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For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TIIE BROKEN BOLT.
••James, the royal poet of Scotland, perished
tie victim of a villainous conspiracy. It was
j n resisting the approach of his assassins, that
[l lr noble Catherine Douglas thrust her arm in
to the bolt-rings of the door, and kept it thus
fastened, until the brutal murderers broke the
bone.”
She stood within dark, frowning walls,
Beside her prisoned king,
Proudly, as when her beauty’s power,
Was felt in courtly ring.
Minstrel and bard, in burning verse,
To thrilling harp had sung ;
And the lofty, bannered hall,
To her high praise had rung.
A burning light was in her eye,
A glory on her cheek ;
Within her soul, a purpose high—
Too high for words to speak.
But shone the glory of its spell,
O’er her beauty, pure and warm ;
It nerved to deeds of daring bold,
That young and fragile form.
Li.-t! list! the words that part her lips !
Like inspiration given
To priestess of some shrine of old—
Interpretess of Heaven:
■•Gird up thy strength, my noble Leige,
And rouse thy courage high ;
Nor let thy princely heart grow faint,
Nor shadow dim thine eye ;
Though trait’rous lords, who owe thee faith,
Are false to holiest trust,
And seek to lay thy regal head,
Dishonor’d in the dust!
Brave hearts are gathered round thee here,
Though few their number be :
And the mighty King of Kings,
Serenely smiles on thee.
Shame ! hitter shame ! and deepest scorn,
Shail the false hearts pursue !
While mercy beams from yonder heaven
For suffering souls and true.
They come ! They come ! Their brows are
dark.
With rage and passion deep ;
And hurrying tread and angry oath,
Their fearful purpose speak !
No craven cowards shall they find,
Within our prison-hold:
Thus may a maid of Douglas blood,
Shew forth our spirit bold !”
With bearing meet for royal dame,
Siie trod the dungeon floor,
And thust her fair and rounded arm
Within the grated door.
And, with a face like marble white,
Yet firm as is the rock,
She turned, and said, in calmest tone,
“ ’Twill answer for a lock
Alas! Her feeble arm saved not,
The king, for whom she bled :
The bolt so fair, was rudely broke,
His blood was coldly shed !
And yet, not all in vain she stood,
Sublimely there to die,
In ihe glorious flush of youth,
Martyr for royalty.
For noble hearts, through coming time,
Shall beat more brave and high,
At thought of the heroic maid,
For Right so glad to die.
Down Beauty’s cheek shall steal the tear,
That purifies the soul, —
And self, —that never died for Love, —
Yield to its soft control.
ROSE DU SUD.
<Jctobtr ath , 1850.
flit Start; Ctlltr.
From the London Family Herald.
ALICE;
OR THE RESCUE.
CHAPTER I.
“ Whither do you ride to-day, my
dear said Mrs. Florence to her
daughter, as the latter, attired in a hand
s"ine equestrian dress, entered the par
lour.
“ 1 don’t know, mamma —just where
the fancy of the moment takes me,
replied the daughter, stooping to kiss
her mother’s forehead, and then pro
ceeding to arrange her riding hat before
the mirror.
■’ Do not go far, my child. I never
see you venture out thus alone without
a presentiment that something is to hap
pen.”
“ But you have so many presenti
ments, and all to no purpose,” gaily
replied her daughter, “that 1 think we
‘■an afford to disregard them by this
time. Vet, mamma,” she said, ap
pioaching her parent again, and throw
if'g a fair arm fondly around her neck,
” if it really alarms you, 1 will give up
riding.
1 he widowed mother looked up fond
ly at her beautiful child, and kissing
her. said, “ No, no, Alice, you shall not
deprive yourself of almost the sole
pleasure left you. Pursue your daily
rides. In this primitive district, so far
removed from the high roads of com
merce, there can be no real peril in ri
ding out unattended ; it is an idle, fool
i'h tear on my part; only as you were
always accustomed in your dear father’s
|il' y to have a servant when you rode,
it seems odd to see you now without
otle , that is all ; 1 dare say I shall soon
m t accustomed to it, as to other sacri
fices.”
N ever think of it as a sacrifice again,
‘minima,” replied the beautiful girl. —
•Nothing is a sacrifice to me, while I
l |;lv e you left.”
” Rod bless you, Alice,” answerer
the mother. “I am glad that, notwith
anding our reverses, you can still keep
}mir beautiful Arab.”
Alice for reply put her arm around
l”; 1 ’ mother’s waist, and drew her to the
‘Widow. A superb white steed ready
’ Po isoned, and held by the sole male
•' 1 vant of the establishment, who of
i,( iuted as groom and gardener both,
stood pawing the earth in front of the
Cottage.
“is he not beautiful 1” said Alice,
i fMiii iosaiMi. wwmo w utsmtobe. me sm mb aims, mb to mm&i iht&mms.
enthusiastically. “I do believe, dear
mamma, that, next to you, I love Arab
better than anything on earth. How
fleetly he carries me! llow boldly
we leap the ditches and fences in our
way ! Oh ! mamma, there is nothing
so exhilarating as to gallop over the
hills on a bracing October morning like
this, and as you r ach each new accliv
ity, catch a taste of the sea-breeze that
drifts far inland, when the wind, as now,
is from the east; and then to pull up
on some lofty height, and see glimpses
of the ocean away in the distance, with
perchance a sail whitening its dark green
bosom. Nothing, nothing makes the
blood so dance in the veins, or fills the
heart with equal exultation !”
The parent looked up admiringly at
her child as the latter thus spoke ; and
indeed others, less favourably preju
diced might have done the same. —
Alice was one of those tall, aristocratic
looking creatures, who, notwithstanding
a certain slimness, realise, perhaps, the
highest idea of female beauty. Her
figure was of the lordly Norman type,
and perfect in its proportions; while
every movement was graceful, yet dig
nified. Her face was of that almost
divine beauty which we see in the Be
atrice Cenci of Guido. The same daz
zling complexion, the same blue eyes,
the same golden hair; but combined
with these also the same air of high re
solve and almost masculine courage
chiselled about the lines of the brow
and mouth. Her countenance, always
lovely, was now t.ranscendantly beauti
ful, for it glowed with enthusiasm.
Her mother, we have said, looked up
at her fondly. Mrs. Florence, the
widow of a Boston merchant, supposed
to be a millioniare while living, but
whose estate after his death scarcely
yielded a surplus sufficient to allbrd his
wife and only child a bare subsistence,
was a woman of a loving, tender heart,
but without any of that masculine
strength of character which Alice in
herited from her father. But for Alice
the widow would have broken down
under the loss of a dearly-loved hus
band and the unexpected revulsion of
fortune. It was Alice who comforted
the despairing Mrs. Florence; who
planned their removal to the economi
cal district where they now lived; and
who, by constantly* denying herself a
thousand little accustomed luxuries,
managed to make their scanty income
suffice for their support. The widowed
mother not only loved her as a daugh
ter, but looked up to her unconsciously
as an adviser.
“ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Flor
ence, with a sigh, “ if you enjoy your
rides—that is all! But lam sure 1 had
rather be sitting here, looking at my
flowers, than galloping over the finest
country in the world. But you are
just like your dear father, who was the
boldest and most graceful rider of his
day.”
“ Good bye, mamma,” said Alice
laughingly ; “if 1 stay to hear myself
praised, 1 shall be spoiled.” With these
words she broke from her parent, left
the apartment, and was seen the next
moment running lightly down the steps,
daintily holding her riding-skirt up with
her small, but heavily-gloved hand.—
With the nimbleness of a deer she
vaulted into the saddle, gathering up
the reins with a firm hand, and nodding
a gay adieu to her mother, was off’, her
spirited steed scattering the gravel
right and left from beneath his hoofs.
“ Dear child,” said her mother, thus
left alone, “ may heaven protect thee !
Yet it sometimes seems,” she added,
with a sigh, “as if 1 were destined to
lose my Alice. I love her too much
to keep her with me. And yet, oh!
Father in Heaven,” she continued, lift
ing her eyes, now dimmed with tears
“ spare Thou this, my only comfort on
earth; temper the wind to the shorn
lamb, and leave me something for which
to hope!”
CHAPTER 11.
A succession of inviting views, one
following another as hill after hill was
surmounted, had lured Alice on, until,
on reaching a lofty elevation, ahe was
surprised to see an unknown view of
the ocean rolling in at her feet. For
the first time since she set out she be
came aware how far she had gone. She
drew forth her delicate little watch, one
of the few relics of better days which
she had retained, and was surprised to
:ind that nearly three hours had elapsed
since she left home. The country about
her was entirely strange to her. Never
before had she protracted her ride so
far. She had not intended to be absent
three hours in all, and she began imme
diately to reproach herself, for she knew
that long before she could return, her
mother would be alarmed at her pro
longed delay.
Just then a young lad driving a
waggon appeared in sight. She accost
ed him, and asked the distance toB ,
in whose suberbs her mother’s cottage
was located. The boy answered that
the distance, by the high road, was
twenty miles.
“ Twenty miles !” said Alice, in
despair. “ Surely there mast be some
shorter road ?”
“-Oh, yes, ma’m, there Is,” replied
the lad, “to them as goes by the beach,
it saves a matter of six miles.”
“ And how do you reach the beach?”
asked Alice.
“ You turn off at the double house
yonder, and keep down the lane till
you come out on the shore ; then, fol
low the beach as far as you can —it is
three miles or so —when you will reach
the high road again, just by Wallington
Church.”
“ Thank you,” cried Alice, too eager
to get home to stop for further explana
tions ; and, as she spoke, she gave her
t irited steed a cut with the riding-whip,
which made him spring almost from
under her. The next instant she was
galloping towards the lane that led to
he sea-shore. The lad looked after her
in stupid wonder; he had never seen
anything half so beautiful or brave. —
“1 reckon,” he cried, “that’s one of the
circus riders, from Bosting, that Jim
talks about.”
The morning had been very clear,
though the atmosphere, for more than
twenty-four hours, had foreboded a
storm. A bracing, north-east wind had
been blowing the preceding night, as
well as all day, and had been steadily
increasing. Alice had not noticed this,
however, until she drew up to speak to
the boy. As she turned to descend to
wards the ocean, the screen of woods
and hills that had hitherto protected
her was suddenly removed, and the
violence of the gale almost took her hat
from her head. She cared little for
this, however, but stooped forward to
breast the tempest, and dashed rapidly
down the hill, knowing that her course,
when she once reached the beach, would
bring the wind on her back. She
scarcely looked up until her horse’s
hoofs, ceased to clattsr on the rocky
descent, struck the firm smooth sand
of the beach; but when she did, and
for the first time gazed seaward, she
could scarcely restrain a cry of alarm,
courageous as she was.
Low, leaden-coloured clouds driving
rapidly in from the eastward, had com
pletely shut out the sunshine, and in
volved the entire scene in gloom. Be
neath this foreboding sky the wild
waves were trooping onward towards
the beach, mountain-high, and every
where whitened with foam. Still, after
a moment’s reflection, Alice saw noth
ing to fear. The lad knew the country
well, as his words showed, and he would
not have recommended this road to her
if there had been danger. And how
could there be danger ? She might get
wet, if came on to rain, but that was
all; and, to recompense for this, what
was more glorious than the sight of the
ocean iu a storm ? These were her
hasty reflections, as she drew in her
rein, and hesitated ; then, urging on her
steed, she started for a gallop along the
beach.
For a mile she maintained an un
broken pace. The smooth road under
foot, the breeze that would have been
too sharp for anything but a gallop, and
the roar of the tremendous surf that
broke beside her, gave a wild exhilara
tion to the spirits of the bold rider,
which all can comprehend who have
been, like her, on horseback, amid the
raging of the elements. On, on she
dashed, her veil flying behind her, her
cheek flushed with excitement. Sud
denly a jutting rock presented itself, to
the foot of which the billows nearly
approached. She did not hesitate.—
Something told her that a clear road
lay beyond ; and, with a word of en
couragement to her half-affrighted lmrse,
she dashed through the waves wetting
the hoofs of the smoking steed.
She was not mistaken. The cliff she
had just passed formed the southern
end oi a deep noTsesnoe-itß'e uiueniu
tion of the coast; and now a wide,
evel beach, about two miles in extent,
opened before her. This beach was
terminated, at its northern extremity,
by a high rock, that rose like a wall
more than two hundred feet above the
sands. Alice’s first look, after she had
scanned the beach, was at this cliff, to
see if the road beneath was passable.
To her joy she beheld a long stretch of
sand, with boulders scattered here and
there between the foot of the rock and
the sea ; and on a second scrutiny, she
saw a plainly defined water-mark,traced
by the sea-weed by the last tide,at least
three hundred feet distant from the
precipice.
“ Now, Arab,” she said, exultingly,
at this sight, “fly, fly my brave friend,
and we shall be home before the din
ner-hour after all. Behind yonder pro
montory lies the spire of Wallington,
and from thence it is scarcely an hour’s
gallop to the cottage.”
The noble animal seemed to under
stand her, and to have participated both
in her momentary fear, and in her pres
ent joy ; he spurned the sand with his
rapid hoofs, and fairly flew along his
path.
Half the distance had already been
traversed, when Alice, who had been
watching in proud admiration the scud
whitening the ocean everywhere, turned
her glance towards the promontory. —
What was her horror to behold the wa
ter-mark already obliterated by the ad
vancing tide, which boiled and foamed
around the huge boulders now fast dis
appearing ! She had forgotten to esti
mate the influence of the gale in throw
ing in an unusually high surf, as also
to reflect that, as the beach was com
paratively level, a very small rise in
the tide would submerge it; but both
these things now rushed upon her
mind, and, brave as she was, she turn
ed pale with terror, as she checked her
horse.
“ What is to be’done?” she cried
aloud, involuntarily. “At the rate at
which the tide is coming in, the foot of
the promontory will he impassable by
the time I reach it. I will retrace my
steps,” she said, with instant decision ;
“that is my only chance.”
She turned her horse’s head as she
spoke, but what was her dismay when
she beheld the road by the southern
promontory already buried in the wild
waters, that breaking at its foot, threw’
the spray half way up the precipitous
ascent. Escape, by either way, she
saw wasimpossible. The reins dropped
from her hands, which she clasped to
her face,
“Oh ! mother, mother,” she cried,
“who shall break to you the tidings ?
Who shall dare carry my drowned
corpse to your door, even if the ocean
should cast it ashore?”
But it was not in the nature of Alice
to submit silently to death, while even
a ray of hope remained. The promon
tory ahead was yet unreached by the
waters, and, if she spared no time in
pushing forward, it might not be en
tirely impassable. Even though the
tide should be at its base, Arab could
swim, and a bold rider might force him
through. At any rate this was the on
ly prospect of escape. Blaming her
self for her momentary halt, by which
precious moments had been lost, she
urged her faithful animal to his utmost
speed. Arab darted forward like a gull
shooting down the wind, and Alice, with
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, OCT. 19, 1850.
pale cheeks and compressed lips, await
ed the result.
Swifter and swifter the gallant steed
swept over the sands ; but nearer and
wilder came the advancing tide to the
foot of the ciiff. Alice saw, with breath
less horror, that the waves would cover
the path before she could reach it; but
nevertheless she pressed on with the
high resolve of a courageous heart, that
does its utmost even in moments of des
pair. The critical point was still more
than two hundred yards distant, when
a tremendous breaker hurled itself
against the base of the cliff, flinging its
white, cold spray up the face of the
rock as high as the yard arm of a first
rate man-of-war. Another and another
wave followed, submerging the sands
entirely, and half-burying even those of
the boulders that lay close in by the
cliff'. Yet still Alice urged on her steed.
Snorting wildly, Arab would have
shrunk back, but his mistress, encour
aging him with her voice, pushed him
at the pass. A breaker had just spent
itself, and was receding; she thought
this a favourable moment,and she struck
her steed sharply with her whip. He
sprang forward gallantly, and had al
ready passed what she thought the crit
ical point, when, to her despair, she
saw that the waters bathed the feet of
the cliff for at least fifty yards farther
on.
Her hopes sank within her. She felt
the blood coursing back to her heart,
and her heart itself seemed to cease
beating. A chill of horror overcame
all her nerves ; yet mechanically she
urged Arab forward. A second break
er, however, thundering in at this mo
ment almost swept the faithful animal
from his feet, and nearly flung Alice
from the saddle, her hat falling off’in
the concussion. No longer able to
keep her seat unassisted, she grasped
the neck of her steed mechanically with
her right hand, while, with distended
eyes, she gazed on a third billow that
was now roaring towards her. On came
this mountainous wave, towering, tow
ermg, towering, until its dark and glis
tening front rose almost perpendicular
ly overhead. Alice was breathless
with horror. Suddenly a speck of foam
appeared at one extremity of this long
wall of water; it ran swiftly along the
top, curling over as it advanced, and
then with a roar as of a hundred bat
teries the huge mass plunged headlong,
burying steed and rider from sight in
a whirlwind of foam. A wild, shrill
scream of a woman, lost in the shriek
of a horse iu his last agony, rose above
the howling of the wind, and the cry
of the frightened gulls; and then, ail
was overwhelmed iu the thunder of the
breaker.
i Hfrir-iv ill.
On the morning of that day a plea
sure yacht, the property of a young
Bostonian of fortune, was returning
from the last cruise of the season. —
The experienced pilot saw, in the gath
ering clouds eastward, the impending
storm, and advised that all sail should
be made at once for the nearest har
bour. Accordingly the helm was put
up, and the course laid for Wallington
Bay, which happened to be under the
lee.
A gay party was on board of that
yacht. Fortune had showered her gifts
on all present, but on none more than
on Arthur Mordaunt, the owner of the
dashing little craft. As he sat now in
the midst of his guests, towering half
a head above the tallest, with his hand
some and intelligent countenance light
ed up with the excitement of conversa
tion, he presented the beau ideal of
manly beauty. The sailor’s dress in
which all were attired, particularly be
came Mordaunt, especially the low,
Byron collar, which revealed a throat
that might have come from the chisel
of Praxiteles.
“ I wonder you have never married,
Mordaunt,” said one of his friends,
lighting a fresh cigar. “ Honestly, I
believe you would be far happier ; you
were made for that sort of thing ; only
we should lose this pleasant yachting,
and faith I should be sorry for that.”
“ You need not be alarmed, my dear
fellow,” replied Mordaunt. “ 1 shall
never marry until I am really in love ;
and I have yet to see the woman who
will permanently touch my heart. Flir
tations one has by dozens ; but love is
a different matter.”
“You are fastidious !” replied anoth
er of his guests.
“ Who does not know that?” inter
posed the first speaker. “ What dwel
ling is so recliercht as Mordaunt’s bach
elor establishment? What horses are
so choice 1 what yacht is so beautiful ?
The fact is, Mordaunt wants a wife who
shall be more than mortal ; so 1 think
our bachelor yachting is likely to last
till he dies of old age.”
“ Oh ! 1 should not give up yacht
ing,” replied Mordaunt, laughing, “even
if I were married, though, perhaps, 1
should be more select in my invitations,
for I would take iny wife along with
me.”
“ The deuce you would ?” cried sev
eral, in a breath.
“Yes; and there’s the point,” an
swered Mordaunt. “ When I marry,
I want a wife who is both beautiful and
brave ; one who can grace a ball room,
yet is not afraid to back a horse or steer
a yacht ”
“An amazon, in short,” cried all,
with a roar of laughter, “what the Pa
risions call lionnes
“ Oh, no, no!” said Mordaunt. —
“Above all things 1 detest the lionnes.
I knew one in Paris, who swam for a
bet with another in the Seine—she was
a perfect human monster, neither man
nor woman —faugh ! it makes me an
gry to think of her. Now, my taste
is for a woman who is feminine at all
times, but yet is not a coward; one who
can share my passion for out-of-door
exercises, yet not cease to be a lady.
There are plenty of such in England ;
but here, too frequently, our females
are either hot-house plants or flaunting
sun-flowers ”
“And, by George !” said one, inter
rupting him, “ yonder goes a horsewo-
man who is bold enough, and, as well
as 1 can judge at this distance, beauti
ful enough too. I would not be in her
peril for a thousand dollars.”
All eyes followed the direction of the
speaker’s finger, and beheld, at the dis
tance of more than a mile, a solitary
female on horseback, riding under the
cliffs, along the beach.
Mordaunt seized the spy-glass, and
took a long look at Alice, for she it
was.
“ She is as beautiful as an houri,” he
said, shutting up the telescope, “and as
brave as Zenobia. But she is in immi
nent peril; the tide is making so fast
that it will soon render the promontory
ahead impassable, and return by the
way she came is already cut off by the
waters.”
“Good heavens ! what is to be done?”
cried another, who had meantime been
using the glass.
“We must put about,” said Mor
daunt. “W e are already to leeward of
the point, and shall have some difficul
ty to beat up, at least in time to assist
her ; but we must try.”
The pilot here ventured to hint that
the yacht might be beached, if any
such hazardous experiment was tried.
“I don’t care for the yacht,” said
Mordaunt, “but I think there is no dan
ger. We’ll beat up till we get towind
ward of the point, when I’ll take the life
boat, and leave you ; two of the crew
will answer my purpose. As sure as
there is a heaven, that courageous girl,
unless we do this, will be drowned.”
“ And even that can’t save her,” said
the pilot.
‘l'he yacht, however, was put about,
and lying close to the wind, soon began
to regain precious ground. As she
plunged into the high-seas, every spar
straining and timber creaking, the cheek
of more than one on board blanched ;
but no one ventured to remonstrate.—
All felt, witli Mordaunt himself, that
the duty to attempt a rescue demanded
the risk.
“Ah ! she sees her danger now,” cried
one, “she stops —she looks back—she
hesitates; and now she has decided,
for she dashes forward, even fleeter than
before.”
“Gallant creature!” cried Mordaunt,
“she is worth risking a dozen lives for.
Most of her sex would have stopped,
paralysed with terror, till the tide was
upon her ; but she sees her only chance,
and loses not a second in availing her
self of it.”
The most breathless suspense now
ensued. The yacht .and Alice were
rapidly approaching each other from
opposite points. The former, however,
was still comparatively far from the
promontory, when the first breaker cut
off the escape of Alice.
no nTv7t**r, icu aixv/uauiit ?
eagerly, “.lack, you and Bill accom
pany me; we must trust to our oars.”
“How rolily she dashes at the pass,”
cried one of his friends. “Did you see
that cut with the whip? There, she
seizes the opportunity when the wave
has receded ; she thinks there are* but
few yards to pass instead of that long
stretch of sand ; ah ! now she beholds
the real extent of the peril —there, a
breaker nearly buries her —no! she
still holds on, but her hat is gone —she
cannot longer control her affrighted
horse—good heavens, that roller has
buried her for ever !”
An awful silence succeeded these
breathless words. The life-boat was
not yet laanced, and Mordaunt still re
mained on deck. He was pale with
excitement. Every eye was fixed on
the spot where Alice had disappeared;
but an age seemed to pass before the
huge breaker rolled backwards. At
last, the receding waters discloosed the
steed struggling in the undertow ; but
his fearless rider was gone. Her hat
alone was seen floating out in the
breakers.
“It is all over, you can do no good,”
cried several; “that sea will drown you,
Mordaunt.”
By this time the boat was rocking
aside, and her crew stood ready for their
leader, if he determined to go.
“ 1 will recover her body at least or
die,” said Mordaunt,as he leaped aboard
the slight cockleshell. “Give way,my
lads.”
The little craft shot off, and held
stubbornly on its way, now appearing,
dow disappearing, as the huge billows
sank and rose between it and the yacht.
We shall leave the latter and follow
Mordaunt.
Nearly ten minutes elapsed before
the boat reached the vicininity where
Alice lmd disappeared, a period that
seemed an hour to Mordaunt. The surf
was now breaking high all around the
promontory, and this, combined with
the boulders scattered about, rendered
approach to the spot perilous in the ex
treme. When as close in as it was
deemed prudent to go, Mordaunt half
arose and looked around.
“ Yonder is the horse ; poor fellow
he is dead,” he cried, after a moment.
“He has drifted past the point and into
Wallington Bay. We must seek there
for the lady too ; for a strong current
seems to set in that direction. Ha;
what is that? A skirt floating on the
water —it is she—now, a hundred dol
lars a-piece, lads, for doing your best —
give way, give way !”
The stout oaken oars almost snapped,
so sinewy were the efforts of the row
ers, and the boat shot rapidly forward.
Promptly Mordaunt neared the inani
mate form,whose identity was no longer
doubtful. Utterly careless of danger,
for but one thought now possesed him,
that of rescuing the body, in the hope
that life might not yet be quite ex
tinct, he steered the boat right in among
the breakers,following the helpless form
of Alice.
He approached the body, and at
tempted to grasp it; but it eluded his
effort, and the boat, no longer steered
by a skilful hand, whirled over. In
stantly Mordaunt and her crew were
struggling in the breakers. But the
men, as if anticipating what would have
been their leader’s commands, grasped
at the cords that hung from the sides
of the craft, and thus held her firmly ;
while Mordaunt, luckily a bold and
powerful swimmer, dived after the dis
appearing figure of Alice. He was
fortunate in grasping the skirt of her
dress almost immediately; but the
next moment, anew breaker over
whelmed them, and both disappeared
from sight.
Meantime, however, the boat and
her crew had been carried in on the
preceding surge ; and the boat having
been righted dexterously, was now
heading the breakers, to go in search
of Mordaunt. The men soon caught
sight of their leader, as, holding Alice
with one arm, while, with the other he
steered his way, he rode inward on a
third breaker. The boat shot like an
arrow towards him ; he grasped one of
her ropes; and, on the instant, the
crew sprang out, dragging her towards
the beach. The manoeuvre was execu
ted so skilfully and rapidly that, when
the fourth breaker rolled in, it did not
submerge the party, nor was the under
tow afterwards sufficient to carry them
out again to sea. Before a fifth surge
could overtake them, they were safely
landed on the dry beach.
CHAPTER IV.
Fortunately, a farm-house was in
sight close to the shore of the bay, and
thither Mordaunt hastened with his in
animate burthen. Alice, to all appear
ance, was lifeless ; but he reflected that
persons, who been in the water
even longer than she had, were some
times recovered ; and he was resolved
not to despair until every effort at re
suscitation had been tried in vain. As
he gazed on the pallid face that rested
on his shoulders, he said involuntarily
aloud, “Surely so much loveliness can
not perish thus.”
One of the men had run before to
announce the accident, so that when
Mordaunt approached with his burthen,
the farmer’s wife and her two daugh
ters were standing at the door with
anxious faces.
“ This way—this way,” cried the
dame, opening the door of the best
chamber, which, as customary in that
section of the country, was on the first
floor, “poor dear creature !—God grant
she may yet have life !”
It would be impossible to describe
the anx : ety with which Mordaunt paced
up and down the wide hall of the old
house, while the females of family were
engaged in their sacred task of en
deavouring to resuscitate the inani
mate Alice. Minute after minute
elapsed, yet hothing was heard from the
bed-room. It seemed to Mordaunt as
if an hour had passed, when the door
was at last opened.
“Whatnews?” he cried,springing for
rlaino’e harwl
“ She does !” was the answer.
“ Thank God !” cried Mordaunt, and
his nerves, overwrought by the inci
dents of the morning, gave way ; for
a moment he felt the weakness of a
woman, and he turned away to hide a
gush of tears.
When Alice had sufficiently revived
to be sensible, her first inquiry was
after her mother. She told her name,
and begged that someone might be
sent for her parent. Mordaunt, who
watched still outside the chamber-door,
offered to gallop himself on the service,
if a horse could be found. The dame
said there was a spare beast in the
stable, and fortunately a good one; at
which Mordaunt saddling the animal,
himself left the house on his errand.
When he reached the cottage of Mrs.
Florence his horse was all in a foam,
lie flung himself off and hurried in.—
What was his astonishment to recog
nise, where he had expected to see a
stranger, the intimate friend of his de
ceased mother, the widow of his father’s
old partner! But his surprise was
not greater than that of Mrs. Florence.
Alice, however, was the first thought
of the parent. Already alarmed by her
daughter’s protracted absence, the wet
dress of her visitor aroused all her ma
tnnn I TP{l IN
“My child !” she cried. “Oh ! Mr.
Mordaunt, do you come from my child?”
“ She is alive —and in no danger,”
said Mordaunt, and then in a few rapid
words he told his errand. Before half
an hour, a carriage had been procured,
and Mordaunt was accompanying Mrs.
Florence to see her daughter.
That evening, Alice was sufficiently
recovered to sit up. Her mother had
brought part of a wardrobe with her,
and the patient, attired in in a neat neg
lige dress, which made her all the more
lovely from its reminding the spectator
of the danger she had escaped, waited
to receive and thank Mordaunt. The
latter had been meantime to Walling
ton, where his yacht lay at anchor,
and had exchanged his wet, sailor’s
attire, for the simple dress of a gentle
man
When the door opened,and Mordaunt
entered,the blushes that dyed the cheeks
of Alice rendered her beautiful beyond
comparison. She looked up at Mor
daunt, with eyes beaming unutterable
grattitude, but unable to find words,
she burst into tears.
“She is nervous yet,” said Mrs. Flor
ence, drawing Alice to her bosom.—
“Why, my dear child, where is all your
courage ?”
But Mordaunt was scarcely less com
posed. He trembled like a leaf as he
took the hand of Alice; and these
tears destroyed what little self-com
mand he had left. When next Alice
looked up, and her eyes tremblingly
met his, his own dropped before her
gaze. Ah ! whore was the bravery of
either 1 Love had made both cowards.
The great peril they had that day
shared together, combined with Mor
daunt’s admiration for her bold spirit,
stood in the place of months of intima
cy, and they already loved.
It was nearly a year, however, be
fore Mordaunt was allowed, in due
course, to woo, to sue for, and to wed
Alice. And a happy couple they have
made ! Their splendid mansion is seen
in the most fashionable street of Bos
ton, and their country-seat overlooks
the ocean from one of the choicest spots
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 25 WHOLE NO 125.
in the vicinity. Every luxury in short
that wealth can bring is theirs. Nor is
this all. The most perfect sympathy
reigns between them. Alice is still as
bold an equestrian as ever, and has be
come as resolute a sailor as her hus
band ; but she is not the less the belle
of the ball-room, or, better than all,
the tender companion of the social
hearth.
(ititrrnl tßrlcrtir.
THE IGNIS FATUUS.
This wandering meteor, known to
the vulgar as the Will-o’-the-Wisp, has
given rise to considerable speculation
and controversy. Burying grounds,
fields of battle, low meadows, valleys
and marshes, are its ordinary haunts.
By some eminent naturalists, particu
larly Willoughby and Ray, it has been
maintained to be only the shining of a
great number of the male-glow’ worms
in England, and the piraustse in Italy,
flying together—an opinion to which
Mr. Kirby, the entomologist inclines.
The luminosities observed in several
cases may have been due to this cause,
but the true meteor of the marshes can
not thus be explained. We have but
a fe*r authentic notices of its appear
ance in this country of a recent date,
probably owing to an extended system
of drainage, and the careful cultivation
of the soil. The. following instance is
abridged from the Entomological Mag
azine \ —“Two travellers proceeding
across the moors between Hexham and
Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock
at night, by the sudden appearance of
a light, close to the road side, about the
size of the hand, and of a well-defined
oval form. The place was very wet,
and the peat-moss had been dug out,
leaving what are locally termed ‘ peat
pots.’ which soon fill with water, nour
ishing a number of confervae, and the
various species of sphagnum, which are
converted into peat. During the pro
cess of decomposition, these places give
out large quantities of gas. The light
was about three feet from the ground,
hovering over peat-pots, and it moved
nearly parallel with the road for about
fifty yards, when it vanished, probably
from the failure of the gas. The man
ner in which it disappeared was similar
to that ot a candle being blown out.”
The ignis fatuus has not become so
strange in various continental districts
as with us. We have the best account
of it from Mr. Blesson, who examined
it abroad with great care and diligence.
“ The first time,” he states, “ I saw
the ignis fatuus, was in a valley, in the
forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark.—
This valley cuts deeply in compact
’me wateroi ineinarsnis ierrugnrous,
and covered with an irridiscent crust.
During the day, bubbles of air are
seen rising from it, and in the night
blue flames are observed shooting from
and playing over its surface. As 1 sus
pected that there was some connection
between these flames and bubbles of
air, I marked during the day-time the
place where the latter rose up most
abundantly, and repaired thither during
the night; to my great joy I actually
observed bluish-purple flames, and did
not hesitate to approach them. On
reaching the spot they retired, and 1
pursued them in vain ; all attempts to
examine them closely were ineffectual.
Some days of very rainy weather pre
vented farther investigation but afford
ed leisure for reflection on their nature.
I conjectured that the motion of the air,
on my approaching the spot, forced for
ward the burning gas, and remarked
that the flame burned darker when it
was blown aside; hence I concluded
that a continuous thin stream of inflam
mable air was formed by these bub
bles, which, once inflamed, continued
to burn, but which, owing to the pale
ness of the light of the flame, could
not be observed during the day. On
another day, in twilight, I went again
to the place, where I awaited the ap
proach of night; the flames became
gradually visible, but redder than for
merly, thus showing that they burnt
also during the day ; I approached
nearer, and they retired. Convinced
that they would return again to the
place of their origin when the agitation
of the air ceased, I remainded station
ary and motionless, and observed them
again gradually approach. As I could
easily reach them, it occurred to me to
attempt to light paper by means of
them ; but for some time 1 did not suc
ceed in this experiment, which I found
was owing to my breathing. I there
fore held my face from the flame and
also held a piece of cloth as a screen;
on doing which 1 was able to singe pa
per, which became brown-coloured, and
covered with a viscous moisture. I
next used a narrow slip of paper, and
enjoyed the pleasure of seeing it take
fire. The gas was evidently inflamma
ble, and not a phosphorescent luminous
one, as some have maintained. But
how do these lights originate 1 After
some reflection, I resolved to make the
experiment of extinguishing them. I
followed the flame ; I brought it so far
from the marsh that probably the thread
of connection if I may so express my
self, was broken, and it was extinguish
ed. But scarcely a few minutes had
elapsed when it was again renewed at
its source, (over air-bubbles,) without
my being able to observe any transi
tion from the neighbouring flames,
many of which were burning in the
valley. 1 repeated the experiment tre
quently, and always with success. The
dawn approached, and the flames, which
to me appeared to approach nearer to
the earth, gradually disappeared. On
the following evening I went to the
spot and kindled a fire on the side of
the valley, in order to have an oppor
tunity of trying to inflame the gas. —
As on the evening before, I first extin
guished the flame, and then hastened
with a torch to the spot from which the
gas bubbled up, when instantaneously
a kind of explosion was heard, and a
red light was seen over eight or nine
square feet of the marsh, which dimin
ished to a small blue flame, from two
and a half to three feet in height, that
continued to burn with an unsteady
motion. It was therefore no longer
doubtful that this ignis fatuus was
caused by the evolution of inflamma
ble gas from the marsh.”
The ignis fatuus of the churchyard
and the battle-field we may conclude
to arise from the phosphuretted hydro
gen emitted by animal matter in a state
of putrefaction, which always spontane
ously inflames upon contact with the
oxygen of the atmosphere; and the
flickering meteor of the marsh may be
referred to the carburetted hydrogen,
formed by the decomposition of vege
table matter in stagnant water, ignited
by a discharge of the electric fluid, or
by contact with some substance in a
state of combustion. This wandering
light has often been a source of terror
to the ignorant, and has frequently se
duced the benighted traveller into dan
gerous bogs and quagmires, under
the impression that it proceeded from
some human habitation.
The production of inflammable gases
is one of the processes in constant ac
tion in the great laboratory of nature,
and extraordinary disengagements of
combustible elements occur, though we
are quite ignorant of the cause. In the
middle of the last century the snow on
the sumit of the Apennines appeared
enveloped in sheets of flame; and in
the winter of 1693 hay-ricks in Wales
were set on fire by burning gaseous ex
halations.— Gallery of Nature.
From Household Words.
THE PAIR OF GLOVES.
“ It’s a singular story, Sir,” said In
spector Wield, of the Detective Po
lice, who, in company with Sergeants
Dorton and Mith, paid us another twi
light visit, one July evening; “and
I’ve been thinking you might like to
know it.
“ It’s concerning the murder of the
young women, Eliza Grimwood, some
years ago, over in the Waterloo Road.
She was commonly called The Countess,
because of her handsome appearance
and her proud way of carrying of her
self; and when I saw the poor Count
ess (I had known her well to speak),
lying dead, with her throat cut, on the
floor of her bedroom, you’ll believe me
that a variety of reflections calculated
to make a man rather low in his spirits,
came into my head.
“ That’s neither here nor there. I
went to the house the morning after the
murder, and examined the body, and
made a general observation of the bed
room where it was. Turning down the
pillow of the bed with my hand, l
found, underneath it, a pair of gloves.
A pair of gentleman’s dress gloves,
\rc\V\r rlif ir • ond innidn 4-U/> -
“Well, Sir, 1 took them gloves
away, and I showed ’em to the magis
trate, over at Union Hall, before whom
the case was. He says, 4 Wield,’
‘there’s no doubt this is a discovery
that may lead to something very im
portant ; and what you have got to do,
Wield, is, to find out the owner of these
gloves.’
“ I was of the same opinion,of course,
and I went at it immediately. I look
ed at the gloves pretty narrowly, and
it was my opinion that they had been
cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur
and rosin about ’em, you know, which
cleaned gloves usually have, more or
less. I took ’em over to a friend of
mine at Kennington, who was in that
line, and I put it to him. ‘What do
you say now ? Have these gloves been
cleaned V ‘ These gloves have been
cleaned,’ says he. ‘Have you any idea
who cleaned them V says I. ‘ Not at
all,’ says he ; ‘ I’ve a very distinct idea
who didn't clean ’em, and that’s myself.
But I’ll tell you what, Wield, there ain’t
above eight or nine reg’lar glove clean
ers in London,’ —there were not, at that
time, it seems —’and I think I can give
you their addresses, and you may find
out, by that means, who did clean ’em.’
Accordingly, he gave me the directions,
and I went here, and I went there, and
I looked up this man, and I looked up
that man ; but, though they all agreed
that the gloves had been cleaned, I
couldn’t find the man, woman, or child,
that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of
gloves.
“ What with this person not being
at home, and that person being expect
ed home in the afternoon, and so forth,
the inquiry took me three days. On
the evening of the third day, coming
over Waterloo bridge from the Surrey
side of the river, quite beat, and very
much vexed and disappointed, I thought
I’d have a shilling’s worth of entertain
ment at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen
myself up. So 1 went into the Pit, at
half-price, and I sat myself down next
to a very quiet, modest sort of young
man. Seeing I was a stranger (which
I thought it just as well to appear to
be) he told me the names of the actors
on the stage, and we got into conversa
tion. When the play was over, we
came out together, and I said, ‘We’ve
been very companionable and agreea
ble, and perhaps you wouldn’t object
to a drain ?’ ‘Well,you’re very good,’
says he ; ‘I shouldn’t object to a drain.’
Accordingly, we went to a public
house, near the Theatre, sat ourselves
down in a quiet room upstairs on the
first floor, and called for a pint of half
and-half, a-piece, and a pipe.
“ Well, Sir, we put our pipes aboard,
and we drank our half-and-half, and sat
a talking, very sociably,when the young
man says, ‘You must excuse me stop
ping very long,’ he says, ‘because I’m
forced to go home in good time. I
must be at work all night.’ ‘At work
all night?’ says I. ‘You ain’t a Ba
ker V ‘No,’ he says, laughing, ‘I ain’t
a baker.’ ‘1 thought not,’ says I, ‘you
haven’t the looks of a baker.’ ‘No,’
says he, ‘l’m a glove-cleaner.’
“ I never was more astonished in my
life, than when I heard them words
come out of his lips. ‘Y'ou’re a glove
cleaner, are you?’ says I. ‘Yes,’ he
says, ‘I am.’ ‘Then, perhaps,’ says I,
‘you can tell me who cleaned this pair
of gloves ? “It’s a rum story,’ I says.
‘ I was dining over at Lambeth, the