GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. July, 1841. No. 1.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
Jugurtha
The Fiery Death
Lovers’ Quarrels
The Mistaken Choice
A Dream of the Lonely Isle
The Head and the Heart
The Reefer of ’76 continued
A Few Words on Secret Writing
Sports and Pastimes—Angling
Review of New Books
Poetry, Music and Fashion
Latest Fashions, July 1841
The Gleaners
Hope On
Woman’s Dower
The Precipice
Lines
Stanzas
To the Mocking-Bird
The Dervish
Extract from an Unpublished Poem
Sybil and Maiden
“Away, Then, to the Mountains”
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LATEST FASHIONS, JULY 1841. FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE]
[Illustration: William Owen. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie.
_Cottage Life_
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]
GRAHAM’S
LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN’S
MAGAZINE.
(THE CASKET AND GENTLEMAN’S UNITED.)
EMBRACING
EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE:
EMBELLISHED WITH
THE FINEST MEZZOTINTO AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS,
ELEGANT EMBOSSED WORK,
FASHIONS AND MUSIC.
VOLUME XIX.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEORGE R. GRAHAM.
1841.
* * * * *
INDEX
TO THE
NINETEENTH VOLUME.
FROM JUNE TO DECEMBER, 1841, INCLUSIVE.
Assault, the, by J. H. Dana, 56
Auzella, by Mrs. E. Van Horn Ellis, 65
Autography, a Chapter on, by Edgar A. Poe, 224, 273
Achilles, the Marriage of, by H. W. Herbert, 269
Brother and Sister, by Jeremy Short, Esq. 145
(_illustrated_,)
Cottage Life, by Jeremy Short, Esq. (_illustrated_,) 1
Colloquy of Monos and Una, the, by Edgar A. Poe, 54
Clark, Willis Gaylord, 85
Cottage Fireside, the, (_illustrated_,) 97
Cottage Piety, by Jeremy Short, Esq. (_illustrated_,) 140
Captain’s Courtship, the, by H. Printzhoff, 200
(_illustrated_,)
Fiery Death, the, by J. H. Dana, 6
Flirtation, by Emma C. Embury, 109
Fort Point, by D. M. Elwood, 240
Ghost of Chew’s Wall, the, by Oliver Oldfellow, Esq. 194
Hawkers, the (_illustrated_,) 253
Head and the Heart, the, by W. Landor, 19
Ideal, the, by G. G. Foster, 293
Interesting Stranger, the, by Emma C. Embury, 205
Indian Traditions, by D. M. Elwood, 161, 240
Jugurtha, by H. W. Herbert, 3
Kate Beverly, by Percie H. Selton, 146
King’s Bride, the, by J. H. Dana, 235
Lover’s Quarrels, by Percie H. Selton, 10
Lame for Life, or Leslie Pierpoint, by Professor J. H. 128, 149
Ingraham,
Leaves from a Lawyer’s Port-Folio, 134
Mistaken Choice, the, by Emma C. Embury, 13
Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman, by J. Ross Browne, 120, 289
Moonlight Flitting, by Eliza Van Horn Ellis, 221
Neglected Wife, the, by Robert Morris, 58
Niagara, a Day at, by Mrs. E. C. Stedman, 82
Never Bet Your Head, by Edgar A. Poe, 123
O’Donnell’s Prize, by H. Printzhoff, 157
Penitent Son, the, (_illustrated_,) 49
Puritan Son, the, by H. W. Herbert, 61
Reefer of ’76, the, by the Author of “Cruizing in the 28, 76, 104,
Last War,” 179, 203, 257
Rowsevillers, the, by Herman Printzhoff, 157, 205
Roman Bride, the, by H. W. Herbert, 172
Review of New Books, 45, 90, 142,
188, 246, 300
Rescue at the Eleventh Hour, the, by J. Milton Sanders, 299
Sports and Pastimes, 40, 141, 186,
246
Schoolboy Recollections, by F. W. Thomas, 67
Shakspeare, by T. S. Fay, 99, 168, 210,
261
Saxon’s Bridal, the, by H. W. Herbert, 115
Step Mother, the, 134
Stolen Miniature, the, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols, 265
Vagrant, the, by L. F. Tasistro, 176
Wawhillowa, by D. M. Elwood, 161
Wiccónsat, by Mary W. Ford, 214
POETRY.
A Dream of the Lonely Isle, by Mrs. M. St. Leon Loud, 18
A Belle at a Ball, by F. W. Thomas, 119
A Forest Scene, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols, 160
Ballad, by J. R. Lowell, 171
Baptism of Pocahontas, by the Author of “The Dream of 178
the Delaware,”
Christian’s Dream of the Future, by Robert Morris, 156
Choice of Hearts, the, by Thos. G. Spear, 303
Dervish, the, by W. Falconer, 32
Dying Poet, the, by Robert Morris, 85
Death, by C. H. W. Esling, 114
Ephemera, by C. W. Thomson, 213
Fragment, by Park Benjamin, 98
First Kiss of Love, the, by G. A. Raybold, 127
Flight of the Birds, by Mrs. E. C. Stedman, 199
Gleaners, the, by A. A. Irvine, 2
Glad Retreat, the, by E. G. Squires, 260
Hope On, by Mrs. C. H. W. Esling, 5
Helen, to, by Edgar A. Poe, 123
He Woo’d me at the Fountain, by A. M‘Makin, 264
I know that Thou wilt Sorrow, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols, 57
Israfel, by Edgar A. Poe, 183
Il Serenado di Venice, 209
I never have been False to Thee, by G. P. Morris, 223
Lines, by D. Maxwell, 18
Lines, by J. Tomlin, 292
Lyre Bird, the, by N. C. Brooks, 292
Lines, by J. E. Dow, 297
Mocking Bird, to the 27
Meeting of the Lovers, the, by F. W. Thomas, 38
My Mother’s Bible, by G. P. Morris, 51
Major Dade’s Command, 84
Merry England, by J. R. Lowell, 238
Marriage, by Rufus Dawes, 239
Niagara, by Grenville Mellen, 175
O, say, do I na’ lo’e ye, Lassie, 64
Oh! a Merry Life does a Hunter lead, by G. P. Morris, 108
Precipice, by H. J. Vernon, 12
Pet Lamb, the, by A. A. Irvine, 193
Portrait, Lines to a, by A. C. Ainsworth, 297
Reproof of a Bird, by J. E. Snodgrass, 103
Stanzas, by Mrs. E. C. Stedman, 27
Sybil and Maiden, by G. G. Foster, 39
Sonnet, by Park Benjamin, 53
Sonnets, by H. B. Hirst, 220
Sweet South Wind, the, by Mrs. L. J. Pierson, 286
Thoughts in Spring, by H. B. Hirst, 67
Venice, 268
Woman’s Dower, by Mrs. L. J. Pierson, 9
Withered Rose, the, by A. A. Irvine, 78
Widow, the, by Mrs. M. S. B. Dana, 84
Wildwood Home, the, by Mrs. L. J. Pierson, 103
Widow’s Wealth, the, by Mrs. E. C. Stedman, 108
Why should I love thee? by J. S. Du Solle, 119
With Thee, by Mrs. C. H. W. Esling, 213
STEEL ENGRAVINGS.
Cottage Life.
The Gleaners.
Fashions for July, (four figures,) colored.
The Penitent Son.
Fashions for August, (four figures,) colored.
Lace Work and Flowers, colored.
The Cottage Fireside.
Cottage Piety.
Fashions for September, (four figures,) colored.
Brother and Sister.
The Valley of Wyoming.
Lace Work and Flowers, colored.
Fashions for October, (four figures,) colored.
The Pet Lamb.
Embossed View of Boston.
Fashions for November, (four figures,) colored.
Hawking.
Lace Work and Flowers, colored.
Fashions for December, (four figures,) colored.
MUSIC.
Away, then, to the Mountains, 42
Farewell! if ever Fondest Prayer, 88
My bonnie blue-eyed Lassie, O! 138
Bye-gone Hours, 184
Never shall my Heart forget Thee, 244
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: JULY, 1841. No. 1.
* * * * *
COTTAGE LIFE.
The summer is here!—here with its fragrant mornings and its noonday
heats, its mellow twilights and its moonlight evenings, its days of
glory and its nights of starry beauty. It is summer. Let us go out into
the country, away from the stifling air and dull brick walls of the
town, into the far, pure, breezy, unsurpassable country. There we shall
breathe the fresh air of Heaven. We will lie down on some shady knoll;
or stretch ourselves beside the cooling stream; or wander off among the
breezy woods; or perchance sit in some quiet arbor of the garden,
listening to the low humming of the bees, or the far-off tinkle of the
brooklet on the stones. Ay! we will go out into the country. We will
gaze on the green grass, the growing flowers, the cloudless azure of the
skies. But we will do more. We will gaze on our fellow man such as God
made him, and not on the too often mean, grovelling and short-sighted
denizens of the town. We will go out into the country. We will go into
its stately palaces, secluded among sombre trees; into the airy,
fantastic dwellings of retired citizens; into sunny old farm-houses,
with their wide porches inviting us to enter; and—oftener than
all—into the smiling cottages, which, peeping out from amid
overspreading honeysuckles, dozing under willow trees by the brook-side,
or nestling beneath the shadow of a green and fragrant hill, are
scattered all over the land, in hill and in dell, studding it, as it
were, with loveliness. And wherever we go we shall still find beauty.
God hath left his impress on the green fields and running brooks, and
every leaf that quivers in the breeze, and every bird that carols on the
air, speak out His praise.
We are in the country; and yonder is a cottage nestled close under the
hill-side, like a dove in the bosom of a young and innocent girl. Hear
you not the brook, low pattering before its door; that brook which at
eve and morning, ay! in the still watches of the night, may be heard
murmuring mysteriously, as if it were angels’ voices conversing on the
quiet air? Let us go into that cottage. There are flowers before the
house and honeysuckles around the door, and everything, even to the
garden flags, is white-washed. There are roses under the window—how
fragrant! And yet the owner of that little tenement has a hand horny
with labor, and not a day passes, summer or winter, but that he is up
before dawn, toiling for his richer neighbor. How does he live? Would
you know what cottage life is? Come with us, then, into the fields, and
let us sit together by this brawling brook, while we recount the history
of a cottage life.
All over this land there are spots like this, of bewildering beauty;
where toil and rest, and wo and happiness, have struggled together for
years. There are thousands, ay! tens of thousands, of humble cottages,
the lives of whose inmates have never won a thought from the rich and
proud, and yet in those cottages beat as true hearts as in the most
gorgeous mansions of the realm. The rich are born, and great is the
rejoicing thereat; they live, and crowds shout triumphs wherever they
go; they die, and they are laid by obsequious hands in proud mausoleums;
but the poor come and go like the leaves of the forest, and no man
careth for their fate. Their childhood of early toil; their youth of
premature sorrow; their lives of hard, unyielding, grinding poverty,
what does the world care for these? Yet the poor are not without
comfort. They have within their own circle as kindly bosoms as the rich;
they have dear ones, loved with a fervor wealth can rarely win, to cheer
them in distress; they have a fireside, humble, indeed, but still a
fireside around which to gather with their prattlers, and smile and be
merry after the toils of the day are done.
With early dawn the cottager is up and afield. If he labors at the soil,
you will find him with the plough in hand, keeping his monotonous track
to and fro, regardless, apparently, of the stifled air, or the sultry
rays of noon-day. He may pause an hour or so at dinner, but he is soon
at his labor again. The cattle may be dozing under the trees, the birds
may be carolling gaily around, the woods, and streams, and all nature
may be full of merry play, but still he must keep up his weary toil,
until twilight at length releases him, and he hurries home to spend a
few hours of fleeting happiness among his little ones, to sleep, and
again to resume his toil.
But there is a bright side to the picture. The Cottager was not always a
man, he was once a happy child, and in gazing on the frolicks of his
little ones, his own youth appears to be renewed. And where do the
domestic affections exist with more purity than in our cottages? From
the love of a child for its little brother or its sister, up to the love
of a mother for her first-born, there is nothing purer, deeper, or more
enduring than the affections of those who inhabit our cottages.
We see now two beings at that cottage door, a mother and her boy. The
child hath fallen asleep upon her lap, and he reposes with a grace so
careless, and there is such an innocent joy upon his face, that one
cannot but feel that he is supremely happy. How he nestles on that
mother’s knee. The vine that gaily winds around the gentle sapling, or
hangs so airily over the little group, is not more beautiful than he.
And she!—is not the book held to shade his countenance, and the holy,
contemplative emotions which light up her face as with the divinity of
an angel, beyond comparison, ay! almost beyond imagination. God be
thanked that there are thousands all over this broad land as happy as
they!
Sunday is the time for cottage life. Then the new coat is taken out,
carefully brushed, and put on—the little ones are clad in their tidy,
well-kept Sabbath clothes—and the good house-wife attires herself in
her best, adding, often, some little piece of finery, which a month’s
savings have tempted her to buy. Directly the bell is heard calling them
to church. Away at the signal they go, with a quiet decorum even in the
children; and soon they meet others trooping over the hills to the
white-steepled meeting house in the glen. And when the sermon is over,
and they pass out of the house of God, there are greetings among
neighbors, inquiries after old friends, and perchance here and there
long conversations betwixt good house-wives, which seem like the fairy’s
dream, never to come to an end. And in the afternoon some one is sure to
drop in, when the best tea-cups are brought out from the corner
cupboard, and the best hot cakes, and such tempting coffee are prepared
by the good dame, that your mouth fairly waters until you have tasted
thereof. And how merry all are—not with a boisterous mirth, but with a
calm happiness, reminding you continually of the day. And all this time
the children are playing on the lawn, or gathering buttercups to hold
under each others chins, or laughing in their own innocent way so
joyously, that their mothers will pause awhile, and look on them and
smile. And by and by night will come, and the company will depart, and
so, after reading a chapter of the bible, the cottagers will go to bed.
Though the stars, on a Sabbath night, look down on many a quiet, happy
home, they smile on none where there is more happiness than there. And
such is Cottage Life.
J. S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: The Gleaners
Engraved by Eldridge expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]
THE GLEANERS.
BY ALEX. A. IRVINE.
It is the noon of summer time—
How breathless are the trees!
No more the sea of yellow corn
Is rippling in the breeze;
The kine are gasping in the stream,
Nor earth nor sky has breath,
And sickly waves the sultry air—
How like, yet unlike death!
The reapers long have ceased their toil,
And idly in the shade
They dream away the drowsy noon,
Beside each silent blade,—
While now and then a snatch of song
Some sleeper low will croon,
As in his dreams he joins the dance
Beneath the harvest moon.
The sun is at his highest point,
Yet on that burning field
Two youthful gleaners humbly toil,
God be to them a shield!
Their aged parent bed-rid lies,
And want is at their door,—
Ah! well young martyrs may you strive—
No rest is for the poor.
Their store is gleaned—they homeward hie—
How smilingly they go!
We little know how light a thing
May dry the tears of woe.
The pittance slight, the one kind word
With which we all can part,
May take the sting from poverty,
Or save a broken heart.
To view those gleaners on their way
It were a pleasant thing—
They’re talking of their mother’s joy
To see the store they bring.
How gracefully the sister moves,
As if she stepped to song;
And gaily at her statelier side
The glad boy trips along.
Smile on! smile on, ye happy pair,
God’s blessing on your way!
It fills my breast with joy to know
That ye can be so gay.
Smile on, for soon ye’ll hear _her_ voice,
And know her welcome bright,—
And happy hearts shall beat I ween
Beneath your roof to-night.
* * * * *
JUGURTHA;
A LEGEND OF THE COMMONWEALTH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.
It was a glorious day in Rome; the unclouded sun was blazing in the
clear azure of a deep Italian sky, filling the universal air with life
and lustre; the summer winds were all abroad, crisping the bosom of the
yellow Tiber into ten thousand tiny rivulets, tossing ten thousand dewy
odors from their wings, and bearing with them, far and near, the myriad
harmonies of nature. It was a day of revelry, of loud exulting mirth, of
gratified ambition to the one, of haughty triumph to the million.
It was in truth a day of triumph. Marius, the people’s idol, the great
plebeian conqueror, had brought the army home—the army, long foiled and
often beaten on the parched sands of the Zahara, or by the scanty
streams of the Bagradas and Mulucha—had brought the army home,
scar-seamed and wearied and war-worn, but glorious and elated and
triumphant; for with them came a chained, indignant captive, the
bravest, fiercest, wisest of all the kings who yet had dared to strive
against the unconquered majesty of the Republic: the murderer, the
fratricide Jugurtha; he who had mocked the justice, and with success
defied the brazen legions and the superb commanders of Rome’s resistless
warfare; he who had driven out from his Numidian confines, whether by
force or fraud, two several consular armies, sent one, degraded and
debased forever, beneath the ignominious yoke, and for long years
possessed his blood-bought throne in spite of all the efforts of his
tremendous rival.
Now, therefore, was the day of retribution, and all the fiery passions
of the Italian heart were at work hotly in the crowd that thronged the
thoroughfares of the great city on that auspicious morning. Well might
they throng the streets, for never, from that day to this, has aught of
pomp or pageant been invented that could sustain comparison one moment
with the unequalled splendors of a Roman triumph. The whole line of
proud streets, up from the field of Mars to the Capitoline, was strewn
with carpets of the rich Tyrian crimson; cartloads of flowers—rose,
violet, narcissus, hyacinth—were scattered everywhere, to send their
perfumes forth beneath the trampling feet of the triumphant legions. The
walls of every house and palace were hung with glowing tapestries, with
waving flags, and laurel-woven garlands. From every shrine and chapel,
hundreds of which were there sacred to one or other of Rome’s hundred
deities, sang forth the melody of sacrificial hymns, and streamed the
breath of incense. The sun had reached the summit of his ascending
course, when from the distant campus arose at once the din, piercing the
ears and thrilling as it were to the very soul, of the great sacred
trumpets, and the earth-shaking shout of Rome’s vast population; then on
they came—a long and dazzling line of splendor—three hundred
snow-white steers, unblemished and majestic, the far-famed breed of the
Clitunnus, led the van, with gilded horns, and fluttering fillets of
bright hues about their ample fronts, led by as many youths in
sacrificial tunics of pure white; then came the bands of music, trumpet
and horn and clarion, and the quick clashing cymbal blent with the deep
bass of the Phrygian drum; and then the Flamens of the gods, in the
appropriate and gorgeous dresses; the great Dialis, with his red tuft
and snow-white robes; the Salian priests of Mars, with brazen helms and
corselets and flowery tunics girded up, and on their arms the sacred
shields of Numa; the vestals, stoled and veiled and silent, and the mad
ministers of Cybele, with their strange instruments of music, leaping
and dancing with strange gestures, and waking all the echoes with their
barbaric hymnings. After these stately and revered, and almost divine
personages, trooped on—strange contrast—a band of mimics and jesters,
buffoons with scurrilous songs and obscene gestures, calling forth from
the mob of Rome many a plaudit by their licentious wit. Then, with
perfumes and steaming censers, scattering bunches of the choicest
flowers, all in their purple bordered tunics, with golden balls about
their necks, barefooted and bareheaded, the sons of the Patricians
passed, the prime of Rome’s young aristocracy. Other musicians followed,
and then, caparisoned for war, with castles on their backs and gorgeous
housings on their unwieldy carcasses, each driven by a coal-black
Ethiopian astride on his huge neck, the captured elephants—an hundred
mighty monsters, the like of which had never before gladdened the eyes
of the amazed and wonder-stricken populace. Next rolled the wains, slow
dragged by snow-white oxen, groaning beneath the weight of the rich
spoils of the Numidian empire—armor of gold and silver, weapons thick
set with emeralds and diamonds, statues and jars and vases of pure
gold—dazzling the eyes and bewildering the senses with their unequalled
splendor.
Hark! what a roar, a thunder of applause! It is—it is—Io triumphe, Io
pæan, it is the mighty Marius! Aloft he stood—aloft in more than regal
pomp, in more than mortal glory. The car was ivory and gold, embossed
and carved with rare device, drawn by six steeds abreast, white as the
driven snow, with manes and tails that literally swept the ground,
housed with rich crimson trappings, harnessed and reined with gold. But
what were ivory or gold, or what the choicest specimens of mere brute
beauty, to the sublime and glorious figure of the triumphant general?
Tall, powerful, broad shouldered and strong limbed, as he stood there
clad in the tunic and toga of fine crimson, all woven over with palm
branches of gold, wearing the laurel crown upon his coal-black locks,
and holding in his right hand the ivory sceptre, and in his left a
branch of green triumphal bay, he looked the emblem, the very
incarnation and ideal of Rome’s undaunted energy. His hair, black as the
raven’s wing, was curled in short crisp locks close to his finely formed
head and expansive temples; his nose was high, keen, aquiline; his eyes
bright as the eagle’s, and, like his, formed as it were to gaze into the
very focus of the sun’s beams, and pierce the dunnest war clouds with
all-pervading vision; his lips were thin, firm and compressed, with that
set iron curve which gives the strongest token of indomitable
resolution. Swarthy almost to negro blackness, gloomy and lowering was
his brow, and furrowed by deep lines of care and passion—yet was there
naught that savored in the least of cruelty or even of suspicion in the
bold, daring features—pride there was evident in every glance, in every
gesture, and fiery courage, and stern constancy; but nothing jealous or
tyrannical, much less bloodthirsty or vindictive. Yet this was he who in
after years let slip the dogs of Hell against the sons of his own mother
Rome, who deluged her fair streets with oceans of Patrician gore, and
made her shrines and palaces, her stateliest temples and her lowliest
dwellings, one mighty human shambles. But now he was all gratified
ambition, proud courtesy and high anticipation; yet he bowed not nor
smiled at the reiterated clamors of the mighty concourse, nor waved his
laurelled sceptre to and fro, but held his proud head high and
heavenward, and kept his dark eye fixed on vacancy, as though he would
pierce onward—onward—through space and time, far off into the secrets
of futurity, with consulships and censorships and triumphs, provinces,
armies, honors, Fame, thronging before his footsteps, and still
beckoning him forward. Behind him stood a slave, such was the order, the
immemorial order, of the triumphal rite, who ever and anon, as louder
pealed the acclamations of the mob, and wilder waxed the din of
gratulation, leaned forward, whispering in his ear, “Remember, Marius,
remember that thou art a man!” for so sublime, so godlike, was that
station deemed, that the stern fathers of the young Republic had judged
such warning needful to curb the vaultings of that pride which might
believe itself immortal.
Behind the chariot wheels stalked one, alas! how far removed from the
haught victor, the royal Moor, Rome’s deadliest foe, Jugurtha. He, as
his conqueror, was tall, and of a bearing that had been soldierly at
once and royal—yet he was not, though vigorously strong and very
active, of a frame nearly so superb or massive as the great
Roman—lithe, sinewy and muscular, he showed all the distinctive marks
characteristic of his race; his face was handsome—the features at least
eminently so—of a clear, sunny olive hue, through which the blood would
gleam at times, when passion drove its currents, boiling like molten
lava, through every vein and artery: but now it was as cold and pallid
as though he had already passed the portals of the grave. His eyes, like
those of Marius, glared forward into the vacant air; but not like his
was his mind bent forward. Back! back!—long years of retrospection—to
the bright, happy days of youth, when he and his two murdered cousins
sported together, before the fell and fiendish lust of empire had turned
their blood to gall; to the young promise of his glorious manhood, when,
side by side with Scipio, he strove before the bulwarks of Numantia:
when he was praised and honored of that great commander in the full
presence of a Roman host; and, later still, to his proud aspirations
after thrones, to his triumphant usurpation, his undoubted sway over the
glowing hearts and tameless energies of the free, wild Numidians; and,
later yet, to fields of furious warfare, to midnight marches over the
lone sands of the desert, dark ambuscades near to some long sought
river, skirmishes, onslaughts, victories—aye! victories won from the
Roman. His scarlet turban, decked with the tall tiara peculiar to the
royal race, still gleamed as if in mockery above his ashy brow; his
caftan, gleaming with fringes and embroideries of gold, girded with
costly shawls, from which still hung his gold sheathed and gold hilted
scimetar; his wide and flowing robe of fine white woollen stuff, so fine
and gauze-like in its texture that all the gorgeous hues of his
under-dress were visible, though mellowed in their tints, beneath it;
his necklace of the richest gems, armlets and bracelets, and long
pendants in his ears of the most precious rubies, all spoke the
Prince—the King! But lo! beside the bracelets upon those swarthy arms,
the galling manacles of steel, and on the sinewy ancles, clasping the
jewelled sandals with their stern circles, the fetters of the
captive—of the slave! They clanked—they clanked at every stride, those
fearful emblems, and still, as every ringing clash announced the fallen
state of their late dreaded foe, the savage mob sent forth loud yells of
mirth, mingled with groans of execration! But he felt not the fetters,
nor marked the clanging din that harbingered his footsteps, nor heard
the hootings of the rabble; he knew not that his sons, his two beloved
ones, were beside him, fettered and manacled as he, their guilty sire;
he saw not the procession nor the pomp, nor knew that they but
marshalled him to death.
Behind this lamentable group stalked, two and two, with their dread
implements (the rod-bound axes,) ready and glittering coldly in the sun,
the lictors; and behind these, on foot, and in his toga all unadorned
and simple, the consul colleague of the triumphant chief; and after him
the senate, renowned, grave and wise—stately, sublime assemblage! Then,
with the din of martial music, and the loud clash of brazen armor, their
helmets all enwreathed with branches of the bay tree, their banners and
their eagles entwined and over-canopied with laurel, on swept the
conquering army; each legion, with its horse, its skirmishers, its
engines, its legate and his tribunes on their proud chargers, and its
centurions marching at the head each of his manipule, rolled on—row
after row of brass, solid, compact, immovable—a vast machine of men,
with but one voice, one stride, one motion for ten thousand human
beings. “Io Triumphe! Io Pæan! Ho! for the godlike General! Ho! for the
conquering army!” Such was the pomp of Marius, but so closed not the
line of the procession, for every soul of Rome’s vast population swelled
it for miles in length; old tottering grandsires, men in the prime of
manhood, youths in the flush of spring-time, boys, children, infants at
the breast, matrons and brides and maidens—all ranks, all classes, all
conditions—the proud, luxurious patrician, the turbulent democracy,
mechanics from the suburbs and farmers from the colonies, and slaves and
freedmen, all thronged exultingly the via Sacra, all swelled the shout
for Marius.
And now they reached the capitol, and the great leader slowly descended
from his car, and, led by pontifex and priest, mounted the hundred steps
of brass, and stood before the temple of Jupiter Capitoline, the
guardian god of the great city. Then louder pealed the trumpets and the
hymns, and incense smoked up to the skies, veiling the very temple, in
its dense wreaths of snow, from those who gazed up thither from the
Forum. The prayers were prayed, the offerings tendered to the god, the
victims slaughtered, the supplication and thanksgiving ended. Then, in
the temple of the god, the Senate and the Consuls feasted, and the lord
of that high feast was Caius Marius. Wine flowed and golden goblets
clanged, and there was merriment and revelry and joy.
And where was he—Jugurtha?
“There is a place,”—we quote the words of his historian—“there is a
place in the prison which is called the Tullianum, when you have
ascended a little way to the left hand, sunk about twelve feet under
ground. Walls surrounded it on every side, and a vaulted roof above,
compact with stone groinings; but from its filth, its darkness, and its
fœtid smell, its appearance is alike terrible and loathsome.” Such is
the plain and unadorned description of a cell yet existing; they call it
now San Pietro in Carcere. Thither the lictors bore Jugurtha; he spoke
not at all, nor seemed to understand or to see anything. They stripped
him of his gorgeous robes and rich trappings with fierce, indecent
haste; they snatched the chains from round about his neck, the bracelets
from his arms; they tore the pendants from his ears, and—for they might
not spare the time to loose the clasps—tore the tips of his ears away
also! They stripped him to the skin, yet he resisted not, nor strove,
nor struggled; they lowered him with ropes—him, in his fetters—into
that foul and ghastly cell, and then a horrid smile flitted across his
features—“This bath of yours,” he said, “methinks is very chilly!” He
shuddered, was let down, alone—and died there, as his crimes had
merited!
* * * * *
HOPE ON.
BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.
Hope on—the clouds that gather thick before thee
Hide the glad light that led thy steps afar,
But beams there not, on night’s dark Heaven o’er thee,
Purely and brightly, gentle star on star?
Then let thy gaze pierce those sad clouds around thee—
See thro’ the opening, dimly tho’ at first,
Breaking the chains that to despair had bound thee:
Light out of darkness gloriously burst.
Hope on—tho’ shadows shut out present gladness,
Not far beyond, the sunlight lingers still—
Dim looks the valley, in its misty sadness,
Ere the bright day hath climbed the eastern hill.
There is a light, tho’ secretly ’tis playing
Round the dark edges of those clouds we fear:
Some mission’d spirit, in our footsteps straying,
Whispering the words of comfort and of cheer.
Wilt thou not take the counsel kindly given?
Wilt thou not turn thy gaze from present gloom?
Dost thou not see, the power, in yonder Heaven,
That sends the blight, may likewise send the bloom?
Hope on, I pray thee—Hope on in thy sorrow—
Brush from thine eye the fastly falling tear;
Thou know’st the night, tho’ dark, must have a morrow,
And, after storms, the rainbow will appear.
* * * * *
THE FIERY DEATH.
BY J. H. DANA.
“To the stake with her! Away with the sorceress! God’s curse be on her
for her evil doings!” shouted the mob.
It was early morning, yet even at that hour the judgment hall of the
little town of Bourdonnois was thronged with the populace. Men, women
and children, old and young, the noble and the burgher, priests,
soldiers and common people, crowded the spacious hall, and glared
fiercely on the prisoner, while ever and anon they muttered imprecations
on her, and cried madly for her blood.
The evening before, a female, closely veiled, and attended by two
servants, whose dark countenances bespoke them sons of Ethiopia, had
arrived at Bourdonnois, and put up at one of the principal hostelries of
the place. Strange rumors soon arose respecting her. Her garb, her mien,
her language and her complexion were said to be those of a Saracen,
against which accursed race the chivalry of Europe and the church itself
warred in vain. These rumors gained additional strength when the
landlord of the inn where she had stopped was heard to say that he had
seen her practising sorcery, a charge easily credited in that age, and
one which few, especially in a case like this, had the hardihood to
disbelieve. In less than an hour the whole population of the town was
afloat, surrounding the hostelry, and crying out for vengeance against
the sorceress. Such commotions were both frequent and sanguinary in that
superstitious age.
The soldiery, however, interfered by arresting the unsuspecting victim
of these rumors, and at this early hour the prisoner had been brought
into the judgment hall to await a mockery of trial.
“Answer me, daughter of Belial!” said the judge, as soon as the murmurs
of the mob allowed him to be heard. “Will you confess your crime? Speak,
or you die! Know you that the rack, aye! fire itself, awaits you if your
obstinacy continues?”
The prisoner was a slight girlish creature, sitting with her face buried
in her hands, directly opposite to the judge. She was apparently young,
and her figure, so far as it could be seen through the thick veil which
shrouded her form, was light and agile as that of a sylph. To the
judge’s question she made no answer. She only shook her head
despondingly, and those nigh her fancied they heard her sob.
“To the stake with the heathen sorceress! She deals with the evil one!”
shouted the mob. “What need we further than this silence? Away with
her—away!”
At these fearful words, repeated now for the second time, and growled
forth with an ominous fierceness, appalling even to the hearer, the
prisoner was observed to tremble, whether with fear or otherwise we know
not, and lifting her veil up with a sudden effort, she rose to her feet,
turned hastily around to the mob, and disclosed a countenance of such
surpassing loveliness to their gaze, that even those who had cried out
most unrelentingly for her blood now shrank abashed into silence, while
others, who had been less eager for her condemnation, audibly murmured
in her favor.
“What would ye have of me?” she said, addressing the judge, and for the
first time standing unveiled before him. “As there is a God in whom we
both believe, I have told you only the truth. I am a stranger, a
foreigner, a defenceless woman, but not the less the affianced bride of
one of your proudest nobles, the Count de Garonne.”
The tone in which she spoke was firm, but oh! how touchingly sweet; and
her words were uttered in broken French, with a perceptible Oriental
accent. Loud murmurs arose in her favor as she ceased speaking. The tide
was turning. But the judge now spoke:
“Out on thee, woman of hell! Out on thee for a base slanderer of a noble
of France, and a holy crusader! Thou the betrothed bride of Garonne! As
soon would the eagle mate with the vulture. I tell thee, woman, that thy
story of having been shipwrecked when coming to France, and of all thy
train having been lost except thy two Ethiopian myrmidons, is a foul
lie, and I am almost minded to wring the truth from thee on the rack.”
“I have said it,” said the prisoner, in a firm voice, for she felt her
life depended on her calmness, “and if you will give but one week, only
one little week, I will prove it before man as well as God. I came from
Syria in the same fleet with my lord, but under charge of his mother’s
confessor—now a saint in Heaven!—but being separated by a storm, in
which our galley was shipwrecked, I was thrown unprotected on your
shores. I am a stranger here. My servants even have deserted me. I do no
one harm. I plot no treason. All I ask is to pass on my way. Oh!” she
continued, with a burst of emotion, “if you have a daughter, think what
would be your feelings if she was to be thus set upon in a strange
land,” and she burst into tears. Again the crowd murmured in her favor.
“Woman!” sternly interposed the judge, unmoved by her emotion, “look at
the victim of your sorcery, and seek no longer to deceive us by your
lies. Stand forth, Philip the Deformed!”
At the words of the judge, an official bearing a white wand stepped into
a side room, and in a moment reappeared with a cripple hideously
deformed, whom the populace recognised as the landlord of the hostelry.
When confronted with the prisoner, he glared on her with a look of
demoniac hatred.
“Know you this woman?” asked the judge.
“Ay! to my cost,” answered the cripple. “It is through her incantations
that I am the being I am. It was but yesterday she came to my inn,
attended by two heathenish Ethiopians, whom I have heard palmers from
the holy land say are kept by the Paynims—God’s ban be theirs! I no
sooner beheld her than I recognised her to be the sorceress who, three
years ago, brought on me the disease by which I am crippled. I could
tell her among a thousand. The curse of God light on her for a child of
the evil one,” and the witness ground his teeth together, and glared
fiercely at the prisoner. A low murmur of approval, at first faint and
whispered, but gradually swelling into a confused shout, rose on the ear
as he ceased.
“He is a perjured wretch,” exclaimed the prisoner, with energy, “whom my
servants detected in an attempt to rob my poor effects; hence his malice
and this charge.”
“Silence, woman!” sternly interposed the judge, “or else confess. Will
you, a child of Belial, malign a Christian man?”
The testimony of the publican had worked a complete change in the
fluctuating feelings of the mob towards the prisoner, and the words of
the judge were answered back by a shout of approval. The prisoner was
seen to turn deathly pale. She did not reply, however, to the question,
but shook her head despondingly, as if conscious that all hope was over.
“Lead her away,” hoarsely growled the mob, while the dense mass of
people swayed to and fro in the excitement, as if they would have rushed
on the defenceless victim.
“Again I ask thee, woman, wilt thou confess?”
She shook her head despondingly, buried her face in her hands, and
murmured something; perhaps it was a prayer. The mob burst once more
into commotion.
“Where are the servants of this woman?—let them be put on the rack,”
said the judge.
“They have escaped,” answered an official.
“Escaped!” said the judge, “ha! were they living men, or the servants of
the foul fiend? Know you aught?”
“I do know,” said the maiden, suddenly rising to her feet, and speaking
with the energy of a queen, while her eye flashed and her bosom heaved
with excitement, “and thank God that they are free, although they have
left me defenceless. Yes! they are free from your tortures. Me, you may
murder with your accursed laws, but—mark me—I shall be fearfully
avenged. My story has been truly told—so help me God”—and she raised
her eyes to Heaven in adjuration, “and if I die, I die innocent. I tell
ye I am the betrothed bride of a noble. I am more; I am the daughter of
a prince. And now do your worst. I shall die worthy of my race.”
She sat down. Not a murmur was heard for the space of a minute after she
had ceased. Her daring energy awe-struck all. But what could even
bravery like hers effect against a brutal, bigot populace? As soon as
the hearers could recover from their momentary consternation, they broke
into a whirlwind of shouts and imprecations, and rushed on to the
defenceless girl; and had not the soldiery, who immediately guarded her,
interposed, she would have fallen an instant victim to the rage of the
populace. To be torn in pieces by a mob was a death too horrible! She
turned imploringly to the judge, but there was no hope in his iron face.
She closed her eyes, but the howling mob still swam before her vision;
and when she buried her face in her robe, and strove to shut out their
imprecations, their fierce, wild cries still rung in her ears. At each
moment the tumult deepened, until the excitement of the populace became
uncontrollable.
“Away with her—she is sold to the fiend—away—away!”
“Vengeance for the sufferers by her incantations!” hoarsely growled a
voice from the mob.
The judge no longer hesitated, but yielding to the popular current as
well as his own prejudices, sentenced her to be burned at high noon of
that very day. A wild shout of exultation rose from the frenzied mob as
the sentence was pronounced, but over all the din swelled the fearful
cry, “To the stake with her—away with the sorceress.” Such was justice
in that age.
It was a few hours earlier in the same day when a noble knight sat in a
hostelry of the little seaport town of ——. He was of a singularly
imposing cast of countenance. His features were of the true Norman
outline, with a lofty intellectual brow, shaded by locks of the richest
chesnut hue. His cheek was embrowned by a Syrian sun until it was of the
darkest olive color, but the clear white of his forehead, which had been
protected from exposure by his helmet, betrayed the original purity of
his complexion. He had an eye whose glance can only be likened to that
of an eagle. His form was tall and commanding. He sat apparently
absorbed in thought, but was aroused from his reverie by the entrance of
a retainer.
“Are the horses ready?”
“Yes, my lord,” said the man.
“We will mount into the saddle at once then; how far did they say it was
to Bourdonnois?”
“Six leagues.”
“We shall reach it before nightfall; lead on.”
The party which set forth from the inn was a gallant sight to behold.
Knights, squires, men-at-arms and other retainers swelled the escort of
the young Count to the number of nearly four-score, while the pennons
waving on the air, and the occasional sound of a trumpet, gave a
liveliness to the escort which attracted the attention of the passer by,
of every rank and sex, and drew many a sigh of envy from them. But who
might pretend to be the equal of the renowned Count Garonne, a crusader
of untarnished fame, a gallant still in the flower of his youth, and the
lord of half a score of castles scattered over the wide domain of
France?
At the head of the proud array rode the Count himself, conversing gaily
with a knight at his side, whom he familiarly called cousin.
“Ay, by St. Denis!” said the Count, “she is a divinity such as even our
sunny Provence doth not afford. Such eyes, such hair, and then, by my
faith, such a voice! It pained my heart to part from my sweet
Zillah—but she would have it so—and so she comes in company with
father Ambrose and a score of my best knights. Her maidenly modesty
dictated this, and I was forced to submit. We were separated, however,
by that heathenish storm, and I suppose her galley put into Genoa. You
know she will be given away by none but the Holy Father himself,” and
the glad lover reined his horse, while the animal, as if partaking of
its master’s joy, curvetted gaily.
“I long to see your princess, nor do I wonder at your love, since she
freed you from a Moslem prison; when shall I greet my future cousin?”
“We shall reach Bourdonnois to-night, and to-morrow—let me
see—to-morrow we shall keep on to Trouchet; in another day we shall
arrive at Genoa, and there we will await her, if her galley is not
already arrived.”
“I am all impatience to behold her—but look at the knave coming over
yonder hill. He rides like the fiend himself.”
“Ay! and by St. Denis he is a blackamoor, a scarcer thing here than in
Syria. Holy Father, how he dashes on!”
Even while they spoke the horseman rapidly approached, and, before many
minutes, drew in the rein of his foaming steed at the side of the Count,
whom he appeared to know. The recognition was mutual. The man instantly
spoke in a strange tongue, and with violent gestures, while, with an
agitated voice, the Count appeared to question him. But a few minutes
had elapsed, however, before the Count turned around to his cousin, and
exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, but with an attempt at
composure,
“Zillah has been wrecked, and only she and two of her train, with a few
common sailors, have escaped. Her strange companions, her foreign
tongue, but, more than all, the accursed perjuries of a thieving
innkeeper, have brought on her the charge of sorcery, a tumult has been
raised, she has been arrested, and—God of my fathers!—may even now be
suffering on the rack or at the stake. Oh! why did I ever submit to
leave her? But, by the mother of God! if a hair of her head is harmed, I
will hang every knave of Bourdonnois.”
“Let us on at once, then; we may yet arrive in time.”
“Pass the word down the line,” exclaimed the Count. “On, knights and
gentlemen; we must not draw rein until we reach Bourdonnois.”
After a few minutes of hurried consultation with the servant, who stated
that he and his fellow had escaped in the height of the tumult, and
each, by different roads, sought the port where they supposed the Count
to be, the gallant array set forward at a rapid pace, and in a few
moments nothing but a cloud of dust in the valley and on the hill-side
was left to tell of their late presence.
It was already high noon in Bourdonnois. A little out of the town, in a
gentle valley, was the place chosen for the infliction of the horrid
sentence. For more than an hour—indeed ever since the condemnation of
the accused—the populace had been pouring thither in crowds, until now
a vast multitude, comprising nearly the whole population of the town,
surrounded the place of execution, and covered the encircling hills,
like spectators in an amphitheatre.
At length the procession came in sight. First marched a body of
soldiery; then followed the magistrates of the town; directly after
appeared several monks; and then, clad in white, with her pale face bent
on the ground, and her hands tightly pressed together, came the victim.
She made no answer, it was observed, to the words of the monks on either
hand, but ever and anon she would kiss a crucifix which she carried, and
raise her swimming eyes to Heaven. In that hour of bitterest agony, what
must have been her emotions? She, the daughter of an Emir, and the
affianced bride of one of the proudest nobles of France, to be hissed at
by a mob, and end her life in unheard-of torments at the stake! Oh! if
her lover, she thought, only knew of her peril! But alas! he was far
away. Well might she raise her streaming eyes to Heaven as to her only
hope, and well might she turn away from the ministers of religion who
sanctioned her sacrifice, and trust only in that cross which was her
lover’s gift, and the emblem of the sufferings of one whom that lover
had taught her was the only true God.
“Oh!” she murmured to herself, “if Henri only knew my peril, he would
yet rescue me. But there is no hope; and I must not forget that I am the
daughter of a warrior. Henri shall hear that I died as became his
affianced bride;” and her figure seemed to dilate and her walk to grow
more majestic as she thought.
At length they reached the fatal stake. But if Zillah shuddered at its
sight, the feeling was checked before it could be seen by the populace.
Calm and collected, though pale as the driven snow, she stood proudly up
while the fatal chain was affixed around her slender waist, and, with
eyes upraised to Heaven, appeared to be only an indifferent spectator,
instead of the chief person in the fatal tragedy. Not a repining word
broke from her lips. The first agony of death had passed away, and she
had steeled her heart to her fate.
At length all was prepared. Over the vast assembly gazing on her, hung
the silence of the dead. Men’s breaths came quick, and their hearts
fluttered when they felt that in another minute the awful tragedy would
be begun. Every eye was bent intently on the fatal stake as the
executioner approached with the fiery brand. For the last time, Zillah
opened her eyes to take a final look on that earth to which she was soon
to bid farewell forever. But what sent that sudden flush to her cheek?
Why that cry of thrilling joy, the first audible sound which had left
her lips since her sentence? She sees a troop of fiery horsemen, covered
with dust and foam, thundering over the brow of the hill in front of
her, and in the very van of the array she recognizes the pennon of the
Count of Garonne, waving in the noonday sun.