urchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had so often
gambolled. They were checked, as I and my playmates had often been, by
the voice of the sexton, a man staid in years and demeanor. I looked
wistfully in his face; had I met him any where else, I should probably
have passed him by without remark; but here I was alive to the traces of
former times, and detected in the demure features of this guardian of
the sanctuary the lurking lineaments of one of the very playmates I have
alluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He sat down beside me, on one
of the tomb-stones over which we had leaped in our juvenile sports, and
we talked together about our boyish days, and held edifying discourse
on the instability of all sublunary things, as instanced in the scene
around us. He was rich in historic lore, as to the events of the last
thirty years and the circumference of thirty miles, and from him I
learned the appalling revolution that was taking place throughout the
neighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed to the boasted
march of intellect, or rather to the all-pervading influence of steam.
He bewailed the times when the only communication with town was by the
weekly market-boat, the "Farmers' Daughter," which, under the pilotage
of the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tappan Sea. Alas!
Gabriel and the "Farmer's Daughter" slept in peace. Two steamboats now
splashed and paddled up daily to the little rural port of Tarrytown. The
spirit of speculation and improvement had seized even upon that once
quiet and unambitious little dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid out
into town lots. Instead of the little tavern below the hill, where
the farmers used to loiter on market days and indulge in cider and
gingerbread, an ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandas, now crested
the summit, among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles,
showing the great increase of piety and polite taste in the
neighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun-bonnets, they were no longer
tolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer's daughter but now went to
town for the fashions; nay, a city milliner had recently set up in the
village, who threatened to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood.
I had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his intelligence, and
departed from the Sleepy Hollow church with the sad conviction that I
had beheld the last lingerings of the good old Dutch times in this once
favored region. If any thing were wanting to confirm this impression,
it would be the intelligence which has just reached me, that a bank is
about to be established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. The
fate of the neighborhood is therefore sealed. I see no hope of averting
it. The golden mean is at an end, The country is suddenly to be deluged
with wealth. The late simple farmers are to become bank directors and
drink claret and champagne; and their wives and daughters to figure in
French hats and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonly
keep pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow can
escape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the slumber of
ages will be at end--the strum of the piano will succeed to the hum of
the spinning-wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the nasal quaver
of Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in the
petulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all that I have recorded
of that once favored region a fable.
* * * * *
THE BIRDS OF SPRING.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.
My quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, politics, and the
money market, leaves me rather at a loss for important occupation, and
drives me to the study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having few
neighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exercise my habits of
observation, I am fain to amuse myself with prying into the domestic
concerns and peculiarities of the animals around me; and, during the
present season, have derived considerable entertainment from certain
sociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during this
early part of the year.
Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of the
delightful influences that accompany the earliest indications of spring;
and of these, none are more delightful than the first notes of the
birds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird, much resembling a
wren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when not
a blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm days
had given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in the
dawning, long before sun-rise, and late in the evening, just before the
closing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true, he sang
occasionally throughout the day; but at these still hours, his song was
more remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the window, and
warbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, with
something of a plaintive tone, that heightened their effect. The first
morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of my
household. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end; nature
was once more awakening; they now promised themselves the immediate
appearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed
crew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field birds
came singing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them
with the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of
winter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of
the household; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive
notes, between the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine
between wintry clouds.
I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out the name
of this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor far
beyond his modest pretensions. He comes like the lowly violet, the most
unpretending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the sweet promise of
the early year.
Another of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the steps of
winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird; for he is called by
each of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of his
monotonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitation
of man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have reared
several broods there for two years past, their nest being never
disturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus and
the snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness
through the house. "The Phoebe-birds have come!" is heard on all sides;
they are welcomed back like members of the family, and speculations are
made upon where they have been, and what countries they have seen
during their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is
pronounced, by the old weather-wise people of the country, the sure sign
that the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resume
his labors with confidence.
About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poetically yet truly
described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape.
You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches your
habitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. But why should
I attempt to describe him, when I have Wilson's own graphic verses to
place him before the reader?
When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing:
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.
The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm glows the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spice-wood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air,
That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.
The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.
The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.
The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the
European lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he is
commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which,
in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, so
often given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May,
and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is
apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of
the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and
dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, nature is in
all her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, the
flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land." The trees are now in
their fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the
clustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briar
and the wild rose; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms; while
the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry
to glow, among the green leaves.
This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst the
pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility and
enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms
of the freshest and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when the
clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on
some long flaunting weed; and as he rises and sinks with the breeze,
pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes; crowding one upon
another, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the
same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a
tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters
tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own
music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour; always in full
song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same
appearance of intoxication and delight.
Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy of
my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest
season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural
feeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed
to be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a
school-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew
by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. Oh, how
I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school; nothing but
holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more
versed in poetry, I might have addressed him in the words of Logan to
the cuckoo:
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,
No winter in thy year.
Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make, on joyful wing,
Our annual visit round the globe,
Companions of the spring!
Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea of
this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, for
the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same
unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. I have shown him
only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his
career, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits
and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and
sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from
injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the
merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the
difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and
the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. He
gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and
professional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, and
enters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes a
bon-vivant, a mere gourmand; thinking of nothing but good cheer, and
gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung,
and chaunted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like "the
joys of the table," if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phrase
to his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day
fare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreign
luxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware,
banqueting on their seeds; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soon
acquires the unlucky renown of the ortolan. Whereever he goes, pop! pop!
pop! the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side;
he sees his companions falling by the thousands around him; he is
the _reed-bird_, the much-sought-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian
epicure.
Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still
farther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging
himself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to
bursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career,
we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the
gourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the
Carolinas.
Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensual
and persecuted Boblink. It contains a moral, worthy the attention of all
little birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined
and intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch of
popularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew all
tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence, which brought this
mistaken little bird to an untimely end.
Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of little boys and little
birds,
GEOFFREY CRAYON.
* * * * *
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.
During a summer's residence in the old Moorish palace of the Alhambra,
of which I have already given numerous anecdotes to the public, I used
to pass much of my time in the beautiful hall of the Abencerrages,
beside the fountain celebrated in the tragic story of that devoted
race. Here it was, that thirty-six cavaliers of that heroic line were
treacherously sacrificed, to appease the jealousy or allay the fears of
a tyrant. The fountain which now throws up its sparkling jet, and sheds
a dewy freshness around, ran red with the noblest blood of Granada,
and a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed out, by the
cicerones of the pile, as a sanguinary record of the massacre. I have
regarded it with the same determined faith with which I have regarded
the traditional stains of Rizzio's blood on the floor of the chamber of
the unfortunate Mary, at Holyrood. I thank no one for endeavoring to
enlighten my credulity, on such points of popular belief. It is like
breaking up the shrine of the pilgrim; it is robbing a poor traveller of
half the reward of his toils; for, strip travelling of its historical
illusions, and what a mere fag you make of it!
For my part, I gave myself up, during my sojourn in the Alhambra, to all
the romantic and fabulous traditions connected with the pile. I lived in
the midst of an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes, as much as possible, to
every thing that called me back to every-day life; and if there is any
country in Europe where one can do so, it is in poor, wild, legendary,
proud-spirited, romantic Spain; where the old magnificent barbaric
spirit still contends against the utilitarianism of modern civilization.
In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra; surrounded with the
insignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapidated traces
of oriental voluptuousness, I was in the strong-hold of Moorish story,
and every thing spoke and breathed of the glorious days of Granada,
when under the dominion of the crescent. When I sat in the hall of the
Abencerrages, I suffered my mind to conjure up all that I had read of
that illustrious line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the
Abencerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous. The
veterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were the foremost
to devise those heroic enterprises, which carried dismay into the
territories of the Christians; and what the sages of the family devised,
the young men of the name were the foremost to execute. In all services
of hazard; in all adventurous forays, and hair-breadth hazards; the
Abencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble
recreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war; in the tilt
and tourney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight; still
the Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for the
splendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices; for their noble
bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence made
them the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity, and
perfect faith, gained them golden opinions from the generous and
high-minded. Never were they known to decry the merits of a rival, or to
betray the confidings of a friend; and the "word of an Abencerrage" was
a guarantee that never admitted of a doubt.
And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish beauty consider
the fame of her charms established, until she had an Abencerrage for a
lover; and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his vows. Lovely
Granada! City of delights! Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more
proudly on their casques, or championed them more gallantly in the
chivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit
balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, and
pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?
I speak with enthusiasm on this theme; for it is connected with the
recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes that
ever I enjoyed in Spain. One of the greatest pleasures of the Spaniards
is, to sit in the beautiful summer evenings, and listen to traditional
ballads, and tales about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the
"buenas andanzas" and "grandes hechos," the "good fortunes" and "great
exploits" of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, also,
that many of these songs, or romances, as they are called, celebrate
the prowess and magnanimity in war, and the tenderness and, fidelity in
love, of the Moorish cavaliers, once their most formidable and hated
foes. But centuries have elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of the
zealot; and the once detested warriors of Granada are now held up by
Spanish poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue.
Such was the amusement of the evening in question. A number of us were
seated in the Hall of the Abencerrages, listening to one of the most
gifted and fascinating beings that I had ever met with in my wanderings.
She was young and beautiful; and light and ethereal; full of fire, and
spirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress;
touched the guitar with speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderful
facility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt
attention of her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and
most melodious strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking
description, or stirring narration, and composed, as I was assured, at
the moment. Most of these were suggested by the place, and related to
the ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry. The
Abencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a woman's admiration of
their gallant courtesy, and high-souled honor; and it was touching and
inspiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race, chanted
in this fated hall of their calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty.
Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem honor, and
old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a strong impression on me.
She disclaimed all merit of invention, however, and said she had merely
dilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I have since found
the main facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Domination
of the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode in
the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn it forth, and
endeavored to shape it according to my recollection of the version of
the beautiful minstrel; but, alas! what can supply the want of that
voice, that look, that form, that action, which gave magical effect to
her chant, and held every one rapt in breathless admiration! Should this
mere travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately
abode at Granada, may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her
benignant nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosom
one kind recollection of the lonely stranger and sojourner, for
whose gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert those
fascinating powers which were the delight of brilliant circles; and who
will ever recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listening
to her strains, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra.
* * * * *
GEOFFREY CRAYON.
THE ABENCERRAGE.
A SPANISH TALE.
On the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of Ronda, stands
the castle of Allora, now a mere ruin, infested by bats and owlets, but
in old times one of the strong border holds of the Christians, to keep
watch upon the frontiers of the warlike kingdom of Granada, and to hold
the Moors in check. It was a post always confided to some well-tried
commander; and, at the time of which we treat, was held by Rodrigo de
Narvaez, a veteran, famed, both among Moors and Christians, not only for
his hardy feats of arms, but also for that magnanimous courtesy which
should ever be entwined with the sterner virtues of the soldier.
The castle of Allora was a mere part of his command; he was Alcayde, or
military governor of Antiquera, but he passed most of his time at this
frontier post, because its situation on the borders gave more frequent
opportunity for those adventurous exploits which were the delight of the
Spanish chivalry. His garrison consisted of fifty chosen cavaliers, all
well mounted and well appointed: with these he kept vigilant watch
upon the Moslems; patrolling the roads, and paths, and defiles of the
mountains, so that nothing could escape his eye; and now and then
signalizing himself by some dashing foray into the very Vega of Granada.
On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the freshness of the
evening breeze had tempered the heat of day, the worthy Alcayde sallied
forth, with nine of his cavaliers, to patrol the neighborhood, and
seek adventures. They rode quietly and cautiously, lest they should be
overheard by Moorish scout or traveller; and kept along ravines and
hollow ways, lest they should be betrayed by the glittering of the full
moon upon their armor. Coming to where the road divided, the Alcayde
directed five of his cavaliers to take one of the branches, while he,
with the remaining four, would take the other. Should either party be in
danger, the blast of a horn was to be the signal to bring their comrades
to their aid.