their slain brother to his rocky sepulchre, as with grim, stern, averted
countenances they watched the fierce conflict and assault of the daring
Infidel upon their Holy City—and there, the cross of Constantine richly
emblazoned on its altar, was the _Crucifixion_, the Saviour extended
on the cross—the thieves on each side of him—the head just bowed—and
the awful “_It is finished!_” announced to the nations in frightful
phenomena. The sun turned to blood, throwing a lurid and unnatural
glare on the assembled multitude—the war-horses, riderless, rearing
and plunging with distended nostrils—rolling in convulsions the solid
mountains;—the affrighted soldiery, horror-stricken, wildly lifting their
hands to ward off the toppling crag, which, torn from its foundation by
the earthquake, was in another instant to grind them to powder—while
the Roman centurion, with curling lip, holding tighter in his grasp the
crimson flag, the “_S. P. Q. R._” shaking fiercely in the wild wind,
seemed to deride the coward Jew, even in that dread moment, with his
abject slavery—and here was San Sebastian, his eyes streaming with martyr
tears—and the tinkling of a small bell struck upon my ear:—boys clad in
scarlet, swung their censers to and fro, and the incense floated high
above them to the vaulted arches.
A train of monks, in purple robes embroidered with white crosses,
appeared in procession, slowly advancing on the tesselated pavement,
bearing on tressels, covered with dark pall, a corse, by the muffled
outline, of manly stature. Two female figures; grave servitors, with deep
reverence supporting them, followed close the dead. The deep thunder
tones of the huge organ, swept upward as they entered, wild, grand,
and terrible, as if touched by no earthly hand: scarce audible sounds
floating from the smallest pipes would catch the ear—then bursts, like
the roaring whirlwind, pouring in the whole mass of trumpets, rolling,
and rising, and falling,—the most exquisite symphonies floating in the
intervals, until fainter, fainter, the heart sickened in efforts to
catch its tones. Dead silence followed:—the corse was deposited in the
chancel—the dark black pall was slowly withdrawn, and the noble figure of
a cavalier in the bloom of manhood, pallid in death, lay exposed before
us. Clad in sable velvet, his rapier rested on his extended body, the
jewelled cross-hilt reverently enclosed in his clasped hands, as they
met upon his broad chest, while the luxuriant raven hair, parted on the
high forehead, the dark arched eye-brow, and the glossy moustache curling
on the lip, added deeper pallor, to what appeared deep, deep sleep. The
servitors withdrew, and the mother and the daughter advanced to the last
sight of him that was so generous, so kind, so beautiful—their all. The
thick veil, thrown hastily aside, discovered the furrowed, time-worn,
grief-worn features of the mother, convulsively writhe and work, as,
sinking at its head, her lips pressed in uncontrollable agony the damp
cold white forehead. The sister, clad in robes of purest whiteness, her
golden ringlets dishevelled and floating around her, and in their rich
luxuriance, almost hiding her graceful form, bent o’er him; and as her
gaze met not the answering smile of kindness and protection, to which
from infancy it was wont, but the stern, calm, sharpened features,
in their icy stillness; then, as with frantic sobs, her exquisitely
feminine, almost childish countenance, streaming with tears, was lifted
upwards, and her hands wringing with anguish,—then uttered in deep
convulsive bitterness, that “_Ai Jesus!_” in smothered tones, again
struck upon my startled ear. Long silence followed, unbroken save by
sobs, as, sunk by its side, they embraced the still, unconscious ashes.
Slowly the deep grave voices of the monks rose in solemn tones, and as
their mournful chant sank into deep bass, at intervals was it taken
up by a single female voice in the choir, which, high above the organ
tones, with surpassing sweetness, ascended higher, higher, until every
nook in the lofty arches above, appeared filled and overflowing with the
rich melody: then, descending lower—lower—lower—the imagination wildly
sought it in the passing wind. The monks drew near with uplifted and
extended hands, muttering in low tones their benediction; then crossing
themselves, encircling the corse on bended knees, with eyes lifted up to
heaven, uttered, in loud voices—
“Ora pro illo—mater miserecordiæ,”
“Salvator Hominum—Ora pro illo”——
“_Ora pro illo_,” again rose like a startled spirit from the choir, in
that single female voice, rising with an intensity that made the old
walls re-echo the petition—and then, descending like the fluttering of a
wounded bird, it became less—less—and all was still.
After a brief interval, leaning in apparent stupor upon the arms of the
affectionate retainers, the ladies slowly withdrawing, passed again the
chancel’s entrance, and the sacred procession raising the body with
melancholy chant, bore it to the lower part of the chapel. I heard the
clank of iron, as the rusty portal of the family sepulchre reluctant
turned upon its hinges;—and then rested from its human journey, that
corse forever. I made inquiries, but could learn nought about the actors
in the scene, other than that they were strangers,—a noble family from
the Havana;—that the father—invalid—had died in crossing the sea—and the
usual story of Spanish love, and jealousy, and revenge, had consigned
the son and brother, in the bloom of his days, by duel, to his grave;
and subsequently, that the mother and sister had closed the history of
the family, dying, broken-hearted, in the convent to which they had
retired. But, here we are, at the wharf. Our rapid journey approaches
now its termination. A few short hours, and we shall again be merged
in the ceaseless din of the city; the fair and tranquil face of nature
change for the anxious countenances of our fellow-men; the joyous carol
of the birds, the soft forest breeze, and the sea-beach ripple, for paved
streets and our daily round of duty and of labour. We have found “a
world beyond Verona’s walls.” Perhaps at future time we may again travel
it together. Till then, thanking you for your “right good and jollie”
company. Farewell!
OLD TRINITY STEEPLE.
BROADWAY NEAR THE BOWLING-GREEN.
(Ground covered with ice—Furious storm of snow and sleet. Two gentlemen
becloaked and bemuffled, hurrying in different directions, come in full
contact, and mutually recoiling hasten to make apology.)
“My dear Sir—a thousand pardons.”—“No, indeed Sir, ’twas I—I was the
offending party.”—“No, I assure you—I”—eh!—is it?—it is!—my old friend
the reader.—Why, my dear friend—you came upon me as if you had been
discharged from a Catapult—a Paixhan shot was nothing to you? But where
so fast in the fury of the storm—Not to Union Square! Heavens! Man, you
will never reach there living—Why in this horrid cold the spirits of
Nova-Zembla and Mont-Blanc are dancing in ecstacy about the fountains
in the Park, and the very cabs are frozen on their axles! Never think
of it. Come—come with me to my rooms hard by in State-street, and
on the word of a bachelor and a gentleman, I’ll promise to make you
comfortable. Come, take my arm—Whew! how this North-Wester sweeps around
the Battery. Here we are—This is the house—A real aristocratic old
mansion; is it not?—Enter, my dear friend—Run up the stairs—Holloa!
ho! Scip!—Scipio—Africanus—Angel of Darkness—come forth—come forth—Ay!
here you are. And you, too, shaggy old Neptune, your eyes sparkling with
delight, and your long tongue hanging out over your white teeth—down—you
old rascal—down sir—down. Now, is not this snug and comfortable—a good
roaring fire of hickory—none of your sullen red-hot anthracite for me.
How the cold wind howls through the leafless trees upon the Battery,—Draw
the curtains—Scip!—Come, bear a hand, take the reader’s hat and coat.
Invest him with the wadded damask dressing gown that Tom sent home
from Cairo—and the Turkish slippers—So—so—Now bring me mine; place the
well-stuffed easy chairs; roll the round table up between us—bring in
the lights. Now, reader, at your elbow, lo! provision for your wants,
material and mental—genuine old Farquhar and amber Golden Sherry—the
Chateaux I got years since from Lynch; and just opened is that box of
genuine Regalias, only smell! “Fabrica de Tabacos—Calle-a-Leon—En la
Habana, No. 14.” Is it not Arabia’s perfume! Ha! give me your smoking
Spaniard in his sombrero—e’er any a half-naked Bedouin of them all;—or
if indeed you do prefer it, there stands the Chiboque coiled up in
the corner, and the metaphysical German’s meer-schaum on the shelf.
There are biscuit and anchovies, and olives, “old Cheshire,” and other
inviting things for your wants physical, and for your mental, lo! uncut
and damp from the publishers with the regular new book smell—the North
American—Old Blackwood—the Quarterly—the Edinburgh Review—Diedrich in
his high back chair, the Sporting and other Maga’s, and by a slight
curve of thy vertebræ cervical, behold shining through yon glazed
doors—glowing in gold, dross to the gold within; the great master Bard of
England—Cervantes—the chosen spirits of Italia and Gaul—Irving—worthy to
be called Washington—Bryant—sweet poet—and Halleck, genuine son of the
voyagers in the Mayflower—and of literature much other goodly store.
Now, Scip! Lord of the Gold Coast—throw more wood upon the fire—Ay! that
will do—my good old faithful servant—that will do—now take that pepper
and salt head of thine down to the kitchen hearth, there to retail thy
legend and goblin story, or ensconce thee in the corner at thy will—Ah!
hah, old Neptune—snug in thy place upon the hearth rug—thy nose lying
between thy outstretched paws as thou lookest intently in the fire—Bless
thine honest heart!—thinking, I warrant me, of the beautiful child whom
thou didst leap the Battery bridge to save. How bravely thou didst bear
the little sufferer up on the fast rushing tide. The grateful father
would have bought thee for thy weight in gold, as thou didst lie panting
and half exhausted—but look not so wistfully my dog—a sack of diamonds
could not purchase thee—no—never do we part till death steps in between
us—and, by my faith, an’ thou goest first, thou shalt have Christian
burial.
Now, dear reader, as thou reclinest comfortably in that big arm chair,
thy feet in Ottoman slippers resting on the fender, the blue smoke of
thy cigar wreathing and curling around thy nose, as it ascends in placid
clouds, and floats in misty wreaths above thy forehead—the glass of
Chateaux, like a ruby resting upon its slender stem, light, quivering at
thy elbow, and that open Blackwood upon thy knee—dost not—confess it—dost
not feel more kind and charitable, than if, with benumbed fingers, thou
wert following a frozen visage to thy distant mansion, in the great
city’s far purlieus—
But, heaven guard us! how savagely the tempest roars and howls around
the chimney tops—Good angels preserve the poor mariner as he ascends
the ice-clad rigging—lays out upon the slippery yard—and handles with
frost-benumbed fingers the rigid canvass folds. Ah! I recollect it was
in just such a night as this, a few years since—years that have rolled
past into retrograde eternity, that I was seated in that same arm chair,
in the same bachelor independence, the fire burning just as brightly—the
curtains as snugly drawn—my beautiful Flora looking down with the same
sweetness from her frame above the mantel—my snow white Venus between the
piers—the Gladiator stretching forth his arm in just such proud defiance
from his pedestal—my Rembrandt—Claude—and Rubens flickering in softness
in the firelight—the Fornarina and St. Cecilia with vase of incense
clasped, and upturned eyes of deep devotion, hanging in the same placid
stillness between their silken tassels, and that Æolian harp chiming just
such wild and fitful strains—’twas in just such a cold and inhospitable
night, that, sitting with my legs extended upon the fender, I fell into a
train of rather melancholy musings.
The clock of St. Paul’s slowly doled out the hour of midnight, and
it seemed as if in the responsive, al-l’-s-w-e-l-l of the watchman,
rendered indistinct by the distance, the spirit of the hour was
bewailing in plaintive tones the annihilation of its being. Time’s
brazen voice announced to unheeding thousands—“Ye are rushing on
eternity.” I thought of my friends who had dropped off one by one,
from around me,—youth and old age had alike sunk into the abyss of
death—consumption—fever—palsy—had done their work; the slight ripple of
their exit had subsided, and all was still—as quiet and as beautiful as
if they had never been. Among others, was poor Louisa S——, in the prime
of her youth, and the bloom of her beauty. But one short week—she was
the pride of her friends, the idol of her husband;—in another, the slow
toll of the village bell announced her funeral. I shall never forget
the scene. The soft yellow light of the declining sun was streaming
through the lofty elms which bordered the rustic grave-yard, painting
their broad shadows on the velvet turf, as the procession of mourners
slowly wended their way among the mounds which covered the decaying
remnants of mortality. Leaning upon a tomb-stone near the fresh dug
grave, I had awaited its arrival. The bier was placed upon the ground—the
coffin-lid was thrown open, and friends looked for the last time upon
the beautiful face, pallid and sharp in death. Her dark hair was parted
upon her forehead,—but the dampness of death had deprived it of its
lustre, and her soft eyes were closed in the slumber from whence they
were never again to wake. I gazed long and painfully upon that face
which appeared to repose only in serene and tranquil sleep, while the
sobbing group reached forward to catch a last and parting glimpse of it
in its loveliness. Oh! I could not realize that the lovely form was still
forever—that those lips were to remain closed, till the day, when amid
whirlwinds and fire, they were to plead her cause before the Almighty.
The coffin-lid was replaced in silence—a suppressed whisper from the
sexton—a harsh grating of the cords, and the gaping pit received its
prey. While the clergyman in his deep and gloomy voice, was pronouncing
the burial service of the dead, I looked around upon the uncovered
group,—the mother and sister in unrestrained sobs, gave vent to their
anguish, but the husband stood, his eyes fixed upon the grave in deep and
silent agony. He moved not, but when the dead heavy clamp of earth and
stones fell upon the coffin, which contained the remains of all that was
dear to him, he gave a gasp, as if he had received a death wound—but that
was all;—the thick, convulsive breathing, and the swollen arteries upon
his temples, showed that his was the bitterness of despair. Ere long, his
wasted form beneath its own green hillock, rested at her side.
I had sat some time, thinking “of all the miseries that this world is
heir to,” when gradually, my room became mazy, the tongs and fender were
blended into one—the fire slowly disappeared, and, to my utter horror and
astonishment, I found myself swinging upon the weather-cock of Trinity
Church steeple.—How I came there, I could not tell, but there I was. Far,
far below me, I saw the long rows of lamps in Broadway and the adjoining
streets, shining in lines of fire; while here and there the glimmer of
those upon the carriages, as they rolled along, resembled the ignis fatui
in their ghostly revels upon the morass. The bay lay in the distance,
glittering in the moonlight, a sea of silver, the islands and fortresses
like huge monsters resting upon its bosom. All nature appeared at rest.
An instant, and but an instant, I gazed in wild delight upon the scene;
but as the novelty vanished, the dreadful reality of my situation became
apparent. I looked above me—the stars were trembling in the realms of
space. I looked below, and shuddered at the distance—I tried to believe
that I was in a dream—but that relief was denied me. I grew wild with
fear—I madly called for help—I screamed—I yelled in desperation. Alas!
my voice could not be heard one half the distance to earth. I called
on angels—Heaven, to assist me,—but the cold wind alone answered, as
it rushed around the steeple in its whistle of contempt. As my animal
spirits were exhausted, I became more calm. I perceived that the slender
iron upon which the weather-cock was fixed was slowly bending with the
weight of my body, already benumbed with cold. Although it was madness,
I ventured a descent. Moving with extreme caution, I clasped the spire
in my arms—I slid down inch by inch. The cold sweat poured off my brow,
and the blood curdling in my veins, rushed back in thick and suffocating
throbs upon my heart. I grasped the steeple tighter in my agony—my nails
were clenched in the wood—but in vain; slip—slip—the steeple enlarged
as I descended—my hold relaxed—the flat palms of my hands pressed the
sides, as I slid down with frightful rapidity. Could I but catch the
ledge below! I succeeded—I clutched it in my bleeding fingers—for a
moment I thought that I was safe, but I swung over the immense height
in an instant; the wind dashed me from side to side like a feather. I
strove to touch the sides of the steeple with my knees—I could not reach
it—my strength began to fail—I felt the muscles of my fingers growing
weaker. The blackness of despair came over me. My fingers slid from the
ledge—down—down I plunged—one dash upon the roof, and I was stretched
motionless upon the pavement.
A crowd collected around me. I heard them commiserating my fate. They
looked at me, and then at the steeple, as if measuring the distance from
whence I had fallen; but they offered me no assistance. They dispersed—I
slowly raised myself on my feet—all was cold and still as the grave.
Regions of ice—an immense transparent mirror, extended on every side
around me. The cold, smooth plain, was only measured by the horizon.
I found myself on skates;—I rushed along, outstripping the winds,—I
ascended mountains of ice,—I descended like a meteor—Russia, with her
frozen torrents,—Siberia with its eternal snows, were behind me,—miles
and degrees were nothing—on I rushed,—Iceland vanished,—with the speed of
a thunderbolt I passed Spitzbergen,—days, weeks expired, but still I sped
forward, without fatigue, without exhaustion. How delightfully I glided
along—no effort—no exertion—all was still, cold, and brilliant. I neared
the pole,—the explorers were slowly wending their tedious way,—they
hailed me, but I could not stop,—I was out of sight in an instant. I saw
an immense object swinging to and fro in the distance—it was the great
and mighty pendulum. As I neared it, a confused noise of voices broke
upon my ear,—mathematical terms echoed and re-echoed each other, like the
hum of a bee-hive. I was surrounded with winged chronometers, barometers
and magnets—plus, (+) minus (-) and the roots (√ √) were flying around me
in every direction, jostling each other without mercy. Great long-legged
compasses with knowing look were gravely listening to the measured tick
of prim chronometers, and groups of angles and parallelograms watched
the variations of the needle. Every instrument of science appeared
collected in solemn conclave, for great and mighty purpose,—but soon all
was hubbub and confusion. The compasses and Gunther’s scale had come to
blows. Angles and triangles, oblongs and cones, formed a ring around
them. Little cylinders and circles came rolling in from every quarter
to see the fun, and bottle-holding squares and cubes stood stoutly at
their champions’ sides, while electric jars mounted on a neighbouring
dial, in highest glee, spirited forth whole streams of snapping sparks
to incite them in the contest. The scale was down, and the compass
bestrode him in proud defiance; but the bottle-holders interfering, all
was instant uproar and confusion, and the fight soon became one common
melée. Pins flew about, and springs and wheels went whizzing through the
throng, but amid the tumult, suddenly appeared a huge electrical machine,
grinding wrathfully along, and soon the field was cleared, and nought was
seen save here and there some limping figure hobbling off in desperate
precipitation. But amid the uproar, the giant pendulum still swung
forward and backward with the noiseless motion of the incubus;—I neared
it and saw that the top of the huge rod was riveted by the pole star,
which shone with the intensity of the diamond. But—but—
I saw the ship approaching among the distant icebergs—the great lordly
icebergs,—how they rolled and roared and ground against each other in
the heavy surge!—their huge sides now shining great sheets of silver—now
glancing with the deep blue of the precious sapphire, now quivering
in the sun’s rays, with all the hues of the grass-green emerald and
blazing ruby,—ha! I saw her—I saw the gallant ship threading her way
among them, as their castellated sides towered mountain-like above her.
I made one spring—one gallant spring—and catching by her top-mast, slid
down in safety to her decks. Her sails were spread widely to the winds
and recklessly we ploughed our course onward through the icy flood;—but
now her speed diminished—now we scarcely moved. The rudder creaked
lazily from side to side, and the long pennant supinely resting on the
shrouds, languidly lifted itself as if to peer into the dark flood,
and then serpent-like, settled itself again to its repose. A sullen
distant roar began to break upon my ear,—it increased,—our before quiet
bark, hastening, rushed onwards as if ashamed of her dull reverie; but
still there was no wind—the sea was smooth and placid, but the swelling
surge was thrown forward from her bows, by the increasing velocity
with which we dashed along. The rushing noise of waters increased, and
sounded like distant thunder; the white surges showed themselves in the
distance, leaping and jumping with frightful violence. I approached
the captain;—his gloomy brow—the ghastly paleness of the crew, as with
folded arms they stood looking in the distance, alarmed me. I eagerly
asked the cause of the appearances before me,—he answered not,—he stood
immoveable as a statue:—but, in a cold unearthly voice, a scar-marked
sailor groaned, “We are food for the Maelstroom!”—Can we not, I
franticly exclaimed—oh! can we not escape? Bend every sail—ply every
oar,—“Too late—too late,” echoed again the gloomy voice—“our doom is
sealed;”—and the finger of the speaker pointed to a dark fiendish figure
at the helm, who, with a low hellish laugh, was steering for the midst.
The raging waves boiled and roared around us,—our fated ship plunged
forward—a steady resistless power sucked us in,—on we were hurried to
our frightful goal. The whale—the leviathan, swept by us—their immense
bodies were thrown almost entirely in the air,—their blood stained the
foaming brine—they roared like mad bulls. The zigzag lightning in the
black canopy above us, was reflected in fiery showers from the spray—the
crashing thunder mingled with the yells of the struggling monsters—their
efforts were vain—more power had infants in giants’ hands,—the devouring
whirlpool claimed us for its own. On we were borne in unresisting
weakness—faster and faster,—circle after circle disappeared,—we were on
the edge of the furious watery tunnel,—we were buried in its depths,—the
long arms of the loathsome polypi stretched forward to seize us in their
foul embrace—but an unseen hand raised me.