A gallop among American scenery / or, Sketches of American scenes and military adventure

by Augustus E. Silliman

BRENTON’S REEF.

With what sullen and continuous roar the ocean waves heave in upon this inhospitable reef. See, as they recede, how the long slimy rock-weed hangs dripping, and how deeply the returning surge buries it again. Oh, never shall I forget the scene upon this horrid reef, witnessed in my boyhood. A dark portentous day in autumn, was followed in the evening by a terrific storm. Low, muttering thunder, which had been growling in the distant horizon, as the night set in, grew louder. The perfect stillness which had obtained, as if in preparation, was broken by long moaning sighs; the lightning became quick and incessant, and ere long, the tempest, like an unchained demon, came bounding in from Ocean. The lightning intensely vivid, accompanied by crashing and terrific thunder, illuminated the surrounding coast with glittering splendour; the islands, the rocks, and yon beacon tower, now exposed to brightness, surpassing noon-day, and now plunged into blackest darkness. The ocean appeared a sea of molten fire. Rain—hail—dashed hissing by, and mid the screaming of the blast, and the torrents rushing from the skies, the huge waves plunged, and roared, and lashed in milky whiteness, broke mast high upon these horrid rocks. While the fishermen in their cottages were thanking their stars that they were snug and safe on shore, we heard in the temporary lulls of the howling storm, signal guns of distress. The neighbouring inhabitants, myself among the number, were soon upon that point, and by the glittering flashes within musket shot of the shore, discerned a Spanish ship on the very ridge of the frightful reef—the stumps of her masts alone remaining—the surf running and breaking in a continual deluge over her, while in her fore shrouds were congregated the unhappy crew. She was so near to us, that we could almost see the expression of agony in their countenances, as, with extended hands they piteously shrieked for help. Their situation was hopeless. We could do nothing for them. No whale-boat could have lived for a moment, the surf rolled in with such resistless violence. We could only listen in silent horror. We heard the very grinding of her timbers, as shock on shock hastened her dissolution; and amid the fury of the storm, and their frantic cries for aid, never shall I forget, in the momentary lulls, the sickening continuous wail of a young boy lashed in the mid-rigging,—his supplicating exclamation, “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!” Often, years after, in my dreams, did I hear those plaintive cries, and see that young boy’s face turned imploringly to Heaven, while that “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!” rang wildly in my ears. But a short time could human fabric sustain the ceaseless plunge of the foaming elements. By the lightning flashes, we could see the number of the sufferers lessen, as relaxing their hold, they dropped off exhausted one by one—swept into the rocky caverns below; until, a longer interval of darkness—a more intense flash of lightning—and all had disappeared. Nought was left but the white foam as it rushed tumultuously boiling and coursing over the long reef before us. It was so brief—so hurried—the appearance of our fellow-creatures in their agony, and their disappearance so sudden, that it seemed a feverish dream. But the dead, mutilated bodies—ceroons of indigo and tobacco—and broken planks, swept along the shore on the following morning, convinced us of its sad reality.

The corse of the young boy, ungashed by the ragged rocks, I found, and caused it to be buried apart from the rest in the church-yard, for it appeared, as if there was in his childish helplessness, a claim upon me for protection. That expression of agony I ne’er heard since—save once: and that—but Davy, we have had all the sport we are like to have to-day—get up the anchor, and we will fan along up to the harbour. So—let her jibe—now put her before it—ay—that will do.—As I was saying. Shortly after the close of the last war, buoyant with youth and hope, I made, what was then not so common as now, the tour of Europe—lingering long in Old Spain, fascinated with the romantic character of the countrymen of Cervantes—of the gallant Moors—of the Alhambra and the Cid. It chanced one evening, strolling about the streets of Madrid in pursuance of adventure, that, passing through one of the most unfrequented squares, I was attracted by lights shining through the long Gothic windows of a large chapel or cathedral. I approached, and entering with some curiosity found it entirely silent. No living soul was present within its walls. The lofty chancel and altars were shrouded in mourning. By the wax candles on the altars, I could see the fretted arches—the shrines and monuments along the walls—and the family banners wreathed in gloomy festoons above them. I wandered about, alone and uninterrupted. Nought moved, save the old blood-stained flags, as they fitfully waived to and fro in the wind. I gazed around me in admiration on the rich shrines and their appropriate pictures. Here, with her offerings of flowers, the wax candles, burning bright and clear, was the Madonna, her lovely countenance beaming with celestial sweetness, as she looked down upon the infant Saviour nestling in her arms—the Baptist standing at her knee, pressing the plump little foot to his lips—and there, John in the island of Patmos—his emaciated limbs staring from their scanty covering of sackcloth—and his gaunt features glowing with inspiration, as from among the cloud of scattered grey hair, and venerable beard, with upturned face, he received from the flame-encircled trumpet above him, the Holy Revelation.

Here, armed cap-à-pied, the chivalrous Knights of the Temple consigned their slain brother to his rocky sepulchre, as with grim, stern, averted countenances they watched the fierce conflict and assault of the daring Infidel upon their Holy City—and there, the cross of Constantine richly emblazoned on its altar, was the Crucifixion, the Saviour extended on the cross—the thieves on each side of him—the head just bowed—and the awful “It is finished!” announced to the nations in frightful phenomena. The sun turned to blood, throwing a lurid and unnatural glare on the assembled multitude—the war-horses, riderless, rearing and plunging with distended nostrils—rolling in convulsions the solid mountains;—the affrighted soldiery, horror-stricken, wildly lifting their hands to ward off the toppling crag, which, torn from its foundation by the earthquake, was in another instant to grind them to powder—while the Roman centurion, with curling lip, holding tighter in his grasp the crimson flag, the “S. P. Q. R.” shaking fiercely in the wild wind, seemed to deride the coward Jew, even in that dread moment, with his abject slavery—and here was San Sebastian, his eyes streaming with martyr tears—and the tinkling of a small bell struck upon my ear:—boys clad in scarlet, swung their censers to and fro, and the incense floated high above them to the vaulted arches.

A train of monks, in purple robes embroidered with white crosses, appeared in procession, slowly advancing on the tesselated pavement, bearing on tressels, covered with dark pall, a corse, by the muffled outline, of manly stature. Two female figures; grave servitors, with deep reverence supporting them, followed close the dead. The deep thunder tones of the huge organ, swept upward as they entered, wild, grand, and terrible, as if touched by no earthly hand: scarce audible sounds floating from the smallest pipes would catch the ear—then bursts, like the roaring whirlwind, pouring in the whole mass of trumpets, rolling, and rising, and falling,—the most exquisite symphonies floating in the intervals, until fainter, fainter, the heart sickened in efforts to catch its tones. Dead silence followed:—the corse was deposited in the chancel—the dark black pall was slowly withdrawn, and the noble figure of a cavalier in the bloom of manhood, pallid in death, lay exposed before us. Clad in sable velvet, his rapier rested on his extended body, the jewelled cross-hilt reverently enclosed in his clasped hands, as they met upon his broad chest, while the luxuriant raven hair, parted on the high forehead, the dark arched eye-brow, and the glossy moustache curling on the lip, added deeper pallor, to what appeared deep, deep sleep. The servitors withdrew, and the mother and the daughter advanced to the last sight of him that was so generous, so kind, so beautiful—their all. The thick veil, thrown hastily aside, discovered the furrowed, time-worn, grief-worn features of the mother, convulsively writhe and work, as, sinking at its head, her lips pressed in uncontrollable agony the damp cold white forehead. The sister, clad in robes of purest whiteness, her golden ringlets dishevelled and floating around her, and in their rich luxuriance, almost hiding her graceful form, bent o’er him; and as her gaze met not the answering smile of kindness and protection, to which from infancy it was wont, but the stern, calm, sharpened features, in their icy stillness; then, as with frantic sobs, her exquisitely feminine, almost childish countenance, streaming with tears, was lifted upwards, and her hands wringing with anguish,—then uttered in deep convulsive bitterness, that “Ai Jesus!” in smothered tones, again struck upon my startled ear. Long silence followed, unbroken save by sobs, as, sunk by its side, they embraced the still, unconscious ashes. Slowly the deep grave voices of the monks rose in solemn tones, and as their mournful chant sank into deep bass, at intervals was it taken up by a single female voice in the choir, which, high above the organ tones, with surpassing sweetness, ascended higher, higher, until every nook in the lofty arches above, appeared filled and overflowing with the rich melody: then, descending lower—lower—lower—the imagination wildly sought it in the passing wind. The monks drew near with uplifted and extended hands, muttering in low tones their benediction; then crossing themselves, encircling the corse on bended knees, with eyes lifted up to heaven, uttered, in loud voices—

“Ora pro illo—mater miserecordiæ,”

“Salvator Hominum—Ora pro illo”——

“Ora pro illo,” again rose like a startled spirit from the choir, in that single female voice, rising with an intensity that made the old walls re-echo the petition—and then, descending like the fluttering of a wounded bird, it became less—less—and all was still.

After a brief interval, leaning in apparent stupor upon the arms of the affectionate retainers, the ladies slowly withdrawing, passed again the chancel’s entrance, and the sacred procession raising the body with melancholy chant, bore it to the lower part of the chapel. I heard the clank of iron, as the rusty portal of the family sepulchre reluctant turned upon its hinges;—and then rested from its human journey, that corse forever. I made inquiries, but could learn nought about the actors in the scene, other than that they were strangers,—a noble family from the Havana;—that the father—invalid—had died in crossing the sea—and the usual story of Spanish love, and jealousy, and revenge, had consigned the son and brother, in the bloom of his days, by duel, to his grave; and subsequently, that the mother and sister had closed the history of the family, dying, broken-hearted, in the convent to which they had retired. But, here we are, at the wharf. Our rapid journey approaches now its termination. A few short hours, and we shall again be merged in the ceaseless din of the city; the fair and tranquil face of nature change for the anxious countenances of our fellow-men; the joyous carol of the birds, the soft forest breeze, and the sea-beach ripple, for paved streets and our daily round of duty and of labour. We have found “a world beyond Verona’s walls.” Perhaps at future time we may again travel it together. Till then, thanking you for your “right good and jollie” company. Farewell!

OLD TRINITY STEEPLE.
BROADWAY NEAR THE BOWLING-GREEN.

(Ground covered with ice—Furious storm of snow and sleet. Two gentlemen becloaked and bemuffled, hurrying in different directions, come in full contact, and mutually recoiling hasten to make apology.)

“My dear Sir—a thousand pardons.”—“No, indeed Sir, ’twas I—I was the offending party.”—“No, I assure you—I”—eh!—is it?—it is!—my old friend the reader.—Why, my dear friend—you came upon me as if you had been discharged from a Catapult—a Paixhan shot was nothing to you? But where so fast in the fury of the storm—Not to Union Square! Heavens! Man, you will never reach there living—Why in this horrid cold the spirits of Nova-Zembla and Mont-Blanc are dancing in ecstacy about the fountains in the Park, and the very cabs are frozen on their axles! Never think of it. Come—come with me to my rooms hard by in State-street, and on the word of a bachelor and a gentleman, I’ll promise to make you comfortable. Come, take my arm—Whew! how this North-Wester sweeps around the Battery. Here we are—This is the house—A real aristocratic old mansion; is it not?—Enter, my dear friend—Run up the stairs—Holloa! ho! Scip!—Scipio—Africanus—Angel of Darkness—come forth—come forth—Ay! here you are. And you, too, shaggy old Neptune, your eyes sparkling with delight, and your long tongue hanging out over your white teeth—down—you old rascal—down sir—down. Now, is not this snug and comfortable—a good roaring fire of hickory—none of your sullen red-hot anthracite for me. How the cold wind howls through the leafless trees upon the Battery,—Draw the curtains—Scip!—Come, bear a hand, take the reader’s hat and coat. Invest him with the wadded damask dressing gown that Tom sent home from Cairo—and the Turkish slippers—So—so—Now bring me mine; place the well-stuffed easy chairs; roll the round table up between us—bring in the lights. Now, reader, at your elbow, lo! provision for your wants, material and mental—genuine old Farquhar and amber Golden Sherry—the Chateaux I got years since from Lynch; and just opened is that box of genuine Regalias, only smell! “Fabrica de Tabacos—Calle-a-Leon—En la Habana, No. 14.” Is it not Arabia’s perfume! Ha! give me your smoking Spaniard in his sombrero—e’er any a half-naked Bedouin of them all;—or if indeed you do prefer it, there stands the Chiboque coiled up in the corner, and the metaphysical German’s meer-schaum on the shelf. There are biscuit and anchovies, and olives, “old Cheshire,” and other inviting things for your wants physical, and for your mental, lo! uncut and damp from the publishers with the regular new book smell—the North American—Old Blackwood—the Quarterly—the Edinburgh Review—Diedrich in his high back chair, the Sporting and other Maga’s, and by a slight curve of thy vertebræ cervical, behold shining through yon glazed doors—glowing in gold, dross to the gold within; the great master Bard of England—Cervantes—the chosen spirits of Italia and Gaul—Irving—worthy to be called Washington—Bryant—sweet poet—and Halleck, genuine son of the voyagers in the Mayflower—and of literature much other goodly store.

Now, Scip! Lord of the Gold Coast—throw more wood upon the fire—Ay! that will do—my good old faithful servant—that will do—now take that pepper and salt head of thine down to the kitchen hearth, there to retail thy legend and goblin story, or ensconce thee in the corner at thy will—Ah! hah, old Neptune—snug in thy place upon the hearth rug—thy nose lying between thy outstretched paws as thou lookest intently in the fire—Bless thine honest heart!—thinking, I warrant me, of the beautiful child whom thou didst leap the Battery bridge to save. How bravely thou didst bear the little sufferer up on the fast rushing tide. The grateful father would have bought thee for thy weight in gold, as thou didst lie panting and half exhausted—but look not so wistfully my dog—a sack of diamonds could not purchase thee—no—never do we part till death steps in between us—and, by my faith, an’ thou goest first, thou shalt have Christian burial.

Now, dear reader, as thou reclinest comfortably in that big arm chair, thy feet in Ottoman slippers resting on the fender, the blue smoke of thy cigar wreathing and curling around thy nose, as it ascends in placid clouds, and floats in misty wreaths above thy forehead—the glass of Chateaux, like a ruby resting upon its slender stem, light, quivering at thy elbow, and that open Blackwood upon thy knee—dost not—confess it—dost not feel more kind and charitable, than if, with benumbed fingers, thou wert following a frozen visage to thy distant mansion, in the great city’s far purlieus—

But, heaven guard us! how savagely the tempest roars and howls around the chimney tops—Good angels preserve the poor mariner as he ascends the ice-clad rigging—lays out upon the slippery yard—and handles with frost-benumbed fingers the rigid canvass folds. Ah! I recollect it was in just such a night as this, a few years since—years that have rolled past into retrograde eternity, that I was seated in that same arm chair, in the same bachelor independence, the fire burning just as brightly—the curtains as snugly drawn—my beautiful Flora looking down with the same sweetness from her frame above the mantel—my snow white Venus between the piers—the Gladiator stretching forth his arm in just such proud defiance from his pedestal—my Rembrandt—Claude—and Rubens flickering in softness in the firelight—the Fornarina and St. Cecilia with vase of incense clasped, and upturned eyes of deep devotion, hanging in the same placid stillness between their silken tassels, and that Æolian harp chiming just such wild and fitful strains—’twas in just such a cold and inhospitable night, that, sitting with my legs extended upon the fender, I fell into a train of rather melancholy musings.

The clock of St. Paul’s slowly doled out the hour of midnight, and it seemed as if in the responsive, al-l’-s-w-e-l-l of the watchman, rendered indistinct by the distance, the spirit of the hour was bewailing in plaintive tones the annihilation of its being. Time’s brazen voice announced to unheeding thousands—“Ye are rushing on eternity.” I thought of my friends who had dropped off one by one, from around me,—youth and old age had alike sunk into the abyss of death—consumption—fever—palsy—had done their work; the slight ripple of their exit had subsided, and all was still—as quiet and as beautiful as if they had never been. Among others, was poor Louisa S——, in the prime of her youth, and the bloom of her beauty. But one short week—she was the pride of her friends, the idol of her husband;—in another, the slow toll of the village bell announced her funeral. I shall never forget the scene. The soft yellow light of the declining sun was streaming through the lofty elms which bordered the rustic grave-yard, painting their broad shadows on the velvet turf, as the procession of mourners slowly wended their way among the mounds which covered the decaying remnants of mortality. Leaning upon a tomb-stone near the fresh dug grave, I had awaited its arrival. The bier was placed upon the ground—the coffin-lid was thrown open, and friends looked for the last time upon the beautiful face, pallid and sharp in death. Her dark hair was parted upon her forehead,—but the dampness of death had deprived it of its lustre, and her soft eyes were closed in the slumber from whence they were never again to wake. I gazed long and painfully upon that face which appeared to repose only in serene and tranquil sleep, while the sobbing group reached forward to catch a last and parting glimpse of it in its loveliness. Oh! I could not realize that the lovely form was still forever—that those lips were to remain closed, till the day, when amid whirlwinds and fire, they were to plead her cause before the Almighty. The coffin-lid was replaced in silence—a suppressed whisper from the sexton—a harsh grating of the cords, and the gaping pit received its prey. While the clergyman in his deep and gloomy voice, was pronouncing the burial service of the dead, I looked around upon the uncovered group,—the mother and sister in unrestrained sobs, gave vent to their anguish, but the husband stood, his eyes fixed upon the grave in deep and silent agony. He moved not, but when the dead heavy clamp of earth and stones fell upon the coffin, which contained the remains of all that was dear to him, he gave a gasp, as if he had received a death wound—but that was all;—the thick, convulsive breathing, and the swollen arteries upon his temples, showed that his was the bitterness of despair. Ere long, his wasted form beneath its own green hillock, rested at her side.

I had sat some time, thinking “of all the miseries that this world is heir to,” when gradually, my room became mazy, the tongs and fender were blended into one—the fire slowly disappeared, and, to my utter horror and astonishment, I found myself swinging upon the weather-cock of Trinity Church steeple.—How I came there, I could not tell, but there I was. Far, far below me, I saw the long rows of lamps in Broadway and the adjoining streets, shining in lines of fire; while here and there the glimmer of those upon the carriages, as they rolled along, resembled the ignis fatui in their ghostly revels upon the morass. The bay lay in the distance, glittering in the moonlight, a sea of silver, the islands and fortresses like huge monsters resting upon its bosom. All nature appeared at rest. An instant, and but an instant, I gazed in wild delight upon the scene; but as the novelty vanished, the dreadful reality of my situation became apparent. I looked above me—the stars were trembling in the realms of space. I looked below, and shuddered at the distance—I tried to believe that I was in a dream—but that relief was denied me. I grew wild with fear—I madly called for help—I screamed—I yelled in desperation. Alas! my voice could not be heard one half the distance to earth. I called on angels—Heaven, to assist me,—but the cold wind alone answered, as it rushed around the steeple in its whistle of contempt. As my animal spirits were exhausted, I became more calm. I perceived that the slender iron upon which the weather-cock was fixed was slowly bending with the weight of my body, already benumbed with cold. Although it was madness, I ventured a descent. Moving with extreme caution, I clasped the spire in my arms—I slid down inch by inch. The cold sweat poured off my brow, and the blood curdling in my veins, rushed back in thick and suffocating throbs upon my heart. I grasped the steeple tighter in my agony—my nails were clenched in the wood—but in vain; slip—slip—the steeple enlarged as I descended—my hold relaxed—the flat palms of my hands pressed the sides, as I slid down with frightful rapidity. Could I but catch the ledge below! I succeeded—I clutched it in my bleeding fingers—for a moment I thought that I was safe, but I swung over the immense height in an instant; the wind dashed me from side to side like a feather. I strove to touch the sides of the steeple with my knees—I could not reach it—my strength began to fail—I felt the muscles of my fingers growing weaker. The blackness of despair came over me. My fingers slid from the ledge—down—down I plunged—one dash upon the roof, and I was stretched motionless upon the pavement.

A crowd collected around me. I heard them commiserating my fate. They looked at me, and then at the steeple, as if measuring the distance from whence I had fallen; but they offered me no assistance. They dispersed—I slowly raised myself on my feet—all was cold and still as the grave. Regions of ice—an immense transparent mirror, extended on every side around me. The cold, smooth plain, was only measured by the horizon. I found myself on skates;—I rushed along, outstripping the winds,—I ascended mountains of ice,—I descended like a meteor—Russia, with her frozen torrents,—Siberia with its eternal snows, were behind me,—miles and degrees were nothing—on I rushed,—Iceland vanished,—with the speed of a thunderbolt I passed Spitzbergen,—days, weeks expired, but still I sped forward, without fatigue, without exhaustion. How delightfully I glided along—no effort—no exertion—all was still, cold, and brilliant. I neared the pole,—the explorers were slowly wending their tedious way,—they hailed me, but I could not stop,—I was out of sight in an instant. I saw an immense object swinging to and fro in the distance—it was the great and mighty pendulum. As I neared it, a confused noise of voices broke upon my ear,—mathematical terms echoed and re-echoed each other, like the hum of a bee-hive. I was surrounded with winged chronometers, barometers and magnets—plus, (+) minus (-) and the roots (√ √) were flying around me in every direction, jostling each other without mercy. Great long-legged compasses with knowing look were gravely listening to the measured tick of prim chronometers, and groups of angles and parallelograms watched the variations of the needle. Every instrument of science appeared collected in solemn conclave, for great and mighty purpose,—but soon all was hubbub and confusion. The compasses and Gunther’s scale had come to blows. Angles and triangles, oblongs and cones, formed a ring around them. Little cylinders and circles came rolling in from every quarter to see the fun, and bottle-holding squares and cubes stood stoutly at their champions’ sides, while electric jars mounted on a neighbouring dial, in highest glee, spirited forth whole streams of snapping sparks to incite them in the contest. The scale was down, and the compass bestrode him in proud defiance; but the bottle-holders interfering, all was instant uproar and confusion, and the fight soon became one common melée. Pins flew about, and springs and wheels went whizzing through the throng, but amid the tumult, suddenly appeared a huge electrical machine, grinding wrathfully along, and soon the field was cleared, and nought was seen save here and there some limping figure hobbling off in desperate precipitation. But amid the uproar, the giant pendulum still swung forward and backward with the noiseless motion of the incubus;—I neared it and saw that the top of the huge rod was riveted by the pole star, which shone with the intensity of the diamond. But—but—

I saw the ship approaching among the distant icebergs—the great lordly icebergs,—how they rolled and roared and ground against each other in the heavy surge!—their huge sides now shining great sheets of silver—now glancing with the deep blue of the precious sapphire, now quivering in the sun’s rays, with all the hues of the grass-green emerald and blazing ruby,—ha! I saw her—I saw the gallant ship threading her way among them, as their castellated sides towered mountain-like above her. I made one spring—one gallant spring—and catching by her top-mast, slid down in safety to her decks. Her sails were spread widely to the winds and recklessly we ploughed our course onward through the icy flood;—but now her speed diminished—now we scarcely moved. The rudder creaked lazily from side to side, and the long pennant supinely resting on the shrouds, languidly lifted itself as if to peer into the dark flood, and then serpent-like, settled itself again to its repose. A sullen distant roar began to break upon my ear,—it increased,—our before quiet bark, hastening, rushed onwards as if ashamed of her dull reverie; but still there was no wind—the sea was smooth and placid, but the swelling surge was thrown forward from her bows, by the increasing velocity with which we dashed along. The rushing noise of waters increased, and sounded like distant thunder; the white surges showed themselves in the distance, leaping and jumping with frightful violence. I approached the captain;—his gloomy brow—the ghastly paleness of the crew, as with folded arms they stood looking in the distance, alarmed me. I eagerly asked the cause of the appearances before me,—he answered not,—he stood immoveable as a statue:—but, in a cold unearthly voice, a scar-marked sailor groaned, “We are food for the Maelstroom!”—Can we not, I franticly exclaimed—oh! can we not escape? Bend every sail—ply every oar,—“Too late—too late,” echoed again the gloomy voice—“our doom is sealed;”—and the finger of the speaker pointed to a dark fiendish figure at the helm, who, with a low hellish laugh, was steering for the midst. The raging waves boiled and roared around us,—our fated ship plunged forward—a steady resistless power sucked us in,—on we were hurried to our frightful goal. The whale—the leviathan, swept by us—their immense bodies were thrown almost entirely in the air,—their blood stained the foaming brine—they roared like mad bulls. The zigzag lightning in the black canopy above us, was reflected in fiery showers from the spray—the crashing thunder mingled with the yells of the struggling monsters—their efforts were vain—more power had infants in giants’ hands,—the devouring whirlpool claimed us for its own. On we were borne in unresisting weakness—faster and faster,—circle after circle disappeared,—we were on the edge of the furious watery tunnel,—we were buried in its depths,—the long arms of the loathsome polypi stretched forward to seize us in their foul embrace—but an unseen hand raised me.

Green woods—gardens, fountains, and grottoes were around me. Beautiful flowers—roses—hyacinths, and lilies clustering in immense beds, covered the ground with one great gem’d and emerald carpet. The gorgeous tulip, the amaranthus and moss rose vied with each other in fragrant rivalry, and the modest little violet, claimed protection in the embraces of the myrtle. Fountains poured mimic cataracts into their marble basins, or, spouting from the mouths of sphinxes and lions, ascended in crystal streams, irrigating with copious showers the party-coloured beds beneath. The long vistas were shaded with the magnolia and flowering almond, while snow-white statues watched the beautiful picture of happiness around. Birds of variegated colour and splendid plumage were flying from tree to tree, and it appeared as if in their sweet notes, and the fragrance of the flowers, nature was offering up her incense to the Creator.

I was invigorated with new life—I ran from alley to alley—delicious fruits tempted my taste—the perfumes of Arabia floated in the earthly paradise,—music floated around,—trains of beautiful girls moved in graceful ballets before me,—their slender forms were clad in snow-white robes,—their girdles gemmed with diamonds—their alabaster necks twined with wreaths of roses.—A joyous laugh burst from them, as they danced—now in circles—now advancing—now retreating. The circle opened,—a veiled figure was in the midst,—I approached—the fairies disappeared,—the veil was slowly lifted,—one moment—my Cora!—we were alone,—we wandered from bower to bower—her small white hand with electric touch, was within my delighted grasp,—her golden ringlets mingled with my raven locks—her dark eyes melted into mine. I fell upon my knee—a cold and grizzly skeleton met my embrace—the groups of houris were changed into bands of shrivelled hags;—in place of wreaths of roses, their shrivelled necks were covered with the deadly nightshade and dark mandragora—forked adders and serpents twined upon their long and bony arms,—I shuddered,—I was chained in horror to the spot,—they seized me—they dragged me downward to the dank and noisome vault.—’Twas light as day—but ’twas a strange light—a greenish haze—sickly and poisonous as if the deadly miasma of the fens had turned to flame. The dead men with burning lamps were sitting on their coffins,—their chins resting upon their drawn up knees, and as I passed along the extended rows, their eyes all turned and followed me, as the eyes of portraits from the canvass. Ha! what cadaverous unearthly stare met me at every turn;—I looked on all sides to avoid them, but still, where’er I turned, the ghastly muffled faces with their blanched lips, and deep sunken eyes livid in their sockets, surveyed me with frightful interest,—and that fierce old hag—how she preceded me—step by step—her finger pointing forward, while her Medusa head was turned triumphantly over her shoulder, with its infernal leer upon my cowering form.—Worlds would I have given to have been out from among the ghastly crew—but a spell was on me—and I hurriedly made the circuit of the vault, like a wild beast in his cage. But the old knight, sitting grim and ghastly as if by constraint, in the lone corner, his long grizzly beard flowing o’er his winding-sheet,—O! how his cold grey eye glanced at his long two handed sword before him, as I passed, as if to clutch it,—I plucked the old greybeard for very ire—ha! what a malignant and discordant yell did then salute my horror-struck senses,—I gave one bound of terror—and burst the prison door—and—and—

My noble white charger leaped clear of the earth, as he felt my weight in the saddle,—I was at the head of an immense army—my bold cuirassiers formed a moving mass of iron around me. The bugle sounded the signal for engagement;—peal after peal of musketry flashed from the dark masses,—the rattling reverberating roar rolled from right to left,—the gaping throats of the cannon, announced in broad flashes, the departure of their messengers upon the journey of death. On we rushed—battalion on battalion,—we stormed the redoubt,—“Charge,” I shouted,—“Charge the villains—men of the fifth legion—follow your leader—hurrah—they bear back.”—I seized the standard from a fallen soldier,—I planted it upon the blood-stained parapet—horrible confusion!—the trenches were choked with dead—Hah! brave comrade beware!—his bayonet is at thy shoulder—’tis buried in thy heart.—I will revenge thee!—I dashed upon him,—we fought like tigers,—we rolled upon the ground,—I seized my dagger—the bright steel glittered—thousands of deep hoarse voices wildly roared—“The mine—the mine—beware—beware!” Flash—roar—bodies—earth—rocks—horses—tumbrils,—all descending, covered me—and—and

I awoke—the fender and fire-irons upset with horrid din and clatter—the table, its lights and tea-set hurled around—and myself with might and main striving with mighty effort to get from beneath the prostrate wreck which in my terror I had dragged above me.—Old Neptune, aghast, howling in consternation, from the corner, while a group of fellow-boarders, half dead with laughter and amazement, were staring through the open door in wonder at such unusual uproar from the lodger in quiet “No. VI.”