warriors met so well matched or of equal prowess. Their shields were
hacked to pieces, the ground was strewed with fragments of their armor,
and stained with their blood. They paused repeatedly to take breath;
regarding each other with wonder and admiration. Pelistes, however, had
been previously injured by his fall, and fought to great disadvantage. The
renegado perceived it, and sought not to slay him, but to take him alive.
Shifting his ground continually, he wearied his antagonist, who was
growing weaker and weaker from the loss of blood. At length Pelistes
seemed to summon up all his remaining strength to make a signal blow; it
was skilfully parried and he fell prostrate upon the ground. The renegado
ran up, and, putting his foot upon his sword, and the point of his
scimitar to his throat, called upon him to ask his life; but Pelistes lay
without sense, and as one dead. Magued then unlaced the helmet of his
vanquished enemy and seated himself on a rock beside him, to recover
breath. In this situation the warriors were found by certain Moorish
cavaliers, who marvelled much at the traces of that stern and bloody
combat.
Finding there was yet life in the Christian knight, they laid him upon one
of their horses, and, aiding Magued to remount his steed, proceeded slowly
to the city. As the convoy passed by the convent, the cavaliers looked
forth and beheld their commander borne along bleeding and a captive.
Furious at the sight, they sallied forth to the rescue, but were repulsed
by a superior force, and driven back to the great portal of the church.
The enemy entered pell mell with them, fighting from aisle to aisle, from
altar to altar, and in the courts and cloisters of the convent. The
greater part of the cavaliers died bravely, sword in hand; the rest were
disabled with wounds and made prisoners. The convent, which was lately
their castle, was now made their prison, and in after-times, in
commemoration of this event, was consecrated by the name of St. George of
the Captives.
The loyalty and the prowess of the good knight Pelistes had gained him the
reverence even of his enemies. He was for a long time disabled by his
wounds, during which he was kindly treated by the Arab chieftains, who
strove by every courteous means to cheer his sadness and make him forget
that he was a captive. When he was recovered from his wounds they gave him
a magnificent banquet to testify their admiration of his virtues.
Pelistes appeared at the banquet clad in sable armor, and with a
countenance pale and dejected; for the ills of his country evermore preyed
upon his heart. Among the assembled guests was Count Julian, who held a
high command in the Moslem army, and was arrayed in garments of mingled
Christian and Morisco fashion. Pelistes had been a close and bosom friend
of Julian in former times, and had served with him in the wars in Africa;
but when the count advanced to accost him with his wonted amity, he turned
away in silence, and deigned not to notice him; neither during the whole
of the repast did he address to him ever a word, but treated him as one
unknown.
When the banquet was nearly at a close, the discourse turned upon the
events of the war; and the Moslem chieftains, in great courtesy, dwelt
upon the merits of many of the Christian cavaliers who had fallen in
battle, and all extolled the valor of those who had recently perished in
the defence of the convent. Pelistes remained silent for a time, and
checked the grief which swelled within his bosom as he thought of his
devoted cavaliers. At length, lifting up his voice, 'Happy are the dead,'
said he, 'for they rest in peace, and are gone to receive the reward of
their piety and valor! I could mourn over the loss of my companions in
arms, but they have fallen with honor, and are spared the wretchedness I
feel in witnessing the thraldom of my country. I have seen my only son,
the pride and hope of my age, cut down at my side; I have beheld kindred
friends and followers falling one by one around me, and have become so
seasoned to those losses that I have ceased to weep. Yet there is one man
over whose loss I will never cease to grieve. He was the loved companion
of my youth, and the steadfast associate of my graver years. He was one of
the most loyal of Christian knights. As a friend he was loving and
sincere; as a warrior his achievements were above all praise. What has
become of him, alas! I know not. If fallen in battle, and I knew where his
bones were laid, whether bleaching on the plains of Xeres, or buried in
the waters of the Gaudalete, I would seek them out and enshrine them as
the relics of a sainted patriot. Or if, like many of his companions in
arms, he should be driven to wander in foreign lands, I would join him in
his hapless exile, and we would mourn together over the desolation of our
country!'
Even the hearts of the Arab warriors were touched by the lament of the
good Pelistes, and they said: 'Who was this peerless friend, in whose
praise thou art so fervent?'
'His name,' replied Pelistes, 'was Count Julian.'
The Moslem warriors stared with surprise. 'Noble cavalier,' exclaimed
they, 'has grief disordered thy senses? Behold thy friend, living and
standing before thee, and yet thou dost not know him! This, this is Count
Julian!'
Upon this, Pelistes turned his eyes upon the count, and regarded him for a
time, with a lofty and stern demeanor; and the countenance of Julian
darkened, and was troubled, and his eye sank beneath the regard of that
loyal and honorable cavalier. And Pelistes said, 'In the name of God, I
charge thee, man unknown! to answer. Dost thou presume to call thyself
Count Julian?'
The count reddened with anger at these words. 'Pelistes,' said he, 'what
means this mockery? Thou knowest me well; thou knowest me for Count
Julian?'
'I know thee for a base imposter!' cried Pelistes. 'Count Julian was a
noble Gothic knight; but thou appearest in mongrel Moorish garb. Count
Julian was a Christian, faithful and devout; but I behold in thee a
renegado and an infidel. Count Julian was ever loyal to his king, and
foremost in his country's cause: were he living, he would be the first to
put shield on neck and lance in rest, to clear the land of her invaders:
but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are stained with the royal blood
of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy country and thy God. Therefore, I
again repeat, man unknown! if thou sayest thou art Count Julian, thou
liest! My friend, alas! is dead; and thou art some fiend from hell, which
has taken possession of his body to dishonor his memory and render him an
abhorrence among men!' So saying, Pelistes turned his back upon the
traitor, and went forth from the banquet; leaving Count Julian overwhelmed
with confusion, and an object of scorn to all the Moslem cavaliers.
ON SEEING A LADY WEEP OVER A NOSEGAY.
Though plucked from off the parent stems,
The flow'rs forget to die,
When Beauty all their leaves begems
With tears from her sweet eye.
There is a heart which throb'd to-day
To see thee weep alone.
And longed to wipe those drops away,
Or make that grief its own.
PLUTARCH SHAW: 1844.
LITERARY NOTICES.
LITERARY REMAINS OF THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARKE. Parts Three and
Four. New-York: BURGESS, STRINGER AND COMPANY.
The reception given to our notice of this serial work in our last number,
has emboldened us to refer to the issues which have since appeared,
containing a copious variety of matter which will be new to great numbers
of our readers. One of the best evidences of the _naturalness_ and ease of
our author's writings, is to be found in the ready appreciation of them by
all classes of readers. Whether the vein be a serious one, or the theme
turn upon the humorous or the burlesque, it is not too much, we think, to
say that the writer takes always with him the heart or the fancy of the
reader. Without however pausing to characterize productions which bid fair
to become very widely and favorably known, we shall venture, under favor
of the reader, to present a few more extracts, 'which it is hoped may
please.' The following illustration of a night-scene at the Kaatskill
Mountain-House, on the evening of the Fourth of July, we can aver to be a
faithful Daguerreotype sketch, for we saw it with the writer:
'Take my arm, and step forth with me from the piazza of the
Mountain-House. It is night. A few stars are peering from a dim
azure field of western sky; the high-soaring breeze, the breath of
heaven, makes a stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek
crest of Dian rolls along the blue depths of ether, tinting with
silver lines the half dun, half fleecy clouds; they who are in the
parlors make 'considerable' noise; there is an individual at the
end of the portico discussing his quadruple julep, and another
devotedly sucking the end of a cane, as if it were full of
mother's milk; he hummeth also an air from _Il Pirata_, and
wonders, in the simplicity of his heart, 'why the devil that there
steam-boat from Albany doesn't begin to show its lights down on
the Hudson.' His companion of the glass, however, is intent on the
renewal thereof. Calling to him the chief 'help' of the place, he
says: 'Is that other antifogmatic ready?'
'No, Sir.'
'Well, now, person, what's the reason? What was my last
observation? Says I to you, says I, 'Make me a fourth of them
beverages;' and moreover, I added, 'Just you keep doing so; be
_constantly_ making them, till the order is countermanded.' Give
us another; go! vanish!--'disappear and appear!''
'The obsequious servant went; and returning with the desired
draught, observed, probably for the thousandth time: 'There!
that's what I call the true currency; them's the _ginooyne_
mint-drops; HA--_ha_--ha!'--these separate divisions of his
laughter coming out of his mouth at intervals of about half a
minute each.
* * * * *
'There is a bench near the verge of the Platform, where, when you
sit at evening, the hollow-sounding air comes up from the vast
vale below, like the restless murmurs of the ocean. Anchor
yourself here for a while, reader, with me. It being the evening
of the national anniversary, a few patriotic individuals are
extremely busy in piling up a huge pyramid of dried pine branches,
barrels covered with tar, and kegs of spirits, to a height of some
fifteen or twenty feet--perhaps higher. A bonfire is premeditated.
You shall see anon, how the flames will rise. The preparations are
completed; the fire is applied. Hear how it crackles and hisses!
Slowly but spitefully it mounts from limb to limb, and from one
combustible to another, until the whole welkin is a-blaze, and
shaking as with thunder! It is a beautiful sight. The gush of
unwonted radiance rolls in effulgent surges adown the vale. How
the owl hoots with surprise at the interrupting light! Bird of
wisdom, it is the Fourth! and you may well add your voice to swell
the choral honors of the time. How the tall old pines, withered by
the biting scathe of Eld, rise to the view, afar and near; white
shafts, bottomed in darkness, and standing like the serried spears
of an innumerable army! The groups around the beacon are gathered
together, but are forced to enlarge the circle of their
acquaintance, by the growing intensity of the increasing blaze.
Some of them, being ladies, their white robes waving in the
mountain breeze, and the light shining full upon them, present,
you observe, a beautiful appearance. The pale pillars of the
portico flash fitfully into view, now seen and gone, like columns
of mist. The swarthy African who kindled the fire regards it with
perspiring face and grinning ivories; and lo! the man who hath
mastered the quintupled glass of metamorphosed _eau-de-vie_,
standing by the towering pile of flame, and, reaching his hand on
high, he smiteth therewith his sinister pap, with a most hollow
sound; the knell, as it were of his departing reason. In short, he
is making an oration!
'Listen to those voiceful currents of air, traversing the vast
profound below the Platform! What a mighty circumference do they
sweep! Over how many towns, and dwellings, and streams, and
incommunicable woods! Murmurs of the dark, sources and awakeners
of sublime imagination, swell from afar. You have thoughts of
eternity and power here, which shall haunt you evermore. But we
must be early stirrers in the morning. Let us to bed.
* * * * *
'You can lie on your pillow at the Kaatskill House, and see the
god of day look upon you from behind the pinnacles of the White
Mountains in New Hampshire, hundreds of miles away. Noble
prospect! As the great orb heaves up in ineffable grandeur, he
seems rising from beneath you, and you fancy that you have
attained an elevation where may be seen _the motion of the world_.
No intervening land to limit the view, you seem suspended in
mid-air, without one obstacle to check the eye. The scene is
indescribable. The chequered and interminable vale, sprinkled with
groves, and lakes, and towns, and streams; the mountains afar off,
swelling tumultuously heavenward, like waves of the ocean, some
incarnadined with radiance, others purpled in shade; all these, to
use the language of an auctioneer's advertisement, 'are too
tedious to mention, but may be seen on the premises.' I know of
but one picture which will give the reader an idea of this
etherial spot. It was the view which the angel Michael was polite
enough, one summer morning, to point out to Adam, from the highest
hill of Paradise.'
Many and many a young father will recognize, in the following, his own
emotions, as he looks in moments of thoughtfulness upon the little
'olive-branches' around him, in whom he lives over again his own earliest
years:
'To those who are disposed to glean philosophy from the mayhap
less noticeable objects of this busy world, there are few sights
more lovely than childhood. The little cherub who now sits at my
knee, and tries, with tiny effort, to clutch the quill with which
I am playing for you, good reader; whose capricious taste, varying
from ink-stand to paper, and from that to books, and every other
portable thing--all 'moveables that I could tell you of'--he has
in his little person those elements which constitute both the
freshness of our sublunary mortality, and that glorious
immortality which the mortal shall yet put on. Gazing upon his
fair young brow, his peach-like cheek, and the depths of those
violet eyes, I feel myself rejuvenated. That which bothered
Nicodemus, is no marvel to me. I feel that I have a new existence;
nor can I dispel the illusion. It is harder, indeed, to believe
that he will ever be what I am, than that I am otherwise than he
is now. I can not imagine that he will ever become a pilous adult,
with harvests for the razor on that downy chin. Will those golden
locks become the brown auburn? Will that forehead rise as a varied
and shade-changing record of pleasure or care? Will the classic
little lips, now colored as by the radiance of a ruby, ever be
fitfully bitten in the glow of literary composition!--and will
those sun-bright locks, which hang about his temples like the soft
lining of a summer cloud, become meshes where hurried fingers
shall thread themselves in play? By the mass, I can not tell. But
this I know. That which hath been, shall be: the lot of manhood,
if he live, will be upon him; the charm, the obstacle, the
triumphant fever; the glory, the success, the far-reaching
thoughts,
'That make them eagle wings
To pierce the unborn years.'
The 'Ollapodiana' papers are concluded in the third number, and a portion
of the issue is devoted to the commencement of the 'Miscellaneous Prose
Papers' of the writer, which are both numerous and various, 'A Chapter on
Cats' records an amusing story, replete with incident, which turns upon
the deplorable consequences, in one sad instance at least, of cat-killing.
An illustrative although not satisfactory passage is subjoined:
'I am subject, in summer, to restlessness. Thick-coming fancies
mar my rest, and my ear is peculiarly sensitive to the least
inappropriate sound. One sultry evening in July, I returned home
later than usual, from an arbitration, wherein I lost a cause on
which I had counted certainly to win. I suspect I bored the
arbitrators with too long a plea, and too voluminous quotations of
precedents; for when I finished, two were asleep, and most of the
others yawning. They decided against my client, and I came home
mad with chagrin, and crept into bed, longing for speedy oblivion
in the arms of Sleep.
'But that calm sister of Death would not be won to my embrace. I
lay tossing for a long time in 'restless ecstacy,' until vexed and
overwearied nature at last sunk to repose. I could not have
slumbered over ten minutes, before I was awakened by the most
outrageous caterwauling that ever stung the human ear. I arose in
a fury, and looked out of the window. All was still. The cause for
outcry appeared to have ceased. Now and then there was a low
gutteral wail, between a suppressed grunt and a squeal; but it was
so faint that nothing could have lived 'twixt that and silence.
After a listening probation of a few minutes, I slunk back into my
sheets.
'I had scarcely dozed a quarter of an hour, when the obnoxious
vociferations arose again. They were fierce, ill-natured, and
shrill. I arose again, vexed beyond endurance. All was quiet in a
moment. I am not given to profanity; I deem it foolish and wicked;
but on this occasion, after stretching my body like a sheeted
ghost, half out of the window, and gazing into the shadows of the
garden to discover the object of my annoyance, I exclaimed in a
loud and spiteful voice, which expressed my concentrated hate:
----'_D--n that cat!_'
''Young gentleman,' said a passing guardian of the night, from the
street, 'you had better pop your head in and stop your noise. If
you don't, you will rue it; now mind-I-tell-ye.'
''Look here, old Charley,' said I, in return, 'don't be
impertinent. It is your business to preserve the peace, and to
obviate every evil that looks disgracious in the city's eye. You
guard the slumbers of her citizens; and if you expect a dollar
from me at Christmas, for the poetry in your next annual address,
you will perform what I now request, and what it is your solemn
and bounded duty to do. Spring your rattle; comprehend that vagrom
cat, and take her to the watch-house, I will appear as plaintiff
against the quadruped, before the mayor, in the morning. Her
character is bad--her habits are scandalous.'
''Oh, pshaw!' said the watchman, and went clattering up the
street, singing 'N'hav p-a-st dwelve o'glock, and a glowdee morn.'
'I reverted to my pillow, and fell into a train of conjectures
touching the grimalkin. Possibly it might be the darling old
friend of Miss Dillon. Then I thought of others--then I slept.
'I cannot declare to a second how long my fitful slumber lasted,
before I was startled from my bed by a yell, which proceeded
apparently from a cat in my room. I had just been dreaming of a
great mouser, with ears like a jackass, and claws, armed with long
'pickers and stingers,' sitting on my bosom, and sucking away my
breath. I sprang at once into the middle of the room. I searched
every where--nothing was in the apartment. Then there rushed
toward the zenith one universal cat-shriek, which went echoing off
on the night-wind like the reverberation of a sharp thunder-peal.
'My blood was now _up_ for vengeance. One hungry and fiery wish to
destroy that diabolical caterwauler, took possession of my soul.
At that instant the clock struck one. It was the death knell of
the feline vocalist. I looked out of the window, and in the light
of a stray lot of moonshine, streaming through the tall chimneys
to the south-east, I saw Miss Dillon's romantic favorite,
alternately cooing and fighting with a large mouser of the
neighborhood, that I had seen for several afternoons previous,
walking leisurely along the garden wall, as if absorbed in deep
meditation, and forming some libertine resolve. In fine, they each
seemed saturate with the spirit of the Gnome king, Umbriel, in the
drama, when he
----'stalked abroad
Urging the wolf to tear the buffalo.'
'The death of one of these noisy belligerents being determined on,
I looked round my room for the tools of retribution. Not a
moveable thing, however, could I discover, save a new pitcher,
which had been sent home that very day, and to which my name and
address were appended on a bit of card. I clutched it with
desperate fury, and pouring into my bowl the water contained in
it, I poised it in my hand for the deadly heave. I had been a
member of a quoit club in the country, and the principles of a
clever throw were familiar to me. I resolved to make the vessel
describe what is called in philosophy a _parabolic curve_, so that
while it knocked out the brains of one combatant, it should
effectually admonish the survivor of the iniquity of his doings. I
approached the window--balanced the pitcher--and then drave it
home. Its reception was acknowledged by a loud, choking squall--a
faint yell of agony, and then a respectful silence. Satisfied that
my pitcher had been broken at the fountain of life, and that the
silent tabby would not soon tune her pipes again, I retired to
bed, and slept with the serenity and comfort of one who is
conscious of having performed a virtuous action.
'In the morning, the cat was found 'keeled up' on a bed of pinks,
with her head broken in, and her ancient and venerable whiskers
dabbled in blood. The shattered pitcher lay by her side. The
vessel had done its worst--so had my victim.'
The story proper, upon the consecutive incidents of which we shall not
touch, closes with the annexed whimsical anecdote:
'An anonymous wag not long ago, placed an advertisement in each of
our city journals, signed by an eminent house on the Delaware
wharf, and stating that FIVE HUNDRED CATS were wanted immediately
by the firm. The said firm in the meantime knew nothing of the
matter.
'On visiting their counting-house the next morning, the partners
found the streets literally blocked up with enterprising
cat-sellers. Huge negroes were there, each with ten or fifteen
sage, grave tabbies tied together with a string. Old market-women
had brought thither whole families of the feline genus, from the
superannuated _Tom_, to the blind kitten. The air resounded with
the squallings of the quadrupedal multitude. New venders, with
their noisy property, were seen thronging to the place from every
avenue.
''What'll you _guv_ me for this 'ere lot?' said a tall shad-woman,
pressing up toward the counting-room. 'The newspapers says you
allows liberal prices. I axes a dollar a piece for the old 'uns,
and five levys for the kittens.'
''You have been fooled,' said the chief partner, who appeared with
a look of dismay at the door, and was obliged to speak as loud
amid the din as a sea-captain in a storm. 'I want no cats. I have
no use for them. I could not eat them. I couldn't sell them. I
never advertised for them.'
'A decided mendicant, a member of the great family of loafers,
with a red, _bulgy_ nose, and bloated cheeks, who had three cats
tied to a string in his hand, now mounted a cotton bale, and
producing a newspaper, spelt the advertisement through as audibly
as he could under the circumstances, demanding of the assembly as
he closed, 'if that there advertysement wasn't a true bill?' An
unanimous 'Sarting!' echoed through the crowd. Encouraged by the
electric response, the loafer proceeded to make a short speech. He
touched upon the rights of trade, the liberty of the press, the
importance of fair dealing, and the benefits of printing; and
concluded by advising his hearers to go the death for their
rights, and 'not to stand no humbug.' Such was the effect of his
eloquence, that the firm against which he wielded his oratorical
thunder found it necessary to compromise matters by treating the
entire concourse to a hogshead of wine. 'The company separated at
an early hour,' consoled for the loss of their bargains and the
emptiness of their pockets by the lightsomeness of their heads and
hearts.'
Let us hope that our readers will find, in the entire work from which we
quote, ample reasons for the favor which it is receiving at the hands of
the public.
MENTAL HYGIENE: OR AN EXAMINATION OF THE INTELLECT AND PASSIONS.
Designed to illustrate their Influence on Health and the Duration of
Life. By WILLIAM SWEETSER, M. D. In one volume. pp. 270. New-York: J.
AND H. G. LANGLEY.