THE SMUGGLERS' ISLE. A Tale of the Sea. 66 BY THE AUTHOR OF TALES AND CONFESSIONS. THE sea-port town of Mowbray, every body knows, rose, flourished, and fell with the last war. A faithful chronicle of its fortunes would, no doubt, be interesting to the curious reader, but the unthinking many would, I fear, prefer the stories of Tyre and Carthage. There is one incident, however, in the annals of its zenith, which I cannot help imagining deserves a place in history, and it is, therefore, hereinunder set forth, with the brevity and simplicity which should characterise the historic style. No sooner had Mowbray begun to emerge from the insignificance of a fishing village, and to assume a place among the number of maritime towns, than it split, according to what seems to be a law "made and provided" in such cases, into a variety of petty factions. Every man's hand was against his neighbour, and every woman's tongue against hers. The jarring atoms of H society at length separated, as they usually do, into two vast masses; and the moral and political government of the town was vested in the two chiefs, whose purse or principles possessed this chemical power of attraction. The Montague and Capulet of Mowbray were two elderly men, whose waxing fortunes increased inversely with their waning vigour. They could remember when their native place was little better than a rendezvous for fishing craft, and when the condescension of a Mediterranean bark in accepting the protection of its bay from a gale of wind, was matter of triumph for a month. The fortunes of the place were now mightily changed. The fishing village had become a busy, bustling port, with rich argosies, not only from the Continental towns, but from the West Indies, lying secure within her two quays, which clasped them like a pair of greedy arms. To the free trade, however, as it is called in contradistinction to the fair trade, Mowbray was beholden for a considerable portion of its wealth and importance; the coast being singularly well adapted for the running business, while as yet no port-blockade had been established. To the lawless habits introduced, and rendered familiar in such cases, it was owing, that a certain wildness was exhibited in the character of the people, and that even in their most common transactions there was manifested a portion of the reckless and adventurous spirit which, on a great scale, furnishes materials for history, and on a small scale suggests hints for romance. The Montague of this place was a Mr. Mortimer, and its Capulet Mr. Grove; the resemblance between the real and fictitious personages being further kept up by the circumstance of Mr. Mortimer having a son, and Mr. Grove a daughter. A bitter hostility had existed between the two families from time immemorial, whichin the chronology of a mushroom-town like Mowbraymeans somewhere about twenty years, and had continued unabated up to the moment when the son and daughter of the rival houses had attained that period of life when boys and girls begin to think of love, and their fathers and mothers of matrimony. When old Mortimer cast his eyes around among his neighbours, in search of a fitting match for his son, his view was always intercepted by a great glaring white house, towering aloft among its brethren of the town, with an air of wealth and an assertion of supremacy, which made him sigh, as he reflected that it was the abode of Mr. Grove. When old Grove, for a similar purpose, threw a keen and discriminating glance among the smoky mass of bricks and mortar around him, his wandering looks returned unconsciously to fix themselves upon a huge red house, looking grim and lowering upon its neighbours, and by its very absence of neatness exhibiting the careless superiority of acknowledged opulence. The old man groaned at the sight, for it was the dwelling of Mr. Mortimer. When Frank Mortimer, posting himself near the VI. When last this cherished day came round, Fate, long unkind, our hopes had crowned, And strewn, at length, our path with flowers. How more than sad the evening hours, VII. And, half infected by our gloom, Yon little mourner sits and sighs; Or moves with soft and stealthy tread; As if he feared to wake the dead! VIII. Where is the blithe companion gone, Whose sports he loved to guide and share? Where is the merry eye that won All hearts to fondness?-Where, oh, where? The empty crib,—the vacant chair,— The favourite toy,-alone remain, To whisper to our hearts' despair Of hopes we cannot feel again! IX. Ay, joyless is our "ingle nook,” Its genial warmth we own no more! The converse sweet,- the cherished lore,- Those simple pleasures past away! X. Then chide me not,-I cannot sing Since fled the smiles of happier years; Sept. 5, 1829. * Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar. BYRON. |