GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XVIII. February, 1841. No. 2.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Blind Girl of Pompeii
The Reefer of ’76 (continued)
My Grandmother’s Tankard
The Rescued Knight
The Silver Digger
The Syrian Letters (continued)
The Saccharineous Philosophy
The Confessions of a Miser
Sports and Pastimes. Shooting
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music and Fashion
The Dream of the Delaware
Little Children
Skating
The Soul’s Destiny
Winter
The Fairy’s Home
Not Lost, But Gone Before
Not for Me! Not for Me!
Fashions for February, 1841
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _J. Sartain sc._
The Blind Girl of Pompeii
_Eng^{d} for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the
possession of J. Sill Esq. Phil^{a.}_]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XVIII. FEBRUARY, 1841. No. 2.
* * * * *
THE BLIND GIRL OF POMPEII.
Who that has read the “Last Days of Pompeii” can forget Nydia, the blind
flower-girl? So sweet, and pure, and gentle, and devoted in her
unrequited love, she steals insensibly upon the heart, and wins a place
therein, which even the brilliant Ione fails to obtain! Poor, artless
innocent, her life, alas! was one of disappointment from its birth.
We cannot better portray the character of this guileless being than by
copying the exquisite description of Bulwer. The scene opens with a
company of gay, young Pompeiians—among whom is Glaucus, the hero of the
story—taking a morning stroll through the town. We let the story speak
for itself.
“Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an
open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a
light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl,
with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed
instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she
was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music
she gracefully waved her flower basket round, inviting the loiterers to
buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in
compliment to the music, or in compassion to the songstress—for she was
blind.
“‘It is my poor Thessalian,’ said Glaucus, stopping; ‘I have not seen
her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let us
listen.’
THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL’S SONG.
Buy my Flowers—O buy—I pray,
The Blind Girl comes from afar:
If the Earth be as fair as I hear them say,
These Flowers her children are!
Do they her beauty keep?
They are fresh from her lap, I know;
For I caught them fast asleep
In her arms an hour ago,
With the air which is her breath—
Her soft and delicate breath—
Over them murmuring low!—
On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,
And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet,
For she weeps,—that gentle mother weeps
(As morn and night her watch she keeps,
With a yearning heart and a passionate care,)
To see the young things grow so fair;
She weeps—for love she weeps—
And the dews are the tears she weeps
From the well of a mother’s love!
Ye have a world of light,
Where love in the lov’d rejoices;
But the Blind Girl’s home is the House of Night,
And its Beings are empty voices.
As one in the Realm below,
I stand by the streams of wo;
I hear the vain shadows glide,
I feel their soft breath at my side,
And I thirst the lov’d forms to see,
And I stretch my fond arms around,
And I catch but a shapeless sound,
For the Living are Ghosts to me.
Come buy—come buy!—
Hark! how the sweet things sigh
(For they have a voice like ours,)
“The breath of the Blind Girl closes
The leaves of the saddening roses—
We are tender, we sons of Light,
We shrink from this child of Night;
From the grasp of the Blind Girl free us,
We yearn for the eyes that see us—
We are for Night too gay,
In our eyes we behold the day—
O buy—O buy the Flowers!”
“‘I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,’ said Glaucus, pressing
through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the
basket; ‘your voice is more charming than ever.’
“The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian’s voice—then
as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek,
and temples.
“‘So you are returned!’ said she in a low voice; and then repeated, half
to herself, ‘Glaucus is returned!’
“‘Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden
wants your care as before, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And
mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of
the pretty Nydia.’
“Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing the
violets he had selected in his breast, turned gayly and carelessly from
the crowd.
“‘So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child?’ said Clodius.
“‘Ay—does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor
slave!—besides, she is from the land of the Gods’ hill—Olympus frowned
upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.’”
How exquisitely is the love of Nydia told in her joy at the return of
Glaucus! Only a master-hand could have described it in that blush, and
start, and the glad exclamation, “Glaucus is returned!”
The revellers meanwhile pass on their way, and it is not till the
following morning that the flower-girl appears again upon the scene. But
though she comes even while the Athenian is musing on his mistress Ione,
there is a beauty around Nydia’s every movement which makes us hail her
with delight. It is her appearance at this visit which the artist has
transferred to the canvass. Lo! are not the limner and the author
equally inimitable?
“Longer, perhaps, had been the enamored soliloquy of Glaucus, but at
that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young
female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was
dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the
ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other
hand she held a bronze water vase; her features were more formed than
exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their
outline, and without being beautiful in themselves they were almost made
so by their beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle,
and you would say patient, in her aspect—a look of resigned sorrow, of
tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from
her lips; something timid and cautious in her step—something wandering
in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered
from her birth—she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no
visible defect, their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless,
and serene. ‘They tell me that Glaucus is here,’ said she; ‘may I come
in?’
“‘Ah, my Nydia,’ said the Greek, ‘is that you? I knew you would not
neglect my invitation.’
“‘Glaucus did but justice to himself,’ answered Nydia, with a blush,
‘for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.’
“‘Who could be otherwise?’ said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice of a
compassionate brother.
“Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his
remark. ‘You have but lately returned? This is the sixth sun that hath
shone upon me at Pompeii. And you are well? Ah, I need not ask—for who
that sees the earth which they tell me is so beautiful can be ill?’
“‘I am well—and you, Nydia?—how you have grown! next year you will be
thinking of what answer we shall make your lovers.’
“A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she
frowned as she blushed. ‘I have brought you some flowers,’ said she,
without replying to a remark she seemed to resent, and feeling about the
room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket
upon it: ‘they are poor, but they are fresh gathered.’
“‘They might come from Flora herself,’ said he, kindly; ‘and I renew
again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy
hands can weave me such as these.’
“‘And how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are they thriving?’
“‘Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended them.’
“‘Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal
the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.’
“‘How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?’ said the Greek. ‘Glaucus little
dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at
Pompeii.’
“The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her
tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. ‘The sun is hot for the poor
flowers,’ said she, ‘to-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill
lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.’
“‘Ill, Nydia! yet your cheek has more color than it had last year.’
“‘I am often ailing,’ said the blind girl, touchingly, ‘and as I grow up
I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!’ So saying, she
made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium,
busied herself with watering the flowers.
“‘Poor Nydia,’ thought Glaucus, gazing on her, ‘thine is a hard doom.
Thou seest not the earth—nor the sun—nor the ocean—nor the
stars—above all, thou canst not behold Ione.’
Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a
profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the
brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his
patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively
happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love
shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless
character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in
winning Ione; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii;
but Nydia, uncomplaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears mysteriously
from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate?
* * * * *
THE REEFER OF ’76.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”
FORT MOULTRIE.
How often has the story of the heart been told! The history of the love
of one bosom is that of the millions who have alternated between hope
and fear since first the human heart began to throb. The gradual
awakening of our affection; the first consciousness we have of our own
feelings; the tumultuous emotions of doubt and certainty we experience,
and the wild rapture of the moment, when, for the first time, we learn
that our love is requited, have all been told by pens more graphic than
mine, and in language as nervous as that of Fielding, or as moving as
that of Richardson.
The daily companionship into which I was now thrown with Beatrice was,
of all things, the most dangerous to my peace. From the first moment
when I beheld her she had occupied a place in my thoughts; and the
footing of acquaintanceship, not to say intimacy, on which we now lived,
was little calculated to banish her from my mind. Oh! how I loved to
linger by her side during the moonlight evenings of that balmy latitude,
talking of a thousand things which, at other times, would have been void
of interest, or gazing silently upon the peaceful scene around, with a
hush upon our hearts it seemed almost sacrilege to break. And at such
times how the merest trifle would afford us food for conversation, or
how eloquent would be the quiet of that holy silence! Yes! the ripple of
a wave, or the glimmer of the spray, or the twinkling of a star, or the
voice of the night-wind sighing low, or the deep, mysterious language of
the unquiet ocean, had, at such moments, a beauty in them, stirring
every chord in our hearts, and filling us, as it were, with sympathy not
only for each other, but for every thing in Nature. And when we would
part for the night, I would pace for hours, my solitary watch, thinking
of Beatrice, with all the rapt devotion of a first, pure love.
But this could not last. The dream was pleasant, yet it might not lead
me to dishonor. Beatrice was under my protection, and was it right to
avail myself of that advantage to win her heart, when I knew from the
difference of our stations in life, that it was madness to think that
she could ever be mine. What? the heiress of one of the richest Jamaica
residents, the grand-daughter of a baron, and the near connexion of some
of the wealthiest tory families of the south, to be wooed as an equal by
one who not only had no fortune but his sword, but was the advocate, in
the eyes of her advisers, of a rebellious cause! Nor did the service I
had rendered her lessen the difficulty of my position.
These feelings, however, had rendered me more guarded, perhaps more
cold, in the presence of Beatrice, for a day or two preceding our
arrival in port. I felt my case hopeless: and I wished, by gradually
avoiding the danger, to lessen the agony of the final separation.
Besides, I knew nothing as yet of the sentiments of Beatrice toward
myself. I was a novice in love; and the silent abstraction of her
manner, together with the gradually increasing avoidance of my presence,
filled me with uneasiness, despite the conviction of the hopelessness of
my suit. But what was it to me, I would say, even if Beatrice loved me
not? Was it not better that it should be so? Alas! reason and love are
two very different things, and though I was better satisfied with myself
when we made the lights of Charleston harbor, yet the almost total
separation which had thus for nearly two days existed between Beatrice
and myself, left my heart tormented with all a lover’s fears.
It was the last evening we would spend together, perhaps for years. The
wind had died away, and we slowly floated upward with the tide, the
shores of James Island hanging like a dark cloud on the larboard beam,
and the lights of the distant city, glimmering along the horizon
inboard; while no sound broke the stillness of the hour, except the
occasional wash of a ripple, or the song of some negro fishermen
floating across the water. As I stood by the starboard railing, gazing
on this scenery, I could not help contrasting my present situation with
what it had been but a few short weeks before, when I left the harbor of
New York. So intensely was I wrapt in these thoughts, that I did not
notice the appearance of Beatrice on deck, until the question of the
helmsman, dissolving my reverie, caused me to look around me. For a
moment I hesitated whether I should join her or not. My feelings at
length, however, prevailed; and crossing the deck, I soon stood at her
side. She did not appear to notice my presence, but with her elbow
resting on the railing, and her head buried in her hand, was pensively
looking down upon the tide.
“Miss Derwent!” said I, with a voice that I was conscious trembled,
though I scarce knew why it did.
“Mr. Parker!” she ejaculated in a tone of surprise, her eyes sparkling,
as starting suddenly around she blushed over neck and brow, and then as
suddenly dropped her eyes to the deck, and began playing with her fan.
For a moment we were both mutually embarrassed. A woman is, at such
times, the first to speak.
“Shall we be able to land to-night?” said Beatrice.
“Not unless a breeze springs up—”
“Oh! then I hope we shall not have one,” ejaculated the guileless girl;
but instantly becoming aware of the interpretation which might be put
upon her remark, she blushed again, and cast her eyes anew upon the
deck. A strange, joyous hope shot through my bosom; but I made a strong
effort and checked my feelings. Another silence ensued, which every
moment became more oppressive.
“You join, I presume, your cousin’s family on landing,” said I at
length, “I will, as soon as we come to anchor, send a messenger ashore,
apprising him of your presence on board.”
“How shall I ever thank you sufficiently,” said Beatrice, raising her
dark eyes frankly to mine, “for your kindness? Never—never,” she
continued more warmly, “shall I forget it.”
My soul thrilled to its deepest fibre at the words, and more than all,
at the tone of the speaker; and it was with some difficulty that I could
answer calmly,—
“The consciousness of having ever merited Miss Derwent’s thanks, is a
sufficient reward for all I have done. That she will not wholly forget
me is more than I could ask; but believe me, Beatrice,” said I, unable
to restrain my feelings, and venturing, for the first time, to call her
by that name, “though we shall soon part forever, never, never can I
forget these few happy days.”
“Why—do you leave Charleston instantly?” said she, with emotion, “shall
I not see you again after my landing?”
I know not how it is, but there are moments when our best resolutions
vanish as though they had never been made; and now, as I looked upon the
earnest countenance of Beatrice, and felt the full meaning of the words
so innocently said, a wild hope once more shot across my bosom, and I
said softly,—
“Why, Beatrice, would it be aught to you whether we ever met again?”
She lifted her eyes up to mine, and gazed for an instant almost
reproachfully upon me, but she did not answer. There was something,
however, in the look encouraging me to go on. I took her hand: she did
not withdraw it: and, in a few hurried, but burning words, I poured
forth my love.
“Say, Beatrice?” I said, “can you, do you love me?”
She raised her dark eyes in answer up to mine, with an expression I
shall never forget, and murmured, half inaudibly,—
“You know—you know I do,” and then overcome by the consciousness of all
she had done, she burst into tears.
Can words describe my feelings? Oh! if I had the eloquence of a Rosseau
I could not portray the emotions of that moment. They were wild; they
were almost uncontrollable. The tone, the words, everything convinced me
that I was beloved; and all my well-formed resolutions were dissipated
in a moment. Had we been alone I would have caught Beatrice to my bosom;
but as it was, I could only press her hand in silence. I needed not to
be assured, in more direct terms, of her affection. Henceforth she was
to me my all. She was the star of my destiny!
The first dawn of morning beheld us abreast of the town, and at an early
hour the equipage of Mr. Rochester, the relative of Beatrice, and whose
guest she was now to be, was in waiting on the quay for my beautiful
charge.
“You will come to-night, will you not?” said she, as I pressed her hand,
on conducting her to the carriage.
I bowed affirmatively, the door was closed, and the sumptuous equipage,
with its servants in livery, moved rapidly away.
It was now that I had parted with Beatrice, that the conviction of the
almost utter hopelessness of my suit forced itself upon my mind. Mr.
Rochester was the nearest male relative of Beatrice, being her maternal
uncle. Her parents were both deceased, and the uncle, whose death I have
related, together with the Carolinian nabob, were, by her father’s will,
her guardians. Mr. Rochester was, therefore, her natural protector. Her
fortune, though large, was fettered with a condition that she should not
marry without her guardian’s consent, and I soon learned that a union
had long been projected between her and the eldest son of her surviving
guardian. How little hope I had before, the reader knows, but that
little was now fearfully diminished. It is true Beatrice had owned that
she loved me, but how could I ask her to sacrifice the comforts as well
as the elegancies of life, to share her lot with a poor unfriended
midshipman? I could not endure the thought. What! should I take
advantage of the gratitude of a pure young being—a being, too, who had
always been nourished in the lap of luxury—to subject her to privation,
and perhaps to beggary? No, rather would I have lived wholly absent from
her presence. I could almost have consented to lose her love, sooner
than be the instrument of inflicting on her miseries so crushing. My
only hope was in winning a name that would yet entitle me to ask her
hand as an equal: my only fear was, lest the length of time I should be
absent from her side, would gradually lose me her affection. Such is the
jealous fear of a lover’s heart.
Meanwhile, however, the whole city resounded with the din of war. A
despatch from the Secretary of Slate, to Gov. Eden, of Maryland, had
been intercepted by Com. Barron, of the Virginia service, in the
Chesapeake. From this missive, intelligence was gleaned that the capital
of South Carolina was to be attacked; and on my arrival I found every
exertion being made to place it in a posture of defence. I instantly
volunteered, and the duties thus assumed, engrossing a large part of my
time, left me little leisure, even for my suit. Still, however, I
occasionally saw Beatrice, though the cold hauteur with which my visits
were received by her uncle’s family, much diminished their frequency.
As the time rolled on, however, and the British fleet did not make its
appearance, there were not wanting many who believed that the
contemplated attack had been given up. But I was not of the number. So
firm, indeed, was my conviction of the truth of the intelligence that I
ran out to sea every day or two, in a smart-sailing pilot-boat, in
order, if possible, to gain the first positive knowledge of the approach
of our foes.
“A sail,” shouted our look-out one day, after we had been standing off
and on for several hours, “a sail, broad on the weather-beam!”
Every eye was instantly turned toward the quarter indicated; spy-glasses
were brought into requisition; and in a few minutes we made out
distinctly nearly a dozen sail, on the larboard tack, looming up on the
northern sea-board. We counted no less than six men-of-war, besides
several transports. Every thing was instantly wet down to the trucks,
and heading at once for Charleston harbor, we soon bore the alarming
intelligence to the inhabitants of the town.
That night all was terror and bustle in the tumultuous capital. The
peaceful citizens, unused to bloodshed, gazed upon the approaching
conflict with mingled resolution and terror, now determining to die
rather than to be conquered, and now trembling for the safety of their
wives and little ones. Crowds swarmed the wharves, and even put out into
the bay to catch a sight of the approaching squadron. At length it
appeared off the bar, and we soon saw by their buoying out the channel,
that an immediate attack was to take place by sea,—while expresses
brought us hasty intelligence of the progress made by the royal troops
in landing on Long Island. But want of water among our foes, and the
indecision of their General, protracted the attack for more than three
weeks, a delay which we eagerly improved.
At length, on the morning of the 28th of June, it became evident that
our assailants were preparing to commence the attack. Eager to begin my
career of fame, I sought a post under Col. Moultrie, satisfied that the
fort on Sullivan’s Island would have to maintain the brunt of the
conflict.
Never shall I forget the sight which presented itself to me on reaching
our position. The fort we were expected to maintain, was a low building
of palmetto logs, situated on a tongue of the island, and protected in
the rear from the royalist troops, on Long Island, by a narrow channel,
usually fordable, but now, owing to the late prevalence of easterly
winds, providentially filled to a depth of some fathoms. In front of us
lay the mouth of the harbor, commanded on the opposite shore, at the
distance of about thirty-five hundred yards, by another fort in our
possession, where Col. Gadsen, with a respectable body of troops was
posted. To the right opened the bay, sweeping almost a quarter of the
compass around the horizon, toward the north,—and on its extreme verge,
to the north west, rose up Haddrell’s point, where General Lee, our
commander-in-chief, had taken up a position. About half way around, and
due west from us, lay the city, at the distance of nearly four miles,
the view being partly intercepted by the low, marshy island, called
Shute’s Folly, between us and the town.
“We have but twenty-eight pounds of powder, Mr. Parker, a fact I should
not like generally known,” said Col. Moultrie to me, “but as you have
been in action before—more than I can say of a dozen of my men—I know
you may be trusted with the information.”
“Never doubt the brave continentals here, colonel,” I replied, “they are
only four hundred, but we shall teach yon braggarts a lesson, before
to-day is over, which they shall not soon forget.”
“Bravo, my gallant young friend! With my twenty-six eighteen and twenty
four pounders, plenty of powder, and a few hundred fire-eaters like
yourself I would blow the whole fleet out of water. But after all,” said
he with good-humored raillery, “though you’ll not glory in rescuing Miss
Derwent to-day, you’ll fight not a whit the worse for knowing that she
is in Charleston, eh! But, come, don’t blush—you must be my aid—I
shall want you, depend upon it, before the day is over. If those
red-coats here, behind us, attempt to take us in the rear, we shall have
hot work,—for by my hopes of eternal salvation, I’ll drive them back,
man and officer, in spite of Gen. Lee’s fears that I cannot. But ha!
there comes the first bomb.”
Looking upward as he spoke, I beheld a large, dark body flying through
the air; and in the next instant, amidst a cheer from our men, it
splashed into the morass behind us, simmered, and went out.
“Well sent, old Thunderer,” ejaculated the imperturbable colonel, “but,
faith, many another good bomb will you throw away on the swamps and
palmetto logs you sneer at. Open upon them, my brave fellows, as they
come around, and teach them what Carolinians can do. Remember, you fight
to-day for your wives, your children, and your liberties. The
Continental Congress forever against the minions of a tyrannical court.”
The battle was now begun. One by one the British men-of-war, coming
gallantly into their respective stations, and dropping their anchors
with masterly coolness, opened their batteries upon us, firing with a
rapidity and precision that displayed their skill. The odds against
which we had to contend were indeed formidable. Directly in front of us,
with springs on their cables, and supported by two frigates, were
anchored a couple of two-deckers; while the three other men-of-war were
working up to starboard, and endeavoring to get a position between us
and the town, so as to cut off our communications with Haddrell’s Point.
“Keep it up—run her out again,” shouted the captain of a gun beside me,
who was firing deliberately, but with murderous precision, every shot of
his piece telling on the hull of one of the British cruizers, “huzza for
Carolina!”
“Here comes the broadside of Sir Peter’s two-decker,” shouted another
one, “make way for the British iron among the palmetto logs. Ha! old
yellow breeches how d’ye like that?” he continued as the shot from his
piece, struck the quarter of the flag-ship, knocking the splinters high
into the air, and cutting transversely through and through her crowded
decks.
Meanwhile the three men-of-war attempting to cut off our communications,
had got entangled among the shoals to our right, and now lay utterly
helpless, engaged in attempting to get afloat, and unable to fire a gun.
Directly two of them ran afoul, carrying away the bowsprit of the
smaller one.
“Huzza!” shouted the old bruiser again, squinting a moment in that
direction, “they’re smashing each other to pieces there without our
help, and so here goes at smashing their messmates in front here—what
the devil,” he continued, turning smartly around to cuff a powder boy,
“what are you gaping up stream for, when you should be waiting on
me?—take that you varmint, and see if you can do as neat a thing as
this when you’re old enough to point a gun. By the Lord Harry I’ve cut
away that fore-top-mast as clean as a whistle.”
Meantime the conflict waxed hotter and hotter, and through the long
summer afternoon, except during an interval when we slackened it for
want of powder, our brave fellows, with the coolness of veterans, and
the enthusiasm of youth, kept up their fire. A patriotic ardor burned
along our lines, which only became more resistless, as the wounded were
carried past in the arms of their comrades. The contest was at its
height when General Lee arrived from the mainland to offer to remove us
if we wished to abandon our perilous position.
“Abandon our position, General!” said Colonel Moultrie, “will your
excellency but visit the guns, and ask the men whether they will give up
the fort? No, we will die or conquer here.”
The eye of the Commander-in-Chief flashed proudly at this reply, and
stepping out upon the plain, he approached a party who were firing with
terrible precision upon the British fleet. This fearless exposure of his
person called forth a cheer from the men; but without giving him time to
remain long in so dangerous a position, Colonel Moultrie exclaimed,
“My brave fellows, the general has come off to offer to remove you to
the main if you are tired of your post. Shall it be?”
There was a universal negative, every man declaring he would sooner die
at his gun. It was a noble sight. Their eyes flashing; their chests
dilated; their brawny arms bared and covered with smoke, they stood
there, determined, to a man, to save their native soil at every cost,
from invasion. At this moment a group appeared, carrying a poor fellow,
whom it could be seen at a glance was mortally wounded. His lips were
blue; his countenance ghastly; and his dim eye rolled uneasily about. He
breathed heavily. But as he approached us, the shouts of his fellow
soldiers falling on his ear, aroused his dying faculties, and lifting
himself heavily up, his eye, after wandering inquiringly about, caught
the sight of his general.
“God bless you! my poor fellow,” said Lee, compassionately, “you are, I
fear, seriously hurt.”
The dying man looked at him as if not comprehending his remark, and then
fixing his eye upon his general, said faintly,
“Did not some one talk of abandoning the fort?”
“Yes,” answered Lee, “I offered to remove you or let you fight it
out—but I see you brave fellows would rather die than retreat.”
“Die!” said the wounded man, raising himself half upright, with sudden
strength, while his eye gleamed with a brighter lustre than even in
health. “I thank my God that I am dying, if we can only beat the British
back. Die! I have no family, and my life is well given for the freedom
of my country. No, my men, never retreat,” he continued, turning to his
fellow soldiers, and waving his arm around his head, “huzza for
li—i—ber—ty—huz—za—a—a,” and as the word died away, quivering in
his throat, he fell back, a twitch passed over his face, and he was
dead.
Need I detail the rest of that bloody day? For nine hours, without
intermission, the cannonade was continued with a rapidity on the part of
our foes, and a murderous precision on that of ourselves, such as I have
never since seen equalled. Night did not terminate the conflict. The
long afternoon wore away; the sun went down; the twilight came and
vanished; darkness reigned over the distant shores around us, yet the
flash of the guns, and the roar of the explosions did not cease. As the
evening grew more obscure the whole horizon became illuminated by the
fire of our batteries, and the long, meteor-like tracks of the shells
through the sky. The crash of spars; the shouts of the men; and the
thunder of the cannonade formed meanwhile a discord as terrible as it
was exciting; while the lights flashing along the bay, and twinkling
from our encampment at Haddrell’s Point, made the scene even
picturesque.
Long was the conflict, and desperately did our enemies struggle to
maintain their posts. Even when the cable of the flag-ship had been cut
away, and swinging around with her stern toward us, every shot from our
battery was enabled to traverse the whole length of her decks, amid
terrific slaughter, she did not display a sign of fear, but doggedly
maintained her position, keeping up a straggling fire upon us, for some
time, from such of her guns as could be brought to bear. At length,
however, a new cable was rigged upon her, and swinging around broadside
on, she resumed her fire. But it was in vain. Had they fought till
doomsday they could not have overcome the indomitable courage of men
warring for their lives and liberties; and finding that our fire only
grew more deadly at every discharge, Sir Peter Parker at length made the
signal to retire. One of the frigates farther in the bay had grounded,
however, so firmly on the shoals that she could not be got off; and when
she was abandoned and fired next morning, our brave fellows, despite the
flames wreathing already around her, boarded her, and fired at the
retreating squadron until it was out of range. They had not finally
deserted her more than a quarter of an hour before she blew up with a
stunning shock.
The rejoicing among the inhabitants after this signal victory were long
and joyous. We were thanked; feted; and became _lions_ at once. The tory
families, among which was that of Mr. Rochester, maintained, however, a
sullen silence. The suspicion which such conduct created made it
scarcely advisable that I should become a constant visitor at his
mansion, even if the cold civility of his family had not, as I have
stated before, furnished other obstacles to my seeing Beatrice. Mr.
Rochester, it is true, had thanked me for the services I had rendered
his ward, but he had done so in a manner frigid and reserved to the last
degree, closing his expression of gratitude with an offer of pecuniary
recompense, which not only made the blood tingle in my veins, but
detracted from the value of what little he had said.
A fortnight had now elapsed since I had seen Beatrice, and I was still
delayed at Charleston, waiting for a passage to the north, and arranging
the proceeds of our prize, when I received an invitation to a ball at
the house of one of the leaders of ton, who affecting a neutrality in
politics, issued cards indiscriminately to both parties. Feeling a
presentiment that Beatrice would be there, and doubtless unaccompanied
by her uncle or cousin, I determined to go, and seek an opportunity to
bid her farewell, unobserved, before my departure.
The rooms were crowded to excess. All that taste could suggest, or
wealth afford, had been called into requisition to increase the splendor
of the _fete_. Rich chandeliers; sumptuous ottomans; flowers of every
hue; and an array of loveliness such as I have rarely seen equalled,
made the lofty apartments almost a fairy palace. But amid that throng of
beauty there was but one form which attracted my eye. It was that of
Beatrice. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and I felt a pang
of almost jealousy, when I saw her, as I thought, smiling as gaily as
the most thoughtless beauty present. But as I drew nearer I noticed
that, amid all her affected gaiety, a sadness would momentarily steal
over her fine countenance, like a cloud flitting over a sunny summer
landscape. As I edged toward her through the crowd, her eye caught mine,
and in an instant lighted up with a joyousness that was no longer
assumed. I felt repaid, amply repaid by that one glance, for all the
doubts I had suffered during the past fortnight; but the formalities of
etiquette prevented me from doing aught except to return an answering
glance, and solicit the hand of Beatrice.
“Oh! why have you been absent so long?” said the dear girl, after the
dance had been concluded, and we had sauntered together, as if
involuntarily, into a conservatory behind the ball room, “every one is
talking of your conduct at the fort—do you know I too am a rebel—and
_do_ you then sail for the north?”
“Yes, dearest,” I replied, “and I have sought you to-night to bid you
adieu for months—it may be for years. God only knows, Beatrice,” and I
pressed her hand against my heart, “when we shall meet again. Perhaps
you may not even hear from me; the war will doubtless cut off the
communications; and sweet one, say will you still love me, though others
may be willing to say that I have forgotten you?”
“Oh! how can you ask me? But you—will—write—won’t you?” and she
lifted those deep, dark, liquid eyes to mine, gazing confidingly upon
me, until my soul swam in ecstacy. My best answer was a renewed pressure
of that small, fair hand.
“And Beatrice,” said I, venturing upon a topic, to which I had never yet
alluded, “if they seek to wed you to another will you—you still be mine
only?”
“How can you ask so cruel a question?” was the answer, in a tone so low
and sweet, yet half reproachful, that no ear but that of a lover could
have heard it. “Oh! you know better—you know,” she added, with energy,
“that they have already planned a marriage between me and my cousin; but
never, never can I consent to wed where my heart goes not with my hand.
And now you know all,” she said tearfully, “and though they may forbid
me to think of you, yet I can never forget the past. No, believe me,
Beatrice Derwent where once she has plighted her faith, will never
afterward betray it,” and overcome by her emotions, the fair girl leaned
upon my shoulder and wept long and freely.
But I will not protract the scene. Anew we exchanged our protestations
of love, and after waiting until Beatrice had grown composed we returned
to the ball room. Under the plea of illness I saw her soon depart, nor
was I long in following. No one, however, had noticed our absence. Her
haughty uncle, in his luxurious library, little suspected the scene that
had that night occurred. But his conduct, I felt, had exonerated me from
every obligation to him, and I determined to win his ward, if fortune
favored me, in despite of his opposition. My honor was no longer
concerned against me: I felt free to act as I chose.
The British fleet meanwhile, having been seen no more upon the coast,
the communication with the north, by sea, became easy again. New York,
however, was in the possession of the enemy, and a squadron was daily
expected at the mouth of Delaware Bay. To neither of these ports,
consequently, could I obtain a passage. Nor indeed did I wish it. There
was no possibility that the Fire-Fly would enter, either, to re-victual,
and as I was anxious to join her, it was useless to waste time in a port
where she could not enter. Newport held out the only chance to me for
rejoining my vessel. It was but a day’s travel from thence to Boston,
and at one or the other of these places I felt confident the Fire-Fly
would appear before winter.
The very day, however, after seeing Beatrice, I obtained a passage in a
brig, which had been bound to another port, but whose destination the
owners had changed to Newport, almost on the eve of sailing. I instantly
made arrangements for embarking in her, having already disposed of our
prize, and invested the money in a manner which I knew would allow it to
be distributed among the crew of the Fire-Fly at the earliest
opportunity. My parting with Col. Moultrie was like parting from a
father. He gave me his blessing; I carried my kit on board; and before
forty-eight hours I was once more at sea.
* * * * *
THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE.
“Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”
On Alligewi’s[1] mountain height
An Indian hunter lay reclining,
Gazing upon the sunset light
In all its loveliest grace declining.
Onward the chase he had since dawn
Pursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn,
And pine-clad steep, and winding dell,
And deep ravine, and covert nook
Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell,
And silent cove, and brawling brook;
Yet not till twilight’s mists descending,
Had dimmed the wooded vales below,
Did he, his homeward pathway wending,
Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow.
Then, as he breathless paused, and faint,
The shout of joy that pealed on high
As broke that landscape on his eye,
Imaginings alone can paint.
Down on the granite brow, his prey,
In all its antlered glory lay.
His plumage flowed above the spoil—
His quiver, and the slackened bow,
Companions of his ceaseless toil,
Lay careless at its side below.
Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,
More pure, more holy, and serene;
Who might not feel existence lighter
Beneath the power of such a scene?
Marking the blush of light ascending
From where the sun had set afar,
Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending
With the pale azure; while each star
Came smiling forth ’mid roseate hue,
And deepened into brighter lustre
As Night, with shadowy fingers threw
Her dusky mantle round each cluster.
Purple, and floods of gold, were streaming
Around the sunset’s crimson way,
And all the impassioned west was gleaming
With the rich flush of dying day.
Far, far below the wandering sight,
Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night,
A mighty river rushing on,
Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone.
No bark upon its wave was seen,
Or if ’twas there, it glided by
As viewless forms, that once have been,
Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.
Long gazed the hunter on that sight,
’Till twilight darkened into night,
Dim and more dim the landscape grew,
And duskier was the empyrean blue;
Glittered a thousand stars on high,
And wailed the night-wind sadly by;
And slowly fading, one by one,
Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain pass
Grew darker still, and yet more dun,
’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass,
They seemed to mingle, earth and sky,
In one wild, weird-like canopy.
Yet lo! that hunter starts, and one
Whom it were heaven to gaze upon,
A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn,
So playful, wild, and gentle too,—
Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn,
With step as light, and love as true.
It was Echucha! she, his bride,
Dearer than all of earth beside,—
For she had left her sire’s far home,
The woodland depths with him to roam
Who was that sire’s embittered foe!
And there, in loveliness alone,
With him her opening beauty shone.
But even while he gazed, that form,
As fades the lightning in the storm,
Passed quickly from his sight.
He looked again, no one was there,
No voice was on the stilly air,
No step upon the greensward fair,
But all around was night.
She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind,
What wild’ring memories are rushing,
As harps, beneath a summer wind,
With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.
Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,
Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss
Was but to gaze, and to receive
The boon of hope so vast as this—
To clasp that being as his own,
To win her from her native bowers;
And form a spirit-land, alone
With her amid perennial flowers.
And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,
Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,
When the soft hand would on him lie,
And sooth his soul to happiness.
Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,
Like the first warm breath of spring,
Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,
Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,
Came swelling along the balmy air,
As if a spirit itself was there,
So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain,
It might not bless the ear again,
Now breathed afar, now swelling near,
It gushed on the enraptured ear;—
And hark! was it her well-known tone?
No—naught is heard but the voice alone.
“Warrior of the Lenape race,
Thou of the oak that cannot bend,
Of noble brow and stately grace,
And agile step, of the Tamenend,
Arise—come thou with me!
Echucha waits in silent glade,
Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume,
As daylight’s golden glories fade,
To catch afar her hunter’s plume,—
But naught, naught can she see.
Her hair is decked with ocean shell,
The vermeil bright is on her brow,
The peag zone enclasps her well,
Her heart is sad beneath it now,
She weeps, and weeps for thee.
With early dawn thou hiedst away,
In reckless sports the hours to while,
Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray,
Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile,
When again she looks on thee!
Oh! come, come then with me.”
Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep,
As broods o’er an unbroken sleep,
Seemed hovering round; then slowly came
A glow athwart the darkling night,
Bursting at length to mid-day flame,
And bathing hill and vale in light.
While suddenly a form flits by
With step as fleet, as through the sky
The morning songster skims along
Preceded by his matchless song.
So glided she; yet not unseen
Her graceful gait, her brow serene,
Her finely modelled limbs so round,
Her raven tresses all unbound,
That flashing out, and hidden now,
Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,—
As springing from the mountain’s brow,
Eager and wild that one to know,
The hunter hurried to behold her.
On, on the beauteous phantom glides
Beneath the sombre, giant pines
That stud the steep and rugged sides
Of pendant cliffs, and deep ravines;
Down many a wild descent and dell
O’ergrown with twisted lichens rude;
Yet where she passed a halo fell
To guide the footsteps that pursued,—
Like that fell wonder of the sky
That flashes o’er the starry space,
And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high,
For man portentous truths to trace.
And onward, onward still that light
Was all which beamed upon the sight.
Of figure he could naught descry,
Invisible it seemed to fly;
Alluring on with magic art
That half disclosing, hid in part.
Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate!
Oh! what is like thy magic will,
Which men in blind obedience wait,
Yet deem themselves unfettered still!
By thee impelled that hunter sped
Through shadowy wood, o’er flowery bed;
When angels else, beneath his eye,
Had passed unseen, unnoticed by.
The Indian brave! that stoic wild,
Philosophy’s untutored child,
A being, such as wisdom’s torch
Enkindled ’neath the attic porch,
Where the Phoenician stern and eld,
His wise man[2] to the world revealing,
Divined not western wildness held
Untutored ones less swayed by feeling;
Whose firm endurance fire nor stake
Nor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake.
Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole,
In apprehension revelling free,
Evolved that fearlessness of soul
Which Greece[3] saw but in theory.
Still on that beauteous phantom fled,
And still behind the hunter sped.
Nor turned she ’till where many a rock
Lay rent as by an earthquake’s shock,
And through the midst a stream its way
Held on ’mid showers of falling spray,
Marking by one long line of foam
Its passage from its mountain home.
But now, amid the light mist glancing
Like elf or water-nymph, the maid
With ravishment of form entrancing
The spell-bound gazer, stood displayed.
So looked that Grecian maiden’s face,
So every grace and movement shone,
When ’neath the sculptor’s wild embrace,
Life, love, and rapture flushed from stone.
She paused, as if her path to trace
Through the thick mist that boiled on high,
Then turning full her unseen face,
There, there, the same, that lustrous eye,
So fawn-like in its glance and hue
As when he first had met its ray,
Echucha’s self, revealed to view—
She smiled, and shadowy sank away.
Again ’twas dawn: that hunter’s gaze
Was wand’ring o’er a wide expanse
Of inland lake, half hid in haze
That waved beneath the morning’s glance.
The circling wood, so still and deep
Its sombre hush, seemed yet asleep;
Save when at intervals from tree
A lone bird woke its minstrelsy,
Or flitting off from spray to spray
’Mid glittering dew pursued its way.
When lo! upon the list’ning ear
The rustling of a distant tread,
That pausing oft drew ever near
A causeless apprehension spread.
And from a nook, a snow-white Hind
Came bounding—beauteous of its kind!—
Seeking the silver pebbled strand
Within the tide her feet to lave,
E’re noonday’s sun should wave his wand
Of fire across the burnished wave.
Never hath mortal eye e’er seen
Such fair proportion blent with grace;
A creature with so sweet a mien
Might only find its flitting place
In that bright land far, far away
Where Indian hunters, legends say,
Pursue the all-enduring chase.
The beautifully tapered head,
The slender ear, the eye so bright,
The curving neck, the agile tread,
The strength, the eloquence, the flight
Of limbs tenuitively small,
Seemed imaged forth, a thing of light
Springing at Nature’s magic call.
The sparkling surge broke at her feet,
Rippling upon the pebbly brink,
As gracefully its waters sweet
She curved her glossy neck to drink.
Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazed
Wildly around like one amazed,
With head erect, and eye of fear,
And trembling, quick-extended ear.
Still as the serpent’s hushed advance,
The hunter, with unmoving glance,
Wound on to where a beech-tree lay
Half buried in the snowy sand:
He crouches ’neath its sapless spray
To nerve his never-failing hand.
A whiz—a start—her rolling eye
Hath caught the danger lurking nigh.
She flies, but only for a space;
Then turns with sad reproachful face;
Then rallying forth her wonted strength,
She backward threw her matchless head,
Flung on the wind her tap’ring length,
And onward swift and swifter sped,—
O’er sward, and plain, and snowy strand,
By mossy rocks, through forests grand,
Which there for centuries had stood
Rustling in their wild solitude.
On, on, in that unwearied chase
With tireless speed imbued,
Went sweeping with an eldrich pace
Pursuing and pursued!
’Till, as the sinking orb of day,
Glowed brighter with each dying ray,
The fleetness of that form was lost,
Dark drops of blood her pathway crost,
And faint and fainter drooped that head,—
She falters—sinks—one effort more—
’Tis vain—her noontide strength has fled—
She falls upon the shore.
One eager bound—the Hunter’s knife
Sank deep to end her struggling life;
Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade,
There came a shrill and plaintive cry:
The Hind was not—a beauteous maid
Lay gasping with upbraiding eye.
The glossy head and neck were gone,
The snowy furs that clasped her round;
And in their place the peag zone,
And raven hair that all unbound
Upon her heaving bosom lies
And mingles with the rushing gore,
The sandaled foot, the fawn-like eyes;
All, all are there—he needs no more—
“Echucha—ha!” The dream hath passed;
Cold clammy drops were thick and fast
Upon the awakened warrior’s brow,
And the wild eye that flashed around
To penetrate the dark profound,
Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow.
Yet all was still, while far above,
Nestling in calm and holy love,
The watchful stars intensely bright
Gleamed meekly through the moonless night.
The Hunter gazed,—and from his brow
Passed slowly off that fevered glow,
For what the troubled soul can bless
Like such a scene of loveliness?
He raised his quiver from his side,
And downward with his antlered prey,
To meet his lone Ojibway bride,
He gaily took his joyous way.
A. F. H.
-----
[1] The Alleghany.
[2] Zeno imagined his wise man, not only free from all sense of
pleasure, but void of all passions, and emotions capable of being happy
in the midst of torture.
[3] The stoics were philosophers, rather in words than in deeds.
* * * * *
MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD.
BY JESSE E. DOW.
My grandmother was one of the old school. She was a fine, portly built
old lady, with a smart laced cap. She hated snuff and spectacles, and
never lost her scissors, because she always kept them fastened to her
side by a silver chain. As for scandal she never indulged in its use,
believing, as she said, that truth was stranger than fiction and twice
as cutting.
My grandmother had a penchant for old times and old things, she
delighted to dwell upon the history of the past, and once a year on the
day of thanksgiving and prayer, she appeared in all the glories of a
departed age. Her head bore an enormous cushion—her waist was doubly
fortified with a stomacher of whale-bone and brocade. Her skirt spread
out its ample folds of brocade and embroidery below, flanked by two
enormous pockets. Her well-turned ankles were covered with blue worsted
stockings, with scarlet clocks, and her underpinning was completed by a
pair of high quartered russet shoes mounted upon a couple of extravagant
red heels. When the hour for service drew near, she added a high bonnet
of antique form, made of black satin, and a long red cloak of narrow
dimensions. Thus clothed, as she ascended the long slope that led to the
old Presbyterian meeting house, she appeared like a British grenadier
with his arms shot off, going to the pay office for his pension.
Her memory improved by age, for she doubtless recollected some things
which never happened, and her powers of description were equal to those
of Sir Walter Scott’s old crone, whose wild legends awoke the master’s
mind to a sense of its own high powers.
My grandmother came through the revolution a buxom dame, and her legends
of cow boys and tories, of white washed chimnies and tar and
featherings, of battles by sea, and of “skrimmages,” as she termed them,
by land, would have filled a volume as large as Fox’s book of the
Martyrs, and made in the language of the day a far more _readable work_.
I was her pet—her auditor: I knew when to smile, and when to look
grave—when to approach her, and when to retire from her presence; her
pocket was my paradise, and her old cup-board my seventh heaven.
Many a red streaked apple and twisted doughnut have I munched from the
former,—and many a Pisgah glimpse have I had of the bright pewter and
brighter silver that garnished the latter. Among the old lady’s silver
was a venerable massive tankard that had come down from the early
settlers of Quinapiack, and she prized it far above many weightier and
more useful vessels. This relic always attracted my notice—a coat of
arms was pictured upon one side of it, and underneath it the family name
in old English letters, stood out like letters upon an iron sign. It was
of London manufacture, and must have been in use long before the
Pilgrims sailed for Plymouth. It had, doubtless, been drained by
cavaliers and roundheads in the sea girt isle,
“Ere the May flower lay
In the stormy bay,
And rocked by a barren shore.”
The history of this venerable relic was my grandmother’s hobby, and as
she is no longer with us to relate the story herself, I will hand it
down in print, that posterity, if so disposed, may know something also
of
MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD.
In the year 1636, a company of fighting men from the Massachusetts
colony, pursued a party of Pequots to the borders of a swamp in the
present county of Fairfield, in Connecticut, and destroyed them by fire.
The soldiers on their return to the colony spoke in rapture of a goodly
land through which they passed in the south country, bordering upon a
river and bay, called by the Indians Quinapiack, and by the Dutch the
Vale of the Red Rocks.
In the year 1637, the New Haven company, beaten out by the toils and
privations of a long and boisterous voyage across the Atlantic, landed
at the mouth of the Charles River, and continued for a season inactive
in the pleasant tabernacles of the early pilgrims. Hearing of the fair
and goodly land beyond the Connectiquet, or Long River, and disliking
the sterile shores of Massachusetts bay, the newly arrived company sent
spies into the land to view the second Canaan, and bring them a true
report.
In 1638, having received a favorable account from the pioneers, the
company embarked, and sailed for that fair land, and at the close of the
tenth day the Red Rocks appeared frowning grimly against the western
horizon, and the Quinapiack spread out its silver bosom to receive them.
The vessel that brought the colony, landed them on the eastern shore of
a little creek now filled up and called the meadows, about twenty rods
from the corner of College and George streets, in New Haven, and
directly opposite to the famous old oak, under whose broad branches Mr.
Davenport preached his first sermon to the settlers, “Upon the
Temptations of the Wilderness.” Time, that rude old gentleman, has
wrought many changes in the harbor of Quinapiack since the days of the
pilgrims; and a regiment of purple cabbages are now growing where the
adventurers’ bark rested her wave-worn keel.
In 1638, having laid out a city of nine squares, the company met in
Newman’s barn, and formed their constitution. At this meeting it was
ordered that the laws of Moses should govern the colony until the elders
had time to make better ones.
Theophilus Eaton, Esq. was chosen the first governor: and the whole
power of the people was vested in the governor, Mr. Davenport, the
minister, his deacon, and the seven pillars of the church of Quinapiack.
Here was church and state with a vengeance, and the pilgrims who sought
freedom to worship God found freedom to worship him as they pleased,
provided they worshipped him _as Mr. Davenport_ directed.
The seven pillars of the church were wealthy laymen, and were its
principal support; among the number I find the names of those staunch
old colonists, Matthew Gilbert and John Panderson.
Governor Eaton was an eminent merchant in London, and when he arrived at
Quinapiack, his ledger was transformed into a book of records for the
colony. It is now to be seen with his accounts in one end of it, and the
records in the other. The principal settlers of New Haven were rich
London merchants. They brought with them great wealth, and calculated in
the new world to engage in commerce, free from the trammels that clogged
them in England. They could not be contented with the old colony
location. They now found a beautiful harbor—a fine country—and a broad
river: but no trade. Where all were sellers there could be no buyers.
They had stores but no customers: ships but no Wapping: and they soon
began to sigh for merry England, and the wharves of crowded marts. In
three years after landing at New Haven, a large number of these settlers
determined to return to their native land.
Accordingly a vessel was purchased in Rhode Island, a crazy old tub of a
thing that bade fair to sail as fast broadside on as any way, whose
sails were rotten with age, and whose timbers were pierced by the worms
of years. Having brought the vessel round to New Haven, the colonists,
under the direction of the old ship master Lamberton, repaired and
fitted her for sea.
The day before Captain Lamberton intended to sail, Eugene Foster, the
son of a wealthy merchant in London, and Grace Gilman, the daughter of
one of the wealthy worthies of Quinapiack, wandered out of the
settlement and ascended the East Rock.
Grace Gilman was the niece of my great, great grandmother. Possessing a
brilliant mind, a lovely countenance, and a form of perfect symmetry,
she occupied no small share of every single gentleman’s mind asleep or
awake, in the colony. Her dark hair hung in ringlets about a neck of
alabaster, and sheltered with smaller curls a cheek where the lily and
the rose held sweet communion together.
Foster had followed the object of his love to her western home, and
having gained Elder Gilman’s consent to his union with the flower of
Quinapiack, he was now ready to return in the vessel to his native land,
for the purpose of preparing for a speedy settlement in the colony.
Eugene Foster was a noble, spirited youth, of high literary attainments.
Besides his frequent excursions with the scouts, had made him an
experienced woodman and hunter. His countenance was pleasant; his eye
possessed the fire of genius; and his form was tall and commanding.
It was a glorious morning in autumn. The whole space around the
settlement was one vast forest, and the frost had tipped the leaves of
the trees with russet crimson and gold. The bare sumac lifted its red
core on high, and the crab apple hung its bright fruit over every crag.
The maple shook its blood-colored leaves around, and the chesnut and
walnut came pattering down from their lofty heights, like hail from a
summer cloud. The heath hens sate drumming the morning away upon the
mouldering trunks, whose tops had waved above the giants of the forest
in former ages. The grey squirrel sprang from limb to limb. The flying
squirrel sailed from tree to tree in his downward flight; and the
growling wild cat glided swiftly down the vistas of the wood with her
shrieking prey.
The blue jay piped all hands from the deep woods—and the hawk, as he
sailed over the partridge’s brood, shrieked the wild death cry of the
air. A haze rested upon the distant heights, and a cloud of mellow light
rolled over the little settlement, and faded into silver upon the broad
sound that stretched out before it.
It was nearly noon when the lovers—whose conversation on such an
occasion I must leave the reader to imagine—turned from the enchanting
prospect, which at this day exceeds any thing in America—to return to
the settlement. Two Indians, of the Narragansett tribe, now bounded from
the thicket, and before Foster could bring his musketoon to its
rest—for he always went armed—they levelled him to the earth. A green
withe was speedily twined around his arms, and he was apparently as
powerless as a child. Grace sprang to a little path that led to the
parapet of the bluff and screamed for help; that scream was her
salvation, for the Indian who was binding Foster’s hands, left the withe
loose, and sprang toward her. In a moment the rude hand of the red-man
rested heavily upon her shoulder, and his grim look sent the blood
tingling from her cheeks. Another withe was speedily passed around her
arms, and then the two Narragansetts seated themselves to make a hurdle
to bear the pale faced maiden away. As they were busily engaged Grace
heard a whisper behind her. She turned her head half round—Foster, by
great exertions, had got loose from his withe, and was crawling slowly
toward his musketoon.
The Narragansetts, suspecting nothing, were sitting behind a little
clump of sassafras, and nothing but their brawny chests could be seen
through a small bend in the trunks of the trees that composed the
thicket.
Stealthily crept the experienced Foster to the tree where his musketoon
rested. Not a crackling twig, nor rustling leaf, gave the slightest
evidence of his movements. The Indians spoke in their own wild gutterals
of the beauty of the pale-faced squaw, and chuckled with delight at the
speedy prospect of roasting the young long knife by Philip’s council
fire.
The musketoon was just as he had left it: not a grain of powder had left
the pan,—the match burned brightly at the butt, and every thing seemed
to be as effective as possible. Foster seized it and motioned to Grace
to stoop her head, so as to give him a chance to bring the red men in a
range through the opening in the thicket.
Grace bent her head to the ground, while her heart beat with fearful
anticipation. The young pilgrim aimed his deadly weapon, as a fine
opportunity presented itself. The two savages were sitting cross-legged,
side by side, and their brawny breasts were seen, one bending slightly
before the other. Foster aimed so as to give each a fair proportion of
slugs—for he had a charge for a panther in his barrel—and fired. A
loud report rang down the aisles of the forest, and rattled in echoes
over the settlement, while the two Indians bounded up with a fearful
yell, and fell dead upon the half-made hurdle. Foster sprang to the side
of Grace, and casting loose the withe that confined her swollen arms,
bore her over the bodies of the Narragansetts, whose horrid scowls never
were forgotten by the affrighted maid.
A war-whoop now rang in the usual pathway to the settlement, and Foster
saw that he must take a shorter cut or die. Grace had fainted, and every
thing depended upon his manliness and strength. He therefore approached
the brink of the precipice. A wild grape vine, that had grown there
since the morning of time, for aught he knew, extended far up the
perpendicular rock, from a crag below. He bound the fair girl to his
breast with his neckcloth and shot-belt, and grasping the stem of the
vine, descended. As he slipped down, the vine began to yield, and just
as his foot touched the narrow crag, the whole vine, with a mass of
loose earth and stones, gave way with a tremendous crash, and hung, from
the crevice where he stood, like a feather quivering beneath his feet.
Foster was for a moment dizzy, but he cast his eyes upward, and beheld
the eyes of an Indian glaring upon him from the top of the rock. He was
nerved in a moment: and seeing a ledge a foot and a half broad, beyond a
fissure, about eight feet over, and very deep, he determined to spring
for it. Grace Gilman, however, was a dead weight to the young man, and
he feared the result. The ledge seemed to run at an angle of forty-five
degrees along the front of the rock, to a side hill, formed by fallen
rocks and earth. A wild vine hung down over the fissure, covered with
tempting fruit. He reached out his hand and grasped the main stem as it
waved in the breeze,—it was strong, and its roots seemed firmly
imbedded in a crevice above him. Commending himself to that Creator
whose tireless eye takes in at a glance his creatures, he made his leap!
The damp wind from the fissure rushed by his ears; the vine cracked and
rustled above him; rich clusters of luscious fruit came tumbling upon
his head; and the birds of night came shrieking out from their dark
shelters in the fissure as he swung past. Foster, however, did not
waver, his foot struck the ledge and he leaned forward; the vine flew
back like a pendulum as he let it go, and he slid down the smooth ridge
of the ledge in safety. In a short time he brought up against a heap of
earth that had fallen from the mountain top, and springing up, bounded
like the chamois hunter from crag to crag, until he stood upon the broad
bottom, without a bruise or a scratch upon himself or his fair charge.
In twenty minutes the young pilgrim entered the settlement by the forest
way, with the almost lifeless form of his beloved buckled to his breast,
while savage yells of disappointment came down from the summit of the
East Rock, and caused the young mothers of Quinapiack to press their
startled babes closer to their trembling hearts.
None had dared to follow the adventurous pilgrim’s course down the
mountain’s perpendicular side: and the ledges that jut out like faint
shadows from the bluff, are called Foster’s Stepping Stone by those who
know the incident to this day.
The report of the musketoon was heard in the settlement. The soldiers of
the colony stood to their arms, and when Foster had made his report,
several strong parties went out upon a scout; but it was of no use;
drops of blood only were discovered sprinkled upon the sassafras-leaves,
and a heavy trail leading toward the Long River. The fighting men of
Quinapiack, after a weary march, gave up the pursuit of the
Narragansetts, and returned leisurely to the settlement. Night now
settled like a raven upon the land—the drums beat to prayers—one by
one the lights went out in the cottages of the pilgrims; and as the
watch-fire sent forth its ruddy blaze from the common—now the college
green—the colony slumbered in sweet forgetfulness, or wandered in
visions amid the scenes of their childhood by the broad Shannon or the
silver Ayr.
Who can tell the strange thoughts that agitated the sleepers’ souls? The
old men, had they no pleasures of memory? The young men and the maidens,
had they no dreams of joy—no bright pictures of trysting trees and
lovely glens where the white lady moved in her noiseless path, or the
fairies danced on the moonlight sward? Had the politician no dream of
departed power? No sigh for his rapid fall? Had the soldier no dream of
glory—no sound of stirring bugles melting upon his ear? Had the
minister of God no dream of greatness—when before the kings and princes
of the world he stood? and like Nathan of old said in Christ-like
majesty to the offending monarch—
“Thou art the man.”
* * * * *
It was sunrise at Quinapiack, and the seven pillars were no longer seven
sleepers. Eugene Foster stood beside Grace Gilman, while the old elder
wrestled valiantly in prayer. When the morning service was ended, and a
substantial breakfast had been stowed away with no infant’s hand, Foster
imprinted a kiss upon the cheek of the bashful puritan.
“Farewell, Grace,” said he, “we are ready to sail. In a few months more
the smoke shall curl from my cottage chimney, and the good people of the
colony shall wait at the council board for good man Foster.”
“Eugene,” said Grace, with eyes suffused with tears, “your time will
pass pleasantly in England; but, oh! how long will the period of your
absence seem in this lone outpost of civilization. Do not, then, tarry
in the land of your fathers beyond the time necessary for accomplishing
your business. There are many Graces in England, but there are but few
Fosters here.”
“Grace,” said Foster blushing, “there is no Grace in England like the
Grace of Quinapiack, and he who would leave the blooming rose of the
wilderness, for the sick lily of the hot-house, deserves not to enjoy
the fresh blessings of Providence. The wind that blows back to the
western continent shall fill my sails, and I will claim my bride.”
The old puritan now gave the young man his blessing. Foster drew from
his cloak fold this silver tankard,—marked, as you now see it,—[so
said my grandmother, as she held the antique vessel up to the light,]
and presented it to Grace as an earnest of his love. The elder, after
seeing that it was pure silver, exclaimed against the gew-gaws, and the
drinking measures of a carnal world, and left the room. Two hearty
kisses were now heard, even by the domestics in the Gilman family. The
elder entered the breakfast room in haste; Eugene bounded out of the
door—Grace glided like a fairy up stairs, and the old tankard rested
upon the table.
After placing on board of the return ship the massive plate, and other
valuables of the discontented merchants, those whose hearts failed them,
embarked amid the tears and prayers of Davenport and his faithful
associates. The sails were spread to the breeze—the old ship bowed her
head to the foam, and dashed out of the harbor in gallant style. Grace
watched the vessel as she departed, and when the evening came, she wept
in her silent chamber, for her heart was sad.
It was a sad day for the remaining colonists when the ship dipped her
topsails in the southern waves. A feeling of loneliness, such as the
traveller feels when lost in a boundless wood, seized upon them, and the
staunchest wept for their native land, and the air was damp with tears.
The next morning the settlement became more cheerful, for what can raise
the drooping soul like the still glories of a New England autumn
morning? The ship would, in all probability, return in a few months with
necessary stores for the colonists, and then, should the company grow
weary of the new country, they could return to their native land with
their wives, and recount to kind friends the perils of an ocean voyage,
and of a solitary home in a savage land.
* * * * *
Six long and melancholy months rolled away, and no tidings of the
pilgrims’ ship had reached the ears of the anxious settlers of
Quinapiack. A vessel had arrived at Plymouth after a short passage, but
nothing had been heard of Lamberton’s bark when she sailed. A terrible
mystery hung over the ill-filled and crazy ship. Autumn now came in its
beauty, and still no tidings came to cheer the sinking soul, and gladden
the heavy heart. Grace Gilman now began to pine, like the fair flower,
whose root the worm of destruction has struck, and whose brightness
slowly fades away. At length the good people of Quinapiack could stand
this state of suspense no longer, and the Rev. Mr. Davenport, and his
little flock, besought the Lord with sighs and tears, and heartfelt
prayers to shew them the fate of their friends by a visible sign from
heaven.
Four successive Sabbaths the worthy minister strove for a revelation of
the mystery, and on the afternoon of the last day, when silence brooded
over the settlement; when even the barn-fowl grew silent upon his roost,
and the well-trained dog lay watching by the old family clock, for
sunset, and the hour of play, the cry came up from the water side,—“A
sail! a sail!”—and the drums beat with a double note, and the gravest
leaped for joy. The cry operated like an electric shock upon the whole
mass of the people. The old and the young, the sick and the well, went
out upon the shore to view the approaching stranger, and the seaman
stood by the landing place ready to make her fast. Grace Gilman was in
the centre of the throng, and the worthy minister, Davenport, waited
silently by her side.
There is no moment so full of interest to us as that when a vessel from
our native land approaches us upon a distant shore. How many anxious
hearts are waiting to rise or fall, as good or bad tidings salute their
ears. How many watch the faces that throng the deck, and turn from
countenance to countenance with eager look, until their eyes rest upon
some familiar face, and their anxiety is satisfied.
There are cold hearts also in such a crowd,—worldly men, who come to
gather news. What care they for affection’s warm greeting, or the throb
of sympathy? What know they of a sister’s love; aye! or of that deeper
love which only exists in the breast of woman! which carried her to
Pilate’s hall, to Calvary’s scene of blood, and to Joseph’s tomb? The
price of cotton, of tobacco, bread-stuffs, rise of fancy stocks,
election of a favorite candidate, or the death of a rich relative, are
sweeter than angel whispers to their ears, and _a rise of two pence on
corn_ is enough to fill a whole exchange with raptures.
There were but few such worldlings on the landing place of Quinapiack on
the Sabbath eve when the gallant vessel of the pilgrims approached the
shore. Silence reigned upon the landing, and a dreadful stillness hung
over the approaching ship. Gallantly she entered the harbor, and the
boldest on shore trembled for her temerity in carrying such a press of
canvass. Not a sail had she handed—not a man was aloft. Her course
varied not—neither did the water ripple before her bows. All was now
anxiety. A hail went forth from the land,—a moment of breathless
curiosity passed, but no answer came. Another hail was treated with the
same neglect. At length Mr. Davenport hailed the stranger. As the words
slowly burst from the brazen trumpet, a bright ray of sunlight gleamed
full upon the vessel. Her top-masts now faded into air—then the sails
and rigging down to her courses—her ensign next rolled away upon the
breeze, and when the East Rock sent back the last echo of the trumpet,
the pilgrims’ ship had vanished away. A similar ship, though of much
smaller dimensions, now appeared upon a heavy cloud that hung over Long
Island, and faded away with the brightness of the day.
“It is the promised sign,” said Mr. Davenport.
“Our friends are lost at sea,” cried the multitude.
“Eugene is drowned!” screamed Grace Gilman, and the crowd dispersed to
weep alone.
As the throng moved away from the water side, a maniac girl who had been
gathering wild flowers upon the East Rock, came running in from the
forest way, chaunting the following words to a plaintive air:—
She leaves the port with swelling sails,
And gaudy streamer flaunting free,
She woos the gentle western gales,
And takes her pathway o’er the sea.
The vales go down where roses bloom—
The hill tops follow green and fair;
The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,
And purpled mountains hang in air.
Along she speeds with snowy wings,
Around her breaks the foaming deep;
The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,
And weary eyes their vigils keep.
Loud thunders rattle on the ear;
Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,
The boldest bosom sinks in fear,
While death stands watching face to face.
Months roll, and anxious friends await
Some tidings of the home-bound bark,
But ah! above her hapless fate
Mysterious shadows slumber dark.
No tidings come from Albion’s shore
To wild New England’s rocky lee;
Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,
The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.
But see around yon woody isle
A gallant vessel sweeps in pride,
Her presence bids the mourners smile,
And hope reviving marks the tide.
But ah! her topsails fade away,
Her gaudy streamer floats no more,
A shadow flits across the bay,
The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.
* * * * *
Upon a couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number
of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that
Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed
for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver
tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription.
“Aunt Tabitha,” said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read
the inscription for me.” The good aunt bent over the vessel, and read
aloud:—
“Sir JOHN FOSTER, OF LONDON,
_MASTER OF THE ROLLS_.”
And underneath, in small capitals, she read:—
“Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love.
“_An empty cup to hold our tears,_
_A flowing bowl to drown our fears,_
_In life or death, this cup shall be_
_A poor remembrancer of me._”
“Brother,” said Mr. Davenport, as he slowly entered the room, “why
weepest thou? Daughter of the church, why sittest thou in sadness?
Children of God, why shed these useless tears? Arise, and let us bless
the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth forever.”
The broken-hearted girl folded her hands. The aged father bent over her
pillow. The friends leaned upon their staves, and the minister poured
forth his soul in unstudied prayer.
A sweet strain of thrilling music now broke upon the ear,—a sound of
gentle voices echoed in the hall,—a rustling of wings was heard
overhead,—a faint whisper of “Eugene! Eugene! I—come—” died away on
the sufferer’s pillow: and when the prayer was ended, the little company
found themselves alone, watchers with the dead.
Grace Gilman had breathed her last, and the betrothed of the pilgrim
joined her lover in heaven.
* * * * *
The poor girl was buried agreeably to her wishes, upon the mountain
side. The tankard became the property of her aunt Tabitha, and finally
came to a rest in my grandmother’s cupboard. And now when the Sabbath
evening commences, the rustic swain, as he passes the foot of the
mountain, fancies that he sees a white figure beckoning to him from the
cliff, and hears, amid the sighing of the woods, a low, but fearfully
distinct whisper, saying—“Eugene! Eugene! I come!” And oft since,
through the dim twilight of a summer’s Sabbath evening, has been seen
the spirit-ship of the long-lost Pilgrims, ploughing her unruffled
course through the calm waters of Quinapiack, and, when hailed,
instantly disappearing.
Washington, January, 1841.
* * * * *
THE RESCUED KNIGHT.
A TALE OF THE CRUSADES.
It was starlight on Galilee. The placid lake lay at the feet, slumbering
as calmly as an infant, with the wooded shores, and the tall cliffs
around, reflected darkly in its surface. Scarcely a breath disturbed the
quiet air. Occasionally a ripple would break on the shore with a low,
measured harmony, and anon a tiny wave would glisten in the starlight,
as a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lake. The song of the
fisherman was hushed; the voice of the vine-dresser had ceased on the
shore; the cry of the eagle had died away amongst his far-off hills, and
the silence of midnight, deep, hushed, and awe-inspiring, hung over
Galilee.
A thousand years before, and what scenes had that sea beheld! There, had
lived Peter and his brethren; there, had our Saviour taught; upon those
shores had his miracles been wrought; and on the broad bosom of
Gennesserat he had walked a God. What holy memories were linked in with
that little sea! How calm and changeless seemed its quiet depths! A
thousand years had passed since then, and the apostles and their
children had mouldered into dust, yet the stars still looked down on
that placid lake unchanged, shining the same as they had done for fifty
centuries before.
On the shore of the lake, embowered in the thick woods, stood a large
old, rambling fortified building, bearing traces of the Roman
architecture, upon which had been engrafted a Saracenic style. It
enclosed a garden, upon one side of which was a range of low buildings,
dark, massy, frowning, and partly in ruins, but which bore every
evidence of being still almost impregnable.
Within this range of buildings, in a dark and noisome cell, reclined,
upon a scanty bed of straw, a Christian knight. His face was pale and
attenuated, but it had lost, amid all his sufferings, none of his high
resolve. It was now the seventh day since he had lain in that loathsome
dungeon, and the morrow’s sun was to see him die a martyr, for not
abjuring his religion.
“Yes!” he muttered to himself, “the agony will soon be over: it is but
an hour at the most, and shall a Christian knight fear fire or torture?
No: come when it may, death should ever be welcome to a de Guiscan; and
how much more welcome when it brings the glories of martyrdom. But yet
it is a fearful trial. I could fall in battle, for there a thousand eyes
behold us, but to die alone, unheard of, with only foes around, and
where none shall ever hear of my fate.—Oh! that indeed is bitter. Yet I
fear not even it. Thank God!” he said, fervently kissing a cross he drew
from his bosom, “there is a strength given to us in the hour of need,
which bears us up against every danger.”
The speaker suddenly started, ceased, and looked around. The bolt of his
door was being withdrawn from the outside. Could it be that his jailor
was about to visit him at this hour? Slowly the massy door swung on its
hinges, and a burst of light, streaming into the cell, for a moment
dazzled the eyes of the captive; but when he grew accustomed gradually
to the glare, he started, with even greater surprise, to behold, not his
jailor, but a maiden, richly attired in the Oriental dress. For an
instant the young knight looked amazed, as if he beheld a being of
another world.
“Christian!” said the apparition, using the mongrel tongue, then adopted
by both Saracens and Franks in their communications, but speaking in a
low, sweet voice, which, melting from the maiden’s tongue, made every
word seem musical, “do you die to-morrow?”
“If God wills it,” said the young knight firmly, “but what mean
you?—why are you here?”
“I am here to save you,” said the maiden, fixing her eye upon his, “that
is,” and she paused and blushed in embarrassment, “if you will comply
with my conditions.”
The young knight, who had eagerly started forward at the first part of
her sentence, now recoiled, and with a firm voice, though one gentler
than he would have used to aught less fair, exclaimed,—
“And have you too been sent to tempt me? But go to those from whom you
came, and tell them that Brian de Guiscan, will meet the stake
rejoicing, sooner than purchase life by abjuring his God—”
“You wrong—you wrong me,” hastily interposed the maiden, “I come not to
ask you to desert your God, but to tell you that I also would be a
Christian. Listen,—for my story must be short—my nurse was a Christian
captive, and from her I learned to love your Saviour. I have long sought
to learn more of your religion, and I am come now,” and again she
blushed in embarrassment, “to free you, sir knight, if you will conduct
me to your own land. I am the daughter of the Emir; I have stolen his
signet, and thus obtained the keys to your cell—”
“It is enough, fair princess, my more than deliverer,” said the knight
eagerly, “gladly will I sell my life in your defence.”
“Hist!” said the maiden in a whisper, placing her finger on her lips,
“if we speak above a murmur we shall, perhaps be overhead—follow me,”
and turning around, she passed swiftly through the door, and
extinguishing her light, looked around to see if she was followed, and
flitted into a dark alley of overhanging trees.
Who can describe the emotions of de Guiscan’s bosom, as he traversed the
garden after his guide? His release had been so sudden that it seemed
like a dream, and he placed his hand upon his brow as if to assure
himself of the reality of the passing scene. Nor were the sensations,
which he experienced, less mixed than tumultuous. But over every other
feeling, one was predominant—the determination to perish rather than to
be re-taken, or, least of all, to suffer a hair of his fair rescuer’s
head to be injured.
Their noiseless, but rapid flight toward the lower end of the garden,
and thence through a postern gate into the fields beyond, was soon
completed,—and it was only when, arriving at a clump of palms, beneath
which three steeds, and a male attendant, could be seen, as if awaiting
them, that the maid broke silence.
“Mount, Christian,” she said in her sweet voice, now trembling with
excitement; and then turning toward her father’s towers, she looked
mournfully at them a moment, and de Guiscan saw, by the starlight, that
she wept.
In a few minutes, however, they were mounted; and so complete had been
the maiden’s preparations, that de Guiscan’s own horse, lance, and
buckler, had been provided for him. But on whom would suspicion be less
likely to rest than on the Emir’s daughter?
They galloped long and swiftly through that night, and just as morning
began to break across the hills of Syria, they turned aside into a thick
grove, and, dismounting, sought rest. The attendant tied the foaming
steeds a short distance apart, and, for the first time, the princess and
de Guiscan were alone since his escape.
“Fair princess,” said the young knight, “how shall I ever show my
gratitude to you? By what name may I call my deliverer?”
“Zelma!” said the maiden modestly, dropping her eyes before those of the
knight, and speaking with a certain tremulousness of tone that was more
eloquent than words.
“Zelma!” said de Guiscan astonished, “and do I indeed behold the
far-famed daughter of the Emir, Abel-dek, she for whom the Saracenic
chivalry have broken so many lances? Thou art indeed beautiful, far more
beautiful than I had dreamed. The blessed saints may be praised, that
thou wishest to be a Christian.”
“Such is my wish,” said the maiden meekly, as if desiring to change the
conversation from her late act, “and I pray that, as soon as may be, we
may reach some Christian outpost, where you will place me in charge of
one of those holy women, of whom I have heard my nurse so often speak;
and after that, the only favor I ask of you, sir knight, is, that,
should you ever meet my father, Abel-dek, in battle, you will avoid him,
for his daughter’s sake.”
“It is granted, sweet Zelma,” said de Guiscan enthusiastically. But the
attendant now returning, their conversation was closed for the present.
Why was it that de Guiscan, instead of retiring to rest, when, having
formed a rude couch for Zelma, he persuaded her to take a short repose,
kept guard for hours, busy with his own thoughts, but without uttering a
word? Was it solely gratitude to the fair Saracen which forbid him to
trust her safety even for a moment to her attendant, or had another and
deeper feeling, arising partly from gratitude, and partly from a
tenderer source, taken possession of his soul? Certain it is, that
though the young knight had gazed on the bright eyes of his own Gascony,
and seen even the fair-haired maidens of England, yet never had he
experienced toward any of them, such feelings as that which he now
experienced toward Zelma. Hour after hour passed away, and still he
stood watching over her slumbers.
It was late in the afternoon when the little party again set forth on
their flight. De Guiscan, when the road permitted it, was ever at the
bridle reins of Zelma, and though his keen eye often swept anxiously
around the landscape, their conversation soon grew deeply interesting,
if we may judge by the stolen glances and heightened color of Zelma, and
the eager attention with which the young knight listened to the few
words which dropped from her lips. How had their demeanor changed since
the night before! Then the princess was all energy, now she was the
startled girl again. Then de Guiscan followed powerless as she led, now
he it was upon whom the little party leaned for guidance.
“Pursuit, the saints be praised, must long since have ceased,” said de
Guiscan, “for yonder is the last hill hiding us from the Christian camp.
When we gain that we shall be able to see, though still distant, the
tents of my race.”
The eyes of the maiden sparkled, and giving the reins to their steeds,
they soon gained the ascent. The scene that burst upon them was so grand
and imposing that, involuntarily, for a moment, they drew in and paused.
Before them stretched out an extensive plain, bounded on three sides by
chains of hills, while on the fourth, and western border, glistened far
away the waters of the Mediterranean. Rich fields of waving green;
sparkling rivers, now lost and now emerging to sight; rolling uplands,
crowned with cedar forests; and, dimly seen in the distance, a long line
of glittering light, reflected from the armor of the Crusaders, and
telling where lay the Christian camp, opened out before the eyes of the
fugitives.
“The camp—the camp,” said de Guiscan joyously, pointing to the far-off
line of tents.
The maiden turned her eyes to behold the glittering sight, gazed at it a
moment in silence, and then casting a look backward, in the direction of
her father’s house, she heaved a deep sigh, and said calmly:
“Had we not better proceed?”
“By my halidome, yes!” said de Guiscan with sudden energy, “see yon
troop of Saracens pricking up the mountain side in our rear—here—in a
line with that cedar—”
“I see them,” said Zelma, breathlessly, “they are part of the Emir’s
guard—they are in pursuit.”
“On—on,” was the only answer of the young knight, as he struck the
Arabian on which the maiden rode, and plunged his spurs deep into his
horse’s flanks.
They had not been in motion long before they beheld their pursuers,
approaching, better mounted than themselves, sweeping over the brow of
the hill above, in a close, dense column.
“Swifter—swifter, dear lady,” said the knight, looking back.
“Oh! we are beset,” suddenly said Zelma, in a voice trembling with
agitation, “see—a troop of our pursuers are winding up the path below.”
The knight’s eyes following the guidance of the maiden’s trembling
finger, beheld, a mile beneath him, a large company of infidel horse,
closing up the egress of the fugitives. He paused an instant, almost
bewildered. But not a second was to be lost.
“Where does this horse path lead?” he said, turning to the attendant,
and pointing to a narrow way, winding amongst precipitous rocks, toward
the left.
“It joins the greater road, some distance below.”
“Then, in God’s name let us enter it, trusting to heaven for escape. If
it comes to the worst I can defend it against all comers, provided there
is any part of it too narrow for two to attack me abreast.”
“There are many such spots!”
“Then the saints be praised. In, in, dear lady—in all.”
Their pace was now equally rapid until they reached a narrow gorge,
overhung by high and inaccessible rocks, and opening behind into a wide
highway, bordering upon a plain below.
“Here will I take my position, and await their attack,” said de Guiscan.
“How far is the nearest Christian outpost?”
“A league beneath.”
“Hie, then, away to it, and tell them de Guiscan escaped from a Saracen
prison, awaits succor in this pass. We cannot all go, else we may be
overtaken. Besides, you may be intercepted below. If you live to reach
the crusaders, I will make you rich for life. By sundown I may expect
succor if you succeed. Till then I can hold this post.”
The man made an Oriental obeisance, and vanished, like lightning, down
the acclivity.
“Here they come,” said de Guiscan, “they have found us out, and are
swooping like falcons from the heights.”
The maiden looked, and beheld the troop of Saracens defiling down the
mountain, one by one; the narrowness of the path forbidding even two to
ride abreast.
“Allah il Allah!” shouted the foremost infidel, perceiving the knight,
and galloping furiously upon him as he spoke.
Not a word was returned from the crusader. He stood like a statue of
steel, awaiting the onset of the fiery Saracen. As the infidel swept on
his career, he gradually increased his distance from his friends, until
a considerable space intervened between him and the troop of Moslems.
This was the moment for which the young knight had so anxiously waited.
“Allah il Allah!” shouted the infidel, waving his scimitar around his
head, as he came sweeping down upon the motionless crusader.
“A de Guiscan! a de Guiscan!” thundered the knight, raising the war-cry
of his fathers, as he couched his lance, and shot like an arrow from the
pass. There was a tramp—a wild shout—a fleeting as of a meteor—and
then the two combatants met in mid-career. Too late the infidel beheld
his error, and sought to evade that earthquake charge. It was in vain.
Horse and rider went down before the lance of the crusader, and the last
life-blood of the Saracen had ebbed forth before de Guiscan had even
regained his position.
The savage cry of revenge which the companions of the fallen man set up,
would have apalled any heart but that of de Guiscan. But he knew no
fear. The presence of Zelma, too, gave new strength to his arm, and new
energy to his soul. For more than an hour, aided by his strong position,
he kept the whole Saracen force at bay. Every man who attacked him went
down before his lance, or fell beneath his sword. At length, as sunset
approached, the Saracens hemming him in closer and closer, succeeded in
driving him back behind a projecting rock, which, though it protected
his person, prevented him from doing any injury to his assailants, who,
meanwhile, were endeavoring, by climbing up the face of the rock, to
attack him from overhead. He found that it was impossible to hold out
many moments longer. He turned to look at the maiden: she was firm and
resolved, though pale.
“We will die together,” said she, drawing closer to his side, as if
there was greater protection there than where she had been standing.
“Yes! dear Zelma, for that is, I fear me, all that is left for us to
do.”
“Hark!” suddenly said the maiden, “hear you not the clattering of
horses’ feet—here—in the rear?”
“Can it be your attendant returned?”
“Yes—yes! it is—praised be the Christian’s God.”
“I vow a gold candlestick to the Holy shrine at Jerusalem!”
On, like a whirlwind, came the host of the Christians, over the plain
beneath, and through the broad highway, until, perceiving their rescued
countryman still alive with his charge, they raised such a cry of
rejoicing that it struck terror into every Moslem’s heart. In a few
moments all danger to the fugitives was over.
The infidels, now in turn retreating, were pursued and cut off almost to
a man, by a detachment of the Christian force; while another party of
the succorers bore the rescued fugitives in triumph to the Christian
outpost.
In the parlor of the —— convent, at Jerusalem, a few months later De
Guiscan awaited the appearance of Zelma. Since the day when they had
together reached the Christian outpost, he had not beheld that beautiful
Saracen, for she had seized the first opportunity to place herself under
the instruction of the holy abbess of the —— convent at Jerusalem.
During that separation, however, de Guiscan had thought long and
ardently of his rescuer. In the bivouac; amid the noise of a camp; in
the whirl of battle; surrounded by the beautiful and gay; wherever, in
short, he went, the young knight had carried with him the memory of the
fair being who, at the peril of her life, had saved him from the stake.
Their hurried conversation in the palm grove was constantly recurring to
his memory. Oh! how he wished that he might once more behold Zelma, if
only to thank her anew for his life. But constantly occupied in the
field, he had not been at leisure to visit Jerusalem, until a summons
come from France, informing him of his father’s death, and the necessity
that he should immediately proceed homeward, to preserve the succession
to his barony. He determined to see Zelma once more, if only to bid her
farewell forever.
As he was swayed thus by his emotions, he heard a light step, and
looking up, he beheld the Saracen princess.
“Zelma!” he ejaculated.
“De Guiscan!” said the maiden, eagerly advancing, but checking herself
as instantly, she stood, in beautiful embarrassment, before the knight.
Both felt the difficulty of their relative positions, and both would
have spoken, but could not. At length de Guiscan said,—
“Lady! I have come to thank you again for my life, before I leave this
land forever.”
“Leave Jerusalem—Palestine forever!” ejaculated Zelma.
A bright, but long-forbidden hope lighted up the countenance of the
young knight, and perceiving the renewed embarrassment with which the
speaker paused, he said:
“_Dear_ lady! I am going to my own sunny land far away; but I cannot
depart without telling you how deeply I love you, and that I have
thought of you, only of your sex, ever since we parted. Oh! if not
presumptious, might I hope?”
The still more embarrassed maiden blushed, but she did not withdraw the
hand which the young knight had grasped. He raised and kissed it. The
next moment the trembling, but glad girl, fell weeping on his bosom.
She, too, had thought only of him.
The proudest family in the south of France, to this day, trace their
origin to the union of Zelma and de Guiscan. * * *
* * * * *
LITTLE CHILDREN.
BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.
I love those little happy things, they seem to me but given,
To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,
Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.
Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?
The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,
The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;
The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,
But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.
Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,
When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,
When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,
Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.
I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,
Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;
When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,
Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.
Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the
blight,
That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,
Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wear
The looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.
Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,
The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,
In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,
Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.
Philadelphia, January, 1841.
* * * * *
THE SILVER DIGGER.
BY J. TOPHAM EVANS.
“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Piet Albrecht, “and so old Chriss Mienckel is
going to be married at last, and to pretty Barbara Mullerhorn, the
violet of the forest! Your gold and silver are the best suitors after
all! Give me a purse of yellow pieces before all the rifles of the
mountain. What sayest thou, comrade,” continued he, clapping upon the
back a young man, who sat next to him, “dost thou not think that old
Mullerhorn, the gold-lover, would have fancied thee much better, if thou
hadst carried more metal in thy pouch than upon thy shoulder?”
“I pray thee, Piet,” responded the young man, “keep thy scurvy jests to
thyself. My soul is far too heavy for mirth.”
“Holy Saint Nicholas!” said Piet, “he thinks of little Barbara! Well,
courage, comrade, and drink somewhat of this flask. Right Schiedam, and
full old, I warrant thee. What, not a drop? Well, here’s to thee, then.”
“Aye,” said a tall, dark visaged man, attired in a hunter’s garb, “aye!
these love sick spirits are hardly worth the trouble of enlivening. Once
was Adolf the gayest hunter in the hills; but of late, his courage is as
dull as a hare’s, and all for a green girl, whose old schelm of a father
loves his own broad pieces too well, to bestow her upon a ranger of the
free woods.”
“Peace, Franz Rudenfranck,” said the youth; “I will hear such words, not
even from thee. If old Mullerhorn continues to refuse me, I will leave
these, my native mountains, and wander in some far distant land,
hopeless and broken hearted.”
“Pshaw,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “thou art far too young for despair as
yet. Throw thine ill-humor to the fiend, whence it came. There are other
lasses as fair as Barbara Mullerhorn, and, by my faith, not so difficult
to obtain. Therefore, fill comrades, let us pass a health to the
recovery of Adolf’s heart, and a more favorable issue to his passion.”
And the cup went gaily round, amid the shouts of the revellers.
Adolf Westerbok had been the gayest huntsman of the F——g district, and
the truest and merriest lad in the mountain, until an accidental meeting
with Barbara Mullerhorn at a dance, had entirely changed the current of
his feelings. It is an old story, and a much hackneyed one, that of
love. Let us spare the description. Suffice it to say that Adolf and
Barbara met often, and that a mutual affection subsisted between them.
Adolf proposed himself to old Mullerhorn, and demanded Barbara in
marriage. But old Philip Mullerhorn, a rude, churlish, and avaricious
farmer, scornfully rejected the proffer of Adolf, and forbade him any
farther interview with Barbara, alleging, as the grounds of his
disinclination, the poverty of the hunter. Barbara was no less afflicted
than Adolf. Still, meetings between them were contrived. At last, on the
very evening, upon which the conversation, narrated above, took place,
Barbara informed her distracted lover, that her father had announced to
her his intention of bestowing her in marriage upon Chriss Mienckel, an
elderly widower, whose share of this world’s goods was ample enough to
attract the covetous regards of old Philip Mullerhorn.
Burning with rage, and filled with tumultuous thoughts, Adolf quitted
Barbara, after bestowing upon her a long embrace, and repaired to the
inn of the hamlet, in hopes of finding Franz Rudenfranck, a huntsman,
who had professed a singular attachment for him, and who had signalised
this attachment by many personal proofs of friendship.
The news of old Mienckel’s success had reached the hamlet before him,
and he had not been seated many minutes, before Piet Albrecht, the
professed joker of the village, began to rally him upon the subject.
Piet had already irritated Adolf in no small measure; but the lover had
thus far concealed his feelings.
“Ha! ha!” exclaimed Piet, gaily, “to think that the old, shrivelled
widower of threescore should outcharm the youth of twenty! If I had been
Adolf Westerbok, I don’t think that Chriss would have carried matters
so, and I should have worn the wedding ribbon in spite of his ducats.
But there’s no accounting for tastes, eh? What say you, comrades?”
The hunters laughed; and Adolf, annoyed at length beyond endurance,
rejoined in somewhat of a surly tone; to which Piet answered more
jestingly than before.
“Silence, fool!” said Rudenfranck, now interfering, “thou hast neither
wit nor manners, and I should but serve thee rightly, did I lay my
ramrod soundly over thy shoulders.”
Piet shrank back abashed, for there was that expression upon the brow of
Rudenfranck that few cared to see, and fewer to withstand. The hunters
were silent for a moment, but one of them, at last, answered
Rudenfranck.
“That would I fain see, Franz Rudenfranck. Keep thy ramrod for thy
hound; for, by the holy apostles, if thou layest the weight of thy
finger upon Piet, I will try whether my bullet or thy skin proves the
harder, albeit some say no lead can harm thee.”
“Peace, Hans Veltenmayer,” rejoined Rudenfranck. “If thou wert wise,
which any fool may plainly perceive thou art not, thou wouldest chain
that unruly tongue within thine ugly mouth, or keep those threats for
thy wife, who, if some say aright, would receive them so kindly, as to
repay thee, not in words, but in heavier coin. Tush man, never lift thy
rifle at me.”
He turned sharply upon the hunter, who had seized his rifle and was
levelling it toward him; wrested it from his hand, and by a slight
motion, cast him rudely upon the ground. Veltenmayer rose, and slunk
among his laughing companions, muttering.
“Come, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, “I know what thou wouldst have. Leave
we this merry company, and go thou with me to my hut.”
They left the inn, and plunged deep into the forest.
Chapter II.
The F——g district, as it is called, where the scene of this legend is
laid, is one of the highest points in the great range of the Alleghany
mountains. High, broken peaks, capped with towering pines, rise upon
every side in billowy confusion; while the loftier and more regular
chains of mountains stretch far away in every direction, fading and
sinking upon the eye, until from a rich, dark green, they seem to meet
and unite with the azure of the sky. Rough, rocky precipices; a red and
stony soil, where the green mosses crawl and intertwist, in confused,
yet beautiful arrangement, over the sward; thick low underwood, and
forests almost impenetrable from their density; deep ravines, and craggy
watercourses, some entirely destitute of water, and others, gushing
precipitately along, flushed by unfailing springs, are the
characteristics of this mountain district. The rude log cabins of the
few inhabitants of this country, lie distant and scantily scattered
through the almost pathless woods, and the entire appearance of the
scenery has a sublime, though a savage and uncultivated air. The
original settlers of this tract were Germans and Swiss, whose
descendants, even at the present day, are almost the sole tenantry of
these hills. Their nature seems congenial to the surrounding mountains;
and the national exercise of the rifle, the merry dance and song, and
those yet more venerable Dionysia, the apple-butter boilings, quilting
parties, and log liftings, still constitute the favorite amusements of
this primitive people. Even their religion, a strange compound of German
mysticism, engrafted upon a plentiful stock of superstition, seems
peculiarly appropriate to their mode of living, and their wild country.
Nay, the very dress of a century back, still holds its fashion among
these hills; and the peasant or hunter, loosely attired in his homespun
suit of brown or blue adorned with fringe, or decked out with large,
antique, silver or pewter buttons, occasionally garnished with the
effigies of some popular saint; his large, broad brimmed wool hat,
flapped over his face; his leather leggings; and dark, curly beard,
presents a lively image of his fathers, the original settlers of the
district. Add to this, the bright, keen wood-knife, sheathed in its
leather case, and stuck in a broad girdle, with the powder horn and
pouch; and the unfailing rifle strapped across the shoulder, and you
have a perfect description of the general appearance of that people, who
inhabit the F——g settlement, and the back-woods of Pennsylvania, at
the present day.
Rudenfranck and his companion strode onward through the woods for some
time without speaking. The elder hunter eyeing his friend keenly, at
last broke the unsocial silence.
“I need not ask of thee, Adolf, why thy brow is clouded, and thine eye
so heavy. I, myself, although thou mayest smile at such confession from
me, have suffered long, and deeply, from a like cause. But my tale shall
not now interrupt thy grief, and I have often thought that the very
leaves of the forest would find tongues to repeat a story, which might
move nature herself. I would afford thee aid; not gall thy wounds by the
recital of my own. Speak; is it not thus? Thou hast met Barbara
Mullerhorn, even after her churlish father had forbidden thy suit. I
know too well, Adolf, that the more we are opposed the brighter burns
our love. But in pursuing thus thy suit, thou hast not done wisely. Yet
I may still aid thee, and I will do so.”
“Alas, good Franz,” replied the youth, “this complaint is far beyond thy
remedy. Gold alone can sway the determination of Philip Mullerhorn, and
well dost thou know that Chriss Mienckel is the richest man in the
settlement. How then canst thou, a poor hunter like myself, afford that
aid, which wealth alone can give? No! no! I see nought save
disappointment—save despair!”
“Thou knowest but little of me, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, solemnly, “but
thou art destined to learn more. See, the moon is already rising through
the pines, and on this evening, the annual recurrence of which, is
fraught with dread and woe to me; and each succeeding anniversary of
which, brings me nearer to my stern destiny, shalt thou learn of me a
secret, which, if thou hast the fearlessness of soul to fathom, all may
be well, at least with thee. But thou canst only learn it of me.”
“Rudenfranck,” said Adolf, “the hunters speak much evil of thee, and
strange tales are current concerning thee in the settlement. Unholy
things, it is said, flit round thy hut in the hushed hour of midnight.
Unholy sounds are heard resounding through the deep glen where thou
abidest. Old men speak warily of thee, and cross themselves as thou
passest by, and the village maidens shrink from thy hand in the dance.
These may be idle tales; but, Rudenfranck, thy words to-night are
suspicious. Nevertheless, be thou wizard or enchanter; be thy knowledge
that of the good saints, or of a darker world, to thee and to that
knowledge I commit myself. Thou hast proved thy friendship, and, for
weal or woe, I will trust thee.”
“Men speak not all aright,” rejoined the hunter, while a dark shadow
obscured his visage, and his words fell as though he spake them
unwillingly, “nor say they altogether wrong.” The young huntsman looked
at Rudenfranck for a moment; then, grasping his hand, he cried—
“Then thou canst aid me, Rudenfranck?”
“That will I, as I have the power,” said the hunter; “but we are at the
hut. Thy hand upon it, that what I shall tell thee will find a grave in
thy breast. Else I will not, I cannot assist thee.”
“My hand upon it,” replied Adolf.
“Enter then,” said the hunter, “let fear be a stranger to thy breast,
and all shall yet be well.”
As they entered the cottage, a shadowy form flitted past the door, and
the wind sighed mournfully through the forest.