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pest to these seas was not to be quietly suffered; so after having allowed her her full career for a somewhat unaccountable time, several governments began to think of preparing to put her down. To the surprise, however, of all, she seemed suddenly to disappear from the Mediterranean. Some said that her crew, having sold themselves to the father of all evil for a certain length of time, and the period having probably expired, the desperadoes were now gone to their own place, and the seas would consequently be clear again. Others deemed that the Demon Ship had only retired for some deep purpose, and would shortly reappear with more fearful

power.

Most of the trading vessels then about to quit the port of Valetta, had requested, and obtained, convoy from a British frigate and sloop of war, bound to Gibraltar and thence to England. So eager were all passengers to sail under such protection, that I had some difficulty in obtaining a berth in any of the holes and corners of the various fine fast-sailing copper-bottomed brigs, whose cards offered such "excellent accommodations for passengers." At length I went on board the "Elizabeth Downs," a large three-masted British vessel, whose size made the surrounding brigs dwindle into insignificance, and whose fresh-painted sides seemed to foreshow the cleanliness and comfort that would be found within. One little hen-pen of a cabin on deck alone remained at the captain's disposal. However, I was fond of a cabin on deck, and paid half my passage-money to the civil little captain, who testified much regret that he could not offer me the "freedom of the quarter-deck " (such was his expression), as the whole stern end of the vessel had been taken by an English lady of quality who wished for privacy. He added, with a becomingly awestruck manner, that she was a dowager countess. "I hate dowager

countesses," said I, irreverently"what is the name of your passen. ger?"-" Passenger!"—"Well

countess-what is the title of your countess?"-"The Countess of Falcondale."-"What," thought I, "cannot I even come as near to my former home as Malta without again finding myself under her influence? My dear fellow, give me back my passage-money, or accept it as a present at my hands, for I sail not with you," said I. But a man at thirty-six will hardly sacrifice his personal convenience to the whimsies of twenty-five; so I stood to my bargain, determined to keep myself as much as possible from the knowledge of my old tormentor. Conscious of my altered personal appearance, I resolved to travel charmingly incog., and carelessly assumed the name and title of Captain Lyon, which had been familiar to me in my childhood, as belonging, I believe, to a friend of Captain Cameron.

It was the month of June, and the weather, though clear, was oppressively hot. There was so little wind stirring after we set sail, that for several days we made scarcely any way, under all the sail we could carry. I had no mind the first night to encoffin myself in my berth. I therefore, comfortably enough, stretched my limbs on a long seat which joined the steps of the quarter-deck. I was now, then, really on my way to my native shores, and should not step from the vessel in which I sailed until I trod the land of my fathers! Naturally enough, my thoughts turned to former days and old faces. From time to time these thoughts half sunk into dreams, from which I repeatedly awoke, and as often dozed again. At length my memory, and consequently my dreams, took the shape of Margaret Cameron. The joyous laugh of youth seemed to ring in my ears; and when I closed my eyes, her lovely bright countenance instantly rose before them. Yet I had the inconsistent convic

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tion of a dreamer that she was dead, and as my slumber deepened, I seemed busied in a pilgrimage to her early grave. I saw the churchyard of Awith the yellow sunlight streaming on many a green hillock; and there was one solitary grass grave that, as if by a strange spell, drew my steps, and on an humble head-stone I read the name of Margaret Cameron, aged 18." Old feelings, that had been deadened by collision with the busy, heartless world, revived within me, and I seemed to hang in a suffocating grief, that even astonished myself, over the untimely tomb of my first -ay, my last-love. To my unspeakable emotion I heard, beneath the sods, a sound of sweet and soothing, but melancholy music. While I listened with an attention that apparently deprived my senses of their power, the church-yard and grave disappeared, and I seemed, by one of those transitions to which the dreamer is so subject, to be sailing on a lone and dismal sea, whose leaden and melancholy waves reflected no sail save that of the vessel which bore me. The heat became stifling, and my bosom oppressed, yet the music still sounded, low, sweet, and foreboding in my ear. A soft and whitish mist seemed to brood over the stern of the

ship. According to the apparently-established laws of spiritual matter (the solecism is not so great as it may appear), the mist condensed, then gradually assumed form, and I gazed, with outstretched arms, on the figure of Margaret Cameron. But her countenance looked, in that uncertain light, cold and pale as her light and unearthly drapery that waved not, though a mournful wind was sighing through the shrouds of our vessel. She seemed in my vision as one who, in quitting earth, had left not only its passions but its affections behind her; and there was something forbidding in the wan indifference of that eye. Yet was her voice passing sweet, as still its sad cadences fell on my

ear, in the words of a ballad I had
once loved to sing with her—

"The green sod is no grave of mine,
The earth is not my pillow,
The grave I lie in shall be thine,
Our winding-sheet-the billow."

I awoke,-yet for a moment appear-
ed still dreaming; for there, hover-
ing over the foot of my couch, I
seemed still to behold the form of
Margaret Cameron. She was lean-
ing on the rail of the quarter-deck,
and overlooking my couch. I sat
up, and gazed on the objects around
me, in order to recover my appa-
rently deluded senses. The full
moon was in her zenith. A light
haze, the effect of the heat of the
preceding day, was rising from the
waters. The heat was intense, the
calm profound. There lay the dif-
ferent vessels of our little squadron,
nought seen save their white sails
in the moonlight, and nought heard
save their powerless flapping, and
the restless plashing of the becalm-
ed waves, only agitated by the effort
of our vessel to cleave them. Still
the moonlight fell on the white form
and pale countenance of Margaret.
I started up. "This is some delu-
sion," said I, or because one of
the countess's women resembles my
early idol, must I turn believer in
ghost-stories, and adopt at thirty-six
what I scouted at sixteen?" My
gestures, and the suddenness of my
rising, seemed to scare my fair
phantom; and, in the hastiness of
her retreat, she gave ample proof
of mortal fallibility by stumbling
over some coils of cable that hap-
pened to lie in her way. The shock
brought her to her knees. I was up
the steps in one instant; seized an
arm, and then a hand, soft, delicate,
and indubitably of flesh and blood,
and restored the lady to her feet.
She thanked me in gentle tones that
sent a thrill through all my veins,
and made me again half deem that
"the voice of the dead was on mine
ear." A white veil or shawl had
fallen from her head and shoulders;
this I respectfully replaced, and had
thus an opportunity of proving to

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demonstration that it was made nei- I was still sufficiently a man of

ther of ether, mist, or moonbeams. I now expressed my fears that my sudden gestures had been the cause of this little accident. "I fear," she replied, with the same melancholy music of voice, "my reckless song disturbed your slumbers." After a few more words had passed between us, during which I continued to gaze on her as if some miracle stood before me, I ventured to ask, in a tone as indifferent as I could assume, whether she claimed kindred with Captain Hugh Cameron, of A-? The striking likeness which she bore to his amiable and deceased daughter must, I observed, plead my apology. She looked at me for a moment with unutterable surprise; then added, with dignity and perfect self-possession, "I have, then, probably, the pleasure of addressing some old acquaintance of Captain Cameron? How the mistake arose which induced any one to suppose that his child was no more, I confess myself at a loss to imagine. The error is, however, easily contradicted in my own person. I am the daughter of Captain Cameron; and, after this self-introduction, may, perhaps, claim the name of my father's former acquaintance." You may be sure I was in no mood to give it. I rushed to the side of the vessel, and, hanging over it, gasped with an emotion which almost stopped respiration. It is inexpressible what a revulsion this discovery made in my feelings. There had been daysay, weeks-in which one thought of Margaret had not disturbed the steady man of the world in his busy engagements; and now she returned upon his feelings as fresh as if only one day had elapsed since they vowed themselves to each other, and parted. I felt that there had been treachery. I became keenly sensible that I must have appeared a traitor to Margaret, and hurriedly resolved not to declare my name to her until I had in some way cleared my character.

the world to have my feelings in some mastery, and returned to the side of Margaret with an apology for indisposition, which in truth was no subterfuge. I verily believe, as the vessel had given a sudden lurch at the moment she discovered herself, and my pendant posture over the ship's side might be an attitude of rather dubious construction, she passed on me the forgiveness of a sea-sick man. Margaret added, with an easy politeness which contrasted curiously with her former girlishness, that she presumed she had the pleasure of addressing her fellow-passenger, Captain Lyon? She had often, she observed, heard her father mention his name, though not aware until this moment of his identity with her brother-voyager. I was not displeased by this illusion, though I thus found myself identified with a man twenty years my senior. As I wore one of those charming rural Livorno hats, whose deep, green-lined flaps form a kind of umbrella to the face, I became convinced that mine, in such a light, was effectually screened from observation. My voice too had, I felt, been changed by years and climate. I therefore remarked, with an effort at ease, that I had certainly once possessed the advantage of Captain Cameron's acquaintance, but that a lapse of many years had separated me from him and his family. "There was, however," I remarked, very tremulously, "a Captain, since made Colonel, Francillon, in India, who had been informed, or rather, happily for her friends, misinformed, of the death of Miss Cameron." Margaret smiled incredulously; but with a dignified indifference, which created a strange feeling within me, seemed willing to let the subject pass. Margaret's spirits seemed to have lost the buoyancy, and her cheek the bloom of youth. But there was an elegance, a sort of melancholy dignity in her manner, and a touching expression on her countenance, to which both

before had been strangers. If she were more beautiful at seventeen, she was more interesting at twentyeight. Observing her smile, and perceiving that, with another graceful acknowledgment of my assistance, she was about to withdraw, I grew desperate, and ventured, with some abruptness, to demand if she had herself known Colonel Francillon? She answered, with a selfpossession which chilled me, that she had certainly in her youth (such was her expression) been acquainted with a Lieutenant Francillon, who had since, she believed, been promoted in India, and probably was the officer of whom I spoke. "Perhaps," observed I, "there is not a man alive for whom I feel a greater interest than for Colonel Francillon."-" He is fortunate in possess ing so warm a friend," said Margaret, with careless politeness; but I thought I perceived, through this nonchalance, a slight tone of pique, which was less mortifying than her indifference. "I know not," said I," anything which causes such a sudden and enchantment-like reversion of the mind to past scenes and feelings, as an unexpected rencontre with those (or even the kindred of those) who were associated with us in the earliest and freshest days of our being."-" Nothing, certainly," answered Margaret, reminds us so forcibly of the change that has taken place in our being and our feelings."-"True," replied I; "yet for the moment the change itself seems annihilated; our hearts beat with the same pulse that before animated them, and time seems to have warred on their feelings in vain."-"Perhaps to have taught a lesson in vain," said my compan

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I paused for a moment, and then added, rather diffidently, "And what lesson should time teach us?" "It should teach us," she answered, with a sweet composure and gravity, "that our heart's best and warmest feelings may be wasted on that which may disappoint, and cannot satisfy them.""I read your 38 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series.

lesson with delight," answered I, in a tone somewhat sad; and added, "the only danger is lest we mistake the coolings of time for the conquests of principle." She seemed pleased by the sentiment, and by the frankness of the caution. may be," she said, "in the power of Time and Disappointment to detach from the world, or at least to produce a barren acknowledgment of its unsatisfactoriness; but it is beyond their unassisted power to attach the soul with a steady and practical love to the only legitimate, the only rational source of happiness. Here is the touch-stone which the self-deceiver cannot withstand." I was silent. There was a delicious feeling in my bosom that is quite indescribable." These," at length I said very timidly, "are the sentiments of Colonel Francillon; and since we have been on the subject of old friends, I could almost make up my mind to give you his history. It really half resembles a romance. At least it shows how often, in real life, circumstances-I had almost said adventures-arise, which in fiction we should deride as an insult to our taste, by the violence done to all probability. Come, shall I give you the history of your former acquaintance ?"—"Give me the history!" said Margaret, involuntarily, and with some emotion-. it seemed the emotion of indignation.-"Ay, why not? I mean, of course, his Indian history; for of that in England, perhaps, as your families were acquainted, you may know as much as I can."

The self-possession of men of the world generally increases in proportion to the embarrassment of those they address; yet I confess my heart began to beat quick and high as, taking advantage of Margaret's silence, I began to tell my own history.-Francillon had, I observed, arrived in India, animated in his endeavors to obtain fortune and preferment by one of the dearest and purest motives which can incite the human bosom. Here Margaret

turned round with something of a dignified displeasure, which seemed to reprobate this little delicate allusion to her past history. I proceeded as though I marked not her emotion.-Francillon was, I continued, under an engagement to a young and lovely compatriot, whose image was, even too closely, the idol of his bosom, but whose name, from natural and sacred feelings, had never passed his lip to human being. Here I thought Margaret seemed to breathe again. So I told my history simply and feelingly, and painted my grief on hearing of the death of Margaret with such depth of coloring, that I had well nigh identified the narrator with the subject of his biography. I am sure my companion was moved and surprised; but recovering herself, she said, in a peculiar tone, with which an assumed carelessness in vain struggled, "It is singular that a married man should have thus grieved over the object of an extinguished attachment." There hath been foul play in two ways between Margaret and myself, thought I.-"Captain Francillon, I observed aloud, "was not married until five years after the period you speak of,when he gave his hand to one of whom I trust he has too much manly feeling ever to speak save with the tender respect she merited, but to whom he candidly confessed that he brought but a blighted heart, the better half of whose affections lay buried in the grave of her who had first inspired them." In vain I sought to perceive what effect this disclosure had on my companion. Her face seemed studiously averted. The calm was profound; every breeze seemed to have died on the deep. It could not, therefore, be the night-air that so violently agitated the white raiment of Margaret. I continued my history,-brought myself to Malta, and placed myself on board an English vessel. Here, I confess, my courage half-failed me; but I went on.-Francillon," I said, "now began to realise his

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return to his native land. On the first night of his voyage he threw himself, in meditative mood, on the deck, and half in thought, half in dreams, recalled former scenes. But there was one form which, recreated by a faithful memory, constantly arose before his imagination. He dreamed, too, a something-I know not what-of a pilgrimage to the lone grave of her he had loved and lost; and then a change came upon his slumbering fancy, and he seemed to be ploughing some solitary and dismal sea; but even there a form appeared to him, whose voice thrilled on his ear, and whose eye, though it had waxed cold to him, made his heart heave with strange and unwonted emotion. He awoke

but oh !-the vision vanished not. Still in the moonlight he saw her who had risen on his dreams. Francillon started up. The figure he gazed on hastily retreated. He followed her in time to raise her from the fall her precipitate flight had occasioned, and discovered, with sensations which for a moment well nigh overpowered him, that she whom he beheld was indeed the object of his heart's earliest and best feelings-was Margaret Cameron!" I believe my respiration almost failed me as I thus ended. I spoke passionately, and uncovered my head when I uttered the concluding words. Margaret sprang to her feet with astonishment and emotion. "Is it possible !-have I then the pleasure to see-I am sure I am most fortunate-" again and again began Margaret. But her efforts at calmness, at ease, and even politeness, all failed her; and reseating herself, she covered her face with her hands, and gave way to I was an honest flood of tears. delighted; yet I felt that I had placed her in rather an embarrassing situation. Seating myself, therefore, by her, and taking her hand, rather with the air of an elder brother than of a suitor,-"Margaret," I said, "(if, as an early friend both of you and your father, you will again allow me

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