolence
<*t‘ this Juan!”
“Good! —then there will only need,
if thou hast friends, that thou choose
from among them, so that tw o or three
of them may be ready with thyself to
avenge thy captain should he meet foul
play. Be ready, and I will counsel
thee should 1 see farther tokens of this
conspiracy.”
The Biscayan was not superior to the
inducements which she had adroitly
insinuated rather than expressed. lie
was made to behold, at the same
glance, his revenge obtained upon the
man who had subjected him to indigni
ty, and the promotion of his selfish for
tune-;.
VIII.
Maria had thus secured a second
agent, and made a large step toward
the attainment of her object. But the
days passed, and the nights followed,
and still nothing decisive, on the part
of Juan, tended to confirm the assur
ances w hich he had made to his wily
confederate. She became anxious and
apprehensive, particularly as the pas
sion of the youth seemed to be cooling
toward her. He was no longer com
municative —no longer sought her as
frequently as before. His manner was
now hesitating, his brow clouded, and
his whole appearance that of a man
who was brooding over wild suspicions.
But Maria was too much an adept to*
suffer her ow n anxieties to be percepti
ble, while she watched his with appre
hension. Her doubts put on the ap
pearance of womanly reserve, of dig
nified pride, of feminine sensibility, so
licitous to avoid exposure. But she
was equally studious not to forego the
exercise of any, the meanest of her at
tractions. Her dress was carefully
studied, and w ith the happiest effect;
and if her brow was clouded, it was
w ith sadness, the sweeter for the shade.
She sang too, —never with more ex
quisite freedom, or with more voluptu
ous sensibility, than when she sat alone,
in the darkness of night, upon the deck
of the slowly moving vessel. This
was the third night after the last inter
view, which we have described, with
Linares. She was suddenly joined by
Juan de Sylva. She knew of his ap
proach. but started with well feigned
surprise, as his whisper reached her
‘ears.
“ Thou hast thought me a laggard,
Maria.”
“ Nay, I have suffered no disappoint
ment. I had no hopes of thee, Juan!”
He was piqued.
“That was because thou did’st not
know me. But I have been busy in
mv task. It is not that lam irresolute
that lam slow. It is because 1 would
be sure. It is not known to thee, per
haps, that Velasquez hath valuable pos
sessions in Spain. These w ill serve us
hereafter, my Maria, when we shall tire
of the sea. I have secured the papers
which conduct to these. The key of
his coffers is at my girdle. And now, —
but, hark thee, —continue thy ballad.
It has beguiled his fancies, and he is
about to join us to be nearer thee.
There! His bell sounds. I will bring
him forth, and—dost thou heed me,
Maria?”
His hand trembled with with an icy
chillness, as he laid it upon her wrist.
Her own grew chilled with a sympa
thetic consciousness of what he de
signed.
“Thy song! Thy ballad!” he mut
tered convulsively as he left her, and,
almost unconscious of what she did,
she resumed, in accents that slightly
faltered, the ballad of “Belerma,” one
of her favourite songs, which she had
probably learned fiom a purer source
than that of the Zingali camp.
“Quando vio aquel corazon
Estando en el contemplado,
De nuevas gotas de eangre
Estaba todo banado.”
W hich may be thus freely rendered:
“ When the precious heart before her
Lay all open to her view',
As it conscious of her presence,
It began to bleed anew.”
Ihe voice ot \ elasquez—a voice that
had once been equally rich and power
ful—now feebly joined its accents with
hers, as he tottered forth from the ca
bin. supported on the arm of his ne
phew. and sank into si seat which had
been prepared beside her. Her tones
subsided into silence as he approached.
“Nay, stop not,” said he; “let me
hear thee—l come out only to hear
thee, for l feel not so well to-night—
not well, not happy, Maria mine. Thv
voice will persuade me to a better
spirit, though it sounds more sadly
than is thy wont to-night; and that
ballad—methinks, beauty mine, thou
would st never grieve over my heart,
as the lovely damsel, Belerma, mourn
ed over that of Durandarte.” And he
sang feebly—
“ Corazon de mi renor,
Durandarte muv preeiado,
En los amores diehoso,
Y en baiallas desdichado.”
She continued silent.
“Sing for me, Maria—deny me not;”
he said entreatingly. “ I know not that
1 shall ever ask it of thee again. I feel
as if a sentence had gone forth upon
me. 1 feel as if I had done thee w rong!
My heart tells me that 1 have wronged
thee. It thou wilt sing for me now. 1
know that thou forgivest me!”
“Thou should’stnot give way to such
fancies, uncle mine,” said the nephew;
“methinks, thou art looking better to
day than thou hast done for months
past; and know I not that thou hast al
ways been fond of Donna Maria, even
as the good knight, Durandarte, was
fond of the true maiden, Belerma.”
“ Ah! J uan, but Velasquez is no Du
randarte, to find his way to the heart
of a fair maiden. These days bring forth
no knighthood such as his. Who is it
walks behind us? Methought I heard
a footstep?”
“It is none but the page, Gomez,”
said the nephew, in somewhat hurried
accents.
A thrill ran through the veins of Ma
ria, as she remembered that the page,
Gomez, was the creature of Juan, and
the person who, as a spy upon her ac
tions, first discovered the strong inti
macy between herself and Lopez de
Levya. The tones of Juan betrayed
to her something of his purpose, and
she gathered from them the conclusion
that he meditated the performance of
his crime that very night. Her heart
smote her. She felt her own crimi
nality; but she loathed the tyranny of
Velasquez, as much as she did the cold
and cruel selfishness of Juan; and it
was only in the death of both that she
could possibly hope to extricate, from
his desolate condition, the unhappy
Lopez, whom, if she did not actually
love, she did not loathe, and for whom
every sentiment of humanity required
that she should suffer the bloody game
of Juan to go on. But she looked
round, at the inquiry of Velasquez, aid
while she detected Gomez near them,
she was also enabled to discover anoth
er and a taller form, among the sha
dows beyond him. In this person she
fancied she saw Linares, and suddenly
she commenced the Hymn to the Vir
gin, plaintive and touching, of the dying
knight, Baldwin:
“ O Santa Maria Senora,
No me quieras olvidar,
A ti encomiendo mi alma,
Plegate de la guardar,
En este trance muerte,
Esfuerzo me querais dar,
Pue3 ales tristes consuelas
Quieras a mi consolar.
Y a tu preciosa Hijo,
Por mi te plega rogar,
Que perdone mis pecados,
Mi alma quiera salvar.”
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, MAY 18. 1850.
\\ hich in an English idiom we may
render thus:
“ Holy Mary, thee beseeching,
Lo! my soul in anguish cries,
Take it to thy holy keeping,
Grant thy mercy ere it dies.
In the death-trance quickly sil king,
To thy throne for help I flee,
In my hour of terror drinking,
Consolation still from thee :
From thy precious son entreating,
Pardon for my past career ;
And the soul its doom awaiting,
Rescue from its mortal fear.”
IX.
She had two objects in choosing this
hymn. It was the appropriate chant
of Velasquez—equally for his lips and
ears—at that moment of his impend
ing peril; and she cherished the human
hope that, as in the previous song, he
would join his voice with hers, and thus
utter the proper prayer to Heaven,
just when it would most become his
lips. Her quick instincts led her also
to believe that Linares would receive
it as an intimation that the time was
approaching when it would be necessa
ry for him also to act. But Velasquez
took no part in the Hymn. His head
sank upon his breast as she proceeded,
and he seemed to drowse.
“ Dost thou sleep, uncle?” demanded
Juan.
He looked up when addressed, and,
in the imperfect light, it could be seen
that the eyes of the invalid were full
of tears.
“The Hymn saddens though it
soothes me, Maria. Why didst thou
choose it? Tet 1 blame thee not. 1
would 1 could sing it with thee. 1
strove, but the voice failed me, and my
heart felt strange as if w ith a sudden
sinking. I remember me to have heard
that Hymn, the last night that 1 slept
in the dwelling of my poor mother,
Juanita. 1 was innocent then! I was
a lad! There was a woman who was
blind, — they called her Dolores, —
she sang it often beneath our windows,
but I did not w r eep to hear it then as 1
do now. et I remember it well. 1
knew the ballad all by heart, and could
have sang it with her; but l had wilder
fancies, and 1 mocked the tenderness of
her Hymn with a gay ballad of some
bolder spirit, i could not mock her
now r . Thy voice hath soothed me, Ma
ria, but sing to me no more to-night.
I feel as I would sleep. Juan, give me
thy arm.”
The nephew started to his feet. Ma
ria would have offered an arm also, but
Juan repulsed her.
“ Not thine!” he answered, in accents
not so low but that Velasquez heard
them.
“And why not hers, Juan?”
“She lacks the strength! Here is
Gomez.”
“Maria lack the strength! Is she
not well, Juan! or am I so much fee
bler than before? It must lie so! 1
feel it so! Well! Give me help!
Gomez be it, then.”
A cold sweat covered the face and
forehead of Mania de Pacheco, as she
beheld the officious Gomez start for
ward at the summons of Juan. She
saw Velasquez grasped by them, as if
for support, on either side. The w ords
of the latter—
“ It is very dark—go'st thou rightly
Juan?—rushed through her very brain
with a dreadful import, the more terri
ble and startling, as, having herself re
ceded toward the cabin, she did not see
them approach. Then she was con
scious that someone stood beside her.
It was Linares, followed by another.
She grasped his arm.
“Now! now! Linares!—lt is doing!
Hence! Quick! God have mercy!”
A plunge, and a most piercing shriek,
were heard while she was speaking.
Linares started forward. There was a
sudden uproar in the ship. The alarm
was given, and the men were running
to and fro, while a crowd gathered on
the side w here the deed had been done.
Another scream from the waters—a
scream of agony—a cry for help, and
then the stern accents of Linares pre
vailed over all others.
“Murderer of thy uncle, —bloodv
traitor, —I have caught thee in the act!”
“Away!” cried Juan de Sylva,—
“and to thy duties. Behold in me thy
captain!”
“Never!” was theory from the crew.
“Diego Linares!”
‘‘The heavy hand of Linares was
upon the shoulder of the culprit. His
confederate Gomez was in the grasp of
an equally powerful assailant. The
proceeding had been too well devised —
the action too prompt—to suffer the
cunning Juan to escape by any subtle
ties. and he was already given to un
derstand that the fate to which he was
doomed, was that to w hich his uncle
had been already consigned. In the
suddenly aroused sense of danger which
he felt, his impulse was to call for
Donna Maria.
“She is here!” cried Linares.
‘1 he proud woman had recovered all
her strength of soul and courage, and
the conviction that the hateful and ma
lignant spirit whom she had once fear-
ed. was now wholly in her power, she
felt an exulting sense of pleasure in be
ing able to discard the veil of hypocrisy
which she had so successfully worn.—
She steadily advanced towards towards
the clamourous group.
“Speak for me, Maria;’ exclaimed
the captive—“tell these men, —say to
Linares, that, in what I have done, 1
have but obeyed thy wishes!”
“As if my wishes should suffice to
move the loving nephew to the murder
of his first friend, and most loving un
cle!”
“Demonios! do I hear thee, woman!”
He was grappled instantly and firm
ly bv the vigorous Linares. A dozen
willing hands were nigh to help him in
the fearful deed which he designed.
“Must 1 perish! Has my toil of
blood been taken for such as these!
Maria, dost thou indeed desert me!
Speak! cried the desperate man—
“ Speak! thou knewest my purpose—
thou did-:t not disclaim my deed!”
“1 know thee as a felon and a fiend—
as one whom I loathe and scorn! Li
nares. trust him not! lie who would
keep no terms with one so confiding as
his mother s brother, will keep no terms
with thee. \\ hat said Ito thee before?
Do thy duty to thyself and me! lie
venge \ e!asquez, thy captain, recover
the wretched Lopez de Levya from the
isle where he was put to perish, and be
the master of thy ship and crew !”
“This then was thy scheme! De
monios! that 1 should have been blind
ed by this woman’s subtleties!”
“ r lhou wast the victim to thy own
\ unities—thy own quickness to crime—
thy own coldness of heart!” said the
proud Maria.
“Oh! tongue of the serpent! dost
thou sting me thus! But thou exultest
too soon. Think’st thou that 1 have
lived for such fate as this! with this
wealth at my girdle—with so much of
life in my possession—shall 1 lose life?
No! of! there, ye base scum and offal—
off! 1 e shall hang for this like dogs—
-1 will!—”
His own terrible struggles arrested
his words, by w Inch they had been
stimulated. lie had much to live for,
and the unwilling spirit of youth was
not to be resigned so easily to the sa
crifice of those delights, for which he
had paid such heavy price. His strength
which was not ordinarily great, was
that of desperation at the moment. —
He fought with wonderful spirit and
address, and it tasked three stout sea
men so to recover the mastery over
him, as to lift him to the side of the
vessel to which the feeble uncle had
been beguiled, and over which he had
been suddenly thrown. Brought to
the verge of the precipice, he succeeded
in forcing himself back, so that his
head only hung over the bulwarks.—
Suddenly, however, the weight of the
powertul Linares was thrown upon
him; and the crack of the neck, as it
was thrust down upon the sharp and
narrow thwarts, could have been heard
even above the spasmodic gurgle and
horse scream of the victim, by which
it was accompanied. The still quiver
ing carcass which they committed to
the deep, was no longer conscious of its
fate. A second plunge declared the
doom of the page Gomez, whose cries
had been silenced by the stroke es a
dagger, while his master’s death strug
gles were most violent. Deep and
drearv was the silence which followed
*/
on board the vessel. The rage of all
parties was satisfied, and a certain, but
indescribable fear was upon every heart.
But none of the fruits of the struggle
had been lost. A single hour had in
effect rendered Maria de Pacheco, as
had been promised by Juan de Sylva,
the Mistress of the Dian de Burgos.
A single sentence to Diego Linares de
clared the present destination of the
vessel.
“ The Maroon —Lopez de Levya!”
She was obeyed; the ship was brought
about, and her prow turned once more
in the direction of the desolate Isle of
Lovers.
Let us now return to our “ Maroon.”
Three days upon his desolate island
did not materially lessen its terrors, or
increase its attractions, in the eyes of
Lopez de Levya. He still shuddered,
not less at its fanciful and unknown
dangers, than at his isolation among
them. But the necessity of looking
about him—of looking upward, indeed,
—of feeling himself in motion, and re
alizing, as thoroughly as he could, the
sense of life, as well its consciousness
of suffering,—led him, at the end of
this period, to make an effort, which,
in his previous feeling of despair, he
had never thought it possible he should
make again. The nature, even of the
constitutionally timid man, does not
easily suceomb to fortune—does not
usually,—except, perhaps, in the first
moment of overthrow, yield itself sub
missively to fate. The first moment
of weariness which succeeds the con
test, is, perhaps, the one of greatest
prostration ; and, after that, the recu
perative energies arouse themselves,
and the sufferer, together. The very
sense of abandonment is usuall y one of
awakening and new resolve. This is
one of the marked characteristics of the
human nature. Indeed, the natural
impulse of every free moral agent is
resistance. To oppose, to struggle
farther, —to contend to the last, and
even where consciousness of the conflict
itself fails.—is one of the earliest, as it
is one of the most necessary develop
ments, of the moral instinct. Com
bativeness, indeed, is one of the most
important of our moral qualities. It
is one which. —arguing always the pre
sence of a great and pressing necessity,
—is, at the same time, continually
counselling the means by which to con
tend against it.
Lopez de Levy a, though feeble, was
not entirely wanting in the natural in
stinct ; and, armed with the Spanish
crossbow, and the shafts which had
been accorded him—a spear, a knife,
and one or two other implements of
use and necessity, which might, in the
event of exigency, be converted into
v> capons—he now proceeded to explore
his empire. A sense of his possessions
was also rapidly beginning to make it
self felt in his reasonings. That de
lightful human instinct which, in the
consciousness of sway, reconciles us so
readily to all its dangers, was about to
contribute its assistance toward com
forting our Maroon in his desolation,
lie was indeed a sovereign, though he
commanded no subjects. Yet, the wild
fowl which sped along the shore before
his footsteps, or sprang aloft, wheeling
in slow gyrations overhead, as he drew
nigh their coverts, might be made to
feel his authority as well as to minister
to his wants. He could persecute, pun
ish and destroy them, quite as certain
ly, and certainly with less danger to
himself, than if they were of his own
species; and a sense of fierce delight
at this conscionsness of his power
to do mischief, was grateful to his
heart, as it always is to that of the be
ing who is himself peculiarly sensible
to the influences of fear. lie was be
ginning to regard with complacency a
condition from which there was no
escape. A t housand years might elapse,
a Yclasquex had malignantly assured
him, without suffering the prows of any
European vessel to approach so nearly
to his islet as to discover the existence
of its lone possessor. He must make
the most of that existence. He must
hoard, must economize his resources,
as well of thought and enjoyment, as
of covering and food. He must not
destroy his subjects simply to exercise
his authority. His power must be
sparingly indulged for his own sake and
safety. He laid aside his guitar with
care and tenderness, protecting it from
hurt and exposure,by hanging it beneath
the friendly palm trees where he had
passed the night. In the first parox
ysm of his despair and madness, con
scious that this dangerous but delight
ful instrument was connected with his
present sufferings, he was about to
dash it upon the bleak sands and tram
ple it under foot, or cast it from him
into the engulphing and surrounding
sea. He knew not, himself, why he
forebore to do so. Some tender re
collection in his thought procured its
safety ; —some conviction that it might
minister to him in his wretched exile;
—and the desperate passion which
might have destroyed it, —was restrain
ed. Yet bitter were the tears that he
shed over it, as, arousing from the
swoon that followed the departure of
the vessel from his eyes, he found the
cruel memorial still about his neck,
where it had been hung by the mock
ing hands of his enemy. With the
subdued temper that followed the first
feeling of his despair, the instrument
became doubly precious, as it not only
spoke of future solace, but reminded
him of former enjoyments. It consti
tuted one of the few moral links which
connected him still with the great fam
ily of man. He lacked the courage to
part with any of his treasures, and the
care with which lie secreted his favour
ite instrument beneath the palm trees,
was that of the tender mother, who
leaves her infant for a while, solicitous
of its comfort even while she has no
fears for its safety; and sometimes
looking back, not with any hope to
see, but that her eyes involuntarily
yield themselves to the course indica
bv her heart.
This charge disposed of, Lopez de
Levya grasped his spear with as much
martial dignity as he could command.
He felt for his knife at his girdle, he
slung the crossbow over his shoulder,
and. ready for any event, he sallied
forth to explore his empire. But though
his territory was a small one, such as
an adventurous spirit would have tra
versed wholly, und surveyed thorough
ly, in the course of a single day, our
M; iroon was quite too timid, too cau
tious in his footsteps, not to make it a
work of longer time. Several days
were necessary to his examination.—
He proceeded slowly, and winding
heedfully about, and probing every
copse before he penetrated it, he first
THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 3 WHOLE NO. 103.
assured himself against any possible
danger from secret foes, before he made
his search satisfactory'. His domain
was equally ample and compact; not
wanting in variety, but having its ele
vations of rock, and its valley of ver
dure and its long wastes and stretches
of sand, in a comparatively close com
pass. The islet was not, as it had been
thought by Velasquez, a mere series of
sand hills, raised up by the sea 1 the
creation of its own contending billows.
It was a solid rock, whose gradual as
cent, nowhere rising into more than a
very gentle elevation, admitted of the
easy accumulation of sand and soil,
which, in process of time, had, in vari
ous places, received a covering of very
green and beautiful vegetation. The
shrubbery was rather close than lofty.
Among the trees were the plantain, the
cocoanut, the breadfruit and the ba
nana. r lhe pine apple grew in gold
and purple, unobserved by man; and
slender vines, which shot out from the
7 _ i
knotted and ancient bulbs, from cre
vices of the rock, ran wantonly over
the sides of sudden hillocks, which they
garnished with blue clusters of the
grape. Verily, our musician had an
empire in truth. Velasquez little
dreamed of the treasure he had given
away in his malice. The sterile islet
was a principality of fairy land, and
Lopez de Levya grew more and more
reconciled to life as he beheld the
wealth which lay scattered around him.
Ilis possessions were beyond his wants.
Nature had made ample provision, and
millions might have been found, among
the needy and oppressed children of
Europe, to whom a life of exile and
isolation in such an abode, would have
been the most acceptable boon of hea
ven. Nor were these vegetable pos
sessions all that came to Lopez with
his empire. Tribes of small wild ani
mals wantoned before his footsteps,
scarcely seeming to fear his presence;
and the nimble little marmozet of the
tropics, with a petty, playful mischief,
darting before him as he came, would
fling the nuts from the tree tops, and
chatter, in equal fun and defiance, at his
sovereign authority. Our “Maroon”
began to grow interested in his posses
sions, and fate soon conducted him to
other discoveries. His island, stretch
ing away from north to south, was ex
ceedingly long in proportion to its
width. He had been landed at the
northern extremity, at which point it
had been impossible to conceive its di
mensions, except from its width, and
this had led to conclusions which gave j
no reason to suppose its extent to be
half so great as Lopez found it. At
the close of the third day of his explo
rations, lie had nearly reached its south
ern extremity. He had found the land
gradually to rise as he advanced, until,
toward the close, taken in comparison
with the uniform level of the sand and
sea surrounding the spot to which he
approached, and by which the island
was terminated in this quarter, he dis
covered w hat might be considered a
moderate mountain. It was certainly
a large and imposing hill, seen from the
low shores or the waters which sur
rounded them. Here, too, the groves
thickened into something like a forest.
Heated by his ramble, and somewhat
fatigued, as the day was wearing to its
close, he passed gladly for shelter into
the shady recesses of its heights. He
soon found himself in one of the cool
est realms of shade which he had ever
traversed. A natural pathway, as it
seemed, conducted him forward.—
Gradually advancing, he at length
emerged from the thicket only to stand !
upon the brow of a rugged eminence
which rose, almost perpendicularly,
overlooking the sea. A small flat of
sandy beach lay at his feet, which was
evidently subject to overflow at the
rising of the tide. Not half a mile be
yond could be seen a small cluster of
little rocks, just peering above the sea,
scarcely bigger, it w ould seem, than so
many human heads, which the waves
covered at high water. Between them
he could distinguish the boiling and
striving of the billows, which sent up
a sheeted shower far above the rocks
with which they* strove. Long lines,
stretching from several points and los
ing themselves among these rocks, be
trayed the course of strong currents
which w r ere caused by the capricious
whirlpools that lay within their em
brace. The eye of Lopez took in all
these objects, but they did not bound
his survey. Stretching far beyond. —
did he only fancy, or did he really be
hold a slender dark speck which might
be the outline of a shore corresponding
w ich that on which he stood ?—miles of
ocean lay between them, but in that
unclouded realm of sunshine and of
calm, objects might be seen from an
eminence, such as that on which he
stood, at a surprising distance. It was
only in glimpses now that he beheld, or
fancied, the object in his gaze. Some
; times it would utterly disappear, —but
this might be from the continued and
eager tension of his vision; —again
; would it grow out boldly beneath his
j eyes; —but this might be in obe-
dience only to the desires of hi:
mind. Long and feverishly did he
watch, and many were his conjectures
as to the distant empire which his hope
or his sight had conjured up. He tumeo
away, and his glances rested upon thr
smooth plane of yellow sand beneath
his feet, which lay, inviting to his tread,
glinting a thousand fires trom bits oi
crystal, which reflected the now r waning
sun-light. To this little esplanade
which looked so exceedingly inviting
our “Maroon” was persuaded to de
scend from his heights, by finding a
convenient series Os rude steps, which
wound below —little gaps in the hill
side, or fractures in the naked rock,
which one might almost be tempted to
imagine,—so admirable was the assist
ance which they gave to the anxious
footsteps, —had been the work of art.
Following these, Lopez descended to
the hard and sandy floor, and standing
in the shadow of the rock, he once
more looked forth eagerly upon the
doubtful waste of sea. There still lay
the empire of his desire. It was along
and over those billows that he was yet
to see the glimmer of a saving hope.
Such was still his dream, and, seating
himself upon the sand, he inscribed al
most unconsciously the names of Spain,
of the Dian de Burgos, and of the
lowly hamlet in his own country, from
which he had been persuaded regret
fully to wander. Then followed rude
outlines of the ship which had abandon
ed him, and then, naturally enough, a
portrait, something less rude, of the
fair but passionate woman, for whose
fatal love, he was suffering the dreadful
doom of exile and isolation. His own
name was written,but as quickly oblite
rated, and musing over the melancholy’
record, his heart failed him, and he
sunk forward, prone, upon the faint
memorials which the rising waters
would soon wash away forever. Thus
he lay, moaning, for many weary min
utes. till, all at once, a coldness fell
upon him which chilled him to the
heart, and aroused him to more imme
diate apprehensions. The shadow of
the hill beneath which he hiy’ was upon
him. The sun w r as slowly receding
from the heights. Startling tohisfeet,he
turned to reascend the hill, and recoiled
with a feeling little short of horror, as
he beheld the huge mouth of a cavern
yawning directly upon him. This cav
ern was open to the sea. Its waters,
at their rising, passing the little stretch
of sand upon which he had lain, glided
into the dim hollow, which now looked,
grimly threatening, upon the easily
alarmed spectator. The opening was
not a very large one, but would easily
admit of the passage of three or more
persons at a time. Its lips were cover
ed with a soft and beautiful clothing of
green moss which made the darkness
within seem yet more dismal. Long
grasses, and thick shrubs and vines
hanging over from above, contributed
to increase the solemnity of its aspect,
as showing the depth and certainty of
its solitude; and the deep silence which
prevailed within, added still more great
ly to the impressive influence with
which it possessed the soul of the “Ma
roon.” while he timidly yet eagerly
gazed upon the opening. At the first
discovery of this domain of solemnity
and silence, he receded almost to the
sea. Tic was not encouraged by the
stillness. A voice from within, theory
of a beast, the rush of a bird s wing—
had been more encouraging. His ad
vance was very gradual,—but he did
advance, his doubts being much less
easy of endurance than the absolute
presence ot a real cause; of apprehen
sion. \V ith trembling nerves he pre
sented his spear, and got his knife in
readiness. The spear was thrust deep
into the throat of the cavern, but it pro
voked no disquiet within. Then, his
hair erecting itself, and his heart rising
in his throat as he advanced, he, at
length, fairly made his way into the
subterranean dwelling. There heshout
ed, and the sounds came rolling back
upon him trom so many hollow voices
within, that he once more recoiled from
the adventure, and hurried back in ter
ror to the entrance.
(Continued in our next.)
Professional Acumen. —Dr. F.,
after getting home highly primed from
a dinner party, was called out to see a
lady, dangerously ill. “So,” said the
Doctor to his man, “In Jove, 1 can’t
go at all; il 1 do, you must lead me.’
He was led to a room where the patient
lay stretched upon her bed. The doctor
got fast hold of a bed-post with one
hand, and with the other seized the
lady’s wrist: but, alas! all attempts to
note the pulsation were vain, and he
could only mumble out, “Drunk, by
Jove, drunk!” “Ah, madam,” cried
the Abigail, as soon as the physician
had staggered out, “ what a wonderful
man! How soon he discovered what
was the matter with you!”
Course of Time. —Like an inunda
tion ot the Indus is the course of time.
\\ e look for the homes of our child
hood —they are gone; for the friends
of our childhood.—they are gone. The.
loves and animosities of youth, where
are they? Swept away like the camps
that had been pitched in the sandy bed
of the river.