GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XX. March, 1842 No. 3.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Crowning of Powhatan
German Writers, Heinrich Heine
The Two Dukes
May Evelyn
The Doom of the Traitress
The First Step
Dreams of the Land and Sea
The Lady and the Page
Imagination
Harry Cavendish continued
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music and Fashion
To One Departed
The Young Widow
The Freshet
Marches for the Dead
To Isa in Heaven
An Epistle to Fanny
The Stranger’s Funeral
Agathè.—A Necromaunt
Western hospitality
Fancies About a Rosebud
A Lady Heard a Minstrel Sing
Spring Fashions
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: J. G. Chapman, R. Hinshelwood. _The Crowning of
Powhatan._ _Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from an Original Picture_]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: MARCH, 1842. No. 3.
* * * * *
THE CROWNING OF POWHATAN.
The settlement at Jamestown was begun in 1606. Among the earliest of the
adventurers was the chivalrous Captain Smith, whose life was a romance
even in those romantic days. He soon came to be the leader of the
colonists, and it was through his exertions that the settlement was kept
up, amid privations and dangers almost incredible. The story of his
capture by the Indians, and his preservation from death by Pocahontas,
has become a national tradition, and poets have sung, orators declaimed,
and novelists penned volumes to record the bravery of the Captain, and
the love of the Indian maid. But, perhaps, nowhere is the story told
with such effect as in the “Generall Historie” of the gallant Smith
himself, a work published in 1624, and still to be met with in the
libraries of the curious. The book is a rarity. It is adorned with
maps,—not the most correct, to be sure—and with engravings setting
forth the various perilous situations of the author, over which a
book-worm would gloat for a month. The narrative is written in a plain,
frank, unassuming style, and the author is always spoken of in the third
person. To this book we are indebted for an account of the crowning of
Powhatan, and our only regret is that our limits will not suffer us to
give the quaint language of Smith.
This singular ceremony took place in 1608, and was performed at the
instigation of the council at home, who sent over the necessary insignia
by Capt. Newport from London. The object of the ceremony was to
propitiate Powhatan, and induce him to guide the colonists to the
country of the _Monacons_, whom the dreamy adventurers, exaggerating the
casual hints of the Indians, had pictured to themselves as a people of
boundless wealth. It is evident, from the “Generall Historie,” that
Smith did not approve of the measure, for he says appositely—“As for
the coronation of Powhatan, and his presents of Basin and Ewer, Bed,
Bedstead, Clothes, &c., and such costly novelties, they had been much
better spared than so ill spent, for we had his favor much better only
for a plain piece of copper.” The measure had been resolved on at home,
however, and Captain Smith had no alternative but to obey. Accordingly,
he sent a messenger to Powhatan to come and receive his presents; but
the Indian monarch, with the spirit of an Alexander, replied, “If your
King have sent me presents, I also am a King, and this is my land: eight
days I will stay to receive them. Your father is to come to me, not I to
him.” The Captain now sent the presents “a hundred miles by river,” as
he tells us, to Powhatan. Here a masked ball and other festivities came
off, in which the Captain seems to have been quite a favorite with the
Indian belles. At length the ceremony of the coronation was performed,
but, if the bold Captain speaks aright, it must have been a sorry
crowning. He says, “But a sore trouble there was to make him kneel to
receive his crown, he neither knowing the majesty nor meaning of a
crown, nor bending of the knee, endured as many persuasions, examples
and instructions as enraged them all. At last, _by bearing hard on his
shoulders_, he a little stooped, and those having the crown in their
hands put it on his head, when by the warning of a pistol, the boats
were prepared with such a volley of shot, that the King started up with
a horrible fear, till he saw all was well.” A graphic picture. A sturdy
old republican was Powhatan, having no notion of their crown! We imagine
we can see the perturbation of the good Captain and his followers when
they found that the old warrior would not kneel, and the glee with which
they regarded their success, when, by pressing hard on the royal
shoulders, they surprised him into being duly crowned.
The honor, however, failed of its object. Powhatan would give no aid to
the colonists in their designs on the Monacons, although that people was
a sworn enemy to his race. He proudly said that he needed no ally—that
he could conquer his foes alone. The only return he made for the gifts
of the council was a present of an old pair of slippers and a mantle to
Capt. Newport. The picture, by Chapman, graphically pourtrays the
ceremony.
* * * * *
GERMAN WRITERS.
HEINRICH HEINE.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Ludwig Börne, the well-known author of _Letters from Paris_, once said,
that Voltaire was only the John the Baptist of Antichrist, but that
Heine was Antichrist himself. Perhaps he paid Heine too great a
compliment yet the remark is true so far as this, that it points him out
as the leader of that new school in Germany which is seeking to
establish a religion of sensuality, and to build a palace of Pleasure on
the ruins of the church.
This school is known under the name of Young Germany. It is skeptical,
and sensual; and seems desirous of trying again the experiment so often
tried before, but never with any success, of living without a God. Heine
expresses this in phrases too blasphemous or too voluptuous to repeat;
and Gutzkow, his follower exclaims: “Let the only Priest, that weds our
hearts, be a moment of rapture, not the church, with her ceremonies, and
her servants with parted hair;” and again with a sigh: “Alas! had the
world known nothing of God, it would have been happier!”
Thus the old and oft-repeated follies of mankind come up and are lived
over again by young men, who despise the wisdom of the Past, and imagine
themselves wiser than their own generation. Nor are these young men
without their admirers and advocates. Madame Dacier, of classic memory,
defended Sappho’s morals, and in reply to the hereditary scandal against
her, coldly said: “Sappho had her enemies.” Nearly in the same way is
Young Germany defended; and even theologians have not been wanting, to
palliate, excuse and justify.
In this country, there are certain persons, who seem disposed to enact
this same tragic farce; for we too, have our Young America, which mocks
the elder prophets, and cries “Go up, bald-head!”—Young ladies read
with delight such books as _Festus_, and think the _Elective Affinities_
“religious almost to piety.” Young men, who profess to be Christians,
like the Pagan of Lafontaine, believe in God by a kind of
patent-right,—_par bénéfice d’inventaire_. Nature, we are told, must
not be interfered with in any way, at any time; and so much is said
about this, that many respectable people begin to say with old Voss,
“Dear Nature! thou seemest to me quite too natural!”
I do not, however, propose to discuss these points in the following
sketch; nor to consider Heine’s plans for regenerating society, which,
at best, are but vague opinions thrown out recklessly and at random,
like fire-brands, that set in a flame whatever light matter they fall
upon. It is the Author only, that I shall attempt to sketch.
Henry Heine was born in 1797 at Düsseldorf on the Rhine; and studied at
the Universities of Bonn, Berlin, and Göttingen. He afterwards resided
in Hamburg, Berlin and Munich; and since 1830 has lived in Paris. His
principal writings are _Buch der Lieder_, a collection of lyrical poems;
two tragedies, _Almansor_ and _Radcliff_; the four volumes of
_Reisebilder_; the _Beiträge zur Geschichte der neuern schönen Literatur
in Deutschland_; the _Frangësische Zustände_; and _Der Salon_,—the last
two being collections of his various contributions to the German
newspapers. The most popular of his writings is the _Reisebilder_,
(Pictures of Travel.) The _Beiträge_ has been translated into English,
by Geo. W. Haven, under the title of _Letters auxiliary to the History
of modern Polite Literature in Germany, Boston, 1836_. The same work,
with many additions, has been published in Paris, under the title of _De
l’Allemagne_.
The style of Heine is remarkable for vigor, wit and brilliancy; but is
wanting in taste and refinement. To the recklessness of Byron he adds
the sentimentality of Sterne. The _Reisebilder_ is a kind of _Don Juan_
in prose, with passages from the _Sentimental Journey_. He is always in
extremes, either of praise or censure; setting at nought the decencies
of life, and treating the most sacred things with frivolity. Throughout
his writings you see traces of a morbid, ill-regulated mind; of deep
feeling, disappointment and suffering. His sympathies seem to have died
within him, like Ugolino’s children in the tower of Famine. With all his
various powers, he wants the one great power—the power of truth! He
wants, too, that ennobling principle of all human endeavors, the
aspiration “after an ideal standard, that is higher than himself.” In a
word, he wants sincerity and spirituality.
In the highest degree reprehensible, too, is the fierce, implacable
hatred with which Heine pursues his foes. No man should write of another
as he permits himself to do at times. In speaking of Schlegel, as he
does in his _German Literature_, he is utterly without apology. And yet
to such remorseless invectives, to such witty sarcasms, he is indebted
in a great degree for his popularity. It was not till after he had
bitten the heel of Hercules, that the Crab was placed among the
constellations.
The following passages from the _Reisebilder_, will give the reader a
general idea of Heine’s style; exhibiting at once his beauties and
defects—his poetic feeling—his spirit—his wit—his want of taste. The
first is from his description of a _Tour to the Harz Mountains_; the
second from his _Journey from Munich to Genoa_.
SCENE ON THE BROCKEN.
In the dining-room of the inn I found all life and motion; students from
various Universities; some just arrived, are refreshing themselves,
others are preparing for their departure, buckling their knapsacks,
writing their names in the Album, receiving _Brocken-bouquets_ from the
servant girl; there is pinching of cheeks, singing, dancing, shouting;
questions are asked, answers given,—fine weather,—footpath,—God bless
you—good bye. Some of the departing are a little jolly, and take double
delight in the beautiful view, because a man when he is drunk sees all
things double.
When I had somewhat refreshed myself, I ascended the observatory, and
found there a little gentleman with two ladies, one of them young, the
other oldish. The young lady was very beautiful. A glorious
figure,—upon her curling tresses a helm-like hat of black satin, with
whose white feathers the wind sported;—her delicate limbs so closely
wrapped in a black silk mantle, that the noble outlines were distinctly
seen;—and her free, large eye quietly gazing forth into the free, large
world.
I sought without more ado to engage the beautiful lady in conversation;
for one does not truly enjoy the beauties of Nature, unless he can
express his feelings at the moment. She was not intellectual, but
attentive, sensible. Of a truth, most aristocratic features. I do not
mean that common, stiff, negative aristocratic bearing, that knows
exactly what must be let alone; but that rare, free, positive
aristocratic bearing, which tells us clearly what we may do, and gives
us with the greatest freedom of manners, the greatest social security.
To my own astonishment, I displayed considerable geographical knowledge;
told the curious fair one all the names of the towns that lay before us;
found and showed her the same on my map, which I unfolded with true
professional dignity, upon the stone table in the middle of the
platform. Many of the towns I could not find, perhaps because I looked
for them rather with my fingers, than with my eyes, which meanwhile were
investigating the face of the gentle lady, and found more beautiful
excursions there than _Schierke_ and _Elend_. It was one of those faces
that never excite, seldom fascinate, and always please. I love such
faces, because they smile to sleep my turbulent heart.
In what relation the little gentleman, who accompanied the ladies, stood
to them I could not guess. He was a thin, curious-looking figure; a
little head, sparingly covered with little grey hairs, that came down
over his narrow forehead as far as his green dragon-fly eyes, his
crooked nose projecting to a great length, and his mouth and chin
retreating anxiously towards the ears. This funny little face seemed to
be made of a soft, yellowish clay, such as sculptors use in forming
their first models, and when the thin lips were pressed together, a
thousand fine, semi-circular wrinkles covered his cheeks. Not one word
did the little gentleman say; and only now and then, when the elderly
lady whispered something pleasant in his ear, he smiled like a
poodle-dog with a cold in his head.
The elderly lady was the mother of the younger, and likewise possessed
the most aristocratic form and feature. Her eye betrayed a morbid,
sentimental melancholy; about her mouth was an expression of rigid
piety; and yet it seemed to me, as if once it had been very beautiful,
had laughed much, and taken and given many a kiss. Her face resembled a
_Codex palympsestus_, where, beneath the recent, black, monkish copy of
a homily of one of the Fathers of the Church, peeped forth the half
effaced verses of some ancient Greek love-poet. Both of the ladies, with
their companion, had been that year in Italy, and told me all kinds of
pretty things about Rome, Florence and Venice. The mother had a great
deal to say of Raphael’s paintings at St. Peter’s; the daughter talked
more about the opera and the _Teatro Fenice_.
While we were speaking it began to grow dark; the air grew colder, the
sun sank lower, and the platform was filled with students, mechanics,
and some respectable cockneys, with their wives and daughters, all of
whom had come to see the sun set. It is a sublime spectacle, which
attunes the soul to prayer. A full quarter of an hour stood we all
solemnly silent, and saw how that beauteous ball of fire by slow degrees
sank in the west; our faces were lighted by the ruddy glow of
evening,—our hands folded themselves involuntarily;—it was as if we
stood there, a silent congregation in the nave of a vast cathedral, and
the Priest were elevating the Body of the Lord, and the eternal choral
of Palestrina flowing down from the organ!
As I stood thus absorbed in devotion, I heard some one say close beside
me,
“Generally speaking, how very beautiful nature is!”
These words came from the tender heart of my fellow lodger, the young
shop-keeper. They brought me back again to my work-day mood, and I was
just in the humor to say several very polite things to the ladies about
the sunset, and quietly conduct them back to their room, as if nothing
had happened. They permitted me to sit and talk with them another hour.
As the earth itself, so revolved our conversation round the sun. The
mother remarked, that the sun, sinking in vapors, had looked like a red,
blushing rose, which the Heaven in its gallantry had thrown down upon
the broad-spreading, white bridal veil of his beloved Earth! The
daughter smiled, and expressed herself of the opinion, that too great
familiarity with the appearances of nature weakened their effect. The
mother corrected this erroneous view by a passage from Göthe’s
_Reisebriefen_, and asked me if I had read the _Sorrows of Werther_. I
believe we talked also about Angola cats, Etruscan vases, Cashmire
shawls, macaroni and Lord Byron, from whose poems the elderly lady,
prettily lisping and sighing, recited some passages on sunsets. To the
younger lady, who did not understand English, but wanted to read Byron,
I recommended the translations of my fair and gifted country-woman, the
Baronese Elise von Hohenhausen; and availed myself of the opportunity,
as I always do with young ladies, to express myself with warmth upon
Byron’s ungodliness, unloveliness and unhappiness.
_Reisebilder, Vol. 1._
STREET MUSICIANS.
When I returned to the _Locanda della Grande Europa_, when I had ordered
a good _Pranzo_, I was so sad at heart that I could not eat,—and that
means a great deal. I seated myself before the door of the neighboring
_Botega_, refreshed myself with an ice, and said within myself:
“Capricious Heart! thou art now forsooth in Italy—why singest thou not
like the lark? Perhaps the old German Sorrows, the little serpents, that
hid themselves deep within thee have come with us into Italy, and are
making merry now, and their common jubilee awakens in my breast that
picturesque sorrow, which so strangely stings and dances and whistles?
And why should not the old sorrows make merry for once? Here in Italy it
is indeed so beautiful, suffering itself is here so beautiful,—in these
ruinous marble palaces sighs sound far more romantically, than in our
neat brick houses,—beneath yon laurel trees one can weep far more
voluptuously, than under our surly, jagged pines,—and gaze with looks
of far sweeter longing at the ideal cloud-landscapes of celestial Italy,
than at the ash-gray, German work-day heaven, where the very clouds wear
the looks of decent burghers, and yawn so tediously down upon us! Stay
then in my heart, ye sorrows! Nowhere will you find a better lodging.
You are dear and precious to me; and no man knows better how to father
and cherish you, than I; and I confess to you, you give me pleasure. And
after all, what is pleasure? Pleasure is nothing else than a highly
agreeable Pain.”
I believe that the music, which, without my taking note of it, sounded
before the _Botega_, and had already drawn round itself a circle of
spectators, had melo-dramatically accompanied this monologue. It was a
strange trio, consisting of two men, and a young girl, who played the
harp. One of the men, warmly clad in a white shaggy coat, was a robust
fellow, with a dark-red bandit-face, that gleamed from his black hair
and beard, like a portentous comet; and between his legs he held a
monstrous bass-viol, upon which he sawed as furiously, as if he had
thrown down a poor traveller in the Abruzzi, and was in haste to fiddle
his windpipe in two. The other was a tall, meagre graybeard, whose
mouldering bones shook in their thread-bare, black garments, and whose
snow-white hair formed a lamentable contrast with his _buffo_ song and
his foolish capers. It is sad enough, when an old man must barter for
bread the respect we owe to his years, and give himself up to
buffoonery; but more melancholy still, when he does this before or with
his own child! For that girl was the daughter of the old _Buffo_, and
accompanied with the harp the lowest jests of her gray-headed father;
or, laying her harp aside sang with him a comic duet, in which he
represented an amorous old dotard and she the young coquettish
_inamorata_. Moreover the girl seemed hardly to have passed the
threshold of childhood; as if the child, before it had grown to
maidenhood, had been made a woman, and not an honest woman. Hence that
pallid, faded look, and the expression of nervous discontent in her
beautiful face, whose proudly rounded features as it were disdained all
show of compassion;—hence the secret sorrowfulness of the eyes, that
from beneath their black, triumphal arches flashed forth such
challenges;—hence the deep mournful voice, that so strangely contrasted
with the laughing, beautiful lips, from which it fell;—hence the
debility of those too delicate limbs, around which a short,
anxious-looking robe of violet-colored silk, fluttered as low as it
possibly could. In addition to this, gay, variegated satin ribbands
flaunted from her faded straw hat, and emblematic of herself, her breast
was adorned with an open rose-bud, which seemed rather to have been
rudely torn open, than to have bloomed forth from its green sheath by
its own natural growth. Still in this unhappy girl, in this Spring which
Death had already breathed upon and blasted,—lay an indescribable
charm, a grace, which revealed itself in every look, in every motion, in
every tone. The bolder her gestures became, the deeper grew my
compassion; and when her voice rose from her breast so weak and
wondrous, and as it were implored forgiveness; then triumphed in my
breast the little serpents, and bit their tails for joy. The Rose
likewise seemed to look at me imploringly; once I saw it tremble and
grow pale,—but at the same moment rose the trills of the girl so much
the more laughingly aloft, the old man wooed still more amorously, and
the red comet-face murdered his viol so grimly, that it uttered the most
terrifically droll sounds, and the spectators shouted more madly than
ever.
* * * *
The little harper must have remarked, that while she was singing and
playing, I looked often at the rose upon her breast; and as I afterwards
threw upon the tin plate, with which she collected her honorarium, a
piece of gold, and not of the smallest, she smiled slily, and asked me
secretly, if I wanted her rose.
* * * *
Think no evil, dear reader. It had grown dark, and the stars looked so
pure and pious down into my heart. In that heart itself, however,
trembled the memory of the dead Maria. I thought again of that night,
when I stood beside the bed, where lay her beautiful, pale form, with
soft, still lips—I thought again of the strange look the old woman cast
at me, who was to watch by the dead body, and surrendered her charge to
me for a few hours—I thought again of the night-violet, that stood in a
glass upon the table, and smelt so strangely. Again I shuddered with the
doubt, whether it were really a draft of wind, that blew the lamp
out?—or whether there were a third person in the chamber!
_Reisebilder, Vol. 3._
The minor poems of Heine, like most of his prose writings, are but a
portrait of himself. The same melancholy tone,—the same endless
sigh,—pervades them. Though they possess the highest lyric merit they
are for the most part fragmentary;—expressions of some momentary state
of feeling,—sudden ejaculations of pain or pleasure, of restlessness,
impatience, regret, longing, love. They profess to be songs, and as
songs must they be judged, and as German Songs. Then these imperfect
expressions of feeling,—these mere suggestions of thought,—this
“luminous mist,” that half reveals, half hides the sense,—this
selection of topics from scenes of every day life, and in fine this
prevailing tone of sentimental sadness, will not seem affected,
misplaced nor exaggerated. At the same time it must be confessed that
the trivial and common-place recur too frequently in these songs. Here,
likewise, as in the prose of Heine, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen
in vain for the spirit-stirring note—for the word of power—for those
ancestral melodies, which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe in our
ears forever-more the voices of consolation, encouragement and warning.
Heine is not sufficiently in earnest to be a great poet.
* * * * *
TO ONE DEPARTED.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea—
Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o’er that one bright island smile.
For ’mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of _thee_; and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _DRAWN BY T. HAYTER_, _ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD, N.Y._ _THE
YOUNG WIDOW._ _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]
* * * * *
THE YOUNG WIDOW.
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A MINIATURE.
By the splendor of thine eyes,
Flashing in their ebon light
As a star across the skies
On the sable noon of night!
By the glory of that brow,
In its calm sublimity,—
With thee, or away, as now,
I worship thee!
Sorrow has been thine, alas!
Once thou wert a happy bride;
Joy is like a brittle glass:
It was shivered at thy side.
Shall I love thee less for this?
Only be as true to me,
And I’ll glory in the bliss,
The bliss of thee!
Are thy lashes wet with tears?
Canst thou never more be gay?
Chase afar these foolish fears—
I will kiss thy dread away!
We are parted—’till we meet,
Time shall pass how wearily!
Yet I’ll make each hour more fleet
By thoughts of thee!
In the solitude of night,
In the tumult of the day,
By the gloamin’ fire’s light,
In the mazy dance and gay,
By the silver-sounding streams,
Underneath the rustling tree,
In my waking, or in dreams,
I’ll think of thee!
When in ev’ry flower cup
Fairies dance the night away,
When the queenly moon is up,
Moving on her stately way,
When the stars upon the shore
Silence e’en the sounding sea—
Ever till we part no more,
I’ll think of thee!
A. A. I.
* * * * *
THE FRESHET.
A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain,
Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds,
And ceaselessly the drenching rain
Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds;
The deep snows melt, and swelling rills
Pour through each hollow of the hills;
The river from its rest hath risen,
And bounded from its shattered prison;
The huge ice-fragments onward dash
With grinding roar and splintering crash;
Swift leap the floods upon their way,
Like war-steeds thundering on their path,
With hoofs of waves and manes of spray
Restrainless in their mighty wrath.
Wild mountains stretch in towering pride
Along the river’s either side;
Leaving between it and their walls
Narrow and level intervals.
When Summer glows, how sweet and bright
The landscape smiles upon the sight!
Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie
With the rich carpets of the rye,
The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there,
Shed honied fragrance on the air;
In long straight ranks, the maize uprears
Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears,
The yellow melon, underneath,
Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath:
Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass,
There, the potato-plant’s green mass;
All framed by woods—each limit shown
By zigzag rail, or wall of stone;
Contrasting here, within the shade,
The axe a space hath open laid
Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down,
Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown;
There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black,
Shows the red flame’s devouring track;
The fire-weed shooting thick where stood
The leafy monarchs of the wood:
A scene peculiar to one land
Which Freedom with her magic wand
Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless
With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.
The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare
Of sunset lights the misty air,
The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng
Of broken ragged clouds along,
From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung
Through all the hours, its grating tongue,
The raftsman sallies, as the gray
Of evening tells the flight of day:
And slowly seeks with loitering stride,
His cabin by the river-side.
As twilight darkens into night,
Still dash the waters in their flight,
Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast,
Shoot like the clouds before the blast.
Beyond—the sinuous channel wends
Through a deep narrow gorge, and bends
With curve so sharp, the drilling ice,
Hurl’d by the flood’s tremendous might,
Piles the opposing precipice,
And every fragment swells the height;
Hour after hour uprears the wall,
Until a barrier huge and tall
Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell
To overwhelm the obstacle:
They bathe the alder on the verge,
The leaning hemlock now they merge,
The stately elm is dwindling low
Within the deep engulfing flow,
Till curb’d thus in its headlong flight,
With its accumulated might,
The river turning on its track,
Rolls its wide-spreading volumes back.
Slumbers the raftsman—through his dream
Distorted visions wildly stream,
Now in the wood his axe he swings,
And now his sawmill’s jarring rings;
Now his huge raft is shooting swift
Cochecton’s white tumultuous rift,
Now floats it on the ebon lap
Of the grim shadow’d Water Gap,
And now it’s tossing on the swells
Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells,
The rapids crash upon his ear,
The deep sounds roll more loud and near,
They fill his dream—he starts—he wakes!
The moonlight through the casement falls,
Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks,
The floods sweep round his cabin-walls,
Beneath their bounding thundering shocks,
The frail log fabric groans and rocks;
Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver,
The walls like blast-swept branches quiver,
His wife is clinging to his breast,
The child within his arms is prest,
He staggers through the chilly flood
That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood,
On, on, he strives—the waters lave
Higher his form with every wave,
They steep his breast, on each side dash
The splinter’d ice with thundering crash
A fragment strikes him—ha! he reels,
That shock in every nerve he feels,
Faster, bold raftsman, speed thy way,
The waves roar round thee for their prey,
Thy cabin totters—sinks—the flood
Rolls its mad surges where it stood:
Before thy straining sight, the hill
Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still,
Falter not, falter not, struggle on,
That goal of safety may be won,
Heavily droops thy wife with fear,
Thy boy’s shrill shriekings fill thine ear;
Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling
Yon cedar branches for thy cling.
Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past,
The wish’d for goal is won at last,
Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now
Is resting on the hill’s steep brow:
Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending,
Each heart’s warm incense is ascending,
Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer
Oh, finds it not acceptance there?
* * * * *
MARCHES FOR THE DEAD.
BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC.
A march for the Dead—the _dreamless_ Dead
Of the tomb and the chancel aisle,
Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread
Waves round in the holy pile:—
Let the chimes be low as the awful breath
Of the midnight winds that creep,
With a pulse as faint as the step of Death,
O’er the chambers of the deep,
When the stars are in a solemn noon
Like o’er-wearied watchers there,
And a seraph-glory from the moon
Floats down through the sleeping air.
A march for the Dead—the _lovely_ Dead
Whose voices still we hear,
Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully
Around a brother’s bier:
Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours—
And their words still cheer the soul—
And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs,
Where the tides of Being roll.
Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre,
Let its notes to feeling true,
Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire,
But, still, as chastened too:
And Sorrow there will incline her head,
While Hope sits fondly by—
With _one_ hand pointing to the Dead,
The _other_ to the sky.
A march for the Dead—the _holy_ Dead—
They hallowed every sod
Like the rainbows _resting on our earth_—
_But soaring towards God_.
But, oh! what a diapason there
From the thrilling chords should start!
Like the lightning leaping from its lair
To wither Nature’s heart?
Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand
Unveils his giant form,
And strikes, with all his cloudy band,
The organs of the storm?
Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad
As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,—
For why should the heart of man be sad
When he thinks of these? _Of these?_
A march for the Dead—the _awful_ Dead—
Like mountain peaks, sublime,
Which show, as they rise, some River’s length,
They mark the stream of Time.
How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb,
With the earthy worm revelling there—
While the grim, hairless skulls from the terrible gloom
Are gleaming so ghastly and bare.
Solemn and slow, with many a wail between,
Harp give thy song the deepest, grandest flow,
While yonder moon, so dim, so cold, serene,
Lights up the burial march of those below:
And from afar the billows of the Main
Send forth their long-drawn, melancholy moan—
Most fitting chorus, for this fearful strain
Breathed in the Temples of the Night alone.
A march for the Dead—the _mighty_ Dead,
Whose mind like oceans hurl’d
Along the trembling Alps, have shook
A myriad-peopled world.
They were the links of that mighty chain,
Which the heaven unites to man,
Since first from its realm the morning strain
Of the minstrel-stars began:
And along them have flashed for six thousand years
A flame to this lowly sod,
(Oh! holier far than the light of the spheres,)
From the mighty heart of God!
Yet once more, oh! Bard—yet once more re-illume
The song-god’s olden fire,
And shed o’er the depths of the terrible tomb
The beauty of the lyre.
Give its full notes abroad—let its anthem ring out
Through the aisles of the blue-beaming air—
Wild, joyous and loud as the rapturous shout
When a great host of angels are there,
And the Heavens are all glad and wide-arching above.
Kiss the far-distant hills, like the warm lips of Love,
When she cradles the stars and the earth on her breast,
While the waters lie still in their sleep,
And the banners of Evening, unfurl’d in the west,
Pavilion her Deity’s sleep.
It is well!—
Lo, the spell!
It shakes every shroud!
How they rise!—How they rise!—
The Great and the Proud—
Each a God, as you see by their glorious eyes!
’Tis a terrible throng!—
And Thought from her Pyramid splendidly bows
And sits like a glory-wreathed crown on their brows,—
As they thunder along.
Hurry on! Hurry on!—ye have not lived in vain
As we see by each radiant head!—
Oh, minstrel still utter that sonorous strain—
’Tis the march of _the mighty_—the Dead!
* * * * *
THE TWO DUKES.
BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
(Continued from page 82.)
The princely pile, known as Somerset House, remains even to this day
unfinished, and at the time of our story was, with the exception of one
block, scarcely raised above its foundations. The large square court and
every empty space, for many rods around its site, were cumbered with
building materials. Piles of rude stone—beds of newly made
mortar—window-sashes, with the lead and rich glass that composed them,
crushed together from the carelessness with which they had been flung
down—cornices with the gilding yet fresh upon them—great fragments of
carved oak—beams of timber with flags of marble, and even images of
saints, broken as they were torn from their niches, lay heaped together
promiscuously and with a kind of sacrilegious carelessness. That block
of the building, which runs parallel with the river, alone was
completed, while that portion of the square, which forms its angle on
the strand, was built to the second story so far as the great arched
entrance. But all the rest was only massed out by a line of rough stones
sunk into the earth, and in places almost concealed by the heaps of
rubbish which we have described.
Notwithstanding the unfinished state of his palace the Lord Protector
had taken possession of that portion already completed, and from the
sumptuous—nay, almost regal magnificence of its adornments, seemed
determined to rival his royal nephew and king, in state, as he had
already done in power.
We have been particular in describing the Lord Protector’s residence,
for, at the time our story resumes its thread, it contained the leading
personages who rendered themselves conspicuous in the St. Margaret’s
riot.
Once more the gray of morning hung over the city of London, a faint hum
of voices and the sound of busy feet rose gradually within its bosom.
With the earliest glimmer a host of workmen came to their daily toil
upon the palace, and were seen in the yet dim light swarming upon the
heaps of material gathered in the court, and creeping, like ants drawn
from their mound, along the damp walls and the scaffolding that bristled
over them.
Though the hum and bustle of busy life swelled and deepened in the
streets the light was not yet strong enough to penetrate the masses of
heavy velvet which muffled three tall windows of a chamber overlooking
the Thames, and a slope of rich, but trampled sward that rolled greenly
down to its brink. So thick and deeply folded were the curtains that it
was broad day in the streets, though the sun had not yet risen, before
sufficient light penetrated the chamber to draw out the objects which it
contained from the deep tranquil gloom that surrounded them. By degrees
a soft, warm light came stealing through a fold or two of the crimson
drapery as if a shower of wine were dashed against them, very faint and
rich it was, but sufficient to reveal a mantelpiece of clouded marble
surmounting an immense fire-place at one end of the room—tall chairs of
dark wood, heavily covered with cushions of crimson leather enveloped
with gold, standing in solemn magnificence around, and a massive bed
supported by immense posts of ebony, each carved like the stems of a
great vine twisted together and coiling upward to the ceiling, where
they branched off and twined together, a superb cornice of foliage cut
from the polished wood, and intermingled with clusters of fruit so
roundly carved that they seemed ready to break loose from the rich
workmanship of tendrils and leaves which bedded them. The broad
footboard was carved to a perfect net-work; its glittering black only
relieved by the Somerset crest exquisitely emblazoned in the centre. The
head was surmounted by a slab of broad ebony even more elaborately
wrought than the other, more nicely touched and interworked like a
specimen of Chinese ivory. In the centre, just over the pillows, a
basket of golden apples gleamed through the delicate dark tracery, which
seemed to prison it, and caught the first faint light that struggled
through the windows. As this light deepened and grew stronger within the
room, a counterpane of purple velvet sweeping over the bed began to
glow, as if the grapes above were red, and had been shaken during the
night over the lovely girl who lay in an unquiet slumber beneath it. The
counterpane was disturbed and lay in purple waves over the bed—for the
Lady Jane Seymour had started up more than once during the morning, and
after gazing wildly about in the dim light, sunk to her pillow again, in
that state of unquiet drowsiness, which is neither wakefulness nor
repose. Now and then, as she seemed most soundly asleep, her lips moved
with restless murmurs, and her fair brow was knitted as if in pain
beneath the crushed lace of her night-coif. She was lying thus with
closed eyes, and yet scarcely asleep, when a door opened, and the old
woman who had escaped from the riot on the previous day, stole softly
into the chamber, bearing in her arms a bundle of green rushes and a
basket of flowers—humble things, but fresh and with the night dew yet
upon them. She laid her burthen on the floor, and approaching the bed on
tipt-toe, bent down and kissed the small hand which crept out from a
fold of the counterpane, as if the beautiful sleeper had been half aware
of her approach. More than once did the kind nurse bend over and caress
her charge, but timidly and as if fearful of arousing her. At length she
went to her basket, took a bunch of wild violets from the blossoms it
contained and laid them upon the pillow. A faint smile beamed over that
fair face as the perfume stole over it, and Lady Jane murmured softly as
one who received pleasure in a dream.
The nurse hurried away, and untying her rushes, began to scatter them
over the oaken floor. After casting down a few of the flowers upon the
fragrant carpet, she selected others to fill an antique little vase
which stood on a table richly wrought, like everything in the chamber,
and surmounted by a mirror which hung against the wall, in a frame of
ebony and gold, twined and drawn heavily together. The light was yet
very dim, so the good nurse cautiously drew back a fold of the
window-curtain. A sun-beam shot through and broke over the steel mirror
plate, as if a golden arrow had been shivered there. A flood of light,
more than she had intended to admit, filled the chamber and completely
aroused the Lady Jane. She started up in her couch, gazed wildly upon
her nurse, who stood almost terrified by what she had done, with the
half filled vase suspended over the table, and then bending her head
down upon her hand, seemed lost in thought, which ended in a fit of
weeping.
“Nurse,” she said at last, but without lifting her face.
The old woman set down her vase, and moving to the bed drew the young
girl to her bosom, and putting back her night-cap, affectionately
smoothed the bright hair gathered beneath it, with her hand.
“Tell me all that happened, good nurse,” said the Lady at length, “I
know that something is wrong, that I have been in strange places, and
amid a host of people, but it all seems very long since, and strange,
like the dreams that haunt one in sickness.” She paused awhile, very
thoughtfully, and resumed what she was saying.
“You were with me, and I remember now! they whirled you away in the
crowd. There was a little evil looking man came to me after that. He
rode by them. The church! the altar! that window! and Lord Dudley in the
grasp of rude soldiers! Nurse—tell me, where is the Duke? where is my
father? I must see my father! Go to him, and say that his daughter has
been ill, very ill, and would speak with him before he rides forth for
the morning. Go quickly, I am very well, and can robe myself.”
As she uttered these hasty directions, the Lady Jane flung back the
bed-drapery, and springing to the floor, snatched a robe from the chair
to which it had been flung on the previous night, and thrusting her arms
into the loose sleeves, began eagerly and with trembling fingers, to
knot the silken cord which bound it to her waist. All at once her hands
dropped from the task, and her exalted features contracted with a sudden
and most painful thought.
“Do not go,” she said in a stifled voice, but without lifting her face,
“It was my father who bade them tear the church down upon me. It was he
who flung Lord Dudley back among those bad men. Do not go.”
The nurse, who had seemed reluctant to perform the mission desired of
her, returned, and taking up her young lady’s slippers, knelt down to
place them on her feet, which were heedlessly pressing the chill floor,
but putting the good woman gently aside, Lady Jane began to pace slowly
up and down the apartment, sweeping the rushes with her loose robe, and
crushing beneath her small white feet, the wild blossoms that had been
scattered among them. At length she stopped suddenly and clasping her
hands, turned a look full of wild anguish upon the good woman, who stood
meekly by the bed, with the rejected slippers in her hand.
“Did you think that my father would ever have cursed _me_?” she said.
“That he would revile the bravest and most noble being in all England,
before a mob of riotous men; that he would let them seize him and
trample me to the earth; _me_, his youngest child—who loved him so.”
“Nay, sweet Lady—you have been ill, and all this is a feverish fancy.
You should have seen with what tenderness my Lord The Duke, bore you up
from the barge, in his own arms, and would not rest till we brought him
word that you were safe in bed here, and asleep,” replied the nurse.
Lady Jane shook her head and smiled sadly. “It was no dream,” she said,
“dreams are of the fancy, but such things as happened yesterday, sink
into the soul, and will not pass away.”
“And yet,” replied the dame, “it was but now the Lord Duke took such
care of your repose, my gentle Lady, that he forbade the workmen
wielding a hammer or crowbar in the court, lest your rest might be
disturbed too early. I met him scarcely ten minutes since, on the way to
his closet, where he is about to examine my Lord Dudley, and that
strange looking man who was brought here on his lordship’s horse, while
the brave young gentleman came by water with a pack of soldiers at his
heels. The Duke, your father, was in haste, but he took occasion to
inquire after your welfare, and bade me observe that no one entered this
chamber, or disturbed you in the least, till you were quite restored.”
Lady Jane took the slippers from her attendant’s hand, and hastily
thrusting her feet into them, began to arrange her dress once more.
“Said you that Lord Dudley was with my father now?” she enquired,
turning from the steel mirror, before which she was hurriedly twisting
up her hair.
“He may not have left his prisoner in the new rooms near the arch yet,”
replied the dame, “but I heard the Duke give orders that he should be
brought out directly with that fellow in the sheep-skin cap. If we were
but on the other side, nothing would be easier than to see them with the
guard, filing through the court.”
“And has my father gone so far? Lord Dudley imprisoned in our own
dwelling with a felon knave like that?” murmured Lady Jane, folding her
arms and looking almost sternly upon the floor, “alas, what is his
offence, what is mine, that a parent, once so good and kind should deal
thus cruelly with us!” Tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke, and
advancing to the nurse she took her arm, and moved resolutely toward the
door.
“Whither are you going my lady?” said the nurse, turning pale with
apprehension.
“To my father,” replied Lady Jane calmly, “I would learn the nature of
my offence, and if accusation is brought against my affianced husband I
would stand by his side. Do not turn pale and tremble, nurse, I am not
the child which I went forth yesterday, though but a day older; intense
suffering is more powerful than time, and I almost think that my youth
has departed forever. Let us go!”
“I dare not,” replied the old woman, “the duke has forbidden it.”
“Am I also a prisoner, and in my father’s house?” demanded the lady,
“well, be it so! When the falcon is caged the poor dove should but peck
idly against her wires,” and sitting down the unhappy girl folded her
arms on the dressing-table, where she wept in bitterness of heart. The
noise of heavy feet passing along the corridor to which her chamber
opened aroused her.
“It is the soldiers with Lord Dudley in charge,” said the nurse in reply
to her questioning look, “I will go and see.” The good woman arose and
softly opening the door looked out. Lady Jane gazed after her with
intense earnestness. When she stepped into the passage and the sound of
low voices came into the room the anxious young creature could restrain
herself no longer, for the tones were familiar and made her heart
thrill, burthened as it was with sorrow. She moved eagerly toward the
door, and, as it was swung open by the returning nurse, caught one
glance of Lord Dudley’s face. It was stern and pale as death. He saw her
and tried to smile, but the rude voice of a soldier bade him move on; he
was hereby excited and the effort was lost in a proud curve of the lips,
which chilled the unhappy young creature who gazed so breathlessly upon
him. It was the first time that she had ever seen a shadow of bitterness
on those lips, for her presence had always a power to bring sunshine to
them in his sternest mood.
“Oh, what changes has one day brought,” she murmured, burying her face
once more upon the table, “my father’s curse upon me—Dudley, my Dudley,
estranged. My mother—alas! when has the morning dawned that her kiss
failed to greet me. Now, on this wretched day,” she broke off, locked
the small hands which covered her face more firmly together, and again
murmured, “Heaven help me, for I am alone!”
“No, not alone—is your old nurse of no account? If they have made her
your jailor is she not a kind one?” said the good-hearted attendant,
bending over her weeping charge. “Come, take heart, lady-bird, dark days
cannot last forever; the stars, so beautiful and bright, are sometimes
lost in black clouds, but they always find a time to shine out again.
The duke cannot intend to deal harshly with you or he would never have
appointed your own fond old nurse keeper to your prison. Besides, Lord
Dudley will be set free directly; he bade me tell you that a messenger
had been sent to the staunch old earl, his father, and that another
night would not find him submitting to insult and confinement like the
last.”