CUTTING OUT.
We had now been several months at sea, and, although our stores had been more than once replenished from the prizes we had taken, our provisions began to grow scarce. The skipper accordingly announced his intention of going into port. We bore up, therefore, for Charleston, that being the most convenient harbor.
My emotions on approaching the place where Beatrice resided, I shall not attempt to describe. A full year had passed since we had parted, and in all that time I had heard of her but once. Might she not now be married to another? The proverbial fickleness of her sex; the known opposition of her family to my suit; her uncertainty whether I still continued to care for her, or whether even I was yet alive; and a thousand other reasons why she might be unfaithful to me, rose up before me to torture me with doubts. But most of all, I reflected on our different situations in society. She was rich, courted, allied to rank—I was poor, unknown, and a rebel officer. Many a night as I lay in my solitary hammock, or trod my silent watch on deck, the fear that I might find Beatrice the wife of another, filled my soul with agony. And yet could I doubt her faith?
At length we entered Charleston harbor, and with a gentle breeze floated up towards the town. It was a moonless night, but the sky above was spangled with a thousand stars, and the low outline of the city before us glittered with myriads of lamps. The wind just ruffled the glassy surface of the bay, fanning us, as it swept by, with a delicious coolness. Here and there, on either shore, a light from a solitary house flickered through the darkness, while occasionally a sheet of summer lightning would play along the western firmament, where a low belt of clouds skirted the horizon, and hung like a veil above the city. Everything reminded me of the night when I had sailed up this same harbor with Beatrice. What had I not witnessed since then! The shipwreck, the battle, the hurricane, fire and sword, danger in every shape, almost death itself—I had endured them all. During that period where had been Beatrice? A few hours would determine.
With a beating heart, the next morning I sought the residence of Beatrice’s uncle. How my brain swam and my knees tottered when I came in sight of the mansion which contained the form of her whom I loved! I had understood that the family, except one or two of the ladies of it, was out of town, and I burned with impatience to ascertain whether Beatrice was among the absentees. Yet my heart failed me when I came in sight of the residence of her uncle. I recollected the terms on which I had parted with Mr. Rochester, and I scarcely thought myself allowable in intruding on his hospitality in any shape. But, then, how else could I obtain an interview with Beatrice? Again and again I approached the door, and again and again I changed my mind and retired; but at length remembering that my conduct was attracting attention, and unable longer to endure my suspense, I advanced boldly to the portal, and knocked at the hall door. It was answered by a strange porter. With a fluttering heart I inquired for Miss Derwent. I felt relieved from a load of fear when informed that she was in town, and hastily thrusting my card into the man’s hand, I followed him eagerly into the drawing-room. He disappeared, and I was alone.
Who can forget his emotions, when, after a long separation from the object of his love, he finds himself under the same roof with his mistress, awaiting her appearance? How he pictures to himself the joy with which the announcement of his arrival, especially if unexpected, will be received! He fancies every look that will be exchanged and every word that will be said at the moment of meeting. As the moments elapse, he imagines, however short the time may be, that the appearance of his mistress is unavoidably delayed, and a hundred fears arise, vague, unfounded, and but half believed, that perhaps her affection has grown lukewarm. Each successive instant of suspense increases his doubts until they amount almost to agony; and as a light footfall—oh! how well remembered!—breaks upon his ear, he almost dreads to meet her whom but an hour before he would have given worlds to behold. So was it now with myself. As minute after minute elapsed, and still Beatrice did not appear, my fears amounted almost to madness; and when at length I heard her light tread approaching, my heart began to beat so violently that I thought I should have fainted. Anxious to resolve my doubts, by observing her demeanor before I should be seen myself, I sprang into the recess of a window. As I did so, the door opened and Beatrice entered hurriedly, looking, if possible, more beautiful than ever. Her cheek was flushed, her step was quick and eager, and her eyes shone with a joy that could not be affected. She advanced several steps into the room, when, perceiving no one, she gazed inquiringly around, with a look, I thought, of disappointment. I moved from the recess. She turned quickly around at the noise, blushed over brow, neck and bosom, and, with a faint cry of joy, sprang forward, and was locked the next instant in my arms.
“Beatrice—my own, my beautiful!”
“Harry—dear Harry!” were our mutual exclamations, and then, locked in each other’s embrace, for a moment we forgot in our rapture to speak.
At length we awoke from this trance of delight, and found leisure for rational conversation. Sitting side by side on the sofa, with our hands locked together, and our eyes looking as it were into each other’s souls, we recounted our mutual histories since our separation. With mine the reader is already acquainted. That of Beatrice was naturally less chequered, but yet it was not without interest.
I have said that an alliance had been projected between Beatrice and her cousin, and that Mr. Rochester had placed his whole soul on the consummation of this project. The consciousness of my interest in the heart of Beatrice had induced their conduct towards myself, under the hope that if once separated from her, I would be eventually forgotten by Miss Derwent. Time, however, proved how false had been this hope. Instead of prospering in his suit from my absence, every day only seemed to make the success of her cousin more problematical. In vain her uncle persuaded; in vain he expostulated; in vain he lavished all his scorn on me as a beggar and a rebel—Beatrice continued unmoved; now defending me from every imputation, and now with tears giving up the contest, although unconvinced. The letter she received from me, by acquainting her with my projected cruise, prepared her for the long silence on my part which had ensued; and although reports, no doubt originating with her persecutors, were circulated respecting my arrival in port, and the disreputable life I was said to lead, she remained faithful to me amid it all. Oh! what is like woman’s love? Amid sorrow and joy; in sunshine or storm; whether distant or near; in every varied circumstance of life, it is the solace of our existence, the green spot amid the arid deserts of the world. Nothing can change it—nothing can dim its brightness. Even injury fails to break down the love of woman. You may neglect, you may abuse her, if you will; but still, with a devotion not of this earth, she clings to you, cheering you in distress, smiling on you in joy, and amply repaid if she only win in return one kind word, one look of approval. Thank God! that, fallen as we are, there is left to us that link of our diviner nature—the pure, deep, unchanging love of woman.
With what joy did I hear that Beatrice was still mine, wholly mine, and how ardently did I press her to my bosom, invoking her again and again to repeat the blessed words which assured me of her love! Hours passed away as if they had been minutes. And when at length I rose to depart, and, imprinting another kiss on her but half averted lips, took my leave with a promise to return again the ensuing morning, my astonishment passed all bounds to learn that noon had long since passed, and that the evening was almost at hand.
During the short time that we remained in port, I was daily with Beatrice, and when we parted she pledged herself to be mine at the end of another year, come what might. My heart, I will admit, reproached me afterwards for winning this promise from her, and inducing her to give up wealth and luxury for the bare comforts an officer’s pay could afford; and yet her love was such a priceless gem, and she looked up to me with such unreserved devotedness, that I could not regret a vow which ensured me the right to protect her from the cold tempests of the world. Besides, we were both young and full of hope, and I trusted some fortunate event might occur which would yet allow us to be united with the concurrence of her friends.
“Uncle is suspected and watched by the colonial authorities,” said Beatrice, as we parted, “and I fear me that he is linked in with some of those who have designs against the state. I tremble to think what might be his fate if detected in any conspiracy to restore the king’s authority.”
“Fear not, dearest,” I replied, “I will interest Col. Moultrie in his favor, and besides, your uncle must see the danger of any such attempt at present.”
“And yet I have fearful forebodings.”
“Cheer up, sweet one, he has nothing to dread. But now I must go. God bless you, Beatrice!” and I kissed her fervently.
She murmured something half inaudibly, returned my parting embrace with a sigh, and, while a tear stood in her eye, waved a final adieu with her kerchief. In an hour the schooner had sailed.
We had been at sea but a few days, having run down the Bahamas in that time, when we spoke a French merchantman, and obtained from him the intelligence that an English ship, with a valuable cargo and a large amount of specie, was then lying at the port of ——, in one of the smaller islands. She was well armed, however, and carried the crew of a letter of marque. But the skipper instantly determined on attempting her capture. Accordingly, we bore up for the island within an hour after we had spoken the merchantman, and having a favorable breeze to second our wishes, we made the low headlands of the place of our destination just as the sun sank behind them into the western ocean. Not wishing to be detected, we hauled off until evening, spending the intervening time in preparing for the adventure.
The night was fortunately dark. There was no moon, and a thick veil of vapors overhead effectually shrouded the stars from sight. The seaboard was lined with dusky clouds; the ocean heaved in gentle undulations; and a light breeze murmured by, with a low soft music in its tone, like the whisper of a young girl to her lover. As the twilight deepened, the shadowy outlines of the distant land became more and more indistinct, until at length they were merged in the obscurity of the whole western firmament. No sound was heard over the vast expanse as we resumed our course, and silently stretched up towards the island.
It was nearly midnight when we reached the mouth of the harbor. All within was still. The town lay along the edge of the water, distinguishable by its long line of flickering lamps; while a dark mass on the left of the harbor betrayed the position of the battery guarding the port. One or two small coasting vessels were moored at the quay, and, a few cables’ length out in the harbor, rode at anchor the merchantman. He was in part protected by the guns of the fort; but other means of defence had not been forgotten, for his nettings were triced up, and he swung at his anchor as if springs were on his cables. A solitary lantern hung at his mast-head, throwing a faint radiance around the otherwise shadowy ship. Not a sound arose from his decks. Occasionally a low murmur would float down from the far-off town, or the cry of a sentry at the fort would rise solemnly on the still night air; but except these faint sounds, at long intervals apart, a deep, unbroken silence buried the whole landscape in repose.
“Pipe away the boats’ crews,” said the skipper, when, everything having been planned, we had steered our craft under the shadow of the huge cape, and now lay to in our quiet nook, hidden from observation.
The boatswain issued his summons almost in a whisper, and the men answered with unusual promptness. In a few minutes the boats were manned, and we were waiting with muffled oars for the signal. We lingered only a moment to receive the last orders of the captain, when, with a whispered “give way,” the gallant fellows bent to the oars, and we shot from the schooner’s side. In a few moments she was lost in the gloom. I watched her through the gathering night, as spar after spar faded into the obscurity, until at length nothing could be seen of her exquisite proportions but a dark and shapeless mass of shadow; and at length, when I turned my eyes in her direction again, after having had my attention for a moment called away, even the slight outline of her form had disappeared, and nothing but the gloomy seaboard met my eye.
The night was now so dark that we could scarcely see a fathom before us; but, guided by an old salt who had been brought up on the island, and knew the harbor as accurately as a scholar knows his horn book, we boldly kept on our course. As we swept around the headland, we perceived that the town, so lately alive with lights, was now buried in a profound darkness. The solitary lantern, however, still burned at the fore-peak of the Englishman, like a star hanging alone in the firmament, to guide us on our way. Every eye was fixed on it as we rapidly but noiselessly swept up towards the merchantman. The fort was buried in gloom. The other vessels in the harbor lay hidden in the palpable obscurity ahead. No sound was heard, no object was seen, as we moved on in our noiseless course. At length the huge hull of the merchantman began to be indistinctly visible upon our starboard bow, and, lying on our oars for a moment, we held a short, eager consultation on our future course. It was soon, however, terminated. As yet we had remained undiscovered, and as the slightest accident might betray us, not a moment was to be lost if we would surprise the foe. It had been arranged that I should dash into the larboard side of the Englishman, while the two other boats should attack him simultaneously on his starboard bow and quarter; and accordingly, as my companions sheered off, I gave a whispered order to my men to pull their best, and the next instant we were shooting with the rapidity of an arrow right on to the foe.
The instant preceding the attack is always a thrilling one. You know not but that in a few minutes you may be in eternity, and as yet you are not carried away with that reckless enthusiasm which, in the heat of the contest, makes you insensible to every thing but the struggle. On the present occasion I felt as I had never felt before. The odds against us were fearful, for the ship was admirably defended, and we had every reason to believe that her crew outnumbered our own. As I looked around on my men, I saw more than one hardy veteran cast an uneasy glance at the foe. But it was no time now to pause. We had scarcely pulled a dozen strokes, and were yet some distance from the ship, when the sentry from her quarter cried out, “Boat ahoy!” and then perceiving that we still advanced, he fired his piece and gave the alarm. I saw the moment for action had come. Disguise was now useless. Instantaneously I forgot the feelings which had just been passing through my mind, and, like a war-horse starting at a trumpet, I sprang up in the stern sheets, and waving my sword aloft, shouted,
“Give way, my lads—give way, and lay us aboard the rascals—with a will, boys—pull!”
As if fired with an enthusiasm which nothing might resist, my gallant fellows sprang to their oars with renewed vigor at my words, until the oaken blades almost snapped beneath their brawny arms; and we were already within a few fathoms of the ship’s quarter when a volley from the merchantman hit the stroke-oarsman in front of me, and he fell dead across the thwart. The boat staggered in her course. I could hear our companions surging but a short distance behind, and I burned to be the first to mount the enemy’s deck.
“On—on!” I shouted; “pull for your lives, my lads—pull, pull!”
A thundering cheer burst from the brave veterans, as they bent with even redoubled power to their task, and with a few gigantic strokes sent us shooting upon the quarters of the foe. Waving my sword above my head, I sprang at once up the ship’s side, calling on my crew to follow me. They needed not the invocation. The boat had scarcely touched the vessel before every man, cutlass in hand, was clambering over the side of the foe; and in an instant, with one simultaneous spring, old and young, officer and men, we tumbled in upon the enemy. And like men they met us. It was no child’s play—that conflict! Fearfully outnumbering us, apprised of and ready for our onset, fighting on their own decks too, and knowing that succor was at hand from the fort even in case of defeat, the crew of the Englishman met our attack with an unbroken front, giving back blow for blow and shout for shout. Short, wild and terrific was the conflict. Conscious of the vicinity of the other boats, the enemy wished to overcome us before we could be succored; while we struggled as desperately to maintain our footing until aid should arrive. But our efforts were in vain. Pressing on to us in dense, overpowering numbers, and hemming us in on every quarter but that by which we had boarded the ship, they seemed determined to drive us into the ocean pell-mell, or slaughter us outright. No quarter was asked or given. Man after man fell around me in the vain attempt to maintain our footing. Already I had received two cutlass wounds myself. Our ranks were fearfully thinned. Yet still I cheered on my men, determined rather to die at bay than surrender or retreat. But all seemed in vain. Several men had already fallen before my arm, and the deck was slippery with the blood of friend and foe; yet the enemy did not appear to lessen in numbers. As fast as one man fell, another filled his place. Despair took possession of us. I saw nothing before us but a glorious death, and I determined that it should be one long after to be talked of by my countrymen. All this, however, had passed almost in a minute. Suddenly I heard a cheer on the starboard bow of the enemy, and as it rose clear and shrill over all the din of the conflict, I recognised the Fireflies clambering over the ship’s side in that direction.
“Huzza! the day’s our own!” I shouted, in the revulsion of feeling. “Come on, my lads, and let us hew the scoundrels to the chine!” and, with another wild huzza, I dashed like a madman upon the cutlasses of the foe. My men followed me with the fury of a whirlwind. Wild, terrible, overpowering was that charge; fierce, desperate and relentless was the resistance. The scene that ensued eternity will not eradicate from my memory. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought, each man striving with his opponent, conscious that life or death depended on the issue: while swords clashed, pistols exploded, shouts rent the air, and blood flowed on every hand as if it had been water. Now the foe yielded, and now we retired in turn. Swaying to and fro, striking around pell-mell, thrusting, parrying, hewing, wrestling in the death-grip, or hurling the fallen from our path, now clearing our way by main force, and now breaking the enemy’s front by a deceptive retreat, we succeeded at length in driving the foe back in a broken mass on their assailants from the bow. Then they rallied, and, with the fury of tigers at bay, returned to the charge. If ever men fought like demons, they did. As they grew more and more desperate, they fairly howled with rage. Their curses were terrific. God help me from ever witnessing such a sight again! I saw that it only needed another vigorous charge to complete their defeat, and rallying my little band around me once more, though every man of them was wounded, we dashed on to the foe, determined to cut our way through to our friends, or drive the enemy down the hatchway.
“Once more, my boys, once more—huzza for liberty!—on!”
“Come on, ye rebel knaves!” growled the leader of the British, and striking at me with his cutlass, to challenge me to single combat, he roared, “Take that, ye hell-hound.” One of my men sprang to my aid.
“Back—back!” I shouted, “leave him to me.”
“Ay, God’s curse be on you—” but his words were lost in the clash of the conflict. For a moment I thought he was more than my match, but his very rage overreached itself, and failing to guard himself sufficiently, he exposed his person, and the next instant my sword passed through his body. He fell backwards without a groan. His men saw him fall, and a score of weapons were pointed at me.
“Down with him—hew him to the ground,” roared the British.
“Hurrah for Parker!—beat back the villains!” thundered my own men, and the contest, which had paused during the combat between the fallen chief and myself, now raged with redoubled frenzy, the whole fury of the enemy being directed against myself. I remember shouts, curses, and groans, the clash of cutlasses and the roar of fire-arms, and then comes a faint memory of a sharp pain in my side, succeeded by a reeling in my brain, and a sensation of staggering, as if about to fall. After that all is blank.
When I recovered my senses, I was lying on the quarter deck, while the cool night breeze swept deliciously over my fevered brow, and my ears were soothed with the gentle ripple of the waters as the ship moved on her course. A solitary star, struggling through a rent in the clouds overhead, shone calmly down on me. I turned uneasily around.
“How are you, Parker?” said the voice of the lieutenant, approaching me. “We are nearing the schooner rapidly, when you’ll have your wound attended to—I bandaged it as well as I could.”
“Thank you,” I said, faintly. “But have you really brought off the prize?”
“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “we got off, although they hailed cannon balls around us like sugar-plums at a carnival in Rome. Never before did I run such a gauntlet. But the sleepy fellows did not get properly awake until we had made sail—had they opened their fire at once, they might have sent us to Davy Jones’ locker in a trice.”
“And the enemy’s crew?”
“All snug below hatches, every mother’s son of them. They fought like devils, and came within an ace of beating us. But, faith, yonder is the old schooner. Ship, ahoy!”
We were soon aboard. My wound proved a serious, though not a dangerous one, and for several weeks I was confined to my hammock.
A DAY AT NIAGARA.
———
BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.
———
“Well, here’s an evil of rail-road travelling that I never thought of before!” screamed a bright girl, with pouting, rosy lips and a dimpled chin, at the risque of spoiling as sweet a voice as ever warbled “Away with Melancholy,” on a May morning; addressing her words to our good cousin, who had taken upon himself the responsible charge of escorting a party of ladies, (among whom were the fair speaker, his sister, and my fortunate self,) to see the great ‘lion’ of this western world.
“You say that we are within five miles of Niagara, yet I cannot hear its voice for the eternal gabble, gabble of this locomotive. Why, all my dreams have been associated with the geographic recollections of childhood, which invariably said, ‘The roar of the cataract may be heard distinctly at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles.’ ”
“You forget,” replied her brother, “that it is when those wise assurances were written, which make the eyes of the school-girl stand out ‘as visibly as letters on a sign,’ that this rapid, noisy mode of travelling was unthought of: wait a little, my sweet sis., till we reach the point of our destination, and Niagara’s thundering bass will sound all the mightier, for bursting suddenly upon your ear.”
While these remarks were passing, we were nearing the end of our journey; and on reaching the depot, our party was among the foremost to leave the puffing, snorting, “black poney” behind, as we turned our faces towards the hotel. But neither my fair cousin nor myself seemed astounded at the noise of the cataract; much to the surprise of her brother. The truth was, that in this particular of sound our “loud expectations” exceeded the reality; though it may as well be remembered here as elsewhere, that before leaving Niagara, our ears were “filled with hearing,” no less than were our “eyes satisfied with seeing.” The sun was first hiding his face behind the golden curtain of a July evening, and tea already sending its grateful fragrance from the ample board, as we reached “The Cataract House;” so it was agreed that we should refresh ourselves with a dish of the green beverage, before sallying out for a peep at the Falls:—furthermore, that until then, no one of our party should approach a certain window which commanded a view of the rapids, upon the penalty of our good-natured cousin’s displeasure; and as we had one and all promised obedience to his wishes, each poised herself on the tip-toe of curiosity, long enough to swallow a boiling draught, at the expense of sore, though not disabled tongues, for some days thereafter. We were, however, too unmerciful to allow our gallant the comforts of his cigar after tea; but by sundry hints, in the form of bonnets and shawls, compelled his politeness to yield to our impatience for the evening ramble. Our footsteps were first directed to the bridge which extends over the boiling, angry rapids, to Goat Island. Even here, it would seem that as much of the awful, the sublime, and the beautiful, had met together, as human eyes could endure to look upon! As we leaned over the railing of the bridge, (holding on instinctively with convulsive grasp,) and surveyed the yawning whirlpools beneath, encompassed by the ever-restless foam, I, for one, thought I had never seen any thing terrific before! But from the imperfect view of the falls, which the gathering shades of twilight and the American side gave us that evening, my “first impressions” were those of bitter disappointment. “And is this the end of all my vast imaginings?” said I, in haste to myself, but breathed it not aloud; for, indeed, even then and there, the scene was grand and imposing: so I held my peace, resolving to await the morning beams, for its rainbow crown, and retire to my pillow opinionless, touching the glories of the grand cataract.
The sun looked down upon us the next morning without the shadow of a cloud between, and preparations commenced at an early hour, for a day at Niagara. Much to our delight, we found a familiar party of ladies and gentlemen, at a sister hotel, who had arrived during the night, and would join us in the pleasures of the day. As it happened that the gentlemen of said party outnumbered the ladies, the fair responsibilities of our obliging cousin (who had performed the part of “beau-general” much to the credit of his gallantry) were fairly divided with the other beaux, and all things being arranged, each lady could boast of her own protector. I know of nothing that quickens the pleasing excitement of these excursions more than an unexpected recruit of acquaintances and friends. Never was there a gayer or happier little company than left the “Cataract House” that shadowless summer morning, to cross the green waters of Niagara river for the Canada side. Oh! how those bright faces come up before me now, as if among the vivid recollections of yesterday! There was the brilliant Mrs. —— with her raven curls, matchless form, and “dangerous eyes of jet,” ever and anon returning a dazzling smile for the involuntary gaze of admiration. And what coquette by nature ever learned, until she had been the happy wife and mother more than two years, to confine her favorable glances to one beloved object. Albeit the beautiful Mrs. —— is “a jewel of a wife,” though I heard her adoring husband confess that very day, that she “caught” him “with her eyes!” There, too, in striking contrast, was the gentle wife of our happy cousin, with her hazel “eyes, like shaded water;” the carnation of modesty on her cheeks, and “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit” beaming on her brow. And then the fair Miss ——, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. ——, from New York, who were exposing, for the first time, their fragile flower of sixteen summers, whose delicate complexion, and lily hands, needed none to affirm that “the winds of heaven never visited her too roughly;” but whose chief attraction seemed in some way connected with the appellation of “heiress!” So no doubt thought a whiskered “fortune-hunter,” who, by dint of bows and smiles, had contrived to insinuate himself into the good graces of our party, and played the devoted to Miss ——, after the most approved fashion. To say nothing of the pretty sister of our cousin, with her tiny feet—“the lightest and gentlest that ever from the heath-flower brushed the dew!” Nor of the radiant and fascinating belle of ——, who had already commenced a flirtation with the rich southerner, who was her chosen knight for the day. Nor of other laughing eyes and mirth-stirring spirits that made up the party. But, alas! the shadow of death falls ever upon life’s retrospect picture. Of one individual, whose gallantry, good sense and extraordinary musical powers, rendered him a favorite of the fair, on that occasion, may it now be said, “the places that knew him shall know him no more.” In early manhood, and in a stranger’s grave, sleeps he whose active step, whose buoyant spirits, whose melody of song and sparkling wit concealed from us the insatiate disease, whose slow, sure worm had even then fastened upon his vitals. Consumption sent him to the balmy south, there to find a resting place ’mid orange groves and perpetual-blooming flowers. Peace be with the ashes of the early, the gifted dead.
No sooner was our little barge on the centre of the rapid tide, and the eye glanced upward and round about, than a scene of magnificence and glory burst upon us, which it had “never entered into the heart to conceive!” Many have attempted to describe it; but if the ablest pen of the most ready writer hath failed to embrace half its wondrous beauties, let not this humble pen dare to desecrate what for sublimity and loveliness is verily indescribable! To us it seemed that “the fountains of the deep were again broken up”—as if old Ocean was pouring forth his deep green floods into that awful abyss, so wide, so vast, so terrible was their rush to the brink—so mighty and resistless their plunge into the boiling chasm! There hung the rainbow, with God’s promise in its hues of beauty—
“That arch, where angel-forms might lean,
And view the wonders of the mighty scene!”
On reaching the Canada side, our first “post of observation” was Table Rock. The picture it presents—who shall paint it? The most striking feature of the whole is the vast quantity of water which pours unceasing and unspent, and its consequent deeply emerald hue as it passes the rocks, before breaking in its fall to the pure, amber-shaded foam, which sends up an eternal incense of spray to Heaven. Another feature of beauty which arrested our attention was the meeting of the floods at the termination of the “Horse-shoe Fall,” where an angle of the rocks causes a continual embrace of the waters. The eye could scarce weary in viewing this one beauty of the scene; but before the mighty whole, awe-struck, the heart could only bow in silent adoration to that Great Being who made it all, for “the spirit of God moved on the face of the waters!” We next ascended the craggy steep to a wide-extended plain above, where are placed the barracks of the “Forty-third regiment of Her Majesty’s troops.” Fortunately for us, the day was one of regular review, and the whole regiment was out on duty. As we reached the brow of the hill, where, on the one side, was Niagara in all its glory, and on the other an extensive military display of red coats and arms of steel flashing in the sunlight, I thought that Nature and Art needed no embellishment from the pen of Fancy—“ ’Twas like enchantment all!” While in the full enjoyment of this glorious scene, her Majesty’s well-disciplined band played the familiar air of “God save the Queen!” as to us it was never played before, and my heart vibrated with as much joy as it ever felt at the sound of our national air, “Hail Columbia!”
Our party returned to the hotel at sunset, all uniting in the opinion that it is impossible to anticipate too much of enjoyment at Niagara, so far as it respects the marvellous and beautiful in nature, and only regretting that we could not pass a month, instead of a day, with its scenes around us. A few hours, previous to our departure the following morning, were spent in exploring Goat Island, so far as our limited time would allow. ’Tis in sooth a “fairy isle,” lashed day and night by the untiring rapids, and affording various and beautiful views of the great cataract it divides. The luxuriant foliage of its majestic trees shelters the admirer of the scenes around from the noonday heat, and the odors from its garden of flowers regale his senses the while.
We bade a reluctant adieu to Niagara, calling to mind all the imaginations that the heart had devised—all the descriptions we had heard from others’ lips—but with the words of “the Queen of the East” on our own, “The half was not told me.”
By way of concluding this imperfect sketch, we add some few lines, which were written in despite of a resolution most religiously made against such a presumptive measure; for, somehow or other, the humblest, as well as the loftiest pen, will attempt in numbers to express the unnumbered thoughts and “strange, which crowd into the brain” at Niagara. And while this prince of cataracts flows on, its terrific beauties will be still the oft-told but unspent theme of the “spirit-stirring muse.”
NIAGARA.
“How dreadful is this place!” for God is here!
His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks,
As with an iron pen and diamond’s point:
While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim,
Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills.
O! if the forest-trees, which have grown old
In viewing all the wonders of this scene,
Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves—
Familiar as they are with things sublime—
Shall not the timid stranger here unloose
His sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”
And bow in humble worship to his God?
For unto such as do approach with awe
This bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,
Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roar
Of “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”
Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—
Know that this God, this awful God, is yours!”
Yes, here have wrath and peace together met—
Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced;
For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods,
The bow of promise and of beauty hangs:
When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues,
Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow,
Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great,
But ah! when understood, his name is Love.”
Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.
MAJOR DADE’S COMMAND.
A requiem for the gallant dead?
A dirge for those who died,
With banner streaming overhead,
Unsoiled, unterrified!
A gallant but devoted band,
They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.
They hear not now the Indian yell,
Nor cannon’s angry roar;
The clash of arms, or ’larum bell,
Shall startle them no more!
Unlike and severed were their homes—
One sepulchre contains their bones.
The spangled banner that has led
So oft to victory,
Its stars undimmed, above their bed,
Unfolded to the sky,
When in the unconquered hearts below,
The tide of life had ceased to flow.
No sculptured imagery on high,
Reveals their lonely grave.
No epitaph can passer spy,
To tell where rest the brave!
Such may become the gilded tomb,
But not the stern old forest’s gloom.
Like streamers, to the passing breeze,
The unshorn grass waves here;
As silent mourners, blighted trees,
Or monuments appear;
The glad, wild birds their requiem sing,
And flowers around their incense fling.
The smile that struggles in the eye,
When withered is the heart,
Reminding us of hopes gone by,
No joy, but gloom impart;
So nature loses all its bloom,
And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.
Though wild and distant is the spot,
Where their bleached bones are laid,
More hallowed ground is honored not
By widow, sire, or maid:
And fame shall shield from vulgar tread,
The ashes of the valiant dead.
And though around their lowly tomb,
No kin or friends are found,
Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloom
On valor’s sacred ground;
Yet loving hearts are chill with woe,
And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.
As to some venerated shrine,
Whose lights have ceased to hum,
Shall pilgrims here, in after time,
Their wand’ring footsteps turn,
And view in Fancy’s magic glass,
The scene of death before them pass.
Perchance, upon the spot they fell,
Some monument may then
Its lofty column rear to tell
The gratitude of men;
The noble dead! they need it not;
Their valor consecrates the spot.
Conrad.
THE WIDOW.
There sits a mourner, solitary now
With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow.
Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,
When last they sat beneath their favorite shade—
Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own
Answered in tones of tenderness alone.
Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,
And she is left—of all that family!
She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,
No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,
She looks within—and all is mute despair,
She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.
M. S. B. D.
WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn the death of Willis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos. He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and, after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.
As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say his request was religiously fulfilled?
The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines, for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the departed, or admire true poetry.
A DEATH SCENE IN THE CHAMBER OF A POET.
Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak—
My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death
Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad!
The being best beloved has gone before—
Why should I tarry here? An angel form
Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams,
I hear her voice and see her starry eyes!
That voice so full of woman tenderness;
Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul!
Then look not sad! My peace is made with God,
And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven—
The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence
On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!—
The truth will break upon me! The dim stars,
Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold,
Glitter amid the distance—it may be
That I may pass their confines on my course;
That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze!
Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine!
How like to living things! How beautiful!
How more than wonderful the mighty hand
That placed them there, all radiant with light!
Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul
Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I
Amid thy wonders vast and infinite!
And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within—
The quenchless light of an eternal soul!
Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust
Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings
Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!
My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,
Long tried and well beloved—before I leave
This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—
Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—
I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,
Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;
It is among the last.
Hither, my child!
There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,
So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,
So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!
Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,
All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,
A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!
But far above the grave her spirit dwells,
Among the white-robed circles of the blest:
In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,
And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.
But to the boon.
I would not, when my dust
Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories.
I would not leave a wound in any breast,
But fain with all the world would die in peace,
Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness.
The only legacy that I may leave
My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame:
A phantom that has cheated me of life,
And fails me now, I fear, before the grave.
And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright,
Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow
The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze.
And feel the mortal passing slowly off,
How dust still clings to dust, and a desire
Burns at my breast, that justice may be done
My memory!—that he, in after time—
(Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—)
May speak his father’s name with love and pride.
* * * * * * * * * *
A hand—a friendly hand!—mine eyes grow dim—
His pale lip quivered, and the hectic tinge
Passed from his hollow cheeks. And see, he sleeps!
Alas! ’tis Death’s unchangeable repose—
The spirit of the poet soars to God!
Mr. Clark possessed poetic talents of no ordinary merit. He belonged to the school of Goldsmith and Pope, rather than to that of Byron or Coleridge. He was more remarkable for sweetness than passion, for melody than force, for fancy than imagination. The rank to which he belonged was not the highest, but in that rank he occupied one of the foremost stations. He was distinguished for his grace and euphony. Few men have written so elegantly as Mr. Clark; no man has excelled him in the melody of numbers. He obviously devoted the greatest attention to the composition of poetry, and no piece left his hand until it had received its utmost polish. There was a deep abiding sense of religion in his compositions which commend them to every heart. He was indeed almost the first poet to render the poetry of religion attractive; for Young, Cowper, Wordsworth, and even Milton, too often fail in this. But Mr. Clark was always successful, breathing, as he did, aspirations after a higher and better state of being, and emulating, if that were possible, the rapt enthusiasm of the Hebrew poet, when dreaming of the “better land”—that land to which he has now followed his long-wept wife. Yes! he has gone—
“Gone to his Heavenly Father’s rest!
The flowers of Eden round him blowing,
And on his ear the murmur blest
Of Siloa’s waters softly flowing!—
Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
To all the earth its healing leaves!
In the white robe of angels clad,
And wandering by that sacred river,
Whose streams of loveliness make glad
The city of our God forever!”
Why should we mourn his loss? This is no home for the weary spirit. Earth has nothing to satisfy the immortal mind; but, with a reach after higher and holier things, it struggles to be away, satisfied only when roaming free through the wide expanse of Eternity.
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER,
A BALLAD—WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON.
MUSIC COMPOSED BY
J. DODSLEY HUMPHREYS.
Philadelphia: John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street.
Farewell if ever fondest prayer for others’ weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft, but waft thy name beyond the sky.
’Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh,
Oh more than
tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are in that word farewell.
Are in that word farewell, farewell,
When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are in that word, are in that word farewell.
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought, the thought that ne’er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel,
I only know we lov’d in vain.
I only feel farewell,
I only feel farewell, farewell,
I only know I loved in vain,
I only feel, I only feel farewell.