SECTION XI.

As he spoke the wind sighed deeply along the silent stream, and the

reeds there growing upon its sedgy bank gave forth sounds multitudinous,

separate and commingled.

“List, mother!”

The symphony, at first low, scarce audible, dying, sprang to life again,

and rose in notes æolic, flooding the air.

“It is this, mother, this that I would win; the common language of every

created thing.”

We are the wind, whistling, piping, sounds melodious in the ear of

night.

And there was a rustling as of forest leaves; and a murmuring, as of

water running; while from the reedy grass came other voices,

Shrill and clear.

We are they with whom God wrought, in his six days of labor.

Then the swelling, round and full,

Sliding, springing,

Turning, beating.

Streams of pleasure,

Without measure,

And the movement quick and pure,

Now increasing,

Now diminishing,

Now combining,

Now resolving,

In sweet concord antiphonal, said that they were harmony.

“My prayer is answered, mother; for I have found the bond which binds

heart to heart.”

Then Zella laid her head upon Ariel’s bosom, and in very gladness, wept;

and confessed that life and death, her evil and her good, no longer were

a mystery.

We are the law by which all things live, and move, and have their being.

And Ariel put out his hands, and plucked, and blew upon the reeds; and

again the wind sighed along the silent stream; and again the grass there

growing, waving, gave forth other sounds;

Brighter,

Higher,

More ecstatic;

Fiercer, fiercer, fiercer yet;

As if a Titan had strung his lyre to a new creation, or the fingers of a

god swept the strings.

It is finished; and to man is given the art to rule the airs of heaven.

They turned, while yet the sledge fell heavy by the beating sea, and

Erix wound a horn of joy, calling, then wound, then called, and wound

and called again, and the echoes answered, calling;

[_Conclusion in our next._]

* * * * *

I THINK OF THEE.

I think of thee, at twilight’s hour,

When the last sunbeam sinks away;

When night-birds sing in every bower,

And herds and herdsmen homeward stray—

When all is beauty, all is peace,

When sorrows, cares, and sadness flee,

Then my lone heart finds sweet release,

In happy thoughts, dear one, of thee.

I think of thee, when dawning day

Calls forth all nature’s freshened throng,

When sporting lambkins skip and play,

And birds pour forth their joyous song—

When every eye with hope is bright,

And every heart is light and free—

When nature wakes from nature’s night,

Then, dearest, then I think of thee.

* * * * *

THE ARABS AT AMBOISE.

On the right bank of the Loire, close to one of the stations of the

rail-road from Orleans to Nantes, which transports the traveler in a few

hours from the centre of civilised France to the heart of Brittany, and

all its wild traditions and druidical mysteries, stands an ancient and

time-honored town—important in the history both of France and England,

during a series of centuries—a town beloved of Anne of Brittany and of

Mary Stuart, the scene of stirring and romantic adventures without

number, all of which have paled before the interest it has excited of

late years as the place of captivity of a great chief, and, within a few

weeks, as forming a rich part of that spoil which the immense

possessions of the house of Orleans is likely to furnish to the present

ruler of the French nation.

Tourists on the Loire know the charming town of Amboise very well; and

none ever missed, in days of yore, visiting its fine castle, whose high

walls are bathed by the noble river. This pleasure has, however, long

been denied them, for the captive whose misfortunes have excited so much

sympathy throughout Europe, and whose “hope deferred” is still destined

to “make his heart sick,” the ill-fated Abd-’el-Kader, with his

followers, are still detained there, and likely so to be, in spite of

the “_I would if I could_” of his supposed struggling friend, the nephew

of another great prisoner of days gone by.

Amboise, a few years since, was a smiling, lively little town, and the

castle was a pleasure-residence of the last king; the gardens were

delicious, the little chapel of St. Hubert a gem, restored in all its

lustre, and the glory of artists and amateurs. All is now changed: a

gloom has fallen on the scene, the flowers are faded, the gates are

closed, the pretty pavilions are shut up; there are guards instead of

gardeners, and a dreary prison frowns over the reflecting waters, which

glide mournfully past its towers.

If you pause awhile on the bridge of Amboise, and look up to the windows

of the castle, you may, perhaps, see one or other of the captives seated

sadly and motionlessly, or it may be slowly pacing along a high gallery

which runs from tower to tower, but it is rare at present that the

dispirited inhabitants of those dismal chambers have energy to seek even

such recreation as this, and the traveler may drive through Amboise

twenty times, without having his curiosity to see Lord Londonderry’s

_protégé_ gratified.

The writer of these pages happened to be in the neighborhood when

Abd-’el-Kader was transferred from Pau, the birth-place of Henri Quatre,

in the Pyrenees, to this once gay château on the Loire, and was amongst

those who witnessed the arrival of the party.

The evening was very chilly and misty, and but few persons had been

tempted to linger late by the river side; the attention, however, of

those who had not yet “betaken them home,” was attracted by a steamboat

full of passengers, coming from Paimbeuf, which stopped beneath the

walls of the castle, and gave a signal apparently understood by a guard

of soldiers, which had been loitering on the shore. The arrival of the

steamer was immediately communicated to the governor of the castle, and

much unwonted movement ensued.

A rumor of something remarkable soon spread throughout the town, and a

concourse of people came hurrying over the bridge, in order to be

present at the expected landing of prisoners of importance. There was no

attempt to repress this curiosity, for no rescue was evidently feared; a

double line of soldiers was, however, formed, and in silence and gloom a

sad procession was soon formed of no less than eighty-two individuals,

men, women and children, all covered with large mantles of white wool,

of a fashion unseen in this part of the world since the great Saracen

warrior Abd’eraman was driven back from Touraine by Charles Martel; the

strangers thus attired took their way from the sandy shore of the Loire

to the precipitous ascent of the dark towers before them.

These captives were the Arab chief Abd-’el-Kader, his mother, one of his

brothers-in-law, his uncle, a patriarch of ninety, whose long, white

beard fell to his girdle, and four of his wives. Following them came a

train of attendants, all prisoners, and all sharing their master’s

sorrows and mischances.

The heavy gateway closed upon the new guests, and the inhabitants of

Amboise, somewhat awe-struck and impressed with pity, returned

mournfully to their respective domiciles, no doubt thanking Heaven that

they were denizens of free and happy France, generous, valiant,

honorable and victorious!—alas, how long to remain so!

From that time a new amusement was provided for the pleasure-loving

natives of the pretty but dreary old town, which still wears the

characteristics of the past in its acutely pointed roofs, crowned with

quaint belfrys, its arches spanning the streets, its antique chapel of

St. Florentin, its _palais de justice_ transformed into a barrack, and

its little Château du Clos-Lucet, where, tradition says, Leonardo da

Vinci, the great painter, passed the last years of his long life, and

where he died.

Many a summer evening was henceforth spent by the citizens on the

bridge, their pastime being to gaze curiously up toward the walls and

windows of the castle; for, wandering along the terraces, which hang in

mid air, might then be frequently seen, like a gliding spectre, the

majestic form of an Arab, wrapped in a white _burnous_, with solemn

steps pacing to and fro, unobservant and indifferent to the curiosity

which he excited.

Compassion for these unfortunate strangers suggested, even amongst those

in whose charge their safety was placed, alleviations to their griefs.

The Arab servants of the chief were allowed to seek provisions for their

repasts in the town itself, accompanied merely by a soldier, who did not

molest them. All who applied for permission to behold Abd-’el-Kader were

admitted to the castle precincts, and were introduced to his presence.

At first he probably felt amused at the novelty of this proceeding, but

at length he became annoyed at the persevering curiosity which left him

no leisure for reflections, however doleful. His spirits, too, in the

course of long months of hopeless anxiety, gave way, and he at length

refused to be exhibited as a caged lion, to make sport to the

inquisitive.

Not alone in the early stage of his captivity, but ever since he became

their neighbor, the ladies of Amboise, with continuous kindness, showed

their benevolent feeling both to him and to the females of his suite and

their children. Delicacies from their kitchens, and little useful

presents were showered upon the poor captives, who received the

attentions in the spirit in which they were given.

One instance of consideration gave particular gratification to the Emir.

Madame de Villeneuve, the _châtellaine_ of Catherine de Medicis’ lovely

castle of Chenonceau, so well-known to tourists, and so often described,

sent Abd-’el-Kader a magnificent plant, a native of his own valleys of

the Atlas. It is related that the Emir on receiving it burst into tears.

He sent back the expression of his gratitude in the following

characteristically poetical words:

“Too poor to offer you in return any thing worthy of your acceptance,

not possessing even a flower that I can call mine, I will pray to Allah

that for the love of his servant he will one day bestow Paradise upon

you.”

Some time after this, the health of the Emir having suffered from

confinement, he was allowed to ride on horseback in the neighborhood of

Amboise, and the first excursion which he made was to the Château of

Chenonceau, where his presence, no doubt,

“Made a little holyday,”

And his visit has added another _souvenir_ to the list of those

illustrious and interesting personages who have made the romantic

retreat of Diana of Poitiers and her rival famous for all time.

Abd-’el-Kader used often to be seen at his devotions at the rising and

setting of the sun. He is accustomed to prostrate himself in an angle of

that very iron balcony from whence, in the days of the Medici, the

conspirators of Amboise were hung as a public example to traitors.

Leaning against the stone wall, he remains absorbed in his orisons, and

tells his beads with the fervor of a prisoner and an exile.

The numerous portraits of him to be seen in Paris, particularly popular

since Lord Londonderry’s letters have made his fine, melancholy,

majestic face familiar to the world. He is little more than forty-five,

and has a countenance which, but that Eastern countenances deceive, one

would feel inclined not only to admire, but to trust. It is hard to say

whether the French would do right to confide in it, but certain it is

that he is the object of deep admiration. His large, mournful, gazelle

eyes, his calm, beautiful mouth, and his rich, jet-black beard, have

gained many a heart, both male and female; but his misfortunes are too

interesting, too romantic, too _piquants_ to be lightly parted with, and

the French will probably keep the lion still caged as an object on which

to exercise their sensibilities, unless indeed, the dispossessed owners

of Amboise should take his place.

Sometimes the Emir would appear on his balcony accompanied by the ladies

of his suite. One of them is said to be still young and very handsome.

This is the report of a young Frenchman, whose patient curiosity was

rewarded on a happy occasion, when the veiled fair one withdrew the

envious screen of her beauties one day, imagining that she was

unobserved, that she might the better gaze upon the fine river, and feel

the soft breeze of an evening in June upon her cheek. Occasionally some

of the children of the captives may be seen playing round their parents,

as they stand motionless, looking from their high position. These little

captives are of all shades, from white to ebony hue, and are by no means

so silent or so still as their elders, for they clamor and climb and

twist about upon the parapets in a manner quite startling to those who

are watching them from below.

Some time ago the Bishop of Algiers, passing through Amboise, stopped to

pay a visit to the Emir; he exhorted him to resignation—alas! what else

could he preach?—and received the same answer as the illustrious

prisoner always gives to those who seek to console him.

“I gave myself up on the sole condition that I should be conducted to

Alexandria, in order to go to Mecca, where I desired to finish my days.

The promise was given me: I ask for nothing further and I rely on the

justice of Allah.”

The bishop said prayers in the exquisite little chapel of the castle

already mentioned, as so beautifully restored by the unfortunate Louis

Philippe, and which is in itself the most perfect specimen of art ever

beheld, with its marble pictures of St. Hubert’s miracle, its elaborate

doorways and vivid glass painting, rivaling the antique. A pretty little

sentimental service was got up, of which the Arab captives were made the

heroes, numerous prayers being addressed to Heaven for their welfare,

both of body and soul. Probably the prisoners really felt grateful for

the attention, even though neither the priest nor the shrine had

relation to their own belief.

One of the suite, the oftenest seen in Amboise, was the butcher, Ben

Salem, who officiated for his tribe, and whose office was looked upon as

a solemn one. He had a fine muscular figure, with an intelligent and

handsome face, and was upward of six feet high. When he immolated an

animal he might be said, as has been apocryphally reported of

Shakspeare, to have

“Done it in high style, and made a speech.”

About a year and a half ago poor Ben-Salem was found a drowned corpse,

in the Loire; he is supposed to have perished while bathing, but the

writer recollects at the time, to have heard it whispered that despair

had caused him to commit suicide.

The attachment of the Arabs to their chief is intense; an instance of

this excited immense interest in Paris some time since. A young man who

had belonged to Abd-’el-Kader, was detained at Toulon, from whence he

escaped, but instead of endeavoring to regain his own country, his sole

desire was to behold his chief once more, and to die at his feet. He

arrived at Amboise, no one knew how, having traversed France to its

centre, and there, his clothes in tatters, his feet bleeding, and

fainting with hunger and fatigue, he was overtaken, secured, and forced

back again to his prison at Toulon, without having gained the object of

so much energy and resolution.

How could the most severe guardians of the safety of France drive back

such a servant from his master?

In the month of August, 1850, a party of the Arabs received permission

to return to Africa. After extraordinary struggles between their love of

country and of their master, forty men, women, and children, consented

to profit by this clemency. Their parting was, however, a scene of

desolation, agonizing to witness.

The railroad was to take back these sons and daughters of the Desert

partly on their way, and a carriage filled with pale emaciated women,

holding their children in the folds of their ample garments, bore them

from the castle walls. The men pursued their journey on foot, a cart

containing their wretched goods followed, and the patriarch of the tribe

accompanied them to the station, where he took leave of them with sighs,

tears, and exhortations, mixed with embraces. At the last moment a young

woman, who was probably related to the patriarch, lost her presence of

mind entirely—her veil thrown back in despair, she cast herself upon

his bosom, concealing her face in his venerable white beard, and

uttering cries that melted the hearts of the bystanders to hear.

One feature of this parting was remarkable; a young peasant woman of

Amboise had been the wet-nurse of a little Arab child, and was now to

take leave of the helpless infant whom she had tended till, from a half

dying plant, it had become strong and healthy, and full of life. For

more than a quarter of an hour the mother of the babe and its nurse

remained in an agony of grief, mutually embracing and consoling each

other, while the innocent object of their care wept for company. At

length the poor sobbing Frenchwoman tore herself away, and the train

moved off bearing away forever her cherished nurseling and its grateful

but sorrowing parents.

Many of the children in Abd-’el-Kader’s suit died soon after their

arrival, and the influence of the moist climate on all the attendants

was felt severely by persons accustomed to go half clothed and with

naked feet. The sisters of charity of Amboise and the medical men had

many mournful scenes to go through, as the little Arab burial-ground,

near the “Gate of Lions” of the castle, attests but too clearly.

The health of the Emir himself has, it is said, of late given way, and

he has had to deplore the loss of several of its nearest friends. The

tenderness and feeling shown to these _conquered enemies_, proves, it

must be confessed, that there is no want of kindliness in the hearts of

at least the _country people_ of France, whose impulses are generally

for good, as we have every reason to acknowledge in the charitable

promptitude and active benevolence shown to the unfortunate survivors of

the Amazon, by the whole of the inhabitants of Brest from the highest to

the lowest.

* * * * *

AT THE WATER’S EDGE.

BY PHŒBE CAREY.

There are little innocent ones,

And their love is wondrous strong,

Clinging about her neck,

But they may not keep her long.

Father, give her strength

To loosen their grasp apart,

And to fold her empty hands

Calmly over her heart.

And if the mists of doubt

Fearfully rise and climb

Up from that river that rolls

Close by the shore of time;

Suddenly rend it away,

Holy and Merciful One,

As the veil of the temple was rent,

When the mission of Christ was done.

So she can see the clime

Where the jasper walls begin,

And the pearl-gates, half unclosed,

Ready to shut her in.

So she can see the saints,

As they beckon with shining hand,

Leaning over the towers,

Waiting to see her land.

Saviour, we wait thy aid,

For our human aid were vain;

We have gone to the water’s edge,

And must turn to the world again.

For she stands where the waves of death

Fearfully surge and beat,

And the rock of the shore of life

Is shelving under her feet.

* * * * *

ARAB AND CAMANCHEE HORSEMEN.

The admirable skill of the South Americans as horsemen is everywhere

acknowledged, and has been described by many writers; the following

account, however, by Mr. Darwin, is so truthful and spirited, that it

conveys the best idea of their exploits:—

“One evening a ‘domidor’ (subduer of horses) came for the purpose of

breaking in some colts. I will describe the preparatory steps, for I

believe they have not been mentioned by other travelers. A troop of wild

young horses is driven into the corral or large inclosure of stakes, and

the door is shut. We will suppose that one man alone has to catch and

mount a horse which as yet had never felt bridle or saddle. I conceive,

except by a Guacho, such a feat would be utterly impracticable. The

Guacho picks out a full-grown colt; and as the beast rushes round the

circus, he throws his lasso so as to catch both the front legs.

Instantly the horse rolls over with a heavy shock, and whilst struggling

on the ground the Guacho, holding the lasso tight, makes a circle so as

to catch one of the hind legs just beneath the fetlock, and draws it

close to the two front. He then hitches the lasso, so that the three

legs are bound together; then sitting on the horse’s neck, he fixes a

strong bridle, without a bit, to the lower jaw. This he does by passing

a narrow thong through the eye-holes at the end of the reins, and

several times round both jaw and tongue. The two front legs are now tied

closely together with a strong leathern thong, fastened by a slip-knot,

the lasso which bound the three together being then loosed, the horse

rises with difficulty. The Guacho, now holding fast the bridle fixed to

the lower jaw, leads the horse outside the corral. If a second man is

present—otherwise the trouble is much greater—he holds the animal’s

head whilst the first puts on the horse-cloths and saddle and girths,

the whole together. During this operation, the horse, from dread and

astonishment at being thus bound round the waist, throws himself over

and over again on the ground, and till beaten is unwilling to rise. At

last, when the saddling is finished, the poor animal can hardly breathe

from fear, and is white with foam and sweat. The man now prepares to

mount by pressing heavily on the stirrup, so that the horse may not lose

its balance; and at the moment he throws his leg over the animal’s back

he pulls the slip-knot and the beast is free. The horse, wild with

dread, gives a few most violent bounds, and then starts off at full

gallop. When quite exhausted, the man by patience brings him back to the

corral, where, reeking hot and scarcely alive, the poor beast is let

free. Those animals which will not gallop away, but obstinately throw

themselves on the ground, are by far the most troublesome.

“In Chili, a horse is not considered perfectly broken till he can be

brought up standing in the midst of his full speed on any particular

spot; for instance, on a cloak thrown on the ground; or again, will

charge a wall and, rearing, scrape the surface with his hoofs. I have

seen an animal bounding with spirit, yet merely reined by a fore-finger

and thumb, taken at full gallop across a court-yard, and then made to

wheel round the post of a veranda with great speed, but at so equal a

distance that the rider with outstretched arm, all the while kept one

finger rubbing the post, then making a _demi-volte_ in the air with the

other arm outstretched in a like manner, he wheeled round with

astonishing force in the opposite direction. Such a horse is

well-broken; and although this at first may appear useless, it is far

otherwise. It is only carrying that which is daily necessary into

perfection. When a bullock is checked and caught by the lasso, it will

sometimes gallop round and round in a circle, and the horse being

alarmed at the great strain, if not well broken, will not readily turn

like the pivot of a wheel. In consequence many men have been killed; for

if a lasso once takes a twist round a man’s body, it will instantly,

from the power of the two animals, almost cut him in twain. On the same

principle the races are managed. The course is only two or three hundred

yards long, the desideratum being, to have horses that can make a rapid

dash. The race-horses are trained not only to stand with their hoofs

touching a line, but to draw all four feet together, so as at the first

spring to bring into play the full action of the hind quarters. In Chili

I was told an anecdote, which I believe was true, and it offers a good

illustration of the use of a well-broken animal. A respectable man

riding one day met two others, one of whom was mounted on a horse, which

he knew to have been stolen from himself. He challenged them; they

answered by drawing their sabres and giving chase. The man on his good

and fleet beast kept just ahead; as he passed a thick bush he wheeled

round it, and brought up his horse to a dead check. The pursuers were

obliged to shoot on one side and ahead. Then instantly dashing on right

behind them, he buried his knife in the back of one, wounded the other,

recovered his horse from the dying robber, and rode home.” Animals are

so abundant in these countries that humanity is scarcely known. Mr.

Darwin was one day riding in the Pampas with a very respectable

“Estanciero,” when his horse being tired, lagged behind. The man often

shouted to him to spur him, when Mr. D. remonstrated that it was a pity,

for the horse was quite exhausted, he cried: “Why not?—never mind. Spur

him—it is _my_ horse!” When, after some difficulty, he was made to

understand that it was for the horse’s sake that the spurs were not

used, he exclaimed with great surprise: “Ah! Don Carlos _qui cosa_!” The

idea had never before entered his head.

In this country the powers of horses in swimming are but little tested,

but in South America the case is different, as shown by an incident

mentioned by Mr. Darwin. “I have crossed the Lucia near its mouth, and

was surprised to observe how easily our horses, although not used to

swim, passed over a width of at least six hundred yards. On mentioning

this at Monteo Video, I was told that a vessel containing some

mountebanks and their horses being wrecked in the Plata, one horse swam

seven miles to the shore. In the course of the day I was amused by the

dexterity with which a Guacho forced a restive horse to swim a river. He

stripped off his clothes and jumped on its back, rode into the water

till it was out of its depth; then slipping off the crupper he caught

hold of the tail, and as often as the horse turned round, the man

frightened it back by splashing water in its face. As soon as the horse

touched the bottom on the other side the man pulled himself on, and was

firmly seated, bridle in hand, before the horse gained the bank. A naked

man on a naked horse is a fine spectacle. I had no idea how well the two

animals suited each other. The tail of a horse is a very useful

appendage. I have passed a river in a boat, with four people in it,

which was ferried across in the same way as the Guacho. If a man and

horse have to cross a broad river, the best plan is for the man to catch

hold of the pommel or mane, and help himself with the other arm.”

The Turkoman horses are most highly prized in Persia, and are regularly

trained by the Turkomans preparatory to their plundering expeditions.

Before proceeding on a foray, these wild people knead a number of small

hard balls of barley-meal, which, when wanted, they soak in water, and

which serves as food both for themselves and their horses. It is a

frequent practice with them in crossing deserts where no water is to be

found, to open a vein in the shoulder of the horse and drink a little of

his blood, which, according to their own opinion, benefits rather than

injures the animal. It is confidently stated, that when in condition,

their horses have gone one hundred and forty miles within twenty-four

hours; and it has been proved that parties of them were in the habit of

marching from seventy to one hundred and five miles for twelve or

fifteen days together without a halt. During Sir John Malcolm’s first

mission to Persia, he, when riding one day near a small encampment of

Afshar families, expressed doubts to his Mehmander, a Persian nobleman,

as to the reputed boldness and skill in horsemanship of their females.

The Mehmander immediately called to a young woman of handsome

appearance, and asked her, in Turkish, if she was a soldier’s daughter.

She said she was. “And you expect to be a mother of soldiers?” She

smiled. “Mount that horse,” said he, pointing to one with a bridle, but

without a saddle; “and show this European Elchee the difference between

a girl of a tribe and a citizen’s daughter.” She instantly sprang upon

the animal, and setting off at full speed, did not stop till she had

reached the summit of a small hill in the vicinity, which was covered

with loose stones. When there, she waved her hand over her head, and

came down the hill at the same rate at which she had ascended it.

Nothing could be more dangerous than the ground over which she galloped;

but she appeared quite fearless, and seemed delighted at having the

opportunity of vindicating the females of her tribe from the reproach of

being like the ladies of cities.

The _Shrubat-ur-Reech_, or _Drinkers of the Wind_, reared by the

Mongrabins of the West, are shaped like greyhounds, and as spare as a

bag of bones, but their spirit and endurance of fatigue are prodigious.

On one occasion the chief of a tribe was robbed of a favorite fleet

animal of this race, and the camp went out in pursuit eight hours after

the theft. At night, though the horse was not yet recovered, it was

ascertained that the pursuers had headed his track, and would secure him

before morning. The messenger who returned with this intelligence, had

ridden sixty miles in the withering heat of the desert without drawing

bit. These animals are stated by Mr. Davidson, to be fed only once in

three days, when they receive a large jar of camel’s milk; this, with an

occasional handful of dates, is their only food.

The fullest and most interesting account of the Arab horse has been

written by General Daumas, and its value is greatly enhanced by

containing a letter on the subject, written entirely by the celebrated

Abd-’el-Kader, and a very remarkable document this is. According to this

high authority, a perfectly sound Arab horse can, without difficulty,

travel nearly thirty miles daily for three or four months, without

resting a single day; and such a horse can accomplish fifty

_parasangs_—not less than two hundred miles—in one day. When

Abd-’el-Kader was with his tribe at Melonia, they made _razzias_ in the

Djebel-amour, pushing their horses at a gallop for five or six hours

without drawing bridle, and they accomplished their expeditions in from

twenty to twenty-five days. During all this time their horses ate only

the corn carried by their riders, amounting to about eight ordinary

meals. They often drink nothing for one or two days, and on one occasion

were three days without water. The Arabic language is very epigrammatic,

and the Arabs assign the reasons for instructing their horses early in

these proverbs: “The lessons of infancy are graven in stone; but those

of age disappear like the nests of birds.” “The young branch without

difficulty straightens itself—the large tree, never!” Accordingly, the

instruction of the horse begins in the first year. “If,” says the Emir,

“the horse is not mounted before the third year, at the best he will

only be good for the course; but _that_ he has no need of learning—it

is his natural faculty.” The Arabs thus express the idea, “_Le djouad

suivant sa race._” The high bred horse has no need of learning to run!

The esteem of the Arab for his horse is conveyed in the following

sentiment of the sage and saint, Ben-el-Abbas, which has been handed

down from generation to generation: “Love thy horses—take care of

them—spare thyself no trouble; by them comes honor, and by them is

obtained beauty. If horses are abandoned by others, I take them into my

family; I share with them and my children the bread; my wives cover them

with their veils, and wrap themselves in their housings; I daily take

them to the field of adventure; and, carried away by their impetuous

course, I can fight with the most valiant.”

General Daumas thus describes a combat between two tribes, drawn from

life, for he enjoyed many opportunities for witnessing such

scenes:—“The horsemen of the two tribes are in front, the women in the

rear, ready to excite the combatants by their cries and applause: they

are protected by the infantry who also form the reserve. The battle is

commenced by little bands of ten or fifteen horsemen, who hover on the

flanks, and seek to turn the enemy. The chiefs, at the head of a compact

body, form the centre.

“Presently the scene becomes warm and animated—the young cavaliers, the

bravest and best mounted, dash forward to the front, carried away by

their ardor and thirst for blood. They uncover their heads, sing their

war-songs, and excite to the fight by these cries—‘Where are those who

have mistresses? It is under their eyes that the warriors fight to-day.

Where are those who by their chiefs always boast of their valor? Now let

their tongues speak loud, and not in those babblings. Where are those

who run after reputation? Forward! forward! children of powder! Behold

these sons of Jews—our sabres shall drink their blood—their goods we

will give to our wives!’ These cries inflame the horsemen—they make

their steeds bound, and unsling their guns—every face demands

blood—they mingle in the fray, and sabre cuts are everywhere exchanged.

“However, one of the parties has the worst of it, and begins to fall

back on the camels which carry the women. Then are heard on both sides

the women—on the one, animating the conquerors by their cries of

joy—on the other, seeking to stimulate the failing courage of their

husbands and brothers by their screams of anger and imprecation. Under

these reproaches the ardor of the vanquished returns, and they make a

vigorous effort. Supported by the fire of the infantry who are in

reserve, they recover their ground, and throw back their enemy into the

midst of the women, who, in their turn, curse those whom just before

they had applauded. The battle returns to the ground which lies between

the females of the tribes. At last, the party who have suffered most in

men and horses, who have sustained the greatest loss, and have seen

their bravest chiefs fall, take flight in spite of the exhortations and

prayers of those bold men who, trying to rally them, fly right and left,

and try to recover the victory. Some warriors still hold their ground,

but the general route sweeps them off. They are soon by their

women—then each, seeing that all is lost, occupies himself in saving

that which is dearest; they gain as much ground as possible in their

flight, turning from time to time to face the pursuing enemy. The

conquerors might ruin them completely, if the intoxication of their

triumph did not build a bridge of gold for the vanquished, but the

thirst of pillage disbands them. One despoils a footman—another a

horseman: this one seizes a horse—that a negro. Thanks to this

disorder, the bravest of the tribe save their wives, and frequently

their tents.”

Before 1800, no political mission from a European nation had visited the

court of Persia for a century; but the English had fame as soldiers from

the report of their deeds in India. An officer of one of the frigates

which conveyed Sir John Malcolm’s mission, who had gone ashore at

Abusheher, and was there mounted on a spirited horse, afforded no small

entertainment to the Persians by his bad horsemanship. The next day the

man who supplied the ship with vegetables, and who spoke a little

English, met him on board, and said—“Don’t be ashamed, sir, nobody

knows you—bad rider! I tell them you, like all English, ride well, but

that time they see you, _you very drunk_.” The worthy Persian thought it

would have been a reproach for a man of a warlike nation not to ride

well, but none for a European to get drunk.

A touching incident is mentioned by Mungo Park as having occurred whilst

he, friendless and forlorn, was pursuing his weary journeyings far in

the interior of Africa. The simple narrative tells its own tale of

accumulated misery:—“July 29th. Early in the morning my landlord

observing that I was sickly, hurried me away, sending a servant with me

as a guide to Kea. But though I was little able to walk, my horse was

still less able to carry me, and about six miles to the east of Modibor,

in crossing some rough, clayey ground, he fell; and the united strength

of the guide and myself could not place him again upon his legs. I sat

down for some time beside this worn-out associate of my adventures; but,

finding him still unable to rise, I took off the saddle and bridle, and

placed a quantity of grass before him. I surveyed the poor animal as he

lay panting on the ground, with sympathetic emotion, for I could not

suppress the sad apprehension that I should myself in a short time lie

down and perish in the same manner, of fatigue and hunger. With this

foreboding I left my poor horse, and with great reluctance I followed my

guide on foot along the bank of the river until about noon, when we

reached Kea, which I found to be nothing more than a small

fishing-village.”

Torn with doubt and perplexity, heavy of heart and weary in body, the

unhappy traveler returned westward to Modiboo, after two days’

journeying in company with a negro carrying his horse accoutrements.

“Thus conversing,” says he, “we traveled in the most friendly manner

until, unfortunately, we perceived the footsteps of a lion quite fresh

in the mud near the river side. My companion now proceeded with great

circumspection, and at last, coming to some thick underwood, he insisted

that I should walk before him. I endeavored to excuse myself by alleging

that I did not know the road, but he obstinately persisted; and after a

few high words and menacing looks, threw down the saddle and went away.

This very much disconcerted me, for as I had given up all hopes of

obtaining a horse, I could not think of encumbering myself with a

saddle; and taking off the stirrups and girths, I threw the saddle into

the river. The Negro no sooner saw me throw the saddle into the water

than he came running from among the bushes where he had concealed

himself, jumped into the river, and by help of his spear brought out the

saddle, and ran away with it. I continued my course along the bank, but

as the wood was remarkably thick, and I had reason to believe that a

lion was at no great distance, I became much alarmed, and took a long

circuit through the bushes to avoid him. About four in the afternoon I

reached Modiboo, where I found my saddle; the guide, who had got there

before me, being afraid that I should inform the king of his conduct,

had brought the saddle with him in a canoe. While I was conversing with

the dooty, and remonstrating with the guide for having left me in such a

situation, I heard a horse neigh in one of the huts, and the dooty

inquired with a smile if I knew who was speaking to me. He explained

himself by telling me that my horse was still alive, and somewhat

recovered from his fatigue.” The happiness with which Park met his lost

faithful steed may be conceived, for in him he had one friend left in

the world.

Another lamented victim to African travel thus touchingly laments a

grievous misfortune which befel him. Returning from an excursion to

Kouka, Major Denham writes:—“I was not at all prepared for the news

which was to reach me on returning to our inclosure. The horse that had

carried me from Tripoli to Mourzuk and back again, and on which I had

ridden the whole journey from Tripoli to Bornou, had died a very few

hours after my departure for the lake. There are situations in a man’s

life in which losses of this nature are felt most keenly, and this was

one of them. It was not grief, but it was something very nearly

approaching to it; and though I felt ashamed of the degree of

derangement which I suffered from it, yet it was several days before I

could get over the loss. Let it, however, be remembered, that the poor

animal had been my support and comfort—may I not say,

companion?—through many a dreary day and night—had endured both hunger

and thirst in my service with the utmost patience—was so docile, though

an Arab, that he would stand still for hours in the desert while I slept

between his legs, his body affording me the only shelter that could be

obtained from the powerful influence of a noonday sun: he was the

fleetest of the fleet, and ever foremost in the race.”[14]

Captain Brown, in his “Biographical Sketches of Horses,” gives the

following interesting account of a circumstance that occurred at the

Cape of Good Hope. “In one of the violent storms that often occur there,

a vessel was forced on the rocks, and beaten to pieces. The greater part

of the crew perished miserably, as no boat could venture to their

assistance. Meanwhile a planter came from his farm to see the wreck, and

knowing the spirit of his horse, and his excellence as a swimmer, he

determined to make a desperate effort for their deliverance, and pushed

into the thundering breakers. At first both disappeared, but were soon

seen on the surface. Nearing the wreck, he caused two of the poor seamen

to cling to his boots, and so brought them safe to shore. Seven times

did he repeat this perilous feat, and saved fourteen lives; but, alas!

the eighth time, the horse being much fatigued, and meeting with a

formidable wave, the gallant fellow lost his balance, and was

overwhelmed in a moment. He was seen no more, but the noble horse

reached the land in safety.”

Lieutenant Wellstead relates an adventure in his travels in Arabia,

which illustrates the importance of being well mounted in that wild

land:—“On my return from Obri to Suweik, contrary to the wish of the

Bedouins, who had received intelligence that the Wahhábis were lurking

around, I left the village where we had halted, alone, with my gun, in

search of game. Scarcely had I rode three miles from the walls, when

suddenly turning an angle of the rocks, I found myself within a few

yards of a group of about a dozen horsemen who lay on the ground,

basking listlessly in the sun. To turn my horse’s head and away was the

work scarcely of an instant; but hardly had I done so when the whole

party were also in their saddles in full cry after me. Several balls

whizzed past my head, which Sayyid acknowledged by bounding forward like

an antelope; he was accustomed to these matters, and their desire to

possess him unharmed, alone prevented my pursuers from bringing him

down. As we approached the little town I looked behind me; a sheikh

better mounted than his followers was in advance, his dress and long

hair streaming behind him, while he poised his long spear on high,

apparently in doubt whether he was sufficiently within range to pierce

me. My good stars decided that he was not; for, reining up his horse, he

rejoined his party, whilst I gained the walls in safety! The day before

Sayyid came into my hands he had been presented to the Im’am by a Nejd

sheikh; reared in domesticity, and accustomed to share the tent of some

Arab family, he possessed, in an extraordinary degree, all the

gentleness and docility, as well as the fleetness, which distinguish the

pure breed of Arabia. To avoid the intense heat and rest their camels,

the Bedouins frequently halted during my journey for an hour about

mid-day. On these occasions Sayyid would remain perfectly still while I

reposed on the sand, screened by the shadow of his body. My noon repast

of dates he always looked for and shared. Whenever we halted, after

unsaddling him and taking off his bridle with my own hands, he was

permitted to roam about the encampment without control. At sunset he

came for his corn at the sound of my voice, and during the night,

without being fastened, he generally took up his quarters at a few yards

from his master. During my coasting voyages along the shore, he always

accompanied me, and even in a crazy open boat from Maskat to India. My

health having compelled me to return to England overland, I could not in

consequence bring Sayyid with me. I parted with him as from a tried and

valued friend.”

Among the North American Indians the Camanchees take the first rank as

equestrians; racing, indeed, is with them a constant and almost

incessant exercise, and a fruitful source of gambling. Among their feats

of riding is one, described by Mr. Catlin, as having astonished him more

than any thing in the way of horsemanship he had ever beheld; and it is

a stratagem of war familiar to every young man in the tribe. At the

instant he is passing an enemy, he will drop his body upon the opposite

side of the horse, supporting himself with his heel upon the horse’s

back. In this position, lying horizontally, he will hang whilst his

horse is at its fullest speed, carrying with him his shield, bow, and

arrows, and lance fourteen feet long, all or either of which he will

wield with the utmost facility, rising and throwing his arrows over the

horse’s back, or under his neck, throwing himself up to his proper

position, or changing to the other side of the horse if necessary. The

actual way in which this is done is as follows: A short hair halter is

passed under the neck of the horse, and both ends tightly braided into

the mane, leaving a loop to hang under the neck and against the breast.

Into this loop the rider drops his elbow suddenly and fearlessly,

leaving his heel to hang over the back of the horse to steady him and

enable him to regain the upright position.

The following very singular custom prevails among the tribe of North

American Indians, known as the _Foxes_. Of this Mr. Catlin was an

eye-witness: “When,” says he, “General Street and I arrived at

Kee-o-kuk’s village, we were just in time to see this amusing scene on

the prairie, a little back of his village. The Foxes, who were making up

a war-party to go against the Sioux, and had not suitable horses enough

by twenty, had sent word to the ‘Sacs’ the day before, according to

ancient custom, that they were coming on that day, at a certain hour, to

‘smoke’ that number of horses, and they must not fail to have them

ready. On that day, and at the hour, the twenty young men who were

beggars for horses were on the spot, and seated themselves on the ground

in a circle, where they went to smoking. The villagers flocked round

them in a dense crowd, and soon after appeared on the prairie, at half a

mile distance, an equal number of young men of the Sac tribe, who had

agreed each to give a horse, and who were then galloping them round at

full speed; and gradually as they went around in a circuit, coming

nearer to the centre, until they were at last close around the ring of

young fellows seated on the ground. Whilst dashing about thus each one

with a heavy whip in his hand, as he came within reach of the group on

the ground, selected the one to whom he decided to present his horse,

and as he passed gave him the most tremendous cut with his lash over the

naked shoulders: and as he darted around again, he plied the whip as

before, and again and again with a violent ‘crack,’ until the blood

could be seen trickling down over his naked shoulders, upon which he

instantly dismounted, and placed the bridle and whip in his hands,

saying, ‘Here, you are a beggar; I present you a horse, but you will

carry my mark on your back.’ In this manner they were all, in a little

while, ‘whipped up,’ and each had a good horse to ride home and into

battle.

Mr. Catlin gives an interesting account of his faithful horse “Charley,”

a noble animal of the Camanchee wild breed, which had formed as strong

an attachment for his master, as his master for him. The two halted

generally on the bank of some little stream, and the first thing done

was to undress Charley, and drive down the picket to which he was

fastened, permitting him to graze over a circle limited by his lasso. On

a certain evening, when he was grazing as usual, he managed to slip the

lasso over his head, and took his supper at his pleasure as he was

strolling round. When night approached, Mr. Catlin took the lasso in

hand, and endeavored to catch him, but he continually evaded the lasso

until dark, when his master abandoned the pursuit, making up his mind

that he should inevitably lose him, and be obliged to perform the rest

of the journey on foot. Returning to his bivouac, in no pleasant state

of mind, he laid down on his bear-skin and went to sleep. In the middle

of the night he awoke whilst lying on his back, and, half opening his

eyes, was petrified at beholding, as he thought, the huge figure of an

Indian standing over him, and in the very act of stooping to take his

scalp! The chill of horror that paralyzed him for the first moment, held

him still till he saw there was no need of moving; that his faithful

horse had played shy till he had filled his belly, and had then moved up

from feelings of pure affection, and taken his position with his fore

feet at the edge of his master’s bed, and his head hanging over him, in

which attitude he stood fast asleep.

When sunrise came the traveler awoke, and beheld his faithful servant at

a considerable distance, picking up his breakfast among the cane-brake

at the edge of the creek. Mr. Catlin went busily to work to prepare his

own, and having eaten it, had another half-hour of fruitless endeavors

to catch Charley, who, in the most tantalizing manner, would turn round

and round, just out of his master’s reach. Mr. Catlin, recollecting the

evidence of his attachment and dependence, afforded by the previous

night, determined on another course of proceeding, so packed up his

traps, slung the saddle on his back, trailed his gun, and started

unconcernedly on his route. After advancing about a quarter of a mile,

he looked back and saw Master Charley standing with his head and tail

very high, looking alternately at him and at the spot where he had been

encamped, and had left a little fire burning. Thus he stood for some

time, but at length walked with a hurried step to the spot, and seeing

every thing gone, began to neigh very violently, and, at last started

off at fullest speed and overtook his master, passing within a few paces

of him, and wheeling about at a few rods’ distance, trembling like an

aspen leaf. Mr. Catlin called him by his familiar name, and walked up

with the bridle on his hand, which was put over Charley’s head, as he

held it down for it, and the saddle was placed on his back as he

actually stooped to receive it; when all was arranged, and his master on

his back, off started the faithful animal as contented as possible.

-----

[14] Narrative of Travels in Africa, by Major Denham.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Book of Ballads. Edited by Bon Gaultier. New York:

Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

We are glad to see an elegant American edition of these humorous

ballads. In England they have long enjoyed a wide reputation. Their

authorship, though vehemently debated, has not yet been settled,

although the honor is now considered to lie between Theodore Martin and

Professor W. E. Aytoun, the editor of Blackwood’s Magazine. Bon

Gaultier, whoever he may be, is an universal satirist, whose sharp

things are steeped in a riotous humor that leaps all bounds of

conventional restraint. The general idea of the work is a parody of the

various styles of contemporary authors, and a caricature of manners and

persons, and this is executed with great felicity of imitative talent,

and in a spirit of such wild glee as to take away the offensiveness of

its occasional malice. The Spanish Ballads, amid all their elaborate

buffoonery, are grand imitations of Lockhart’s celebrated translations,

evincing uncommon command of energetic expression, and a keen perception

of the chivalrous spirit of the originals, and indicating in the writer

a ballad talent almost equal to that displayed by Aytoun in his “Lays of

the Scottish Cavaliers.” The American Ballads are gross but laughable

caricatures, in which gouging, spitting, bragging, and drinking, are

made leading national characteristics, and the government of the country

represented as residing in an aristocracy of the bowie-knife. The

following, from the American’s Apostrophe to Boz, contains an inimitable

antithesis of sentiment.

Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells

Of that Smike’s unceasing drivelings, and those ever-lasting Nells.

_When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of

thing,_

_Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling._

The best of the American ballads is “The Death of Jabez Dollar,”

originally published in Frazer’s Magazine, and founded on a newspaper

report of one of our Congressional affrays. The caricature is so broad

that the most patriotic American can hardly take offense, and we quote

it as a splendid specimen, in versification and sentiment, of the heroic

in ruffianism;

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair,

On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there;

With moody frown, there ate Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek

His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,

_And like a free American upon the floor he spat;_

Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,

“What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s skin?”

“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee,

Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he.

He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs,

And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.

“Avoid that knife! in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin,

Has found itself a resting place his rival’s ribs within.”

But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart;

“Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!”

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair,

He saw the stately stars and stripes—our country’s flag was there!

His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang,

Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first

harangue.

“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood, the clocks that wouldn’t figure?

Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?

For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kick

That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!”

The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild—his very beard waxed blue—

His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;

He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—

He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe;

“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire elate,

“Darn my old mother but I will in wild cats whip my weight!

Oh! ’tarnel death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your

chaffing—

Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without

laughing!”

His knife he raised—with fury crazed he sprang across the hall—

He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:

He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,

But spinning sent the president, and on young Dollar flew.

They met—they closed—they sunk—they rose—in vain young Dollar strove—

For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove

His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,

And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s

hold.

With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled and they thrust—

The red blood ran from Dollar’s side, like rain upon the dust;

He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died,

Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side.

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth;

The bowie-knife hath quenched his life of valor and of truth;

And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell,

How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.

The miscellaneous ballads in the volume are very numerous, and in all

varieties of the ballad style. Moore, Bulwer, Macaulay, Tennyson, Hunt,

and other poets of the day, have some of their most popular lays

felicitously parodied. Bon Gaultier must be a poet, or he could not so

completely catch the very spirit and movement of the poets he

caricatures. Among the best of these ballads are those which exhibit the

contest for the laureatship, and the mockery of Tennyson’s style is

especially ludicrous. “A Midnight Meditation,” purporting to be by

Bulwer, represents that fascinating novelist as admitting, in soliloquy,

the essential falsehood of sentiment which characterizes so many of his

writings. He is exhibited as drinking in inspiration from London porter,

and holding sweet coloquy with himself on the success of his numerous

shams. “I know,” he says,

“I know a grace is seated on my brow,

Like young Apollo’s with his golden beams;

There should Apollo’s bays be budding now:—

And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams,

That marks the poet in his waking dreams.

When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,

He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

“They throng around me now, those things of air,

That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:

There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,

There Clifford lends his pals upon the tramp;

There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,

Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,

Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

“Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won

The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!

How love and murder hand in hand may run,

Cemented by philosophy serene,

And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!

Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,

And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

“Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed

Obscure philosophy’s enchanting light!

Until the public, wildering as they read,

Believed they saw that which was not in sight—

Of course ’twas not for me to set them right;

For in my nether heart convinced I am,

_Philosophy’s as good as any other bam._”

This last line really hits the truth of the matter, and raises Bon

Gaultier into the class of interpretative critics.

The style of Leigh Hunt is familiarly known, and the exquisiteness of

the following parody can be generally appreciated. It is worthy of Hunt

himself, and might have been written by him in one of his cosiest

dallyings with the “well of English undefiled.” The argument is that an

impassioned pupil of Hunt met Gaultier at a ball, and thus declares the

consequences:

“Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball—

Rare lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,

With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,

Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?

Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,

Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;

How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm

Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;

And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise,

At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,

Who, like a dove, with its scarce-feathered wing,

Flattered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

“There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,

An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—

A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare

Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;

And thus when swirling from the waltz’s wheel

You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,

That smiling voice, although it made me start,

Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;

And, picking at my flowers, I said with free

And usual tone, ‘Oh, yes sir, certainly!’”

The Duke of Wellington is known as the “iron” duke, and Gaultier gives

us a “Sonnet to Britain” by him, which justifies the title. It is one of

the most original things in the volume, and very worthily concludes it:

“Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!

Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!

O Britain! O my country! Words like these

Have made thy name a terror and a fear

To all the nations. Witness Ebro’s banks,

Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle and Waterloo,

Where the grim despot muttered—_Sauve qui peut!_

And Ney fled darkling. Silence in the ranks!

Inspired by thee, amidst the iron crash

Of armies in the centre of his troop

The soldier stands—unmovable, not rash—

Until the forces of the foeman droop;

Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,

Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!”

We commend this volume very cordially to our readers as one of the best

things of the kind in English literature. It appears to us better even

than the Rejected Addresses, in the richness and breadth of its humor,

and in the poetry of its mirth. Whoever may be the author, it is

evidently the production of one capable of writing excellent serious

poetry of his own, as well as parodying that of his contemporaries.

* * * * *

_Pynnshurst, his Travels and Ways of Thinking. Charles Scribner.

New York._

We are indebted to the publishers for an advanced copy of this eminently

clever and readable work, which, we venture to predict, will at once

secure to its author a distinguished and distinctive place among

American writers. We are not aware that he proposes to attach his name,

to what is, we believe, a first production in the book form, though he

is already favorably known to the public as an occasional writer; and we

therefore abstain from mentioning it, though very sensible that the book

would neither detract from the name, nor the name from the book.

It is a work almost _sui generis_, as, indeed, is in our opinion the

genius of the author; for that he has genius is undeniable. It is not a

novel—not a romance—not a book of travels—not a half-theological,

half-controversial, all-indecent, tract in the guise of any one of the

three. But it is a fine tissue of humor, wit, adventure, pathos, and

description, woven into just enough of active and moving story to create

a living interest—it is, in short, the seeings, thinkings, and in some

sort, perhaps, the doings, of a clear-sighted, enthusiastical traveler,

at once a man of the world and a scholar, with the eye of an artist, the

tongue of a poet, the heart of a mountaineer over “at home among the

rocks,” a bit of a Pantagruelist withal, who has seen much, pondered

much, learned much, and has much to say about many countries, many

things, and many people, which and who are really worth being seen,

thought, and heard of.

Of the style of his romance and incident our readers may judge from the

scene in his preface, wherein the narrator becomes acquainted with his

hero, Hugh Pynnshurst, and we think it cannot fail to impress them with

an idea of his power; although power is not, we think, so decidedly his

forte, as quaint humor, and shrewd, original, bold-spoken and fearless

appreciation and criticism of men, books, and things.

“One day, on the Faulhorn, I met a person who looked like a countryman,

saluted him and passed by. We were on the edge of a precipice, walking

upon a level road about seven feet wide. On one side was the

perpendicular rock; but, at its outer line, the road shelved abruptly to

the edge of the precipice which hung over an awful chasm three hundred

feet in depth.

“There was snow a foot deep upon it. I heard one half-muffled cry, and

turned to see what I trust never to see again. He had walked too near

the outer edge, and the snow had slipped from under him, and in an

instant he was three feet from the line of the level, and slowly,

slowly, the snow was yielding to his weight, and slowly, but

ceaselessly, he slided toward the brink, carrying the white mass with

him.

“Not any other cry escaped him; but he raised his wild, black eyes to

mine as I stood opposite him. There was beauty on his face, but it was

white, white with horror.

“A yard, perhaps, of space was between his feet now and the edge, and

his hands were griping convulsively at the rock left bare above him, at

the cold and slippery stone; and without pause, but yet more fearful for

its slowness, it went on, as you have seen the wreathe upon the

house-top sliding downward at the noon-day thaw.

“I had a large Scotch plaid, and setting my staff in a crevice, and held

firmly by my guide, I cast the end toward him, and as his foot passed

the ledge, he caught the fringe.

“In the moment’s pause, I noticed his position. One leg was cramped up

under him; one foot hung over the deep; the lips were set so firmly, and

were so white, that I could barely see their line. Only the large black

eyes kept their awful look on mine; the hands had burst the gloves in

their terrible gripe upon the fringe; the fringe was sewed upon the

plaid, and as I looked, it parted!

“I closed my eyes, and sickened, and fell back upon the snow.

“When I recovered from my stupor, my guide was filling my mouth with

_kirschenwasser_, and the stranger was standing at my feet. His face was

still colorless; a face of ineffable pride. But as I rose wonderingly,

he took off his hat and said in a sweet voice a few simple thanks for

the service I had rendered him. In my terror, I had not noticed that, as

the plaid-fringe began to give way, my guide had gotten his rope loose

and had thrown it to the stranger.

“It was thus that he was saved; and it was thus that an acquaintance

began between us, which soon ripened into an earnest friendship. They

are scraps from his experience that you will find here.

“This is all the preface which I have to offer. If you like it—Well! If

you like it not—Well! Peace be with you! and may your lives be as long

and as tough as that of our ‘_last_ relic of the Revolution’ who has

died eleven times a month, ever since I was born, and continues to renew

the phenomenon weekly, up to date. Hail, and farewell!”

A fair estimate may be formed of the quaint and peculiar blending of

something nearly approaching to sublimity and pathos with queer

characteristic drollery, which is one of our author’s peculiarities,

from

“_The Impressions of Hugh Pynnshurst.—Nature._

“He had very few impressions.

“The feeling of immensity so much talked about came not to him; the

waves never looked like mountains, nor their intervals like abysses.

“One storm they had, but it impressed him nothing like a storm in one of

the grand, old forests on the shore; the wind was too free to act as it

pleased; the ship only creaked; the cordage merely whistled, and there

were gay, noisy songs from the sailors, and loud, rough bellowings from

the officers, which added nothing to the dignity of the scene.

“Not like the mystic stillness that falls upon the land, when the

horizon begins to darken the first frown of the storm. When the birds

are hushed in the forest, and the aspen leaf ceases to quiver, and the

pall of the tempest spreads slowly over all.

“And then the shiver, as the first breath sweeps along the sky, and the

low, far sound of the thunder gives warning of its approach; and the

fierce excitement as the tempest comes sounding on, marshaling the

armies of the clouds, increasing fast and loud the roars of their

artillery; then the first shudder of the forest as the blast of the

strong wind strikes it, and the mighty trees bow down, and rise again,

and toss their huge arms, battling with the blast.

“These were the storms that thrilled him. He could moan with the moaning

wood; he could struggle with the strong oak’s struggling; he felt

himself o’erthrown, as the lightning crushed it to the earth; and when

the calm and the silence had followed, he could say to his pride of

heart, ‘Thou seest how vain and how feeble is the might of the creature

when it warreth with its God.’

“For the rest, he wondered that it did not make the porpoises dizzy to

turn so many somersets; and when the hawks caught Mother Carey’s

chickens, and brought them on board to eat them, he noticed that the

little things were very fat, and presumed that but for their fishy

taste, they would be very good in a pot-pie.”

Our limits warn us to quote no further, though we would do so willingly,

and leave us only room to say that if this book do not make its mark, we

cannot conjecture the reason why.

* * * * *

_Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century. By Arsene Houssaye.

New York: Redfield. 2 vols. 12mo._

This volume gives the most vivid picture of the manners, morals, and

government of France during the latter part of the reign of Louis XIV.,

and the whole of that of Louis XV., we have ever seen. It enables the

reader to understand the real character of that _Ancien Régime_ which

was overthrown by the Revolution of 1789, and exhibits a state of

society bereft of all moral vigor, licentious, lazy, impudent,

debilitated, dissolute, without religion, without shame, without any

depth of passion, and superficial even in its wickedness. The author of

the sketches, himself a Frenchman without much austerity of principle,

glances lightly over his themes, bringing out with a certain French

refinement of perception and phrase all the piquant littlenesses of his

subject, and, a wit himself, taking great delight in making his readers

familiar with the wit of others. He has sacked all the many memoirs of

the time for materials; has selected with a nice tact all their

stimulating matter, without burdening his page with their trash; and,

before attempting the task of composition, evidently familiarized his

imagination with the persons and events he describes, so that they moved

before him picturesquely, enveloped in their own peculiar atmosphere.

The result is quite a dramatic exhibition of kings, princesses,

ministers of state, royal and noble mistresses, authors, poets,

comedians, actresses, philosophers, artists, atheists, and _savans_,

discriminated in their kind from all others, yet still agreeing with the

radical principles of human nature, as those principles were combined in

the Frenchman of the eighteenth century, and in a court in which virtue

was a jest, vice a distinction, infamy a fashion, and marriage vows as

false as dicers’ oaths. The sketch of Louis XV. and Madame de Pompadour

of the Crebillons, of Buffon, of Cardinal de Bernis, of Mademoiselle

Clarion, of Sophie Arnould, of the Duc de Richelieu, (the universal

rake,) of Dufresnoy, Marivaux, Dorat, Poson, Fontenelle, and La

Fontaine, are representative of the whole. The society described is

pretty well summed up by Crebillon, as consisting of “ruined gentlemen

living upon their neighbors, rich actresses living with ruined

gentlemen.” To an American, the most remarkable thing in the whole

representation is the easy suspension of all moral rules whatever in

this “good company.” Before he gets half through the book he almost

forgets that there is such a thing as duty, or religion, or morality, or

glory, or any thing but five senses, in human nature. He feels that the

whole structure implies a frightful amount of misgovernment and

oppression at home, and of scandalous mismanagement abroad, that France

is given up to the plunder of roués and harlots, but the style of Arsene

Houssaye is so smooth, and his epigrams so airy and keen, and the

felicities he quotes so sparkling, that the whole representation seems

to justify itself, and to exhibit quite a delightful scheme of

government, “with youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm.” Indeed,

though the book is invaluable as a picture of a defunct social state, it

becomes tiresome at last with all its brightness and novelty, and the

necessity of some affectation at least of noble sentiment is painfully

felt to relieve the monotony of its brilliant baseness—some smiting

sentences, here and there, to rend the gauzy veil that these flippant

libertines have spread over the pandemonium on which their delicious

palace of pleasure is built. The Louis the Fifteenth, whose court these

volumes describe, is the same Louis whose death was thus announced by an

eminent priest to the mob of courtiers who had shared with their monarch

the pillage of France: “Louis, the well-beloved, sleeps in the Lord!”

“If each a mass of laziness and lust sleep in the Lord, who, think you,

sleeps elsewhere?” is Carlyle’s fierce answer.

* * * * *

_A Legend of the Waldenses, and Other Tales. By Mary B. Windle.

William Moore: Philadelphia._

We take some reproach to ourselves for having omitted to notice the

third edition of this very unpretending but very agreeable little

volume, which has been on our table for some time past, from the pen of

an accomplished lady contributor to many of our monthly magazines. It

has decided merit in itself, and gives promise of yet more when the fair

writer shall wield a more exercised pen. The style is graceful and

pleasant, though occasionally marred by an incorrectly formed and

inharmonious word, such, for instance, as “Huguenotic,” where the _ic_

is superfluous as to sense, and ungrateful as to sound. The descriptions

of scenery are fresh and vivid; the characters often well conceived and

forcibly drawn, and the incidents and conversations quite up to, if not

above, the ordinary standard of historical romance.

The story which we like the most is that styled “The Lady of the Rock,”

a tale of the trial and execution of the most unfortunate, though not

the worst, of kings, Charles the First; who was, in truth, a martyr to

principles which he undoubtedly believed to be true, and who died,

rather because he would not yield prerogatives which were behind the age

in which it was his unhappy fate to live, than because he grasped at

powers unused by previous monarchs, or unauthorized by the then

constitution. In this very able sketch the characters of the discrowned

king, of the stern fanatic, Cromwell, of the serene and stately Milton,

are delineated with rare truth and fidelity, and with a vigor which is

equaled by few contemporary novelists. This tale, above any other in the

volume, leads us to believe that the authoress might be successful were

she to try her hand in a wider field of historical romance; should she

do so, however, she must avoid, as in the tale called “Florence de

Rohan,” wandering too far from the truth of actual history of well known

personages; for it is an absolute rule of historico-romantic

composition, that, although events and actions, which never really

occurred, may be legitimately ascribed to real personages, provided they

are in character and keeping with time, place, and person—real events,

and real actions, if related at all, must be related as they occurred.

In a word, that although it is allowable to add, it is forbidden to

detract aught from the truth of history.

This little volume, which, by the way, is dedicated to Mr. Herbert, is

very elegantly got up and tastefully bound in gilt muslin by Mr. William

Moore of this city.

* * * * *

_A Hand-Book of the English Language, for the Use of the

Universities and Higher Classes of Schools. By R. G. Latham, M.

D., F.R.S. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is hardly necessary to say to any of our readers interested in the

history or analysis of the English language, that the author of this

learned and able volume is the latest and the best authority in the

matter of which it treats. The preface to the present American edition

asserts but the simple truth, when it declares that “Dr. Latham now

takes rank among the ablest Ethnologists of the age, and that few have

been more successful in unraveling the difficulties that involve the

origin and formation of the English tongue, in its connection with our

early history as a people. He has brought the labors of all who have

written upon the various ramifications of the Indo-European languages,

to bear upon the elucidation of our mother tongue, with an acuteness of

criticism and a breadth of view, that distances all his predecessors or

contemporaries in the same field.” It may be added also that Dr.

Latham’s method and style are in pleasing contrast to the wavering,

uncertain, choose-for-yourself-between-two-ways manner, characteristic

of many philologists. His analysis penetrates to the core of the matter,

and processes and results are stated with an austere condensation of

language, which is jealous of one useless word. As a work wherein to

obtain definite ideas of the history and grammatical structure of our

language, we do not know its equal.

* * * * *

_Arctic Searching Expedition: a Journal of a Boat-Voyage through

Rupert’s Land and the Arctic Sea, in Search of the Discovery

Ships under command of Sir John Franklin. By Sir John

Richardson, C. B., F.R.S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.

12mo._

The interest, so general all over the civilized world, felt in every

thing which relates to Franklin’s Expedition, will command for this

volume an extensive circulation. Sir John Richardson’s account of his

long voyage is especially valuable for the large amount of information

it gives respecting the climate, the physical geography, the plants, and

the Indians of the regions he visited. He has the accurate observation

of the man of science, with something of a humorist’s eye for character,

and his details of his winter quarters among the Chepewyans is quite

amusing as well as instructive. Throughout the volume there is an entire

absence of pretension and exaggeration, and every page adds to the

reader’s first favorable impression of the author’s modesty, energy, and

intelligence.

* * * * *

_Essays from the London Times. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 16mo._

This is the first of a series of volumes, to be published under the

general title of “Appleton’s Popular Library,” and to include some of

the best miscellaneous works of the day. The size is convenient, and the

general execution very elegant. The present volume is a good beginning.

It consists of essays, selected from the literary department of the

London Times, and the production, we believe, of the author of “Caleb

Stukely,”—a powerful novel which appeared some years ago in Blackwood’s

Magazine. The style is bold, clear, decisive, end business-like, and the

matter very attractive. The essay on Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton is

full of information which must be new to a majority of readers, and

evinces a complete mastery of the subject. Not less interesting are the

essays on the Orleans family, beginning with the profligate Regent of

that name, and ending with the late King of the French. The infamy in

the family’s annals is brought startlingly out. The successive children

of the house seem, to use an expression of old Dr. South, “to have been,

not so much born, as damned, into the world.” The essays on Southey,

Chantrey, Keats, and Ancient Egypt, are likewise excellent.

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

The present number we are proud of—and not caring who knows it—we tell

you, reader, that in our opinion Graham for May, is THE GEM OF THE

MONTH. The illustrations are excellent and appropriate; and as we are

not the engraver, we feel that there can be no impropriety in saying

this. The leading plate, “The Bavarian May Queen,” in artistic

excellence, we know, will not be equaled this month by any plate in any

other Magazine—and Devereux’s exquisitely finished engravings in the

body of the book, may be compared with any that appear elsewhere without

much fear upon his part.

The printing of these wood-cuts, by Mr. Jacob Young, our pressman,

entitles him to the designation of the best pressman in Philadelphia,

and those who deny or doubt his right to this appellation, may try to

beat the work, before they question the ability of the man. But there is

“no use of _talking_,” reader—the book is before you, and it is for you

to say how you like it—and if in debt—to _pay for it_. That you may do

so, we send a _bill_ this month, for which please remit _by mail_. Now

do not lay aside the book without first _booking_ up.

* * * * *

Snooks “wants to know” _why_, there is always so much gold “in the

_hands_ of passengers” whenever a California steamer arrives? “Why they

don’t put it in their pockets or their trunks, or have it in patent

safety-belts?”

We suppose it is, to have it ready to subscribe for Graham as soon as

they step on shore! That is our solution. But there are other theories.

_Enterprising Editor._ Mr. Grab, can you _do_ a small note to-day?

_Grab._ No!—the gold is all going to England, and the California

steamer brings very little.

_Editor._ Oh!—but there’s “4,000,000 in the hands of passengers!”

_Grab._ Ah!—_that_ makes a difference—2 per cent. a month is the rate

on this!

“Can such things be—and overcome us?” asks an astounded country editor.

Yes, brother—but such things don’t come over Graham.

* * * * *

Love Letters.—A perfect shower of perfumed billets, with the odor of

violets and roses fresh upon them, has fallen upon us since our last;

and we can almost fancy the sunny faces of the fair writers in all their

witchery before us. Well, Graham _is_ a happy rascal: he labors from

early morn to dewy _Eve_—ah, now the charm’s dispelled—if she had

never tasted the forbidden fruit we should have been in Paradise with

all these beautiful girls, and instead of reading their delicious

love-letters on this spring morning, we should have been crowning their

fair brows with flowers, and talking—talking!—singing Love’s own music

to them, under “the greenwood tree.” We are mad about it.

* * * * *

The editor of the Evening Bulletin, who confesses to the writing of his

editorials up in the fourth story—in a dingy apartment, insufferably

close, recently closed a long editorial upon summer-houses, walks in

shady lanes, and roses, with the cry “a-lass—a-lass!” Considering that

the man is married, he ought to be ashamed of himself.

* * * * *

_Did_ anybody ever write a piece of bad poetry, without sending it to

some unfortunate editor, with the _story_, that “numerous friends urged

the publication—some of them critics, too—or the writer would never

have thought of it?” An answer is requested.

* * * * *

A Certain Rule.—The man who pays for his paper, never grumbles about

it. It is your fellow who never pays, and who is afraid the editor will

stop it, who is your loud critic. Borrowers, though—_they_ are the

boys. “Neighbor Jenkins, why don’t you make the editor say something

about the next President? If _I took_ his paper—I’d _stop it_.”

* * * * *

“THE SOLITARY HORSEMAN.”

[Illustration]

This cut was not “designed” expressly for Graham, or we should mention

it, but it is designed to illustrate the “_dodge_” by which our

traveling agents are eluded by parties who have received Graham on

trust.

The trials, tribulations, and rude encounters of our traveling agents,

induce us to say: _Don’t wait any longer_, but mail the money you owe

us—have the letter registered—and, above all, SENT TO US AT ONCE.

We send bills in this number to those who ought to _foot_ them, to

enable us to maintain the present superior style of Graham, and we hope

that none will be so poor as to fail to reverence our claim. Come—we

give you a good book for the money!

* * * * *

The following lines are worthy of being treasured in every heart. We put

them on record for our myriad of readers.

BEN ADHEM’S DREAM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw within the moonlight of his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An Angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?” The vision raised his head,

And in a voice made all of sweet accord,

Answered, “the names of those who love the Lord!”

“And is mine one?” Ben Adhem asked. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low

But cheerly still. “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

He came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest;

And lo! Ben Adhem’s led the rest.

* * * * *

THE MUSIC OF THE RICH.

[Illustration: Left pane, TENOR, a gentleman singing, Right pane,

BARITONE, a gentleman singing.]

THE MUSIC OF THE POOR.

[Illustration: men, women and children playing music and singing, with

hats on the ground to collect monetary contributions.]

* * * * *

The Shepherd’s Song.

[Illustation: A young woman stands holding a shepherd’s crook and a

young man’s hand, with other people and sheep in the background.]

COMPOSED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY JOHN ROLAND.

Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,

_Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments._

[Illustration: musical score]

Shepherds from your sleep awake,

Morning opes her golden eye,

Rosy beams in beauty break,

Over ocean, earth and sky!

Over ocean, earth and sky!

[Illustration: musical score]

’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,

In her loveliest garb she reigns;

Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,

Tune her praise in joyous strains.

’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,

In her loveliest garb she reigns;

Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,

Tune her praise in joyous strains.

2.

See! the lark with early note,

Soars above the flow’ry lea,

As he pours from warbling throat,

Songs of cheerful melody.

Why should we, to cots confined,

Wile this beauteous hour away?

Love may loose, but not unbind,

Charms that shepherds find in day.

3.

Lead our fleecy flocks away

To their pasture in the dell;

Blithe our songs, our hearts are gay,

Shepherds’ joys, oh who can call?

Not the prince, who restless sleeps,

On his couch of silk and gold;

Nor the slave whom av’rice keeps,

In your city’s narrow fold.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and

punctuation errors have 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 available for

preparation of the eBook.

In the article _EMINENT YOUNG MEN.—NO. II., Stewart Adair Godman_,

death date of 1795 for Samuel Godman may be inaccurate based on

additional information given in its following paragraph regarding death

as occuring when his son, born 1796, was still a young child. Present

day genealogical websites have discussion regarding birth and death

dates of individuals in this family.

page 478, have here there Commissioners ==> have here their Commissioners

page 548, useful presents where ==> useful presents were

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 5, May 1852]