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GRAHAM'S
AMERICAN MONTHLY
MAGAZINE
Of Literature and Art.
EMBELLISHED WITH
MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, J. R. LOWELL.
MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD, MRS.
EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY,
MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.
PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.
G. R. GRAHAM, J. R. CHANDLER AND J. B. TAYLOR, EDITORS.
VOLUME XXXIII.
PHILADELPHIA:
SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO. 98 CHESTNUT STREET.
1848.
CONTENTS
OF THE
THIRTY-THIRD VOLUME.
JUNE, 1848, TO JANUARY, 1849.
A Night on the Ice. By Solitaire, 18
Aunt Mable's Love Story. By Susan Pindar, 107
Angila Mervale. By F. E. F., 121
A Written Leaf of Memory. By Fanny Lee, 137
An Indian-Summer Ramble. By A. B. Street, 147
A Leaf in the Life of Ledyard Lincoln. By Mary Spencer Pease, 197
A Pic-Nic in Olden Time. By G. G. Foster, 229
A Dream Within a Dream. By C. A. Washburn, 233
A Scene on the Susquehanna. By Joseph R. Chandler, 275
A Legend of Clare. By J. Gerahty M'teague, 278
A Day or Two in the Olden Time. By A New Contributor, 287
De Lamartine. By Francis J. Grund, 25
Edith Maurice. By T. S. Arthur, 284
Fiel a la Muerte, or True Loves Devotion. By Henry W. Herbert, 4, 84, 153
Going to Heaven. By T. S. Arthur, 13
Game-Birds of America. By Prof. Frost, 291
Gems from Late Readings, 295
Game-Birds of America. By Prof. Frost, 357
Gems from Late Readings, 364
My Aunt Polly. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 34
Mexican Jealousy. By Ecolier, 172
Mary Dunbar. By the Author of "The Three Calls", 268
Mildred Ward. By Caroline H. Butler, 301
Mrs. Tiptop. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 325
Overboard in the Gulf. By C. J. Peterson, 337
Rising in the World, By F. E. F., 41
Reflections on Some of the Events of the Year 1848.
By Joseph R. Chandler, 318
Rochester's Return. By Joseph A. Nunes, 341
Sam Needy. By Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro, 204
Scouting Near Vera Cruz. By Ecolier, 211
The Fane-Builder. By Emma C. Embury, 38
The Sagamore of Saco. By Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 47
The Late Maria Brooks. By R. W. Griswold, 61
The Cruise of the Raker. By Henry A. Clark, 69, 129, 188, 257
The Maid of Bogota. By W. Gilmore Simms, 75
The Departure. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 93
The Man Who Was Never Humbugged. By A Limner, 112
The Christmas Garland. By Emma Wood, 163
The Unmarried Belle. By Enna Duval, 181
The Humbling of a Fairy. By G. G. Foster, 214
The Will. By Miss E. A. Dupuy, 220
The Bride of Fate. By W. Gilmore Simms, 241
The Knights of the Ringlet. By Giftie, 253
The Sailor's Life-Tale. By Sybil Sutherland, 311
The Exhausted Topic. By Caroline C----, 330
The Early Called. By Mrs. Frances B. M. Brotherson, 347
The Lady of Fernheath. By Mary Spencer Pease, 349
POETRY.
A New England Legend. By Caroline F. Orne, 126
A Farewell to a Happy Day. By Frances S. Osgood, 203
A Night Thought. By T. Buchanan Read, 219
A Voice for Poland. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 228
An Evening Song. By Prof. Wm. Campbell, 235
A Requiem in the North. By J. B. Taylor, 256
A Vision. By E. Curtiss Hine, 267
A Lay. By Grace Greenwood, 310
Angels on Earth. By Blanche Bennairde, 324
Brutus in His Tent. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 115
Death. By Thomas Dunn English, 3
Dream-Music. By Frances S. Osgood, 39
Description of a Visit to Niagara. By Professor James Moffat, 106
Dreams. By E. O. H, 196
Death. By George S. Burleigh, 256
Erin Waking. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 360
Gold. By R. H. Stoddart, 3
Gautama's Song of Rest By J. B. Taylor, 361
Heads of the Poets. By W. Gilmore Simms, 170
Hope On--Hope Ever. By E. Curtiss Hine, 171
I Want to Go Home. By Richard Coe, Jr., 213
Korner's Sister. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 111
Life. By A. J. Requier, 294
Love Thy Mother, Little One. By Richard Coe, Jr., 346
Lines to a Sketch of J. Bayard Taylor, in His Alpine
Costume. By Geo. W. Dewey, 360
My Bird. By Mrs. Jane C. Campbell, 252
My Love. By J. Ives Pease, 294
My Native Isle. By Mary G. Horsford, 340
My Father's Grave. By S. D. Anderson, 361
Ornithologoi. By J. M. Legare, 1
Ode to the Moon. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 251
One of the "Southern Tier of Counties." By Alfred B. Street, 329
Passed Away. By W. Wallace Shaw, 234
Pedro and Inez. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 277
Sir Humphrey Gilbert. By Henry W. Longfellow, 33
Study. By Henry S. Hagert, 37
Summer. By E. Curtiss Hine, U.S.N., 105
Sonnet. By Caroline F. Orne, 106
Song of Sleep. By G. G. Foster, 128
Sunshine and Rain. By George S. Burleigh, 162
Supplication. By Fayette Robinson, 267
Stanzas. By S. S. Hornor, 286
Sonnet. By Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 340
The Land of the West. By T. Buchanan Read, 12
To Lydia. By G. G. Foster, 17
The Thanksgiving of the Sorrowful. By Mrs. Joseph C. Neal, 24
The Night. By M. E. T., 33
The Bob-o-link. By George S. Burleigh, 33
Twilight. By H. D. G., 46
The Sachem's Hill. By Alfred B. Street, 52
The Hall of Independence. By G. W. Dewey, 53
To an Isle of the Sea. By Mrs. J. W. Mercur, 56
To Arabella. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 56
The Soul's Dream. By George H. Boker, 74
To the Eagle. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 83
The Block-House. By Alfred B. Street, 92
To Erato. By Thomas Buchanan Read, 110
The Laborer's Companions. By George S. Burleigh, 110
The Enchanted Knight. By J. B. Taylor, 111
The Sisters. By G. G. Foster, 114
To Violet. By Jerome A. Maby, 115
The Prayer of the Dying Girl. By Samuel D. Patterson, 136
The Spanish Princess to the Moorish Knight. By Grace Greenwood, 146
The Light of our Home. By Thomas Buchanan Read, 146
The Lost Pet. By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, 152
The Poet's Heart. By Charles E. Trail, 161
The Return to Scenes of Childhood. By Gretta, 162
To Guadalupe. By Mayne Reid, 174
The Faded Rose. By G. G. Foster, 174
The Child's Appeal. By Mary G. Horsford, 175
The Old Farm-House. By Mary L. Lawson, 175
Temper Life's Extremes. By G. S. Burleigh, 187
The Deformed Artist. By Mrs. E. N. Horsford, 202
The Angel of the Soul. By J. Bayard Taylor, 210
The Bard. By S. Anna Lewis, 219
To Her Who Can Understand It. By Mayne Reid, 228
To the Violet. By H. T. Tuckerman, 232
They May Tell of a Clime. By C. E. Trail, 232
The Battle of Life. By Anne C. Lynch, 266
The Prophet's Rebuke. By Mrs. Juliet H. L. Campbell, 274
The Mourners. By Rev. T. L. Harris, 317
The Gardener. By George S. Burleigh, 328
The Record of December. By H. Morford, 335
The Christian Hero's Epitaph. By B., 348
The City of Mexico. By M. E. Thropp, 356
To a Rose-Bud. By Y. S., 359
Visit to Greenwood Cemetery. By Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney, 53
Zenobia. By L. Mason, 185
REVIEWS.
Endymion. By Henry B. Hirst, 57
Memoir of William Ellery Channing, 58
Napoleon and the Marshals of the Empire, 58
Romance of the History of Louisiana. By Charles Gayarre, 59
The Life of Oliver Cromwell. By J. T. Headley, 118
A Supplement to the Plays of Shakspeare. By Wm. Gilmore Simms, 119
Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. By Alphonse de Lamartine, 119
Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184- 178
The Planetary and Stellar Worlds, 178
Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings, 179
Calaynos. A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, 238
Literary Sketches and Letters, 238
Vanity Fair. By W. M. Thackerway, 297
Life, Letters and Literary Remains of Keats, 297
Principles of Political Economy. By John Stuart Mill, 367
MUSIC.
The Last of the Bourbons. A French Patriotic
Song. Written by Alexandre Pantoleon.
Music by J. C. N. G. 54
"Think Not that I Love Thee." A Ballad.
Music by J. L. Milner, 116
"'Tis Home where the Heart is." Words by
Miss L. M. Brown. Music by Karl W. Petersilie, 176
The Ocean-Buried. Composed by Miss Agnes H. Jones, 236
Voices from the Spirit-Land. Words
by John S. Adams. Music by Valentine Dister, 362
ENGRAVINGS.
Ornithologoi, engraved by W. E. Tucker.
Lamartine, engraved by Sartain.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
The Departure, engraved by Ellis.
The Portrait of Mrs. Brooks, engraved by Parker.
The Sisters, engraved by Thompson.
Angila Mervale, engraved by J. Addison.
The Lost Pet, engraved by Ellis.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
A Pic-Nic in Olden Time, engraved by Tucker.
The Unmarried Belle, engraved by A. B. Ross.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Edith Maurice, engraved by J. Addison.
Supplication, engraved by Ellis.
Mildred Ward, engraved by A. B. Ross.
Overboard in the Gulf, engraved by J. D. Gross.
Portrait of J. B. Taylor, engraved by G. Jackman.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
[Illustration: ORNITHOLOGOI
"Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,
Dost see the far hills disappear
In autumn smoke, and all the air
Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread
Are yellow harvests rich in bread
For winter use."]
GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1848. NO. 1.
ORNITHOLOGOI.[1]
BY J. M. LEGARE.
[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]
Thou, sitting on the hill-top bare,
Dost see the far hills disappear
In Autumn smoke, and all the air
Filled with bright leaves. Below thee spread
Are yellow harvests, rich in bread
For winter use; while over-head
The jays to one another call,
And through the stilly woods there fall,
Ripe nuts at intervals, where'er
The squirrel, perched in upper air,
From tree-top barks at thee his fear;
His cunning eyes, mistrustingly,
Do spy at thee around the tree;
Then, prompted by a sudden whim,
Down leaping on the quivering limb,
Gains the smooth hickory, from whence
He nimbly scours along the fence
To secret haunts.
But oftener,
When Mother Earth begins to stir,
And like a Hadji who hath been
To Mecca, wears a caftan green;
When jasmines and azalias fill
The air with sweets, and down the hill
Turbid no more descends the rill;
The wonder of thy hazel eyes,
Soft opening on the misty skies--
Dost smile within thyself to see
Things uncontained in, seemingly,
The open book upon thy knee,
And through the quiet woodlands hear
Sounds full of mystery to ear
Of grosser mould--the myriad cries
That from the teeming world arise;
Which we, self-confidently wise,
Pass by unheeding. Thou didst yearn
From thy weak babyhood to learn
Arcana of creation; turn
Thy eyes on things intangible
To mortals; when the earth was still.
Hear dreamy voices on the hill,
[Footnote 1: Bird-voices.]
In wavy woods, that sent a thrill
Of joyousness through thy young veins.
Ah, happy thou! whose seeking gains
All that thou lovest, man disdains
A sympathy in joys and pains
With dwellers in the long, green lanes,
With wings that shady groves explore,
With watchers at the torrent's roar,
And waders by the reedy shore;
For thou, through purity of mind,
Dost hear, and art no longer blind.
CROAK! croak!--who croaketh over-head
So hoarsely, with his pinion spread,
Dabbled in blood, and dripping red?
Croak! croak!--a raven's curse on him,
The giver of this shattered limb!
Albeit young, (a hundred years,
When next the forest leaved appears,)
Will Duskywing behold this breast
Shot-riddled, or divide my nest
With wearer of so tattered vest?
I see myself, with wing awry,
Approaching. Duskywing will spy
My altered mien, and shun my eye.
With laughter bursting, through the wood
The birds will scream--she's quite too good
For thee. And yonder meddling jay,
I hear him chatter all the day,
"He's crippled--send the thief away!"
At every hop--"don't let him stay."
I'll catch thee yet, despite my wing;
For all thy fine blue plumes, thou'lt sing
Another song!
Is't not enough
The carrion festering we snuff,
And gathering down upon the breeze,
Release the valley from disease;
If longing for more fresh a meal,
Around the tender flock we wheel,
A marksman doth some bush conceal.
This very morn, I heard an ewe
Bleat in the thicket; there I flew,
With lazy wing slow circling round,
Until I spied unto the ground
A lamb by tangled briars bound.
The ewe, meanwhile, on hillock-side,
Bleat to her young--so loudly cried,
She heard it not when it replied.
Ho, ho!--a feast! I 'gan to croak,
Alighting straightway on an oak;
Whence gloatingly I eyed aslant
The little trembler lie and pant.
Leapt nimbly thence upon its head;
Down its white nostril bubbled red
A gush of blood; ere life had fled,
My beak was buried in its eyes,
Turned tearfully upon the skies--
Strong grew my croak, as weak its cries.
No longer couldst thou sit and hear
This demon prate in upper air--
Deeds horrible to maiden ear.
Begone, thou spokest. Over-head
The startled fiend his pinion spread,
And croaking maledictions, fled.
But, hark! who at some secret door
Knocks loud, and knocketh evermore?
Thou seest how around the tree,
With scarlet head for hammer, he
Probes where the haunts of insects be.
The worm in labyrinthian hole
Begins his sluggard length to roll;
But crafty Rufus spies the prey,
And with his mallet beats away
The loose bark, crumbling to decay;
Then chirping loud, with wing elate,
He bears the morsel to his mate.
His mate, she sitteth on her nest,
In sober feather plumage dressed;
A matron underneath whose breast
Three little tender heads appear.
With bills distent from ear to ear,
Each clamors for the bigger share;
And whilst they clamor, climb--and, lo!
Upon the margin, to and fro,
Unsteady poised, one wavers slow.
Stay, stay! the parents anguished shriek,
Too late; for venturesome, yet weak,
His frail legs falter under him;
He falls--but from a lower limb
A moment dangles, thence again
Launched out upon the air, in vain
He spread his little plumeless wing,
A poor, blind, dizzy, helpless thing.
But thou, who all didst see and hear,
Young, active, wast already there,
And caught the flutterer in air.
Then up the tree to topmost limb,
A vine for ladder, borest him.
Against thy cheek his little heart
Beat soft. Ah, trembler that thou art,
Thou spokest smiling; comfort thee!
With joyous cries the parents flee
Thy presence none--confidingly
Pour out their very hearts to thee.
The mockbird sees thy tenderness
Of deed; doth with melodiousness,
In many tongues, thy praise express.
And all the while, his dappled wings
He claps his sides with, as he sings,
From perch to perch his body flings:
A poet he, to ecstasy
Wrought by the sweets his tongue doth say.
Stay, stay!--I hear a flutter now
Beneath yon flowering alder bough.
I hear a little plaintive voice
That did at early morn rejoice,
Make a most sad yet sweet complaint,
Saying, "my heart is very faint
With its unutterable wo.
What shall I do, where can I go,
My cruel anguish to abate.
Oh! my poor desolated mate,
Dear Cherry, will our haw-bush seek,
Joyful, and bearing in her beak
Fresh seeds, and such like dainties, won
By careful search. But they are gone
Whom she did brood and dote upon.
Oh! if there be a mortal ear
My sorrowful complaint to hear;
If manly breast is ever stirred
By wrong done to a helpless bird,
To them for quick redress I cry."
Moved by the tale, and drawing nigh,
On alder branch thou didst espy
How, sitting lonely and forlorn,
His breast was pressed upon a thorn,
Unknowing that he leant thereon;
Then bidding him take heart again,
Thou rannest down into the lane
To seek the doer of this wrong,
Nor under hedgerow hunted long,
When, sturdy, rude, and sun-embrowned,
A child thy earnest seeking found.
To him in sweet and modest tone
Thou madest straight thy errand known.
With gentle eloquence didst show
(Things erst he surely did not know)
How great an evil he had done;
How, when next year the mild May sun
Renewed its warmth, this shady lane
No timid birds would haunt again;
And how around his mother's door
The robins, yearly guests before--
He knew their names--would come no more;
But if his prisoners he released,
Before their little bosoms ceased
To palpitate, each coming year
Would find them gladly reappear
To sing his praises everywhere--
The sweetest, dearest songs to hear.
And afterward, when came the term
Of ripened corn, the robber worm
Would hunt through every blade and turn,
Impatient thus his smile to earn.
At first, flushed, angrily, and proud,
He answered thee with laughter loud
And brief retort. But thou didst speak
So mild, so earnestly did seek
To change his mood, in wonder first
He eyed thee; then no longer durst
Raise his bold glances to thy face,
But, looking down, began to trace,
With little, naked foot and hand,
Thoughtful devices in the sand;
And when at last thou didst relate
The sad affliction of the mate,
When to the well-known spot she came,
He hung his head for very shame;
His penitential tears to hide,
His face averted while he cried;
"Here, take them all, I've no more pride
In climbing up to rob a nest--
I've better feelings in my breast."
Then thanking him with heart and eyes,
Thou tookest from his grasp the prize,
And bid the little freedmen rise.
But when thou sawest how too weak
Their pinions were, the nest didst seek,
And called thy client. Down he flew
Instant, and with him Cherry too;
And fluttering after, not a few
Of the minuter feathered race
Filled with their warbling all the place.
From hedge and pendent branch and vine,
Recounted still that deed of thine;
Still sang thy praises o'er and o'er,
Gladly--more heartily, be sure,
Were praises never sung before.
Beholding thee, they understand
(These Minne-singers of the land)
How thou apart from all dost stand,
Full of great love and tenderness
For all God's creatures--these express
Thy hazel eyes. With life instinct
All things that are, to thee are linked
By subtle ties; and none so mean
Or loathsome hast thou ever seen,
But wonderous in make hath been.
Compassionate, thou seest none
Of insect tribes beneath the sun
That thou canst set thy heel upon.
A sympathy thou hast with wings
In groves, and with all living things.
Unmindful if they walk or crawl,
The same arm shelters each and all;
The shadow of the Curse and Fall
Alike impends. Ah! truly great,
Who strivest earnestly and late,
A single atom to abate,
Of helpless wo and misery.
For very often thou dost see
How sadly and how helplessly
A pleading face looks up to thee.
Therefore it is, thou canst not choose,
With petty tyranny to abuse
Thy higher gifts; and justly fear
The feeblest worm of earth or air,
In thy heart's judgment to condemn,
Since God made thee, and God made them.
DEATH:--AN INVOCATION.
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
Thou art no king of terrors--sweet Death!
But a maiden young and fair;
Thine eyes are bright as the spring starlight,
And golden is thy hair;
While the smile that flickers thy lips upon
Has a light beyond compare.
Come then, Death, from the dark-brown shades
Where thou hast lingered long;
Come to the haunts where sins abound
And troubles thickly throng,
And lay thy bridal kiss on the lips
Of a child of sorrow and song.
For I can gaze with a rapture deep
Upon thy lovely face;
Many a smile I find therein,
Where another a frown would trace--
As a lover would clasp his new-made bride
I will take thee to my embrace.
Come, oh, come! I long for thy look;
I weary to win thy kiss--
Bear me away from a world of wo
To a world of quiet bliss--
For in that I may kneel to God alone,
Which I may not do in this.
For woman and wealth they woo pursuit,
And a winning voice has fame;
Men labor for love and work for wealth
And struggle to gain a name;
Yet find but fickleness, need and scorn,
If not the brand of shame.
Then carry me hence, sweet Death--_my_ Death!
Must I woo thee still in vain?
Come at the morn or come at the eve,
Or come in the sun or rain;
But come--oh, come! for the loss of life
To me is the chiefest gain.
GOLD.
BY R. H. STODDARD.
Alas! my heart is sick when I behold
The deep engrossing interest of wealth,
How eagerly men sacrifice their health,
Love, honor, fame and truth for sordid gold;
Dealing in sin, and wrong, and tears, and strife,
Their only aim and business in life
To gain and heap together shining store;--
Alchemists, mad as e'er were those of yore.
Transmuting every thing to glittering dross,
Wasting their energies o'er magic scrolls,
Day-books and ledgers leaden, gain and loss--
Casting the holiest feelings of their souls
High hopes, and aspirations, and desires,
Beneath their crucibles to feed th' accursed fires!
FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION.
A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE
WYVIL," "CROMWELL," ETC.
There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris' streets
were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had taken possession, at
an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and
lined the way which led thence to the Place de Greve in solid and
almost impenetrable masses.
People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but the
great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and
the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the
girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed
to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous
assemblage.
Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless they
are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and solemn to find any
vent in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril is
at hand--perhaps the beginning of the end.
But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned
the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even
violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, was any thing but
angry or excited.
On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable
expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions to _notre bon
roi_, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would
appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment
in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis.
What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much
glee--which had brought forth young delicate girls, and tender
mothers, into the streets at so early an hour--which, as the day
advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, was tempting forth laced
cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, and here and there, in the
cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious ladies of the
gay metropolis?
One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was sufficient to
inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall
stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed
horizontally to the summit.
Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hung
with black cloth, and strewed with saw-dust, for the convenience of
the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which
surmounted it.
Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies of the
French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outwards, with
muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they apprehended an attempt
at rescue, although from the demeanor of the people nothing appeared
at that time to be further from their thoughts than any thing of the
kind.
Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-looking
assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they were
about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments of
slaughter.
By and bye, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept still
increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of those who
composed it, something of irritation began to show itself, mingled
with the eagerness and expectation of the populace, and from some
murmurs, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it would
seem that they apprehended the escape of their victim.
By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked the
precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood has
been shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of both
sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eager
to behold the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about to
ensue, as the mere rabble in the open streets below.
The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the thoroughfare
by which the fatal procession would advance, with this difference
alone, that many of the houses in that quarter belonging to the high
nobility, and all with few exceptions being the dwellings of opulent
persons, the windows, instead of being let like seats at the opera, to
any who would pay the price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming
and going from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisy
throng, when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to
the busy scene.
Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far from the
Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of the Place de la
Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and principal entrance, a
group was collected at one of the windows, nearly overlooking the gate
itself, which seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedings
of the day, although that interest was entirely unmixed with any thing
like the brutal expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitement
which characterized the temper of the multitude.
The most prominent person of this group was a singularly noble-looking
man, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had not yet attained it.
His countenance, though resolute and firm, with a clear, piercing eye,
lighted up at times, for a moment, by a quick, fiery flash, was calm,
benevolent, and pensive in its ordinary mood, rather than energetical
or active. Yet it was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed
it, was of the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination.
The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have sufficiently
indicated that, at some period of his life, he had borne arms and led
the life of a camp--which, indeed, at that day was only to say that he
was a nobleman of France--but a long scar on his right brow, a little
way above the eye, losing itself among the thick locks of his fine
waving hair, and a small round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek,
showing where a pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had
been where blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his
own person in the _melee_.
His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, though
perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it partook somewhat
of the past mode of the Regency, which had just been brought to a
conclusion as my tale commences, by the resignation of the witty and
licentious Philip of Orleans.
If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prominent, he
certainly was not the most interesting person of the company, which
consisted, beside himself, of an ecclesiastic of high rank in the
French church, a lady, now somewhat advanced in years, but showing the
remains of beauty which, in its prime, must have been extraordinary,
and of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year.
For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intellect of the
elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbe, not unsupported by all which
men look for as the outward and visible signs of that dignity, and the
grace and beauty of the lady, it was upon the boy alone that the eye
of every spectator would have dwelt, from the instant of its first
discovering him.
He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions which
gave promise of exceeding strength when he should arrive at maturity,
but strength uncoupled to any thing of weight or clumsiness. He was
unusually free, even at this early period, from that heavy and
ungraceful redundance of flesh which not unfrequently is the
forerunner of athletic power in boys just bursting into manhood; for
he was already as conspicuous for the thinness of his flanks, and the
shapely hollow of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his
chest, the breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs.
His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that of one who
had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined with dignity of
carriage, in no school of practice and mannerism, but from the example
of those with whom he had been brought up, and by familiar intercourse
from his cradle upward with the high-born and gently nurtured of the
land.
His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses, undisfigured
as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, on either side
his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured by the crisping-irons,
over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His eyes were large and very
clear, of the deepest shade of blue, with dark lashes, yet full of
strong, tranquil light. All his features were regular and shapely, but
it was not so much in the beauty of their form, or in the harmony of
their coloring that the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in
the peculiarity and power of his expression.
For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that expression
were indeed almost unnatural, and they combined with a calm firmness
and immobility of feature, which promised, I know not what of
resolution and tenacity of purpose. It was not gravity, much less
sternness, or sadness, that lent so powerful an expression to that
young face; nor was there a single line which indicated coldness or
hardness of heart, or which would have led to a suspicion that he had
been schooled by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was
pure thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual
order, which characterized the boy's expression.
Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the aspect
whence to forebode a want of the more masculine qualifications. It was
the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a dreamer--the thoughtfulness
which prepares, not unfits a man for action.
If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance were not deceptive
to the last degree, high qualities were within, and a high destiny
before him.
But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen years, may
augur of the finish and the fruit of the three-score and ten, which
are the sum of human toil and sorrow?
It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the Bastile was
lowered and its gate opened, and forth rode, two a-breast, a troop of
the mousquetaires, or life-guard, in the bright steel casques and
cuirasses, with the musquetoons, from which they derived their name,
unslung and ready for action. As they issued into the wider space
beyond the bridge, the troopers formed themselves rapidly into a sort
of hollow column, the front of which, some eight file deep, occupied
the whole width of the street, two files in close order composing each
flank, and leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded
by the horsemen.
Into this space, without a moment's delay, there was driven a low
black cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the rudest
construction, drawn by four powerful black horses, a savage-faced
official guiding them by the ropes which supplied the place of reins.
On this ill-omened vehicle there stood three persons, the prisoner,
and two of the armed wardens of the Bastile, the former ironed very
heavily, and the latter bristling with offensive weapons.
Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of the
life-guard, which closed up in the densest and most serried order
around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render any attempt
at rescue useless.
The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military force had
been produced, and to witness whose execution so vast a multitude was
collected, was a tall, noble-looking man of forty or forty-five years,
dressed in a rich mourning-habit of the day, but wearing neither hat
nor mantle. His dark hair, mixed at intervals with thin lines of
silver, was cut short behind, contrary to the usage of the times, and
his neck was bare, the collar of his superbly laced shirt being folded
broadly back over the cape of his pourpoint.
His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally of the
darkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful blood had
receded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its appearance. Still it
did not seem that it was fear which had blanched his cheeks, and
stolen all the color from his compressed lip, for his eye was full of
a fierce, scornful light, and all his features were set and steady
with an expression of the calmest and most iron resolution.
As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on the
esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of satisfaction
ran through the assembled concourse, rising and deepening gradually
into a savage howl like that of a hungry tiger.
Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable pride of the
French noble! Then shame, and fear, and death itself, which he was
looking even now full in the face, were all forgotten, all absorbed in
his overwhelming scorn of the people!
The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed to lighten
forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft, loaded although
it was with such a mass of iron, as a Greek Athlete might have shunned
to lift, and shook it at the clamorous mob, with a glare of scorn and
fury that showed how, had he been at liberty, he would have dealt with
the revilers of his fallen state.
"_Sacre canaille!_" he hissed through his hard-set teeth, "back to
your gutters and your garbage, or follow, if you can, in silence, and
learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a man should die."
The reproof told; for, though at the contemptuous tone and fell insult
of the first words the clamor of the rabble route waxed wilder, there
was so much true dignity in the last sentiment he uttered, and the
fate to which he was going was so hideous, that a key was struck in
the popular heart, and thenceforth the tone of the spectators was
changed altogether.
It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and disgrace of
a noble that had found tongue in that savage conclamation--it was the
apprehension that his dignity, and the interest of his great name,
would win him pardon from the partial justice of the king, that had
rendered them pitiless and savage--and now that their own cruel will
was about to be gratified, as they beheld how dauntlessly the proud
lord went to a death of torture, they were stricken with a sort of
secret shame, and followed the dread train in sullen silence.
As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned his eyes
upward, perchance from a sentiment of pride, which rendered it painful
to him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or triumphant, of the
Parisian populace, and as he did so, it chanced that his glance fell
on the group which I have described, as assembled at the windows of a
mansion which he knew well, and in which, in happier days, he had
passed gay and pleasant hours. Every eye of that group, with but one
exception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the instant; the
lady alone having turned her head away, as unable to look upon one in
such a strait, whom she had known under circumstances so widely
different. There was nothing, however, in the gaze of all these
earnest eyes that seemed to embarrass, much less to offend the
prisoner. Deep interest, earnestness, perhaps horror, was expressed by
one and all; but that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, the
abhorrence which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populace
below.
As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself up to his
full height, and laying his right hand upon his heart bowed low and
gracefully to the windows at which his friends of past days were
assembled.
The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father as if to note what
return he should make to that strange salutation. If it were so, he
did not remain in doubt a moment, for that nobleman bowed low and
solemnly to his brother peer with a very grave and sad aspect; and
even the ecclesiastic inclined his head courteously to the condemned
criminal.
The boy perhaps marveled, for a look of bewilderment crossed his
ingenuous features; but it passed away in an instant, and following
the example of his seniors, he bent his ingenuous brow and sunny locks
before the unhappy man, who never was again to interchange a salute
with living mortal.
It would seem that the recipient of that last act of courtesy was
gratified even beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for a
faint flush stole over his livid features, from which the momentary
glow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a slight smile played
upon his pallid lip, while a tear--the last he should ever
shed--twinkled for an instant on his dark lashes. "True," he muttered
to himself approvingly--"the nobles are true ever to their order!"
The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group above, by
what had passed, and at first it appeared as if they had taken umbrage
at the sympathy showed to the criminal by his equals in rank; for
there was manifested a little inclination to break out again into a
murmured shout, and some angry words were bandied about, reflecting on
the pride and party spirit of the proud lords.
But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time to
render itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no one knew
whence or by whom, through the crowded ranks--"Hush! hush! it is the
good Lord of St. Renan." And therewith every voice was hushed, so
fickle is the fancy of a crowd, although it is very certain that four
fifths of those present knew not, nor had ever heard the name of St.
Renan, nor had the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it, had
either on their respect or forbearance.
The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by any further
show of temper on the part of the crowd, and the crowd itself
following the progress of the hurdle to the place of execution, was
soon out of sight of the windows occupied by the family of the Count
de St. Renan.
"Alas! unhappy Kerguelen!" exclaimed the count, with a deep and
painful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight in the
distance. "He knows not yet half the bitterness of that which he has
to undergo."
The boy looked up into his father's face with an inquiring glance,
which he answered at once, still in the same subdued and solemn voice
which he had used from the first.
"By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that he imagines
he is to die as a nobleman, by the axe. May Heaven support him when he
sees the disgraceful wheel."
"You seem to pity the wretch, Louis," cried the lady, who had not
hitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal as he was passing
by the windows--"and yet he was assuredly a most atrocious criminal. A
cool, deliberate, cold-blooded poisoner! Out upon it! out upon it! The
wheel is fifty times too good for him!"
"He was all that you say, Marie," replied her husband gravely; "and
yet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve for him. I knew him
well, though we have not met for many years, when we were both young,
and there was no braver, nobler, better man within the limits of fair
France. I know, too, how he loved that woman, how he trusted that
man--and then to be so betrayed! It seems to me but yesterday that he
led her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden blushes.
Poor Kerguelen! He was sorely tried."
"But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he submitted him as a
Christian to the punishment the good God laid upon him--"
"The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dishonored slave,
father," said the count, answering the ecclesiastic's speech before it
was yet finished, "and gentlemen would have refused him the hand of
fellowship."
"Was he justified then, my father?" asked the boy eagerly, who had
been listening with eager attention to every word that had yet been
spoken. "Do you think, then, that he was in the right; that he could
not do otherwise than to slay her? I can understand that he was bound
to kill the man who had basely wronged his honor--but a woman!--a
woman whom he had once loved too!--that seems to me most horrible; and
the mode, by a slow poison! living with her while it took effect!
eating at the same board with her! sleeping by her side! that seems
even more than horrible, it was cowardly!"
"God forbid, my son," replied the elder nobleman, "that I should say
any man was justified who had murdered another in cold blood;
especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a method so terrible as
poison. I only mean exactly what I said, that he was tried very
fearfully, and that under such trial the best and wisest of us here
below cannot say how he would act himself. Moreover, it would seem
that mistaken as he was perhaps in the course which he seems to have
imagined that honor demanded at his hands, he was much mistaken in the
mode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of vengeance. It was
made very evident upon his trial that he did nothing, even to that
wretched traitress, in rage or revenge, but all as he thought in
honor. He chose a drug which consumed her by a mild and gradual decay,
without suffering or spasm; he gave her time for repentance, nay, it
is clearly proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her to
the part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with her
before she passed away. I do not think myself that to commit a crime
himself can clear one from dishonor cast upon him by another's act,
but at the same time I cannot look upon Kerguelen's guilt as of that
brutal and felonious nature which calls for such a punishment as
his--to be broken alive on the wheel, like a hired stabber--much less
can I assent to the stigma which is attached to him on all sides,
while that base, low-lived, treacherous, cogging miscreant, who fell
too honorably by his honorable sword, meets pity--God defend us from
such justice and sympathy!--and is entombed with tears and honors,
while the avenger is crushed, living, out of the very shape of
humanity by the hands of the common hangman."
The churchman's lips moved for a moment, as if he were about to speak
in reply to the false doctrines which he heard enunciated by that
upright and honorable man, and good father, but, ere he spoke, he
reflected that those doctrines were held at that time, throughout
Christian Europe, unquestioned, and confirmed by prejudice and pride
beyond all the power of argument or of religion to set them aside, or
invalidate them. The law of chivalry, sterner and more inflexible than
that Mosaic code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,
which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash word, for
every wrongful action, was the law paramount of every civilized land
in that day, and in France perhaps most of all lands, as standing
foremost in what was then deemed civilization. And the abbe well knew
that discussion of this point would only tend to bring out the
opinions of the Count de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code of
honor, more decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of the
young man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatal
error.
The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested in the matter
of the conversation, had devoured every word of his father, as if he
had been listening to the oracles of a God; and, when he ceased, after
a pause of some seconds, during which he was pondering very deeply on
that which he had heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in an
earnest voice.
"I see, my father, all that you have alleged in palliation of the
count's crime, and I fully understand you--though I still think it the
most terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But I do not perfectly
comprehend wherefore you ransack our language of all its deepest terms
of contempt which to heap upon the head of the Chevalier de la
Rochederrien? He was the count's sworn friend, she was the count's
wedded wife; they both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him.
But in what was the chevalier's fault the greater or the viler?"
Those were strange days, in which such a subject could have been
discussed between two wise and virtuous parents and a son, whom it was
their chiefest aim in life to bring up to be a good and honorable
man--that son, too, barely more than a boy in years and understanding.
But the morality of those times was coarser and harder, and, if there
was no more real vice, there was far less superficial delicacy in the
manners of society, and the relations between men and women, than
there is nowadays.
Perhaps the true course lies midway; for certainly if there was much
coarseness then, there is much cant and much squeamishness now, which
could be excellently well dispensed with.
Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much earlier at
that period, and were made men of at an age when they would have been
learning Greek and Latin, had their birth been postponed by a single
century.
Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors in the
battle's front, and were initiated into all the license of the court,
the camp, and the forum.
So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that which I have
described, was very naturally introduced even between parents and a
beloved and only son by the circumstances of the day. Morals, as
regards the matrimonial contract, and the intercourse between the
sexes, have at all times been lower and far less rigid among the
French, than in nations of northern origin; and never at any period of
the world was the morality of any country, in this respect, at so low
an ebb as was France under the reign of the Fifteenth Louis.
The Count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with as little
restraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally acquainted
with the customs and vices of the world, although intrigue and crime
were the topics of which he had to treat.
"It is quite true, Raoul," replied the count, "that so far as the
unhappy Lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the Chevalier de
la Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, perhaps less deep than
that of the miserable lady. He was, indeed, bound to Kerguelen by
every tie of friendship and honor; he had been aided by his purse,
backed by his sword, nay, I have heard and believe, that he owed his
life to him. Yet for all that he seduced his wife; and to make it
worse, if worse it could be, Kerguelen had married her from the
strongest affection, and till the chevalier brought misery, and
dishonor, and death upon them, there was no wedded couple in all
France so virtuous or so happy."
"Indeed, sir!" replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion, staring with
his large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had presented itself to
him on a sudden.
"I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you will soon
do so, when you begin to mingle with men, that there are those in
society, _those_ whom the world regards, moreover, as honorable men,
who affect to say that he who loves a woman, whether lawfully or
sinfully, is at once absolved from all considerations except how he
most easily may win--or in other words--ruin her; and consequently
such men would speak slightly of the chevalier's conduct toward his
friend, Kerguelen, and affect to regard it as a matter of course, and
a mere affair of gallantry! But I trust you will remember this, my
son, that there is nothing _gallant_, nor can be, in lying, or deceit,
or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes of
passion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and an act
of deliberate dishonor."
"I should not have supposed, sir," replied the boy, blushing very
deeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject under
discussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions, "that any
cavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems to me that to
betray a friend's honor is a far blacker thing than to betray his
life--and surely no man with one pretension to honor, would attempt to
justify that."
"I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on this point.
Hold to your creed, my dear boy, for there are who shall try ere long
to shake it. But be sure that is the creed of honor. But, although I
think La Rochederrien disgraced himself even in this, it was not for
this only that I termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest and most
infamous of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin; when
she had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor; when she had
placed the greatest trust--although a guilty trust, I admit--in his
faith and integrity that one human being can place in another, the
base dog betrayed her. He boasted of her weakness, of Kerguelen's
dishonor, of his own infamy."
"And did not they to whom he boasted of it," exclaimed the noble boy,
his face flushing fiery red with excitement and indignation, "spurn
him at once from their presence, as a thing unworthy and beyond the
pale of law."