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The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844

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Title: The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844

Author: Various

Editor: Lewis Gaylord Clark


        
Release date: March 17, 2007 [eBook #20845]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KNICKERBOCKER, OR NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE, APRIL 1844 ***




Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.

VOL. XXIII.      APRIL, 1844.      NO. 4.




A PILGRIMAGE TO PENSHURST.

BY C. A. ALEXANDER.


One of the admirers of Goethe, commenting on his characteristic
excellencies, has remarked that he is the most _suggestive_ of writers.
Were we to seek an epithet by which to describe the architectural remains
and historical monuments of England, with reference to their impression on
the mind of an observer, perhaps no better could offer itself than that
which has been thus applied to the works of the great German. In the
property of awakening reflection by bringing before the mind that series
of events whose connection with the progress of modern civilization has
been most direct and influential, and of recalling names which, to the
American at least, sound like household words, they stand unrivalled. Our
manners, our customs, our national constitution itself, may be said to
have grown up beneath the shelter of these venerable structures, whose
associations ally them in a manner scarcely less striking with those wider
developments of social and political reason in which we believe the
welfare of our species to be involved. Who is there, that, standing within
'the great hall of William Rufus,' can forget how often it has been the
theatre of those mighty conflicts, in which, however slowly and
reluctantly, error and prejudice have been compelled to relax their hold
on the human mind? Dr. Johnson has spoken to us, in his usual stately
phrase, of patriotism re-invigorated and of piety warmed amid the scenes
of Marathon and Iona; but where is the Marathon which appeals to us so
forcibly as the field consecrated by the blood of a Hamden or a Falkland?
and where the Iona which is so eloquent with recollections as the walls
which have echoed to the voices of a Ridley and a Barrow?

It is true indeed, that the recollections of many other lands, as
associated with their monuments, lay much stronger hold upon the
imagination than those of England. Of the former we might say that there
was about them more of the element of poetry; of the latter, that they
furnish an ampler share of materials for reflection. One great moral, 'the
comprehensive text of the Hebrew preacher,' the invariable 'vanity of
vanities,' is alike inscribed upon all the vestiges of human greatness.
For the rest, a serene and touching beauty lingers around and hallows
every relic which attests the hand of Phidias, or marks the country of
Pericles and Epaminondas. No lapse of time, no process of decay, will ever
wholly exorcise that spirit of stateliness and command which sits
enthroned amid the ruins of the 'Eternal City,' as her own Marius once
sate amid the ruins of a rival capital. But in all that regards a common
standard of opinions, institutions and interests, and in the facility of
reasoning as respects these, from the experience and practice of one time
and people to those of another, we cannot but feel that a vast gulf has
interposed between our own age and that which is commemorated by the
monuments of Greece and Rome. The venerable genius of antiquity, seated
among crumbling arches and broken columns, has but little to say to us
respecting those questions which most deeply agitate and unceasingly
perplex the busy and the thinking part of mankind at the present day. No
response are we to expect from that quarter, concerning our bank-laws and
our corn-laws; our systems of credit and of commerce; our endless
disquisitions on the balance of power and of parties, on the rights of
suffrage and of conscience. While we reserve to the theorist the privilege
of adorning his theme by allusions to the polity of Lycurgus and Numa, we
are sensible that the practical statesman who trusts himself to such
examples will be constantly liable to be deluded by false parallels and
imperfect analogies. A voice, like that which is said to have startled the
mariner of old on the coasts of Ionia, and to have announced to him the
cessation of oracles, comes to us from all the remains of pagan antiquity,
warning us that the spirit of that ancient civilization has departed with
its forms: and while it bids us look forward to a new destiny for the
human race, it teaches us that the maxims and the oracles by which that
destiny must be guided, are to be sought elsewhere than in the Republic of
Plato and the grottos of Egeria.

Compared, then, with the monuments of classic antiquity, those of England
claim the distinction of being associated with an order of things which is
still existing and still in process of development: compared with those of
the rest of christian Europe, they recall a progress, which, much more
consistently than in other countries, has tended in the direction of
popular rights and constitutional liberty. The reader of English history
indeed has too often occasion to blush for the vices or mourn for the
madness of his species, as the spectator who looks upon the grim
fastnesses of the Tower, or into the gloomy purlieus of St. Giles', will
need but little else to remind him of the despotism and inequality which
have pursued liberty into this her boasted and sea-girt retreat. But the
Bastile, certainly, did not look in its day upon scenes of less flagrant
atrocity than the 'towers of Julius;' while this advantage has always
obtained in favor of the latter, that he who turned with disgust or terror
from that image of despotic pride and violence, might behold at no great
distance the piles of Westminster, the seats of law and legislation, where
the irrepressible spirit of freedom in the bosom of the Commons was still
nursing its resentment or muttering its remonstrances at seasons of the
deepest gloom and depression. Henry VIII. might have heard that voice
mingling with the groans of his victims; Charles II. could not altogether
shut it out from the scenes of his midnight revel and debauchery. But no
such hopeful contrast meets us in the features or the history of the
neighboring continent. Democracy, it is true, the rough and hardy growth
of the German forests, struck an earlier root and flourished at first with
better promise _there_ than in England. But this different fortune awaited
it on the continent and the island; that in the former it was soon rooted
out, and required in modern times the most violent and sanguinary efforts
to reproduce it; in the latter it has constantly survived and struggled
through every disaster toward a hopeful development. Such has been the
different political fate of two branches of the great Teutonic family; let
us observe whether some corresponding difference does not make itself
manifest in the aspect of their respective countries.

It might have been readily anticipated that the maintenance of the popular
right as a constitutional principle, operating through a long course of
ages, would have produced not only a sturdy independence among the bulk of
the English nation, but to some extent also, a local independence of the
country as regards the capital and the court. It might have been foreseen,
that instead of concentrating every separate ray of genius and renown into
one grand _halo_ around the throne, this habitual effort of the popular
mind would have had a tendency to scatter those rays more equally over the
land, making the green valley and the sequestered hamlet rejoice, each in
the memory of its bard or hero. Such might have been our prognostic from
the political condition of England as compared with that of the continent,
and such will be found upon observation to have been the result. A French
poet aptly describes the centralizing influences of his own capital as
regards France, when he tells us that 'at Paris people _live_, elsewhere
they only _vegetate_.' One great holocaust of talents, reputations and
fortunes forever ascends there to the glory of the Grand Nation, absorbing
every thing, assimilating every thing to itself, and leaving the country
widowed of its interest and shorn of its appropriate graces. The poet,
whose footsteps on the sunny plains of Provence would have long brightened
in the traditions of its peasantry; the hero, whose name would have
sufficed to confer undying interest on some old _chateau_ of the Jura; the
orator, whose leisure hours might have made some French Tusculum on the
banks of the Loire forever fresh with the memory of associated honors; all
these have alike hastened to Paris, identified themselves once for all
with its crowds, and added whatever _prestige_ might attend their own
names through future ages to the already overshadowing _prestige_ of that
wonderful city. They point you there to the house where the great
Corneille breathed his last; it is hard by the metropolitan church of St.
Roche, and scarcely more than a bow-shot from the Tuilleries, as if the
poet of Cinna and Polyeucte could not render up his breath in peace except
in the neighborhood of those high dignitaries, into whose lips he had
breathed while living so much of his own grandeur and elevation; but who
reminds you of the hills of his native Normandy, or points you to the
humble chamber or the peaceful valley where 'gorgeous Tragedy in sceptred
pall' first swept before the eyes of his dawning fancy? No; if you would
recall the memory of Corneille through the medium of places familiar with
his presence when living, you must repair to the Hotel de Rambouillet, in
one of the most noisy and unpoetic quarters of Paris.

Now with respect to England, all this is as nearly as possible reversed.
The political influences spoken of before, operating no doubt with others
of which it is unnecessary to speak, have acted dispersively on the sum of
national reputations, and equitably allotted to almost every part of the
fair island some _parcenary_ share of fame, some hallowing memory, like a
household genius, to preside over and endear its localities. London has
not, like Paris, proved itself in this the insatiate Saturn of the
national offspring. If you inquire, for instance, for memorials of the
life and presence of Shakspeare, it is not probable, as in the case of
Corneille, that you will be referred to the crowded streets and squares of
the metropolis, though his active life was passed and his unrivalled fame
achieved there; but far away to the west, where Nature received him on her
flowery lap, beside his own Avon; in the shades where his genius first
grew familiar with the shapes of beauty, sublimity, and terror, and
whither he retired at last 'to husband out life's taper' amid the common
charities of home; to this spot it is that you must repair, if you would
drink freshly of that well-spring of associations which hallows the
footsteps of England's immortal dramatist. In like manner, one might say,
that it is not in the sumptuous galleries of Holland House, neighbored by
the crowds and tumult of the parks, that the admirer of Addison would find
it most easy to call up the image of the sage; but in that quiet meadow
which he used to frequent on the banks of the Cheswell, when evening is
gathering on the tops of the lofty elms and around the gray towers of
Magdalen, how pleasing and unforced the effort which recalls him to our
imaginations!

And so too of others. Gray has not made the country church-yard immortal
in song alone, but has laid himself to rest with all the memories of that
imperishable strain around him, beneath as green a sod as wraps the head
of the humblest peasant for whom his muse implored 'the passing tribute of
a sigh.' The pensive shade of Cowper beckons to the groves of Olney; and
the melancholy ghost of Chatterton, (kindred to Cowper only in his woes
and his genius,) has fled from the crowded thoroughfares of London, where
he sank oppressed in the turmoil of life, to haunt forever, in the eyes of
the dreaming enthusiast, those dim aisles of St. Mary Redcliffe in
Bristol, whence he drew the spells which immortalized but could not
preserve him. And thus will it be when the lights of to-day, the bards of
living renown, shall have passed away, but not to be forgotten. No one
will then think of tracing Wordsworth, or Moore, or Southey, amid the
dusky lanes and glittering saloons of the metropolis, but the lakes of
Cumberland and the bowers of Wiltshire will still rejoice in the
ever-brightening honors of associated genius. Even the hardier spirits of
the isle, whose destiny has called them to the rougher paths of life, to
the battle-field or the senate, away from the haunts of nature and the
Muse; even these have seldom failed, in the intervals of busier life, to
remember the charms of the rural life of England, and in giving their more
familiar hours to its enjoyments, have bequeathed to many a fair spot a
heritage of memories more precious than wealth, and which the pilgrims of
after ages will not willingly let perish.

It is to one of these provincial retreats, (if such they may be called,
when the migratory habits of society are rendering them daily more known
and frequented) that the foregoing remarks are designed to lead the
attention of the indulgent reader.

'The southern district of Kent,' says Gibbon, 'which borders on Sussex and
the sea, was formerly overspread with the great forest Anderida; and even
now retains the denomination of the Weald, or Woodland.' On the verge of
this region, now diversified with the traces of civilization and culture,
and at the distance of some thirty miles from London, stands Penshurst,
for many generations the domain and seat of the illustrious family of
Sydney. The mansion is of that class termed castellated houses, as
retaining some of the features of the feudal castle, but accommodated to
the more secure and less circumspect usages of a later age. In itself, it
presents perhaps no very striking example of the merits or defects of its
class, but it claims a much higher distinction in having been the
birth-place and paternal home of Sir Philip Sydney.

To what name can we point which is more brightly adorned than his with all
the accomplishments of the soldier, the courtier and the scholar? Still
rises upon the memory through the mists of three centuries that touching
legend of Zutphen, where the wounded hero waived from his lips the cup of
water because it was more needed by the dying comrade at his side; and the
pure morality and lofty chivalry which animate the 'Arcadia,' still bear
witness to us of the personal merit of this pride and ornament of the
English court. His sagacious but selfish mistress, Elizabeth, once stood,
we are told, between him and the proffered crown of Poland, as being loth
to part (so she expressed herself,) with him who was 'the jewel of her
time.' She is reported too to have denied him on another occasion the
permission which he earnestly sought, of connecting his fame and fortunes
with those trans-atlantic enterprises which were already beginning to
crown with success and distinction the efforts of such men as Drake and
Frobisher. This last is a field of adventure upon which we must still
regret that Sir Philip was not allowed to enter. The New World was then no
less the region for romantic enterprise than profitable exertion, although
the explorers of these distant climes had too often sunk the generosity of
the soldier in the rapacity of the spoiler. In Sir Philip Sydney the world
of Columbus would have had a visitor of a different order. To the courage
of Smith and the accomplishments of Raleigh he would have added a spirit
of honor and moderation peculiarly his own, and we should still have
delighted to trace the impressions of his genius and virtue in the early
annals of our continent. But his fate was destined to a different scene;
and his career, though thus limited by a jealous sovereign and an early
death, has left little which we can reasonably deplore but its brevity;
while that brevity itself throws around his character the last touches of
romantic interest, and assigns him the not unenviable lot of having
carried off the rewards of age without its infirmities, and borne a
maturity of honors into the safe asylum of a premature grave:

  'Invida quem Lachesis raptum,
  Dum numerat palmas, credidit esse senem.'

In this age of literary and multifarious pilgriming, it cannot be
unacceptable to propose an excursion to a mansion dignified by its
associations with such a name. Neither is it a slight recreation to him
who has been confined for weeks and months within the dusky enclosures of
London, to break his bounds and emerge into the breathing fields of Surry
and Kent. The father of English poetry, and poet of English pilgrims,
Chaucer himself, stands ready to accompany us for at least a small portion
of our route: it was along the road on which we enter, that he conducted,
ages ago, those pilgrims to the shrine of Canterbury who still live in his
verses; and we may glance at the Tabard Inn whence they set forth, and
indulge our fancy with the thought of their quaint equipments, while we
betake ourselves to the modern 'hostelrie' of the Elephant and Castle, and
commit our persons to the modern comforts of an English coach. Alas! for
the fickleness of a world which changes its idols almost as often and as
easily as its fashions. Time was when we should have found this great
highway strewn with devotees hurrying to the shrine of St. Thomas a
Becket. But now, though we might detect, no doubt, in the throng around
us, the counterpart of each individual whom Chaucer committed to his
living canvass; of the knight who 'loved chevalrie' and the Frankelein
'who loved wine;' of the young squire 'with his locks in presse,' and the
fair lady who

  ----'of her smiling was ful simple and coy,
  Her gretest oathe n'as but by Seint Eloy;'

all as intent as of old upon objects not less fleeting, and changed in
little but the fashion of their attire; now there is none so poor as to do
reverence to the martyr-prelate for the sake of those merits which were
once thought a sufficient covering for the sins of countless followers.

As the great eastern artery of London, the road which we have thus far
followed begins to distribute its living mass into the successive
provincial avenues which diverge from it, we find ourselves included in
that portion of the throng, whom the pursuit of health or pleasure
conducts toward Tonbridge.[1] The high and level country which under the
name of 'Downs'[2] forms the northern and western boundary of Kent, sinks
by a sudden and steep declivity on its eastern edge; which edge the
geologists tell us was once washed by a primeval ocean, and is still
seamed by the ineffaceable traces of its currents and storms. For
ourselves it forms a vantage-ground from which we seem to look at one
glance over almost the whole of that fair province which stretches nearly
to the continent, and lifts the white cliffs of Albion above the surges of
the British channel. We think of the day when the standard bearer of the
tenth legion bore the eagle of Caesar to the shore amid the cries of the
opposing Britons; and of the still more signal day when Augustine
displayed the cross before the eyes of the softened and repentant Saxons.
We think too of the beings with whose memories Shakspeare has peopled this
portion of the Isle; of Lear and Cordelia, of Edgar, Gloster, and Kent; of
that night of horrors upon the stormy heath, and that scene of unutterable
tenderness and heart-break on the sands of Dover. Unbidden, as we gaze
over the fair and varied prospect, the words of the same great dramatist
rise to our lips, in his appropriation of the sentiments and language of
the first conqueror of Britain:

  'Kent in the commentaries Caesar writ,
  Is termed the civil'st place of all this isle;
  Sweet is the country because full of riches,
  The people liberal, active, valiant, wealthy.'

    [1] This route leads, among other villages, through that of
        Sevenoaks, famous as the place where Jack Cade and his rabble
        overthrew the forces of Stafford, in the very same year,
        (1450,) when Faust and Gutenberg set up the first press in
        Germany, and long, therefore, before Cade could have justly
        complained, as Shakspeare has made him do, that the Lord Say
        had 'caused printing to be used' in England, and 'built a
        paper-mill.' But who taxes the sun for his spots or Shakspeare
        for anachronisms? He who was born to exhaust and imagine
        worlds, cannot of course be denied some innocent liberties
        with chronology. The village in question, however, is more
        interesting to travellers from being in the vicinity of Knole,
        the fine old seat of the dukes of Dorset. The stranger is led
        here through long galleries garnished with furniture of the
        time of Elizabeth and hung with portraits which at every step
        recall names of the deepest historical interest. Who can ever
        forget that which hangs or hung over the door of Lady Betty
        Germaine's chamber? It is Milton in the bloom of manhood, and
        the immortal epic seems to be just dawning on those mild and
        pensive features. One chamber, of sumptuous appointments
        remains, (so runs the legend,) as it was last tenanted by
        James I., no head less sapient or august having been since
        permitted to press the pillow. In another every thing stands
        as it was arranged for the reception of the second James, who
        forfeited, it seems, a luxurious lodging at Knole at the same
        time that he forfeited his crown. The name of Lady Betty
        Germaine, Swift's friend and correspondent, connects the place
        with all the celebrities of the reign of Queen Anne. On
        emerging from the building we view the magnificent groves of
        the park, fit haunt for nightingales, though Becket is said to
        have driven them by an anathema from the neighborhood, because
        their songs interrupted his nocturnal meditations. But the
        memory of Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, (once proprietor
        of Knole,) the best poet of his time, and 'the immediate
        father-in-verse of Spenser,' sufficiently redresses the stigma
        of so churlish a proscription, and the nightingales may well
        claim perpetual franchise under sanction of a name to which
        the ancient inscription would apply:

          [Greek: Li de teai zoousin aedones, hesin o panton
                  harpakter Aides ouk epi cheira balei.]

          Yet live thy nightingales of song: on those
          Forgetfulness her hand shall ne'er impose.

    [2] DUNUM or Duna, sigifieth a hill or higher ground, whence
        _Downs_, which cometh of the old French word _dun_.
        COKE LIT. 235.

But the riches of Kent must be spoken of with due limitations. Those
geological changes and formations before alluded to, which have marked the
track of wealth across the British islands by deposits of mineral coal, as
clearly as if it had been traced in sunbeams, have bequeathed no such
sources of sub-terrene affluence to Kent. Nor has nature been more than
parsimonious (to say the least) with respect to the superficial qualities
of its soil. We have only, however, to cast our eyes on a topographical
chart of Kent, to see how beneficently these disadvantages are balanced by
considerations of a different sort. Washed along a vast line of coast by
the ocean, and bordered to an equal or greater extent by the Thames;
penetrated by the navigable Medway, and watered by such fertilizing
streams as the Eden and the Ton; traversed through its whole length by
that ancient highway of Dover, which figured in the itineraries of the
Romans, and which still conveys much of the ceaseless intercourse between
England and the Continent; its coast studded with towers and harbors; its
interior sprinkled with hamlets, parks, cities, and baronial residences;
claiming, finally, to be the episcopal head and fountain of ecclesiastical
dignity for the whole British empire; we can readily see how Kent may
vindicate to itself the praise conveyed in the lines of Shakspeare as the
abode of a liberal, active, valiant, and even wealthy people.

Nor is this flattering ascription of personal qualities unsupported by the
facts of its local history. To the great Roman conqueror the inhabitants
of this part of Britain opposed a resistance, which taught him, as he
indirectly confesses, to look back with many a wistful glance toward the
coast where he had left his transports, but ill-assured against the ocean
or the enemy. Against the Norman conqueror, likewise, when all the rest of
the island had yielded implicitly to his sway and to the substitution of
feudal for native usages, the people of Kent still made good their old
hereditary law of _Gavelkind_. More than once in after times, stung by
oppression or inflamed by zeal, they have drawn together in a spirit of
tumultuous resistance, and borne their remonstrances to the very gates of
the national capital. Connecting this history and character with their
maritime position, we are led to apply a remark which our American
historian Prescott has generalized from the circumstances of a people not
dissimilarly situated. 'The sea-board,' says that admirable writer, 'would
seem to be the natural seat of liberty. There is something in the very
presence, in the atmosphere of the ocean, which invigorates not only the
physical but the moral energies of man.' Or as Wordsworth has expressed
the same idea, with an extension of it, no less just than poetical, to
another class of natural objects:

  'Two voices are there; one is of the sea,
  One of the mountains; each a mighty voice:
  In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
  They were thy chosen music, Liberty!'

It has already been said that our route lay toward Tonbridge. True, those
celebrated wells lie somewhat beyond Penshurst, yet few pilgrims will fail
to visit them; and it may be permitted to glance aside from our immediate
object to glean a very few observations from the customs of this
fashionable watering-place. But the American visitor must not expect to
meet at a watering-place in England precisely that aggregate of
circumstances which goes to form his idea of the pleasures and privileges
of one in his own country. There are restraints imposed by the
circumstances of these elder lands, their necessity more than their
choice, which must still at first sight appear forbidding and superfluous
to the inhabitant of a new one. The rigid barriers of ceremony; the
appearance of studied isolation and exclusiveness; the monotonous movement
of the great social machine, organized to its minutest details, and
regulated through all its processes; these at first may lead the visitor
from the New World to suppose that he has fallen upon some region of
persevering formality, where all is frost and show, perpetual glitter and
unmeaning barrenness. But pierce these formal barriers of etiquette,
dissolve by the requisite appliances this superficial frost-work of the
English circles, and none, it is believed, will have any just reason to
complain of coldness and reserve. By the social barriers spoken of, are
not meant the distinctions of rank in European society, or the
conventional observances by which they are guarded, for these do not
constitute in fact the points of repulsion by which a stranger is apt to
be encountered. Still less do they mean those mental habits of suspicion,
mystery and indirectness, which may infect communities as well as
individuals. For these there is neither extenuation nor excuse. Rousseau
has finely said: 'Le premier pas vers le vice est de mettre du mystere aux
actions innocentes; et quiconque aime a se cacher, a tot ou tard raison de
se cacher. Un seul precepte de morale peut tenir lieu de tous les autres,
c'est celui-ci: Ne fais, ni ne dis jamais rien que tu ne veuilles que tout
le monde voie et entende. J'ai toujours regarde comme le plus estimable
des hommes ce Romain qui voulait que sa maison fut construite de maniere
qu'on vit tout ce qui s'y faisait.' Whether the Englishman would be the
first or the last to submit himself to this crucial test of _living in a
transparent house_, we do not feel called upon to decide. The barriers, of
which some justification has been attempted, are merely those formal
observances by which society aims to protect itself from the intrusion of
the unworthy and designing; which all must perceive to be in some degree
necessary, even to personal independence; and which common-sense teaches
us must be of greater extent and more rigorous application in a crowded
capital than a country village, in an English Almacks than an American
drawing-room. No one will deny that these barriers are high and strictly
guarded in England; but it would be unreasonable to impute as a fault what
is a dictate of prudence, or to infer that coldness and incivility must of
course lurk under forms which have been manifestly imposed by the
necessity of constant circumspection.

Duly impressed with these considerations, the stranger will be less
disposed to complain when arriving at any place of fashionable resort in
England; at Tonbridge, for instance, one of the most aristocratic; he
finds himself consigned to the solitary comfort of his own apartments,
without the prospect of any of those periods of social reuenion, which
elsewhere tend so strongly to break down the barriers of reserve and
facilitate the process of introduction and acquaintance. Cardinal de Retz
has told us, that the dinner-bell never fails to disperse a mob in France,
and if English travellers are to be believed, it seldom fails to bring one
together in an American hotel; but as a social summons, no such tocsin
breaks the uniformity of the English _menage_. The traveller may dine
indeed in the public room, but it is at a separate table, on his separate
repast; he is served with what viands, at what hour, he pleases, but no
contiguity of position or interchange of friendly offices can remove the
impalpable but impassable partition which divides him from his neighbors.
He feels something of the air of the _penitentiary_ in the very
refinements of his luxurious _hostelrie_. But these are incidents not
without their attendant advantages. If the stranger is thus separated from
his fellows, he is at least saved, in turn, from the attempts of fraud,
and the contact of impertinence. This is, in fact, the meaning of such
arrangements, and if not exactly palatable, they are at any rate
protective. But there are restrictions with regard to the fairer part of
creation, and his correspondence with them, which admit of no such topics
of comfort and alleviation. We nowhere find it stated, by what steps it is
permitted to the English suitor to proceed from the distant bow to the
morning call, always in the presence of the mother, the aunt, or other
watchful guardian; and thence by regular gradations to the heart and hand
of the object of his wishes. But it is enough for our stranger to know,
that whatever may be the laws of strategy, provided for such cases in
other lands, here it is necessary to begin his approaches with the father,
and to lay his lines of earliest circumvallation around the watchful
mother. These distant out-works must be mastered before there is the
slightest chance of communicating even a summons to the citadel. English
travellers, therefore, express surprise at the artless confidence with
which unmarried ladies in America commit themselves to the solitary chat
with a comparative stranger, take his hand or his arm after a few hours'
acquaintance, and expose themselves to the surprise of a _declaration_
before the extent of his means or the respectability of his connexion have
been discussed and settled. Between the merits of these different modes of
procedure, the present writer has neither the wish nor the ability to
arbitrate. They have their growth in such widely different states of
society, that the reformer must be bold who should attempt to transpose or
change them. It is sufficient for our present purpose to remark, that if
the visitor at Tonbridge should have failed to make those preliminary
advances just spoken of, his pleasures here, as an admirer of female
loveliness, will most probably be limited to seeing the fair creatures
ride on diminutive donkeys (such is the custom of Tonbridge) to the wells,
there to drink the chalybeate and promenade the _pantiles_. But what then?
If he have not the _entree_ of society, the charms of nature and the
attractions of English scenery are spread before him. His guide-book will
tell him of grotesque rocks upon lonely heaths where Druids may have
worshipped; and of Bayham Abbey, with its mouldering walls and 'antiquary
ivy,' which still attests amidst its ruins the luxury and wealth of its
ancient masters. He may look in one direction over the broad lands and
towering spires of Eridge Castle, or turning in another, soon lose amidst
the recollections of Penshurst and in the homage which the heart renders
to departed virtue, all sense of the vexatious forms and frivolous though
perhaps inseparable distinctions of modern society.

Approaching Penshurst from Tonbridge, we alight at the ancient church
which stands in close contiguity with the family mansion. A ramble amidst
its graves, a walk through its solemn aisles, a moment's pause among its
darkened monuments, seems to be but a suitable preparation for our farther
researches. It is scarcely possible to enter one of these venerable
religious edifices of the old world, which form so striking a feature in
its scenery, without feeling in some degree an impression as if the dim
and solemn fane were peopled with shadows; as if indistinct forms were
beckoning along its lonely aisles, or waiting the stranger's approach in
its deep and vaulted recesses. The building is not always of great extent,
(this of Penshurst is not so,) but the impression seems to be the result
not more of the solemn style of the building and its accessories, than of
the admirable harmony which they preserve with the recollections and
associations of all around them. Hence it may well be doubted whether, if
we could transport one of these time-honored structures to our own land,
with all its architectural peculiarities, it would have for us exactly the
meaning or the charms which it possesses at home. Our career is as yet too
brief, our land too full of the sounds of enterprise and excitement; our
interest lies too largely and exclusively in the present and the future.
The dawning light and the keen air of morning (soevus equis oriens
anhelis) are not, as represented by the poets, more uncongenial to the
spectral shapes of night, than the recent origin and energetic action of
our rising country to the dim traditions and mouldering memories which
have grown incorporate with the weather-stains and damps of these hoary
sanctuaries. At Penshurst in particular, so complete is this harmony
between the ideal and the actual, and so strongly does it bring before us
the image of the past, that it might seem no unnatural incident of our
reverie, were the grave and reverend knight, the ancient head of the
Sydneys and patron of the church, once more to enter with his retinue from
the neighboring mansion and take his seat in the family chancel. But of
that honored name nothing remains to Penshurst except the memory, and
those fading inscriptions which inform us that they who slumber here bore
it irreproachably in life, and have long since ceased from their earthly
labors. Among these, however, we look in vain for the name of Sir Philip
Sydney. He fell in a foreign land, and his country, we are told, mourned
for him with a loud and poignant lamentation. His remains were afterward
transferred to Saint Paul's, where the ruin which fell at a later period
upon the great national temple involved also the memorial of Sir Philip
Sydney. But it matters less, since the achievements of his pen and sword
have made all places where the name of England comes, his monument, and
every heart which is alive to honor, a sanctuary for his memory.

Let us then pass on to that venerable mansion which having witnessed many
of the incidents of his life may still be considered the lasting memorial
of his virtues. Before us rises a building irregular in its design, but
presenting an extensive line of front, in which square towers and pointed
gables, connected by walls of unequal height, succeed each other with that
sort of caprice which is common in mansions of the same age. Entering
through a spacious gate-way, we cross a quadrangular court, and gain
access by an unfurnished passage to the great hall, which formed the
distinguishing feature of the feudal homestead. In the vast extent of this
apartment we perceive an image of the pride which gloried more in the
number of its retainers than in the luxury or refinement of its
accommodations. Oaken tables, and benches of the same homely material,
stretched from side to side, show that our ancestors required but rude
accessories to recommend to them the substantial enjoyments of their
mighty repasts. Through lofty windows strengthened by mullions and
decorated with intricate carvings, the light streams softened by neither
blind nor curtain. The middle of the hall is occupied by a spacious
hearth, around which gathered the friends and followers of the noble
house; and the fire-utensils which still remain, and which seem destined
for the consumption of entire forests, intimate that the household gods
which presided here dealt in no stinted or penurious economy. There was
scarcely need of flue or chimney, for the smoke curling up among the
interlacing rafters of the roof, might long gather in its ample cavity
without threatening those below with serious inconvenience. It is curious
to observe that when at length so obvious a contrivance as the chimney
grew into more general use, its introduction was opposed by much the same
sort of arguments as have in other ages resisted the encroachments of
change and novelty. A moralist of the times has left us his recorded
opinion, that nothing but agues and catarrhs had followed the abandonment
of that old and genial practice which planted the fire in the middle of
the room and left the smoke to spread its sable canopy aloft. Another
peculiarity in this picture of ancient manners was the slightly-raised
platform called the dais, at the farther extremity of the hall, which
reminds us of the distinction that was preserved even in the hours of
convivial relaxation, between the family of the lord and its dependents.
Nor was this distinction in general one of place alone: in most of the
wealthy and noble houses of the period, it portended a corresponding
distinction in the quality of the food. Hence in the homely times in which
Ben Jonson has apostrophized Penshurst, it is mentioned as an honorable
instance of the hospitality of its owner, that

      ----'there each guest might eat,
  Without his fear, and of the lord's own meat;
  Where the same beer, board, and self-same wine,
  That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.'

'A strange topic of praise,' remarks Gifford, 'to those who are
unacquainted with the practice of those times; but in fact the liberal
mode of hospitality here recorded was almost peculiar to this noble
person. The great dined at long tables, (they had no other in their vast
halls,) and permitted many guests to sit down with them; but the
gradations of rank and fortune were rigidly maintained, and the dishes
grew visibly coarser as they receded from the head of the table.' To sit
below the salt, is a phrase with which the romances of Scott have made us
familiar, and which originated, it seems, in the custom of placing a large
salt-cellar near the middle of the table, not more for convenience than
with reference to the distribution of the guests.

The same spirit which presided over the appointments of this stately hall
extended itself to the other apartments and remoter details of the
household. Every where there is the same reference to the power and even
the supervision of the lord, manifested in the long suites of rooms which
open upon each other, (the hall just mentioned is commanded by a small
window opening from a superior and adjacent apartment,) as if to give the
master at one glance a view of the number and a knowledge of the pursuits
of the inmates. The ideas of the architects of that age seem to have been
limited in their object, to realizing an image of the great feudal
principle of preeminence and protection on the one side, submissiveness
and reliance on the other. Hence designs and arrangements so little
consistent with the privacy and personal independence which we regard at
present as indispensable to every scheme of domestic accommodation. But
these artists were not limited alone by a defective conception of the
objects of their art; they were also embarrassed in its execution by the
unequal manner in which the different branches of it had been cultivated
and improved. It is doubtless a remark which will admit of very general
application, that the arts which may be made subservient to embellishment
and magnificence, have always far outstripped those which only conduce to
comfort and convenience. The savage paints his body with gorgeous colors,
who wants a blanket to protect him from the cold; and nations have heaped
up pyramids to enhance their sense of importance, who have dwelt
contentedly in dens and caves of the earth. Something of the same
incongruity may be remarked at Penshurst, and other English mansions of
the same age and order; where we sometimes ascend to galleries of
inestimable paintings over steps roughly hewn with the axe, and look upon
ceilings of the most exquisite and elaborate carving suspended over floors
which have never had the benefit of the joiner's plane.

In the tastes, too, and personal habits of that elder period, contrasts of
a not less striking nature might be easily pointed out. We may doubt, for
instance, whether beauty will ever array itself in apparel of more cost
and profusion than that in which the high-born dames of Wresill and
Penshurst swept through their stately apartments. Grandeur will never make
its presence felt by a greater weight of ceremony, nor ever extend a more
watchful and provident care to all the equipage of rank and ostentation.
Flattery, we may safely assert, will never offer its incense in a more
seductive form, than when it borrowed the pencil of Holbein and the lyre
of Spenser. Yet these persons were the same who trode upon floors strewn
with rushes, and deemed it a point of nicety and refinement if these were
changed sufficiently often to prevent the soiling of their clothes. They
are the same who dined without forks, and thought pewter dishes too great
a luxury to be used in common by the highest nobility; who transported
their ladies on pillions for want of coaches, and themselves struggled
through mire for want of pavements; who, with a knowledge of the
manufacture of glass, and possessed beyond ourselves of an exquisite skill
in coloring it, were yet too frugal or careless to use it freely in
lighting their houses. It was an age when the sick were plied with such
delicate restoratives as 'mummy and the flesh of hedge-hogs,' and tables
loaded with such dainties as cranes, lapwings, sea-gulls, bitterns and
curlews. Such is the unequal progress which is often maintained in habits
of undistinguishing luxury and habits of genuine refinement; so great the
difference between a state of society which aims at the gratification of
pride, and one which contents itself with diffusing comfort and promoting
security.

It would be easy, no doubt, to draw from this sketch of ancient manners
many reflections consoling to our own sense of superior comfort and
discernment. But the subject is susceptible of being viewed under aspects
not so flattering yet more instructive. Who is there gross enough to pride
himself on superior wisdom because Kepler believed that the earth was a
vast animal which breathed and reasoned, or to claim the palm of
comparative merit because Sir Thomas More listened to the babbling of a
pretended prophetess, and Luther waged what he considered no visionary but
actual combats with the powers of darkness. If then we have dwelt on the
defects of an age when civilization was still struggling with the remains
of barbarism, it is to foster no spirit of vain exultation: it is rather
to turn with increased pleasure from those stains which disfigure the
picture, to the contemplation of the more prominent and brilliant figures
which occupy the fore-ground. We remember that upon times thus backward in
many of the refinements of life, and scarcely yet freed from the dregs of
medi-oeval darkness, genius and virtue have thrown a lustre by their
presence, not merely sufficient to retrieve them from our scorn, but to
make them in some respects the object of our admiration and even envy.
Perhaps, if it were submitted to our choice to take our places at will in
any circle which genius and merit have ever dignified and adorned, none
could justly claim our preference over that of Penshurst, at the time when
Sir Philip Sydney sate there in the same group with his lovely sister, the
Countess of Pembroke, and with Edmund Spenser, the poet of 'the Faerie
Queen.' Of the first of these eminent persons, it is enough to say, that
his own age conceded to him the style of 'the Incomparable,' and that
posterity has amply ratified the title. The second is known to us by that
affectionate tribute of her brother's love, which has identified the name
of the Countess of Pembroke with his principal work; nor will the latest
readers of English literature be forgetful of one whose memory Jonson has
embalmed in the sweetest inscription that ever flowed from a poet's pen.
Of Spenser, the last but not least illustrious of the honored group, it is
only necessary to say, that as he shared the hospitality, so he has not
left unsung the praises of Penshurst. Where is the circle which shall
again combine so many claims to our admiration and respect? What age shall
presume to vaunt itself for genius or for virtue above the age of Sydney
and of Spenser?

Later times have added to the social and literary lustre of Penshurst. It
has been still farther illustrated by the talents and fame of Algernon
Sydney, whose name never fails to awaken the sympathies of every friend of
liberty for his honorable labors and unhappy fate. It has numbered among
its guests and its eulogists such men as Jonson, Waller, and Southey;
finally, even in our own time it has seen its horizon momently illuminated
by the brief but dazzling splendors of the poet Shelly. This last was of
the lineage of Sydney, and shared the talents and proud integrity, but not
the wisdom and milder virtues of his house. It only remains to say, that
the dwelling and estate of the Sydneys has passed into other hands, but
finds, it would seem, in Lord De Lisle a proprietor not insensible to the
worth nor regardless of the memory of his far-famed predecessors.

Thus the remarks intended, draw to an end. We leave the halls of
Penshurst, and the gates of that venerated mansion close behind us
forever. Even thus did they close ages ago upon him, the light and honor
of that ancient house, who, leaving it in the glow of health, in the pride
of manly beauty, in the aspirations of a high but not a haughty spirit,
was destined never to cross that paternal threshold more. The blessings
that went with him have mouldered on the lips that pronounced them; the
tears that mourned his fall have dried upon the lids from which they
streamed; all who knew and loved, all who watched and wept for Sir Philip
Sydney are silent in the dust to which he himself has long been gathered.
Yet does not his spirit commune with ours as we tread the halls once
familiar with his presence, or gaze upon those all but animated portraits
which Penshurst still numbers among the richest of its treasures? Does
nothing survive here of so much honor, so much courtesy, so much courage,
to elevate us by its example and to inspire us with new hope, ere we turn
again to tread the toilsome mazes of the world? Let the acknowledgments of
all those who with no unworthy or unreflecting spirit have traced these
paths, reply; or rather let the answer embody itself in the words of a
poet, who, while expressing his own sense of the merits of Sydney, has but
given a suitable expression to sentiments which find an echo in every
bosom:

  'Are days of old familiar to thy mind,
  Oh reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour
  Pass unperceiv'd, whilst thou in fancy lived
  With high-born beauties and enamor'd chiefs,
  Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy,
  Whose expectation touched the verge of pain,
  Following their dangerous fortunes? If such lore
  Has ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread
  As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts
  The groves of Penshurst. SYDNEY here was born,
  Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man
  His own delightful genius ever feign'd,
  Illustrating the vales of Arcady,
  With courteous courage and with loyal loves.
  Upon his natal day an acorn here
  Was planted; it grew up a stately oak,
  And in the beauty of its strength it stood
  And flourished, when his perishable part
  Had mouldered dust to dust. That stately oak
  Itself hath perished now, but Sydney's fame
  Endureth in his own immortal works.'




ILLUSTRATIONS.


Before the extension of commerce and manufactories in Europe, the
hospitality of the rich and the great, from the sovereign down to the
smallest baron, exceeded every thing which in the present times we can
easily form a notion of. Westminster Hall was the dining-room of William
Rufus, and might frequently perhaps not be too large for his company. It
was reckoned a piece of magnificence in Thomas a Becket that he strewed
the floor of his hall with clear hay or rushes in the season, in order
that the knights and squires who could not get seats might not spoil their
fine clothes when they sat down on the floor to eat their dinner. The
great Earl of Warwick is said to have entertained every day, at his
different manors, thirty thousand people; and though the number may have
been exaggerated, it must however have been very great to admit of such
exaggeration. The personal expenses of the great proprietors having
gradually increased with the extension of commerce and manufactures, it
was impossible that the number of their retainers should not as gradually
diminish. Having sold their birth-right, not like Esau, for a mess of
pottage in time of hunger and necessity, but in the wantonness of plenty
for trinkets and baubles, fitter to be the play-things of children than
the serious pursuits of men, they became as insignificant as any
substantial burgher or tradesmen in a city.

                               WEALTH OF NATIONS: BOOK III., CHAP. IV.


The _planta-genista_ or broom having been ordinarily used for strewing
floors, became an emblem of humility, and was borne as such by Fulke, Earl
of Anjou, grandfather of Henry II., King of England, in his pilgrimage to
the Holy Land. The name of the royal house of Plantagenet is said to be
derived from this circumstance.

                               HUNT'S EXEMPLARS OF TUDOR ARCHITECTURE.


Eleven continued to be the dining hour of the nobility, down to the middle
of the seventeenth century, though it was still kept up to ten o'clock in
the Universities, where the established system is not so easily altered as
in private families. . . . The lord and his principal guests sate at the
upper end of the first table, which was therefore called the lord's
board-end. The officers of his household and inferior guests at long
tables below in the hall. In the middle of each table stood a great
salt-cellar, and as particular care was taken to place the guests
according to their rank, it became a mark of distinction whether a person
sate above or below the salt. . . . Pewter plates in the reign of Henry
VIII. were too costly to be used in common by the highest nobility. In
Rymer's Foedera is a license granted in 1430 for a ship to carry certain
commodities for the express use of the King of Scotland, among which are
particularly mentioned a supply of pewter dishes and wooden trenchers.
'_Octo duodenis vasorum de pewter, mille et ducentis ciphis ligneis._'

                                                          ARCHAEOLOGIA.


The use of forks did not prevail in England till the reign of James I.

                                                               CORYAT.


In the list of birds served up to table were many fowls which are now
discarded as little better than rank carrion, such as cranes, lapwings,
sea-gulls, bitterns, ruffs, kerlews, etc.

                                             GROSE'S ANTIQ. REPERTORY.


The use of coaches is said to have been first introduced into England by
Fitz-Allan, earl of Arundel, A. D. 1580. Before that time ladies chiefly
rode on horseback, either single on their palfreys, or double, behind some
person on a pillion. In cases of sickness or bad weather, they had
horse-litters and vehicles called chairs, or carrs, or charres. Glazed
windows were introduced into England, A. D. 1180.

                                       ANDERSON'S HISTORY OF COMMERCE.


The ceilings of that part of Wresill Castle left standing by the
Commonwealth's soldiers still appear richly carved, and the sides of the
rooms are ornamented with a great profusion of ancient sculpture finely
executed in wood, exhibiting the ancient bearings, crests, badges and
devices of the Percy family, in a great variety of forms, set off with all
the advantages of painting, gilding and imagery. . . . NOBLEMEN in HENRY
the Eighth's time were obliged to carry all the beds, hangings and
furniture with them when they removed. The usual manner of hanging the
rooms in the old castles was only to cover the naked walls with tapestry
or arras hung upon tenter hooks, from which they were easily taken down
upon every removal. On such an occasion the number of carts employed in a
considerable family must have formed a caravan nearly as large as those
which traverse the deserts of the East. . . . At the time of the
Northumberland House-hold book, glass, though it had perhaps been long
applied to the decorating churches, was not very commonly used in
dwelling-houses or castles.

                                                          ARCHAEOLOGIA.


Rooms provided with chimnies are noticed as a luxury by the author of
Pierce Ploughman. 'Now,' says an author still more recent, 'have we many
chimnies, and yet our tenderlings complain of rheums, catarrhs and poses,
(colds in the head.) Then had we none but _rere dosses_, (plates of iron
or a coating of brick to enable the wall to resist the flame,) and our
heads did never ache. For as the smoke in those days was supposed to be a
sufficient hardening for the timber of the house, so it was reputed a far
better medicine to keep the good man and his family from the quacke,
(ague,) or pose, wherewith, as then, very few were oft acquainted.'

              HARRISON'S DESCRIPTION OF ENGLAND PREFIXED TO HOLINSHED.




IDYLL.

IN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS, BY WILLIAM CHIDDON.


  Thou wanderer where the wild wood ceaseless breathes
  The sweetly-murmuring strain, from falling rills
  Or soft autumnal gales; O! seek thou there
  Some fountain gurgling from the rifted rock,
  Of pure translucent wave, whose margent green
  Is loved by gentlest nymphs, and all the train
  Of that chaste goddess of the silver bow;
  For silent, shady groves, by purling springs,
  Delight the train, and through the gliding hours
  Their nimble feet in mazy trances wind;
  And oft at eve, the wondering swain hath heard
  The Arcadian pipe and breathing minstrelsy,
  From joyous troops of those rude deities
  Whose homes are on the steep and rocky mount,
  Or by the silver wave in woody dell,
  And know the shrine, with flowery myrtles veiled,
  All lonely placed by that wild mountain stream,
  That from the sacred hills, like Hippocrene,
  With warbling numbers, softly glides along.
  Kneel humbly there, and at the auspicious time,
  Invoke the listening spirit to my aid,
  That I may fly the nymph of shapely form,
  Whose fragrant brow inwoven wreaths adorn,
  Of blushing rose and ivy tendrils green.
  Then swear for me to deck the favoring shrine
  With flowrets, blooming from the lap of Spring,
  And on the sculptured pile, with solemn vow,
  The tender kid devote in sacrifice.
  So may my heaving bosom rest serene,
  Nor winged spells incite the soul again
  To love the soft eyed maid Zenophyle.




THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.

NUMBER TWO.


The course of our legendary narration now returns to notice the fortunes
of Count Julian, after his departure from Toledo, to resume his government
on the coast of Barbary. He left the Countess Frandina at Algeziras, his
paternal domain, for the province under his command was threatened with
invasion. In fact, when he arrived at Ceuta he found his post in imminent
danger from the all-conquering Moslems. The Arabs of the East, the
followers of Mahomet, having subjugated several of the most potent
oriental kingdoms, had established their seat of empire at Damascus,
where, at this time, it was filled by Waled Almanzor, surnamed 'the Sword
of God.' From thence the tide of Moslem conquest had rolled on to the
shores of the Atlantic; so that all Almagreb, or Western Africa, had
submitted to the standard of the prophet, with the exception of a portion
of Tingitania, lying along the straits; being the province held by the
Goths of Spain, and commanded by Count Julian. The Arab invaders were a
hundred thousand strong, most of them veteran troops, seasoned in warfare
and accustomed to victory. They were led by an old Arab general, Muza ben
Nosier, to whom was confided the government of Almagreb; most of which he
had himself conquered. The ambition of this veteran was to make the Moslem
conquest complete, by expelling the Christians from the African shores;
with this view his troops menaced the few remaining Gothic fortresses of
Tingitania, while he himself sat down in person before the walls of Ceuta.
The Arab chieftain had been rendered confident by continual success, and
thought nothing could resist his arms and the sacred standard of the
prophet. Impatient of the tedious delays of a siege, he led his troops
boldly against the rock-built towers of Ceuta, and attempted to take the
place by storm. The onset was fierce, and the struggle desperate: the
swarthy sons of the desert were light and vigorous, and of fiery spirits;
but the Goths, inured to danger on this frontier, retained the stubborn
valor of their race, so impaired among their brethren in Spain. They were
commanded, too, by one skilled in warfare and ambitious of renown. After a
vehement conflict, the Moslem assailants were repulsed from all points,
and driven from the walls. Don Julian sallied forth, and harassed them in
their retreat; and so severe was the carnage, that the veteran Musa was
fain to break up his camp, and retire confounded from the siege.

The victory at Ceuta resounded throughout Tingitania, and spread universal
joy. On every side were heard shouts of exultation mingled with praises of
Count Julian. He was hailed by the people, wherever he went, as their
deliverer, and blessings were invoked upon his head. The heart of Count
Julian was lifted up, and his spirit swelled within him; but it was with
noble and virtuous pride, for he was conscious of having merited the
blessings of his country.

In the midst of his exultation, and while the rejoicings of the people
were yet sounding in his ears, the page arrived who bore the letter from
his unfortunate daughter.

'What tidings from the king?' said the count, as the page knelt before
him: 'None, my lord,' replied the youth, 'but I bear a letter sent in all
haste by the Lady Florinda.'

He took the letter from his bosom and presented it to his lord. As Count
Julian read it, his countenance darkened and fell. 'This,' said he,
bitterly, 'is my reward for serving a tyrant; and these are the honors
heaped on me by my country, while fighting its battles in a foreign land.
May evil overtake me, and infamy rest upon my name, if I cease until I
have full measure of revenge.'

Count Julian was vehement in his passions, and took no counsel in his
wrath. His spirit was haughty in the extreme, but destitute of true
magnanimity, and when once wounded turned to gall and venom. A dark and
malignant hatred entered into his soul, not only against Don Roderick, but
against all Spain: he looked upon it as the scene of his disgrace, a land
in which his family was dishonored: and, in seeking to avenge the wrongs
he had suffered from his sovereign, he meditated against his native
country one of the blackest schemes of treason that ever entered into the
human heart.

The plan of Count Julian was to hurl King Roderick from his throne, and to
deliver all Spain into the hands of the infidels. In concerting and
executing this treacherous plot, it seemed as if his whole nature was
changed; every lofty and generous sentiment was stifled, and he stooped to
the meanest dissimulation. His first object was to extricate his family
from the power of the king, and to remove it from Spain before his treason
should be known; his next, to deprive the country of its remaining means
of defence against an invader.

With these dark purposes at heart, but with an open and serene
countenance, he crossed to Spain, and repaired to the court at Toledo.
Wherever he came he was hailed with acclamations as a victorious general,
and appeared in the presence of his sovereign radiant with the victory at
Ceuta. Concealing from King Roderick his knowledge of the outrage upon his
house, he professed nothing but the most devoted loyalty and affection.

The king loaded him with favors; seeking to appease his own conscience by
heaping honors upon the father in atonement of the deadly wrong inflicted
upon his child. He regarded Count Julian, also, as a man able and
experienced in warfare, and took his advice in all matters relating to the
military affairs of the kingdom. The count magnified the dangers that
threatened the frontier under his command, and prevailed upon the king to
send thither the best horses and arms remaining from the time of Witiza,
there being no need of them in the centre of Spain in its present tranquil
state. The residue, at his suggestion, was stationed on the frontiers of
Gallia; so that the kingdom was left almost wholly without defence against
any sudden irruption from the south.

Having thus artfully arranged his plans, and all things being prepared for
his return to Africa, he obtained permission to withdraw his daughter from
the court, and leave her with her mother, the Countess Frandina, who, he
pretended, lay dangerously ill at Algeziras. Count Julian issued out of
the gate of the city, followed by a shining band of chosen followers,
while beside him, on a palfrey, rode the pale and weeping Florinda. The
populace hailed and blessed him as he passed, but his heart turned from
them with loathing. As he crossed the bridge of the Tagus, he looked back
with a dark brow upon Toledo, and raised his mailed hand and shook it at
the royal palace of King Roderick, which crested the rocky height. 'A
father's curse,' said he, 'be upon thee and thine! May desolation fall
upon thy dwelling, and confusion and defeat upon thy realm!'

In his journeyings through the country, he looked round him with a
malignant eye; the pipe of the shepherd, and the song of the husbandman,
were as discord to his soul; every sight and sound of human happiness
sickened him at heart, and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he prayed
that he might see the whole scene of prosperity laid waste with fire and
sword by the invader.

The story of domestic outrage and disgrace had already been made known to
the Countess Frandina. When the hapless Florinda came in presence of her
mother, she fell on her neck, and hid her face in her bosom, and wept; but
the countess shed never a tear, for she was a woman haughty of spirit and
strong of heart. She looked her husband sternly in the face. 'Perdition
light upon thy head,' said she, 'if thou submit to this dishonor. For my
own part, woman as I am, I will assemble the followers of my house, nor
rest until rivers of blood have washed away this stain.'

'Be satisfied,' replied the count; 'vengeance is on foot, and will be sure
and ample.'

Being now in his own domains, surrounded by his relatives and friends,
Count Julian went on to complete his web of treason. In this he was aided
by his brother-in-law, Oppas, the Bishop of Seville: a man dark and
perfidious as the night, but devout in demeanor, and smoothly plausible in
council. This artful prelate had contrived to work himself into the entire
confidence of the king, and had even prevailed upon him to permit his
nephews, Evan and Siseburto, the exiled sons of Witiza, to return into
Spain. They resided in Andalusia, and were now looked to as fit
instruments in the present traitorous conspiracy.

By the advice of the bishop, Count Julian called a secret meeting of his
relatives and adherents on a wild rocky mountain, not far from Consuegra,
and which still bears the Moorish appellation of 'La Sierra de Calderin,'
or the mountain of treason. When all were assembled, Count Julian appeared
among them, accompanied by the bishop and by the Countess Frandina. Then
gathering around him those who were of his blood and kindred, he revealed
the outrage that had been offered to their house. He represented to them
that Roderick was their legitimate enemy; that he had dethroned Witiza,
their relation, and had now stained the honor of one of the most
illustrious daughters of their line. The Countess Frandina seconded his
words. She was a woman majestic in person and eloquent of tongue; and
being inspired by a mother's feelings, her speech aroused the assembled
cavaliers to fury.

The count took advantage of the excitement of the moment to unfold his
plan. The main object was to dethrone Don Roderick, and give the crown to
the sons of the late King Witiza. By this means they would visit the sins
of the tyrant upon his head, and, at the same time, restore the regal
honors to their line. For this purpose their own force would be
sufficient; but they might procure the aid of Muza ben Nosier, the Arabian
general in Mauritania, who would no doubt gladly send a part of his troops
into Spain to assist in the enterprise.

The plot thus suggested by Count Julian received the unholy sanction of
Bishop Oppas, who engaged to aid it secretly with all his influence and
means: for he had great wealth and possessions, and many retainers. The
example of the reverend prelate determined all who might otherwise have
wavered, and they bound themselves by dreadful oaths to be true to the
conspiracy. Count Julian undertook to proceed to Africa and seek the camp
of Muza, to negotiate for his aid, while the bishop was to keep about the
person of King Roderick, and lead him into the net prepared for him.

All things being thus arranged, Count Julian gathered together his
treasure, and taking his wife and daughter and all his household,
abandoned the country he meant to betray; embarking at Malaga for Ceuta.
The gate in the wall of that city, through which they went forth,
continued for ages to bear the name of _Puerta de la Cava_, or the gate of
the harlot; for such was the opprobrious and unmerited appellation
bestowed by the Moors on the unhappy Florinda.

When Count Julian had placed his family in security in Ceuta, surrounded
by soldiery devoted to his fortunes, he took with him a few confidential
followers, and departed in secret for the camp of the Arabian Emir, Muza
ben Nozier. The camp was spread out in one of those pastoral vallies which
lie at the feet of the Barbary hills, with the great range of the Atlas
mountains towering in the distance. In the motley army here assembled were
warriors of every tribe and nation, that had been united by pact or
conquest in the cause of Islem. There were those who had followed Muza
from the fertile regions of Egypt, across the deserts of Barca, and those
who had joined his standard from among the sun-burnt tribes of Mauritania.
There were Saracen and Tartar, Syrian and Copt, and swarthy Moor;
sumptuous warriors from the civilized cities of the east, and the gaunt
and predatory rovers of the desert. The greater part of the army, however,
was composed of Arabs; but differing greatly from the first rude hordes
that enlisted under the banner of Mahomet. Almost a century of continual
wars with the cultivated nations of the east had rendered them
accomplished warriors; and the occasional sojourn in luxurious countries
and populous cities, had acquainted them with the arts and habits of
civilized life. Still the roving, restless, and predatory habits of the
genuine son of Ishmael prevailed, in defiance of every change of clime or
situation.

Count Julian found the Arab conqueror Muza surrounded by somewhat of
oriental state and splendor. He was advanced in life, but of a noble
presence, and concealed his age by tinging his hair and beard with henna.
The count assumed an air of soldier-like frankness and decision when he
came into his presence. 'Hitherto,' said he, 'we have been enemies; but I
come to thee in peace, and it rests with thee to make me the most devoted
of thy friends. I have no longer country or king. Roderick the Goth is an
usurper, and my deadly foe; he has wounded my honor in the tenderest
point, and my country affords me no redress. Aid me in my vengeance, and I
will deliver all Spain into thy hands: a land far exceeding in fertility
and wealth all the vaunted regions thou hast conquered in Tingitania.'

The heart of Muza leaped with joy at these words, for he was a bold and
ambitious conqueror, and having overrun all western Africa, had often cast
a wistful eye to the mountains of Spain, as he beheld them brightening
beyond the waters of the strait. Still he possessed the caution of a
veteran, and feared to engage in an enterprise of such moment, and to
carry his arms into another division of the globe, without the approbation
of his sovereign. Having drawn from Count Julian the particulars of his
plan, and of the means he possessed to carry it into effect, he laid them
before his confidential counsellors and officers, and demanded their
opinion. 'These words of Count Julian,' said he, 'may be false and
deceitful; or he may not possess the power to fulfil his promises. The
whole may be a pretended treason to draw us on to our destruction. It is
more natural that he should be treacherous to us than to his country.'

Among the generals of Muza was a gaunt swarthy veteran, scarred with
wounds; a very Arab, whose great delight was roving and desperate
enterprise; and who cared for nothing beyond his steed, his lance, and his
scimitar. He was a native of Damascus; his name was Taric ben Zeyad; but,
from having lost an eye, he was known among the Spaniards by the
appellation of Taric el Tuerto, or Taric the one-eyed.

The hot blood of this veteran Ishmaelite was in a ferment when he heard of
a new country to invade, and vast regions to subdue; and he dreaded lest
the cautious hesitation of Muza would permit the glorious prize to escape
them. 'You speak doubtingly,' said he, 'of the words of this Christian
cavalier, but their truth is easily to be ascertained. Give me four
galleys and a handful of men, and I will depart with this Count Julian,
skirt the Christian coast, and bring thee back tidings of the land, and of
his means to put it in our power.'

The words of the veteran pleased Muza ben Nosier, and he gave his consent;
and Taric departed with four galleys and five hundred men, guided by the
traitor Julian. This first expedition of the Arabs against Spain took
place, according to certain historians, in the year of our Lord seven
hundred and twelve; though others differ on this point, as indeed they do
upon almost every point in this early period of Spanish history. The date
to which the judicious chroniclers incline is that of seven hundred and
ten, in the month of July. It would appear from some authorities, also,
that the galleys of Taric cruised along the coasts of Andalusia and
Lusitania, under the feigned character of merchant barks; nor is this at
all improbable, while they were seeking merely to observe the land, and
get a knowledge of the harbors. Wherever they touched, Count Julian
despatched emissaries, to assemble his friends and adherents at an
appointed place. They gathered together secretly at Gezira Alhadra, that
is to say, the Green Island; where they held a conference with Count
Julian in presence of Taric ben Zeyad. Here they again avowed their
readiness to flock to his standard whenever it should be openly raised,
and made known their various preparations for a rebellion. Taric was
convinced, by all that he had seen and heard, that Count Julian had not
deceived them; either as to his disposition or his means to betray his
country. Indulging his Arab inclinations, he made an inroad into the land,
collected great spoil and many captives, and bore off his plunder in
triumph to Muza, as a specimen of the riches to be gained by the conquest
of the Christian land.

On hearing the tidings brought by Taric el Tuerto, and beholding the spoil
he had collected, Muza wrote a letter to the Caliph Waled Almanzor,
setting forth the traitorous proffer of Count Julian, and the probability,
through his means, of making a successful invasion of Spain. 'A new land,'
said he, 'spreads itself out before our delighted eyes, and invites our
conquest: a land, too, that equals Syria in the fertility of its soil, and
the serenity of its sky; Yemen, or Arabia the happy, in its delightful
temperature; India, in its flowers and spices; Hegias, in its fruits and
flowers; Cathay, in its precious minerals; and Aden, in the excellence of
its ports and harbors! It is populous also, and wealthy; having many
splendid cities, and majestic monuments of ancient art. What is to prevent
this glorious land from becoming the inheritance of the faithful? Already
we have overcome the tribes of Berbery, of Zab, of Derar, of Zaara,
Mazamuda, and Sus; and the victorious standard of Islem floats on the
towers of Tangier. But four leagues of sea separate us from the opposite
coast. One word from my sovereign, and the conquerors of Africa will pour
their legions into Andalusia, rescue it from the domination of the
unbeliever, and subdue it to the law of the Koran.'

The Caliph was overjoyed with the contents of the letter. 'God is great!'
exclaimed he, 'and Mahomet is his prophet! It has been foretold by the
ambassador of God, that his law should extend to the ultimate parts of the
west, and be carried by the sword into new and unknown regions. Behold,
another land is opened for the triumphs of the faithful! It is the will of
Allah, and be his sovereign will obeyed!' So the Caliph sent missives to
Muza, authorizing him to undertake the conquest.

Upon this there was a great stir of preparation; and numerous vessels were
assembled and equipped at Tangier, to convey the invading army across the
Straits. Twelve thousand men were chosen for this expedition: most of them
light Arabian troops, seasoned in warfare, and fitted for hardy and rapid
enterprise. Among them were many horsemen, mounted on fleet Arabian
steeds. The whole was put under the command of the veteran, Taric el
Tuerto, or the one-eyed, in whom Muza reposed implicit confidence, as in a
second self. Taric accepted the command with joy: his martial fire was
roused at the idea of having such an army under his sole command, and such
a country to overrun; and he secretly determined never to return unless
victorious.

He chose a dark night to convey his troops across the Straits of Hercules;
and, by break of day they began to disembark at Tarifa, before the country
had time to take the alarm. A few Christians hastily assembled from the
neighborhood and opposed their landing, but were easily put to flight.
Taric stood on the sea-side, and watched until the last squadron had
landed; and all the horses, armour, and munitions of war were brought on
shore: he then gave orders to set fire to the ships. The Moslems were
struck with terror when they beheld their fleet wrapped in flames and
smoke, and sinking beneath the waves. 'How shall we escape,' exclaimed
they, 'if the fortune of war should be against us?' 'There is no escape
for the coward!' cried Taric: 'the brave man thinks of none: your only
chance is victory.' 'But how, without ships, shall we ever return to our
homes?' 'Your home,' replied Taric, 'is before you; but you must win it
with your swords.'

While Taric was yet talking with his followers, says one of the ancient
chroniclers, a Christian female was described, waving a white pennon on a
reed, in signal of peace. On being brought into the presence of Taric she
prostrated herself before him. 'Senior,' said she, 'I am an ancient woman;
and it is now full sixty years, past and gone, since, as I was keeping
vigils one winter's night by the fireside, I heard my father, who was an
exceeding old man, read a prophecy, said to have been written by a holy
friar; and this was the purport of the prophecy: that a time would arrive
when our country would be invaded and conquered by a people from Africa,
of a strange garb, a strange tongue, and a strange religion. They were to
be led by a strong and valiant captain, who would be known by these signs:
on his right shoulder he would have a hairy mole, and his right arm would
be much longer than the left; and of such length as to enable him to cover
his knee with his hand without bending his body.'

Taric listened to the old beldame with grave attention; and, when she had
concluded, he laid bare his shoulder, and lo! there was the mole as it had
been described; his right arm, also, was, in verity, found to exceed the
other in length, though not to the degree that had been mentioned. Upon
this the Arab host shouted for joy, and felt assured of conquest.

The discreet Antonio Agapida, though he records this circumstance as it is
set down in ancient chronicle, yet withholds his belief from the pretended
prophecy, considering the whole a cunning device of Taric to increase the
courage of his troops. 'Doubtless,' says he, 'there was a collusion
between this ancient sybil and the crafty son of Ishmael; for these
infidel leaders were full of damnable inventions, to work upon the
superstitious fancies of their followers, and to inspire them with a blind
confidence in the success of their arms.'

Be this as it may, the veteran Taric took advantage of the excitement of
his soldiery, and led them forward to gain possession of a stronghold,
which was, in a manner, the key to all the adjacent country. This was a
lofty mountain, or promontory, almost surrounded by the sea; and connected
with the mainland by a narrow isthmus. It was called the rock of Calpe,
and, like the opposite rock of Ceuta, commanded the entrance to the
Mediterranean Sea. Here, in old times, Hercules had set up one of his
pillars, and the city of Heraclea had been built.

As Taric advanced against this promontory, he was opposed by a hasty levy
of the Christians, who had assembled under the banner of a Gothic noble of
great power and importance, whose domains lay along the mountainous coast
of the Mediterranean. The name of this Christian cavalier was Theodomir,
but he has universally been called Tadmir by the Arabian historians; and
is renowned as being the first commander that made any stand against the
inroad of the Moslems. He was about forty years of age; hardy, prompt, and
sagacious; and had all the Gothic nobles been equally vigilant and shrewd
in their defence, the banner of Islam would never have triumphed over the
land.

Theodomir had but seventeen hundred men under his command, and these but
rudely armed; yet he made a resolute stand against the army of Taric, and
defended the pass to the promontory with great valor. He was, at length,
obliged to retreat; and Taric advanced, and planted his standard on the
rock of Calpe, and fortified it as his stronghold, and as the means of
securing an entrance into the land. To commemorate his first victory, he
changed the name of the promontory, and called it Gibel Taric, or the
mountain of Taric; but, in process of time, the name has gradually been
altered to Gibraltar.

In the mean time, the patriotic chieftain, Theodomir, having collected his
routed forces, encamped with them on the skirts of the mountains, and
summoned the country round to join his standard. He sent off missives, in
all speed, to the king; imparting, in brief and blunt terms, the news of
the invasion, and craving assistance with equal frankness. 'Senior,' said
he, in his letter, 'the legions of Africa are upon us, but whether they
come from heaven or earth I know not. They seem to have fallen from the
clouds, for they have no ships. We have been taken by surprise,
overpowered by numbers, and obliged to retreat; and they have fortified
themselves in our territory. Send us aid, senior, with instant speed; or,
rather, come yourself to our assistance.'

When Don Roderick heard that legions of turbaned troops had poured into
the land from Africa, he called to mind the visions and predictions of the
necromantic tower, and great fear came upon him. But, though sunk from his
former hardihood and virtue, though enervated by indulgence, and degraded
in spirit by a consciousness of crime, he was resolute of soul, and roused
himself to meet the coming danger. He summoned a hasty levy of horse and
foot, amounting to forty thousand; but now were felt the effects of the
crafty council of Count Julian, for the best of the horses and armour
intended for the public service had been sent into Africa, and were really
in possession of the traitors. Many nobles, it is true, took the field
with the sumptuous array with which they had been accustomed to appear at
tournaments and jousts; but most of their vassals were destitute of
weapons, and cased in cuirasses of leather, or suits of armor almost
consumed by rust. They were without discipline or animation; and their
horses, like themselves pampered by slothful peace, were little fitted to
bear the heat, the dust, and toil, of long campaigns.

This army Don Roderick put under the command of his kinsman Ataulpho, a
prince of the royal blood of the Goths, and of a noble and generous
nature; and he ordered him to march with all speed to meet the foe, and to
recruit his forces on the way with the troops of Theodomir.

In the mean time, Taric el Tuerto had received large re-inforcements from
Africa, and the adherents of Count Julian, and all those discontented with
the sway of Don Roderick, had flocked to his standard; for many were
deceived by the representations of Count Julian, and thought that the
Arabs had come to aid him in placing the sons of Witiza upon the throne.
Guided by the count, the troops of Taric penetrated into various parts of
the country, and laid waste the land; bringing back loads of spoil to
their stronghold at the rock of Calpe.

The prince Ataulpho marched with his army through Andalusia, and was
joined by Theodomir with his troops; he met with various detachments of
the enemy foraging the country, and had several bloody skirmishes; but he
succeeded in driving them before him, and they retreated to the rock of
Calpe, where Taric lay gathered up with the main body of his army.

The prince encamped not far from the bay which spreads itself out before
the promontory. In the evening he despatched the veteran Theodomir, with a
trumpet, to demand a parley of the Arab chieftain, who received the envoy
in his tent, surrounded by his captains. Theodomir was frank and abrupt in
speech, for the most of his life had been passed far from courts. He
delivered, in round terms, the message of the Prince Ataulpho; upbraiding
the Arab general with his wanton invasion of the land, and summoning him
to surrender his army, or to expect no mercy.

The single eye of Taric el Tuerto glowed like a coal of fire at this
message. 'Tell your commander,' replied he, 'that I have crossed the
strait to conquer Spain, nor will I return until I have accomplished my
purpose. Tell him I have men skilled in war, and armed in proof, with
whose aid I trust soon to give a good account of his rabble host.'

A murmur of applause passed through the assemblage of Moslem captains.
Theodomir glanced on them a look of defiance, but his eye rested on a
renegado Christian, one of his own ancient comrades, and a relation of
Count Julian. 'As to you, Don Greybeard,' said he, 'you who turn apostate
in your declining age, I here pronounce you a traitor to your God, your
king, and country; and stand ready to prove it this instant upon your
body, if field be granted me.'

The traitor knight was stung with rage at these words, for truth rendered
them piercing to the heart. He would have immediately answered to the
challenge, but Taric forbade it, and ordered that the Christian envoy
should be conducted from the camp. ''Tis well,' replied Theodomir; 'God
will give me the field which you deny. Let yon hoary apostate look to
himself to-morrow in the battle, for I pledge myself to use my lance upon
no other foe until it has shed his blood upon the native soil he has
betrayed.' So saying, he left the camp; nor could the Moslem chieftains
help admiring the honest indignation of this patriot knight, while they
secretly despised his renegado adversary.

The ancient Moorish chroniclers relate many awful portents, and strange
and mysterious visions, which appeared to the commanders of either army
during this anxious night. Certainly it was a night of fearful suspense,
and Moslem and Christian looked forward with doubt to the fortune of the
coming day. The Spanish sentinel walked his pensive round, listening
occasionally to the vague sounds from the distant rock of Calpe, and
eyeing it as the mariner eyes the thunder cloud, pregnant with terror and
destruction. The Arabs, too, from their lofty cliffs beheld the numerous
camp-fires of the Christians gradually lighted up, and saw that they were
a powerful host; at the same time the night breeze brought to their ears
the sullen roar of the sea which separated them from Africa. When they
considered their perilous situation, an army on one side, with a whole
nation aroused to re-enforce it, and on the other an impassable sea, the
spirits of many of the warriors were cast down, and they repented the day
when they had ventured into this hostile land.

Taric marked their despondency, but said nothing. Scarce had the first
streak of morning light trembled along the sea, however, when he summoned
his principal warriors to his tent. 'Be of good cheer,' said he: 'Allah is
with us, and has sent his prophet to give assurance of his aid. Scarce had
I retired to my tent last night, when a man of a majestic and venerable
presence stood before me. He was taller by a palm than the ordinary race
of men; his flowing beard was of a golden hue, and his eyes were so bright
that they seemed to send forth flashes of fire. I have heard the Emir
Bahamet, and other ancient men, describe the prophet, whom they had seen
many times while on earth, and such was his form and lineament. 'Fear
nothing, O Taric, from the morrow,' said he, 'I will be with thee in the
fight. Strike boldly, then, and conquer. Those of thy followers who
survive the battle will have this land for an inheritance; for those who
fall, a mansion in paradise is prepared, and immortal houris await their
coming.' He spake and vanished; I heard a strain of celestial melody, and
my tent was filled with the odors of Arabia the Happy.' 'Such,' says the
Spanish chroniclers, 'was another of the arts by which this arch son of
Ishmael sought to animate the hearts of his followers;' and the pretended
vision had been recorded by the Arabian writers as a veritable occurrence.
Marvellous, indeed, was the effect produced by it upon the infidel
soldiery, who now cried out with eagerness to be led against the foe.

The gray summits of the rock of Calpe brightened with the first rays of
morning, as the Christian army issued forth from its encampment. The
Prince Ataulpho rode from squadron to squadron, animating his soldiers for
the battle. 'Never should we sheath our swords,' said he, 'while these
infidels have a footing in the land. They are pent up within yon rocky
mountain, we must assail them in their rugged hole. We have a long day
before us: let not the setting sun shine upon one of their host, who is
not a fugitive, a captive, or a corpse.'

The words of the prince were received with shouts, and the army moved
toward the promontory. As they advanced, they heard the clash of cymbals
and the bray of trumpets, and the rocky bosom of the mountain glittered
with helms and spears and scimetars; for the Arabs, inspired with fresh
confidence by the words of Taric, were sallying forth, with flaunting
banners, to the combat.

The gaunt Arab chieftain stood upon a rock as his troops marched by; his
buckler was at his back, and he brandished in his hand a double-pointed
spear. Calling upon the several leaders by their names, he exhorted them
to direct their attacks against the Christian captains, and especially
against Ataulpho; 'for the chiefs being slain,' said he, 'their followers
will vanish from before us like the morning mist.'

The Gothic nobles were easily to be distinguished by the splendor of their
arms; but the Prince Ataulpho was conspicuous above all the rest for the
youthful grace and majesty of his appearance, and the bravery of his
array. He was mounted on a superb Andalusian charger, richly caparisoned
with crimson velvet, embroidered with gold. His surcoat was of like color
and adornment, and the plumes that waved above his burnished helmet were
of the purest white. Ten mounted pages, magnificently attired, followed
him to the field, but their duty was not so much to fight as to attend
upon their lord, and to furnish him with steed or weapon.

The Christian troops, though irregular and undisciplined, were full of
native courage; for the old warrior spirit of their Gothic sires still
glowed in their bosoms. There were two battalions of infantry, but
Ataulpho stationed them in the rear; 'for God forbid,' said he, 'that foot
soldiers should have the place of honor in the battle, when I have so many
valiant cavaliers.' As the armies drew nigh to each other, however, it was
discovered that the advance of the Arabs was composed of infantry. Upon
this the cavaliers checked their steeds, and requested that the foot
soldiery might advance and disperse this losel crew, holding it beneath
their dignity to contend with pedestrian foes. The prince, however,
commanded them to charge; upon which, putting spurs to their steeds, they
rushed upon the foe.

The Arabs stood the shock manfully, receiving the horses upon the points
of their lances; many of the riders were shot down with bolts from
cross-bows, or stabbed with the poniards of the Moslems. The cavaliers
succeeded, however, in breaking into the midst of the battalion and
throwing it into confusion, cutting down some with their swords,
transpiercing others with their spears, and trampling many under the hoofs
of their horses. At this moment, they were attacked by a band of Spanish
horsemen, the recreant partisans of Count Julian. Their assault bore hard
upon their countrymen, who were disordered by the contest with the foot
soldiers, and many a loyal Christian knight fell beneath the sword of an
unnatural foe.

The foremost among these recreant warriors was the renegado cavalier whom
Theodomir had challenged in the tent of Taric. He dealt his blows about
him with a powerful arm and with malignant fury, for nothing is more
deadly than the hatred of an apostate. In the midst of his career he was
espied by the hardy Theodomir, who came spurring to the encounter:
'Traitor,' cried he, 'I have kept my vow. This lance has been held sacred
from all other foes to make a passage for thy perjured soul.' The renegado
had been renowned for prowess before he became a traitor to his country,
but guilt will sap the courage of the stoutest heart. When he beheld
Theodomir rushing upon him, he would have turned and fled; pride alone
withheld him; and, though an admirable master of defence, he lost all
skill to ward the attack of his adversary. At the first assault the lance
of Theodomir pierced him through and through; he fell to the earth,
gnashed his teeth as he rolled in the dust, but yielded his breath without
uttering a word.

The battle now became general, and lasted throughout the morning with
varying success. The stratagem of Taric, however, began to produce its
effect. The Christian leaders and most conspicuous cavaliers were singled
out, and severally assailed by overpowering numbers. They fought
desperately, and performed miracles of prowess; but fell, one by one,
beneath a thousand wounds. Still the battle lingered on throughout a great
part of the day; and as the declining sun shone through the clouds of
dust, it seemed as if the conflicting hosts were wrapped in smoke and
fire.

The Prince Ataulpho saw that the fortune of battle was against him. He
rode about the field calling out the names of the bravest of his knights,
but few answered to his call; the rest lay mangled on the field. With this
handful of warriors he endeavored to retrieve the day, when he was
assailed by Tenderos, a partisan of Count Julian, at the head of a body of
recreant Christians. At sight of this new adversary, fire flashed from the
eyes of the prince, for Tenderos had been brought up in his father's
palace. 'Well dost thou, traitor!' cried he, 'to attack the son of thy
lord, who gave thee bread; thou, who hast betrayed thy country and thy
God!'

So saying, he seized a lance from one of his pages, and charged furiously
upon the apostate; but Tenderos met him in mid career, and the lance of
the prince was shivered upon his shield. Ataulpho then grasped his mace,
which hung at his saddle bow, and a doubtful fight ensued. Tenderos was
powerful of frame and superior in the use of his weapons, but the curse of
treason seemed to paralyze his arm. He wounded Ataulpho slightly between
the greaves of his armor, but the prince dealt a blow with his mace that
crushed through helm and skull, and reached the brains; and Tenderos fell
dead to the earth, his armor rattling as he fell.

At the same moment a javelin, hurled by an Arab, transpierced the horse of
Ataulpho, which sunk beneath him. The prince seized the reins of the steed
of Tenderos; but the faithful animal, as though he knew him to be the foe
of his late lord, reared and plunged, and refused to let him mount. The
prince, however, used him as a shield to ward off the press of foes:
while, with his sword, he defended himself against those in front of him.
Taric ben Zeyad arrived at the scene of conflict, and paused, for a
moment, in admiration of the surpassing prowess of the prince:
recollecting, however, that his fall would be a death-blow to his army, he
spurred upon him, and wounded him severely with his scimetar. Before he
could repeat his blow, Theodomir led up a body of Christian cavaliers to
the rescue, and Taric was parted from his prey by the tumult of the fight.
The prince sank to the earth, covered with wounds, and exhausted by the
loss of blood. A faithful page drew him from under the hoofs of the
horses, and, aided by a veteran soldier, an ancient vassal of Ataulpho,
conveyed him to a short distance from the field of battle, by the side of
a small stream that gushed out from among rocks. They staunched the blood
that flowed from his wounds, and washed the dust from his face, and laid
him beside the fountain. The page sat at his head, and supported it on his
knees; and the veteran stood at his feet, with his brow bent, and his eyes
full of sorrow. The prince gradually revived, and opened his eyes. 'How
fares the battle?' said he. 'The struggle is hard,' replied the soldier,
'but the day may yet be ours.'

The prince felt that the hour of his death was at hand, and ordered that
they should aid him to rise upon his knees. They supported him between
them, and he prayed fervently for a short time, when, finding his strength
declining, he beckoned the veteran to sit down beside him on the rock.
Continuing to kneel, he confessed himself to that ancient soldier; having
no priest or friar to perform that office in this hour of extremity. When
he had so done, he sunk again upon the earth, and pressed it with his
lips, as if he would take a fond farewell of his beloved country. The page
would then have raised his head, but found that his lord had yielded up
the ghost.

A number of Arab warriors, who came to the fountain to slake their thirst,
cut off the head of the prince and bore it in triumph to Taric, crying,
'Behold the head of the Christian leader!' Taric immediately ordered that
the head should be put upon the end of a lance, together with the surcoat
of the prince, and borne about the field of battle, with the sound of
trumpets, atabels, and cymbals.

When the Christians beheld the surcoat, and knew the features of the
prince, they were struck with horror, and heart and hand failed them.
Theodomir endeavored in vain to rally them; they threw by their weapons
and fled; and they continued to fly, and the enemy to pursue and slay
them, until the darkness of the night. The Moslems then returned, and
plundered the Christian camp, where they found abundant spoil.




STANZAS TO E----.


  Where the young mountain river
    Springs for the far-off ocean;
  Where the fresh leaflets quiver
    With a delightful motion;
  Oh! thither hie, and see
  How Nature's youth doth tell of thee.

  Where hang the sweet wild roses,
    And the pale lilies drooping;
  Where the violet reposes
    'Neath young leaves o'er it stooping;
  Oh! wander there, and see
  How Nature's beauty speaks of thee.

  Where the glad brook is bringing
    Sweet music never dying;
  Where the bright birds are singing,
    And gentle winds are sighing;
  Oh! thither go with me,
  And list to Nature's song of thee.

  Where ivy is entwining,
    The stern tree's branch down-bending;
  Where flowers are e'er combining
    Their perfume, heaven-ascending;
  Oh! roam thou there, and see
  How Nature's love breathes but of thee.




BELISARIUS.


  The trumpet's voice had stirred the sky,
  And rustling banners waved on high;
  The shouts of victory went up,
  And wreaths of laurel crowned the cup
  That flowed amid the festal halls,
  Within the crowded city's walls;
  Stern warriors came in long array
  To grace the conqueror's pageant day:
  Triumphant peeled the clarion's tone
  And spears and glancing armor shone,
  Mid the dust of thousands sweeping by,
  Like meteors in a midnight sky.
  They'd left behind their hosts of slain
  Upon the far-off battle plain,
  And brought the marks of conquest back;
  Proud trophies glittered on their track:
  Rich armor from the vanquished won,
  Bright jewels glancing in the sun;
  A captive monarch's golden throne,
  And heaps of countless treasure shone;
  But prouder, nobler spoils and high,
  Adorned that mighty pageantry.
  Reluctantly, with lofty form,
  Like strong oaks blasted by the storm
  But not bowed down, the captives came,
  Their dark brows flushed with grief and shame;
  And he, their sovereign, king no more,
  In mockery the purple wore.
  His the proud step, majestic mien,
  The lip compressed and look serene
  That mark a spirit strong and high,
  A soul that smiles on destiny.
  As surges breaking on the shore,
  Or like the distant torrents roar,
  The shouts of victory rolled afar.
  And shook the hills, as the victor's car
  Gorgeous and bright was borne along
  By the swift rush of the gathered throng.
    A glorious sight on his haughty way,
  With laurel crown, and mail-clad breast,
  With waving plume and princely crest,
    Was the conqueror on that day.

       *     *     *     *     *

  An old man paced the guarded room,
  With quivering lip and brow of gloom,
  And his silver hair in the moonlight shone
  Like the grayish front of a time-worn stone;
  Nor voice, nor sound the still air woke,
  Till his burning words the silence broke:


                I.

    'Where is the shining car
      And where the gorgeous train?
    Fled as the falling star
      That sunk behind the main!

               II.

    'Where is the victor's crown?
      The pageant sweeping past?
    Gone with the thistle-down,
      Swept by the hurrying blast.

              III.

    'Where is the trump of Fame
      That woke the startled air?
    'Tis like my branded name,
      And like my dying prayer.

              IV.

    'I've braved the din and strife
      Of many a battle-plain,
    And lavished strength and life;
      My guerdon is a chain!

               V.

    'I brought a true heart brave,
      A spirit bold and free,
    Free as the ocean wave;
      My country! unto thee.

               VI.

    'I had not thought to start
      Before thy stinging frown;
    Wo for the trusting heart!
      Wo for the laurel crown!'

_Shelter Island_.                                       MARY GARDINER.




A VERITABLE GHOST STORY.

  'There are more things in heaven and earth
  Than are dreamed of in our philosophy.'


Some forty years since, an elderly English gentleman, who had been
successful in his pursuit after wealth in the British metropolis,
determined upon purchasing an estate in the country, upon which he might
retire and enjoy the residue of life in unostentatious ease and quiet. He
was a man of elegant tastes and fond of antiquarian pursuits. This latter
predilection induced him, in his various summer journeyings in England, to
select from among those old inns or taverns which are invariably to be met
with in every ancient borough or market-town, the most respectable one, as
the place at which he would put up; and when 'mine host' gave token of
being a gentleman, his companionship would generally be requested, through
a card by the waiter, bearing the compliments of the guest, with a hope
that it might be convenient for the landlord to favor him with his company
over a bottle of wine. This was the almost invariable plan adopted, when
he was unaccompanied with his 'better half.' It will readily be conceived
that in these tete-a-tete gossipings, a great fund of anecdote and
legendary tales had been gleaned, which were made subservient to the
entertainment of friends when assembled around the social board. It is
from this fund of gossip to which I have so often listened, that I propose
to select one which, owing to my close relationship to the stout
gentleman, has been to me a source of no little interest, even as a
'thrice-told tale.' The incident occurred at the time when he was in
search of the estate to which I have alluded in the commencement of this
sketch.

It was late in the evening, in the spring of the year, when he arrived at
the destined stopping-place for the night, which if I remember rightly was
the ancient borough of St. Albans. Here he selected an inn according to
his usual taste; an old rambling disjointed patch-work piece of
architecture, the gradual accumulation of many preceding generations,
where might be seen rude carvings of grinning nondescript monsters
supporting the projecting stories as they each hung over the side-walk;
large and small casement windows, with square mullions and gothic arches,
and many a gabled roof fronting on the street, where at their junction the
continuous gutters projected in the form of long pipes, which in rainy
weather discharged cataracts of water, deluging the unfortunate pedestrian
who should unwittingly prefer the side-walk to the rough paved road. In
the centre of this pile of buildings was the gate-way, large enough to
admit coaches with outside passengers; and under its ample, shadowy
shelter would be found the entrance to the building itself. On one side
was the door to the tap-room, used by post-boys, servants, and the like
class, while on the opposite side the glazed door led to the coffee-room
and the more respectable apartments. Here Boniface would present himself
whenever a carriage drove up, to give a hearty welcome to his guests. The
interior, in accordance with the outside, was composed of low, spacious
rooms, wainscoated in oaken pannels, blackened with age, but brightly
polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the
floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered
with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their
appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades
of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to
be used nightly.

Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by
the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the
newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps
anticipate, in company with 'mine host.' It was spring, as I have before
said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a
table upon which sparkled generous wine, 'that maketh glad the heart of
man,' gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout
gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm
chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many
a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.

'And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the
foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Caesar; and infer
from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is
a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover
over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this
tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old
haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our
every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more
truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.'

'Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?' observed Boniface.

'Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimes longed to
make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of
nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel
of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his
antics about your premises, my worthy host?'

Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing
himself, he at last admitted that 'there was some idle story of the kind,
but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.'

'Well, of course,' said his guest, 'it must be some particular room that
is thus honored?'

'Well?' was the deferential rejoinder, in a tone denoting a wish to hear
the deduction.

'Then, if it is a bed-chamber, snug and comfortable, do me the favor to
apportion it to me for the night.'

'Most certainly, if you are serious,' rejoined Boniface; 'it shall be made
ready immediately; but I assure you that my patrons seldom give it the
preference.'

Hereupon the bell was rung, and the waiter presenting himself, was
requested to direct the chamber-maid to prepare the large room, and to see
that the bed was well aired, and to tell Boots to take the gentleman's
trunk up, to kindle a fire, and to see that every thing was tidy.

The evening was thus whiled away until the hour of eleven had arrived,
when the great stillness of the house betokened the time for retiring.
Accordingly, the chamber-maid was summoned, and with a candle in each
hand, she led the way up a wide stair-case, graced with twisted bannisters
and of easy ascent, terminating on a long corridor, the floor full of
uncertain undulations, running the entire length of the building. At the
end was a door, which upon opening, discovered a room of large
proportions, with a low ceiling divided into square compartments. Here our
traveller was no sooner installed and left alone, than he locked the door;
then with candle in hand he began to examine each crack and cranny, but
could find nothing suspicious. There were few things in it worthy of note,
excepting a large bed with drawn curtains of dazzling whiteness; a most
ample hearth, on which was blazing a bundle of dry faggots, sending forth
a warm, cheerful light into the room, more powerful than both the candles.
This huge fire-place, with its concomitant ornament, a profusely-carved
mantel-piece of the usual time-stained oak, was at least five feet high,
and more than two feet broad; its ingenious workmanship occupied his
attention, and kept him for some time engaged in curious admiration of its
exquisite quaintness. The other furniture consisted of chairs, a
chest-of-drawers, and a table, all the work of a former age. An easy chair
was placed in the middle of the room, in which the stout gentleman
composed himself luxuriously for a short time. The room however was too
large to be easily warmed, and he soon abandoned it for the bed, but not
before he had raked the remaining brands together and extinguished the
candles. Not feeling at once the influence of the drowsy god, he abandoned
himself to many fanciful speculations. He marvelled why it was that the
concurrence of all ages and nations, enlightened or ignorant, savage or
civilized, should have so uniformly led to the belief in good and evil
spirits wandering at large on the earth, not subject to the laws of
matter, save in the sensation of sight and hearing. The creditable phalanx
of names of distinguished persons who had placed their veracity on the
side of believers, as having themselves been visited by the inhabitants of
the other world, was opposed by his own experience; for although he had
frequently thought he had been so honored, yet upon investigating the
cause, he had invariably found it to be a mere delusion.

It was not long however that he was suffered thus to enjoy himself; for
hearing a slight noise near the fire-place, he turned his head, and saw a
deformed, dwarfish body emerge from the shadowy part of the room, proceed
stealthily toward the fire, over which he rubbed his thin, attenuated
hands, and then placing them under their opposite arms, he hugged himself
in evident comfort. The fire had by this time so far dwindled away as to
be only a handful of smouldering embers, which cast but an exceedingly
feeble and uncertain light, sufficient only to reveal the general outline
of the pigmy spectre. The old gentleman, with strained eyes, attentively
observed his motions, till from very weariness, caused by looking through
a light so dim, he began to doubt whether he saw truly: he reasoned with
himself, but with no satisfactory result; till at last, desirous of
'making assurance doubly sure,' he gently enlarged his look-out in the
slightly-opened curtains in order that he might more attentively observe
the room; but all was darkness, save in the immediate vicinity of the
fire. The removal of the curtain however had made a rustling noise, which
had given the alarm to the spectre-imp, who immediately vanished into the
gloom of the apartment on the side of the fire-place.

This was no sooner observed by the wide-awake old gentleman, than he
jumped out of bed, resolved to give chase; but although stout gentlemen
are generally no-wise active, not a second had elapsed before he reached
the hearth, and scattering the embers in order to obtain more light, he
looked carefully around, but no trace of the phantom could be seen. A few
seconds more, and one of the candles was lighted, when the room was again
subjected to a more rigid scrutiny; but all to no purpose; for the door
remained locked, and the closet-doors were equally secure; nothing was
under the bed, nor behind the table; the easy-chair could afford no
shelter; in the front of every lower tier of pannels was some article of
furniture, which effectually prevented their being used suddenly; beside,
how could the furniture be reaedjusted? The upper ones were too high to be
at all likely to afford the means of such quick concealment. Hence he was
completely mystified, amazed, perplexed. His mental powers were in a
whirl; until at length he became perfectly bewildered, and concluded that
he had been dreaming, or had been taking a short trot on a night-mare;
and with this latter idea he returned, shivering like an ague, to his cold
bed. The candle was now suffered to burn, and pillowing his head high, so
as to see all around, the curtains having been previously withdrawn, he
determined to keep vigilant watch. At length becoming composed and
comfortably warm, he distinctly recalled the whole train of thought which
had preceded the appearance of the strange phantom. Finally, he concluded
that if it were all a dream, an illusion, never was a dream or an illusion
so like reality. He must from henceforth doubt the evidence of his senses.
Thus he reasoned and doubted, doubted and reasoned, until the candle's
light and all around had faded into dimness. Slumber gradually usurped its
sway, and he slept till late next morning. On awaking, the whole affair
was too vividly remembered, for him to settle down into a belief that he
had dreamed. He was determined to satisfy himself. It was not long before
his feet were in his slippers; and throwing on his dressing-gown, he went
the round of another and still another examination, with no more
satisfactory result than before; until at last, tired with conjecture, he
dismissed it from his mind, and completed his toilet.

At the breakfast-table, he simply remarked, in reply to the inquiry if he
had slept well, that he had dreamed the room was haunted by a dwarfish
ghost, but he pretended to believe that it was only a dream.

'There!' rejoined the auditor; '_others_ have dreamed the same thing!'

The discussion of the creature-comforts on the table was too interesting
to permit a discussion of discomforts, and inquiry was silenced.

The morning sun was shining brightly, tempting the healthful to enjoy his
cheerful beams. It was not long therefore before our traveller was seen
taking the direction to the old abbey-church. The sight of such ancient
buildings was always keenly relished by him, by reason of his antiquarian
tastes; but in this instance, it led to the clearing up of the last
night's mystery; for in his rambles around this immense pile of
architecture, he literally 'stumbled upon' an old friend, who was
connected with the parish affairs, and was consequently enabled to give
much interest to his descriptions of the place. The last night's events
were of course not forgotten; in fact it was all circumstantially
detailed, even to a minute description of the dwarf.

'Well, well,' was the reply, 'I think I can show you the living facsimile
of your fancied dream; the only thing which puzzles me is to account for
his entrance to your chamber. Let us step into the house adjoining the
inn, and you shall judge for yourself.'

They accordingly adjourned to the place indicated; and there the very imp
himself was actually felt and handled! It required some coaxing, not
unmixed with threats, before he could be prevailed upon to unfold the
secrets of his prison-house, but they were finally extorted. It seemed,
that up stairs, on a level with the haunted chamber, was a closet,
immediately back of the fire-place with the carved oaken mantelpiece, once
side of which, it will be remembered, was at least two feet wide; and its
curious carvings were so adroitly made as to conceal the cracks of that
part which opened as a door: this, if even left ajar, would still be in
shadow from the fire on the hearth, and consequently an instant of time
was only necessary for the person near by to make his escape, and to
effectually conceal the mode by which it was accomplished. The brick jam
was of course hollow, and led to the back of the closet in the next house;
which, being pannelled all around, and situated against a solid wall, as
was supposed, had eluded discovery after the builders had passed away. How
this misshapen piece of humanity had re-discovered it, I never knew; but I
fancy that, accidentally being in the closet at the time when there had
been a noise made in the fire-place, either from kindling a fire or
cleaning it; and hearing this noise distinctly, might have suggested to
him to try the back; which, opening inside of the secret passage, might
have been forced from its spring-catch; while the holes in the carved work
of the mantel enabled him to see if any one was in the room; and thus
prevent an intrusion which would lead to his detection.

                                                              G. R. V.




REVES ET SOUVENIRS.


  I.

  I remember roaming lonely by the mournful forest streams,
  The loveliness and melody of childhood's happy dreams;
  Pale flowers, the vermeil-tinted, lightly fanned by vernal breeze,
  Whose fitful breath went sighingly among the solemn trees;
  Sunny streamlets, gushing clearly in their fresh and tameless glee,
  Sparkling onward, ever onward, toward a golden summer sea.
  Fairy isles of green were sleeping on its softly-heaving breast,
  Where the chime of waves low rippling forever lulled to rest.
  The slanting sunbeams wandered through each quiet vale and dell,
  Shaded glen, and gray old cavern, where the foamy cascade fell;
  And birds, the starry-wing'd, flitting through the rich perfume,
  Filled with their gladsome minstrelsy the depths of leafy gloom.


  II.

  I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,
  The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,
  Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,
  Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart's unrest.
  They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,
  Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shall _they_ come back no more?
  Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyes
  In soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;
  Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,
  Ever varying like the opal's hue: and often have I deemed
  They were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,
  From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!


  III.

  To my memory come back darkly in the stilly midnight hour,
  Dim and faded now, the pictures of Life's early glow and power,
  When the world was arched with halos of hopes unmixed with fears,
  And I marvelled they should tell me but of sorrowing and tears!
  When my spirit loved to revel in its palaces of dreams,
  Lit with lightning-flash of fancy, rosy bloom and starry gleams;
  Listening to the choral harmonies that filled each lofty dome,
  Like the clear and liquid music in the Nereid's azure home.
  And it looked from its proud towers on the Future's magic scene,
  Till the Present grew all gladsome with the brightness of its sheen;
  Far off-notes of triumph swelling, floated up from years to come,
  Silver blast of clarion blending with the roll of stormy drum!


  IV.

  I remember, I remember, in my vigils cold and lone,
  Brilliant reveries, burning fantasies, forever fled and gone!
  Stately visions passed before me in the mystic realms of Mind,
  Shapes of glory lightly wafted on the balmy summer wind;
  Forms of pale and pensive loveliness, with eyes like pensile stars,
  Such as never yet were beaming 'mid this world's discordant jars.
  And their whispers wild, unearthly, unutterable, fell
  like a harp-string's dying echo, or a fair young spirit's knell,
  On my soul amid the shadows of my native forest trees,
  Rustling melancholy, lowly, in the wailing of the breeze,
  Till, unknowing pain or agony, I've wept such blissful tears
  As shall never, never flow again 'mid darker later years!


  V.

  I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone,
  The gifted and the beautiful, from Time's sad wasting flown,
  Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even,
  Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven!
  Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring,
  Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud's raven wing.
  Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray,
  Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away!
  And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief
  'Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth's unquiet grief;
  So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes,
  And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies!


  VI.

  I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old,
  Whose 'winged-words' of power had once like glorious music rolled;
  Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame,
  Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame;
  Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears,
  Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years.
  And I've read in hoary records solemn story of the dead,
  The mighty, the immortal, with their souls' vast treasures fled.
  The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire,
  Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre;
  And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above,
  In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love.


  VII.

  I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul,
  As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll,
  And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came,
  Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame;
  And a deep voice murmured: 'Destiny, that wrought thy web of life,
  Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife.
  And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may,
  Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!'
  Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood,
  Dim and shadowy and tearful, o'er my haunted solitude;
  And a wind-harp waileth lowly 'mid the swell of joyous song,
  Breathing from the lips of beauty o'er the listening festal throng.


  VIII.

  I am weary, I am weary! Cometh not across my breast
  Transient thought of that which shall be, presage of better rest?
  And the sounds of early spring-time with an inner meaning fraught,
  Seem the last notes of a requiem from some old minster brought;
  Solemn mass for gentle spirits, the unsullied and the true,
  Gone with all their bright aspirings, like the fragrant morning dew.
  Yet the visions of their soulful glance, and the intellectual brow,
  The memory of their poet words, is present with me now!
  Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,
  Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!
  Emblems fit of life's dark heaving, and of that blessed shore
  Where these weary DREAMS and MEMORIES shall sadden me no more!




A FIRST NIGHT OF RACINE.

FROM DE JOUY'S 'HERMITE' OF THE FOURTH OF JANUARY, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND
TWELVE.

    Voila de vos arrets, Messieurs les Gens de Gout!

                                                  PRIOR LA METROMAINE.


Every-body has a hobby-horse, as the English say, on which he is mounted,
even when sneering at the steeds of his neighbors. The wits themselves are
not exempt from this mental preoeccupation, which brings every taste to
bear upon only one point. Some ruin themselves in books, some in pictures
and statues, others in minerals, shells, or medals. The bibliomaniac, the
picture-dealer, the naturalist, the numismatist, all appear to me equally
absurd. I speak of course of those who have the collecting mania without
the love of science. They play at science as we play at cards, and the
ridiculous part of the matter is, the perfect seriousness with which they
do it.

One of my friends has become infatuated with a taste which is much less
common; one that he brought back with him from his travels, together with
albums, mnemonics, and Kant's Philosophy. It is a taste for autograph
letters. It is well known that the English, who are always ready to
confound what is rare with what is really admirable, are very successful
in their curiosities of this kind. They collect them at a great expense,
and employ skilful engravers to reproduce fac-similes for second-rate
amateurs, whose whole fortune would not suffice for the acquisition of the
originals.

Last week I came upon my friend the autographist, just as he was receiving
a note of Boileau, of only four lines, in which he regrets that he cannot
dine the next day with a Mr. Le Vasseur. This note, written in the most
simple style, contained no anecdote, nor curious fact, and was only
remarkable for a fault in its orthography. So that all the respect I have
for our great critic did not prevent me from testifying some surprise,
when I saw my friend pay ten Louis for a paper rag of no value at all.

'I understand your astonishment,' he said; 'but to complete a collection,
no matter of what kind, one must make sacrifices;' and at the same time he
placed his precious paper in a _carton_, labelled '_Age of Louis XIV._'
'You see,' he continued, pointing to a part of his library where several
similar cartons were arranged, 'you see the result of my collections for
some years. I have sixty thousand francs' worth of autographs in that
corner.'

'For which you cannot get ten from the grocer at the next corner, who is
probably the only person to whom the rubbish would be of any use.'

'Vandal!' he exclaimed, with a mixture of indignation and contempt; 'you
talk like a man whom posterity will never mention. Look at the names you
have insulted! Look at this letter from Montaigne to Boetius, so illegible
that it has never been printed; look at that billet of Henry IV. to the
Duchesse de Verneuil; and that Sonnet of Malherbe, written entirely by
Bacon's own hand; that letter from Madame de Maintenon to Father Le
Tellier; that order from the Prince the night before the battle of
Senef--'

'Even if I were wishing,' I answered, 'to share your veneration for some
of these relics which excite so many historical recollections, I should
not laugh the less at the zeal with which you preserve all that waste
paper, which has nothing to recommend it. For instance, what is this
letter worth which I have just taken up? It is signed by a Marquis
d'Hernouville, whom no one ever heard of, and directed to a Comte de
Monchevreuil, who is remembered only for one or two instances of gallantry
in the field, and for having been, if I am not mistaken, the governor of
the Duc de Maine.'

'You could not have furnished me with a better opportunity of proving to
you that we always run some risk in assertions upon subjects of which we
know nothing. Oblige me by reading that letter, and then laugh, if you
can, at the importance which I attach to similar papers.'

Never, I must own, was triumph more complete. Not only did I confess,
after having perused it, that it was well worthy of the honor of the
port-folio, but I begged him to let me copy it for publication. I had some
difficulty in obtaining this favor, which was only granted me in exchange
of a letter of Hyder Ali Khan to Suffren, which I promised to send him.

This is the letter of the Marquis, which I certify to be in every respect
a true copy of the original:

                                      '_Paris, the 30 December, 1669._

'I seize the occasion, my dear Comte, afforded me by a cold which has kept
me some days by the fire-side, to send you news from this part of the
country. The most important, and what will give you the most pleasure is,
that M. de Guise has obtained the favor of a cushion at the King's mass;
he did not fail to make use of it on Sunday, and between ourselves, with
rather too much ostentation. Every one expects wonders from the Marquis de
Chastet, who has boasted that he will soon bring the Algerians to terms,
but I have no faith in his predictions. The Duc de Vermandois has been
raised to the dignity of Admiral. Madame de la Valliere received this mark
of the royal favor with the most perfect indifference. I am quite of your
opinion: that woman is not in her proper place.

'Did your brother write you that we went together to the first
representation of Britannicus? Some admirers of Racine had praised the
piece so much to me, that not being able to get a box, I sent my valet at
ten o'clock to keep a place for me. I thought that I should never reach
the Hotel de Bourgogne, although I left my carriage at the corner of the
Rue Mauconseil: without Chapelle and Mauvillain, who know all the actors
in Paris, I should never have succeeded in getting a place. Do not mistake
this eagerness of the public; there was much more malevolence than
curiosity in it. I paid my respects to Madame de Sevigne in her box, where
I found Mesdames de Villars, de Coulanges and de La Fayette, escorted by
the little Abbe de Villars and de Grignau the _Frondeur_. You may imagine
what treatment Britannicus received in that box. Madame de Sevigne said
the other day at Madame de Villarceau's that 'Le Racine passerait comme le
cafe.' This speech made every one laugh; all agreed that it was as just as
it was good. What I most like is the presumption of this tragedy student,
who undertakes to make Romans talk for us after our great, our sublime
Corneille; but some people think that they can do any thing. I never saw
the Hotel de Bourgogne so brilliant. Such a fashionable audience deserved
a better piece. The people in the pit yawned, and those in the boxes went
to sleep. Vilandry was snoring away in the box of the Commandeur de
Louvre. Since he dines at that table, the best kept in Paris, he goes to
the theatre to digest _haciendo la siesta_, wakes up when all is over, and
pronounces the play detestable. I cannot understand what pleasure the
brave and witty Commandeur can take in the society of a man who never
opens his mouth but to eat. Despreaux, (Boileau,) beside whom I was
sitting, was furious at the coldness of the pit. He protested that it was
Racine's chef d'oeuvre; that the ancients had never written any thing
finer; that neither Tacitus nor Corneille had ever produced any thing more
forcible. He had like to have quarrelled with Subligny, because in the
scene where Nero hides behind a curtain to listen to Junia, he could not
restrain a burst of laughter, which was echoed all over the house. Perhaps
this bad play will furnish him with the materials for another 'Folle
Querelle,'[3] which will make us laugh as much as the first. Ninon and the
Prince sided with Despreaux. They defended the ground inch by inch, but
without being able to cover the retreat of Britannicus. I am curious to
know how the little rival of the great Corneille will take this failure,
for it certainly is one. The worst of the business for him is, that every
one remarked some very clear and very audacious allusions. The King said
nothing about them; but yesterday at his levee, he countermanded a ballet
in which he was to have danced at St. Germain. This may put our poet
somewhat out of favor at court; but what the devil have poets to do there?

    [3] Parody of 'Andromache:' RACINE'S first tragedy of any note.

'Floridor was sublime. You would have sworn that he had wagered to make
one of the worst parts he overplayed successful. I cannot tell you much of
the plot of this tragedy. How could I hear it? I sat between your brother
and the fat Vicomte. Nevertheless you may rely on me that it is bad,
decidedly bad, whatever the satirist may say about it. I am quite of his
opinion when he says, 'That a work of that importance must be listened to
with attention, and that it is unjust to pronounce upon a play in the
midst of the clamors of theatre-factions, and the chattering of that crowd
of women who are always eager to display themselves at a first
representation.' All this is very true, but not at all applicable in this
instance. This time Racine is well judged. The denouement is the most
ridiculous I ever heard. Imagine that silly, conceited Junia turning
vestal, as if Madame de Sennes were to enter the Ursuline Convent. Heaven
forbid that I should play the scholar; but I have read in Menage that it
required other formalities to take the veil in the convent of ladies of
the society of Vesta. I forgot the most essential. Your little Desoeuillet
played like an angel. I spoke to her about you in her box. I think that
you had better come and speak about it yourself. She is a girl for whom
constancy is only the interval that separates two fancies.

'If you ever get the _Nouvelles a la Main_ where you are, you will see
Racine handled without gloves. The number which treats of his play has not
yet appeared; but if Le Clerc does things as he should, and remembers the
just resentment of d'Olonne and de Crequi,[4] from whom he received two
hundred pistoles, poor Britannicus will pay for Andromache.

    [4] Alluding to an epigram of RACINE on D'OLONNE and DE CREQUI,
        written to revenge himself for their attacks on 'Andromache.'

'Gourrilu has probably given you the perfumes you ordered for your pretty
cousin; Martial would not receive the money. He said that he was in your
debt. Dubroussin sends his love. We had such a charming supper at his
house! You were the only one wanting. I was obliged to bring Chapelle home
in my carriage, dead drunk: to pay for it, I left him the next day under
the table at _La Pomme de Pin_, where he has passed more than one night.

'I shall try to get to the levee next Sunday. My uncle is doing his best
to make me rejoin my regiment. If he should succeed, I shall see you on my
way. I should much prefer to have the meeting take place here; but
whatever happens, believe me, etc.,

                                                        'HERNOUVILLE.'




STANZAS TO MARY.


  Thine eye is like the violet,
    Thou hast the lily's grace;
  And the pure thoughts of a maiden's heart
    Are writ upon thy face.
  And like a pleasant melody
    To which memory hath clung,
  Falls thy voice in the loved accent
    Of mine own New-England tongue.

  New-England--dear New-England!
    All numberless they lie,
  The green graves of my people,
    Beneath her far blue sky;
  And the same bright sun that shineth
    On thy home at early morn,
  Lights the dwellings of my kindred,
    And the house where I was born.

  Oh, fairest of her daughters!
    That bid'st me so rejoice
  'Neath the starlight of thy beauty
    And the music of thy voice,
  While Memory hath power
    In my breast her joys to wake,
  I will love thee, Mary, for thine own
    And for New-England's sake.

                                                          M. E. HEWITT.




ON RIVERS AND OTHER THINGS.

    If I were as tedious as a King, I could find in my heart to bestow
    it all on your worship.--SHAKS.


It is a comfort still remaining to me, to reflect, that after all the evil
that the Tourists, the Reviewers and the Satirists of England together
have said and done and imagined of America, they have never yet
annihilated our Lakes; dispossessed us of our Rivers; disproved our
Waterfalls; nor made bitter to us, our fountains and streams and brooks
and water-courses. I thank GOD with a full heart that from whatever cause
these still abide unchanged among us; still flow, still control the ear
with the majesty of sound, and make glad the solitary places of the heart.

It is not often indeed that they admit the existence of these objects in
set terms; nor introduce into their works a paragraph upon the subject:
nor would any one who had never visited America be expressly informed
perhaps by them, that our part of the world contained within its compass
any thing at all comparable in the way of Rivers to the Thames or the
Tweed; or to the ponds of Cumberland in the way of Lakes; or to the Pisse
Vache in Switzerland in the way of a fall of water: but yet they have not
deprived us of them; and, incidentally, when they sometimes mention their
having been shockingly annoyed and incommoded by a scrub, who spat several
times upon the floor of the steamer in their presence, during a trip of
three hundred, five hundred or a thousand miles that they have had the
mishap to make with him, (instead of using his stomach like a true born
Englishman, or his parti-coloured flag of abomination like a continental
personage,) they give the reader some idea of the scope of a River or of a
Lake in America. Or, when they note down that a parcel of knaves, with
sterling money of the realm of Great Britain, borrowed doubtless for the
purpose and, as they verily believe, never repaid to this hour, bought a
merchant ship; loaded her with every variety of live animals like an ark,
and then cruelly and nefariously precipitated her over the Falls of
Niagara, in order to gratify that national tendency for a great SPLASH,
which exists universally in every form throughout the whole of that
wretched experiment at self-government called the United States--they then
give the untravelled reader some conception of an American Fall of Water.
One may therefore with confidence write down in a grave Essay like this,
and expect it to be believed even by those who have not Morse's Geography
before their eyes, that there still is, and long has been, a fall of Water
by common courtesy distinguished as The Cataract of Niagara; and a river
in the State of Connecticut, called, without any of our 'usual'
cisatlantic inflation, Connecticut River.

I pass over all further preliminary matter, and proceed at once to state,
that the steamer which leaves New-York in the course of the afternoon,
enters, during the night, the long and tranquil expanse of water known by
the name of the Connecticut; and that when the passengers, after a quiet
night's rest, assemble upon decks that are moist with dew in the bright,
still, cheery morning of the early summer, they are gliding onward far up
that river, cutting its glassy bosom in the direction of the rays of the
rising Sun; the overpowering lustre of which is diminished by a soft and
precious Claude-like haze that hangs like a gauze of gossamer on the
borders of their way, a bridal veil just being lifted by the Sun;
tempering while it enriches the gilding of the shores, the waters, the
far-off spire, the contented farmer's house and barns, the unfrequent
trees, the cattle gazing at the approaching object, the sail you are
overtaking or meeting, and often, the fisherman, seen in the distance,
standing in his boat on the margin of the river, in his white
shirt-sleeves, waiting the passage of the steamer.

For these shores very rarely form themselves into any picturesque
acclivity. Hardly is there on the whole course of the river one bold bluff
or headland to obstruct the sight; and the scenery might even be thought
tame and uninteresting, but for a home-born feeling that comes over the
kind heart as it approaches so close to the mowers on the meadow-field as
to scent the fragrance of the hay; to hear the song of the Boblink, or the
rhythmic whetting of the scythe; or passes the ends of those primitive,
those pilgrim-fences of post and rail, that enter the brink of the river
to mark the boundaries of the small, paternal, and though frequently
sterile, the much loved fields into which this home of industry is
divided.

The moment you have passed the fisherman, and the noise and movement of
the steamer have frightened the fish toward the shore, he darts out in his
boat with one end of a net of many roods in extent, takes a semi-circular
sweep and frequently draws in again with very little delay fraught with a
school of most luxurious Shad. It is of this fish that Basil Hall I think
says it is worth crossing the Atlantic to taste them; and although I fear
I may shock the prejudices of some of my friends who highly favour those
of the Delaware when caught above Bordentown, I cannot but opine that the
shad of the Connecticut is the best shad in the Union.

The opinion if incorrect may have arisen from the freshness with which I
have beheld them taken and have partaken of them from these nets, brought
without the least bruise or violence on board the steamer which lies
'blowing off' for a moment or two while it receives on the forward deck a
rich supply for breakfast of these broad thick-backed fellows, all wet and
spangling from the River, as stout at the dorsal fin as at the shoulder,
leaping hither and thither astonished at the suddenness of the change,
pausing at each instant to expand the deep pomegranate-coloured gills that
decorate their small and beautiful heads, and puffing on the deck as if
the air they inhaled could be nothing else but water; or else imagining
and planning an escape into their proper element; and at each exhalation
after a desperate leap, vying almost with the dolphin in the richness of
the hues of purple green and gold upon the laughing scales!

Now, one fine fish lies extended at its length, wondering and appalled and
tremulous with fear, as the cook's assistant, for the first time that any
human being has touched it, lays his hand upon the fullness of that line
of beauty, the curved and satisfying swell that extends from the head to
the graceful little swallow tail that flutters and pleads so eloquently
for its wonted employment. 'Heavens! is it possible,' it says to itself--I
mean that beautiful female shad on which the hand is just laid--'can it be
that this warm hand is that of man; that the tradition of our forefathers
is indeed true; and that this fish-devouring monster is going to destroy
me after a mystick fashion of his own, so different from that of the
porpoise and the sturgeon, whom I have escaped so well! Is it for a fate
like this, that, avoiding the Delaware river and the profound Hudson, I
have returned to these scenes of my nativity and earliest youth! Is it for
an end so cruel as this, that I have taken such care of myself upon the
southern shores of this unworthy continent, feeding with a tasteful choice
and epicurean delicacy amid the marine vegetation that adorns its milder
latitudes, and plumping and beautifying myself into this admired shape,
and all to gratify at last the cormorant appetite of this unfishlike
animal, and decorate, with my remains and memory, a mere steam-boat
breakfast! O Dickens! _the_ Dickens! sworn enemy of the enemies of my
race! thou Hannibal of my expiring hopes--' Alas! her apostrophe is cut
short at the moment by the ruthless knife that strips her of her coat of
many colours, and in one fell stroke prepares her delicious belle-ship for
the broil!

It forms no part within the scope of our intention in the present Essay,
to dwell upon the various modes of cookery of this annual and precious
accession to the riches of our waters; but it is not to be supposed that
the arrival of the SHAD in this beautiful river of Connecticut can be a
slight advent to the inhabitants upon its borders, particularly in
villages and towns too densely populated to admit the idea, that their
occupants derive a livelihood, either from agriculture, fishing, or the
commerce that can be maintained by the yearly launch of a square-rigged
vessel or two, depending mainly on the profits of a freighting voyage: now
that the trade with the West-Indies, (formerly a rich source of the wealth
of this state,) has dwindled into insignificance and loss. On the
contrary, the first appearance of the shad imparts an hilarious sensation
of abundance all along the shores. The retired sea-captain, the small
annuitant, the broken-down family, and the capitalist, are all alike
interested in the welcome. The price falls immediately within the compass
of the very poorest inhabitant, while the luxury of the regale it
furnishes is one that the richest epicure might covet. The green lanes
that lead toward the shore, and that at other seasons are hardly visited
except by lovers on a moonlit evening, now grow lively with the morning
movement of the householder and his flock of little ones.

The poor man's cow now no longer browses there in a neglected and
undisturbed possession; now no longer does the stiff and shackled
plough-horse graze leisurely along the path, but is startled by some
youthful shout into an attempt at what was once a leap; now half-ripe
berries are furtively gathered in spite of all advice as to
unwholesomeness; dogs move round as if upon a hunt and on the scent for
game; the yoked goose, after more than one expression of its sense of
dignity, retires a little out of the way; and now the ground sparrow,
deeming his thistle or over-hanging Barberry-bush insecure against the
incursions of all these comers and goers, regrets at a short and watchful
distance, and with all the anxiety of a politician, that he had not built
more wisely under covert of _the other side of the hedge_.

Boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and widows, meet each other
on the path of the green lane, like angels on the steps of Jacob's Ladder
in a Flemish picture that I have, where the ladder is represented by a
broad stone stair-case; except that blessings are here all brought _up_
instead of _down_, for a brace of Shad is in the hand of every family-man
returning from the shore.

Cordial greetings are every where interchanged, and every where the
question rises or is answered that determines the market value of the
morning; that makes known the signal success of the great haul of Enoch
Smith; the further fall of prices in the perspective; and the general
promise of the season in the way of shad; and all agree that however large
or small may be the supply, never, since the memory of man, have the shad
been quite so good as they are this season; and that Connecticut River
Shad are decidedly the best imaginable of all possible shad.

Having in my purse the ring of Gyges, which is too ponderous for ordinary
wear, I placed it on my finger and accompanied home unseen a hale
bandy-legged old gentleman with a florid complexion, a benevolent wart
upon his nose, an alert step, drab-breeches with thin worsted stockings of
pepper and salt, plated buckles worn to the brass in his shoes, and silver
ones at the knees, and the heaviest pair of shad that had appeared in the
lane during the morning. I saw him deposit the Fish safely in his kitchen
which he entered through a side gate, giving some strict injunctions to
the cook with the air of a person who had certainly made a good bargain
and was speaking to one who best knew how to appreciate it.

We then wended our way together to a neighboring house where we were
immediately admitted. A person older than the visitor, quite deaf, pale
and suffering but without complaint, lay extended upon a couch in a soft
chintz dressing-gown, afflicted with that sort of Will-o'-the-wisp gout,
that takes the toe, the heel, the knee, the hip, the heart, the neck, the
head, and hands, in turn: not in any graceful rotation, not in any quiet
or systematic order; but that gratifies itself by darting with the
quickness of the electrick fire to which it is allied, to the part least
expecting or prepared to sustain the pang. Not an honest gentlemanly gout
that will exhibit itself and meet one fairly toe to toe with the
inflammation of undisguised passion; but an adder, a viper of the nerves
that stings and flies; and darts and disappears before the flesh has even
time to blush for its existence; so subtle yet so tormenting, so deep yet
so evanescent, that the patient in his agony half wonders whether it be a
malady of the body or of the soul; and only knows that it is a pain, aye
marry 'past all surgery!'

Our invalid was now enjoying a momentary interval of ease, and welcomed
his guest very cheerfully, although without attempting to do more than
extend his hand to him and beg him to sit near. Notwithstanding all
deafness the compliments of the morning, the enquiries after different
members of each other's family, and the comments on the weather, were made
and understood and interchanged with great facility, and the visit went
off swimmingly; until the stout gentleman, probably actuated by his desire
to speak of his successful purchase of the morning, ventured, at the first
pause, to ask his acquaintance if he were fond of fish?

'I thank you,' said the latter, 'the mare is decidedly better; that
bleeding in the hoof did her business completely, and I don't doubt that
by autumn she will be as well as ever.'

'I asked you,' said the visitor, in a determined tone, and like a person
who has something to say, 'I asked you, whether you were fond of
Fish?'--Alas! my masters! how many unnecessary, how many futile, how many
absurd questions, among the idle words that are dignified with the title
of conversation, are daily propounded in this grave world of ours! _Fond_
of fish! Fond of _Fish_! and that fish, a Shad! and that shad, a
Connecticut River Shad! and that Connecticut River Shad, a prime brace of
shad! in the highest season, and the highest order, and the finest brace
of shad in the entire haul of Enoch Smith, now yet quivering, without the
loss of one radiant scale, upon the snow-white dresser of this man's
imagination! Ought I to call it, an imagination? Ought I to go on with the
story, or abandon it as an impracticable thing? Fond of fish!

Oh commend me to a life of leisure in a small town upon the right bank of
the River Connecticut, and let my lease begin at the beginning of the shad
season! Give me Enoch Smith to draw the seine, a green lane to conduct me
to the river shore, and a Claude Lorraine morning for my day of purchase!
Fond of Fish! Why what an idea, to be conveyed upon the subject of this
brace of shad, from one Christian Being to another Christian Being, who
had both--as it is to be supposed--read and studied the lives of the
apostles! Fond of Fish!!!

But the stout man, finding that he was not apprehended, reiterated the
remarkable question; and in a still louder tone, exclaimed:
I--asked--you--whether--you--are--fond--of--Fish?' making a pause between
each of these peculiar words, and shooting the last word of the singular
interrogatory out of his mouth, by means of his fore-teeth and a most
emphatic under-lip, as a boy does a marble with the bent fore-finger and
thumb of the right hand.

'I perceive,' said the quiet person upon the couch, 'that you are asking
me a question; but really the _rhumatis_, (this is the way in which the
quiet person upon the couch thought proper to pronounce it,) has, I think,
quite got the better of my right ear. Would you do me the favour,'
continued he, turning the left side of his head toward his interlocutor
with the suavity of a person already obliged, 'would you do me the great
favour to repeat your enquiry?'

'I asked you,' said the other, growing scarlet in the gills like the shad
of his imagination, 'I--merely--asked--you,'--for he began (I thought at
the time) to grow vexed with the absurdity of his position in having given
utterance to a conception at once so feeble and yet so eccentrick; and
being a coarse man, could only get out by passionately going through what
he had to say; 'if--you--were--fond--of--Fish?' And on this occasion each
word seemed to me to have the force of a pistol-shot, and the last word
that of a cannon ball; and he rose as he spoke like a man of might and
purpose as he was, and clenched his hand, and quivered upon the stout bow
legs that sustained him as he stood: '_Fish_,' roared he! 'FISH,' shouted
he! 'I asked you if you were fond of FISH,' thundered he!

'I quite regret being so very deaf to-day, and yet I should be sorry,'
replied his imperturbable friend, fumbling in his pockets and looking
about the couch, 'to lose any observation of yours, and particularly one
in which you seem so earnest; here is a piece of paper, and here is a
pencil; be kind enough to write it down while I get on my glasses.' By the
time his eyes were reinforced the paper was ready, and glancing it over he
answered at once, raising himself suddenly upward, as he exclaimed at the
utmost reach of his voice and with deep and increasing energy, 'Oh, Very!'
'_Very!_' 'VERY!'

'Good morning, Mr. Johnson,' said his now blown and indignant visitor.
'Are you off? Well, good morning, captain!' replied the other; and as soon
as the door was closed, 'My neighbor Captain Tompkins, I am sorry to
perceive, has grown quite as deaf as myself,' said he in a musing manner.
'If I had his legs--'tis there he has the advantage of me--if I had his
legs, I could have collected all the news of the parish in the time that
he has been prosing here about my mare! And I wanted too to know something
this morning about shad. Here, Sally! tell Bob to run down the lane and
find out whether Enoch Smith is going to draw soon; and if Bob meet any
persons on the way with shad let him ask the price of the day before he
says a word to Smith.'

Away flew the little flaxen-haired fairy with her eyes of sapphire,
leaving her grandfather to relapse upon his couch in the posture in which
we first saw him, and to moralize on the impatience with which his
neighbour Captain Tompkins seemed to bear the approaching infirmities of
age. And now, Dear Reader, do thou emulate the patience of the old
Valetudinarian, while I relieve thee of my further presence; or, if thou
wilt permit the thought to enter the charities of thine heart, vanish from
thee like the blue-eyed girl.

                                                          JOHN WATERS.




TO A CERTAIN BOUQUET.


  I.

  In chill December's month, sweet flowers!
    Your brilliant eyes first saw the light;
  And you, instead of sun and showers,
    Had watering-pots and anthracite.


  II.

  Go ye to MARY then, and while
    Ye cease to mourn for summer skies,
  Bask in the sunbeam of her smile,
    And the sweet heaven of her eyes.

                                                               HORACE.




APOSTROPHE TO TIME.


      Grave of the mighty past!
  Ocean of time! whose surges breaking high,
  Wash the dim shores of old Eternity,
      Year after year has cast
  Spoils of uncounted value unto thee,
  And yet thou rollest on, unheeding, wild and free.

      Within thy caverns wide,
  The charnel-house of ages! gathered lie
  Nations and empires, flung by destiny
      Beneath thy flowing tide:
  There rest alike the monarch and the slave;
  There is no galling chain, no crown beneath thy wave.

      The conqueror in his pride
  Smiled a defiance, and the warrior stood
  Firm as the rock that bides the raging flood;
      The poet turned aside
  And flung upon thy breast the wreath of Fame,
  And thou hast swept away perchance his very name!

      The craven and the brave,
  The smile of blooming youth, and grey-haired age,
  The ragged peasant and the learned sage,
      Have found in thee a grave:
  The vanquished land and despot on his ear,
  Went down beneath thy wave, as falls the glancing star.

      Thou hast the soaring thought,
  The lofty visions of the daring soul;
  The piercing eye, that bade the darkness roll
      From Nature's laws, and sought
  For years to trace her mysteries divine:
  Oh! who shall count the gems that glitter on thy shrine?

      Yet more is thine, proud sea!
  Thou hast the mighty spoils of human wo,
  The bright hopes crushed, the dark and bitter flow
      Of grief and agony;
  Thou hast the burning tears of wild despair,
  Thou the wrung spirit's cry, the broken heart's strong prayer.

      Thou hast the deathless love,
  That smiled upon the storm and warred with life,
  And looked serene, unscathed by earthly strife,
      To realms of light above:
  Thy priceless gems! oh! dost thou treasure these,
  The jewels of the heart, within thy trackless seas?

      When the loud voice of God
  Shall shake the earth, and like a gathered scroll
  At His command the boundless skies shall roll;
      When from the grassy sod
  The living soul shall start to life sublime,
  Wilt thou not render back thy spoils, insatiate Time?

                                                                 M. G.




REMINISCENCES OF A DARTMOOR PRISONER.

NUMBER TWO.


It was my intention in closing my last number to have opened the next in
the prison, and then to proceed with the narrative; but upon reflection, I
thought it might be more acceptable to the reader if I were to relate all
that took place; giving as it were a moving panorama of the events as they
occurred: but if he should be in greater haste to get to the prison than I
was, he has only to skip a few lines, to arrive there. But to proceed. Our
vessel, with several others, anchored at Gravesend, where the crews
received their pay. The amount coming to me, although small, was very
acceptable. I now received from the captain what he ought to have given me
on my joining his ship. I had stipulated with him, on signing his papers,
that he should give me a written pledge, exonerating me from fighting
against my country, should we fall in with any of our vessels. This he
withheld until the end of the voyage; and then, when it could be of no
possible use, he most magnanimously gave it to me. What the result would
have been had we fallen in with any of our cruisers, is beyond conjecture.

All was now bustle and confusion on board. The ship was like a floating
Babel. The decks were crowded with hucksters, boatmen, landlords, and
women of _undoubted_ character; all upon one errand, and actuated by one
motive; united in purpose though divided by interest, they were bent upon
fleecing poor Jack of his hard-earned money. No doubt they succeeded, for
Jack is at best but a poor financier.

Amid the confusion, I managed to slip unobserved on board a Gravesend boat
which was crowded with passengers, and in a few minutes was flying before
a smart breeze, on my way to London. It was past sun-down, and the shades
of evening were fast veiling surrounding objects as we approached this
vast and mighty city, the heart's-core as it were of the world. I cannot
express my feelings, nor convey by words the ideas that swelled my mind
until the sensation became intensely exciting, as the dusky spires of the
Tower, St. Paul's, etc., peered above the smoky atmosphere. All that I had
read from early childhood of London, its bridges, towers and domes, came
rushing and crowding upon my memory. It was lamp-light when we landed at
Wapping, (gas was then unknown,) and I felt the full force of my lonely
condition. Young and inexperienced; surrounded by vast multitudes, yet
known to none; I was completely bewildered.

I was aroused from my reverie by a person touching my elbow, and inquiring
if I wanted lodgings. He was a keeper of a boarding-house; and thinking I
might as well be imposed upon by him as by any other of the fraternity, I
accepted his offer to show me to his house. I went home with him, and
agreed to pay him a guinea per week for such board and accommodations as
might be had for half that price by any one but a stranger. I ate more
fresh salmon during the short time I tarried with him, than I ever did
before or since. I infer from this that it must have been very cheap, as
his object was more to make money than to accommodate. I was in London
about three weeks, and during that time made the best use of my poor means
to learn all I could of a place I had longed but never hoped to see. As I
traversed Tower Hill, my mind wandered back for centuries, and dwelt upon
the strange events in history which had been enacted there; of the soil
where I stood, that had been moistened by the blood of monarchs, soldiers
and statesmen. As I gazed upon the massive gray walls of the Tower, the
magic scenes of Shakspeare arose, and passed in review before me. I
thought of Gloucester, Clarence, Hastings, Henry VI., his two murdered
nephews: then came forth the unhappy Jane Shore, pale, exhausted, and
starving; no one daring to offer a mouthful of food to save the poor
wretch from death. But the scene changes. It is night; and I see Falstaff
and his companions at the rising of the moon, 'by whose light they steal.'
They go forth and are lost sight of in the misty shadows of those dark,
time-worn buildings; and anon we hear him waging battle with the 'ten men
in buckram suits.'

Bartholomew Fair came on while I was in London. This I was desirous of
witnessing; to see how far it would accord with the descriptions by 'rare
Ben Jonson,' some centuries before. The weather proved remarkably fine,
and I set out with my curiosity on tip-toe to see the sport. I had some
distance to go; and as I turned up one street and down another, the throng
of people increased, until my arrival at Smithfield, where the fair was
held, and where the crowd became so dense as to be hardly passable. The
spectators consisted of both sexes, of all ages and degrees. But how shall
I describe the scene that presented itself? A large field of several acres
was filled with tents, stages and booths, with Punch and Judys, quack
doctors, mountebanks and monkeys, and cages containing wild animals of
various kinds. The shouting of people, the cry of beasts, the beating of
drums, the discord of the abortive attempts at music, producing such a
triumph of discord as beggars description. 'Verily,' thought I, 'time
cannot have diminished the glories of Bartholomew Fair.'

Years have rolled on and passed by like the waves of the ocean, since I
traversed the streets of London, but many a laugh have I had to myself as
memory recalled a whimsical mistake which I stumbled upon in my
peregrinations. In passing the streets I frequently saw fine
portly-looking men dressed in blue coats, faced and trimmed with a
profusion of broad gold lace; breeches and white stockings, and shoes with
large buckles, and on their heads cocked hats or chapeaux, as large as
coach-wheels. 'Thinks I to myself,' the continental wars are over, England
has recalled her fleets, and the streets of London are swarming with
admirals of the white and blue, off duty. What a blunder! They were a pack
of fat, lazy footmen! My respect for what I supposed were the heroes of
'England's wooden walls' was turned into contempt for men who could debase
themselves by strutting about in the livery of those whom God created of
the same materials as themselves. I sometimes (but very rarely) see such
things in my own country; but when I do, my face burns with indignation at
both master and man, to think that the one should require, and that the
other should submit to such degradation.

I spent two or three weeks, as above stated, endeavoring in the mean time
to get away as a hand on board some vessel bound to any port out of the
jurisdiction of the British government. This I found more difficult than I
had supposed; for London was at this time literally crowded with seamen
dismissed from the China, Bengal and West-India fleets. I began to be
anxious, as my money was getting rather low; and although I felt
comparatively safe from being discovered among so great a multitude, still
I thought it much the safest plan to get off if I could. It would have
been well for me if I could have accomplished it, for notwithstanding my
supposed security, I was suspected and watched. One day as I was seeking
to obtain a situation on board a vessel bound to Marseilles, I was
accosted by a suspicious individual. I was soon made acquainted with his
business, and in a few hours I was on my way to prison. I did not much
regret it. My money was all gone; and as the date of my first imprisonment
was from an early period, I was in hopes of being among the first sent
home, should a cartel be despatched with any of the prisoners. I was in a
sad mistake, as it was only United States' seamen and soldiers who were
exchanged. Had I imagined half of the trouble and sorrow that awaited me,
I should have acted with more caution; but it was too late, and I had to
abide my fate.

It was a beautiful morning in autumn, and our journey was through a
delightful country. The fields were enclosed in hedges instead of fences,
which had a novel and pleasing effect, especially to me, as I was not
accustomed to seeing the like; and I should have enjoyed it very much had
I been on any other errand than going to prison. It was near sunset when
we arrived at a bend in the river Medway, where lay moored several huge
dark hulls, that were once the bulwark of the fast-anchored isle, but now
used as receptacles for those who had the misfortune to become prisoners
of war. We were soon swept alongside by one of the watermen in attendance,
and in a few moments more were on board the 'Irresistible.' I was
conducted below and introduced to my future associates.

It was several minutes before I could discern the objects around me. It
was like going into a cellar. The only air and light were admitted through
port-holes, few and far between, which were left open for the purpose, and
secured by strong iron gratings to prevent escape. As soon as I regained
the use of my sight, I began to look around me to 'define my position;'
and I believe it would have puzzled the ingenuity of the most acute
politician to know where he stood, had he been placed in the same 'fix' as
myself. Casting a glance around, I found myself amidst a squalid,
cadaverous throng of about six hundred, ranging from about fourteen to
sixty years of age; and I never beheld a set of more wretched human
beings. They were nearly starved and almost naked, and wholly unable to
take exercise, from their crowded condition. It was too dark to read, and
they yielded their minds up to corroding despondency, and became sullen
and morose. Their features became rigid; and to see a smile upon a face
was like a sunbeam illumining a thunder-cloud.

I must here record an unparalleled instance of self-denial, love and
devotion in the female character, seldom to be met with. One of the
prisoners in making frequent voyages to the English ports, (I believe
Liverpool,) had become acquainted with and married a young English woman
early in the war. He was taken and sent on board one of these ships. No
sooner was this made known to his young and affectionate wife, than she
resolved to partake of all the hardships, privations, and imprisonment
with him; and never ceased her exertions until she had accomplished her
purpose. In admiration and respect for her heroic virtues, and kind
feelings toward her husband, the prisoners screened off a small space for
them with old canvass, etc., although much to their inconvenience, owing
to the crowded condition of the ship. It was amid these trials and
privations that she became a mother, and was covered by the American flag.
They are now living in Newark, New-Jersey, enjoying each other's society
in the down-hill of life, and surrounded by a numerous family.

The prisoners were divided into companies or messes of six each; the
provisions, which were very coarse and scanty, were prepared in a
cook-house erected on the forward part of the upper-deck, and when ready,
passed to the prisoners down below. Hammocks were provided for them to
sleep in, which were slung side by side, so close as hardly to admit a
passage between them. They were three tiers deep, bringing the lower ones
within three feet of the floor. No light was allowed, and of course all
was in utter darkness. And it was quite a perilous undertaking to go on a
necessary excursion across the deck at night. Many was the one who became
so bewildered in his journey that he could not find his lodgings, and had
to sit down and quietly wait until morning; at which time all hands must
turn out, lash up the hammocks and pass them upon the upper deck to be
stowed away until night came round again, in order to make more room
below. Several guards with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets constantly
paced the upper deck; and aft, on the quarter-deck, were two carronades
loaded to the muzzle and pointed forward. Two or three of the prisoners
were permitted to come on deck at a time; but at night none were allowed
on deck for any purpose whatever; the entrance being secured by strong
gratings, and sentries stationed by them continually.

Time passed wearily on. Days seemed months and months appeared to be
lengthened into years; and even existence itself had become as it were
paralyzed by the monotonous life we led. It was an interposition of Divine
Providence, that in our destitute and helpless condition we were not
afflicted with any pestilential disease; as in the crowded state we were
in, it must have made rapid and fearful havoc in our midst. At length it
was rumored that the prisoners were to be removed; but where to, none of
them knew. Several weeks passed on, and they were relapsing into their
ordinary indifference to the state of things around them, when one morning
word was passed among us that a draft of one hundred was to be sent to
Dartmoor prison, and those who thought proper might volunteer; but that
_that_ number must go at any rate. So seeing it was 'Grumble you may, but
go you must,' was the order of the day, the number required soon availed
themselves of the _privilege_, and were sent in barges on board the vessel
which was to convey them to their future abode. Other drafts were sent
from time to time, until the whole were removed. For myself, I remained
until the last: I felt a reluctance to leave what I knew to be bad, for
what I feared might be worse. It was to a 'bourne whence no traveller
returned' to disclose the secrets of the prison-house.

At last the time had arrived when the remnant were to leave. We were all
mustered upon deck, numbering about one hundred and fifty. Our baggage,
poor and scant as it was, we had need to take the utmost care of, as
winter was advancing, and we knew of no means of procuring more. We were
then conveyed in barges and put on board the 'Leyden,' an old sixty-four
gun ship, taken from the Dutch in by-gone days, and now used for a
transport for troops, prisoners, etc. In due course of time we were landed
in Plymouth. It was early on a bleak, cloudy morning, late in the autumn,
that we disembarked, and were placed in immediate line of march, under a
guard of a sufficient number of soldiers with loaded muskets, who had
orders to shoot down the first who evinced a disposition to leave the
line. The whole was under the command of a captain, lieutenant, etc., who
were on horseback. We had been on the road scarcely an hour, when the
rain, which had been threatening all the morning, now came down with
sweeping fury; and although not sufficiently cold to freeze, yet it
possessed a keenness that appeared to penetrate the skin. The roads being
of a clayey soil soon became of the consistency of mortar by the tramping
of so many feet, and our march might have been traced for several miles by
the old boots, shoes, and stockings, which were left sticking in the mud
in the hurry of the march. I have no doubt that we made a very grotesque
appearance, and raised many a smile from some of the passers-by. Our march
continued throughout the day without interruption, save occasional short
halts to bring up those who lagged behind; for many began to be exhausted
from cold, fatigue and hunger. We had not tasted a morsel of food since
the day before.

As we advanced, the scene became more gloomy. Habitations became fewer,
and the hedged and cultivated fields gave place to moors and 'blasted
heaths;' and the sombre hue of the sky imparted the same tone to our
feelings. Night had now overtaken us, and the rain was still pouring down
in torrents. Way-worn and hungry, we hailed our gloomy prison, which now
presented itself, and we looked upon it almost with joy. From the darkness
of the night we could scarcely discern the dim outline of its lofty walls
and ponderous gates, as they swung open, grating upon their hinges, to
engulf a fresh supply of misery within that sepulchre of the living. We
were now thrust into a building, reeking wet and benumbed with cold. All
was in total darkness, and we were in dread of breaking some of our limbs,
should we undertake to explore the limits or condition of our prison. As
it was, we were fain to lie down upon the stone pavement which formed the
floor of our abode. In this state we passed a long and weary night,
without bedding or covering of any kind, as our baggage had not yet
arrived. A description of the prison of Dartmoor, and of the scenes and
occurrences which took place within its walls, I shall defer to a
subsequent number, as it would occupy too much space to be embodied in
this.




FRAGMENTS FROM THE GREEK.


  I.

  'TELL ME, ZEPHYR.'

  Tell me, Zephyr, swiftly winging,
  Ne'er before such fragrance bringing,
    From what rose-bed comest thou?
  'Underneath a hawthorn creeping,
  I beheld a maiden, sleeping,
    And her breath I bear thee now!'


  II.

  FOUR MAIDENS DRINKING.

  Streamlet! at thy mossy brink
  Maidens four once stooped to drink:
  Crag and wild rock tumbling o'er,
  Wert thou e'er so blest before?


  III.

  [Greek: Deduke men ha Selana.]

  Gone the Pleiades and moon,
  Lo! of night it is the noon!
  See! the Hours their watch are keeping;
  Lovely lieth SAPPHO sleeping!

                                                              G. H. H.




AN ALLIGATORICAL SKETCH.

NUMBER TWO OF LIFE IN FLORIDA.


How thoughtful in you, my kind EDITOR, to have inquired of me touching
alligators! Think of my getting a summer's day and a more than
summer's-day delight out of this March month and latitude of forty-two,
and all by way of a thought alligatorical! Having taken that thought to
bed with me last night, I awoke about sun-rise, at the first burst of a
morning-hymn from the tree-tops at Picolata! The windows and doors were
all open, and as I glanced here and there, with what unspeakable joy did I
recognize the small cosy parlor with its comfortable lounges, the garden,
the river, the hammock, and the barracks; and with what a feeling of
delirium did I launch into the warm air to shout my delight!

Breakfasted upon hominy and syrup, fresh-made from H----'s plantation,
with alternate mouthfuls of--you can't think, Sir--straw-berries and
cream! Large, ripe straw-berries, just gathered by a pretty girl and some
one to help her, from the garden of Father Williams. Had a pleasant sail
on the St. John's after breakfast, and took the cool of the morning for a
ride through the barrens to Augustine, where I have been all day running
about town, half out of breath, dropping broken and hurried words on the
familiar thresholds, with ejaculations of 'Oh Lord!' and 'God bless you!'
and some things quite inarticulate and impossible to write;
_inspirations_, so to speak; after all which I am just now returned,
freighted with pleasant thoughts, to my closed windows, coal-fires, and
other northerly necessities. But for this, Sir, I thought to have done
with these 'Sketches,' as I like not that ambitious heading. 'Gossip'
would have been better, Sir, and more appropriate; and under that modest
title you would not have used the unintelligible stars that blaze to so
little purpose in my last paper. Ah! Sir, you should have considered how
difficult it is to gape--shocking word!--to gape gracefully!

And now to your queries: 'Is the alligator fond of his grandmother? Does
he devour his children? Does he hanker after little niggers? Is he wholly
depraved and given up to the sins of the flesh, or hath he some social and
playful qualities? And, lastly, what are his habits of life?' You have
given me quite too long a text, Sir: the more especially as I think, that
upon most of these points the animal is decidedly non-committal; but not
to hesitate for a single moment in answering your implied slanders, I
declare, in short, that if the alligator affect his grandmother, it is not
made public; and if he grieveth after little niggers, there are no
leavings of evidence; as I take it, he hath no partialities, no mincing of
morsels, no preference of parts.

I wish you to observe, Sir, at the start, that I have no resentments to
gratify, no vengeance to wreak, no sins to compare, allegatorically. I am
not rejoiced at being able to say, after some miserable deed, 'So does the
alligator.' Nor do I think it necessary to impute evil from the difficulty
of proving it. Such, to be sure, is the way of the world. The loftier, the
more unimpeachable the character, the greater is the probability that it
contain some hidden vice, some reach of horror quite worthy of
concealment; and so it is, that after much sinning ourselves, (not
before,) we attain to the relish of gossip, the deliciousness of scandal.
A scandal proved, the excitement is over; but to imagine, to wonder, to
embellish, to hover with a sneer, or a tear, as the humor happens, over a
probable enormity, is the devil's own pleasure, and to a taste properly
matured, said to be very delectable. It is in this manner that unthinking
fathers have amused themselves and their children with stories of an
animal which on _close_ acquaintance they would treat with far more
respect.

Pardon my gossipry, ah! kindest of Editors! while I ask if you believe in
the lastingness of primary impressions? And furthermore, is a countenance
pleasant or otherwise from the humor with which you regard it? Is a place
forever associated with the rain or sun that falls upon it at your first
acquaintance? In running over the brightest of my pleasant days at St.
Augustine, and there are few links wanting in that brilliant chain, I am
just now reminded of lounging one morning at the market, with mind and
waistcoat thrown open to all sunny impressions, when I observed afar off a
small colored gentleman, who was coming toward me with a directness of
motion quite unusual to people of his class.

As the morning was a little breezy and he had but one simple garment,
rudiment, so to speak, between him and the outer world, I attributed his
precision and firmness of step to a sense of delicacy as commendable as it
is rare in those parts, and immediately resolved that I would look with a
kind regard upon that individual: I would parley with him, detain him with
some idle thought, while, all unknown to him, I could seize that moment to
pry into his dark and mysterious nature, and if he proved modest and
upright, as no doubt he would, how would I astound him with a gratuitous
half-bit! Or if he resented that, (it might be,) I would have him at
nine-pins; I would send him of errands; make up objectless and _boot_-less
employment, if necessary, and so contrive to benefit him unawares; to
cherish and sustain his high moral tone, and at some future day, (it was
not impossible,) raise him to the dignity of trowsers! I would do this
without casting a single shadow upon his unsophisticated nature; I would
not deepen his complexion with a single blush!

On coming nearer, I discovered that he was carrying suspended in one hand
what appeared to be specimens of some rare and curious vegetable; strange
roots, medicinal perhaps; bulbous, yet elongated, and beet-like at the
lower extremity, but dark and rough like an artichoke; which, on close
examination, proved to be young alligators. The little nigger had them by
the tail, and they were moaning like kittens in the blindness of their
first days. I afterward discovered that they were not in good voice, from
the circumstance of being carried so long in that unnatural manner. But
what was my surprise, my delight, that an animal so Egyptian in
association, so hieroglyphical, so suggestive of dragons and monsters,
could be so delicately small, so infantile, so perfectly harmless! There
were three of them, each about six inches long, counting the tail; but how
long they had been that long, or whether they had ever been shorter, it
was impossible to say. One could not but ask, were they weaned, or were
they just 'out?' but no one could divine. We may be tolerably certain,
however, that their mother was not aware they were out, otherwise small
Bob would doubtless have had no farther rolling of marbles in those parts;
no riding of my little gray all over town 'just to air him' as he said; no
running for Massalini, the triangle and the tambourine, for our evening
dances. They were not very lively, being, as I have stated, almost gone
with grief or pain, one could hardly tell which, not being acquainted with
their manner of expression. Placed upon the ground, they were quite still
and speechless; no throbbings of fright; no extraordinary circulation, as
far as I could discover. It was at this time, however, that on looking
closer, I observed a strange expression of countenance; a wild look in the
eye; a kind of mute horror there expressed; wondering at which, the
popular belief flashed upon me at once, and I gave small Bob a look which
puzzled him exceedingly. 'Can it be then,' said I, chasing this thought
about in a distracted manner, 'can it be possible that their mother would
not have defended them from small Bob?--but that, on the contrary, (it is
a horrible thought,) she would--would have anticipated that nigger? Were
they born with an instinctive dread of that mother? Did they look
shudderingly from some pin-hole in their shells before venturing into a
wet and miserable world, where their first and last thought must forever
be to avoid, as death and destruction, those who should have brought them
their first morsels; who should have warned them of the rattlesnake; who
should have preserved them from the cat-fish? Alas! here was the
bitterness of that knowledge of evil at the first breath of life!

But waiving all this: how readily you will anticipate, Mr. EDITOR, that I
at once said to myself, I would possess those alligators. I did. They were
put up at auction, and the whole lot came down to me at half-a-bit each,
the smallest coin of the country, but a fortune to small Bob. Bob and I
went home with a new sensation! Apples and marbles to Bob; to me,
something to study, to fuss over, to care for. How refreshing, after the
excitement of balls and late suppers, to retire, and still better to rise,
upon alligators! How primitive, how scriptural, how pyramidal in
suggestion! A large tub with sufficient water to cover them well, was
placed in the yard, and tilted a little, so that they could crawl out into
the sun; a choice of vegetables and meats thrown in for supper; and the
whole family of blacks, by virtue of half-bits, were put in special charge
of the contents. As additional security, the old dog was shown, and
disliked them; cats were banished; the bear's chain made stronger; and,
not unimportant, my room looked out upon the tub. The next morning they
were inspected and found to be a trifle better in condition; but I was
mortified more than I care to express, that they had wholly refused the
dainties we had given them. And this they continued to do, so that for
more than a week thereafter, no one had seen them eating. If they had
manifested any dislike to any thing we offered, it would have been
something to build, to speculate upon; and with my after experience, I
should have had my suspicions; but all our relishes, and different
solutions, salt water and fresh, and half-and-half, were received with the
same indifference. Notwithstanding this, they grew livelier every day, and
as I thought, in better spirits. Held up by the tail, they would bark
something like a puppy when he first begins to think himself a dog; a
quick bark, with a brusque abruptness, and wondering intonation, as though
equally surprised and delighted at being able to speak so well. From this
circumstance, Mrs. ----, who roomed next door, and had a great variety of
lizards, as pets, very early exhibited a decided repugnance to mine, which
I found it impossible to remove. She thought they were vicious. I
maintained the contrary; insisted that they were a species of enlarged
lizard; and that to take any thing by the tail was always a severe trial
of temper. 'Not to inquire,' said I, 'as to the affinity in the words
_cauda_ and _chordis_, (the heart and tail of all things,) I beg to remind
you, Madam, how irresistible is the wag of the dog's tail when he is
pleased; how graceful the curl of the cat's; and how earnestly the calf,
that model of innocence, laboreth to raise _his_ what little he can; and
as to being held by the tail, what are the facts? The dog is indignant,
the cat is furious; in short, all animals resent it as an impertinence;
and I submit, could an alligator do less?' But Mrs. ---- _refused_ to like
them. I was one day taking my half dozen puffs at a cigar, (quite enough
in that climate if you would avoid the siesta,) looking down from the
balcony with an air of abstraction upon that tub, and puzzling myself as
to what could be the particular whim, the acceptable morsel to the palate,
of a young alligator, when the thought of fiddlers, the frisking, tempting
inimitable fiddlers, came to my mind so easily, that I was vexed so
evident a thing could have been overlooked. At that moment Bob was
stirring up the bear with a long pole. 'Bob,' said I, shouting across the
yard, 'Bob! fiddlers!' 'Eh?' said Bob. 'Fiddlers, Sir, fiddlers, you
rogue; run and get a bucket, a whole bucket full.' The fiddlers were soon
brought, and a handful of them thrown into the tub, when to my utter
astonishment the alligators sidled off to high-water mark, and wholly
declined their acquaintance. But here was an excitement at all events.
They were not indifferent. And now, were they disgusted, or did they
affect that? It was difficult to say; but the next morning the fiddlers
_had disappeared_! If fiddlers had not been abundant in that country they
would now have been at a premium, for they continued to disappear as often
as they were furnished; and as evidence that they did not escape from the
tub, the 'pets' now grew sensibly, barked louder and with more firmness,
and were in some degree playful. I do not mean that they had any of that
silly affectation which we see in most young animals; such as the
kittenish grasping at imaginary mice, or the dog's shaking of a stick,
with the idea that it is something very vicious; fallacies all, which
seriously considered are so pitiable and lamentable; I could detect
nothing of that credulous nature; but sometimes, on coming suddenly upon
them, I would find them lying side by side, their fore-feet put forward,
and their three noses laid together on the sunny side of the tub, with an
air of confidence and trust that was very interesting to witness. Indeed,
there was something kindlier in it than you would think of an alligator.

As to my object in keeping them, there were various rumors afloat about
town, in the utterance of which, libellous as some of them were, Mrs. ----
was perhaps the loudest and most malicious; she having hinted, among other
scandalous conjectures, that the soup from alligator-tail being very
palatable and delicate, a speculation was afoot contemplating the supply
of the northern market with that article. About this time, also, some of
her lizards were missing, and thought to have found their way to the tub;
but all surmises were soon cut short by the first cold night of that
winter, (one of them in February,) which chilled the water so that the
'pets' next morning were quite stiff, and apparently dead. By careful
nursing, however, two of them were thoroughly revived, and made to
articulate distinctly; but having no thought of a second cold night in the
same winter, the waters closed over them again, a thin ice shut out the
air, (they had not presence of mind, I suspect, to come to the surface,)
and on the morning of the second day they were quite gone. And now, in
closing this history, I do not want to be uncharitable, but I suspect Mrs.
---- was privately rejoiced at their death; indeed, the whole community,
otherwise very sensible and not devoid of sentiment, seemed to regret the
circumstance much less than would have been expected.

It will be seen, Mr. EDITOR, from this account of the alligator, that I
can say nothing as to what habits he may form in after-life; what evil he
may learn, what original sins he may develope and mature; what temptations
his power and bloody instincts may present to him; what evil resorts he
may be driven to, in an ungrateful world, when he has become case-hardened
and impenetrable to outward impressions; or, in short, what contempt he
may acquire for the fiddlers and cabbage-leaves of his early days. And
what he may do in those vast lagoons where he is undoubtedly master, or in
the black depths of the St. Johns, where the water hides the blood he may
shed, and the long moss screens him from the tiger; what orgies he may
celebrate, what abominations he may practice, when there is none to call
him to account; all this I can only conjecture; but I conjecture on the
charitable side. In the upper waters of the St. Johns I have seen them in
their death-throes; huge animals, at least fifteen feet long; seen them in
scores at a time, some swimming about, some tumbling in clumsily, some
sprawled on shore, apparently asleep, and some raising their black claws
as if to call down vengeance upon us, gnashing their teeth, and lashing
the water in their death-agony; but the howlings and smothered thunder
that others tell of, came not to my ears; and the exhibition, so furious
to others, was to me only the involuntary muscular action of pain and
dissolution. Extravagant stories are told of their great strength and
tenacity of life, and wonderful exploits are recounted by the great mass
who have lived since Agamemnon. While staying over night, not in Egypt,
but at the plantation of Doctor W----, a short time before his place was
despoiled by the Indians, he related an encounter, which though not so
remarkable, is undoubtedly true to the letter.

The doctor in his earlier days had been in some sharp battles against
Napoleon, having been a staff-officer to one of the smaller kings of
Europe; and although an exceedingly kind and benevolent man, his
skirmishing faculties were still lively and unimpaired. In this fight,
which came off at Indian River, he of course commanded the engagement, but
as it proved, not with his usual success. The alligator, one of enormous
size, was so far from the river when discovered, that the doctor had time
to call in his gang of men, and make a general attack. Seizing an axe in
one hand, and shouting 'Charge!' to his men, all who could get a footing
mounted the back of the animal, with a view to stay proceedings till the
doctor could despatch him; but to their surprise, the old fellow walked
off with his burden with apparent ease. The doctor then waived off his
men, and mounting himself, drove the bit of the axe through his hide,
probably at the fore-shoulder; but from wrenching, or some other cause, it
was found impossible to remove it. The doctor hinted that the heart
clasped the bit by strong muscular exertion, with a view to his own
private use; but this being speculative merely, I only mention the fact.
As he was now nearing the water rapidly, a rope was slipped round the butt
of the helm, a quick turn made around a stiff sapling on the bank of the
river, and all hands made fast to the rope. At this moment, just as they
were all braced, the alligator made his plunge into the water, and the
sapling, I don't remember how large, very large however, came up by the
roots, and they all went to the bottom together! Some of the negroes,
however, came back.

Another Doctor W----, who, unlike his venerated namesake, still lives to
relate the marvels of a life unusually varied, has a remarkable store of
incidents, encounters, and other matters, quite alligatorical. The doctor
will forgive me, if I mistake, but I think he told me that the monsters in
the neighborhood of his plantation had in several instances stolen his
butcher-knives and chopping instruments; a fact which he made quite
certain, by seeing them use the knives in a family way on the other side
of the lagoon; and that on one occasion, he was quite astounded at seeing
a large alligator making tracks for the water on three legs, with a
pitch-fork and crow-bar in his jaws, and a hand-saw erect and glittering
from his right arm! Upon these last, however, I do not pronounce.

And now to sum up _my_ opinion of the animal. I believe that
notwithstanding these astounding tales, he is rather peaceful and
well-disposed, when properly trained, but hath very strangely fixed upon
him an idea, not entirely original with him, that the world owes him a
living; that he makes drafts that way to an advanced age; that he is
non-committal, except upon such matters as he can commit to his private
keeping; that his stomach in that respect has great capacity; that he is
not over-nice in his diet; is plain and unassuming; is not puffed up,
seeing that his hide will not much admit of it; and if he resemble himself
to a log adrift, he considereth not what foolish creatures may alight upon
his back, or swim within his jaws; he barks no invitation, nor does he
flourish with his tail to excite their curiosity; and if they happen in
his way when he has done yawning, it is _their_ business, not his.

Lastly, what do I say to the prevalent notion that the waters of the St.
Johns, which resemble brandy and water, half-and-half, are colored by the
blood of his victims? Answer--_it is not so_. I have drank of those waters
for weeks together (stopping occasionally) and even deepened the color, in
a manner peculiar to those who travel in those parts, without feeling half
as sanguinary as I do at this moment, from the bare thought of that foul
and malicious slander.

These are the matters of faith; the facts, I give you are but two, and
perhaps only true of his younger days; that he eateth fiddlers in secret,
and dies in a temperature of twenty-six Fahrenheit.




AN EPITAPH.

  This shell of stone within it keepeth
  One who died not, but sleepeth;
  And in her quiet slumber seemeth
  As if of heaven alone she dreameth.
  Her form it was so fair in seeming,
  Her eyes so heavenly in their beaming,
  So pure her heart in every feeling,
  So high her mind in each revealing,
  A band of angels thought that she
  Was one of their bright company;
  And on some homeward errand driven,
  Hurried her too away to Heaven.




THE CHURCH BELL.


  I.

  That old church bell is dear to me,
    When from its ancient tower
  Its silvery tones sound solemnly,
    To tell the service-hour;
  It seems as if it almost spoke
    The words of trustful prayer,
  And promised to the spirit broke
    With sin, a pardon there.


  II.

  I love it when it sadly tolls
    The knell of life departed,
  And gently murmurs sympathy
    To mourners broken-hearted;
  It whispers of a spirit passed
    From doubt and pain and care,
  And tells of heaven, and bids them hope
    To meet the lost one there.


  III.

  I love it when its merry peal
    Welcomes the coming day,
  And rouses me from peaceful sleep
    My gratitude to pay;
  It bids me pray for strength to do
    My daily duty given;
  To hope that each successive morn
    May find me nearer heaven.


  VI.

  Then dear is that old bell to me,
    And dear its merry peal;
  For 'tis a voice of sympathy
    With human woe and weal;
  Whether my heart with sadness sink,
    Or light with pleasure dance,
  It speaks to me in every tone
    Of Life's significance.

                                                              J. O. W.




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.


CHAPTER XXIV.

Harry Harson strode into his own house, with his jolly face brimful of
cheerfulness. It shone out of his eyes; out of the corners of his
half-closed mouth; and even out of his full, round double chin. Every part
of him seemed glowing with it; and no sooner had he got in his parlor,
than he flung his hat on the table; snapped his fingers over his head in
perfect ecstacy; made the hazardous experiment of a slow pirouette around
the table, and concluded his performances by making two or three passes
with his cane at the nose of Spite, who had been watching his conduct with
an air of extreme surprise, not unmingled with disapprobation. The attack
upon himself was carrying the joke too far; and after several ineffectual
attempts to avoid the point of the cane, with a discontented grumble,
between a whine and a growl, he retreated under an old side-board, sadly
troubled with misgivings as to the state of his master's intellect.

'Ha, ha! old pup! you don't understand the science of fence; but don't
take it hard. I've got a drop of comfort in store for you; for we're to
have a blow-out, Spite--a real, regular, out-and-out blow-out--ha! ha! And
you shall be under the table during the whole of it,' exclaimed Harson,
rubbing his hands together, and chuckling with indescribable glee. 'I'll
speak about it at once.' He opened the door and bawled out, in a voice
that made the old house shake: 'Hallo! there, Martha, Martha, come here,
quick!'

A frantic rush across the kitchen was heard, succeeded by a violent
clatter of slip-shod shoes through the entry; for Martha, since the late
burglary, being haunted in idea by shabby looking gentlemen with pistols
in their pockets, and dark lanterns under their arms, even in broad
daylight, was on the look-out for emergencies, and had every thing ready
for speedy egress to the street, either through the front door or the
cellar window; and the tone of Harson's voice being that of a man in
extremity, had such an effect upon her, that when she reached the door,
she could only gasp out:

'Lor' me! is they here ag'in?'

'Who?' demanded Harson, not a little surprised at the pale face of his
housekeeper.

'The robbers.'

'Poh, poh, nonsense!' replied he, perhaps not a little annoyed by the
reflection that his own manner had contributed to her mistake. 'There are
no greater thieves here than our two selves. Perhaps I _did_ speak rather
loud; but I was not thinking of what I was about. I shall have some
friends to dine with me to-morrow, and you must get things ready for them.
There may be six, or eight, or a dozen; damme! I don't know how many; but
have enough for twenty

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