GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXVII. AUGUST, 1850. No. 2.
Table of Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
Music and Musical Composers
The Chase
The Bride of the Battle
Pedro de Padilh
A Romance of True Love
Wordsworth
Bridget Kerevan
What Katy Did
The Game of the Season
The Fine Arts
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music, and Fashion
Manuela
Wood Violets
Memories
Red Jacket
The Mariner’s Tale
Impulse and Principle
Riverside
Chant of the Néreides
Le Follet
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
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[Illustration: THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1850. No. 2.
* * * * *
MUSIC AND MUSICAL COMPOSERS.
BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.
’Tis the silver key to the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain runs wild;
The softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a sleepy child,
Is laid asleep on flowers.
Shelley.
It were much too vast a labor to commence an inquiry into the subject of
this essay, with a dissertation on the _origin of music_. Posterity may
be enabled, by the aid of advanced wisdom, to explain the birth of this
and other blessings which to us appear only natural, and may, perhaps,
successfully trace to their sources the numerous enjoyments which God
created as ministers to man’s happiness, and of which we now know only
the mere existence. It will not be uninteresting to our children’s
children to learn how men first discovered that the various sounds with
which the Creator, in his wisdom, invested the human voice, might be
linked together in wonderful combinations—producing from monotonous
particles melodious unisons; and how a knowledge of the various
distinctions which the extension or diminution of time confers on every
distinct atom of sound, first dawned upon the human mind, appealing
through the senses to the soul, and binding, with a force and power
which belong not to any other immaterial agent, the heart of man in
chains of amaranthine flowers. These wonders, like many more, which now,
for aught we know, lie on the first unturned page of wisdom’s book, will
one day be developed.
It is more than probable that he who first tuned his voice to song,
little thought of the marvels of music, nor dreamed to what perfection
the rules of sound would one day be brought. He used the power which God
had given him, nor stopped to inquire into the nature or construction of
the tones which he almost involuntarily produced, and which lightened
his labor, while they made glad his heart. Science in those days was an
infant:—has she yet passed the era of her first childhood?
A consideration of the history of music may be prosecuted under four
heads: Ancient and Modern, Sacred and Profane; but as it is not intended
to do more in this essay than to indulge in a few unimportant and
rambling reflections on the progress of music, and on the state of
perfection to which it has at present arrived, we will cursorily review
ancient music, as preceding the days of Handel and Mozart, and of modern
music, from those masters down to the writers of the present day.
It is not denied that the earlier attempts at song were so limited in
design and so feeble in imagination as to excuse the application in our
time of the term _barbarous_ to the music of the days of Moses and
Miriam, and even to the sounds which accompanied the inspired language
of the poet king. Music was then in its infancy. The rude instruments
which Tubal Cain invented, and which in after ages were improved, but
still left rude, were circumscribed in their compass, and harsh in their
tones, although reason teaches that they must have been, what is
technically termed “true” in their mechanical formation. According to
the compass of these rough productions, the multitude restrained their
compositions. Instruments were considered necessary to give effect to
song; but as these auxiliaries could not express all the sounds of which
the voice was capable, it was thought requisite that the voice should be
made subservient to the instruments. The more extensive compass of the
voice excited admiration and stimulated the desire for imitation. Thus
the voice was the means of improving the mechanical expression of sound;
and as instrumental mechanism progressed, the human voice became
liberated from the restrictions which former ignorance had imposed upon
it, and a freer course was afforded to its capabilities in obedience to
the eccentricities of the imagination.
Every nation has always had, as it now has, its own peculiar and
distinctive style of expressing emotion through the agency of the voice.
Barbarous as the first developments of musical ability may have been,
they nevertheless expressed the peculiar and characteristic feeling of
the people who employed them. With one nation the style was melancholy,
with another pensive, with another light, and with a fourth lively. Some
delighted to denote their ideas in the junction of lengthened and
monotonous sounds, expressive of grief; others in short changing
accents; of carelessness or indifference; and others in the deep
measured sounds of martial melody. These distinctions still exist in so
marked a degree among different people as to entitle them to the
appellation of national musical characteristics.
It is generally believed, and not without good grounds, that the earlier
attempts at producing musical effect by the union of a considerable
number of voices and instruments, were not remarkable for any of that
variety which invests with so many attractions the music of a later
period. All the singers enunciated the same notes, and in the same
time—very much in the style which large prayer-meetings adopt in the
open air. The manner in which the beauty and diversity of concords and
discords were first discovered, and the precise era at which such
discovery was made, are also matters which are reserved for some later
and more successful laborer. This branch of the science of music has,
perhaps, undergone greater alteration and improvement than any other. It
is by no means an uninteresting study, first to imagine the absence of
all knowledge of chords among the first inhabitants of our globe; then
to look over the works of the earliest masters whose compositions are
still extant, and then to follow the publications of later writers down
to the present day, observing at each stage the wonderful differences
which exist in the instrumental writings of every age.
The act of committing sounds to paper, although very old, must still be
regarded, comparatively with the birth of music, as of late discovery.
Transferring mere sound from the mind to the paper, without the
assistance of any intermediate articulation is a wonder equally great,
to say the least of it, as is the act of writing words. Yet no one gives
a thought to the invention of the marvel. The fame of Cadmus is diffused
over the habitable globe, while the mastermind which first conceived the
possibility of recording his thoughts on and in a few parallel lines by
means of dots and scratches, causes no inquiry and excites no
admiration.
The task of organizing and perfecting so complete and infallible a
scheme must have been immense. In the first place the distance, so to
speak, between each tone of which the human voice is capable was to be
defined by certain laws and rules, and represented by distinctive marks.
Then the length or duration of each tone in any given air was to be
marked separately or in junction with other tones, without deranging the
qualities of any or detracting from the harmony of the whole. Then were
to be encountered the difficulties incidental to changes of the key-note
or tone. On discovering that the human voice, after executing seven
notes, among which are five tones and two semitones, produced, in
ascending to the eighth, a tone exactly similar to the first, it was
necessary to construct a scale of keys which would always place the two
semitones in exactly the same position, and in the same relation to the
full tones. Lastly, and perhaps more wonderful than all, a proper and
minute division of TIME was to be effected. That inherent appreciation
of what musicians term “time,” which almost every human being possesses
naturally, but which few understand, and none can explain, was to be
expressed and defined. Divisions and subdivisions were to be
demonstrated and made clear. This was the task of tasks. Savages, who
never heard of the existence of such a science as music, are known to
clap their hands in unison at certain measurable periods in their wild
songs. They observe the law of musical time, without having the
slightest conception of what time is. Nor are we much better now. We can
write time as well as tune, but we know not now, nor have we yet been
able to analyze or detect the instinct which teaches us, as it does the
Savages, at what periods of any given air we should mark time. Yet
thousands of persons, singing together, will “_beat_” at the same
instant. No one knows why or wherefore it should be so. We only feel
that it is so, and that human ingenuity has enabled us to write and
otherwise to mark time. The order of intellect, which first discovered
the means of doing even this little, must have been very high indeed.
The difference between the musical instruments of our time and those of
a former age, is another interesting subject of inquiry. The Bible
mentions the timbrel, the ram’s horn, the reed, the harp, silver
trumpets, and other equally rude inventions. From later classical
writers we learn the existence of the pipe and tabor, the lyre, the
lute, and others. In the records of a much more advanced period, we find
mention of the harpsichord, whence we have obtained our present
tolerably perfect piano forte. The gradations from the instrumental
knowledge mentioned in the Bible down to the astonishing state of
improvement to which the art of manufacturing musical instruments has
arrived, have been slow but steady. It is possible that our posterity
will look back upon our piano fortes, our violins, violincellos, double
basses, cornets, trombones, bassoons, oboes, clarionets, flageolets,
flutes, harps, French-horns, serpents, opheclides, guitars, tenors, and
kettle-drums, with great contempt. Perhaps even our organ, which is an
ancient invention, will not escape the critical censure of a coming age.
And there can be little doubt that much remains yet to be known in the
manufacture of musical instruments. It may be said with much reason that
the only perfect instruments now in use are the violin, the violincello,
the double-bass, the tenor, and one or two others. On these any tone of
which their compass is capable can be produced in every possible variety
of execution. The piano forte, delightful as are its powers, cannot
produce a gliding sound from one note to the other; neither can it
prolong a note for any length of time without losing at its termination
the vigor with which it produced the tone at its commencement. In
addition to these disadvantages it labors under another which is common
to all wind instruments. It can produce full tones, diatonic semitones,
and chromatic semitones, but it cannot yield an enharmonic tone. On the
piano forte, on the harp, and on all wind instruments, (with the
exception of the organ in the Temple Church, London,[1]) G flat is F
sharp; A flat is G sharp; E sharp is F natural; B sharp is C natural; E
flat is D sharp, and so on. The difference is so nicely arranged as
scarcely to strike the finest ear; but it is undoubtedly an obstacle in
the way of perfection which will most probably be overcome by and by.
The organ in the Temple Church, in London, which we have made an
exception to the above complaint, is a curious specimen. The black notes
are split, in order to provide for the production of enharmonic tones,
and the effect on a nice ear is very agreeable.
As the majority of organs are not made on the last named principle they
must be classed among the imperfect instruments. At the same time, it is
believed that general opinion unites in ascribing to the organ the first
place among instruments. It is capable of prolonging sounds, of
producing multiplied chords, of modulating and swelling its tones at the
option of the performer, of suppressing or expanding its volume, and, in
a word, of doing every thing which any other instrument can perform,
except of gliding from one note to another.
There are now extant several specimens of the style of music in use
among the monks of the earlier Christian ages. These examples are very
curious, and, to the casual observer, extremely interesting. The airs
are written on four lines, and are marked with treble and bass clefs,
but they would appear to have been intended almost entirely for the use
of singers. Instrumental music of that period is much more rare and
uncommon. The compositions alluded to are very feeble, and evince an
ignorance of the extent to which musical sounds might be made available.
They are merely loose themes without any attempt whatever at artistic
effect. As time wore on, the writing on five lines instead of on four
became universally adopted in Europe, and the style of composition
gradually improved.
The English nation have never been remarkable for musical genius. As
late in their history as the accession of the house of Hanover, the
greater part of their music came from abroad. Nor were there any great
instrumental performers among them. It is only of comparatively late
years that any thing like a talent for composition has sprung up among
them, and even now they are so far behind most other nations in the art,
as to hold a very insignificant position in the musical world. While the
music of all other countries has in it something distinctively and
peculiarly characteristic, English melodies (if we except their glees
and madrigals) have none. The late operas which have been brought out in
London, betray an attempt at servile imitation of the Italian school;
but the English have not a writer at the present day whose compositions
manifest the slightest originality: and with the exception of Dr. Arne,
Cabott, Bishop, Rolf, Rooke, and one or two others, their musical works
are devoid of conception, character, or beauty. At the same time it must
be admitted that there is nothing finer in the world than the English
glees and madrigals. These possess a truly definitive character. They
are really English, and bear about the same relation to the smooth
strains of Italy and Germany, as the bluff, straight-forward yeoman does
to the French exquisite. They are at once original, heart-stirring, and
amusing. Many of the madrigals exhibit a great amount of artistic skill
and musical acquirement, and, when well executed, they are extremely
entertaining. Some of the English anthems are also very excellent, but
the attempt to imitate the German school is too apparent throughout.
They are not the less agreeable on this account, but they lose the charm
which would attach to originality.
The English are, as a nation, fond of music, but their love for it
seldom reaches the enthusiasm which is felt for the art by a German, an
Italian, a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. It would, perhaps, be more correct
to say that the English admire music rather than that they love it. The
uneducated classes will gladly listen to music, but they are never moved
by it. They may learn or become acquainted with certain airs, but they
never impart to what they sing or whistle that elegance or depth of
feeling which a really musical mind never fails to throw into an air
which pleases him.
The Scotch music, without possessing much claim to art, has a decidedly
characteristic feature. It is unlike the compositions of any other
country. Even their quickest airs have something peculiarly melancholy
in their style, which is touching and agreeable. The principal feature
in Scotch music is the frequent introduction of short, catching sounds
before long notes.
The Spanish style of music is pleasing but variable. The national
fondness for dancing appears to exercise some influence over all their
strains; notwithstanding which many of their airs have an extremely
melancholy expression. As opera writers they have never excelled, but
for love-songs and martial choruses, their style is equal to that of any
other people in the world. Their serenades are among the sweetest
efforts of simple composition in the world, containing, notwithstanding
the plainness of their style, considerable feeling, and an obvious
expression of deep passion.
The Italian school of music divides with the German the admiration of
the world. Differing widely from the German, it possesses charms equally
attractive and quite as moving. If a preference is to be accorded at
all, it must be given to the German school, which contains more art;
this preference could, however, only be yielded by musicians. The masses
are more likely to be attracted by sounds which appeal at once to the
senses and charm the ear, than by strains which contain perhaps somewhat
less of melody, but which stir up the passions to a greater degree and
do not charm until they are understood. The Italian style is smooth,
soft and melodious. Even the most martial or impassioned passages are
harmonious and agreeable. The chief dependence of the composer for
success would seem to be the melody of the scene which he writes. The
arrangement is generally artistic, but only sufficiently so to accord
with the desire of the composer to make use of the richer resources of
his art. He makes the science subservient to the principle of
attraction. For this reason Italian vocal music is highly preferred
before Italian instrumental music. While as opera writers, the masters
of Italy are deservedly famous, we seldom hear of them as composers for
the piano, or of any lengthy romantic pieces in which instruments are to
convey certain impressions unaided by the human voice or by personal
representation.
Of the Italian composers who have remained favorites until the present
day, none, perhaps, assimilate more closely to the German school than
Pacini and Mercadante. Their works cannot boast of that melodious
characteristic which so highly distinguishes those of their
fellow-countrymen, the theme being generally less connected; but they
are nevertheless decidedly of a higher order in an artistic point of
view than the operas of their more favored successors. In the lighter
style of Italian composition, Cimarosa and Ricci, as old masters, rank
deservedly high; but they do not bear comparison with the Buffo school
of the present day.
Among the later writers of Italian operas who have attained eminence in
the divine science may be named Mercadante, Rossini, Bellini,
Donnizzetti, and Verdi. To compare the peculiar merits of these great
artistes would be a task of extreme difficulty, as Rossini, Bellini and
Mercadante differ very materially in style, while that of Bellini and
Donnizzetti closely assimilate, and Verdi’s partakes of the character
both of Bellini’s and Donnizzetti’s, with something of the German
school.
The style of Rossini, without being deficient in feeling or artistic
arrangement, always partakes in some degree of lightness, which is owing
to the very florid manner in which he invariably wrote. His Guiglielmo
Tell, Pietro l’Eremita, Gazza Ladra, Otello and Semiramide, are among
his finest compositions. The last named opera is decidedly his best
effort. Il Barbiere di Seviglia is a favorite with many persons, but it
cannot be said to contain many brilliant examples of success. The “Una
Voce” and “La Colunnia,” are _the_ attractions in the “Barber.” The
_role_ of Figaro is a great source of attraction to the lovers of
Merry-Andrewisms, but scarcely so to the musician. One of Rossini’s most
powerful compositions is the Stabat Mater.
The style of Bellini, on the other hand, is totally different from that
of Rossini. Bellini is at once unaffected and chaste. There is no
seeking after applause by introducing difficult passages requiring great
flexibility of intonation. Every air, every symphony, every prelude and
introduction appear to have been written with the view to the expression
of some passion, or the demonstration of some feeling which it was
required to convey. It is deeply to be regretted that so bright a
genius, promising so brilliant a future, should so early have been lost
to the world. During Bellini’s short but energetic career he produced
eight operas, every one of which will to this day bear the most
searching examination of the most rigid critic:—Norma, Bianca e
Fernando, I Puritani, Il Pirata, La Straniera, I Montecchi ed i
Capuletti, La Sonnambula, and Beatrice di Tenda. Of these his Puritani
and his Norma stand pre-eminently great. Next in rank are his Capuletti
and Beatrice di Tenda; then La Sonnambula, La Straniera, Il Pirata, and
Bianca e Fernando. The whole of Bellini’s writing is marked by a tone of
melancholy which at this day seems like the foreshadowing of an early
affliction. He had, perhaps, in a greater degree than any other author,
the power of throwing into his airs an unmistakeable interpretation of
the passion or feeling which was embodied in the language. The “Deh! tu,
bell Anima!” in Romeo e Giulietta, is one of the finest specimens of the
remarkable correctness with which the words and music may be so blended
as strictly to accord in the expression for which they are intended.
Against Donnizzetti it has been argued that he was a plagiarist; but
when the number of operas which he has written are taken into
consideration, the accusation will not bear weight or scrutiny. His
style is neither so flowing nor so scientific as that of others, but his
works are nevertheless highly meritorious, being generally very
melodious and expressive. In the course of a long and famous life
Donnizzetti produced upward of seventy operas. Among the best of these
are his Lucia di Lamermoor, Belisario, Pia de Tolomeo, Lucrezia Borgia,
Torquato Tasso, Fausta, Anna Bolena, Roberto Devereux, Betly, Elisire
d’Amoré, Linda di Chamouni, Il Burgomastro di Saardam Favorita, and
others.
Giuseppe Verdi is the latest composer of the Italian school, and he
promises to be one of its brightest ornaments, when experience shall
have amended his faults and restrained him from those bursts of too
powerful effort which he delights to exhibit, and which impart a
strained character to his works. There are many of the London Dilletanti
who affect to dislike Verdi; but the only reason which can be given for
the harsh criticism which is dealt out with no sparing hand on the
devoted head of the young aspirant, is the habit which too often exists
in that city to despise modern talent to the exaltation of the wisdom
which is past and gone. The chief beauty of Verdi’s writing is to be
found in his moving choruses and concerted pieces. These exhibit
profound musical knowledge combined with much genius, great feeling, and
frequently exquisite taste. As examples of a happy union of these
qualities, may be instanced the chorus “_Il Maledetto non ha fratello_,”
in Nabuco; the terzetto, in Ernani; the chorus of crusaders, in I
Lombardi, and others. His operas are Nino, Ernani, I Lombardi alla prima
Crocciata, I due Foscari, and Attila. Of these the four first mentioned
are unquestionably the best. There are many other writers of great
talent among the Italians, but as they are little known to the world a
consideration of them may, perhaps, be deemed prolix.
We now come to the German school of music, which, notwithstanding the
vastness of the subject comprehended in this title, will be treated with
as much brevity as will serve to explain the writer’s views. German
music may be divided into two branches; vocal and instrumental: in
either of which it is generally believed to be vastly superior to that
of any other school extant. The list of those who may be termed modern
German masters, is garnished with the names of Mozart, Haydn, Handel,
Weber, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, Mendelsohn, Spohr, Gluck, Lortzing, Bach,
Listz, De Meyer, Herz, Thalberg, Moschelles, Herold, and others. Of
these Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mendelsohn, stand at the head of a
long rank of sacred writers. The solemn requiems of Mozart, the
beautiful “_Creation_” of Haydn; the stirring “_Messiah_” of Handel; the
solemn symphonies of Beethoven; the magnificent “_Elijah_” of Bartholdy,
will never be forgotten while a soul attuned to melody remains on earth.
They all appear to have been written in moments of deep inspiration; and
the enthusiast may almost believe that a beneficent God may have guided
the hands whose work has more than once struck awe into the sinner’s
soul to call him to repentance, and lifted up the heart of the pious man
to still closer communion with the God who in his wisdom formed the
noblest of his creatures.
Among the modern opera writers of Germany, Mozart, Weber, Beethoven, and
Meyerbeer, stand pre-eminently high; and it is difficult at this day to
say which of these writers outdoes the other in boldness of design,
grandeur of conception, brilliancy of execution, or depth of feeling.
If, for example, we take the “_Don Giovanni_” of Mozart, the “_Der
Freischutz_” of Weber, the “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven, and the “_Robert
der Teufel_” or the “_Huguenots_” of Meyerbeer, we will find in certain
scenes equal attraction in the concerted pieces, similar beauties in the
airs, like effect in the orchestral accompaniments, and the same
grandeur in the choruses. Each author will therefore have his distinct
admirers, who, notwithstanding any especial partiality, will readily
confess to the attractions of the rival works. For ourselves, we are yet
to hear an opera superior to the Fidelio of Beethoven.
For the reasons above stated, it is not possible, without venturing into
matters of detail which would be uninteresting, to mark the minor
differences which characterize each writer. It will therefore be only
necessary to name some of the principal works of the principal opera
writers of the German school. The best of Mozart’s efforts are his “_Don
Giovanni_,” his “_Così fan Tutte_,” his “_Zauberflotte_,” and his
“_Nozze di Figaro_.”
Weber’s greatest conceptions are supposed to be his “_Freischutz_,” his
“_Oberon_,” and his “_Preciosa_”.
The “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven stands justly at the head of all his
writings. Of Meyerbeer’s great works none are held in greater estimation
than his “_Robert le Diable_,” his “_Huguenots_,” and his “_Crocciatoin
Egitto_.” His “_Prophete_” is highly spoken of, but it still remains
unknown to the longing ear of the writer of this essay. Herold’s
“_Zampa_,” and Lortzing’s “_Czar und Zimmermann_,” are also in high
repute among musicians.
In instrumental music, German writers rank as high as their compatriots
do in the operatic school, and higher than the masters of any other
country. In the more solid flights of art we have Beethoven, Mozart,
Weber, Meyerbeer, Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck, Bach, Listz, De Meyer, and
others. In the lighter but not less meritorious style of composition, we
have Thalberg, Herz, Moschelles, and others.
French music, with the exception of the works of one or two writers, has
never been in favor out of France. It resembles closely in some points
French poetry. There is harmony, melody, softness, and sometimes art;
but there are wanting grandeur and loftiness of conception and
smoothness. The writings of David and Auber are, however, exceptions to
these objections. There is a force in David’s “_Desert_,” for example,
which excuses comparison even with German writers; and many of the
operas of Auber have a high place in the estimation of those who incline
to the Italian school, a close resemblance to which is to be found in
some of his writings. Among the best works of this distinguished
musician are his “_Muette de Portici_,” his “_Fra Diavolo_,” and his
“_Diamans de la Couronne_.” His “_Domino Noir_,” his “_Barcarole_,” and
others, are also favorites even beyond the French frontier. Adam’s
“_Postillion de Lonjemeau_” is another effort which must be mentioned
with respect.
There are in each of the schools to which I have adverted many great
composers whose names do not occur to me at this moment. Indeed, it
would be almost impossible to record all those inspired men who have
reflected on their several nations the glory which music has conferred
on them.
The study of Music is so interesting as to excuse a very lengthy
dissertation, and the present paper might be considerably prolonged, did
the limits of the Magazine permit a continuation of this already lengthy
essay, in which the several branches of the subject are only cursorily
treated; but I feel that I need say nothing to recommend to the public
of this country the Divine Art, which, as a German author beautifully
expresses it, “is to Poetry what Poetry is to language.” It is
undoubtedly the poetry of sound, the sweet harmonizer of society, the
chief luxury of life and the greatest softener and civilizer of man’s
harsh nature.
-----
[1] The only exception with which the writer is acquainted.
* * * * *
MANUELA.
A BALLAD OF CALIFORNIA.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
From the doorway, Manuela, in the sheeny April morn,
Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming corn;
Where the mountain’s misty rampart like the wall of Eden towers,
And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers.
All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,
And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;
Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.
Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me wherefore do ye rest
On the oaks enchanted islands and the flowery ocean’s breast?
Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the highway’s mark
Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows dark?
Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom, and the sprouting verdure shine
With the tears of amber dropping from the tassels of the pine,
And the morning’s breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny cheek—
Little recketh Manuela of the tales of Spring they speak.
When the Summer’s burning solstice on the mountain-harvests glowed,
She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley road;
Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting thrills,
Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the hills.
Ere the cloudless moons were over, he had passed the Desert’s sand,
Crossed the rushing Colorado and the dark Apachè Land,
And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains began,
With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan.
Therefore watches Manuela—therefore lightly doth she start,
When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart;
Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs,
But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs.
Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day,
But they come not as Bernardo—she can see it, far away;
Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled _alazàn_,[2]
Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilàn.
She would know him ’mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air;
By the featly-knit sarápè,[3] such as wealthy traders wear;
By his broidered calzoneros[4] and his saddle, gaily spread,
With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion’s head.
None like he the light riáta[5] on the maddened bull can throw;
None amid the mountain-cañons, track like he the stealthy doe;
And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revelers are
Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar.
He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still
In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill,
When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn,
Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn.
He has pictured the procession, all in holyday attire,
And the laugh and look of gladness, when they see the distant spire;
Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair,
In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air.
Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam?
’Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream.
Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if its watches would be true,
For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose’s drop of dew!
But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom stills,
As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills:
Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their pearly tides—
’Tis the alazàn that gallops, ’tis Bernardo’s self that rides!
-----
[2] In California horses are named according to their color. An _alazàn_
is a sorrel—a color generally preferred, as denoting speed and mettle.
[3] The sarápè is a knit blanket of many gay colors, worn over the
shoulders by an opening in the centre, through which the head is thrust.
[4] Calzoneros are trowsers, generally made of blue cloth or velvet,
richly embroidered, and worn over an under pair of white linen. They are
slashed up the outside of each leg, for greater convenience in riding,
and studded with rows of silver buttons.
[5] The lariat, or riáta, as it is indifferently called in California
and Mexico, is precisely the same as the lasso of South America.
* * * * *
THE CHASE.
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR OF 1812.
BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”
“Sail O!” cried the look-out from the mast-head.
“Whereaway?” asked the officer of the deck.
“On the lee-beam.”
We had been dodging about the horse-latitudes for several weeks, most of
the time becalmed; and, of course, without meeting a single vessel. At
this announcement, therefore, a general excitement pervaded the decks;
the watch above placed themselves eagerly on the look-out, while the
watch below crowded up the gangway to catch a glance of the stranger if
possible.
In due time the character of the chase became evident. She was a heavy,
fore-topsail schooner, and apparently a man-of-war. Instead of flying
us, as was the case with most vessels, she stood boldly on her course,
and in consequence was soon within range. Meantime, through our glasses,
we could see that her decks were filled with men, who appeared to be
eagerly scrutinizing us.
“Show him our flag,” at last said our captain.
The roll of bunting ascended to the gaff, and blowing out, disclosed our
country’s ensign, the white stars sprinkling the field of azure, and the
crimson stripes gleaming out against their white background.
No answer came from the schooner, however. She had apparently mistaken
us for a friend, but now being assured of the contrary, and aware also
by this time of our greatly superior force, she tacked hurriedly, and
went off almost dead before the wind.
“Give her a shot,” cried the captain, “and see if that will bring her
to.”
The ball went richochetting over the waters, and passing through her
main-sail, plunged into the water a short distance ahead. A moment after
the red-cross of Britain shot up to the schooner’s gaff, where it
glared, blood-red, in the brazen sky. But, instead of lying to, the
chase steadily kept on her way.
“Another shot,” cried the captain; “and let us see this time if we can’t
cripple her.”
The ball whistled sharply across the air, but fell short of its mark;
and another, fired immediately after, shared the same fate. It was
evident that we were scarcely within range. As every shot deadened our
progress, the captain ordered the gunner to desist; and, in place of
firing, directed the sails to be wet down. The enemy, with a truer
perception of the character of the combat, had declined, from the first,
to return our shots, but had turned all his energies to spreading what
light sail he could, and throwing water on his canvas from an engine on
board.
“A stern-chase is a long chase,” said the captain. “But there is no help
for it. However, as the fellow is a schooner, and we are square-rigged,
I do not despair of eventually overhauling him. I wonder whether he
really is an Englishman; he looks more like a slaver to my eye.”
The chase was, indeed, one of the most beautiful craft I had ever seen.
She was painted of a deep black, relieved only by a crimson streak in
the line of her ports. The mould of her hull was clean and graceful; her
bows were sharp as a knife; and her tall, whip-stalk masts, that rose to
an immense height, raked backwards with an air at once saucy and
beautiful. A high bulwark, with a monkey rail running aft, concealed her
decks entirely; but the number of faces peering at us, and the row of
ports, proved her to be no mere yacht, as otherwise might have been
supposed.
“That craft,” I replied, “was never built in England. There’s not a
naval architect in the whole three kingdoms—take my word for it—who
could turn out such a beautiful model. I’d bet a month’s pay that good,
solid Rappahanock timbers hold her together, and that there’s more than
one shipwright in Baltimore has handled the adze upon her.”
“Then she must be a slaver.”
“I think not. And you will agree with me when you have reflected a
moment. We are a week’s sail out of the track of such scoundrels.
Besides that craft carries too many men for a slaver.”
“You are right,” answered the captain, after a moment’s thought. “But
what can she be?”
“That is more than I can tell. She may be either an Englishman or a
pirate—more likely the latter than the former; for the British, even
when they capture one of our fast-sailing schooners, are not apt to
commission them; the lazy islanders think them too wet forward.”
“A pirate!”
“Yes! we have heard of several being about the West Indies, and this may
be one, who, having followed the homeward-bound fleet, in hopes to catch
a stray prize, has been, like ourselves, set into these infernal
latitudes.”
“You reason well,” said the captain. “However, we shall soon know. We
evidently gain upon her. I think we could now reach her with our guns.
But,” he added, after hesitating a moment, “we’ll keep on till we range
alongside, and then give him a broadside that will settle him at once.”
The plan of the captain was not destined, however, to succeed. He had
scarcely spoken when the wind began perceptibly to die away, and before
an hour it was almost a dead calm. Puffs of air, indeed, would
occasionally distend our sails for awhile and urge us on a space, but
the effect of this, on the whole, was to increase rather than lessen the
distance between us and the chase, the latter making more headway in a
light breeze.
By the middle of the afternoon we were rocking on the surface of the
deep, with every sail set, yet without advancing an inch. The day had
been intensely sultry, and now that not a breath of air was stirring,
the heat became almost insupportable. The vertical rays of the tropical
sun, pouring down on our white decks, nearly blinded the eyesight; but
in vain we turned our gaze elsewhere to seek relief, for the broad
expanse of ocean to the very verge of the horizon, glowed like molten
silver; while above the fiery luminary blazed in a sky of brass. Panting
and exhausted we lay about the decks, or leaned over the sides gasping
for air.
As the hours wore on the captain began to show signs of uneasiness. He
would look first at the sails and then at the chase, then up at our idle
canvas again, and once more at the stranger. At last he addressed me.
“The night will soon be here,” he said, “and under cover of it this
fellow may escape. Since your suggestion that he may be a pirate, I feel
doubly anxious to capture him. What do you think of carrying him with
the boats?”
I mused a moment before I replied.
“It would be a perilous enterprise,” I answered at last, “but I think it
might be made to succeed. If you are willing, sir, to risk the lives of
the men, I shall be willing to lead the attack; only, if the attempt is
to be made, the sooner it is done the better.”
“Then my mind is made up.” And elevating his voice, he cried,
“Boatswain, pipe away the boat’s crews; we will cut out the chase.”
The long inaction to which the men had been subjected, made them
especially eager for a prize; and thus, notwithstanding the depressing
influence of the atmosphere, they welcomed the enterprise with joy. In a
comparatively short time we were speeding across the waters, the launch,
with myself in command, leading.
How shall I describe that long pull across the hot and glittering deep?
The men baring their brawny arms, bent steadily to their oars, yet
reserving their strength at first with the caution long experience had
taught them. And well was it that they acted thus! Soon great drops of
perspiration gathered on their brows, and rolled down their swarthy
chests, and before long it became evident that, with all their care, the
task before them would prove almost beyond their strength. Indeed, in
all my experience, I had never known a day so debilitating. As we
proceeded, too, the atmosphere appeared to become more and more
suffocating, until several of the men, in the different boats, actually
gave out, declaring they could not breathe and work both. The difficulty
of respiration on my part assured me that there was no pretence in this.
Meantime the schooner, like a ship painted on canvas, lay motionless on
the deep, her whole figure reflected in the water, from the trucks down.
Occasionally a light ripple would ruffle this shadow for a second,
betraying its real character, but at other times it required but little
fancy to imagine the reflection an inverted ship, and no mere cheat of
the imagination. The men on board the chase were not, however, idle, but
busily engaged in tricing up the hammock nettings; and when we had
approached nearer, a carronade was run back to her stern, aimed at us,
and fired.
“Better luck next time,” ironically said an old sea-dog, who pulled the
stroke-oar of my boat, as the ball plumped into the water just ahead of
us. “The man that trained that gun don’t understand his business,
shipmates. We’ll be on board directly, if we pull sharp.”
“Yes, my lads,” I cried, “it’s no time to trifle now. The next ball may
be truer sent. Besides,” I added, glancing over my shoulder at a black
cloud rising rapidly in the sky, “this close atmosphere has not been
without its meaning; yonder is a thunder-squall coming up, and if we
don’t carry the schooner before it overtakes us, there may be the devil
to pay.”
The men gave a cheer to show that they were ready to do their best, and
bent, with renewed vigor, to their oars. Under this momentary excitement
the boats surged along at a vastly accelerated rate, and the schooner
rapidly drew within musket-shot. At this point another jet of fire was
seen to flash from the carronade astern; a cloud of white smoke puffing
out, broke away over the quarter, and then, with a dull report across
the murky air, a ball came skipping toward us, striking the bow oar just
as it rose from the water, and breaking the ashen blade, while it
knocked the seaman over on his seat.
“Pull, with a will, boys, pull,” I cried, excited by the peril; “dash in
on them.”
“Hurrah!” answered my men; and we shot like an arrow along.
Intent as I was on reaching the schooner before the carronade could be
loaded again, I scarcely had noticed the rapid changes of the sky. I
only knew that the air was growing thicker than ever, and that the
clouds had completely shut in the sun. But now, when I saw the men at
the carronade abandon it, and all hands address themselves to taking in
sail, I knew that the danger from the squall was close and imminent; and
I looked hastily up and around.
When I had called the attention of my men, scarcely ten minutes before,
to the approaching tempest, there had been only a small cloud
perceptible far down on the seaboard. But now, from pole to pole, and
all round the horizon, a vast, black curtain shut out the light of day;
yet not entirely shut it out, for here and there a lurid gleam, like
that seen through the chinks of a furnace, penetrated the thick vapors.
Over and over, in vast whirling masses, tossed and tumbled the inky
clouds. The ghostly radiance that broke, as I have said, through the
gaps of the ominous curtain, threw a spectral gleam across the seas that
conjured up visions of dread and disaster. Oh! never can I forget that
spectacle. The sultry closeness of the air; the sudden and sepulchral
stillness; the awful gloom, and the lurid glare, like that from the
bottomless pit, all seemed to say that sea and sky were at their last
gasp, and that the great day of judgment had arrived.
The men had made the same observations, and apparently came to similar
conclusions, for they ceased rowing, as if under a spell, while a look
of blank horror occupied their faces. Every eye was turned toward me for
a moment, and then, as by one common impulse, directed at the ship. Far
up in the distance, almost undistinguishable against the sable
back-ground, the —— was faintly visible. She was stripped entirely
bare, with the exception of a bit of head-sail, which glowing red and
ghastly in the sepulchral light, gave her the appearance of a demon
vessel. Nor was this first impression removed on a second view, but
rather heightened, so unearthly was the effect produced by the faint
outlines of her spars, which were seen a moment and then lost to sight,
like those of some spectral ship.
Suddenly, while we were thus looking at our distant craft, a dazzling,
blinding glare shot athwart the firmament, and as instantly vanished,
leaving eye and brain, however, dizzy with that instant of concentrated
light. A sulphurous smell, at the same moment, pervaded the atmosphere.
Then followed a roar so stunning, so close at hand, that, if a thousand
batteries had been discharged right overhead, the noise could not have
been more deafening. For a second I thought one of the boats, or at
least the schooner, had been struck by the lightning; but when my brain
ceased reeling, I saw they had escaped. This dazzling flash, this awful
thunder-clap were succeeded by a darkness and silence as profound, as
oppressive, as foreboding as before. Then came a few rain-drops, which,
big and heavy, pattered, like huge hail-stones, on the waters around us.
These were followed by another silence as deep as before; and then the
hurricane, with a roar like a lion, was upon us.
It would be vain to attempt finding language adequate to describe what
followed. In an instant the air was filled with millions of particles of
spray, which, torn from the surface of the deep, and carried in the arms
of the tempest, hid every thing, except objects within a few feet,
entirely from sight. The stinging of these fine particles, as they
struck the cheek, was like that of mustard-shot. Meantime the force of
the wind was such that it was impossible to sit erect—and all stooped,
as if by a common impulse, before the blast. Shading my eyes with my
hand, to protect the orbs from the spray, I glanced at the place where
the schooner had been last seen. But she was no longer visible there. A
moment after, however, in a casual opening of the prospect, I caught a
glimpse of her form, far away ahead, as, half buried in mist, she drove,
like a sheeted spectre, before the gale. The instant after she vanished
from my vision, and the squall closed around us like the walls of a
dungeon.
Fortunately the launch was already before the wind, so that we had only
to hold on, and wait the issue. The other boats were soon out of sight,
and speedily out of hearing also. I could, therefore, do nothing for the
rest of my command, and resigning myself to fate, I bent my head between
my knees, ordered the men to lie down, and so let the hurricane have its
way. The rain was now falling, as it falls only in the tropics, in vast
sheets of water: the drops, instead of descending perpendicularly,
driving slantingly before the hurricane, and striking the water with
gigantic force, keeping the deep in commotion all around. The hissing of
the rain, the roar of the tempest, the blinding glare of lightning, and
the terrific thunder-claps combined to make a scene more awful than I
had ever witnessed in all my long experience.
For half an hour the storm continued in its fury. At the end of that
time the intense darkness began to give way; but it was nearly half an
hour more before the squall had entirely passed over us. At last the
rain ceased, the clouds began to break, and the wind in part subsided. I
now ventured, for the first time since the tempest had burst upon us, to
rise up and look around. I was anxious to see what had become of the
remaining boats, as well as to learn in what direction our ship was; for
the schooner, I had no doubt from the speed with which I saw her going
last, was hull down on the horizon by this time.
Eagerly I scanned the prospect, therefore. My first object of search was
the ship, for I knew that on her depended our safety. Her greater size
had placed her, I reasoned, even more at the power of the gale than
ourselves, and consequently I looked for her to be in advance of us
considerably. I had fancied, indeed, during the height of the hurricane,
that I saw her tall masts, for a single instant, shooting, meteor-like,
past us: but in the blinding rain that then closed in the prospect, it
was easy, I was sure, to be deceived. My search, however, for her was
unsuccessful. Nowhere, on the whole horizon, was she or the schooner to
be seen. Up to windward, where it was now entirely clear, the view was
unbroken; and she was plainly not there. In front, for a long distance,
the prospect was equally unbroken; but she was not in sight in this
direction either. Far down, however, in the furthest horizon, where the
squall was disappearing, there still hung a black cloud, from which the
sullen thunder occasionally growled, and across whose gloomy front the
lightning, every few minutes, crinkled. That dark curtain, I knew,
enveloped our missing ship, or else she, and her three hundred souls,
were buried in the deep.
With a heavy sigh I beheld this condition of affairs. Parted from the
ship, without water or provisions on board, destitute even of a compass,
and with night coming on, our situation was indeed piteous in the
extreme. How far the squall might carry the ship before outrunning her,
it was impossible to conjecture. Perhaps, when the hurricane should be
over for our comrades on board, the gallant craft might be hull down on
the horizon. In that event, though she would naturally retrace her path
to seek us, night might shut in before we could be seen from the
mast-head even: and, in the darkness that would follow, nothing could be
easier than for her entirely to miss us. Days, in that event, would
probably elapse before we would be picked up, if ever. The thought was
terrible, and I turned from it, sick at heart, to look for the other
boats.
I was not, indeed, without misgivings as to the fate of these. The
launch, being large, was better fitted to ride out the gale than her
companions, and I expected that the smaller of the two boats, at least,
had been swamped. However, I soon discovered both her and her companion,
one about a cable’s length astern, and the other nearly abeam. With a
glad hallo, that sounded strangely on the now lonely seas, my crew took
to their oars, and pulled rapidly in the direction of the boat abeam,
the one astern following our example. The first voice I heard was the
junior lieutenant’s.
“Can you see any thing of the ship?” he said.
“No,” I replied, “she is entirely out of sight.”
“What is to be done?” he asked.
“You have no water or provisions on board, I suppose?”
“Nothing but a beaker of water, and not a solitary biscuit.”
“How far is it to the nearest land?”
“About five hundred miles, I take it.”
“So I thought,” I answered.
And now I mused for a moment, the crews of the three boats resting on
their oars, and looking eagerly at me. Every man knew, as well as
myself, that, in all likelihood, we should never see the ship again: in
which event a lingering death by starvation was our almost inevitable
doom. On my decision, whether to pull after the ship, which would carry
us further from land, or, abandoning the hope of meeting the ship, seek
to reach the coast by the nearest route, hung, perhaps, our lives: and
all were aware of this.
“Follow the squall,” I said, at last, turning my eyes to the dark cloud,
now fast disappearing on the eastern horizon, “it is our only chance. If
we don’t find the ship we are dead men. It is madness to think of
reaching land.”
“I would to God the sun was a few hours higher!” said the lieutenant,
looking at that luminary, which now hung, a blazing orb, a few degrees
only above the horizon. “We haven’t even a lantern on board, to show a
light!”
Nothing further was said. The boats were headed east, the men bent to
their tasks, and, in another minute, the little fleet was speeding
silently across the waters. But with what different feelings from those
with which we set out from the ship two hours before!
As the time wore on, and the sun declined lower to the horizon, yet
still no sign of the ship became visible, our hearts sunk within us. The
squall in the distance had now dwindled to a bank of clouds, low on the
furthest seaboard; but no vestige of the ship, between it and us, was
perceptible. At last the sun’s disc touched the western horizon, and, in
another instant, had entirely disappeared. Darkness, deep and profound,
now fell upon us; for, in that tropical latitude, there is no twilight
to prolong, in part, the day. As the gloom settled around us, a deep
drawn breath rose from the boat’s crew: it was an involuntary expression
of the general feeling, that, with the sun, hope too had set.
For more than an hour we pulled on in silence. As no sail had been in
sight when darkness shut in, it was useless to hail: and so we continued
without a word being spoken. Not a sound, therefore, broke the hush
except the measured rollicking of the oars, and the surging noise of the
launch as it was propelled heavily through the water. The darkness still
continued, for numerous clouds flecked the sky, and every here and
there, in consequence, would a star find its way out. But in the azure
west, like a lustrous gem, there shone through all one bright, large
orb, whose light, flickering and dancing along the water, cheered us
with its beauty and kept us from entirely desponding.
Suddenly the old veteran, whom I have before alluded to, looked up.
“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, addressing me, “there’s a bunch of
rockets in the locker in the stern-sheets. They were put there by the
gunner some days ago, and have never, I believe, been removed. At any
rate it is worth while to look.”
Never did I hear words sweeter to my ears. I was up in an instant and
searching the locker. Sure enough, as the old tar had said, the rockets
were still there, the result of a carelessness which now appeared to me
to have been little less than providential.
The intelligence was immediately announced to the other boats; and the
crews, inspired by the news, rested on their oars, as of one accord, and
gave vent to three hearty cheers.
“I will signal the ship,” I said to my second in command, “and if she is
any where within range of vision, we shall hear from her instantly.”
Accordingly, I let off two rockets in rapid succession. The fiery
missiles shot up to a great height in the sky, and falling in a shower
of stars, illuminated the horizon far and near for a moment. Many an
eye, during that half instant, scanned the seaboard eagerly, in order to
see if the ship was in sight; but not a sign of her was perceptible, and
a deep sigh told the disappointment.
I, however, did not yet despair. I knew that the ship, though invisible
in that partial light, might still be near enough to discern our
rockets; and I was well aware that on board of her half a hundred eager
eyes were at this moment on the look-out. Without despair, yet with a
beating heart, I watched for the reply to my signal. One minute passed,
and then another, but still there was no sign of an answering rocket.
My heart grew faint. My limbs tottered beneath me. Minute after minute
succeeded, and my hopes were gradually dwindling away—when suddenly the
old tar before me shouted,
“Huzza, there she goes! Huzza—huzza—we are safe, lads, huzza!”
Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on
the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark
grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high
into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it.
All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red,
which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the
deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they
were the well-known signals of our gallant ship.
Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet,
and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins.
Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way
by signal rockets till the ship came into sight.
As for the schooner, we never saw her more!
* * * * *
WOOD VIOLETS.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is.
The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch
a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” _Letters from Philadelphia._
Those purple clustering violets
Hiding beneath the grass!
How many pause to look on them
Who by their covert pass.
Many a care-worn face is pressed
Close to the iron gate,
Heedless if at their daily toil
They shall be counted late.
The trembling lips—the starting tears—
Ah me! what yearning thought
The simple wild-wood violets
To these lone hearts have brought.
Visions of childhood’s careless time
When like the flowers they grew,
Dwellers beside the singing brook—
Beneath a sky as blue.
How lightly trod their tiny feet
Upon the velvet moss,
How gayly sprang from stone to stone
The little brook across.
What shouts of eager laughter rose,
As, bending to the stream,
They found the violets, betrayed
By their deep azure gleam.
The soughing of the dark pine trees,
The fresh sweet breath of Spring—
The even song of low-voiced birds,
All these those blossoms bring.
And wearily the sons of toil
Turn from this haunted spot,
Haunted by scenes of joy and hope
For many years forgot.
They go more slowly on their way,
Nor heed the city’s din,
The heavy eyelids as they close
Press back the tears within.
For once wood violets had grown
In their own garden bowers,
But now, alas! how rarely bloom
For them fresh wayside flowers!
* * * * *
MEMORIES.
BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
Once more, once more, my Mary dear,
I sit by that lone stream,
Where first within thy timid ear
I breathed love’s burning dream;
The birds we loved still tell their tales
Of music on each spray,
And still the wild rose decks the vale—
But thou art far away.
In vain thy vanished form I seek,
By wood and stream and dell,
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
Where tears of rapture fell;
And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
Dear thoughts my soul employ,
For in the memories of past hours,
There is a mournful joy.
Upon the air thy gentle words
Around me seem to thrill,
Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords
When all the winds are still,
Or like the low and soul-like swell
Of that wild spirit-tone
Which haunts the hollow of the bell
When its sad chime is done.
I seem to hear thee speak my name
In sweet low murmurs now,
I seem to feel thy breath of flame
Upon my cheek and brow;
On my cold lips I feel thy kiss,
Thy heart to mine is laid—
Alas that such a dream of bliss
Like other dreams must fade!
* * * * *
THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.
A SOUTHERN NOVELET.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
(_Continued from page 29._)
CHAPTER IV.
The moment she had disappeared from the kitchen, the negro was taken
forth by the captain of loyalists, who by this time had surrounded
himself with nearly all his band. A single soldier had been stationed by
Clymes between the house and kitchen, in order to arrest the approach of
any of the whites from the former to the scene where Brough was about to
pass a certain painful ordeal. The stout old African doggedly, with a
single shake of his head, obeyed his captors, as they ordered him to a
neighboring wood—a small copse of scrubby oaks, that lay between the
settlement and the swamp forest along the river. Here, without delay,
Brough was commanded, on pain of rope and hickory, to deliver up the
secret of Richard Coulter’s hiding-place. But the old fellow had
promised to be faithful. He stubbornly refused to know or to reveal any
thing. The scene which followed is one that we do not care to describe
in detail. The reader must imagine its particulars. Let it suffice that
the poor old creature was haltered by the neck, and drawn up repeatedly
to the swinging limb of a tree, until the moral nature, feeble at best,
and overawed by the terrors of the last mortal agony, surrendered in
despair. Brough consented to conduct the party to the hiding-place of
Richard Coulter.
The savage nature of Matthew Dunbar was now in full exercise.
“Boots and saddle!” was the cry; and, with the negro, both arms
pinioned, and running at the head of one of the dragoon’s horses,
leashed to the stirrup-leather, and in constant danger, should he be
found tripping, of a sudden sabre cut, the whole party, with two
exceptions, made their way down the country, and under the guidance of
the African. Two of the soldiers had been placed in watch upon the
premises, with instructions, however, to keep from sight, and not suffer
their proximity to be suspected. But the suspicion of such an
arrangement in existence was now natural enough to a mind, like that of
Frederica Sabb, made wary by her recent misfortune. She was soon
apprised of the departure of the loyalist troop. She was soon taught to
fear from the weakness of poor Brough. What was to be done? Was her
lover to be caught in the toils? Was she to become indirectly the agent
of his destruction? She determined at all events to forego no effort by
which to effect his escape. She was a girl of quick wit, and prompt
expedients. No longer exposing herself in her white cotton garments, she
wrapped herself closely up in the great brown overcoat of her father,
which buried her person from head to foot. She stole forth from the
front entrance with cautious footsteps, employing tree and shrub for her
shelter whenever they offered. In this way she moved forward to a spot
inclining to the river, but taking an upward route, one which she
naturally concluded had been left without a guard. But her objects
required finally that she should change her course, and take the
downward path, as soon as she could persuade herself that her progress
was fairly under cover. Still she knew not but that she was seen, and
perhaps followed, as well as watched. The spy might arrest her at the
very moment when she was most hopeful of her object. How to guard
against this danger? How to attain the necessary security? The question
was no sooner formed than answered. Her way lay through a wilderness of
leaves. The silent droppings from the trees for many years had
accumulated around her, and their constant crinkling beneath her tread,
drawing her notice to this source of fear, suggested to her the means of
safety. There had not been a rain for many weeks. The earth was parched
with thirst. The drought had driven the sap from shrub and plant; and
just below, on the very route taken by the pursuing party, a natural
meadow, a long, thin strip, the seat of a bayou or lake long since dried
up, was covered with a rank forest of broom-grass, parched and dried by
the sun. The wind was fresh, and driving right below. To one familiar
with the effect of firing the woods in a southern country under such
circumstances, the idea which possessed the mind of our heroine was
almost intuitive. She immediately stole back to the house, her eagerness
finding wings, which, however, did not betray her caution. The sentinels
of Dunbar kept easy watch, but she had not been unseen. The cool,
deliberate tory had more than once fitted his finger to the trigger of
his horseman’s pistol, as he beheld the approach toward him of the
shrouded figure. But he was not disposed to show himself, or to give the
alarm before he could detect the objects of his unknown visiter. Her
return to the house was not beheld. He had lost sight of her in the
woods, and fancied her still to be in the neighborhood. Unable to
recover his clue, he still maintained his position waiting events. It
was not long before she reappeared upon the scene. He did not see the
figure, until it crossed an open space, on his right, in the direction
of the river. He saw it stoop to the earth, and he then bounded forward.
His haste was injurious to his objects. He fell over the prostrate trunk
of a pine, which had been thrown down for ranging timber only a few days
before, and lay dark, with all its bark upon it, in the thick cover of
the grass. His pistol went off in his fall, and before he could recover
his feet, he was confounded to find himself threatened by a rapid
rushing forest of flame, setting directly toward him. For a moment, the
sudden blaze blinded him, and when he opened his eyes fully upon
surrounding objects, he saw nothing human—nothing but the great dark
shafts of pine, beneath which the fire was rushing with the roar and
volume of swollen billows of the sea, breaking upon the shore which they
promised to engulf. To save himself, to oppose fire to fire, or pass
boldly through the flame where it burned most feebly, was now a first
necessity; and we leave him to extricate himself as he may, while we
follow the progress of Frederica Sabb. The flame which she had kindled
in the dry grass and leaves, from the little old stable-lantern of the
cottage, concealed beneath the great-coat of her father, had sufficed as
a perfect cover to her movements. The fire swept below, and in the
direction of the tory sentinels. The advance of the one she had
perceived, in the moment when she was communicating the blazing candle
to the furze. She fancied she was shot when she heard the report of the
pistol; but pressing her hand to her heart, the lantern still in her
grasp, she darted headlong forward by one of the paths leading directly
to the river. The fire was now raging over all the tract between her and
the tory sentries. Soon she descended from the pine ridge, and passed
into the low flat land, strewed with gray cypresses, with their thousand
_knees_, or abutments. The swamp was nearly dry. She found her way along
a well known path to the river, and from beneath a clump of shrouding
willows, drew forth a little _dugout_, the well known cypress canoe of
the country. This was a small egg-shell like structure, scarcely capable
of holding two persons, which she was well accustomed to manage. At once
she pushed boldly out into the broad stream, whose sweet rippling flow,
a continuous and gentle murmur, was strangely broken by the intense roar
and crackling of the fire as it swept the broad track of stubble, dry
grass and leaves, which lay in its path. The lurid shadows sometimes
passed over the surface of the stream, but naturally contributed to
increase her shelter. With a prayer that was inaudible to herself, she
invoked Heaven’s mercy on her enterprise, as with a strong arm, familiar
in this exercise, she plied from side to side, the little paddle which,
with the favoring currents of the river, soon carried her down toward
the bit of swamp forest where her lover found his refuge. The spot was
well known to the maiden, though we must do her the justice to say, she
would never have sought for Richard Coulter in its depths, but for an
emergency like the present. It was known as “Bear Castle,” a close
thicket covering a sort of promontory, three-fourths of which was
encircled by the river, while the remaining quarter was a deep swamp,
through which, at high water, a streamlet forced its way, converting the
promontory into an islet. It was unfortunate for Coulter and his party
that, at this season the river was much lower than usual, and the swamp
offered no security on the land side, unless from the denseness of the
forest vegetation. It might now be passed dry shod.
The distance from “Bear Castle” to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb,
was, by land, but four or five miles. By water it was fully ten. If,
therefore, the stream favored the progress of our heroine, the
difference against Dunbar and his tories was more than equalled by the
shorter route before him, and the start which he had made in advance of
Frederica. But Brough was no willing guide. He opposed frequent
difficulties to the distasteful progress, and as they neared the spot,
Dunbar found it necessary to make a second application of the halter
before the good old negro could be got forward. The love of life, the
fear of death, proved superior to his loyalty.
Brough would have borne any quantity of flogging—nay, he could,
perhaps, have perished under the scourge without confessing, but his
courage failed, when the danger was of being launched headlong into
eternity. A shorter process than the cord or swinging limb would not
have found him so pliant. With a choking groan he promised to submit,
and with heart swollen almost to bursting, he led the route, off from
the main road now, and through the sinuous little foot-paths which
conducted to the place of refuge of our patriots.
It was at this point, having ascertained what space lay between him and
his enemy, that Dunbar dismounted his troopers. The horses were left
with a guard, while the rest of his men, under his personal lead, made
their further progress on foot. His object was a surprise. He designed
that the negro should give the “usual” signal with which he had been
taught to approach the camp of the fugitive, and this signal—a shrill
whistle, three times sounded, with a certain measured pause between each
utterance—was to be given when the swamp was entered over which the
river, in high stages of the water, made its breach. These instructions
were all rigidly followed. Poor Brough, with the rope about his neck,
and the provost ready to fling the other end of the cord over the
convenient arm of a huge sycamore under which they stood, was incapable
of resistance. But his strength was not equal to his submission. His
whistle was but feebly sounded. His heart failed him and his voice; and
a repeated contraction of the cord, in the hands of the provost, was
found essential to make him repeat the effort, and give more volume to
his voice. In the meanwhile, Dunbar cautiously pushed his men forward.
They packed through great hollows, where, at full water, the alligator
wallowed; where the whooping crane sought his prey at nightfall; where
the fox slept in safety, and the wild-cat in a favorite domain. “Bear
Castle” was the fortress of many fugitives. Aged cypresses lay like the
foundations of ancient walls along the path, and great thorny vines, and
flaming, flowery creepers flaunted their broad streamers in the faces of
the midnight gropers through their solitudes. The route would have been
almost impassable during the day for men on horseback; it was a tedious
and toilsome progress by night for men on foot. But Dunbar, nothing
doubting of the proximity of his enemy, went forward with an eagerness
which only did not forget its caution.