Come! here stands one at the Champ de Mars—how martially he deports
himself—his exactly poised musket, and his brazen ornaments—how bright!
Inscribed upon his gorget are the actions which have signalized
his regiment,—“Badajos”—“Salamanca”—“Vittoria”—“Waterloo.” We will
address him. Soldier, your regiment was at Salamanca,—“_S-i-r_.” By
the inscription on your gorget, your regiment distinguished itself at
Salamanca—“scaled the imminent deadly breach” at “Badajos”—stood the
Cuirassiers wild charge amid the sulphurous smoke at Waterloo?—“Don’t
know, indeed, s-i-r.” And is this the gallant soldier! Why, for years,
under the menace of thy sergeant, thou hast scoured that gorget to
regulation brightness—for years hast marched under thy regimental colours
emblazoned with those characters, and still in ignorance, need’st a
Champoillion to decipher them. ’Tis well. Thou art the machine, indeed,
that they require.—Verily, thy daily wage of sixpence, and thy ration,
are full compensation for thy service.
Listen! The masses hurrying forward in the western hemisphere—whether
to happiness and equality,—or furious license and bloody anarchy—with
joyous shouts, and cries of freedom, arouse the echo. Dost hear above
hoarse cries of “bread,” and mob hurrah’s—confused sounds—low muttering
thunder—the rend and clank of chains that o’er the broad Atlantic roll
from old Europe? ’Tis the chariot wheels of Liberty, as charging onwards
she sweeps away rust-covered chains, and feudal bands, like maze of
cobwebs, from her path. Hear! The Nations cry for Constitutions—the
monarchs hurrying with ghastly smiles _grant_ their request—the people
would _take_ them else. Therefore prepare thee, for wilt thou or thy
rulers—the time surely approaches. Expand thy mind—cultivate thy
intelligence—study thy God—so that when the hour arrives, in the first
wild bounds of freedom, as the desert steed thou dash not thyself to
pieces; nor, like the frantic Gaul, bursting from imprisonment of ages,
gore thyself with thine own broken fetters, rushing on to deeds of blood
and frenzy that cause humanity to shudder. Ponder it, soldier! fare thee
well.
THE NUN.
Now as we pass, look up! How minute appears the colossal statue of
Our Lady in its niche on the vast front of the cathedral. And the
nunneries—self-constituted prisons for those whom God hath born to
freedom—how like birds of evil omen they do congregate. Here is that
of the Grey Order. Ring at the gateway—we will enter. Here we pass the
court-yard; how still, how gloomy, and how prison-like! This is their
hospital. Piteous collection! The blind, the halt, the maimed, the
hideously deformed—consumption—palsy—the wrecks of fevers! See! with what
continued torture that wretched being writhes in her fixed position. Oh!
this is the small spark of good amid the black brands of evil. These
orphan children are kindly cared for, but where the child-like joy and
mirthful freedom! With what stealthy step the officials move about their
duties along the silent corridors! and,—aye! here is the chapel, with
its gilded altars, its ornaments, its embroideries, its bleeding hearts,
its sacred symbols. See with what gentleness the “_Lady_” performs the
servile duties of the sanctuary! with what humility she bends before
the altar. Oh! how beautiful that cheek of tint of Indian shell; those
dark romantic eyes, with their long pensile lashes; that nose of Grecian
outline; the small vermilion mouth; the throat and neck of snow, and the
glossy raven tresses escaping in rich luxuriance from the plaited coif
as they fall upon her sloping shoulders. Mournful seems her devotion—now
rising she stands before the Mater Dolorosa; now wistfully gazes down
the dark long corridor, in sorrowful meditation. Hush! be silent. I will
steal gently near her. Lady! Turn not—’tis thy kind spirit whispers—art
thou content? Does thy young active soul find employ congenial in these
gloomy mysteries? Does thy springing, youthful heart, sympathize in these
cold formalities—this company of grim-visaged saints and bearded martyrs
with joy enchain thee? Does the passionate imagination and deep feeling
flashing in those dark eyes—the already hectic kindling of that cheek,
look with pleasure to long years—a life of cold monotonous routine—of
nightly vigils—fastings—of painful mortifications? Lady! listen. They
chain thy soul. Break thou away. Quick in thy youth, fly from them,
fly. One moment. Speak not. See’st thou yon cottage peering from its
green shades and gravelled walks—its parterres of the myrtle and the
lily, its diamond lattice enwreathed and almost hidden in the embrace of
sweet-smelling honeysuckles and clustering roses—and its interior with
its simple yet delicate refinements? See’st thou in snowy dishabille
the lovely woman? with what heart-felt glee the frolicking, half-naked
child, with chubby arms, almost suffocates in its little embrace her
neck, its golden ringlets mingling like streams of light ’mid her dark
tresses,—with what ecstasy she enfolds him in her embraces, with maternal
lips pressing in exquisite delight the plump alabaster shoulders? Lady,
such scenes, not gloomy walls, invite thee—nay ’tis not the voice of
the Tempter—’tis not, as they will tell thee, the poisonous breath of
the many-coloured serpent stealing o’er thy senses. Let bearded men,
wrecked on their own fierce lawless passions, seek these dark cells,
these painful vigils, these unmeaning mortifications. They are not for
thee. The world awaits thy coming. The pawing steed, throwing the white
froth flakes o’er his broad chest, impatiently awaits thee. Fly, dear
lady, fly—the joyous, carrolling birds, the dew-spangled meadows, cry,
Come. The green, green trees—the bubbling water-falls—the soft summer
breezes—the rosy tinted East—the gorgeous drapery of the West—cry to
thee, Come. The voice of thy lover, frantic at thy self-sacrifice—the
voice of him who in the fragrant orange bower encircled thy slender
waist, whilst, with heightened colour and down-cast eyes, thou listen’d
to his rapid vows—the voice of him, who with thy glossy raven tresses
floating on his shoulder, and thy warm, sweet breath, mingling with his,
lavished soul, existence, all, on thee,—in agony cries, Dearest, dearest,
come. Nay, nay, ’tis but for _thy_ happiness,—I leave thee—exclaim not—I
am gone.
CATARACTS OF NIAGARA.
Now—on, on—over the Chute, and down the Rapid—leaping the Saults—through
the rivers, over the islands—we glide—we glide—we rush—we fly. Ho! Ariel,
beautiful spirit, riding on thy rainbow—shoot not thy silver arrows at
us as we pass. Tricksy spirit—fare thee well—now far in the distance,
fare—thee—well! Ha! ha!—Old frolic Puck—sweating, panting, holding thy
lubbard sides—we race—we race—we pass thee too—in vain thou strugglest
to o’ertake us. Farewell—farewell. Go pinch the housemaids—tickle with
straws the snoring herdsmen—tumble about the dusty mows—sprinkle sweet
hay before the ruminating cattle—clutch by the tail the cunning fox,
as stealthily he crawls within the hen-roost—and anon rub thy hands in
glee o’er the embers on the capacious kitchen hearth, and on all-fours
cut antics with the glowering cat, as with bowed back and shining eyes
she watches thee i’ th’ corner—peer into the kettles and into the
jars—see whether the barm rises—whether the yeast doth work; till with
clash—clatter—the metal lid slips from thy fingers on the hearth-stone,
and villain-like, thou shoot’st up the chimney, with “Ho! ho! ho!”
laughing at the sleepy yeoman, as half covered, with oaken cudgel
grasped, shivering, he peers through the door-crack the cause o’ th’
uproar. Farewell, farewell, mirthful goblin—farewell, farewell. Ontario,
we waft across thy surface. Queenstown, thy sanguinary heights, crowned
with brave Briton’s monument, we pass, and now the rising mist-wreaths
warn us of thy approach, Niagara. Huzza! huzza! now for a bath under the
roaring Cataract. In what wild chaos of waters the clam’rous rapids, as
if from the horizon, rush down upon us—jumping, leaping, boiling, in
fierce confusion; and this frail bridge, how it groans and shakes in
the torrent’s sweep! A slip from Mahomet’s sword edge o’er the awful
Hades, would not consign us to more inevitable destruction, than would
a treacherous plank or rotten beam from this shaking platform. We tread
the deep green woods of Goat Island, their mossy trunks covered with
love-marks of Orlandos and Rosalinds; and, amid the roar, descend the
great Ferry stair-case—stop a moment at this landing—step out. How the
solid earth shakes—jars and vibrates! How the wild winds rush by us, as
the huge fluid arch stretches over with continuous plunge—and see that
group of wild-flowers—scarlet, green, and purple—smiling in beauty beyond
the reach of human hand, glistening in moisture midst the very spray in
the rock cleft. But—haste—haste! Here is the boatman. Leap in—leap in!
Now how, in our little cockle-shell bark, we whirl and sport in the
eddies, o’er the fathomless depths below, like wing-borne insects playing
over the abyss.
We land—ascend the heights—we pass the sentry. At the tiring-house.
We robe ourselves for the enterprise—tarpaulin coats—hats bound with
old rope—trowsers of tow cloth—shoes of cowhide—ha! ha! But quick,
descend the long spiral stair-case. Now, Guide—we follow. Beware you
fall not on these sharp, slippery rocks. We approach. The Table Rock
hangs over us. In grandeur the solid fluid mass falls precipitate.
Prepare. Turn as you enter—hold down your head—repress your breath:
are you ready? Rush! We are beneath the yawning chasm—soaked in an
instant. Like furious rainstorm, and wind, and tempest all combined,
this wild, frightful roar. What? Scream louder, louder. Hold firm by
the guide—a slip from this narrow ledge—and—whew—splash—dead in our
faces—almost suffocated. Turn to the dripping rock wall, and catch your
breath till the wind rush again lifts the watery curtain. Slimy eels
glide by—darkness deep above—dim light strives to reach us through the
cataract sheets. We are at the extreme verge. Guide—guide—ha?—what
indicates that motion of thy lips—closer—close in my ear. “Termination
rock.” Turn—turn—splash—swash—drenched—suffocated—return, return. We see
again the light. Rush! We stand once more in the clear open sunlight.
Whew!—puff—dripping—dripping—a shower-bath worthy of old Neptune. How
delightfully our nerves spring under its exhilarating influence. Take
care—again these slippery stones. Beware! beware! Here we ascend again
the stair-case. In the attiring-room. Towels—brushes—Christians once more.
Come—come! Now to the Table Rock. See with what treacherous glitter
the wide Niagara stretches in perfect smoothness far towards Chippewa,
till, descending upon us, it shoots the rapids o’er their rocky beds
like things of life, and with wild rush around the island, sweeps
resistless o’er the awful cataracts, a roaring hurricane of waters. Give
me your hand—lean forward—look into the abyss—careful. Evil spirits
take us at advantage at such times, and whisper us to leap forward. How
lashed in milky whiteness the huge gulf boils and foams as the waters
plunge fractured, disjointed, tumbling in masses—and the wild birds,
how fearlessly they skim amid the white mist rising from its surface.
How the earth shudders and trembles around us. You are already dizzy.
Come back from the edge. How awful—how terribly sublime! How tame—how
useless, helpless description! Would that I, with voice of inspiration,
could command language adequate to pourtray the grandeur of the scene
under stern Winter’s reign! Transcendantly beautiful once I saw it! A
thaw and rain, followed by sudden chill and cold, had clothed all the
forest—every hedge and shrub, with transparent coat of ice. Gnarled
oaks, from massive trunk to their extremest twigs, became huge crystal
chandeliers. The ever-green pines and hemlocks, with long lancing
branches,—great emeralds; lithe willows, sweeping, glassy cascades; the
wild vines, stiff in silvery trellices between them; the undergrowth,
with scarlet, blue and purple berries, candied fruits. The pools of
frozen water at their feet, dark sheets of adamant; and ever and anon,
as the north wind passed o’er them, the forest was Golconda, Araby—one
Ind of radiant gems, quivering with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, in
glittering splendour; pearls, emeralds, hyacinths, chrysolites, falling
in showers, as fractured from their crackling branches, they strewed the
snowy bed stretched smooth around them. That wide, smooth river, far
above the Rapids, ice-chained, a solid snow-white bed, gleaming in the
midday sun. Yon tower, misshapen giant phantom, ice god, in frozen shroud
and winding-sheet, firmly fixed ’mid the swift running waters:—huge
stalactite icicles, Winter’s hoary beard, hanging in fantastic curtains
from each rock ledge—pinnacle—projection; while on the black rapids, the
vast ice-fields breaking in masses, piled in wild confusion, grinding
and swaying on their treacherous holds, till gathering momentum, with
slide and plunge—submerged, they swept onward ’mid the wild roar of the
cataracts, which, with stern, resistless power, held their terrific
course. Those huge sheets, those watery arches, those green beryl masses,
plunging in resistless fury, unabated vastness, with desperate leaps into
the foaming abyss below, the spray falling in silver showers, pierced
by the sun’s rays dancing around them in countless rainbows; while the
ice avalanches, breaking from their grasps on the surrounding rocks and
precipices, with booming plunge and uproar, fell crashing,—buried in
the dark whirlpools, boiling in the fathomless depths below. The dark
river, in torrents of copperas-hue, whirling in eddies, rushing o’er
its deep rocky bed—in savage contrast with the snow-covered precipices
that chained it to its course. Deep, resistless sweep of waters! black
as despair—Sadoc here were to thee the waters of Oblivion—here that
Lethe, which, till other worlds received thee, should blot existence from
keenest memory.
The voice of the Unseen addressed the afflicted Patriarch from the
whirlwind’s midst—us does it warn from this chained whirlwind of the
waters. Sublime, terrible, indescribable, as is this scene by human
tongue, how tamely all its grandeur sinks beneath the catastrophe, which
the being of future ages shall survey,—or would, if with eagle’s wings
he could soar high in the clouds above it,—when the narrow rock-belt
which Niagara for by-gone centuries has been slowly wearing, severed, the
light tract alluvial crumbling—the whole chain of inland oceans—Huron,
Erie, Michigan, with awful wildness and destruction, sweep in second
deluge o’er this outlet—the adamantine rocks sinking like snow-wreaths
from their beds—all principalities, kingdoms, states—whate’er they
shall be—between the Atlantic and the Alleghanies, the Labrador and
Mexico—swept from existence, and in their place a heaving surge—wild
waste of waters. Fool! revolve this scene terrific in thy heart—ponder it
well—then, if thou canst, say, indeed, there is no God! Thy life, at best
a flickering taper, shall soon meet extinguishment. Then shall there be
an eternity to convince thee.
MOUNT HOLYOKE.
Here we are in the middle of the month of August. The “world” have long
since fled the hot walls and blazing pavements of old Gotham, and even
the very school-boys are let loose from their pale-faced pedagogues, to
frolic like young colts in the country. Come, let us not alone remain in
the sweltering city. Throw a few things in your carpet-bag—ay, that is
sufficient. Make me the guide. We will leave Saratoga and Rockaway to
their flirtations—another field is before us. Now, Eastward ho! shall lie
our course. Distance and time are left behind us—already we are ensconced
at the Mansion House in this most lovely of villages, “Northampton the
beautiful.”
Well does it deserve the name. Come one moment to the corner of this
piazza. Look down the long avenues. See the symmetrical verdant arches,
formed by the boughs of the antique elms, bending toward each other in
loving fraternity; and see the snow-white houses at their feet, their
court-yards smiling with flowers; and see the still more smiling faces
that glance behind their transparent windows. That will do—you have
stared long enough at the demure beauty behind the green blinds. Look
this way, and witness the refined taste exhibited in the graceful
cottages, as they stand in relief against the dark back-ground of the
forest,—the Grecian column, the Gothic arch, the Italian verandah,
cottage and temple, all spread around you like the city of your dreams.
Truly it seems, as it mostly is, the abode of retired gentlemen—a very
Decameron sort of a place in this working-day world of ours. But, allons!
Are we not Americans? _Why_ should we rest? To breakfast—behold a regular
Yankee feast. Snow-white bread, and golden butter,—chickens that one
short hour since dreamed of bins of corn and acres of oats on their
roosts in the lofty barn,—steaks, pies, tea, preserves, the well-browned
cakes, and last, not least, the sparkling amber cider. Blessings on the
heart of the nice looking damsel at the coffee urn, with her red cheeks
and neat check apron. But, egad! my dear friend—prudence! hold up—we have
to ascend the mountain, and you will not find the feast that you are
stowing away with such Dalgetty industry, likely to improve your wind.
That last hot roll lengthens our ascent just one quarter of an hour.
There! the horses are neighing, and impatiently champing the bit at the
door. Are you ready? Come then. Look out, lest that fiery devil throw
you on the bosom of our common mother, earth!—your bones would find her
a step-dame—those flaming nostrils are sworn enemies to your long spur
gaffs. But here we go! How balmy and delightful the cool air of the
morning!—the verdant grass rises gracefully—the wild flower shakes its
tiny bells, and drinks the dewy diamond glittering on its lips, as it
waves gently o’er them. The rich yellow sun mocks the trees, as it rolls
out their broad shadows on the velvet turf beneath—while from knoll and
waving mullen stalk, the meadow-lark, with outstretched neck and piercing
eye, utters his sweet notes in almost delirious rapture. We clear the
broad meadows. Our very horses, with ears erect, gather speed with every
bound, and seem ready to cry ha! ha! We are the fabled centaurs of old.
See! see!—the heavy morning mist, rising in huge volumes, reluctantly
bares the forest on the mountain side,—it curls and breaks in vast
masses,—it slowly rolls off to the eastward. Aye! there he stands—there
stands old _Holyoke_, with his cragged coronal of rocks, a gigantic
Titan, bidding defiance to time and tempest. Gallop—gallop! we are within
two hundred feet of the summit. This precipice, its dark sides frowning
and grim, the velvet moss, and little clustres of scarlet and yellow
flowers peeping from its crevices, where the ripling brooklet scatters
its mimic showers over them, wreathed fantastically with vines and
gnarled branches from its clefts,—we must climb on foot. Rest a moment.
How perfectly still the dense forest extends around us. Nought breaks the
silence, save the querulous cry of the cat-bird, as it hops from branch
to branch,—the mimic bark of the squirrel, or the distant hollow tap of
the woodpecker. Now, a little more climbing—take care of those loose
stones—a few steps additional ascent—give me your hand—spring!—here we
are on the rocky platform of its summit. Is not the scene magnificent?
We stand in the centre of an amphitheatre two hundred miles in diameter.
See! at the base of the mountain curls, like a huge serpent, the
Connecticut, its sinuosities cutting the smooth plains with all sorts
of grotesque figures,—now making a circuit around a peninsula of miles,
across whose neck a child might throw a stone,—here stretching straight
as an arrow for a like distance,—and there again returning like a hare
upon its course. See the verdant valleys extending around us, rich with
the labour of good old New England’s sons, and far in the distance—the
blue smoky distance—rising in majesty, God’s land-marks, the mountains.
See the beautiful plains, the prairies beneath us, one great carpet of
cultivation,—the fields of grain, the yellow wheat, the verdant maize,
the flocks, the herds, the meadow, the woodland, forming beautiful
and defined figures in its texture, while the villages in glistening
whiteness, are scattered, like patches of snow, in every part of the
landscape; and hark! in that indistinct and mellow music we hear the
bell slowly tolling from yonder slender spire. Oh! for a Ruysdael, or a
Rubens, to do justice to the picture.
Surely God did not intend that we should sweat and pant in cities when
he places such scenes before us. How like the fierce giants of old
the lofty mountains encircle it, as a land of enchantment. See! see!
the clouds, as they scud along in the heavens, how they throw their
broad shadows, chasing each other on the plains below. Imagine them
squadrons, charging in desperate and bloody battle. But no—widows and
orphans’ tears follow not _their_ encounters—rather the smiles of the
honest, hard-handed yeoman, as he foresees his wains groaning with the
anticipated harvests—his swelling stacks—his crowded granaries. Here, for
the present, let us recline on the broad and moss-covered rocks, while
with the untutored Indian, its rightful owner, in silent admiration, we
worship the Great Spirit, whose finger moves not, save in beauty, in
harmony and majesty.
WHITE MOUNTAINS.
“Knock! knock! knock!” W-e-l-l. “Thump! thump! thump!” Who’s there?
What do you want? “Passengers for the White Mountains, Sir, time to get
up,—stage ready.” Is it possible? three o’clock already? W-e-l-l, I’ll
get up. Call the gentleman in the next room. Well, my friend, how are
you, after your trip of yesterday to Mount Holyoke?—a little stiff in
the knees and ancles, eh!—but come, the stage is at the door. Waiter,
hold the light. How forlorn look the heavy muddy vehicle, and half-waked
horses by the dim light of the stage lamps. That’s right, my good fellow;
throw those carpet-bags in the inside. Shut the door. All ready. Driver,
go ahead! “Aye, aye, sir.” Hey!—Tchk! tchk!—Crack! crack! crack! off we
go. The steady clatter of the horses’ hoofs, the jingling of the harness,
the occasional roll, as we pass over the boards of some bridge, and
the intejectional whistle of the driver as he encourages them, are the
only things that break the silence for the next hour. The morning light
begins to dawn. Whom have we here? Only two fellow travellers. An honest,
clean-looking countryman, snugly fixed in one corner, with his night-cap
pulled over his eyes, and his mouth wide open, as if admiring the melody
that his nose in bugle strain is enacting just above it; and opposite to
him a gross fat man, of rubicund visage, his eyes ensconced in goggles.
See! he nods—and nods—and nods, and now his head bobs forward into his
neighbour’s lap. How foolishly he looks, as he awakes to consciousness.
It is broad day-light. Let us get up with the driver on the outside, and
enjoy our cigars and the scenery together.