“Why, my bold captain, we wont catch him at present, it might be

inconvenient for you and I alone to fight a regiment of even Portuguese.

But we will find out his hiding-place, and with the information buy our

heads from Santa Cruz. Or, who knows, we may set a snare for him and

take him off his guard; there may be some reward offered for him, too.

What do you say, will you share the doubloons, or swim over to St.

George’s?”

“I’ll follow,” Carlo cried, rising and tightening his belt: the mention

of doubloons sounding in his ears with the proverbial music of the

trumpet to a war-horse. He pulled his grizzly moustache and loosened his

hanger. Hilo laughed.

“Come along,” he said. “You’re the sweetest-tempered gentleman of my

acquaintance when gold is to be got by it.”

There was no path apparent, and the ascent was easiest up the bed of a

wild gorge they presently discovered. As height after height was

surmounted, the circle of their horizon widened: St. George and Pico

were visible in the blue field of the ocean to the right, and over a

wooded promontory the hazy outline of more distant Graciosa. Below lay

Angra, and closer to the left the entrenched village of Nostre Dame de

Loup.

So long as the thickets abounded, there was no likelihood of the

fugitives attracting attention from below, but when _el duro_ was

gained, where the bare surface of rocks lay open to view from all sides,

the adventurers turned back a space, and following a depression in the

chain of mountain-tops, lost sight of the ocean, and overlooked instead

numerous farms scattered through the little valleys of the highlands of

Tercera. The Portuguese owners had gone off with their effects, but the

grain left in the partially harvested fields supplied abundant rations.

Here the deserters fixed their head-quarters while conducting their

search for the count, returning nightly with the caution requisite where

the sudden falling in with any party would have proved perilous. The

military operations on the coast, however, kept the foreign powers

occupied for the present, and no natives were to be met with, although

several country-houses belonging to members of the viceroy’s court, were

sacked by the outlaws of what few valuables remained. In the course of a

week, it was evident Torrevedros was secreting himself in some other

quarter, the semi-circle of mountains having been traversed in all

directions and found to terminate in steep precipices looking inward,

leaving the only points of egress opposite Angra.

One morning Hilo and the captain resolved to descend far enough to turn

the heel of the promontory and reascend on the farther side; a strong

easterly wind lifted the fogs from the lowlands adjacent the sea, and

enveloped the entire height of the mountain, for which reason, their

knowledge of the geography of the country being very imperfect, the

pair, before recognizing any landmarks, were close upon the road leading

to the camp of the commander from the capital. Both caught the sound of

hoofs instantly, and crouched in a thicket while a half-dozen troopers

galloped by, headed by a knight with his visor up.

“Santiago!” Hilo said, rising to his feet when the tramp had died away

in the direction of the French camp. “We may spare ourselves the trouble

of finding the count; nothing will save our heads where that man is.”

“Who?” the captain asked.

“Don Augustine Inique—may the devil confound him! I thought him safe in

Spain with that whining daughter of his.”

Wolfang’s face, not usually expressive, was a blank for some minutes,

then slowly relaxed into a broad grin. The captain’s grin, as I have

said elsewhere, boded no good.

“Hark ’e,” he whispered, “what hinders your getting hold of your

fortune, if the knight dies: say, falls off his horse, or has his casque

riddled by a bullet in battle—or _now_?”

“Ha!” Hilo answered quickly.

“Give me your arquebus, it carries a truer ball than mine,” he added

moodily after an interval.

The captain did as he said, and the other tried it to his shoulder

irresolutely twice or thrice.

“Climbing unsteadies my hand,” he exclaimed with an oath.

Upon which the captain cried. “Double the debt you owe me, and the work

will be done.”

It might have been two hours after this, that Señor Inique riding slowly

by the spot, lurched violently over his steed’s neck, which he grasped

to save himself from falling, at the instant his men-at-arms were

startled by the loud report of a carbine. All was consternation, two of

the company running to support the maître-de-camp, while the others

dashed into the thick mist to the right: the latter presently returned

however with no tidings of the assassins, and the party conveyed the

insensible knight to Angra, where Padilh was awaiting his arrival.

Don Pedro turned pale at the recital. “God forbid!” he said repeatedly,

half aloud to himself, while musing gloomily by the side of his friend.

Meanwhile Carlo and De Ladron creeping noiselessly along parallel with

the road, the better to baffle pursuit, came suddenly on the crouching

figure of a man who was endeavoring to hide himself under a bush.

Wolfang took him promptly by the throat, but before any violence could

be done him, Hilo said:

“Stop, the fellow is a Moor. Look at his black face and turban.”

“What of that?” returned the captain. “He must have seen what happened

just now, and Moor or Christian he mustn’t have liberty to use his

tongue again.”

The prisoner during this whispered conference, looked from one to the

other, his oriental eyes dilated with fear, but making no effort to

release his throat; he had evidently watched the approach of the

fugitives in the hope they would pass by without noticing him. At the

last words he eagerly stretched his mouth open with a wildly

supplicating gesture.

“Santiago!” both exclaimed in a breath. The Moor’s tongue was shrunk to

half the natural size, and it appeared evident he could not speak a

word.

“He is worth his weight in silver,” Hilo said, looking at him narrowly.

“I have heard the count had a mute slave, and I remember once seeing

this man with him in the Portuguese camp. Let’s carry the fellow higher

up the mountain and compel him to show us where his master is.”

The Moor’s turban served to bind his arms, and the three reascending the

mountain a space, halted on the farther side of Angra, which town they

passed so close as to hear the sound of trumpets from the market-place.

The slave confessed by signs, he had come in search of food for

Torrevedros, who, deserted by his courtiers, was hiding among the rocks.

“If that is the case,” Hilo remarked in French to the captain, “we may

capture him ourselves.”

“And pocket all the doubloons the marquis will offer,” the captain added

greedily.

The same motive for obedience which had drawn the acknowledgment of the

viceroy’s destitution, a choice between that and a dagger stroke,

induced the Moor to guide them in the direction of his master’s lodging,

no doubt in the secret hope of wearying out his heavier-clad companions,

and giving them the slip when opportunity offered. Up and down steeps

they toiled most of the morning; the mist had disappeared and the sun

beat fiercely on the rocks of the _duro_. The phlegmatic Wolfang

followed with plodding endurance, as he would for a piece of gold to the

world’s end, but Hilo’s impatience at last boiled over.

“Infidel dog!” he cried. “I will leave your carcass on this peak if you

fail to lead us straight to the viceroy.”

At this the mute paused, whimpered, cast a terrified look at Hilo’s

unpromising countenance, and ended by turning off abruptly from the

course they were about to pursue.

A few yards farther, the captain, who was in advance, cried out:

“Hey! Yonder goes one of those Portuguese rascals. Hallo, you sir, come

here or I will fetch you with a bullet.”

Whereupon the peasant came down the narrow path he was ascending

hastily, without demur.

“I am a poor working-man,” he whined out deprecatingly, “and have

nothing to do with fighting, señor. For the love of charity, give me

something, for my children to eat, who are dying of hunger.”

“I will give you what will keep you from ever being hungry,” Hilo

answered curtly, “if you don’t show us where your viceroy is hid.”

“I take all the saints to witness, I have not seen the viceroy this

month or more,” the fellow exclaimed, falling on his knees.

“What is that you are rolling in your mouth?” Carlo demanded, seizing

him suddenly by the jaws and forcing a ducat out. The captain’s interest

was aroused, and he thoroughly searched the clothing of the Portuguese

despite his lamentations.

“You may be worse off,” the captain rejoined after his fruitless

trouble, “if you trouble us any more about your whelps.”

And Hilo crying impatiently, “One is enough to guide us; leave the idiot

alone,” they crossed a ravine which De Ladron recognized as one they had

before visited, and confirmed a suspicion of the Moor’s duplicity.

Turning upon him in a fury he uttered:

“Heathen dog, your deceit will end here with your life,” and struck a

blow which the other escaped by throwing himself on his back.

The mute’s mouth worked spasmodically in his seeming efforts to

enunciate, and he eagerly directed their attention to the path they had

just descended. Hilo caught his meaning.

“Watch him well,” he exclaimed, and bounded up the steep hill side.

The peasant was found after a short search, standing at the narrow

entrance of a cavern.

“Here, my good man,” the Spaniard said, showing him a gold piece. “It

goes against our conscience to take any thing from a poor fellow like

you.”

At this gracious speech the Portuguese came forward with alacrity, and

Hilo eyed him keenly.

“In the king’s name I arrest you, Count de Torrevedros!” he cried on a

sudden, seizing the viceroy as he spoke.

The cowardly governor made no resistance, but looking toward his slave

whom the captain had by this time driven unwillingly to the spot.

“Wretch!” he exclaimed, “you have betrayed your master, and I would kill

you if I had a sword.”

“We owe him a grudge ourselves,” Carlo muttered, and passing his short

blade through the Moor’s body, threw it upon the rocks.

“Spare my life, señores!” the alarmed count cried, trembling and falling

on his face. “I will give you double the sum offered for me by your

marquis—double the sum—”

“Get up, Viceroy of Tercera,” Hilo answered, contemptuously touching him

with his foot.

“Show us where your gold is, and you may go,” Wolfang eagerly put in.

But the other put him aside.

“Bargain with Santa Cruz for your own head, I choose not to risk mine

for a few extra ducats,” he said to his avaricious companion, while

securing Torrevedros. And grumbling after his usual fashion, the Captain

was obliged to submit.

* * * * *

The Commandant de Chaste, in the little village of Nostre Dame de Loup,

saw nothing before him but ruin of one sort or another. Partly out of

friendship, and partly to save Hilo, by a comprehensive treaty, the two

maîtres-de-camp, had urged upon the marquis, the policy of securing a

peaceful surrender on the part of the French general, rather than drive

to despair, the handful of gentlemen remaining in the illy-fortified

town. Once a secret messenger carried a note, in which, under cover of

solicitude for his safety, in the event of falling into the power of

Santa-Cruz, a surrender was proposed, but met with so little favor from

the dauntless old knight, their ambassador found no inconvenience in

keeping in mind the caustic answer.

“We must see him in person,” Don Pedro said.—And the next morning the

maîtres-de-camp rode over together, under a flag of truce.

The gaunt visages of the cavaliers in the commandant’s ante-room, showed

the strait to which they were reduced, but they had lost nothing of

their native courtesy, and were all armed from head to heel, ready to

repel an assault at a moment’s warning. De Chaste himself laid aside his

helmet in honor to his guests, who lost no time in disclosing their

errand, when the others had withdrawn. It had been agreed beforehand,

that Padilh should relate the leading features of their story in order

to afford a basis for the consequent urgency of the surrender they came

to propose. The commandant heard the knight through in grave silence: at

the end he mused awhile and said:

“His name served him in good stead once, for with any other he would

have been hanged at my yard-arm for mutiny. It may not be known to you,

messires, the wife of the elder De Ladron, was my sister.”

“Ha!” Inique ejaculated, with a sudden red spot in either sallow cheek.

But the calm voice of the old knight, promptly reassured him.

“You are endeavoring to retrieve the past, monseigneur, and I am no

intermeddler. When you have cleared your conscience, M. de Padilh here,

and I, will talk over the disposition of our unfortunate nephew. For the

rest I submit to the necessity of the case and the counsel of my

companions in arms, and to-morrow will send an envoy to settle

conditions of surrender.” With which success, the Spanish cavaliers were

well satisfied.

It was an unlucky choice on the part of the commandant in keeping his

promise, to appoint Du Vict, the same whose blunt speech formerly

increased the viceroy’s enmity to the French. That hotheaded cavalier

proposed terms of advantage, where there was cause to be thankful for

the reception of any terms at all.

“Tell your commandant I will send him answer by fifteen hundred fighting

men,” Santa-Cruz cried in a rage, and instantly gave orders for the

march of his infantry.

At this crisis, when the marquis refused to halt an hour, a courier was

dispatched in haste by Padilh to warn the French of their danger, and

the unhappy general, heart-broken at his disasters, and deserted by all

but a remnant of his army, struggled no longer against his fate. A

cavalier of milder temper was promptly dispatched to accede to any

honorable capitulation, and meeting the Spanish vanguard half way from

Angra, concluded a treaty by which a free passage was provided to

France, and every gentleman suffered to retain his sword.

Inique himself, rode back with the ambassador to console the gray-haired

soldier, and it was while returning from Dame de Loup, his assassination

occurred. Had he delayed an hour, the deadly spot might have been safely

passed, for within that period De Chaste marched out of his

intrenchments, and into the Spanish camp, accompanied by his handful of

Frenchmen.

Two purposes now occupied the attention of Santa-Cruz; discovering the

assassin of his maître-de-camp, and securing the person of the late

viceroy of the island, for each of which services, he offered a reward

of five hundred ducats, and a free-conduct to the parties if desired.

There was no lack of competitors for the latter prize, and one of these

exploring detachments, headed by a corporal, penetrated to the mouth of

the cavern at which the Moor lay, not many hours after the capture of

his master.

The mute had enough vitality remaining, to motion he had things of

consequence to relate, and a French deserter recognizing the count’s

slave, restored his strength temporarily, by a draught from his flask.

“We must take the infidel down to Angra, my men,” the corporal said,

after putting his ear close to the mouth of the Moor. “By St. Boniface!

we came out to fish for minnows, and catch silverfish.”

After nightfall of the same day, with their customary _insouciance_, the

captors of Terrevedros conducted that unhappy nobleman, bareheaded, his

wrists bound behind him, and in a peasant’s dress, into the presence of

the vindictive marquis, who loaded him with epithets of contempt, and

threats of a speedy end. Extremity of danger occasionally exalts a

coward into a hero for the time being, and the only words spoken by the

count, were uttered with a dignity which astonished the Spanish

cavaliers present.

“I am content to die,” he said calmly, “since at least, I have retained

strength enough to prefer doing homage to the devil, than to that

perfidious tyrant, the king of Spain.”

“He has signed his own death warrant, as you are all witnesses,

Señores,” the marquis cried, scarce restraining his anger to words. “Let

him be put in chains until a day is appointed for the traitor’s

execution.”

Thus, within the walls of Angra, were gathered, in partial ignorance of

such propinquity, the chief personages of this history; and there

leaving them, the narrative transfers itself from the Azores to Spain,

to a castle opposite a keep, in brief, where the fancy of faithful Sir

Pedro was wont to stray nightly.

It may be assumed a rule in authorship, that no reader is to be

introduced into a heroine’s sick room; that obliging personage should

always be met at the street-door as a lover might, by the physician, who

good-naturedly preserves his romance by disclosing none of the

disagreeables up stairs.—But much may be made of a convalescent. The

open windows inhale the blessed air of heaven, to replace the nauseous

smell of drugs, and where the tumbler with a spoon in it, flanked by a

labelled phial or two, stood on the table, somebody has set a bouquet of

rosebuds and verbena, and a glass plate of cool grapes: moreover every

one smiles now, the doctor ceases to shake that solemn head of his, and

fears no longer, waylaying and cross questioning on the stair, and you,

yourself, lie still in a state of placid pleasure, and watch the

preparations for your comfort, with the sole member of your physical

system inclined to be active.

So, it was Doña Viola lay after the subjugation of the fever which had

begun to show its delirious power in Don Pedro’s presence, and before

the knight reached Lisbon, was extorting from the girl’s innocent lips,

exclamations, equally of denunciation and passionate love for the

graceless Hilo.

What would become of us in sickness, ladies, deprived of your

attendance?—what would become of yourselves, if it did not come natural

to you all from the finest lady downward, termagant and gentle alike, to

smooth pillows, decant medicine, and perform numberless offices in no

respect agreeable, but with the most exquisite gentleness and devotion.

Doña Hermosa, (may her memory be kept green!) suffered no one to

overhear poor Viola’s ravings, but the solemn parish physician,

(notwithstanding whom, she recovered,) and a trusty maid-servant; and

when the crisis had passed, prepared with her own hands, delicacies of

every kind found in her recipe book. Viola showed her sense of such

unaccustomed petting, poor child, by tasting every thing and smiling

feebly, and Doña Hermosa, woman-like, felt her charge every day, growing

more into her heart, by reason of her very helplessness and docility.

After a little, the elder lady laid herself out to rival Scheherazade,

and told the invalid all sorts of pleasant stories to while away the

time, varied with readings from the half dozen books constituting the

knight’s library: she left nothing undone, which might remove the

indefinably sad expression about her young guest’s mouth, and coax her

thoughts into some other channel than that in which they seemed commonly

to run. And I am of opinion if any diversion of the sort had been

practicable at the time, the occupation to which these ladies devoted

part of one week, rummaging the stores of curiosities, first in the

castle and afterward in Don Pedro’s lesser keep, would have served the

desired purpose. During this period, Señora Padilh showed Señorita

Inique her wedding dress, (of course,) and afterward the very doublet in

which Don Pedro had adorned himself with unusual finery, at the same

auspicious era. She drew the arras aside and exhibited it, hanging a

little apart from its more homely fellows, with much pride, thinking all

the time what the dear old knight was that moment doing, and whether he

had looked at it often, and with the same happy associations she now

did, when he was at home: and when Viola walked on, her interest in the

knight’s wardrobe being naturally limited, she stroked the velvet softly

with one white hand, and looking quickly around, raised the sleeve to

her lips twice at least.

It was a silly action, of course, for a lady of her time of life—she

was nearly thirty now—but who of us has not done more foolish things

with less cause?—and there is something, so altogether winning and

admirable in the untutored fealty of the sex for ours, when allowed to

appear, that I can’t help despising the man who makes the pretty

weaknesses of a wife or sweetheart, a target for his shallow wit.

The wife of our knight was so occupied with her thoughts, that she did

not at first observe Viola, who had retired to the embrasure of a

window, and by the position of her head—she stood with her face

directed to a landscape without, but cognizant of nothing out of her own

brain—was quietly weeping.

A milk-and-water heroine, always melancholy, and shedding a profusion of

tears to evince sensibility, is the reasonable abhorrence of every

sensible reader. But Doña Viola was not of this kind, as the countess

well knew. That kind soul reproached herself secretly for broaching a

subject likely to recall unhappy recollections in the breast of her

charge, and said something to that effect, while drawing an arm

caressingly around her.

“You do yourself injustice, dear lady Hermosa,” Viola said after an

interval, “nothing we have seen or said, has earned me any pain. You

know my past history,” she added, “and what a ban has been laid upon my

future, by recent events, and should not wonder much at my yielding to

grief whenever your attention is withdrawn.”

“You must endeavor, poor little dove, to let your wounds heal, and

forget the author of them,” the countess answered compassionately,

scarcely knowing what to say.

Doña Viola looked at her friend with a faint smile.

“Did I mention him frequently in my delirium?” she asked rather

abruptly.

“Why yes,” Doña Hermosa replied, hesitatingly.

“Dear cousin,” Viola cried quickly, “be assured of this; Señor de Ladron

is nothing to me: not a particle of the affection, I blush now to have

entertained for him, remains. You see, I speak quite calmly of it; I

could not have done so prior to the fever, which has apparently

revolutionized my mind, but in truth, only made the climax of an unhappy

passion, after which, comes this quiet.”

“Heaven be praised!” the countess exclaimed, with a sense of great

relief.

“Yes, the saints are my witness, I loved him not obstinately but

dutifully, and until immediately preceding the return of Don Augustino

to Madrid, when the wickedness of the steps he took to annul our

betrothment, first came to my knowledge, (and crazed me, I believe,) I

had always believed him faithful to the letter, if not to the spirit, of

our ill-advised contract: for he never once made an appeal, which

self-respect would have compelled me to acquiesce in, had I loved him

thrice as much. The most I did, was to suspect his coolness, but I

easily found excuse for that, as any woman would, and for many painful

scenes which I thought time and marriage would remedy. I purposed being

a good wife to him.”

“Angels of mercy!” her friend broke in. “Did you receive no notes, no

messages from him, insisting upon the contract being annulled!”

“None,” Viola answered. “Whatever I may have said to Don Pedro and

yourself, in delirium, the truth is, as I have just related it.”

“Then, there has been very, very wicked work.” Hermosa exclaimed, with

extraordinary vehemence for so placid a disposition.

“Oh that I were a man—a knight. Oh, that Don Pedro, or even Señor

Inique, were here to ferret out this mystery!” With which wild words, to

show how much she was a woman, and how dependent on the absent hero, she

fell upon the neck of her disturbed protegée, and the two wept in great

harmony together.

The doubts and difficulties which perplexed these two innocent heads

from this hour, and led to innumerable discussions and secret conclaves,

harassed chiefly by the impression left after each debate, of subtle

enmity having been at work, although why and through whose agency, they

could not even conjecture. Doña Hermosa told what little she had heard

of Hilo’s passion for a French ambassador’s daughter, and so accounted

for his wish to break his former engagement; but all the rest remained

in the dark. If Viola had received no notice of Hilo’s desire to release

himself from a distasteful union, the person or persons who suppressed

his letters may have used her name in such a manner as to irritate him

into the extraordinary steps he had taken to be rid of an intolerable

because obstinate burden, and the same miscreants had doubtless unbarred

the shutter to Captain Carlo and assisted that worthy’s escape; but this

was all sheer conjecture. Indeed it could not be so, for all were long

proved servants except a lad she employed as a page out of respect for

the old nurse who had reared her from infancy, and for the few past

years had been employed in taking charge of her poor brother with Don

Augustino.

While such speculations engaged their thoughts, a letter arrived from

the knight by a returned caravel, announcing the safe landing of the

Spanish army and strait of the French, deserted by the Portuguese, and

stating the confession made by Inique on shipboard. Doña Hermosa

communicated this strange intelligence to Don Augustino’s daughter, and

the two, as might be predicated always of two women in like

circumstances, cried over it together, and then discussed the event in

all its bearings. Viola also cried a good deal in private, for despite

her disavowal of love for Hilo, she found it difficult to convert a

lately affianced husband into a brother on such short notice; but in the

course of a day or two her reflections took another shape. Was it not

better to love him as a brother who indeed would never, she knew now,

have been any thing else to her even without this obstacle? But how did

she know she still had a living brother; between two such fiery tempers,

what collision might not take place through ignorance on the one side

and rashness on the other? Oh, she must hasten to interpose, to effect a

reconciliation if any misunderstanding existed, to earn some

consideration, too, from her brother, by undeceiving him as to her

former apparent immodesty; and moreover this mystery, so closely

touching her honor, must be probed. She came down to breakfast the third

morning with her mind fully made up, and before the meal was over

astonished her hostess by soliciting her protection in a voyage to

Tercera. At first the countess strongly opposed the design, but in the

end, of course, entered into it with her whole heart. What arguments

Viola used are not worth recapitulating here; they were not very strong

or philosophical, but were enunciated with much self-deceptive sophistry

and based on affection, which is all that is requisite in feminine

debates as a general thing.

The household was put in complete order and turned over with the estate

to the care of a trusty major-domo, and an old cavalier, a relative of

the countess, who had been summoned to attend, was pressed into service

after a feeble remonstrance; he had been a great beau in his day and

could not find it in his heart to long oppose the will of a lady; and

dispatched to charter a vessel in which to accompany them to the Azores.

The friends, attended by a detachment of the Hermandad for protection

along the road, followed close at his heels, and were soon after out of

sight of the shores of Spain, and as incredulous of surviving the

miseries of the voyage as any ladies of the present day.

Somewhere about this time, an old woman saying aves as fast as her

trembling fingers could slip the beads, in the cabin of a crazy ship

flying before a furious gale straight for the rocky shores of Graciosa,

might have given the needful clue to this labyrinth of conjecture: so

might, if he had possessed the capacity, the poor wretch who sat

watching her in greater awe than the tempest excited, from the crib in

which he lay bound, and who had wondered time and again in his imbecile

way, what it was she mumbled to herself when hobbling up and down the

cabin floor in fair weather, her chin elevated in the air. She never

cared for his overhearing, a glance was enough at any moment to make him

cower and blink in fear of the crutch which, during Señor Inique’s

absence, not seldom corrected his waywardness. This vessel with others,

had been driven from her moorings off Praya, and parting company became

unmanageable: one afternoon the peaks of Graciosa suddenly appeared

through a rift in the surging mist around, in terrible proximity, and

coasting the island a few leagues, by daybreak the next morning the ship

struck and immediately after took its final plunge. They had fallen into

a gap of the rock-bound shores, and in the comparatively quiet sea,

contrived, like St. Paul’s companions, to reach shore on whatever came

to hand. The crew congratulated themselves on every soul being saved but

the captain, who was below deck when the wreck went down; it was

supposed he had descended to secure treasure of some sort, but the crone

who listened to their talk while they all dried themselves about a fire,

knew better; for at the first alarm, while clambering up the cabin

stairs, she encountered the captain in wild haste to save his patron’s

son. She tore herself loose from his clutch and had seen neither of them

again.

“Who’s sorry, who’s sorry, eh?” she mumbled repeatedly to herself,

wagging her scheming old head with a wicked leer. But she shed abundance

of crocodile tears a day or two later when relating the sad event to the

Countess Padilh and Doña Viola, whose vessel compelled them to touch at

Graciosa to repair some little damages suffered during the gale. Other

tears were shed upon the occasion, but fewer than would have followed a

like announcement ten days back to Viola, whose mind was too much

engrossed by the object of her mission to grieve much over a death which

seemed a providence.

* * * * *

While the two ladies were preparing to continue their voyage, strange

disclosures had followed the condemnation of the Viceroy of Tercera in

the Spanish camp.

Despite their recklessness, Hilo and Carlo had judged it best to show

themselves as little as possible where they were likely to meet with

importunate acquaintances; their plan was to convey the prisoner after

night-fall to Angra, and beg a prompt payment of the reward and a free

conduct. The better to elude observation they had smeared their cheeks

with the thick juice of berries used by the natives to protect the skin

from the sun, and wore the loose frock and silver ear-rings of

Portuguese peasants, in which costume they had conducted their search

for the unfortunate count. The presence of the French troops greatly

increased the risk of recognition, but with night and this disguise the

adventurers considered no great risk would be run: Santa Cruz was

proverbially headstrong and impetuous, and once a free conduct was

granted would not easily be led to retract it.

“That Moorish dog would have known us in these clothes if nobody else,”

Wolfang said, well satisfied with their success, outside the walls of

Angra. “But by this time the ravens are picking his bones on the peak,

as I’m a living man.”

Whereas the Moor was at that moment lying in a tent not ten yards from

the speaker, in care of a corporal, and attended by Padilh, a few

cavaliers, and a notary in act of writing. So little life remained in

the poor wretch that his usually husky and uncertain speech consequent

on a maimed tongue, was scarcely audible, but he related his story

between gasps with fierce eagerness, and the scribe read aloud as he

wrote to confirm the statement. The deposition, after a short reference

to the count’s condition, took this form.

“I made them believe I was dumb by showing them my withered tongue to

save its being cut out. I am accustomed to make myself understood as

much by gestures of the hand as word of mouth, because speaking is

attended with great effort, and found no difficulty in carrying out the

deception. I would have cried out once when stabbed, but the reproaches

of the viceroy my master for betraying him, although it was at the last

extremity to save my life, gave me resolution to shut my teeth and fall

as if dead. I loved him much, he was good to me; I wished to revenge

him. Perhaps if they had thought I could speak at times, they would have

been at more pains to see if I was dead. When they caught me I was

trying to escape by crawling from bush to bush, under cover of the thick

fog the high wind had driven up the mountain. I had come to get food for

my master, as we were almost famished, and hearing the trampling of

horses hid myself till they should pass. At the same time two men,

dressed like Portuguese islanders but speaking Spanish, came close to

where I was and crouched down also. I could not go away or even stir for

more than an hour, for fear of being killed; for the last comers

remained where they were after the Spaniards had gone by, and talked of

killing some one of the party on their return. One was short and

thick-set, the other slender and younger; the former offered to

assassinate the individual referred to, for something I could not

understand, which the other agreed to; the younger saw that the charge

of the arquebuss was all right and handed him the piece. When the

company came back from the direction of Dame de Loup, the first named

shot the cavalier in advance, and I saw him fall forward. I knew him to

be a maître-de-camp then, for his baton dropped to the ground. I made

off in the confusion, the assassins having first done so, but from not

knowing the ground well they made a circuit and came upon me a few paces

off. This time they saw and seized me as I have related.”

Padilh asked a few questions regarding the personal appearance of the

pretended peasants, more especially of the one designated as slender,

but the answers received were not at all conclusive.

“See that all his wants are supplied,” the maître-de-camp said, after

musing a space in silence.

“He must be kept alive,” he added to the gentlemen with him, on their

way to the quarters of the marquis; “we may need him to confront the

assassins should they venture in with their prisoner.”

“The surest way of securing your purpose,” an old knight suggested,

“would be to promise him safety and the reward offered for the

information he has given: a hint that something may be done to save his

master might add to his desire of living. If you consent, Sir Pedro, I

will return and try the effect on the poor devil.”

“It is well thought of,” Padilh answered. “Do so without delay. I doubt

if these men will put themselves in our power after all, but it is best

to be prepared to receive them.”

Don Pedro’s doubt was terminated immediately after entering the city,

for in turning a corner they suddenly encountered a party with lights

and a prisoner.

“It is the Count de Torrevedros,” the officer in command answered to the

maître-de-camp’s inquiry.

“Is it possible,” the knight returned, regarding sorrowfully the mean

figure shown by the torches the soldiers held aloft for the purpose.

“He speaks the truth—I am that unfortunate man,” the count said

dejectedly.

Upon which Padilh exclaimed—“It would be a shame to knighthood to see

the representative of any king stand bare-headed,” and placed his own

bonnet on the viceroy’s head.

“Give me your word as a knight and nobleman that you will not attempt to

escape Señor Count,” he added immediately.

“It would be so vain to think of it, that I pledge my honor willingly,

sir,” the count rejoined, “if it gives you any satisfaction.”

“Unbind his arms,” the maître-de-camp said, turning to the officer, “I

will be responsible. See that he wants no comfort, and let his expenses

be set to my cost. A viceroy in such condition has had his share of

misfortune already.”

With which injunction spoken aside the knight hastened on.

“If that is not your Cid returned to life,” the count said slightly

smiling, “it can only be Don Pedro de Padilh.”

“You are right,” the officer replied, unloosening his cord, “he is the

very mirror of Spanish chivalry.”

Meantime, the maître-de-camp, followed by his suite, rapidly neared the

quarters of the marquis. From a swift walk they fell into a run.

“We must make haste or the vultures will have flown,” he said, and not

without reason, for at the moment they arrived in front of the house

occupied by the Spanish commander, two men were in the act of coming

out. The stream of light from the rooms behind showed at once that one

was taller and more slender than the other, and that both wore peasant’s

frocks, and the stouter of the couple at the instant jingled the

contents of a bag in his hand, and said something with a laugh to his

comrade.

“In the name of the King of Spain,” Don Pedro cried advancing, “I arrest

you for murder. Draw your swords gentlemen and close in.”

“Curse the luck!” Wolfang unguardedly exclaimed, grinding his teeth with

rage; “another half hour and we would have been safe.”

“Hold your tongue, fool!” Hilo said sharply.

“Who dares oppose a free conduct of the commander-in-chief, Marquis of

Santa Cruz,” he demanded aloud, showing a bit of paper.

“I—maître-de-camp of the marquis,” Padilh rejoined, “and until his

further pleasure is known, you will remain my prisoners.” And without

staying for more words the knight passed through a private door and

straight to the rooms of Santa Cruz.

That nobleman was stepping out upon a balcony to learn the cause of the

disturbance below, but turned back on seeing Don Pedro.

“What brawl is this at my door?” he asked in no pleasant tone.

“I have taken it upon myself to disregard the passport of your

excellency, and arrest the men you dismissed a moment ago.”

“Ha!” interrupted Santa Cruz, frowning. “And why, sir?”

“I suspect them to be the assassins of my colleague,” the knight

returned; “I have proof to that effect by which you can judge if I have

done more than my duty, señor.”

“Speak on,” the other said, and Padilh at once gave a brief narrative of

the events within his knowledge.

At the end, the marquis said: “I was hasty in thinking you over zealous.

These fellows must be brought face to face with their accuser, and to

make that sure, their examination shall be immediate. Send quickly for

the Moor you speak of—but how is it that you are without a cap, Don

Pedro?”

“I met the viceroy bare-headed,” the knight answered, with honest

bluntness.

At which Santa Cruz, something nettled, exclaimed:

“By the three kings! You will teach us presently to be worthy our

spurs!”

The captors of the unfortunate viceroy returned to the presence of the

marquis with no good grace.

“Answer no questions,” Hilo muttered to the captain, “and they can prove

nothing.”

But both were startled by the appearance of a witness they believed

beyond the power of lifting a finger, and leagues away. Hilo uttered a

savage oath of surprise, and Wolfang stood staring at the former mute,

with his villainous mouth agape. Both heard the deposition read through

and affirmed, without interfering or replying a syllable to any

questions asked. The captain’s animal spirits had quite deserted him,

and sullenness gave his face strong resemblance to a bull’s, while his

fellow prisoner’s sharp features suited the cat-like activity of his

eyes.

“The evidence is complete enough,” the marquis exclaimed finally; “and,

by Heaven, gentlemen, these villains shall swing within twenty-four

hours. Off with their sorry disguises, and let us see if they will

persist in their insolence still.”

But Hilo, without waiting for the enforcement of the order, threw his

peasant’s frock from him.

“If you call yourself Don Pedro de Padilh,” he cried to the knight,

“take this gall to your pride. All Spain shall know before I die whose

uncle you are, and that you brought your own blood to this strait; I

swear it here before all the saints, and can prove my words.”

“I beg you, sir, to make no account of my relationship,” Padilh said

smiling to Santa Cruz. “In good season, gentlemen, you will understand

this innuendo.”

“I am not to be led astray by such a fellow’s lies,” the marquis

replied, with a contemptuous laugh. “We have had enough of their

company, señores, and leave them to you, Padilh, to have cared for. Only

see that escape is made impossible.”

“Stop!” Hilo exclaimed; “one word, my lord marquis, before I go. Knights

and gentlemen here present, bear witness I hold in my hand the written

parole of free conduct of this man—a thing no knight ever violated

before. Santa Cruz I tear your worthless paper to atoms, thus, and

proclaim you an infamous liar—a liar!” he reiterated, at the highest

pitch of his voice, and stamping with impotent fury.

The marquis, a man of unbridled passions, lost all command of himself at

this insolent speech; his stiff beard bristled from excess of rage, like

a boar’s back, and his sword was in his hand in an instant. But a number

of cavaliers placed themselves simultaneously between, and Padilh

grasped his sword-arm.

“My lord—my lord, you forget yourself and justice!” he uttered, in that

steady voice which asserted the true superiority of the man, and caused

the blood to return to the face of the great captain. He looked at Don

Pedro savagely a moment; but before dismissing his court he had

recovered sufficient equanimity to pay a compliment to the latter, who

was absent seeing to the disposal of the prisoners.

“No knight is more worthy the name,” he added with a grim smile,

“although he is somewhat rough and unguarded in performance of his duty,

at times.”

The day following the marquis and his maître-de-camp met in secret

council. The former heard with surprise the history of De Ladron.

“The wretch has put a climax to his crimes in this last,” he cried, “and

please Heaven it shall be also the last he commits.”

“I think,” the ample-hearted knight answered, “he would not have done

such a wickedness knowingly. It is hard to believe so young a man could

have so far fallen in villainy as to assassinate his own father,

recognizing him as such. Doubtless the papers placed in De Haye’s hands

never reached their destination. That unhappy gentleman fell in the

first battle beyond Praya.”

“Possibly,” Santa Cruz replied, thoughtfully, “and out of love to Inique

I reverse my sentence, and postpone the day of execution until after

that faithful cavalier draws his last breath; a period not far distant,

his surgeon tells me.”

“So near,” Padilh replied, “that I think, my lord, M. de Chaste, you and

I, to whom only the secret of his life is known, should remain

custodians of his honor, and preserve his name from vulgar censure after

death.”

“I give my hand to the compact cheerfully,” the other responded, and Don

Pedro repaired at once to the quarters of the French commandant to

enlist his neutrality.

“You will comprehend M. de Chaste,” he said, among other things, to that

weather-beaten pattern of chivalry, “by what knightly motives I have

been impelled to shun no duty incumbent on my office. And had he been my

own nephew, wicked as he is, I would not have screened him from the full

weight of justice he deserves. Our strenuous aim now should be to save

Inique the knowledge of his son’s fate, and if possible, of even his

vicinity to himself.”

This was not easy to do where no visiter to Inique’s bedside saw any

reason for withholding the most important news, and in the course of a

few days the dying soldier knew the worst and mastered it, and quietly

desired Padilh to obtain permission for a last interview with his—his

son. The word stuck in his throat.

The knight replied—“As soon as your recovery is advanced, or failing

that, when you feel death drawing on, I will oppose nothing to your

wish, Inique. But for the present spare yourself so agitating an

encounter.”

“Don Pedro,” the wounded maître-de-camp answered, smiling faintly, “I

wish to make my peace with the boy and acknowledge my sins, but you well

understand where my most affectionate thoughts rest.”

To which Padilh assented gravely. He was thinking at the moment in what

manner the tidings of the dispersion of the fleet at Praya, could be

suppressed without equivocation.

“I will be compelled to confess the truth at last,” the honest gentleman

said despairingly when alone, and still weighing the even balance of

duty in his mind. “But it sadly perplexes a mortal intellect, Heaven

knows, to distinguish between what is due one’s friend and one’s soul.”

Indeed, the last words spoken that evening by Don Augustino were to this

effect: “Send a courier to Praya and let the boy be brought here

immediately. I _must_ see him once more, and I haven’t many hours to

live.”

But succor came unexpectedly to the upright knight, the succeeding

morning.

It was his custom to pace a quay, looking seaward every dawn, in anxious

hope of the appearance of the missing ship, the others having already

made harbor at Praya and elsewhere; and for the first time he saw a sail

on the northwestern horizon. Some hours later Padilh himself, boarded

the vessel and was surprised beyond measure to find his countess and her

protegée on board. His gratification, however, was even greater, and so

he told her, on hearing the somewhat vague account of the object of this

voyage.

“It was a madcap enterprise,” he said, smiling, “but the end is

undoubtedly good; I would have sent for Doña Viola, if there had been

the least probability of her arriving in time.”

A speech which greatly reassured Doña Hermosa, who had been considering

during the voyage, what good reason she could offer her lord, for

sanctioning the expedition, and had found with dismay there would be

none forthcoming. As ladies generally do they had laid their hearts

together in the first instance, instead of their heads, and mistook

sentiment for conviction, after their usual fashion.

With a more disturbed mind, the knight listened to the recital of the

shipwreck, and subsequently cross questioned the old woman accompanying

them, who made no favorable impression. “I don't like her,” he told his

countess; “she sheds too many crocodile tears, over a disaster, which to

only one person concerned, can appear in any other light, than a

cessation of pain. I have cautioned her to keep out of sight for the

present, as the knowledge would assuredly kill Don Augustino.”

It was necessary to break the news of her father’s situation, and its

antecedents to poor Viola, who by imagining the occurrence of all manner

of evils during the few past weeks, had arrived at a state of mind not

entirely unprepared for any thing, and the two ladies mingled their

tears freely together, while Don Pedro returned to prepare his associate

for the meeting. Little preparation was needed in this quarter, the

dying man’s thoughts being occupied by a single object. Who of us can

fix a bound to the justice of Heaven, and blasphemously call all beyond

it harsh exercise of omnipotent power. It seems to me even retribution,

that this soldier who had prided himself above all things, on his honor

and the world’s applause, should die without one scrip of either, if

what was conceded in acknowledgement of his tardy confession be

excepted, and from compassion had, step by step, arrived at such a state

of infatuation for the witness of his passionate pride at St. Quentin,

that natural affection for his own offspring seemed almost wholly

stifled, and the ignominious fate of his accredited son, gave occasion

to scarce any emotion. People are apt to attribute such perverseness to

want of sanity, much as a coroner’s jury gives in a like verdict in

cases of suicide; yet Inique was as collected as you or I, and his

weakness merely physical. The man’s nature had received a wrench in

youth, and the tree retained the twist, only shifting the direction of

its growth as it worked around. If he had lived long enough, he might

have been more penitent or less, nearer a saint or more openly a sinner.

How many mercies, and how many lies, our lives will example at the last

great day, none of us living can compute.

The soldier was, therefore, not much agitated by the sobs of his

daughter, but without agitation, life was fast ebbing now, and in

accordance with his promise, Padilh brought Hilo from his prison for a

final interview. That young gentleman had been whiling away the time at

dice, and left the captain in no good humor at the interruption to his

run of luck.

“Why am I brought here?” he asked after a supercilious glance around.

“Is avenging an injury so uncommon? If this man had not withheld my dues

he would not have received his own as you see.”

“Wretched young man,” the dying maître-de-camp said feebly, rather than

sternly, “I had hoped to learn in the haste of the trial, some error had

been made, and that it was not from your hand this ball came.”

“It was not from my hand,” Hilo interrupted.

“Heaven be praised, for as all here can witness you are my son and not

De Ladron’s.”

At these words, Hilo started and turned pale, but his face was instantly

flushed with passion.

“It is a base lie—a lie,” he exclaimed through his teeth, scowling

around. “It is a shallow trick to cheat me out of my inheritance at the

last gasp.”

“Brother!” sobbed out Viola, deprecatingly.

“Sir—son,” Inique cried, “I cannot disprove your bitter words by

leaving you a fortune of my own; for the real son of De Ladron, whom I

made an idiot, is the heir of the estate I hold. Forgive what actual

wrong I have done you as a parent, remembering how soon the end of us

both must be.”

Before he ceased speaking, a figure, coming no one knew whence, in the

consternation of the moment, hobbled between, and cast a baneful look on

Inique from a pair of ferret eyes sparkling with rage and malice. Her

rage was so great that she mouthed and champed with her old toothless

jaws, before a word could be emitted. The wounded knight sat bolt

upright in bed, gazing at her wildly.

“Where is my boy—speak woman, speak?” he cried, with a sudden return of

strength and voice.

“Food for fishes—ah ha! food for fishes!” She mumbled out, pointing

with her crooked finger mockingly.

“Oh, heaven be merciful! he is dying—Hermosa—Don Pedro—help!” Viola

exclaimed, receiving the cavalier’s weight in her quickly opened arms.

“Yes, yes, he’s dying at last,” the crone screamed “I killed him—me and

my son. He’s cheated us both, but we’ve paid him back, and I’ve got

money enough saved up to keep you in pocket money, my pretty

game-chick.”

“Hag!” Hilo ejaculated, shaking loose the old woman’s clutch on his

sleeve.

“Hey now,” she retorted, threatening him with her finger, “mind what I

say. I’ve gold enough for both, without that swindler’s there. I wanted

you to have that too. I would have been an honest girl, but for him, and

he owed you a living; so I put you in place of your namesake, when a

baby. I’ve been caring for you ever since. I wouldn’t let you marry who

you wanted, because I wanted you to marry somebody richer than your

French countess.”

“She devil—I spit on you,” her son broke in furiously.

“Is this my reward?” she shrieked, “mind, I have gold which you’ll never

handle—you might if you were dutiful.”

And mutually vilifying each other, the mother and her offspring, were

carried out from the ante-chamber by the guards of the latter.

Reader, the footlights begin to burn dim—one of the chief personages of

this story, without so much will left of all his willfulness, to put his

blind arms about his daughter, and confess his short-comings, and

without a tatter hanging about him of former arrogance, lies

expiring—the orchestra plays a dirge—the drop scene comes slowly

down—all is over.

One act more, and a short one closes the drama.

Captain Wolfang Carlo, it may be borne in mind, had retained about his

person, the papers taken from De Haye’s doublet, and from time to time,

as opportunity offered, spelled out the meaning in private.—He was not

inclined to think them of much value, and felt only a lazy curiosity in

regard to the contents, but a reference to his comrade, he had met with

during his last perusal, joined to the expressions let fall by Padilh,

at the examination before the marquis, excited intolerable suspicions in

his avaricious soul. What! after months and years of watching and

following about like a dog; to find himself swindled and his debtor an

impostor and penniless. He must see. And the captain eagerly embraced

the rare interval of privacy afforded by the absence of De Ladron with

Inique, to find in the MS. in his possession some warrant for his

doubts. As the honest free soldier read laboriously, the veins in his

forehead and cheeks swelled and purpled; he churned his tusks like any

other savage boar, and finally threw himself on the stone floor, howling

and beating the flags with his clenched fists. This frenzy was in full

vigor, when Hilo entered, unguardedly and in no amiable mood.

“Get up, Flemish hog!” he cried imperiously, applying his foot to the

other’s ribs.

He did get up; with a yell heard by the guard through the thick wall.

In the time it took to unbar and unclose the door, Wolfang had added one

more to his list of crimes, and the wretched old woman, who had been

placed in the same cell at her own stipulation, was discovered vainly

endeavoring to break the hold of the former on her son’s throat.

Come children; cries the great exhibiter of vanity-fair, let us shut up

the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.

* * * * *

I THINK OF THEE.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

I think of thee when eve’s last blush

Falls mournfully on heart and eye;

Of thee when morn’s first glories gush

In gold and crimson o’er the sky;

My thoughts are thine ’mid toil and strife,

Thine when from all life’s perils free—

Ay, thine—forever thine—my life

Is but a living thought of thee.

I think of thee ’mid spring’s sweet flowers,

And in the summer’s brighter glow,

Of thee in autumn’s purple bowers,

And gloomy winter’s waste of snow;

My thoughts are thine when joys depart,

And thine when all life’s sorrows flee—

Ay, thine—forever thine—my heart

Is but a throbbing thought of thee.

* * * * *

RUFFED GROUSE SHOOTING.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH

AND FISHING,” ETC.

[Illustration: THE RUFFED GROUSE. (_Tetrao Umbellus._)]

The beautiful bird which is depicted above, is that known as the

Partridge, in New Jersey, and all the States east and north of the

Delaware, and as the Pheasant everywhere to the westward of that fine

stream; and by these provincial vulgarisms it is like to be known and

designated, until sportsmen will take the trouble of acquiring a little

knowledge of their own trade, and will cease to regard naturalists as

mere theorizing bookmen, and scientific names and distinctions as

supererogatory humbug. The distinction between the Grouse and other

birds of the gallinaceous order, is that the former are invariably, the

latter never, feathered below the knee. This distinction never fails,

and is very easily noted; although, in different species of the genus,

the extent of the feathering differs. In the Ruffed Grouse the soft

fleecy feathering of the leg is sparse, and descends only to the middle

of the shank. In the Pinnated Grouse, Prairie Hen of the West, and

Grouse of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Rhode Island, the legs are

feathered the whole way down the shank, to the insertion of the toes;

and the same is the case of the Canada Grouse, or Spruce Partridge of

the remote Eastern States. In all those species of Grouse, which are

known as Ptarmigan, dwellers of the extreme north, or in the northern

temperature of iced mountain-tops, the feathering continues the whole

length of the toes quite to the insertion of the claws—this I merely

mention _par parenthese_, as there is but one of the Ptarmigans likely

to fall within reach of the sportsman; namely, the Willow-Grouse, or

Red-Necked Partridge of the extreme parts of Maine, and the Easternmost

British provinces, and thence so far as to the Arctic Circle.

These distinctions are easily borne in mind, nor will be found

all-sufficient to the discriminating woodsman, who desires to be able to

call things by their right names, and to give a reason for doing so.

The _true_ Pheasant is a native of Asia originally, though it has been

naturalized in Europe, since a very early period, and is now abundant in

France and England. No species of this bird, which is distinguished by a

pointed tail, above half a yard in length, and by its splendidly

gorgeous coloring, little inferior in intensity to that of the Peacock,

has ever been found, or is believed to exist in any portion of the

Western hemisphere; although those singular and showy birds, the

_Curaçoas_ of South America, have some relation to it.

The same is true of the _real_ Partridge; although the Quail of this

continent would seem to be its equivalent; being as it were a connecting

link between the European Quail, and the Partridge of Europe.

The Ruffed Grouse ranges over a very wide portion of the United States

and British provinces, from the 51st degree of north latitude to the

Atlantic sea-board, although it is much more scarce in the Southern

States than in the midland and northern regions. It is remarkable also

that it varies exceedingly in color; those to the northward being

comparatively dull and gray, to those of Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and

more genial regions.

The distinctive feature, whence this bird derives his title of _Ruffed_

Grouse, is the tuft or tippet of jet-black feathers, glossed with

metallic hues, which are shown more or less distinctly in each of the

figures in the woodcut at the head of this paper, but the most decidedly

in the cock-bird, represented as standing on a fallen log, in the act of

drumming, with these ruffs elevated, and his tail erected and expanded

after the manner of a Turkey or Peacock, in the season of his amorous

phantasies.

This drumming, a sound sufficiently familiar to all ears accustomed to

the sights and noises of the forest, is no less than the call of the

male bird to his harem of attendant wives; for the Ruffed Grouse, unlike

our pretty, constant, and domestic Quail, selects himself no one fond

partner, whom to cheer with his loved notes, to comfort and amuse during

the breeding season, but rejoices like a veritable grand Signor in a

multiplicity of fair sultanas, whom so soon as they betake themselves to

the cares of maternity, he abandons, like a _roué_ as he is, and passes

the remainder of the season, until the broods disperse in the autumn, in

company with small packs of his own faithless sex, reveling and enjoying

himself on the mountain sides, in his loved pines and hemlocks, while

his forgotten loves brood patient over the hopes of the coming season.

“This drumming,” says Wilson, in his eloquent and animated page, “is

most common in spring, and is the call of the cock to a favorite female.

It is produced in the following manner: the bird, standing on an old

prostrate log, generally in a retired situation, lowers his wings,

erects his expanded tail, contracts his throat, elevates the two tufts

of feathers on the neck, and inflates his whole body something in the

manner of a Turkey cock strutting and wheeling about in great

stateliness. After a few manœuvres of this kind, he begins to strike his

stiffened wings in short and quick strokes, which become more and more

rapid until they run into each other, resembling the rumbling sound of

very distant thunder dying away gradually on the ear. After a few

minutes’ pause, this is again repeated, and in a calm day may be heard

nearly a mile off. This is most common in the morning and evening,

though I have heard them drumming at all hours of the day.”

It is singular, that so exact an authority as Wilson has proved himself

to be, should fall into the strange error of speaking of this singular

amorous sound as a call to a _single_ female; and elsewhere of the

_Pheasant_, as he erroneously calls it, paining; when it is notorious to

all who have closely observed the habits of this bird, that it is

polygamous. Such, I believe, will be found the case with all those

gallinaceous birds which have on especial summons, or peculiar display

of attitudes, airs, and splendors by which to attract the females; as

may be observed of the common Game-cock, the Turkey, the Peacock, and

the European Pheasant; no one of which takes to himself an especial and

chosen partner, but disports himself in his wanton seraglio.

On many occasions, during this particular season, I have stolen up to

within a few yards of the log, whereon the Ruffed Grouse was so busily

employed in summoning his dames and demoiselles around him, that he had

no ears or eyes for my approach, which at any other period he would have

discovered long before, and whirred away tumultuous on terrified and

sounding pinions. I have lain concealed, for an hour at a time, watching

with intense gratification the beautiful and animated gestures of the

cock, now strutting and drumming on his log, proud as an eastern despot,

now descending to caress and dally with his numerous Roxolanas, and then

reascending to his post of pride, to send his resonant call far through

the haunted echoes of the umbrageous pine-woods. On one such chance, I

saw no less than seven hen birds gathered around a single male, all in

turn expectant of his looked-for attentions, and all gratified by a

share of his notice. If this be not Polygamy, I should like to receive

the Grand Turk’s opinion on the subject, as I confess myself, if it be

any thing less, in a state of absolute benightedness.

The Ruffed Grouse begins her nest very early in May, and lays from eight

to fifteen brownish-white, unspotted eggs, nearly the size of those of a

pullet. With the exact period of this bird’s incubation I am not

acquainted; the young birds run the instant they clip the shell; obey

the cluck of the mother, as chickens that of the hen; and are tended by

her with extreme care and solicitude. In case of her being surprised

with her young about her, she resorts to all the artifices practiced by

the Quail, and even by the comparatively dull and stolid Woodcock, to

draw away the intruder from the vicinity, feigning lameness and

incapacity to fly, until she shall have lured away the pursuer far from

the hiding-place of her fledglings. Then she shall whirr away on

resonant and powerful pinions, up, up above the tops of the tall pines

and hemlocks, and thence skate homeward noiseless on balanced wings,

where she will find them close ensconced among the sheltering

fern-tufts, or the matted winter-greens and whortleberry bushes,

viewless to the most prying eye, and undiscoverable, save to the nose of

the unerring spaniel. But once returned, you shall see them emerge,

chirping feebly at the soft maternal cluck, and hurrying to enshroud

them under the shelter of her guardian wing, and nestle, happy

younglings, among the downy plumage of her maternal breast. Curses upon

the sacrilegious hand that would interrupt that sweet and tender scene

by the sharp click of the murderous trigger; yet there be brutes, in the

guise of men, who scruple not to butcher the drumming cock, taken at

fatal disadvantage, amid his admiring harem; scruple not to slaughter

the brooding mother above her miserable younglings—but to such we cry

avaunt! to such we deny the name of sportsmen, nay, but of Christians,

or of men! Get ye behind us, murderous pot-hunters!

The young broods grow rapidly; and by the time they have reached the

size of the Quail, fly well and strongly on the wing. By the middle, or

latter end of August, they are three parts grown, and fully feathered,

with the exception of the tail, which is not yet complete, and retains a

pointed form. The blundering legislation of this country in general, on

the subject of the game-laws, has, in this instance, to my ideas,

exceeded itself; for during the months of September and October, when

the broods are still united under the care of the mother, the birds

lying well to the setter, and when flushed scattering themselves singly

here and there among low undergrowth or bushes, and rarely or never

taking to the tree, we are prohibited from shooting this bold, hardy,

rambling, and shy bird; this, at a later season, wild hunter of

inaccessible rock-ledges, impenetrable rhododendron brakes, and deep

sequestered hemlock-swamps; this, the most uncomatable and

self-protecting bird of all the varieties of American game; the only

variety, perhaps, which never can by any means, fair or unfair, be

exterminated from among us, so long us the rock-ribbed mountains tower

toward the skies, and the forests clothe them with foliage never sere.

At this period they would afford rare sport, as at all other seasons

they afford none; and are, moreover, in far the best condition for the

table, as the old birds are apt to be dry, unless hung up for several

weeks before being cooked, which can, of course, only be done in winter,

when the coldness of the weather prevents their becoming tainted,

without absolutely freezing them.

In my opinion, therefore, this, the only bird of American game, which

might well exist apart from almost all protection, is now so protected

as to be almost rendered impossible to the gun of the fair sportsman;

while for others, the tamest, the most easily killed, and the most

rapidly decreasing of all our winged tribes, as the Woodcock, for

example, the mock protection afforded to them is but another word for

the license to slaughter them half-fledged and half-grown, while the

second brood is yet in the black-down, and unable to exist without the

parent’s care.

I would myself desire to see the legitimate season for Ruffed

Grouse-shooting made to commence with the first day of September, the

young birds by that time, and in truth much earlier, being quite fit for

the gun, and to cease on the fifteenth of December, or at Christmas at

the latest, before the snows of winter admit of their being snared and

trapped by thousands.

Toward the middle of October, the old hens drive off the broods, or the

young birds now perfectly mature, stray from them of their own accord;

and thenceforth they are found sometimes in little companies of two,

three, or four, but far more often singly, in wild, difficult upland

woods, through which they love to ramble deviously for miles, as they

are led in search of their favorite food, or sometimes, as it would

seem, by mere whim. On one occasion, many years since, when I was but a

young sportsman on this side the Atlantic, I remember footing a small

party of five birds, in a light snow, for above ten miles among the

Wawayanda mountains, in Orange County, New York, without getting up to

them; although it was easily seen by their hurried and agitated tracks

that for a great part of the distance, they were within hearing of me,

and were running from my pursuit. I had no dogs with me. Had I been out

with setters, the Grouse would have trailed them for miles, and

unquestionably risen at last out of shot. With spaniels, or curs,

trained to run in upon them, and pursue, yelping loudly, as the mode is

in the backwoods where men do not shoot but gun, they would have taken

to the trees, and would have sat close to the trunk with their bodies

erect, and their necks elongated, and might have been killed easily, the

only difficulty being that of perceiving them, a difficulty far more

considerable than would be imagined to an unpracticed eye. To shoot

birds sitting, however, whether on trees or on the ground, is not sport

for a sportsman; the only case where it is ever _allowable_, is to the

woodsman on a tramp through the primitive and boundless forest, where

his camp-kettle must be filled by the contents of his bag, and where to

throw away a chance is, perhaps, in the end to go supperless to bed. In

such a case, while canoeing it last Autumn “with a goodly companye” up

the northern rivers that debouche into Lake Huron, we shot many, while

portaging around cataracts or rapids on the Severn; and on one occasion

a gentlemen of the party shot three birds, out of one small pine-tree,

without any of them moving or appearing alarmed at the gun-shots. This

has often been related as a constant and ordinary habit of the bird; and

from that occurrence, I am induced to believe that when the bird is in

its natural solitudes, unacquainted with man and his murderous weapons,

such may be the case; in the settlements, however, it might have been

when they were rare and sparse, this is the habit of the Ruffed Grouse

no longer. I have never in my life, save in the instance mentioned,

observed any thing of the kind; on the contrary, I have ever found them

the wildest, the most wary, and, unless by some mere chance, the least

approachable of all wild birds.

During the latter autumn, they eschew flat, bushy tracts, and even

swamps with heavy thicket, their instinct probably telling them that in

such covert they are liable to be taken napping. If, however, one have

the fortune to find them in such tracts, he is likely to have sport over

setters; and in no other sort of ground do I deem that possible, as the

law now stands. Once, many years since, sporting in the heavy

thorn-brakes around Pine Brook, in New Jersey, I found them with a

friend in low underwood, and we had great sport, bagging eight brace of

Ruffed Grouse over points, in addition to some eighteen or twenty brace

of Quail.

In general, however, they frequent either open groves of tall, thrifty

timber, with a carpet of wintergreens, cranberries and whortleberries,

which constitute their favorite food; or the steep mountain-ledges,

under the interlaced branches of tall evergreen trees, among brakes of

mountain rhododendron, or, as it is commonly called, though erroneously,

laurel. In both these species of ground, all being clear below, the

birds can hear and see the sportsman long before he can approach them,

and take wing, for the most part, entirely out of gun-shot range. If,

however, they are surprised unawares, they have a singular tact of

dodging behind the first bush, or massive trunk, and flying off in a

right line, keeping the obstacle directly between the sportsman and

themselves, so as to frustrate all his efforts to obtain a shot; this I

have seen done so often as to satisfy me that it is the result, not of

chance, but of a deliberate instinct.

The Ruffed Grouse rises, at first, when surprised, with a heavy whirring

and laborious flutter, and if taken at that moment within range, is

easily shot; he rises for the most part a little higher than the head of

a tall man, and goes away swift and strong nearly in a horizontal line.

If struck behind, he will carry away a heavy load of shot, and he has a

trick of flying until his breath leaves him in the air, and then falls

dead before he strikes the ground. Occasionally he towers up with the

wind, and then setting his wings, skates down before it at a prodigious

rate, without moving a feather; and if you get a shot at him, gentle

reader, under such circumstances, crossing you at long range, be sure

that you shoot two, or by ’r lady three feet ahead of him, or you may

cut off his extreme tail-feathers, but of a surety kill him you shall

not.

The Ruffed Grouse usually flies in a perfectly right line, so that if

you flush one without getting a shot, and can preserve his line exactly,

you may find him, if he have not treed, which it is ten to one he has;

wherefore I advise you not to follow him. The exception to this right

line of flight, is when the ground is broken into ridges with parallel

ravines, in which case the bird, on crossing a ridge at right angles,

will rarely cross the ravine also, but will dive up or down, as the

covert may invite.

When birds lie in narrow ravines, filled with good covert, by throwing

the guns forward on the brow of the ridges a hundred yards ahead of the

dogs, which must be left behind with a person to hunt and restrain them,

and letting the sportsmen carefully keep that distance in advance, going

very gingerly and silently, sport may be had; and so I think

only—especially over slow, mute, cocking spaniels, for as the birds,

after running before the dogs, will be likely to take wing abreast of,

or perhaps even behind the unexpected shooter, who has thus stolen a

march on them, and as they rarely, if ever, cross the ridges, but fly

straight along the gorge, they so afford fair shots.

For my own part, I do not consider it worth the while, as the law now

stands, to go out in pursuit of Ruffed Grouse with dogs, where you

expect to find no other species of game; for, in the first place, they

ramble so widely, that there is no certainty of finding them within ten

miles of the spot where you may have seen them daily for a month; and,

secondly, if you do find them, there is no certainty of having sport

with them, but rather a probability of reverse. As an adjunct to other

kinds of shooting they are excellent, but as sole objects of pursuit, I

think, worthless. I have often blundered on them by chance while hunting

for other game; but when I have gone out expressly in pursuit of them, I

have never had even tolerable sport.

If the law were altered, and September shooting permitted, the case

would be altered also; and in many regions of our country, as the

Kaatskill Mountains, and some parts of Columbia and Saratoga counties,

in New York; the Pocono Mountains, and the Blue Ridge, generally, in

Pennsylvania; and many districts of Maine, Massachusetts, Connecticut,

and Rhode Island, rare sport might be had. For September shooting, No. 8

shot will be found sufficient; but after that, No. 7; and very late in

the season, Eley’s wire cartridges will be found the most effective.

This widely extended bird is too well known to require any peculiar

description; and I shall content myself with observing, in aid of my

portraiture of the Ruffed Grouse, that the upper part of its head and

hind neck are reddish-brown, the back rich chestnut, mottled with

heart-shaped spots of white, edged with black. The tail is bright

reddish-yellow, barred and speckled with black, and bordered by a broad,

black belt between two narrow white bands, one at the extremity of the

tail. The iris of the eye hazel, bill brown, feet brownish gray. Loral

band cream color. Throat and fore neck, brownish-yellow. Upper

ruff-feathers barred with brown. Wings brownish-red, streaked with

black. Breast and abdomen cream colored, closely barred above, and

laterally spotted below, with dark chocolate. Length 18 inches, spread

of wings 2 feet. The Ruffed Grouse is a capital bird on the table. The

breast white meat, back and thighs brown. It should be roasted quickly,

eaten with bread sauce and fried crumbs, and washed down with sherry or

red wine.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Astræa; The Balance of Delusions. A Poem Delivered before the

Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, Aug 14, 1850. By Oliver

Wendall Holmes. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

Few college poems have attained, at the period of their delivery, so

fluttering a fame as did this last product of Dr. Holmes’s forgetive and

flashing brain; and it is now published “by request of the Society,” and

demand of the public. Though it has not the geniality of “Urania,” nor

its sustained sweetness and subtility of sentiment, it is the greatest

of the author’s long poems in decision and depth both of feeling and

satire, and exhibits, perhaps, more than his usual command of the powers

and delicacies of expression. The verse is a study for all heroic

rhymers, being fully equal to all the purposes of wit, fancy,

imagination and passion, and combining the utmost finish in separate

lines with a bounding movement in the whole. The poem is a succession of

beautiful pictures, grave and mirthful, each of which symbolizes some

powerful thought or tender feeling, and some of which are hardly matched

in our poetry for brilliancy of effect. The satire is less frolicksome

than usual; here and there, indeed, its sting draws blood; and the whole

poem is conceived and executed in a sterner and more earnest spirit than

is common with Dr. Holmes.

The opening paragraphs contain a most beautiful and delicate tribute to

the author’s father, who was educated at Yale. The following lines

refer, we suppose, to Dr. Stiles, the president of the college at the

time the elder Holmes was a student, and contain an exquisite picture of

the filial relations of master and pupil:

How the great MASTER, reverend, solemn, wise,

Fixed on his face those calm, majestic eyes,

Full of grave meaning, where a child might read

The Hebraist’s patience and the Pilgrim’s creed.

But warm with flashes of parental fire

That drew the stripling to his second sire;

How kindness ripened, till the youth might dare

Take the low seat beside his sacred chair,

While the gray scholar, bending o’er the young,

_Spelled the square types of Abraham’s ancient tongue_,

Or with mild rapture stooped devoutly o’er

His small coarse leaf, alive with curious lore;

Tales of grim judges, at whose awful beck

Flashed the broad blade across a royal neck,

Or learned dreams of Israel’s long lost child

Found in the wanderer of the western wild.

The revival of nature at the approach of spring has been often described

by poets, but the following passage prints the scenes fresh and bright

on the heart and imagination, as if it had never before found its

painter. The reader cannot fail to notice the nice propriety of the

descriptive epithets, and the combination of the naturalist’s minute

observation with the poet’s suggestive imagination, in the whole

representation:

Winter is past; the heart of Nature warms

Beneath the wrecks of unresisted storms;

_Doubtful at first, suspected more than seen_,

The southern slopes are fringed with tender green;

On sheltered banks, beneath the dripping eaves,

Spring’s earliest nurslings spread their glowing leaves,

Bright with the hues from wider pictures won,

White, azure, golden—drift, or sky, or sun;—

The snowdrop, bearing on her _patient breast_

The frozen trophy torn from winter’s crest;

The violet, gazing on the arch of blue

Till her own iris wears its deepened hue;

The spendthrift crocus, bursting through the mould

Naked and shivering with his cup of gold.

Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high

Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky;

On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves

The gummy shroud that wraps her embryo leaves;

The house-fly, stealing from his narrow grave,

_Drugged with the opiate that November gave_,

From shaded chinks of lichen-crusted walls,

In languid curves, the gliding serpent crawls;

The bog’s green harper, thawing from his sleep,

Twangs a hoarse note and tries a shortened leap;

On floating rails that face the softening noons

_The still shy turtles range their dark platoons_,

Or toiling, aimless, o’er the mellowing fields,

Trail through the grass their tessellated shields.

_At last young April, ever frail and fair,_

_Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,_

_Chased to the margin of receding floods_

_O’er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,_

_In tears and blushes sighs herself away,_

_And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May._

Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze,

Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays,

O’er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis,

_Like blue-eyed Pallas_, towers erect and free;

With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows,

_And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose_;

Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge

The rival lily hastens to emerge,

Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips

_Till morn is sultan of her parted lips_.

We have not space for what follows in celebration of the birds, though

we cannot resist the temptation to extract four intoxicating couplets:

The thrush, poor wanderer, drooping meekly down,

Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown;

The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire

Rent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire.

The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,

Repeats, _staccato_, his peremptory note;

The _crack-brained_ bobolink courts his crazy mate,

Poised on a bulrush _tipsy_ with his weight.

The satirical part of the poem is introduced with a few lines on the

danger of meddling with popular delusions and foibles; and after

speaking of the “earthquake of a nation’s hiss,” he concludes with this

saucy salutation to the newspapers:

And oh, remember the indignant press;

Honey is bitter to its fond caress,

But the black venom that its hate lets fall

Would shame to sweetness the hyena’s gall.

The gem of this portion of the poem is the representation of the Moral

Bully, a picture worthy of Pope or Young:

Yon whey-faced brother, who delights to wear

A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair,

Seems of the sort that in a crowded place

One elbows freely into smallest space;

A timid creature, lax of knee and hip,

Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip;

One of those harmless, spectacled machines,

Ignored by waiters when they call for greens,

Whom schoolboys question it their walk transcends

The last advices of maternal friends,

_Whom John, obedient to his master’s sign_,

_Conduct laborious, up to ninety-nine_,

While Peter, glistening with luxurious scorn,

Husks his white ivories like an ear of corn;

Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek,

Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week,

Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits,

And the laced high-lows which they call their boots.

Well may’st thou _shun_ that dingy front severe,

But him, O stranger, him thou canst not _fear_!

Be slow to judge, and slower to despise,

Man of broad shoulders and heroic size!

The tiger, writhing from the boa’s rings,

Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings.

In that lean phantom, whose extended glove

Points to the text of universal love,

Behold the master that can tame thee down

To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday frown;

His velvet throat against thy corded wrist,

His loosened tongue against thy doubled fist!

The MORAL BULLY, though he never swears,

Nor kicks intruders down his entry stairs,

Though meekness plants his backward sloping hat,

And non-resistance ties his white cravat,

Though his black broadcloath glories to be seen

In the same plight with Shylock’s gaberdine,

Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast,

That heaves the cuirass on the trooper’s chest.

—

Heaven keep us all! Is every rascal clown,

Whose arm is stronger, free to knock us down?

Has every scarecrow, whose cachetic soul

Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on parole,

Who, though he carries but a doubtful trace

Of angel visits on his hungry face,

From lack of marrow or the coins to pay,

Has dodged some vices in a shabby way,

The right to stick us with his cut-throat terms,

_And bait his homilies with his brother worms_?

If generous fortune give me leave to choose

My saucy neighbors barefoot or in shoes,

I leave the hero blustering while he dares

On platforms furnished with posterior stairs,

Till prudence drives him to his “earnest” legs

With large bequest of disappointed eggs,

And take the brawler whose unstudied dress

Becomes him better, and protects him less;

Give me the bullying of the scoundrel crew,

If swaggering virtue wont insult me too!

Leaving, with this impersonation, “The noisy tribe in panta-loons or

-lets,” the poet drives directly at the august cities of Boston and New

York, and ruthlessly smashes all the literary crockery in those two

emporiums of letters. Here is his gird at the modern Athens:

The pseudo-critic-editorial race

Owns no allegiance but the law of place;

Each to his region sticks through thick and thin,

Stiff as a beetle spiked upon a pin.

Plant him in Boston, and his sheet he fills

With all the slipslop of his threefold hills,

Talks as if nature kept her choicest smiles

Within his radius of a dozen miles,

And nations waited till his next Review

Had made it plain what Providence must do.

Would you believe him, water is not damp

Except in buckets with the Hingham stamp,

And Heaven should build the walls of Paradise

Of Quincy granite lined with Wenham ice.

Now this would give “wondrous great contentment” to the denizens of

Manhattan, did not the satirist pounce down upon them with even more

ironical fury. We have only space for the conclusion, and would

particularly emphasize the hit at the scholars. It must be borne in mind

that the poem was originally delivered at Yale College, the

head-quarters of Websterism in spelling.

When our first Soldiers’ swords of honor gild

The stately mansions that her tradesmen build;

When our first Statesmen take the Broadway track,

Our first Historians following at their back;

When our first Painters, dying, leave behind

On her proud walls the shadows of their mind;

When our first Poets flock from farthest scenes

To take in hand her pictured Magazines;

_When our first Scholars are content to dwell_

_Where their own printers teach them how to spell_;

When world-known Science crowds toward her gates,

Then shall the children of our hundred States

Hail her a true METROPOLIS of men,

The nation’s centre. Then, and not till then!

No one can read this poem without wishing, with more earnestness than

the wish originally came from the throat of Macbeth, that the author

would throw “physic to the dogs,” and devote himself exclusively to

literature. He is now but an “occasional” poet, though every piece he

produces evidences that his mind is a Fortunatus’ purse, from which an

endless succession of treasures might be drawn, with little effort on

his own part, but with great delight to the public and great profit to

his own reputation. His wit, whether expressed in prose or verse, is

ever the pointed expression of sound sense, of accurate observation, of

searching, subtle thought, and has, therefore, a permanent flavor, sharp

and sweet, which improves rather than deteriorates with familiar

acquaintance. Every thing he writes, whether he reasons, observes, or

creates, is distinguished pre-eminently by vigor—a vigor which goes

directly to its object, and always succeeds in mastering and expressing

it. We wish he would not only write more poems, but that he would invade

the domain of romance, and bring us back a novel. It would certainly be

as original as any ever produced by an American, and would exhibit to

great advantage his peculiar vein of sentiment—a vein as peculiar as

that of Tennyson, and capable of being embodied in character with more

perfection than he has yet succeeded in expressing it in couplets.

* * * * *

_Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. By Benson J. Lossing.

New York: Harper & Brothers. No. 7._

We again call attention to this delightful serial work, containing

illustrations, by pen and pencil, of the history, scenery, biography,

relics, and traditions of the Revolution. It is elegantly and compactly

printed, is full of exquisite wood engravings, and is well written. The

author combines the habits of an antiquary with the brain of an

enthusiast; and we are acquainted with no other work of American history

which gives the same kind of information.

* * * * *

_Five Years of a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior of South

Africa. By R. Gordon Cumming. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2

vols. 12mo._

A rare sportsman is Gordon Cumming—none of your followers of snipe and

grouse, of fox or stag, but a Cæsar or Napoleon among hunters, a shooter

of the giraffe and the rhinoceros, the lion and the elephant, and a

great many other wild beasts, which your “even Christian” trembles to

behold in their tamed and caged menagerie representatives. Seriously,

this book is the most exciting production of the kind we have ever read,

and though full of marvels, detailed in a style a little

Mendez-Pintoish, is probably substantially true. The author is a kinsman

of the Duke of Argyle, (to whom the volumes are dedicated,) is an

English officer, and a “Person of Honor;” his statements, we suppose,

must be taken as facts, as nobility, like figures, cannot lie, and as

the author’s gentle blood did not come to him in a line of descent from

William Longbow. Whether, however, Gordon Cumming has drawn a great deal

from his imagination or not, his book is an interesting one, and

proclaims him a cool, daring, invincible hunter—the greatest since

Nimrod. Take away from him a hundred of the elephants he swears he shot,

and he will have left enough to make a great reputation. In addition to

the hunting scenes, the volumes contain no little information respecting

the Hottentots and Bushmen, and some splendid descriptions of African

scenery.

* * * * *

_Leaflets of Memory; an Illuminated Annual for 1851. Edited by

Reynell Coates, M. D. Philadelphia: E. H. Butler & Co._

The enterprising publishers of this most beautiful book, deserve the

warmest thanks of the public for the exquisite taste displayed in all of

their gift books for 1851; but especially for the wealth of elegance

which marks the volume before us in all its appointments. To Butler &

Co. justly belongs the credit of having rescued the Annuals of the

country from that contempt to which they were fast sinking, and placing

them side by side with the highest efforts of art in Europe. Nor has the

editor failed to do his part nobly. The marks of the severe and elegant

taste of Dr. Coates are visible on every page, and his fine mind sends

forth its flashes like sparkles from a diamond in his own articles.

The illuminated plates by Sinclair are wonders of art, surpassing in

delicacy of execution any that we have seen in this style; and Sartain,

in his beautiful mezzotints, seems to have shared the inspiration

largely of his co-laborers in this garden of beauty. We shall be amazed,

if an immense sale of the Leaflets does not reward the prodigality of

Mr. Butler.

* * * * *

_The Female Poets of America. Edited by Thomas Buchanan Read.

Philadelphia: E. H. Butler & Co._

This is a magnificent holyday gift, issued in a style of splendor that

Butler alone can be chargeable with. Printed on superb paper, and filled

with fine portraits of the leading American female writers, and gorgeous

with illuminated plates by Sinclair. Mr. Read, the Editor, who is both

poet and painter, has given us a token of remembrance in this fine

volume that will live in many libraries and many hearts. It is just the

volume to present to a lady of taste for a New Year’s Gift. No reader of

“Graham” should fail to look at it.

* * * * *

_Proverbial Philosophy. By Martin Farquhar Tupper. With Sixteen

Illustrations. Philadelphia: E. H. Butler & Co._

Few readers of this Magazine are ignorant of these superior writings of

Tupper; but very few, we will venture to say, have ever seen so superb

an edition. The letter-press, the illustrations, and binding, are all of

the very highest order, and the book is in every way entitled to a

permanent place in the drawing-room of the educated and refined. In

addition to its numerous superior engravings, the volume is graced by a

fine likeness of Tupper, by Richie, which is of itself a treasure to his

admirers.

* * * * *

_The Recent Progress of Astronomy; Especially in the United

States. By Elias Loomis. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.

12mo._

The object of this volume is to exhibit, in a form as popular as the

nature of the subject will allow, the most important astronomical

discoveries of the last ten years. The chapter on the Discovery of the

Planet Neptune, is the clearest account we have seen of that scientific

event. The portions on the Recent Additions to our knowledge of Comets,

Fixed Stars and Nebulæ, convey a great deal of information in a

rigorously systematized form. There are a hundred pages devoted to the

progress of Astronomy in the United States, which will be read with much

interest, as they enable us to understand the grounds of a remark of the

Astronomer Royal of Great Britain, that “the Americans, although late in

the field of astronomical enterprise, have now taken up that science

with their characteristic energy, and have already shown their ability

to instruct their former masters.”

* * * * *

_Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of America. By

James Wynne, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12 mo._

This volume contains lives of Franklin, Jonathan Edwards, Fulton,

Marshall, Rittenhouse, and Whitney. They are altogether superior to the

general run of such biographies, both in style and matter, and we have

read with particular pleasure those of Franklin, Edwards, and Fulton.

The life of the second of these is little known beyond the boundaries of

his sect; and Dr. Wynne’s view of his character is the most correct we

have ever seen. The author’s diction is admirably adapted for narrative.

* * * * *

_The Deerslayer: or the First War-Path. By J. Fenimore Cooper.

New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is the first volume of a reprint of Cooper’s Leather-Stocking

Tales, the best works of their Author. It is uniform with the Putnam’s

edition of “The Spy,” and “The Pilot.”

* * * * *

_The Life of Silas Talbot, a Commodore in the Navy of the United

States. By Henry T. Tuckerman. New York: J. C. Riker. 1 vol.

16mo._

In this little volume, Mr. Tuckerman appears as the biographer of a

revolutionary hero, as a describer of land fights and sea fights, and as

a commentator on military and naval character. In this department of

literature he seems as much at home as in writing genial essays on poets

and social phenomena, and has made a charming book. In narrative, his

style, without parting with any of its grace, has an increased energy

and rapidity of movement. He lingers less over his matter. The subject

of his biography is a grand one, and he has treated it finely,

exhibiting judgment, research, and a marked descriptive power.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 69.

_Robes de M^{me}._ Verrier Richard, _r. Richelieu, 73—_

_Chapeaux de M^{lle}._ Grafeton, _r. de la Paix, 24_.

_The styles of Goods here represented can be had of Mess^{rs}._ L. J. Levy

& C^{o}. _Philadelphia_

_and at_ Stewart’s, _New York_.

Graham’s Magazine, 134 Chestnut Street.]

* * * * *

COME TOUCH THE HARP, MY GENTLE ONE.

BALLAD.

Composed, and Respectfully Dedicated

TO

MRS. A. A. T.

BY

E. K. EATON.

Published by permission of Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street.

_Publisher and Importer of Music and Musical Instruments._

[Illustration]

Come touch the harp, my gentle one!

And let the notes be sad and low;

Such as may breathe in ev’ry tone—

The

[Illustration]

soul, the soul of long ago!

That smile of thine is all too bright

For aching hearts and lonely years,

And dearly as I love its light,

To-day I would have tears.

SECOND VERSE

Yet weep not that, my gentle girl,

No smile of thine has lost its spell;

I so do love thy lightest curl,

Oh! more than fondly well.

Then touch the lyre, and let it wile

All thoughts of grief and gloom away;

While thou art by with smile and spell,

I will not weep to-day.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.—The beautiful picture of Catskill Mountain

House, and the surrounding scenery, which we give our readers in this

number, was painted for the present publisher, in 1846, when we were, or

thought we were, richer than we are now. A party of friends were with us

on a visit to that delightful spot, in that summer; and among the guests

at the house was the painter, Harvey, who, in his studious observation

of nature, was filling up a week or two prior to his departure for

Europe. Several pictures he had finished, of bits of scenery and nooks

about the mountain, all of them marked by that wonderful fidelity to

nature in her minute developments—each blade, and each shade of each

blade of grass, and leaf elaborated with that patient skill, which

distinguishes his pictures. The morning we left, we ordered the picture

before the reader; and Smillie has just engraved it in his matchless

style. To our own eye, it is one of the sweetest landscapes that we have

ever placed before the readers of “Graham;” and we now apprise our

friends that it is the first of a series of American views which that

artist is now executing for this Magazine.

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF FASHION PLATE.

WALKING DRESSES—_First Figure_.—Bonnet of pink taffeta, covered with

puffings and plaits of clear white organdy; the right and the left side

of the front are trimmed with three little feathers, fastened in lightly

and gracefully.

Dress and _pardessus_ of taffeta, of any color or shade, according to

fancy. The dress body is open before, and high in the neck behind. The

sleeves are large, of the _pagoda_ style, wider at the lower part than

at the top or arm-hole. The body is pointed before and behind. To give

style to these bodies, a little strap of tape is fastened to the lower

part of the waist, and this strap is attached to the lower part of the

back of the corset, in order to make the back of the dress set well, and

keep it from puckering.

The skirt is very full, and very long, training a little behind; it is

trimmed with seven flounces, each flounce six _centimêtres_[1] wide; and

these flounces are placed about five _centimêtres_ apart; the highest

flounce is about twenty-five _centimêtres_ from the waist.

The _pardessus_ is sufficiently sloped at the seams to make it fit

easily; it is a little pointed in front, and round behind.

The scallops of the flounces are first traced with close runnings of

sewing silk, then embroidered in heavy button hole stitch.

The stomacher is of _tulle_: it opens square before, and is trimmed with

a _tulle_ quilling, standing up around the neck, with insertion at the

lower part of the quilling; the front is composed of five puffings, with

insertion between the puffings. The sleeve has one large puffing, with a

tight waistband and two ruffles.

_Second Figure._—Bonnet of black lace, bordered on the edge with a

_ruche_ of the same, which _ruche_ continues all around the bonnet. This

bonnet is trimmed with branches of roses. Mantilla, or little scarf

shawl, is of light green taffeta, trimmed with broad silk lace, and

embroidered in a rich design with narrow silk braid. This embroidery is

worked in black on all light colors, or in a color a little deeper than

the shade of the taffeta. Stomacher is made of lace, with insertion.

_Little Girl._—Dress of jaconet muslin, embroidered _à_ _l’Anglaise_.

Mittens and stockings of open work silk. Sash _à la president_ around

the waist, of taffeta ribbon of the width No. 60. Silk boots and straw

hat, with a crown of roses.

-----

[1] _Centimêtre_, the one-hundredth part of a yard: there is no

corresponding word in English. Six _centimêtres_, however, would be

about two inches, five _centimêtres_ about an inch and a half, and

twenty-five _centimêtres_ about a quarter of a yard.

* * * * *

EDGAR A. POE.—By the decision of several discreet friends of the

lamented Poe, we omit a number of letters and articles, which have been

collected in relation to his life and writings. The wounds made by his

criticisms are too fresh—the conflicting interests too many, to hope

now to do that justice which time and the sober second thought of

educated minds will accord to his memory. In the March number, we gave a

short sketch of the poet, and hereafter the grateful duty may be more

amply fulfilled—without making this Magazine, seemingly, the medium

through which to gratify personal hostilities.

* * * * *

THANKS TO OUR FRIENDS EDITORIAL.

FELLOW-LABORERS:—We address you at the close of the year 1850, with an

involuntary wish struggling upward from the heart, for a happy New

Year—a glorious baptism of good for 1851. We do this, too, with some

misgivings lest we may presume upon your forbearance—but the cordial

response you have given to our monthly labors—the encouraging and

timely words spoken in our behalf at the outset of the somewhat perilous

enterprise of carrying our shattered bark into harbor once more—with

all its sails stripped and cordage gone, came over the dark waters

cheeringly, stimulating our weak endeavors, and nerving our heart for

the tempest or the calm.

With no money—a few friends, and a thousand discouragements thrust upon

us by timid well-wishers—and half-hearted comforters—we undertook to

carry Graham’s Magazine—with its harvest of money, received in

December, January and February, the pick months of the year,

scattered—we undertook, we say, to carry this book triumphantly—in the

face of the fiercest competition the business has ever known—through

the year 1850.

The American Press with a chivalry for a prostrate brother, such as has

never been witnessed—with one accord, from the extreme North to the

extreme South, raised its voice of encouragement—its cheer for our

success—and we now close the volume with an addition of over 10,000

subscribers since July, and with the uttermost liberality in expenditure

in the manufacture of Graham’s Magazine, _met_ by the tremendous

resources which _you_, gentlemen, by the power of advertising, in

liberal notices, have showered upon us. From our heart we thank you! Our

experience in the press, daily, weekly, and monthly, for twelve years,

has taught us how little the press itself knows of its own power—how

few out of it know its giant resources—the wealth it carries on its

wings to those who use it wisely. Judge, then, whether we, who have

partaken so largely of its benefits from your generosity alone, knowing

fully the vast service your kindness has done us, can do less than

convey to you our sense of the obligation, with a hope that the day is

dawning which will enable us to _attempt_ in some poor sort to repay

you. We say _attempt_ to repay, for the reactionary benefit will be

ten-fold upon ourself—so that we must by inevitable laws, remain

forever your debtor.

GRAHAM.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

LE MONITEUR DE LA MODE.

Journal du Monde Elégant.

_Toilettes de la Maison_ Popelin Ducarre. _Modes de_ Mélanie Brun &

C^{ie}., _5 rue de la Paix. Fleurs et_

_plumes de_ Perrot & C^{ie}. _Bijoux_ Gillion, _9, Boul^{t}. des

Italiens._

_Mouchoirs de_ Chapron & Dubois, _rue de la Paix_.

_The styles of goods here represented can be had of_

_Mess._ L. J. Levy & C^{o}., _PHILADELPHIA,_

_and at_ Stewart's, _NEW YORK_.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some

spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without

note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For

illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

page 330, in maratime states ==> in maritime states

page 333, litterally by people ==> literally by people

page 336, Save were the steel-shod ==> Save where the steel-shod

page 338, strayed were the soft ==> strayed where the soft

page 344, his hand in her’s ==> his hand in hers

page 351, his anamolous position ==> his anomalous position

page 351, large body of calvary ==> large body of cavalry

page 352, Master of St. Jago ==> Maestro of St. Jago

page 357, had began to civilize ==> had begun to civilize

page 357, sur ves revolutions anciennes ==> sur les révolutions anciennes

page 358, the Duke of Bourdeaux ==> the Duke of Bordeaux

page 358, ownership of the _Murcure_, ==> ownership of the _Mercure_,

page 363, having not forseen the ==> having not foreseen the

page 365, prophecied your destiny ==> prophesied your destiny

page 366, side thy stood now, ==> side they stood now,

page 372, be got, hav n’t you ==> be got, haven’t you

page 372, his grizzley moustache ==> his grizzly moustache

page 373, falls of his horse ==> falls off his horse

page 375, and cross questiong on ==> and cross questioning on

page 381, the foot lights begin to burn ==> the footlights begin to burn

page 381, by the abscence of ==> by the absence of

page 381, in his posession some ==> in his possession some