fortunes of quite another than Martin.
In the evening Captain Fogg honored us, and Kate was unusually affable
and gay. She sung none but comic songs, and her merry laugh rang out
like a peal of bells.
During the evening we played a game of forfeits, and it was once
adjudged that the captain should relate a story, to redeem his turquoise
breastpin. He told a late dream, which was, that once, on taking a
morning walk to hear the birds sing, he found Miss Richmond completely
_lost in a fog_, and refused to help her out!
Oh, how he sparkled, as he fairly got off his witticism, and saw that it
took!
“Ah, captain,” said I, “you must have a gift for punning.”
“Something of one, Miss,” he replied, with a complacent pull at his
imperial. “I was into White’s, the other day, buying some music, and
White offered me a song called ‘Mary’s Tears,’ which I told him must
have a tremendous _run_! White laughed till he cried, and threatened to
expose me in our paper! ’Pon honor, he did so!”
The captain informed us that the following would be a great day for the
militia, as there was to be on the village-green of W——, a parade and
review; and he gallantly begged the honor of our presence. We graciously
testified our willingness to patronize the show, provided Harry would
drive us into town for the purpose. On leaving, the captain requested
the loan of Harry’s noble horse, Saladin, which had been trained to the
field, for the grand occasion. He would come for him in the morning, he
said. Harry consented, with rather a bad grace, I thought. He is a
perfect Arab in his loving care for his horse.
The next morning, about ten, the captain called and found us all
ready—the barouche waiting at the door. Colonel Grove, who is a
gentleman of the _ancien régime_, invited the young officer, who was in
complete uniform, to take wine with him. It was really laughable—the
captain’s affectation of a cool, _bon-vivantish_ indifference, as he
tossed off glass after glass of the sparkling champagne, showing himself
to be far from familiar with that exhilarating and insidious beverage.
He grew elevated momentarily; his very words soared majestically above
mere common sense, and his eyes winked of strange mysteries, and flashed
unutterable things.
At length were we civilians seated in the barouche and driving toward
W——, at a brisk rate, the captain causing Saladin to wheel and
caracole beside us in a most remarkable manner. Ah, how did the harmless
lightning of his wit play around us! how were his compliments showered
upon us like _bonbons_ in carnival-time! How beautifully was he like the
sparkling wine he had so lately quaffed—what was he but a human
champagne-bottle, with the cork just drawn!
About half way to the village we saw before us an old Indian woman, well
known in all the country round as a doctress, or witch, according to
most people. She was bent almost double, and looked very feeble, though
she was said to be still marvelously active and vigorous.
Suddenly the captain, who had galloped on a little to display his
horsemanship, came dashing back, exclaiming—“Now, young ladies, for
some glorious fun! Do you see that old squaw yonder?”
“Yes,” said Alice Grove, “that is old Martha—what of her?”
“Why, I mean to have some rare sport. I’ll invite her to take a ride
behind me. I’ll ride up to the fence for her to get on, and then, just
as she makes her spring, spur Saladin, and let her land on the ground.”
“Oh, don’t! don’t!” cried we all in chorus; but the captain was off and
already speaking to old Martha. She evidently liked his proposition, for
she quickly climbed the fence, preparatory to mounting. The captain
wheeled his horse to within about two feet of her—she gave a spring—he
spurred his steed, which leaped wildly forward—but _too late_! Old
Martha was safe on Saladin’s back, her long, bony arms clasped closely
round the waist of his rider—and, hurrah, they were off at a dashing
rate.
Harry whipped up his grays, and we presently overtook the equestrians.
Captain Fogg had succeeded in checking Saladin, and was striving to
persuade old Martha to dismount, but in vain; she would ride to the
village, as he had invited her. He coaxed, threatened, and swore—but
all to no purpose; she _would_ go on to the village!
At last, in endeavoring forcibly to unclasp her arms, Fogg dropped the
rein, and Saladin, worried and frightened, started off at a furious
gallop, and tore down the street like mad. Oh, the rich, indescribable
ludicrousness of the sight! Such a conspicuous figure was the captain,
so splendidly mounted, with “sword and pistols by his side,” and all his
burnished buttons and buckles glistening in the morning sun; and then
that ridiculous old woman, in her tattered Indian costume, seated behind
him, clinging convulsively to his waist, and bounding up half a foot
with every leap of the frantic steed. The ends of the captain’s scarlet
sash floated back over her short black petticoat, and the white
horse-hair of his military plume mingled ingloriously with her long
elf-locks streaming in the wind.
The dirty woollen blanket of old Martha became loose, and flew backward,
held only by one corner, exposing her bright blue short-gown, trimmed
with wampum, while her red leggings got up quite a little show on their
own account.
As thus they dashed on, faster and faster, they spread astonishment and
consternation as they went.
A farmer, who with his son was gathering apples from a tree near the
road, saw the vision—dropped his basket, and knocked down his first
born with an avalanche of pippins. An old lady, who was hanging out
clothes in her yard, struck with sudden fright and sore dismay, fell
backward into her clothes-basket, as white as a sheet, and as limp as a
wet towel.
Young urchins let go the strings of kites, leaving them to whirl dizzily
and dive earthward—left “terrestrial pies” unfinished, and took to
their heels! A red-haired damsel who was milking by the road-side, on
beholding the dread apparition, turned pale, and ran, and the cow,
following her example, also _turned pail_ and ran!
But most excruciatingly and transcendentally ridiculous was the scene
when Saladin, over whom the captain had lost all control, reached the
parade-ground, and dashed in among the soldiers and spectators. Hats
were tossed into the air, and shouts of laughter and derisive hooras
resounded on every side. But fortunately for poor Fogg, Saladin suddenly
perceived a part of the cavalry company, who, in the absence of their
captain, were going through some informal and supererogatory exercises,
and obedient to his military training, wheeled into line, and stood
still, with head erect and nostrils distended.
“For Heaven’s sake, boys,” cried the captain, “haul off this old
savage!”
But the worthy Martha, wisely declining such rough treatment, leaped to
the ground like a cat—made a profound courtesy, and with a smile rather
too sarcastic for so venerable a person, said,
“Me tank you, cap’en—old Martha no often have such fine ride, with such
pretty man, all in _regiments_!”
After this rare comedy, the review was a matter of little moment, and we
soon returned home, not even waiting for the tragedy of the sham-fight.
On the afternoon of the following day, Harry invited Kate to take a
horse-back ride—and the incidents of that ride, as I received them from
my friend, I will relate to the best of my ability.
The equestrians took a route which was a favorite with both—up a glen,
wild and unfrequented, through which ran a clear, silver stream. It
happened that Harry was in one of his lawless, bantering moods, and
teazed Kate unmercifully on the gallant part played by her lover, the
captain, on the preceding day.
Kate, who was not in the most sunny humor, began to rally him about
“_Lo-izy_” Grant, and the New Haven belle.
Suddenly Harry became grave, and said, in an earnest tone, “Shall I tell
you, Kate, _just_ the state of my heart?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she coolly replied, “it is a matter of no
moment to me.”
“There, now, you are insincere,” said Harry, with a saucy smile, leaning
forward to strike a fly from Saladin’s neck, “it _is_ a matter of some
moment to you, for you know that I love you, and that you are not
entirely indifferent to my love.”
“Sir, you mistake in addressing such language to me—you are presuming,”
said Kate, with a petrifying hauteur; and giving her horse a smart cut
with the whip, galloped on. Surprised, and somewhat angry, Harry checked
his own horse, and gazed after her till she was lost in a bend of the
winding road. As he stood by the side of the rivulet, Saladin reached
down his head to drink. In his troubled abstraction, Harry let go the
rein, which fell over the head of his horse. With a muttered something,
which was not a benediction, Harry dismounted to regain it, when
Saladin, in one of his mad freaks, gave a quick leap away and galloped
up the glen after his mate. Harry was about to follow, but an odd
thought coming into his brain, he threw himself on the turf instead, and
lay perfectly still, with closed eyes, listening to the gallop of the
two steeds, far up the glen. Presently he heard them stop—then turn,
and come dashing down again with redoubled speed. Nearer and nearer came
Kate. She was at his side—with a cry of alarm she threw herself from
her horse and bent above him.
“Harry, dear Harry, were you thrown—are you injured?” she cried,
raising the head of the apparently unconscious man, and supporting it on
her knee. “Oh, Heaven! he is hurt—he does not hear me!” she murmured,
laying back the hair from his forehead and pressing her lips upon it
wildly and repeatedly. Harry’s eye-lids remained hermetically sealed,
but a queer, comical expression began to play around the corners of his
mouth, and was about to betray him, when he suddenly opened his eyes,
with a look of triumphant impudence, and broke into a peal of joyous
laughter.
Kate dropped his head with a movement of indignation and dismay—sprung
up—led her horse to the trunk of a fallen tree, just by, from which she
leaped into her saddle, and was off almost as soon as Harry had regained
his feet. Again the faithless Saladin left his master in the lurch, and
followed Kate, who went at a furious rate, never pausing nor looking
back; so the somewhat discomforted Harry was obliged to foot it home, a
matter of “twa mile and a bittock,” as they say in Scotland.
That night Kate had a headache, and did not appear at the tea-table, nor
join the evening circle, where poor Harry was cross-questioned without
mercy on the strange circumstance of having been left behind both by his
horse and lady-fair.
“Ah, Kate,” said I, as I joined her at the close of the evening, “I have
something to tell you. While you were dressing for your ride to-day,
Harry called me into his room to show me that picture—and will you
believe, it is only a bad portrait of _yourself_! Harry sketched it long
ago for Louisa Grant, but has lately been making some important
alterations, and now he thinks it strikingly like you. I really wonder
we did not see the resemblance; the poetry was meant for you alone.”
“Oh, Grace, Grace!” murmured Kate, in a bitter tone, “if you had only
told me this before I went to ride!”
At breakfast, the next morning, there was no Harry—two hours before he
had whistled his dog and shouldered his gun, and set out on a crusade in
turkey-land. But long before noon the young hunter returned, and
inquiring for Kate, was directed to the library, where she sat, striving
to drive away her sad mood, according to her own cheerful philosophy, by
light reading. She had chosen “Hood’s Prose and Verse,” instead of Miss
Landon’s Poems, which stood on the same shelf.
Again I must tell the story as it was told to me.
As Harry entered, Kate coloring deeply, started up—stood still a
moment, and then sat down again, uttering not a word. Harry, seating
himself near her, took off his hunting-cap, ran his fingers nervously
through his hair, and in a tolerably steady voice began,
“I could have no peace, Miss Richmond, until I had begged your pardon
for my unparalleled impertinence yesterday. I intreat you to believe
that I had in my heart no intentional disrespect for you. I pray your
forgiveness for my first rash words—what you called my _presumption_.
For the other daring act, I am not so deeply repentant, for I would
willingly have my head broken in reality, to have it lie for another
moment where it laid yesterday; yet for that also I ask pardon. Do you
grant it?”
“With all my heart,” said Kate, smiling; but Harry continued—
“I have been, indeed, most presuming and conceited, in supposing for a
moment that I could be any thing to you; and, perhaps,” he continued,
with a proud curl of the lip, “we have both been mistaken in according
too much meaning to trifling words and acts—we two have flirted
desperately, Kate,—have we not?”
Kate bit her lip in vexation, and a shade of disappointment passed over
her face. Just then the eyes of the two met, for the first time for some
minutes, and the ridiculousness, the utter absurdity of they two
endeavoring to deceive one another—to conceal for a moment longer the
blessed truth that they _loved one another_, broke upon them at once,
and they burst into a long and merry laugh.
“Well,” said Harry, at last, dashing the tears of mirth from his
flashing eyes, and seating himself nearer Kate, “it is time I at least
was serious, for the deepest and strongest feelings of my heart will
make themselves heard. Kate, dear Kate, whether it gives you pleasure to
know it, or not, I _must_ tell you how truly, how devotedly, and, though
you will scarce believe _that_, how _reverentially_ I love you! I am a
strange, wild fellow, Kate, somewhat rude and over-mirthful; but you, I
am sure, can make me what you wish. Will you undertake the task?”
“With all my heart,” she again replied, frankly extending her hand.
“Blessings on your sweet soul, Kate!—but—but—”
“But what, Harry?”
“Not much, only will you allow me to pay you back _that small coin_ you
bestowed on me yesterday, in your Christian charity?”
“Oh, I’ll forgive you the debt,” said Kate, laughing.
“No, dear, I’ll not take advantage of your generosity, but pay you to
the uttermost farthing.”
“Ah, hold! that is all, now—a thousand times more than I gave you!”
Suddenly the happy lover darted out of the room, and presently returned,
saying, “See, Kate! a portrait of you, from memory.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Kate. “But, Harry, you have made my dark hair quite
an auburn, and it has only the slightest golden hue when the sunlight
falls upon it.”
“Well,” he replied, “to _my_ eyes, there was _always_ sunlight playing
around you.”
“Ah, thank you; but again, these eyes are dark _blue_, and mine are
gray, or by complaisance, hazel.”
“A very natural mistake, dearest,” said Harry, with an arch smile, “I
saw heaven in your eyes, and so came to paint them blue.”
* * * * *
THE CORSAIR’S VICTIM.
(AN EXTRACT FROM “ZILLAH.”)
BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.
When Night, upon her starry throne,
Held undisputed sway and lone,
And moonlight to the trembling wave
A soft but spectral radiance gave,
He seized, with iron grasp, his chain,
As if endued with giant strength,
And after many efforts vain,
While glowing madness fired his brain,
From bondage burst at length.
The cunning Corsair heard the sound
Of strong link breaking, with a clang,
And stealing lightly, with one bound,
Upon his frenzied victim sprang:
His right arm, used to felon deed,
The Corsair raised with ready skill—
One thrust of his stiletto freed
The crazed one from his load of ill.
The pleading look and wild appeal
Of Zillah could not stay the steel;
She saw him fall, and from his side
The red stream gush in bubbling tide,
Then fell herself, as _if the blade_
_A sheath of her own breast had made;_
While fearfully his spouting gore
The white robe reddened that she wore.
Her ear heard not the gurgling sound
Of hungry waters closing round,
As hastily the ruffian cast
His victim to the ocean vast,
Or marked the grim, exulting smile
That lighted up his face the while:
Extended on the deck she lay,
As if the war of life was over,
As if her soul had fled away
To realms of never-ending day,
To join the spirit of her lover.
She woke at last from her long swoon,
To hope that Death would triumph soon,
And the mad pulses of her frame,
With icy touch, forever tame:
She woke with features ashy white,
And wildly gazed upon the plank
That deeply, freely in the night
The crimson of his veins had drank:
Then raising heavenward her eye,
In still, expecting posture stood,
As if a troop from realms on high
Were coming down, with battle-songs,
To wash out sternly in the blood
Of coward-hearts her many wrongs:
No tear-drop came to her relief
In that wild, parching hour of grief,
The tender plant of love she knew
Would into verdure break no more—
The spot was _arid_ where it grew
In green luxuriance before.
She knew henceforth her lot below
Would be to quaff the cup of pain—
On thing of Earth she could not throw
The sunlight of her smile again:
The voice was still whose melting tone
Had vied in sweetness with her own—
The hiding wave had closed above
The only object of her love:
And Rispah, as strict watch she kept,
While cold, like forms of Parian stone,
Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
In many hearts the gloomy sway
Of sorrow lessens, day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruiséd leaf,
So time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief:
But hearts in _other_ bosoms beat
Where anguish finds a _lasting seat_—
That heal not with the lapse of time—
Too delicately stung for earth,
Whose chords can never after chime
With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth.
Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight
Strove oft, but vainly, to forget
The horrors of that fatal night,
When her _beloved star_, whose light
Made bondage pleasant, set.
No murmur from the lip outbroke,
Though suddenly her cheek grew thin—
No quick, convulsive start bespoke
The desolating fire within.
Her dark eye rested on the wave
By day and in the hush of eve,
As if, ere long, the wet sea-cave
Her buried one would leave,
And, drifting suddenly to view,
His murderer with dread subdue.
Ah! I have said the stately mien
Of Zillah would befit a queen,
That lawless _crime_ could ill withstand
Her innate bearing of command.
Alas! regality of soul
Gives agony supreme control,
And prompts the wretched one to hide
Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze—
To nurse, in uncomplaining pride,
The scorpion that preys.
* * * * *
A DIRGE FOR O’CONNELL.
BY ANNE C. LYNCH.
Throw open once again
The portals of the tomb,
And give among the glorious dead
Another hero room!
Unclose your shadowy ranks,
Illustrious shades unclose!
The valiant Leader, crowned with years,
Goes down to his repose.
The champion of Peace
On many a well-fought field,
Whose bloodless victories left no stain
On his untarnished shield;
A king, though on his brow
No jeweled crown might shine,
A king, although his patriot blood
Glowed from no royal line;
A sovereign o’er a realm
No boundaries can confine.
Whose throne was in a Nation’s heart,
Who reigned by right divine;
A priest at Freedom’s shrine,
Whose kindling words he spoke,
Till the dumb millions from their sleep
To life and hope awoke;
A soldier of the Cross,
Who bore a stainless brand;
The Preacher of a new crusade
To rescue a lost land.
Rome! to thy care is given
The heart whose throbs are o’er;
Eternal City! to thy charge
Take this one relic more!
And Erin, sad and lorn,
Take thou thy sacred trust,
And let the soil he loved so well
Commingle with his dust!
And, Fame, take thou in charge
The patriot’s renown,
And gather from your amaranth fields
Another fadeless crown.
* * * * *
THE ILLINOIS AND THE PRAIRIES.
BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE “DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC.
That gallant officer and enterprising traveler, Major Long, did the
Illinois great injustice when he described it as “an extended pool of
stagnant water,” for it was, when I saw it, one of the prettiest streams
to be found in this country of fine rivers. The width is such as to give
a full view of objects on both sides in passing; the basin was full
without overflowing; and though the current was gentle, its waters were
neither muddy nor stagnant. It should, however, be observed, that my
journey was in the season when the rivers of the great Mississippi
valley, though beginning to subside, were still high, and that those who
wish to see them to advantage should visit the South and West before the
heats of summer. Else will they be assuredly disappointed, and accuse me
of indulging in a favorite amusement of travelers.
The Illinois, until you approach the Rapids, seems made on purpose for
steam navigation, which is seldom, if ever, molested either by winds or
waves. With the exception of points where the prairies approach the
borders, the river is every where skirted by those magnificent forests
which constitute one of the most striking and beautiful features of this
new world; and completely sheltered from the storm, seems to glide along
unconscious of the uproar of the elements around. It flows through a
region which, even in this land of milk and honey, is renowned far and
near for its almost unequaled fertility, and the ease with which it may
be brought to produce the rich rewards of labor. There is, perhaps, no
part of the world where the husbandman labors less, and reaps more, than
throughout a great portion of this fine state, on which nature has
bestowed her most exuberant bounties.
But, strange to say, I found the good-hearted people, almost without
exception, complaining of “hard times,” not arising, however, from the
usual sources of war, famine, or pestilence, but from actual abundance.
They had more than they knew what to do with, and it was an apt, though
melancholy commentary on the wisdom of man, as well as the providence of
human legislation, that while the citizens of Illinois, and, indeed, the
entire great western valley, were overburthened with all the necessaries
of life, a large portion of the laboring poor of England were starving
for want of them, simply because their rulers had virtually prohibited
one country from relieving the necessities of the other. But for the
high duties on flour, grain and provisions, the wants of the poor of
England might and would be greatly relieved by the superabundance of the
United States, and thus the blessings of Providence bestowed on one
country be disseminated among others. But legislators, renowned for
their far-reaching sagacity, have decreed otherwise; and the plenty
which might become a universal blessing, is made a burthen to one
country, while useless to all the rest of the world.
This noble state, as is well known, derives its name from a tribe of
Indians, originally called the Illeni, which the French missionaries and
explorers, who were the first white men that visited this region,
changed into Illinois. They were neither warlike nor brave, and were
held in great contempt by the invincible Iroquois and Outagamis, as
appears from the following relation of an old traveler. “An Outagami,”
says Father Charleroix, “who was burnt by the Illinois, perceiving a
Frenchman among the spectators, begged of him that he would help his
enemies to torment him; and on being asked why he made this request,
replied, ‘because I should have the comfort of dying by the hands of
men. My greatest grief is, that I never killed a man.’ ‘But,’ said an
Illinois, ‘have you not killed such and such persons?’ ‘True; as for the
Illinois, I have killed enough of them, but they are not men.’”
The character of the Indians, and the view of the savage state as found
in North America, given by this writer, is so philosophical and just,
that I am tempted to transcribe it for the instruction and amusement of
the reader. It appears at least to be impartial, which is more than can
be said of more recent writers, one class of whom can find nothing to
praise, the other nothing to blame in our Indians.