The Pilgrims. Yet to the relics of thy splendor past Shall pilgrims pensive, but unwearied, throng. CHILDE HAROLD. THERE is, perhaps, no approach to the Old World more impressive to the transatlantic voyager than the Straits of Gibraltar. The remarkable promontory which rises abruptly before him is calculated to interest his mind, wearied with the monotony of sea-life, not less as an object of great natural curiosity than from the historical circumstances with which it is associated. Anciently deemed the boundary of the world, it was fabled, that at this point Europe and Africa were united, until riven asunder by Hercules. Forming the south-western extremity of Andalusia, and long occupied as a Moorish fortress, it awakens the many romantic impressions which embalm the history of Spain; constituting, as it were, the gate of the Mediterranean, the comer from the New World cannot pass its lofty and venerable form without feeling that he has left the ocean whose waters lave his native shore, and entered a sea hallowed by the annals of antiquity, and renowned for scenes of southern luxuriance and beauty. It was on a fine autumn night, that an American ship, propelled by a regular but gentle breeze, glided through this celebrated channel. The newly-risen moon seemed to hang just above the horizon, with that magnified and brilliant aspect which the clearness of the atmosphere in these climates occasions. Her soothing light illuminated the Spanish coast, glittered on the low crests of the waves, and fell at intervals upon the prominent points of the majestic rock. So quiet was the night, that the ripple of the water, as if parted before the prow of the vessel, sounded hoarsely, and the occasional orders of the captain, although uttered in an ordinary tone, came with a startling distinctness to the ear. Upon the quarter-deck stood two spectators of the scene, apparently absorbed in regarding its novel features, or yielding to the thoughts it had suggested. The elder was a man somewhat beyond the prime of life, with one of those countenances equally indicative of shrewdness and benevolence, so frequently encountered in America, and, without boasting any very striking lineament, convey the idea of intelligence, but not necessarily of genius, and good feeling without ardor. Beside him, her arm within his, and her eyes turned in the same direction, stood a girl of graceful figure and medium height. Her face was not strictly beautiful, if such a term is only applicable to great regularity of profile; but to those, who, abjuring this conventional ordeal of female loveliness, regard beauty as chiefly dependent on expression, her countenance alone would excite immediate interest. She was one of those beings who vindicate the attractiveness of her sex beyond the most perfect models of beauty; whose eye, smile, and manner are so instantly and perfectly inspired by the spirit within them, that criticism is disarmed, standards of the beautiful annihilated, and we are only sensible of being interested, without precisely knowing how or why. Perhaps the secret lies in the very depths of character. Ingenuousness and enthusiasm were the active elements of her nature, and through their influence it was that a spirit of beauty lived in her glance, voice, and manner, more winning than the finest outline or the richest tint. It was the beauty of expression, combined with the graces of youth and rare natural gifts— of candid, free, and earnest expression, and, therefore, not to be described any more than any other charm, which, like music, addresses at once both soul and sense. The father of Isabel Otley began life with a sensitiveness of temperament and depth of feeling which ill fitted him for the constant contact of worldly influences which scenes of traffic unavoidably engender. Yet at the period when it became necessary for him to fix upon an occupation, the only interest his friends were able to exert in his behalf lay in the channels of trade, and soon after arriving at manhood, he found himself fairly embarked in mercantile pursuits, in the commercial emporium of the New World. His attention and probity won him universal respect and confidence, but the effect of uncongenial occupation was to give to his manner a reserve utterly foreign to his nature, which unhappily prevented his associates from discerning many of the most estimable qualities of his character. A twelve month's residence in the south of Europe during his youth had, in no small degree, confirmed his natural aversion to the path of life in which circumstances had placed him; but soon after he had entered upon it, too far to retreat with convenience, a happier agency mingled with and neutralized the unpromising hues of his destiny. In the course of business it became necessary for him to visit Virginia. While there, making one of those brief but pleasant sojourns at the house of a wealthy planter which the frank hospitality of the south renders so delightful to the stranger, he was attacked by a fever. A protracted convalescence ensued, during which the amplest opportunity was afforded him of realizing the sympathy of taste and feel |