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PROGRAMMING LANGUAGE
DESIGN CONCEPTS
PROGRAMMING LANGUAGE
DESIGN CONCEPTS

David A. Watt, University of Glasgow

with contributions by

William Findlay, University of Glasgow

Copyright  2004 John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester,
West Sussex PO19 8SQ, England

Telephone (+44) 1243 779777

Email (for orders and customer service enquiries): cs-books@wiley.co.uk

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the terms of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a licence issued by the Copyright
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Watt, David A. (David Anthony)

Programming language design concepts / David A. Watt ; with
contributions by William Findlay.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-470-85320-4 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Programming languages (Electronic computers) I. Findlay, William,
1947- II. Title.

QA76.7 .W388 2004

005.13 – dc22
2003026236
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0-470-85320-4

Typeset in 10/12pt TimesTen by Laserwords Private Limited, Chennai, India

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Biddles Ltd, King’s Lynn
This book is printed on acid-free paper responsibly manufactured from sustainable forestry
in which at least two trees are planted for each one used for paper production.
To Carol
Contents

Preface xv

Part I: Introduction 1
1 Programming languages 3
1.1 Programming linguistics 3
1.1.1 Concepts and paradigms 3
1.1.2 Syntax, semantics, and pragmatics 5
1.1.3 Language processors 6
1.2 Historical development 6
Summary 10
Further reading 10
Exercises 10

Part II: Basic Concepts 13

2 Values and types 15
2.1 Types 15
2.2 Primitive types 16
2.2.1 Built-in primitive types 16
2.2.2 Defined primitive types 18
2.2.3 Discrete primitive types 19
2.3 Composite types 20
2.3.1 Cartesian products, structures, and records 21
2.3.2 Mappings, arrays, and functions 23
2.3.3 Disjoint unions, discriminated records, and objects 27
2.4 Recursive types 33
2.4.1 Lists 33
2.4.2 Strings 35
2.4.3 Recursive types in general 36
2.5 Type systems 37
2.5.1 Static vs dynamic typing 38
2.5.2 Type equivalence 40
2.5.3 The Type Completeness Principle 42
2.6 Expressions 43
2.6.1 Literals 43
2.6.2 Constructions 44
2.6.3 Function calls 46
2.6.4 Conditional expressions 47
2.6.5 Iterative expressions 48
2.6.6 Constant and variable accesses 49

vii
viii Contents

2.7 Implementation notes 49

2.7.1 Representation of primitive types 49
2.7.2 Representation of Cartesian products 50
2.7.3 Representation of arrays 50
2.7.4 Representation of disjoint unions 51
2.7.5 Representation of recursive types 51
Summary 52
Further reading 52
Exercises 52

3 Variables and storage 57

3.1 Variables and storage 57
3.2 Simple variables 58
3.3 Composite variables 59
3.3.1 Total vs selective update 60
3.3.2 Static vs dynamic vs flexible arrays 61
3.4 Copy semantics vs reference semantics 63
3.5 Lifetime 66
3.5.1 Global and local variables 66
3.5.2 Heap variables 68
3.5.3 Persistent variables 71
3.6 Pointers 73
3.6.1 Pointers and recursive types 74
3.6.2 Dangling pointers 75
3.7 Commands 77
3.7.1 Skips 77
3.7.2 Assignments 77
3.7.3 Proper procedure calls 78
3.7.4 Sequential commands 79
3.7.5 Collateral commands 79
3.7.6 Conditional commands 80
3.7.7 Iterative commands 82
3.8 Expressions with side effects 85
3.8.1 Command expressions 86
3.8.2 Expression-oriented languages 87
3.9 Implementation notes 87
3.9.1 Storage for global and local variables 88
3.9.2 Storage for heap variables 89
3.9.3 Representation of dynamic and flexible arrays 90
Summary 91
Further reading 91
Exercises 92

4 Bindings and scope 95

4.1 Bindings and environments 95
4.2 Scope 97
 Contents ix

4.2.1 Block structure 97

4.2.2 Scope and visibility 99
4.2.3 Static vs dynamic scoping 100
4.3 Declarations 102
4.3.1 Type declarations 102
4.3.2 Constant declarations 104
4.3.3 Variable declarations 104
4.3.4 Procedure definitions 105
4.3.5 Collateral declarations 105
4.3.6 Sequential declarations 106
4.3.7 Recursive declarations 107
4.3.8 Scopes of declarations 108
4.4 Blocks 108
4.4.1 Block commands 109
4.4.2 Block expressions 110
4.4.3 The Qualification Principle 110
Summary 111
Further reading 112
Exercises 112

5 Procedural abstraction 115

5.1 Function procedures and proper procedures 115
5.1.1 Function procedures 116
5.1.2 Proper procedures 118
5.1.3 The Abstraction Principle 120
5.2 Parameters and arguments 122
5.2.1 Copy parameter mechanisms 124
5.2.2 Reference parameter mechanisms 125
5.2.3 The Correspondence Principle 128
5.3 Implementation notes 129
5.3.1 Implementation of procedure calls 130
5.3.2 Implementation of parameter mechanisms 130
Summary 131
Further reading 131
Exercises 131

Part III: Advanced Concepts 133

6 Data abstraction 135
6.1 Program units, packages, and encapsulation 135
6.1.1 Packages 136
6.1.2 Encapsulation 137
6.2 Abstract types 140
6.3 Objects and classes 145
6.3.1 Classes 146
6.3.2 Subclasses and inheritance 151
x Contents

6.3.3 Abstract classes 157

6.3.4 Single vs multiple inheritance 160
6.3.5 Interfaces 162
6.4 Implementation notes 164
6.4.1 Representation of objects 164
6.4.2 Implementation of method calls 165
Summary 166
Further reading 167
Exercises 167

7 Generic abstraction 171

7.1 Generic units and instantiation 171
7.1.1 Generic packages in ADA 172
7.1.2 Generic classes in C++ 174
7.2 Type and class parameters 176
7.2.1 Type parameters in ADA 176
7.2.2 Type parameters in C++ 180
7.2.3 Class parameters in JAVA 183
7.3 Implementation notes 186
7.3.1 Implementation of ADA generic units 186
7.3.2 Implementation of C++ generic units 187
7.3.3 Implementation of JAVA generic units 188
Summary 188
Further reading 189
Exercises 189

8 Type systems 191

8.1 Inclusion polymorphism 191
8.1.1 Types and subtypes 191
8.1.2 Classes and subclasses 195
8.2 Parametric polymorphism 198
8.2.1 Polymorphic procedures 198
8.2.2 Parameterized types 200
8.2.3 Type inference 202
8.3 Overloading 204
8.4 Type conversions 207
8.5 Implementation notes 208
8.5.1 Implementation of parametric polymorphism 208
Summary 210
Further reading 210
Exercises 211

9 Control flow 215

9.1 Sequencers 215
9.2 Jumps 216
9.3 Escapes 218
 Contents xi

9.4 Exceptions 221

9.5 Implementation notes 226
9.5.1 Implementation of jumps and escapes 226
9.5.2 Implementation of exceptions 227
Summary 227
Further reading 228
Exercises 228

10 Concurrency 231
10.1 Why concurrency? 231
10.2 Programs and processes 233
10.3 Problems with concurrency 234
10.3.1 Nondeterminism 234
10.3.2 Speed dependence 234
10.3.3 Deadlock 236
10.3.4 Starvation 237
10.4 Process interactions 238
10.4.1 Independent processes 238
10.4.2 Competing processes 238
10.4.3 Communicating processes 239
10.5 Concurrency primitives 240
10.5.1 Process creation and control 241
10.5.2 Interrupts 243
10.5.3 Spin locks and wait-free algorithms 243
10.5.4 Events 248
10.5.5 Semaphores 249
10.5.6 Messages 251
10.5.7 Remote procedure calls 252
10.6 Concurrent control abstractions 253
10.6.1 Conditional critical regions 253
10.6.2 Monitors 255
10.6.3 Rendezvous 256
Summary 258
Further reading 258
Exercises 259

Part IV: Paradigms 263

11 Imperative programming 265

11.1 Key concepts 265
11.2 Pragmatics 266
11.2.1 A simple spellchecker 268
11.3 Case study: C 269
11.3.1 Values and types 269
11.3.2 Variables, storage, and control 272
xii Contents

11.3.3 Bindings and scope 274

11.3.4 Procedural abstraction 274
11.3.5 Independent compilation 275
11.3.6 Preprocessor directives 276
11.3.7 Function library 277
11.3.8 A simple spellchecker 278
11.4 Case study: ADA 281
11.4.1 Values and types 281
11.4.2 Variables, storage, and control 282
11.4.3 Bindings and scope 282
11.4.4 Procedural abstraction 283
11.4.5 Data abstraction 283
11.4.6 Generic abstraction 285
11.4.7 Separate compilation 288
11.4.8 Package library 289
11.4.9 A simple spellchecker 289
Summary 292
Further reading 293
Exercises 293

12 Object-oriented programming 297

12.1 Key concepts 297
12.2 Pragmatics 298
12.3 Case study: C++ 299
12.3.1 Values and types 300
12.3.2 Variables, storage, and control 300
12.3.3 Bindings and scope 300
12.3.4 Procedural abstraction 301
12.3.5 Data abstraction 302
12.3.6 Generic abstraction 306
12.3.7 Independent compilation and preprocessor directives 307
12.3.8 Class and template library 307
12.3.9 A simple spellchecker 308
12.4 Case study: JAVA 311
12.4.1 Values and types 312
12.4.2 Variables, storage, and control 313
12.4.3 Bindings and scope 314
12.4.4 Procedural abstraction 314
12.4.5 Data abstraction 315
12.4.6 Generic abstraction 317
12.4.7 Separate compilation and dynamic linking 318
12.4.8 Class library 319
12.4.9 A simple spellchecker 320
12.5 Case study: ADA95 322
12.5.1 Types 322
12.5.2 Data abstraction 325
 Contents xiii

Summary 328
Further reading 328
Exercises 329

13 Concurrent programming 333

13.1 Key concepts 333
13.2 Pragmatics 334
13.3 Case study: ADA95 336
13.3.1 Process creation and termination 336
13.3.2 Mutual exclusion 338
13.3.3 Admission control 339
13.3.4 Scheduling away deadlock 347
13.4 Case study: JAVA 355
13.4.1 Process creation and termination 356
13.4.2 Mutual exclusion 358
13.4.3 Admission control 359
13.5 Implementation notes 361
Summary 363
Further reading 363
Exercises 363

14 Functional programming 367

14.1 Key concepts 367
14.1.1 Eager vs normal-order vs lazy evaluation 368
14.2 Pragmatics 370
14.3 Case study: HASKELL 370
14.3.1 Values and types 370
14.3.2 Bindings and scope 374
14.3.3 Procedural abstraction 376
14.3.4 Lazy evaluation 379
14.3.5 Data abstraction 381
14.3.6 Generic abstraction 382
14.3.7 Modeling state 384
14.3.8 A simple spellchecker 386
Summary 387
Further reading 388
Exercises 389

15 Logic programming 393

15.1 Key concepts 393
15.2 Pragmatics 396
15.3 Case study: PROLOG 396
15.3.1 Values, variables, and terms 396
15.3.2 Assertions and clauses 398
15.3.3 Relations 398
15.3.4 The closed-world assumption 402
15.3.5 Bindings and scope 403
xiv Contents

15.3.6 Control 404

15.3.7 Input/output 406
15.3.8 A simple spellchecker 407
Summary 409
Further reading 410
Exercises 410
16 Scripting 413
16.1 Pragmatics 413
16.2 Key concepts 414
16.2.1 Regular expressions 415
16.3 Case study: PYTHON 417
16.3.1 Values and types 418
16.3.2 Variables, storage, and control 419
16.3.3 Bindings and scope 421
16.3.4 Procedural abstraction 421
16.3.5 Data abstraction 422
16.3.6 Separate compilation 424
16.3.7 Module library 425
Summary 427
Further reading 427
Exercises 427

Part V: Conclusion 429

17 Language selection 431
17.1 Criteria 431
17.2 Evaluation 433
Summary 436
Exercises 436
18 Language design 437
18.1 Selection of concepts 437
18.2 Regularity 438
18.3 Simplicity 438
18.4 Efficiency 441
18.5 Syntax 442
18.6 Language life cycles 444
18.7 The future 445
Summary 446
Further reading 446
Exercises 447
Bibliography 449
Glossary 453
Index 465
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's
Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841

Author: Various

Editor: George R. Graham

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Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S

MAGAZINE, VOL. XVIII, NO. 6, JUNE 1841 ***
 GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XVIII. June, 1841. No. 6.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

The Island of the Fay
The Reefer of ’76 (continued)
The Lost Heir
The Syrian Letters
The Clothing of the Ancients
The Life Guardsman
Ugolino, a Tale of Florence
The Thunder Storm
Poetry: The Uncertainty of Its Appreciation
Sports and Pastimes
Review of New Books
 Poetry, Music and Fashion
The Voice of the Wind
Time’s Changes
Sighs for the Unattainable
The Lay of the Affections
To Lord Byron
Sonnet Written in April
The Joys of Former Years Have Fled
Let Me Rest in the Land of My Birth
Fashions for June 1841

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

 Engraved by J. Sartain.

The Island of the Fay.

Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from an Original by Martin.

 GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XVIII. June, 1841. No. 6.

THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.

———
BY EDGAR A. POE.
———

Science, true daughter of old Time thou art,

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes!
Why prey’st thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise
Who wouldst not leave him, in his wandering,
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana, from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood?
Hast thou not spoilt a story in each star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood?
The elfin from the grass?—the dainty fay,
The witch, the sprite, the goblin—where are they?
Anon.

“La musique,” says Marmontel, with the same odd confusion of

thought and language which leads him to give his very equivocal
narratives the title of “Contes Moraux”—“la musique est le seul des
talens qui jouissent de lui même; tous les autres veulent des
temoins.” He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet
sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more than any other
talent, is that for music susceptible of complete enjoyment, where
there is no second party to appreciate its exercise. And it is only in
common with other talents that it produces effects which may be
fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the raconteur has either
failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed, in its expression, to his
national love of point, is, doubtless, the very tenable one that the
higher order of music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are
the most exclusively alone. The proposition, in this form, will be
admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake, and for
its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach of
fallen mortality—and perhaps only one—which owes even more than
does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the
happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In
truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth
must in solitude behold that glory. To me, at least, the presence—
not of human life only—but of life in any other form than that of the
green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless—is a stain
upon the landscape—is at war with the genius of the scene. I love,
indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the grey rocks, and the
waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy
slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all
—I love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of
one vast animate and sentient whole—a whole whose form (that of
the sphere) is the most perfect and the most inclusive of all; whose
path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity;
whose intelligence is that of a God; whose enjoyment is knowledge;
whose destinies are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of
ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the animalculæ in
crystal, or of those which infest the brain—a being which we, in
consequence, regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
same manner as these animalculæ must thus regard us.
 Our telescopes, and our mathematical investigations assure us on
every hand—notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the
priesthood—that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important
consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the
stars move are those best adapted for the evolution, without
collision, of the greatest possible number of bodies. The forms of
these bodies are accurately such as, within a given surface, to
include the greatest possible amount of matter;—while the surfaces
themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser population
than could be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise
arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object with
God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
matter to fill it. And since we see clearly that the endowment of
matter with vitality is a principle—indeed as far as our judgments
extend, the leading principle—in the operations of Deity—it is
scarcely logical to imagine that it is confined to the regions of the
minute, where we daily trace it, and that it does not extend to those
of the august. As we find cycle within cycle without end—yet all
revolving around one far-distant centre which is the God-head, may
we not analogically suppose, in the same manner, life within life, the
less within the greater, and all within the Spirit Divine? In short, we
are madly erring, through self-esteem, in believing man, in either his
temporal or future destinies, to be of more moment in the universe
than that vast “clod of the valley” which he tills and contemns, and
to which he denies a soul for no more profound reason than that he
does not behold its operation.
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my
meditations among the mountains, and the forests, by the rivers and
the ocean, a tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to
term the fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes have been
many, and far-searching, and often solitary; and the interest with
which I have strayed through many a dim deep valley, or gazed into
the reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been an interest
greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and gazed
alone. What flippant Frenchman was it who said, in allusion to the
well-known work of Zimmerman, that “la solitude est une belle
chose; mais il faut quelqu ’un pour vous dire que la solitude est une
belle chose?” The epigram cannot be gainsayed; but the necessity is
a thing that does not exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far-distant
region of mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and
melancholy tarns writhing or sleeping within all—that I chanced
upon the rivulet and the island which are the subject of our
engraving. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
myself upon the turf, beneath the branches of an unknown odorous
shrub, that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus
only should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm
which it wore.
On all sides—save to the west, where the sun was about sinking
—arose the verdant walls of the forest. The little river, which turned
sharply in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed
to have no exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep
green foliage of the trees to the east—while in the opposite quarter
(so it appeared to me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there
poured down noiselessly and continuously into the valley, a rich,
golden and crimson waterfall from the sun-set fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in,
one small circular island, fantastically verdured, reposed upon the
bosom of the stream.

So blended bank and shadow there,

That each seemed pendulous in air—

so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to

say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
dominion began.
My position enabled me to include in a single view both the
eastern and western extremities of the islet; and I observed a
singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath
the eye of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The
grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed.
The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect—bright, slender and graceful—of
eastern figure and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and
particolored. There seemed a deep sense of life and of joy about all;
and although no airs blew from out the Heavens, yet every thing had
motion through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable
butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.[1]
The other, or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest
shade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all
things. The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and
attitude—wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral
shapes, that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death.
The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its
blades hung droopingly, and, hither and thither among it, were many
small unsightly hillocks, low, and narrow, and not very long, that had
the aspect of graves, but were not, although over and all about
them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of the trees
fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein,
impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied that
each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself
sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed
by the stream; while other shadows issued momently from the trees,
taking the place of their predecessors entombed.
This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it,
and I lost myself forthwith in reverie. “If ever island were
enchanted,”—said I to myself,—“this is it. This is the haunt of the
few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are these
green tombs theirs?—or do they yield up at all their sweet lives as
mankind yield up their own? In dying, do they not rather waste away
mournfully; rendering unto God their existence little by little, as
these trees render up shadow after shadow, exhausting their
substances unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to the water
that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys upon,
may not the life of the Fay be to the Death which engulfs it?—but
what fairy-like form is this which glides so solemnly along the
water?”
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun rapidly sank
to rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island,
bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling white flakes of the bark of
the sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the
water, a quick imagination might have converted into anything it
pleased—while I thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one
of those very Fays about whom I had been pondering, made its way
slowly into the darkness from out the light at the western end of the
island. She stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it
with the mere phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the
lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicative of joy—but
sorrow deformed it as she passed within the shade. Slowly she
glided along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered the
region of light. “The revolution which has just been made by the
Fay,”—continued I musingly—“is the cycle of the brief year of her
life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer.
She is a year nearer to Death; for I did not fail to see that as she
came into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed
up in the dark water, making its blackness more black.”
And again the boat appeared, and the Fay;—but about the
attitude of the latter there was more of care and uncertainty, and
less of elastic joy. She floated again from out the light, and into the
gloom, (which deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from
her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness.
And again and again she made the circuit of the island, (while the
sun rushed down to his slumbers;) and at each issuing forth into the
light, there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler,
and far fainter, and more indistinct; and at each passage into the
gloom, there fell from her a darker shade, which became whelmed in
a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood—and
that she issued thence at all I cannot say,—for darkness fell over all
things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.

[1] Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera.—P.

Commire.

Philadelphia, May, 1841.

 THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

“Whence comest thou, wind, in thy rapid flight,

Or the balmy play of the zephyrs light?
Hast thou breathed o’er the freshness of myrtle bowers,
And laden thy wings from the orange flowers?
Or pierced the darkness of distant caves,
Whose depths resound with the ocean’s waves?
Yet bring me no shadows of grief or woe,
’Tis only earth’s beauties I fain would know.”
“I come in mirth,” said the gentle breeze,
“To bring the murmurs of distant seas;
I passed o’er the regions of fairest bloom,
Till my pinions were laden with soft perfume;
Where the dulcet tones of the wild bird’s note,
In the boundless regions of ether float.
I have come from the land of Olympus’ pride,
Where the Spartan fought, and the Persian died.
But prostrate palace, and fallen fane,
Of its grandeur and beauty alone remain.
I waved the boughs of the clustering vines,
As their shadows fell o’er the mouldering lines,
Which mark the spot of the warrior’s tomb,
In that home of glory and land of bloom.
And I kissed the brow of the dark-eyed girl,
As I stirred with my pinions each raven curl.
Nay, ask not a tale of unmingled joy,
For earth has no pleasure without alloy;
The widow’s moan, and the orphan’s wail,
Are often borne on the sighing gale.
When the clarion’s voice, and the cannon’s roar,
Bear terror and ruin from shore to shore.
I come in wrath, and the storm-clouds fly,
In blackening folds through the darksome sky;
And the mariner wakes from his joyful dream,
Midst the tempest’s roar, and the lightning’s gleam;
In the fathomless vaults of the ocean’s caves,
He must rest ’mid the tumult of angry waves.
I am fearless of sky, or of earth or sea,
But soar over all with pinions free;
I sport with the curls of the laughing child,
With the bandit play, or the maiden mild;
From the fragile flower to the lofty tree
All bend in submission and yield to me.”
Emma.

Yonker’s Female Seminary, 1841.

 THE REEFER OF ’76.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”
———

THE SHIP’S BOY.

“Hillo!” said Westbrook, “who’s skulking here?” and he pushed
his foot against a dark heap, huddled up under the shade of one of
the guns. As he did so, a slight, pale-faced, sickly-looking boy
started up. “Ah! it’s you, Dick, is it?—why I never before thought
you’d skulk—there, go—but you mustn’t do it again, my lad.”
The boy was a favorite with all on board. He had embarked at
Newport, and was, therefore, a new hand, but his quiet demeanor,
as well as a certain melancholy expression of face he always wore,
had won him a way to our hearts. Little was known of his history,
except that he was an orphan. Punctual in the discharge of his
duties, yet holding himself aloof from the rest of the boys, he
seemed to be one, who although he had determined to endure his
present fate, was yet conscious of having seen better days. I was
the more confirmed in my belief that he had been born to a higher
station from the choice of his words in conversation, especially with
his superiors. His manner, too, was not that of one brought up to
buffett roughly against fortune. That one so young should be thrust,
unaided, out into the world, was a sure passport for him to my
heart, for his want of parents was a link of sympathy uniting us
together; and we had, therefore, always been as much friends as
the relative difference of our situations, on board a man-of-war
would allow. Yet even I, so great was his reserve, knew little more of
his history than the rest of my shipmates. Once, indeed, when I had
rendered him some little kindness, such as an officer always has it in
his power without much trouble to himself, to bestow upon an
inferior, his heart had opened, and he had told me, more by hints
though than in direct words, that he had lost his father and mother
and a little sister, within a few weeks of each other, and that,
houseless, penniless and friendless, he had been forced to sea by his
only remaining relatives, in order that he might shift for himself. I
suspected that he did not pass under his real name. But whatever
had been his former lot, or however great were his sufferings, he
never repined. He went through his duty silently, but sadly, as if—
poor child!—he carried within him a breaking heart.
“Please, sir,” said he, in reply to Westbrook’s address, “it’s but a
minute any how I’ve been here.”
“Well, well, Dick, I believe you,” said the warm-hearted
midshipman. “But there go eight bells, and as your watch is up, you
may go below. What! crying—fie, fie, my lad, how girl-hearted you
have grown.”
“I am not girl-hearted always,” sobbed the little fellow, looking up
into his superior’s face, “but I couldn’t help crying when I thought
that to-night a year ago my mother died, and I crept under the gun
so that no one might see and laugh at me, as they do at every one
here. It was just at this hour she died,” he continued, chokingly,
bursting into a fit of uncontrollable weeping, “and she was the only
friend I had on earth.”
“Poor boy! God bless you!” said Westbrook, mentally, as the lad,
finishing his passionate exclamation, turned hastily away.
It was my watch, and as Westbrook met me coming on deck, he
paused a moment, and said,
“Do you know any thing about that poor little fellow, I mean Dick
Rasey? God help me I’ve been rating him for skulking, when the lad
only wanted to hide his grief for his mother from the jests of the
crew. I wouldn’t have done it for any thing.”
“No—he has always maintained the greatest reserve respecting
himself. Has he gone below?”
“Yes! who can he be? It’s strange I feel such an interest in him.”
 “Poor child!—he has seen better days, and this hard life is killing
him. I wish he could distinguish himself some how—the skipper
might then take a fancy to him and put him on the quarter-deck.”
“What a dear little middy he would make,” said Westbrook, his
gay humor flashing out through his sadness, “why we havn’t got a
cocked-hat aboard that wouldn’t bury him up like an extinguisher, or
a dirk to spare which isn’t longer than his whole body.”
“Shame, Jack—its not a matter for jest—the lad is dying by
inches.”
“Ah! you’re right, Parker; I wish to heaven the boy had a berth
aft here. But now I must go below, for I’m confoundedly sleepy.
You’ll have a lighter watch of it than I had. The moon will be up
directly—and there, by Jove! she comes—look how gloriously her
disc slides up behind that wave. But this is no time for poetry, for
I’m as drowsy as if I was about to sleep, like the old fellow in the
Arabian story, for a matter of a hundred years or more, or even like
the seven sleepers of Christendom, who fell into a doze some
centuries back, and will come to life again the Lord knows when,”
and with a long yawn, my mercurial messmate gave a parting glance
at the rising luminary, and went below.
The spectacle to which Westbrook had called my attention was
indeed a glorious one. The night had been somewhat misty, so that
the stars were obscured, or but faintly visible here and there; while
the light breeze that scarcely ruffled the sea, or sighed above a
whisper in the rigging, had given an air of profound repose to the
scene. When I first stept on deck the whole horizon was buried in
this partial obscurity, and the view around, excepting in the vicinity
of the Fire-Fly, was lost in misty indistinctness. A few moments,
however, had changed the aspect of the whole scene. When I
relieved the watch the eastern horizon was shrouded in a veil of
dark, thick vapors—for the mists had collected there in denser
masses than any where else—while a single star, through a rent in
the midst of that weird-like canopy, shone calmly upon the scene:
but now the fog had lifted up like a curtain from the seaboard in that
quarter, and a long greenish streak of light, stretching along for
several points, and against which the dark waves undulated in bold
relief, betokened the approach of the moon. Even as Westbrook
spoke, the upper edge of her disc slid up above the watery horizon,
disappearing and appearing again as the surges rose and fell against
it, until gradually the huge globe lifted its whole vast volume above
the seaboard, and while the edge of the dark canopy above shone
as if lined with pearl, a flood of glorious light, flickering and dancing
upon the billows, was poured in a long line of molten silver across
the sea toward us, bathing hull, and spars, and sails in liquid
radiance, and seeming to transpose us in a moment into a fairy land.
Such a scene of unrivalled beauty I had never beheld. The contrast
betwixt the dark vapors hanging over the moon, and the dazzling
brilliancy of her wake below was indeed magnificent. I looked in
mute delight. The few stars above were at once obscured by the
brighter glories of the moon. Suddenly, however, as I gazed, a dark
speck appeared upon the surface of the moon, and in another
instant the tall masts and exquisite tracery of a ship could be seen,
in bold relief against her disc, the fine dark lines of the hamper
seeming like the thinnest cobwebs crossing a burnished shield of
silver. So plainly was the vessel seen that her minutest spars were
perceptible as she rose and fell gallantly on the long heavy swell.
“Ah! my fine fellow,” I exclaimed, “we have you there. Had it not
been for yonder pretty mistress of the night you would have passed
us unseen. Make all sail at once—and bear up a few points more so
as to get the weather gauge of the stranger.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“How gallantly the old schooner eats into the wind,” I said,
gazing with admiration on our light little craft. I turned to the chase.
“Has the stranger altered her course?” I asked, looking for her in the
old position, but finding she was no more visible.
“No, sir, I saw her but an instant ago: oh! there she is—that fog
bank settling down on the seaboard hid her from sight. You can see
her now just to leeward of the moon, sir.”
 I looked, and as the man had said, perceived that the dark massy
bank of vapors, which had lifted as the moon rose, was once more
settling down on the seaboard, obscuring her whole disc at intervals,
and shrouding every thing in that quarter in occasional gloom. For a
moment the strange sail had been lost in this obscurity, but as the
moon struggled through the clouds, it once more became visible just
under the northern side of that luminary. Apparently unconscious of
our vicinity the stranger was stealing gently along under easy sail,
pitching upon the long undulating swell, while, as he lay almost in
the very wake of the moon, every part of his hull and rigging was
distinctly perceptible. Not a yard, however, appeared to have been
moved: not an additional sail was set. Occasionally we lost sight of
him as the moon, wading heavily through the sombre clouds,
became momentarily obscured, although even then, from beneath
the frowning canopy of vapors above, a silvery radiance would steal
out at the edges of the clouds, tipping the masts and sails of the
stranger with a soft pearly light that looked like enchantment itself,
and which, contrasted with the dark hues of the hull and the gloomy
deep beneath, produced an effect such as I have never seen
surpassed in nature or art.
Meanwhile the wind gradually failed us, until at length it fell a
dead calm. All this time the fog was settling down more heavily
around us, not gathering in one compact mass however, but lying in
patches scattered over the whole expanse of the waters, and
presenting a picture such as no one, except he is familiar with a
tropical sea, can imagine. In some places the ocean was entirely
clear of the fog, while a patch of cold, blue sky above, spangled with
innumerable stars, that shone with a brilliancy unknown to colder
climes, looked as if cut out of the mists, which on every hand around
covered the sky as with a veil. At times a light breeze would spring
up ruffling the polished surface of the swell, and, undulating the fog
as smoke-wreaths in the morning air, would open up, for a moment,
a sight of some new patch of blue sky above, with its thousand
brightly twinkling stars, reminding one of the beautiful skies we used
to dream of in our infant slumbers, and then, dying away as
suddenly as it arose, the mists would undulate uncertainly an
instant, roll toward each other, and twisting around in a thousand
fantastic folds, would finally close up, shrouding the sky once more
in gloom, and settling down bodily upon the sombre surface of the
deep. At length the moon became wholly obscured. A few stars only
could be seen flickering fainter and fainter far up in the fathomless
ether, and finally, after momentarily appearing and disappearing,
they vanished altogether. A profound gloom hung on all around. The
silence of death reigned over our little craft. Even the customary
sounds of the swell rippling along our sides, or the breeze sighing
through the hamper faded entirely, and save an occasional creaking
of the boom, or the sullen falling of a reef-point against the sail, not
a sound broke the repose of the scene. The strange sail had long
since been lost sight of to starboard. So profound was the darkness
that we could scarcely distinguish the look-out at the forecastle from
the quarter-deck. Silent and motionless we lay, shut in by that dark
shroud of vapor, as if buried by some potent enchanter in a living
tomb.
“Hist!” said a reefer of my watch to me, “don’t you hear
something, Mr. Parker?”
I listened, attentively, and though my hearing was proverbially
sharp, I could distinguish nothing for several moments. At length,
however, the little fellow pinched my arm, and inclining my eye to
the water, I heard a low monotonous sound like the smothered
rollicking of oars that had been muffled. At first I could not credit my
senses, but, as I listened again, the sound came more distinctly to
my ears, seeming to grow nearer and nearer. There could be no
mistaking it. Directly, moreover, these sounds ceased, and then was
heard a low murmured noise, as if human voices were conversing
together in stifled tones. At once it flashed upon me that an attack
was contemplated upon us—by whom I knew not—though it was
probable that the enemy came from the strange sail to starboard. It
was evident, however, that the assailants were at fault. My measures
were taken at once. Hastily ordering the watch to arm themselves in
quiet, I ordered the men to be called silently; and, as by this time
the look-outs began to detect the approach of our unknown visitors,
I enjoined equal silence upon them, commanding them at the same
time, however, to keep a sharp eye to starboard, in order to learn, if
possible, the exact position of the expected assailants.
In a few minutes the men were mustered, and prepared for the
visitors, whether peaceful or not. Most of the officers, too, had found
their way on deck, although as it was uncertain as yet whether it
might not be a false alarm, I had not disturbed the skipper.
Westbrook was already, however, prepared for the fight, and as I ran
my eye hastily over the crew I thought I saw the slight form of Dick
Rasey, standing amongst them.
“Can you hear any thing, Westbrook?” said I.
“It’s like the grave!” was his whispered answer.
“Pass the word on for the men to keep perfectly quiet, but to
remain at their stations.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
For some minutes the death-like silence which had preceded the
discovery of our unknown visitors returned, and as moment after
moment crept by without betraying the slightest token of the vicinity
of the assailants, I almost began to doubt my senses, and believe
that the sounds I had heard had been imaginary. The most profound
obscurity meantime reigned over our decks. So great was the
darkness that I could only distinguish a shadowy group of human
beings gathered forward, without being able to discern distinctly any
one face or figure; while the only sound I heard, breaking the hush
around, was the deep, but half-suppressed breathing of our men.
Suddenly, however, when our suspense had become exciting even to
nervousness, a low, quick sound was heard right off our starboard
quarter, as if one or more boats, with muffled oars, were pulling
swiftly on to us; while almost instantaneously a dark mass shot out
of the gloom on that side, and before we could realise the rapidity of
their approach, the boat had struck our side, and her crew were
tumbling in over the bulwarks, cutlass in hand. Our preparation took
them, however, by surprise, and for a moment they recoiled, but
instantly rallying at their leader’s voice, they poured in upon us again
with redoubled fierceness, cheering as they clambered up our sides,
and struggled over the bulwarks.
“Beat them back, Fire-Flies!” I shouted, “give it to them with a
will, boys—strike.”
“Press on, my lads, press on—the schooner’s our own!” shouted
the leader of the assailants.
Levelling my pistol at the advancing speaker, and waving our
men on with my sword, I gave him no answer, but fired. The pistol
flashed in the pan. In an instant the leader of the foe was upon me,
having sprung over the bulwarks as I spoke. He was a tall, athletic
man, and lifting his sword high above his head, while in his other
hand he presented a pistol toward my breast, he dashed upon me. I
parried his thrust with my blade, but as he fired I felt a sharp pain in
my arm, like the puncture of a pin. I knew that I was wounded, but
it only inspired me with fiercer energy. I made a lunge at him, but
he met it with a blow of his sword, which shivered my weapon to
atoms. Springing upon my gigantic adversary, I wreathed my arms
around him, and endeavored to make up for the want of a weapon,
by bearing him to the deck in my arms; but my utmost exertions,
desperate as they were, scarcely sufficed to stagger him, and
shortening his blade, he was about plunging it into my heart, when a
pistol went off close beside me, and my antagonist, giving a
convulsive leap, fell dead upon the deck. I freed myself from his
embrace and sprang to my feet, just in time to see little Dick, with
the smoke still wreathing from the mouth of his pistol, borne away
by the press of the assault. In the next instant I lost sight of him in
the melee, which now became really terrific. Hastily snatching a
brand from one of the fallen men, I plunged once more into the
fight, for the enemy having been by this time reinforced by another
boat, were now pouring in upon us in such numbers that the arm of
every man became absolutely necessary. It was indeed a desperate
contest. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought; desperation on
the one hand, and a determination to conquer on the other, lent
double fury to our crew; while the clash of swords, the explosion of
fire-arms, the shouts of the combatants, and the groans and shrieks
of the wounded and dying, gave additional horror to the scene. By
this time our captain had reached the deck, and his powerful voice
was heard over all the din of the battle urging on his men. The fall of
the enemy’s leader began now to be generally known among his
crew, and the consequence was soon apparent in their wavering and
want of unity. In vain the inferior officers urged them on; in vain
they found their retreat cut off by the shot we had hove into their
boats; in vain they were reminded by their leaders that they must
now conquer or die, they no longer fought with the fierceness of
their first onset, and though they still combatted manfully, and some
of them desperately, they had lost all unity of purpose, and, struck
with a sudden panic, at a last overwhelming charge of our gallant
followers, they fled in disorder, some leaping wildly overboard, some
crying for quarter when they could retreat no farther, and all of them
giving up the contest as lost. Not a soul escaped. They who did not
fall in the strife were either drowned in the panic-struck flight, or
made prisoners. The whole contest did not last seven minutes.
When they found themselves deserted by their men the officers
sullenly resigned their swords, and we found that our assailants
were a cutting out party from the ship to starboard, an English
frigate.
The man-of-war had not, it seems, discovered us until some time
after the moon arose, when her light, happening to fall full upon our
sails, betrayed us to their look-outs. The darkness almost directly
afterward obscured us from sight, and the calm that ensued forbade
her reaching us herself. Her boats were consequently manned, with
the intention of carrying us by boarding. The most singular portion
of it was that none of us perceived that the stranger was a man-of-
war, but this may be accounted for from her being built after a new
model, which gave her the appearance of a merchantman.
The bustle of the fight was over; the prisoners had been secured;
the decks had been washed down; my wound which turned out
slight had been properly attended to; and the watch had once more
resumed their monotonous tread; while at proper intervals, the
solemn cry, “all’s well,” repeated from look-out to look-out,
betokened that we were once more in security, before I sought my
hammock. I soon fell asleep, but throughout the night I was
troubled by wild dreams in which Beatrice, the ship’s boy, and the
late strife, were mingled promiscuously. At length I awoke. It was
still dark, and the only light near was a single lantern hung at the
extremity of the apartment. My fellow messmates around were all
buried in sleep. Suddenly, the surgeon’s mate stood beside me.
“Mr. Parker!” said he.
I raised myself up and gazed curiously into his face.
“Little Dick, sir—” he began.
“My God!” I exclaimed, for I had actually forgotten, in the
excitement of the combat and the succeeding events, to enquire
about my young preserver, and I now felt a strange presentiment
that the mate had come to acquaint me with his death—“what of
him? Is any thing the matter?” I asked eagerly.
“I fear, sir,” said the messenger, shaking his head sadly, “that he
cannot live till morning.”
“And I have been lying here,” I exclaimed, reproachfully, “while
the poor boy is dying,” and I sprang at once from my hammock,
hurried on my clothes, saying, “lead me to him at once.”
“He is delirious, but in the intervals of lunacy he asks for you, sir,”
and as the man spoke we stood by bedside of the dying boy.
The sufferer did not lie in his usual hammock, for it was hung in
the very midst of the crew, and the close air around it was really
stifling; but he had been carried to a place, nearly under the open
hatchway, and laid there in a little open space of about four feet
square. From the sound of the ripples I judged the schooner was in
motion, while the clear calm blue sky, seen through the opening
overhead and dotted with myriads of stars, betokened that the fog
had broken away. How calmly it smiled down on the wan face of the
dying boy. Occasionally a light current of wind—oh! how deliciously
cool in that pent-up hold—eddied down the hatchway, and lifted the
dark chesnut locks of the sufferer, as, with his little head reposing in
the lap of an old veteran, he lay in an unquiet slumber. His shirt-
collar was unbuttoned, and his childish bosom, as white as that of a
girl, was open and exposed. He breathed quick and heavily. The
wound of which he was dying, had been intensely painful, but within
the last half hour had somewhat lulled, though even now his thin
fingers tightly grasped the bed-clothes as if he suffered the greatest
agony. Another battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood beside
him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, and gazing sorrowfully down
upon the sufferer. The surgeon knelt beside him, with his finger on
the boy’s pulse. As I approached they all looked up. The veteran
who held him shook his head, and would have spoken, but the tears
gathered too chokingly in his eyes. The surgeon said,—
“He is going fast,—poor little fellow—do you see this?” and as he
spoke he lifted up a rich gold locket, which had lain upon the boy’s
breast. “He has seen better days.”
I could not answer, for my heart was full. Here was the being to
whom, but a few hours before I had owed my life—a poor, slight,
unprotected child—lying before me, with death already written on
his brow,—and yet I had never known of his danger, and never even
sought him out after the conflict. How bitterly my heart reproached
me in that hour. They noticed my agitation, and his old friend—the
seaman that held his head—said sadly,
“Poor little Dick—you’ll never see the shore again you have
wished for so long. But there’ll be more than one—thank God!—
when your log’s out, to mourn over you.”
Suddenly the little fellow opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly
around.
“Has he come yet?” he asked in a low voice. “Why won’t he
come?”
“I am here,” said I, taking the little fellow’s hand, “don’t you
know me, Dick?”
“Doctor, I am dying, ain’t I?” said the little fellow, “for my sight
grows dim. God bless you, Mr. Parker, for this. I see you now,” and
he faintly pressed my hand.
 “Can I do nothing for you, Dick?” said I, “you saved my life. God
knows I would coin my own blood to buy yours.”
“I have nothing to ask, only, if it be possible, let me be buried by
my mother,—you will find the name of the place, and all about it, in
my trunk.”
“Anything—everything, my poor lad,” I answered chokingly.
The little fellow smiled faintly—it was like an angel’s smile—but
he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that
patch of blue sky, far overhead. His mind wandered.
“It is a long—long way up there,—but there are bright angels
among them. Mother used to say that I would meet her there. How
near they come, and I see bright faces smiling on me from them.
Hark! is that music?” and, lifting his finger, he seemed listening
intently for a moment. He fell back; and the old veteran burst into
tears. The child was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ voices? God
grant it.
I opened his trunk, and then discovered his real name. Out of
mercy to the unfeeling wretches, who were his relatives, and who
had forced him to sea, I suppress it. Suffice it to say, his family had
once been rich, but that reverses had come upon them. His father
died of a broken heart, nor did his mother long survive. Poor boy! I
could not fulfil the whole of his injunction, for we were far out at
sea, but I caused a cenotaph to be erected for him beside his
mother’s grave. It tells the simple tale of The Ship’s Boy.

Philadelphia, May, 1841.

 TIME’S CHANGES.
———
BY JOHN W. FORNEY.
———

There is a sweet and wildering dream

Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours,
Which gilds the memory with its beam,
And the stern spirit overpowers.

Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time,

How spell-like do its glories rise!
Like some ethereal pantomime
Danced on the skirt of autumn skies!

We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt,

Think of the changing power of years,
As on our brow its trace has crept,
And from our eyes exacted tears.

There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles,

And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower,
Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles,
Usurp the mother many an hour.

There is the first half-spoken word,

How rare a music to her ear!
She listens, as she had not heard,
And hearing, owns it with a tear.
There is a passing on of Time—
The boy is merged into the man—
And daringly he frets to climb
What once his vision could not scan.

Come back from this poetic scene!

Come from this scene of flowery youth!
Come from the time when all was green,
To cold and dreary, stubborn truth.

Look on your own now withered brow,

Where care sits emperor of the mind;
Look to your throbbing heart; and now
Cast all these dreams of youth behind.

Read the sad change which Time has wrought

Compare it by your memory’s glass;
And turn from that whose lightest thought
Points to the grave where ages pass.

See, from the cradle to the tomb,

Though years are multiplied between,
How brief, in varied joy and gloom,
Is Life’s wild, feverish, fitful scene.

But yesterday, and youth was drest

In dimpled and in smiling glee,
Drawn, with fond fervor, to her breast,
Or throned upon a mother’s knee.

To-day, and Time, with added years,

Has stampt his progress on our brow
In manhood’s pallid care, and tears
Unbidden dim the vision now.

Lancaster, Pa. 1841.

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