University of Virginia Library

11. NIX'S MATE.
VOLUME II.

11. CHAPTER XI.

We now return to the metropolis of New-England.
Horace Seymour had at last entirely regained his
strength, and was once more entering upon the hopes,
wishes, and daily occupations of the busy world.
Nor had the interim of his indisposition disqualified
him from pursuing those studies in which he most delighted.

Having just graduated at Harvard University,
he had entered as a law student in his uncle's office,
where, under the guidance of Mr. Wilmer, he was
making as rapid progress as was possible in those
days when Blackstone was not by to smooth the
rugged road to the Bar. What was wanted, however,
in facilities, was amply made up by perseverance
and industry; and students who were in
the least degree ambitious of eminence, were contented
to abide by the lucubrationes viginti annorum
of Coke, amidst the musty tomes of black-letter Norman
French, and the not most elegant Latin of the
text-books. A seven years' clerkship was then indispensable
to a knowledge of the mere outlines of
the Common Law of England; and when a young
man was so fortunate as to meet with such a guide as
Mr. Wilmer, it may be truly said that his education
commenced on the day of his entering the Law
office.

It is difficult to conceive of a worse contrivance
for bringing out the mind of man than a college:
but as temptations, trials, and every unimaginable obstacle
are necessary for the development of the christian,
so it may be important for the moral and intellectual
being to be crushed and trampled on, that the
more vitality may be imparted to it by the struggle.
If Colleges and Universities are useful in this way,
it is the only one in which they are; for we contend
that the most accomplished graduates of those

institutions become eminent and useful citizens only
in proportion to the success they have in eradicating
the errors which have been implanted in them during
their four years of scholastic discipline.

These institutions are always behind the age, and
they are always so confirmed in their ignorance, that
it is a positive disadvantage to any young man to be
moulded according to their worn-out dogmas. If
any one doubts this, let him remember that the sensual
philosophy is even now taught in our principal
colleges, though no man of intelligence refers to its
pages but from curiosity. If the Speculum Astronomiœ
of Albertus Magnus were the text book for
lectures on the stars, there would be more reason for
keeping the Essay of Locke on the list of collegiate
studies. But enough of this. It is liking reasoning
concerning Animal Magnetism to the besotted ignorance
of the times, that will not be informed, though
one of the greatest of God's blessings is offered to
man on his knees. Perhaps one of these days we
will show up a College or University as it was in the
third decade of the nineteenth century.

Horace Seymour had been a year in his uncle's
office, when the early attachment which the young
man had cherished for his fair cousin ripened into
the most ardent affection. How, indeed, could two
such creatures help loving each other, especially
when they lived under the same roof, ate habitually
at the same table, and heard the same prayers of a

Sunday? The metaphysics of love would make a
most excellent and amusing book, but no one can
write it without laying his heart too much open to
the world. Rousseau did not understand it; besides,
he was too much of a brute, or rather not quite
enough of a brute; for brutes are seldom unnatural.

It may strike some of our readers as being a little
remarkable, but we assure them nevertheless it is
true, that our lovers, Grace Wilmer and Horace
Seymour, though they had been acquainted with
each other many years, and loved each other exceedingly,
never did so to distraction. What is
still more remarkable, and will be found recorded in
few faithful histories like this, they never once had
such a love scene as passed between a certain Capulet
and Montague, and which, notwithstanding, we
always regarded as one of the most delicious things
in the world.

Yet they were often alone together when the woodbine
and the humming-bird were suggesting a dramatic
spectacle, but they did not seem so to comprehend
them. The fact is, they read love so legibly written
in each other's eyes, that there was no need of voice
to give it utterance. The beautiful flowers were occasionally
go-betweens, and whispered sweet and unutterable
fancies to the lovers; and when they met,
they felt that they understood each other, though they
said not a syllable about it. When the science of
spheres shall be understood, as it may be, there will

be a new era in love. In the mean time let the uninitiated
bewail their ignorance. There are more
things, as Hamlet sagely remarked, in heaven and
earth, than is dreamed of in your philosophy.

The storm which we have described in the last
chapter, exhausted its violence on the night which
followed the disaster at the Sunken Ledge; and on the
succeeding morning the sky was blue, with here and
there only a light feathery cloud flying over the firmament.
The trees were not as yet stripped of their
foliage, but they had assumed the most gorgeous and
beautiful colors; and the rays of the noon-day sun
fell warmly and cheeringly over the face of nature.
The tempest had raged with such violence, that many
large trees had been torn up by the roots, and the limbs
of many more were scattered abroad in the streets;
some damage, too, had been done by the swollen
tides; but, on the whole, the prospect abroad was
cheerful and invigorating.

So delightful was the weather, that Horace Seymour
prevailed on his fair cousin to ride with him in
a chaise to Salem, a long day's journey through the
woods, but the more attractive for that reason to the
lovers, who enjoyed the wild beauties of nature with
all the freshness of life's morning. Their intention
was to visit their kinsman, a venerable gospel minister,
whose amiable children were the delight of all
who knew them, and to return after the expiration
of a few days' social enjoyment.

And let it not be objected that it was not in accordance
with the custom of the day for two young
people of the different sexes to be permitted to ride
out together through the wilderness, unaccompanied
by their parents and guardians; for, be it remembered,
that besides the interregnum of strict discipline
during the time we speak of, our lovers were as much
Catholics in their education, as puritans, a singularity
easily got rid of by those who desire it. But,
what is of more importance, such was the fact,
and therefore we must make the best of it. The
same objection might be made to the chaise and some
other minor matters; but as there is no end to faultfinding,
we shall not make any further suggestion of
its material.

The chaise driving up to the door, Horace Seymour
handed the charming Grace to a seat; and
taking the reins, moved off, followed by an attendant
on horseback. As there was no bridge in those
days to Charlestown, another chaise had been provided
in the latter place, to which the lovers crossed
over in a ferry-boat, sending back their own carriage
by the servant.

They were now riding over a most romantic region,
where a carriage-path led through a deep and
shady forest, opening only at distant intervals, unveiling
the fine water prospect of Boston Harbor,
and some of the green islands that are scattered
among the glittering waters.

“How beautiful is every thing in Nature,” exclaimed
the enamored girl, her fine face beaming
with intelligence as she gazed on the lovely objects
around her; “and yet how neglectful we are of all
their delightful influences!”

As she spoke, her deep blue eyes turned full upon
her lover, and as they met his, their long silken lashes
fell upon her cheek, unconsciously.

“Oh yes, how very beautiful!” responded Horace;
“it is because we are so selfish that all the bountiful
things of creation attract no more attention, and
therefore it is good for us to be occasionally brought
down by sickness, that we may at the same time appreciate
ourselves justly, and learn all the better to
set a proper value on the commonest things of life.”

“But surely you did not require to be so disciplined,
cousin Horace; for you were already sufficiently
alive to the glorious things around you, while no
one could accuse you of setting too high a value on
yourself, surely.”

“Perhaps I was too much inclined to think as
you do, charming Grace,” replied the young man,
“but still I was deceived. Indeed, it is impossible
for one who is not such an angel as you are, not to
be carried away by selfishness and vanity.”

Grace blushed deeply, but said nothing. What
could she say? Her lover continued,

“Do you know, Grace, that while I lay in my
chamber, and thought of the splendid forms abroad,

something like a new philosophy flashed upon my
mind?”

“No!” replied the sweet girl, with a smile of interested
surprise, “pray tell me what it was!”

“It occurred to me,” resumed her companion,
“that the round of natural appearances is the balance
wheel of the mind of man, and for this reason
we go mad when we are too long excluded from the
face of nature.”

“That was a singular fancy,” replied Grace, with
something like laughter; “how could such an idea
have originated in your mind?”

“I cannot say,” said Horace Seymour, his pale
cheek tinging a little as he spoke, “that the idea
originated entirely with me. I think some of the
opinions of Mr. Temple must have suggested it. He
believes, perhaps you know, in one harmonious chain
of dependencies, from the Creator, in all created
things.”

“Every body that believes any thing, believes as
much as that,” replied Grace. “I cannot discover any
reach of philosophy there!”

“Do not judge too hastily,” returned her lover,
“hear him a little further. All created things are
from primaries to ultimates. The only life is the
creative energy; but all created things are recipients
of this life. Earths and minerals are the ultimate
forms of creation, and there is in them a constant
effort to rise to that degree which is next above

them, namely, vegetable forms. Hence we discover
foliation in mines. The vegetable kingdom, in its
turn, struggles for animal being, so successfully at
times, that its species seem gifted with feeling and
perception. The brute creation, which is as distinct
from man as the vegetable is distinct from the animal,
struggles for rationality with such a cunning
effort, that the short-sighted naturalist classifies it into
ranks of lower animals descending from man only
in degrees. Man, as a rational creature, endeavors
after spirituality; and he does so, not as other created
beings struggle for that which is unattainable, but
as an order of being which has within itself a germ
which may become the receptacle of heavenly light
and heat, till it expands to celestial existence.”

“According to that, he would make us noble
creatures!”

“And so we are intended to be, my dear cousin, if
we will but fulfil the conditions of our advancement.”

“What conditions?” inquired the animated beauty.

“The conditions of spiritual growth are renunciation
of self, disinterestedness, and the faithful performance
of our duties. But I was speaking to you
of the influence of nature on the mind. Mr. Temple
believes that all things in nature are merely
effects of spiritual causes, and that the reason why
we delight in them, is because they are to us a medium
through which we receive communion with angelic
beings.”

“The idea is certainly a very beautiful one,”
said Grace, with an expression of serene thoughtfulness,
“and it accounts for the tranquilizing pleasure
we receive in gazing on the firmament of stars, or wandering
among fragrant flowers or in green meadows.”

“You may remember,” continued her lover, “that
beautiful passage in one of the psalms, `He maketh
me to lie down in green pastures, and leadeth me beside
the still waters;' these are delightful, because
they correspond to good affections and tranquilizing
truths; and thus all beautiful things contribute to our
happiness, for their beauty is only the perception of spiritual
realities.”

“Your reasoning is quite suggestive,” said
Grace, “for if what you say is true, and I confess it
strikes me very agreeably, there is a standard of taste,
and it will one of these days be known.”

“Unquestionably,” replied Seymour; “and to illustrate
your idea—who doubts that, as respects Grecian
architecture, architectural taste is established?”

“No one, certainly;” admitted Grace.

“The reason of that is, and you will find it admitted
by the ablest and best writers on the subject,
the proportions of Grecian architecture were borrowed
from the Temple of Solomon.”

“And the plan of that was revealed from heaven!”
said the beautiful girl.

“Yet the scepticism of the age would laugh at one

who really believes it, though it is recorded in the
Word of God.”

“And how does Mr. Temple's philosophy guard
us against the dangers of disbelief?” exclaimed the
beautiful girl, her face flushing with the interest that
the conversation was awaking.

“Perhaps I am wrong,” replied her lover, “in calling
it altogether philosophy; it is religion as well as
philosophy. But then it is so unlike what passes
for religion in our day, that the world would denominate
it philosophy.”

“It seems to me,” said Grace, deferentially, “that
true religion and genuine philosophy must be so
nearly allied that they cannot be regarded apart.”

“You are undoubtedly right, dearest Grace,” returned
her admirer, charmed as much by her profound
sense as by her unequalled beauty; “and I wish that
there were many more in the world who think as
you do. They cannot and ought not to be separated;
and yet you will find that they are regarded as light
and darkness, irreconcileable with each other.”

“And hence,” replied Grace, “both religion and
philosophy, instead of being the handmaidens of happiness,
are so unamiable and repulsive. It is difficult
for us, when we are so trammelled, to know what is
meant by the beauty of holiness.”

“But, according to Mr. Temple, every thing is
plain and intelligible. He believes in constant, uninterrupted
progress; and therefore while he does

not despond at the abuses of society, and grow gloomy
amidst the darkness of fanaticism, he looks abroad
into the far future, and with the eye of a seer discovers
an era when the veil that hangs between the
spiritual and natural worlds will be withdrawn, and
when man shall read the true relations of things, and
cease to doubt; when natural revelations in a constant
succession of illustrations appealing to the reason
and universal intelligence, will make man known to
himself—an era, in short, when the true democratic
principle will be understood, and just conceptions of
equality entertained.”

“But you seem to have forgotten your balance-wheel,
Horace; what has become of that, all the
while?”

“That was going on, dearest Grace, you may depend
on it, or else we would not have arrived at such
sage conclusions.”

“I wish I understood better,” said the beautiful
girl, “what you mean by your new gleam of philosophy?”

“I mean,” replied Horace Seymour, “that there is
nothing that gives so healthy a tone to the heart and
mind of man, as a knowledge and love of nature, or
the works of God manifested to us.”

“I believe that most fervently,” said Grace.

“And therefore it is, that when we are young,”
continued her lover, “we are more susceptible of their
charms; for the world then has not left our hearts

callous, and the language by which spiritual realities
address themselves to man is almost audible and
wholly convincing, would we only attend to the revelations
around us.”

“You are an enthusiast,” exclaimed Grace, laughing.

“If you call enthusiam, my beloved girl, a passionate
devotion to truth for truth's sake; loving it
deeply, fondly, supremely, as I do my pretty cousin,
and only from the love of loving,—why, then, I grant
you I am an enthusiast; not otherwise. There is a
great deal of talk, Grace, about loving the beauties of
nature; but I believe that there is but little comprehended
of that love.”

“All love is incomprehensible,” murmured the
lovely listener.

“It is only so,” replied Horace Seymour, “in
name.”

“What is more so?” inquired Grace.

“Every thing which is more mysterious; but love
is the life of man—really and truly the life of man;
and if you will reflect on this great truth, not only
will love be no longer incomprehensible, but it will
be a key to a thousand mysteries.”

In conversation similar to the foregoing the time
glided by, though we have reason to believe that
there was an occasional interlude of romantic castle-building
to break in upon their more serious discourse:
for when they emerged once more from the

woods, and were passing by the charming village of
Sangus or Lynn, the following playful colloquy ensued.

“Grace, do you hear the roaring of the beach?”
inquired Horace Seymour.

“Oh yes! Is it not grand?” she replied.

“How would it do for us to take a trot over to Nahant;
the sun will not set these two hours?”

“I should like it, of all things in the world,” said
Grace, “do, dear cousin, let us go over there. The
waves must look gloriously indeed after last night's
storm; I was down there once, and was enchanted
with the scenery.”

“You shall go then, again,” replied her lover,
“there never will be a better opportunity of seeing
Egg Rock and the Spouting Horn to advantage.”

“And perhaps we may meet the Swallow,” venred
the beautiful girl.

“True,” replied the young man, “and if we do
meet her, dearest Grace, she shall tell us our fortunes.”

“Would you dare to have your fortune told by an
enchantress?” inquired Grace.

“I would dare any thing with you, dearest; for I
know that the stars cannot fail to be propitious to
their more beautiful sister.”

“Well, now, I like that,” said Grace archly, “as
if the stars wouldn't be as jealous as any other pretty
creatures to be outshone by another! Come now,
you must try again!”

“But seriously, you are not afraid of your horoscope?”

“But seriously, I am, though,” replied the fair
girl; “for they say that the Swallow casts them with
fearful precision.”

“And if the Swallow should predict that we
would be married in a year or so, would that be any
thing so awful?”

“I can't imagine any thing more—”

“Certain!” interrupted Horace Seymour; and
without any further negotiation, the bargain was sealed
with a kiss.

Now, whether the young man's assurance had
gained strength from their emerging into clearer day-light,
might afford a good subject for a boarding-school
debating society. For our part, we assert the affirmative;
and if it were not for unmystifying so pleasant an
obscurity, we could give satisfactory reasons therefor.

As they turned round the corner of the carriage
way that comes to the long beach, which we
have heretofore spoken of, the cool breeze fell
refreshingly on the warm cheek of Grace Wilmer,
and her tresses floated freely over her shoulders.
She took off her hood, the better to enjoy the
prospect, and the top of the chaise was thrown
back, that no obstacle might intervene between the
ocean and the travellers.

One must visit Nahant after a north-east storm, or
at least during one, to realize the matchless sublimity

of the scene which now burst upon our romantic
travellers. We will venture to say that there is nothing
to be found superior to it for grandeur and beauty
in America. The tide was nearly two-thirds toward
its height, and the waves came rolling in in
long-extended platoons, stretching more than a mile
before you, and glistening in the light of the declining
sun like a mighty army of cuirassers, flashing and
driving on to battle. How beautiful were they in the
moment of dissolution—how like the picture of good
men dying, and glorying most at the very instant
when they are about to roll back to eternity!

“Was there ever any thing so magnificent and splendid!”
exclaimed the enraptured girl. “Do, Horace, look
at those waves; are they not grand, transcendent! Did
you see that gull? There he is again,—there are
several of them. Only see how they hover over that
blazing wreath of water, plunging and rising, and
shaking the spray from their wings,—what do you
think they are about?”

“They are only amusing themselves,” answered
Horace Seymour; “man is not the only creature
that sometimes diverts himself; almost all the animals
do the same thing. Really this is worth coming
to see!”

The attention of the lovers had been so much absorbed
by the sight of the waves, and the tremendous
roar with which they banged up against the beach, and
ran rushing back in torrents to the sea, and again came

up, reddening and glistening, and breaking, and again
rushing back to the sea, that they had till now passed
unobserved one of the most striking features of the
scene.

“Look!” exclaimed Grace, pointing towards the
left as she spoke, “only look, Horace, at Egg-Rock;
did you ever see any thing equal to it in your life?”

As her lover turned to gaze where she directed,
his amazement was irrepressible. The waves rolling
in upon that solitary mass of rock rising so high
above the sea, made, nevertheless, a complete breach
over it, and poured down its south western side like
the cataract of Niagara; the sloping rays of the sun
fell on the ocean spray and spanned the whole with
a most brilliant arch, through which the deep blue
of the sky stood back in bold contrast with the white
feathery surf, again relieved by the dark waves that
swelled apparently at the base of the rock, which was
in reality girl like a water-spout with foam. To the
right of Egg-Rock, between that place and Nahant,
the ocean-prospect was uninterrupted; and as far as
the sight could reach, not even the smallest sail interposed
between the eye and the horizon, where, in the
extreme distance over a wide expanse of some fifteen
miles, the waves rose and fell with their white caps
dancing against the sky. A few light clouds were
lazily hanging about the firmament, and the atmosphere
was of dazzling clearness; so that every object

discovered its exact outline, and could be discerned
afar off with the greatest precision.

Nor was that portion of the scene of which the
black borders of Nahant formed a part, as the vision
reached to the south-east, without its due share of
sublimity. All along the shore, where visible, the
waves seemed to riot like slaves at the Saturnalia.
Two milesor more away, they could be seen leaping on
the iron-bound coast, throwing the foam up to an incredible
distance, and sending back the rays of the
sun as from showers of the most brilliant diamonds.

In the meanwhile the sea was setting in faster and
faster, and as the gallant steed trotted over the hard
and shining sands, every ninth or tenth wave seemed
threatening to submerge them. But as the waves
came swelling on like an immense wall of glass,
green as emerald, and broke and tumbled on the
beach, the horse sheered to the right, and seemed to
take a pleasure in coquetting with the billows that
came rippling over his fetlocks.

It was a glad and exhilarating scene, and our
young adventurers rode onward careless of every
thing, and only occupied by the entrancing bewilderment
around them. Their hearts were so full of the
influences of nature, that they could not choose but
give voice to their excitement; and they sang aloud,
and shouted as if they too would be “a sharer in the
far and fierce delights” of their all-bountiful mother
in the joy of her holiday.

“Can any thing be more glorious than this?” exclaimed
Horace Seymour, his countenance glowing
with the exhilarating influences that made his very
arteries bound with enjoyment.

“Nothing, surely nothing can equal it!” replied
Grace Wilmer. “Oh, how glad I am that we came
here:—only I would that my dear mother could enjoy
it with us!”

“I think, dearest Grace,” said her lover, tenderly,
“that I am quite happy enough with only you to
partake and sympathize with me.”

Grace blushed, and pointed to some new beauty in
the scene, and just then a wave with more than
ordinary violence broke upon them, and sprinkled
them with its surf.

“We must not trust these beautiful forms, my
love,” exclaimed her adorer, turning the horse more
toward the narrow strip of land that bordered the
summit of the beach, but which was quite impassable
on account of its rugged surface, and in places,
its unrolled gravel; “I find we have not improved
the time as we might have done in the midst of the
glories that surround us, but as the sun will soon be
down, we will go as far as the other beach, and then
return without stopping at Nahant this time. We
would better do so on our return.”

“Then we shall not see the Swallow this evening?”

“No, dearest Grace, by the looks of the tide I
don't think it would be prudent to go to Nahant.”

“There is no danger, I hope!” exclaimed the
fair girl, turning a little pale.

“Not the least,” answered her lover, who indeed
really apprehended none, “but it has taken more time
make this little excursion than I anticipated, so I
fear we must have our horoscope postponed. But
never mind, Grace; it won't postpone our wedding on
any account.”

“You need not concern yourself about that,” said
Grace Wilmer, rallying from her momentary confusion,
“for I can prophecy as well as the Swallow
about such a weighty matter as that; and so you may
rest contented with the idea of dying a bachelor.”

“Unless, perchance, I should live to be married—
hey? my sweet enchantress!” returned her lover with
another salutation, which gave no offence, as it was
benevolently intended; and this brought them to the
smaller beach, which was in the more immediate
neighborhood of Nahant.

The sea now ran in frightfully high, and with increasing
power, and Seymour began to fear that he
had unwittingly brought his fair charge into a position
from which it would be difficult to extricate her.
The beach on which they were now riding is not
much more than a quarter of a mile in extent, but the
sea had already broken over it, and it was impossible
to reach Nahant, except by crossing that also. He

had already determined to return, but he could not
well disguise his apprehensions, as, approaching the
larger beach, his eye discovered to him that far away
it was completely submerged, so that it would be impossible
for them to retrace their steps.

His resolution was now instantly fixed to force the
passage of the small beach, and with this determination
he lashed his horse, and urged him to move on
as fast as possible. The sun had already sunk below
the main land, and the scene which, but a few minutes
before, had been arrayed so gorgeously, and which
had so completely absorbed their attention, was now
any thing but agreeable. Egg-Rock frowned protentously,
and the waves, as they came careering onward
amidst the chill atmosphere of sunset, seemed to dash
even against the hearts of the adventurers.

Bitterly now did Horace Seymour lament his want
of prudence and foresight, and though the necessity
he was under to guard against the dangers that surrounded
them, prevented him from indulging in disagreeable
reflections, he had it not in his power to disguise
from Grace Wilmer the imminent peril to
which they were exposed.

“Oh God!” exclaimed the terrified girl, as a large
wave came thundering on and lifted the carriage from
the sands—“what will become of us! Oh mother,
mother, why did I leave you!—Oh God, have mercy!”

“Keep calm, Grace, for the love of heaven!” cried
the young man, as he threw himself on the dasher,

when the chaise once more struck the sands, and the
affrighted horse regained his foothold, “keep calm for
the love of heaven; we are safe enough, depend upon
it.”

He had scarcely spoken when another wave, more
tremendous than the former, came rolling horrioly
towards them, and Horace Seymour had hardly time
to turn the reins twice around his left wrist, and to
clasp the scared girl round the waist with his right
arm, when it burst upon them like a mountain-slide,
and overwhelmed them with the carriage and horse
in the boiling waters.

The recoiling waves instantly swept them back into
the Atlantic, and the horse plunging with maddening
desperation, immediately disengaged himself
from the harness. Seymour never for an instant lost his
presence of mind, but clinging resolutely to the reins,
and holding his precious burthen on his right arm, as
soon as he could contrive to see, made an almost superhuman
effort, and caught the horse by the mane.
In another moment he was on the animal's back, sustaining
the drooping body of Grace Wilmer in his
arms.

“Thank God, we are safe!” he exclaimed, his utterance
half checked with the violence of his exertions.
“Grace, my love, we are safe!”

“Where am I?” moaned the bewildered sufferer.
“Oh Horace! Horace! would I had died for you.”

And as she spoke, she sunk again in his arms, exhausted.

The horse in the meantime appeared to be conscious
of his trust as well as of his own danger; for whenever a
wave threatened to ingulf them, he would turn suddenly
round, and seemed to wish to indicate to his
rider the safest way of bearing himself. He would
then, when that danger had passed, toss his head in
the air, and shorting aloud, urge onward with all his
might, swimming to reach the nearest shore.

The figure of a man dressed in a sailor's habit was
now seen hurrying about the rocks, holding in his
hand a spy-glass. He evidently had been watching
the perilous situation of our unfortunate adventurers,
and was crying aloud for help in almost despair, for
it seemed as if all help must be in vain. The surf
broke so high, that no boat would have dared to venture
toward the rocks on that part of the peninsula
had there been one present; and the mariner, though
he had a barge waiting for him on the south-east part
(where it was comparatively calm), which he would
readily have ventured had it been possible to get it
there in time, saw no hope of relief, and was expecting
every instant to behold the objects of his interest
overwhelmed in the waves.

The faithful steed still held his way bravely, though
he was unable at all times to avoid “the ruffian billows”
that several times completely dashed over
Horace Seymour and his beautiful but helpless burthen,—yet

on he toiled, struggling heroically to gain
the nearest ledge of rocks; sometimes plunging head-foremost
under the waves like a ship under crowd
of canvass in a hurricane, and then shaking the
brine from his main, and tossing his head in the air,
tugging for life in the desperation of a “strong swimmer
in his agony.”

Fitzvassal, for it was no other than he, who beheld
the appalling spectacle from his secure position on the
rocks, and who had recognized the beautiful figure
of Grace Wilmer in her perilous situation, stood almost
horror-stricken at the danger of his friends.
The horse was now within a hundred feet of where
he stood, and he knew well enough that in a few
moments the courageous animal would come within
the power of the receding waves, and that nearer
approach was impossible.

The only chance of safety was to strive, if possible,
to keep away from the rocks, and make the complete
circuit of the peninsula, passing the terrific
Sponting-Horn, (that roared and raged like a maddened
kraken, and sent the foam a hundred feet into the
air,) and doubling East-Point, Pulpit-Rock, and then
going outside of the Sunken Ledge, to bring up in the
quiet harbor of the cave. But how could this be
done? The distance was a mile and a half, and the
horse was already nearly exhausted with his own unparalleled
exertions, and by the extraordinary weight
he carried. One other way of safety seemed possible,

and that was the desperate suggestion of his fancy,
that if the man would throw himself from the
horse, he himself, by plunging in the boiling waters,
might assist him in getting his charge to the shore.
But he rejected the latter branch of the alternative,
and now had only time to shout aloud—

“Bear away from the rocks! For your life, bear
away from the rocks!”

When a wave came rolling back, burying as it
passed, both horse and riders in the abyss.

As soon as Fitzvassal saw the reality of this disaster,
he waited no longer, but leaping as far off
from the rocks as he could, plunged headlong into
the waves. Nor was he alone in the rescue; for as
he rose from the eddying brine that whirled and
roared around him, he caught a rapid glance of his
own barge rounding East Point with unaccustomed
rapidity, and a canoe, propelled by a female, skimming
over the waters like a bird, the paddle flashing from
side to side like lightning, and sending a stream of
foam astern, white as the driving snow.

Horace Seymour with his precious charge had
been completely swept from the horse that, now relieved
from his burthen, swam eagerly through the
creaming surge toward the shore. But the noble
animal was only doomed to struggle the harder for
his life, alas! in vain; for the gigantic waves having
him now entirely in their power, heaved him up
against the sharp rocks, and dyed the white foam in

his blood. His scream of agony mingled with the
uproar of the ocean, and after making a few ineffectual
attempts to gain a footing on the rocks, and being
borne back, and again hurried on like an iron ram
battering against an adamantine fortress, the fine spirited
animal bowed his head to the destroyer, and his
long black mane streamed lifelessly on the surge. He
was dead.

In the meanwhile Horace Seymour rose to the air,
bearing gallantly the fainting form of Grace Wilmer,
and in a moment Fitzvassal was at his side.

And “with hearts of controversy” the gallant young
men trod the destructive wave, mutually sustaining
the beautiful burthen between them.

“Leave her to me,” cried Fitzvassal, “I am fresh,
but you are weary; let me support Miss Wilmer,
while you take care of yourself.”

“I am not yet exhausted,” answered Seymour, unable
to breathe freely from fatigue, “and as long as I
have my strength I will not desert her.”

While they were yet speaking, Nameoke was by
their side with her bark canoe, and Fitzvassal (Seymour
in vain endeavoring to accomplish it,) taking
the object of his heart's adoration in his arms, lifted
her lightly into the canoe.

“It is well!” exclaimed the enchantress—“but the
canoe of Nameoke will not hold another; Nameoke
will take care of the maiden.”

And as she spoke, her paddle flashed from side to

side, and the canoe leapt lighty over the billows. In
a minute she had doubled East Point, and was out of
sight just as Fitzvassal's barge, propelled by eight
oars, came up with him and his exhausted companion,
and took them both safely aboard.

The fatigue that Seymour had undergone was too
much for one who had so lately left a sick chamber,
and as soon as he found himself safe in the barge,
his energies for a time sank within him, and he fainted
in the arms of his companion.

“To the Swallow's Cave!” said Fitzvassal, giving
orders to the coxswain as they made a circuit of
East-Point, and were now passing Pulpit-Rock and
nearing the Sunken Ledge.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” replied the officer; and the barge,
obeying the rudder, turned round to the desired haven.

Selecting a little cove close by, where “the rude
sea grew civil,” the barge ran in close to the rocks,
and Fitzvassal giving orders to wait for him, and
to take the best care of Seymour, leapt ashore, and
made the best way he could to the cavern of the enchantress.

Leaping from crag to crag, in a few moments he
was there. Already had the singular being, who
with the sea-gulls alone tenanted this wild peninsula,
replenished the fire that smoked upon the hearth,
and was now supporting the reviving girl with one
arm, parting her dark dripping tresses with her right

hand, endeavoring all the while to sooth her by the
mysterious agency of her own vital principle, which
she knew how to direct for her advantage.

“You are doing the work of an angel,” said our
adventurer, addressing the Indian girl with a tone
of thanksgiving; “you have my eternal gratitude for
what you have done.”

“The son of the Vassal knows not what he is saying,
and yet Nameoke would save him from destruction,”
replied the enchantress.

Fitzvassal gazed on her with astonishment. How
could this solitary tenant of the rock-bound Nahant
have known his unhappy parentage?

“Nameoke!” said he, catching at the appellation
which she had herself discovered, and for the time
quite forgetting the beloved object whose eyes already
beamed with rekindling intelligence, “Nameoke!
you seem to know me!”

“Nameoke reads the stars!” replied the enchantress,
“and she has been watching for you ever since
the young moon went down in the west, where she
will go again to-morrow.

“Hark!” she continued, “did you hear that scream
from Felton?” and as she spoke she snatched her
mace from the ground, and raised herself to her full
height, while her eyes gleamed with strange unnatural
lustre.

“Felton!” exclaimed Fitzvassal in the greatest
surprise; “what of him, Nameoke? Did you speak of
his scream? Have you seen him?”

“You will find what the thunder has left of him
in the ravine above!” replied the enchantress, recovering
from her momentary agitation and resuming
her care of Grace Wilmer.

Fitzvassal sprang from the cavern, and presently
stood over the stiffened body of his lieutenant.
There was a black mark on his forehead, which he
unhesitatingly attributed to the lightning; and his
firm belief now was, that he had been struck the
night before in the storm.

“Poor Felton!” sighed his commander; “so then
you are at rest before me!—Well! you are spared
many a severe buffet that those you have left must
endure.—Rest in peace!”

He then took off his watch-coat, and having thrown
it over the body of his officer, returned to the Swallow's
Cave.

“Pray God,” he exclaimed on re-entering the place,
“death make no further havoc! —Nameoke! that
lady must go with me on board. I will protect her.”

“Take her!” replied the enchantress, “for I
know thou hast no evil intention; take her and
save her from destruction—would that Nameoke
could save thee!”

“What mean you?” inquired the man with an
interest which he did not attempt to disguise.

“You must perish, hopelessly perish” replied
Nameoke, “before the buds are green again—unless
you read the stars of another hemisphere!”

Fitzvassal only smiled at this, and then turning
to the beautiful girl, who was just recovered from
her stupor, said,

“Will Miss Wilmer,” said he, “trust herself to
her new friend—her cousin waits for her below?”

“He is safe then! Oh tell me Horace Seymour is
safe,” cried the excited girl, “and I will bless you for
ever!”

“You may rely upon it, charming maiden; I left
him perfectly so but a few moments since, although
he is much exhausted. My vessel is close by, and
if you will accept with him such poor accommodations
as a sailor can give to those he values most, go
with me on board. The night is fast closing in,
and it will be impossible for you to return till tomorrow;
then I will see you safely restored to your
friends.”

Grace thanked him with her large blue eyes
glistening with tears of gratitude. She had already
received so many favors at his hands, that she could
not doubt the honesty of his purpose—and now
particularly, when such conclusive reasons had been
urged for her accompanying Fitzvassal on board,
and the Swallow had also yielded to the proposal,
she unhesitatingly accepted the invitation, and, leaning
on his arm, accompanied him to the barge,
which immediately shoving off, in a short time
brought them securely to the Dolphin.