GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. October, 1841. No. 4.
Contents
[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.
Painted by Vinterhalter. Engraved by J. Sartain.
W. H. Bartlett. A. L. Dick.
(Pennsylvania)
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: OCTOBER, 1841. No. 4.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
What is so beautiful as childhood? Where can we find such purity and frankness, such an absence of all selfishness, as in the love of children? And where does that love exist, deeper or sweeter or more like that of heaven than when between a brother and a sister?
Brother and sister! what a spell in the very words! How they bring up to our mind visions of days long past, and such, alas! as we shall never see again; when, with that dear one who is now in heaven, singing among the white-robed choir around the throne of God, we wandered over hill and dale, through fields of waving corn and meadows of the freshest grass—and all the while drinking into our souls sensations we could not then understand, but which we now know sprung from that sympathy which exists between us and every beautiful thing in nature, and which, beginning at the humblest flower, links together all inanimate and animate creation, ascending step by step from tree to breathing thing, from breathing thing to man, from man to the angels, and so through cherubim and seraphim and archangel, up to the highest intelligence who veils his face before the effulgence of the great I am. We little knew the reason then, but we felt how sweet it was to wander thus—often from morning until night—threading the old wood, or gathering flowers on the lea, or playing merrily beneath some shady grove, or loitering perchance at noon-day beside the stream, to gaze at the silvery trout glancing far down in the cool depths, or hanging like a motionless statue close under the mossy rocky caves that skirted the banks. Oh! those were delicious hours. Arm in arm would we sit, scarce speaking a word for hours, but with a thousand sweet though indescribable emotions at our hearts, until a dreamy quiet would creep over our souls like that which lapped the poet into Elysium. The very soughing of the wind among the trees would become lower and softer, until it died away with a tone as mellow as that of a flute at midnight. The current would sweep noiselessly at our feet, save when it whirled by some projecting rock, or babbled over a pebbly bar on the bosom of the stream. Now the whirr of a woodcock might be heard, and now the whistle of a wild pigeon broke clear and silvery on the silence. Often the long tresses of the overhanging willows drooped down around us until they slept upon the waters, while ever and anon the noon-tide breeze would rustle the neighboring trees, and a sound would go up like the whispers of a company of angels. How often have we thought that in these low mysterious tones might exist a meaning of which we little dream, a language as full of adoration as it is of harmony. But be that as it may, is not all nature an instrument from which the fingers of God are drawing perpetual music? The roar of the surf, the whisper of the zephyr, the rustling of the forest, the gurgling of the stream, the song of the bird, the low of the kine, the rain gently pattering among the forest leaves, and the thunder wheeling and rattling among the hills, are all notes in that great anthem of praise which continually goes up from earth—an anthem which is swelled by the music of satellites and worlds, aye! of a revolving universe, sweeping sphere on sphere beyond the ken of man. All creation is but one vast whole, engaged day and night in hymning Jehovah’s praise.
Brother and sister! Alas! we are alone. Manhood has left us of that happy time only these emotions—first felt in the companionship of that now sainted being. But never shall we forget those days. They are linked in with our very being. How many sweet emotions, how many lasting impressions, how many glimpses of the beautiful and true were drawn into our souls in that joyous time of innocence and youth. And how all seem the sweeter, and holier, and more enduring from the associations connected with them. Oh! tell us not of other’s love, it cannot surpass that of a sister. What can be purer than her little caresses, what can be more heavenly than her smile? Years have passed since the days when we thus wandered together, and the cares of the world have eaten like a canker into our heart, but the memory of that sister’s kindness and the consciousness of her affection, have been a balm to our hearts in every ill. They have cheered us in sickness, and sorrow, and absence; they have been to us beacons of hope and happiness. And they will continue with us, thank God! until we too shall have done with the toils of life.
J. S.
KATE BEVERLY.
A STORY OF THE VALLEY OF WYOMING.
———
BY PERCIE H. SELTON.
———
“Do you see that landscape?” said the old man to me, as we paused on the edge of the mountain road, and looked down into the valley of Wyoming beneath us. “Well, that spot, calm and beautiful as it now is, was once the scene of massacre. God help me! the agonies of that day almost wring my heart to think of them, even after the lapse of fifty years.”
“I have heard it was a fearful time, and you have often promised to tell me the tale of your own connection with it. Yet, if the subject be so painful to you, I dare scarcely make the request.”
“No, boy, no,” said the old man, sadly, “I will tell it, for the promise is of long standing, and I feel to-day as if I could narrate that tragedy with less emotion than usual. Sit down on this rock, and give me a moment to rest; I will then commence my story.”
While the old man wiped the perspiration from his brow, and sat fanning himself with his broad-rimmed summer hat, I took the place pointed out by him near his side, and spent the moments that elapsed before he began his narration in gazing at the landscape before me.
Sitting on a huge boulder, at the edge of the mountain, just where the hill began to slope down into the valley, we commanded a view of one of the most unrivalled landscapes in the world. To our left rose up the mountain, bold, rugged and barren, like the back of some vast monster reared against the sky—but on the right nothing interposed to destroy the view: whose loveliness so far exceeded even my expectations, that for some minutes I gazed on the scene in mute admiration. Beneath me stretched the valley, diversified with gently sloping elevations, and sprinkled with fields of waving golden grain; while here and there a patch of woodland, with its dark green hue, lay slumbering on the landscape—the surface of the forest ever and anon varying to a lighter tint as the wind swept over the tree-tops. Right through the centre of the valley meandered the river, now rolling betwixt bluff banks, and now stealing gently among the rich meadow lands in the distance, until at length it turned to the left, and, skirting the foot of the far off hills, was lost behind the profile of the mountain before us. In the centre of the vale was the village, with its white houses and airy church steeple, smiling over the scene. Far away on the horizon stretched a line of hills, their dark blue summits, half hid by the clouds, which wrapped them as in a veil of gauze. No sound came up from the valley. Occasionally the twitter of a bird would be heard from the surrounding trees—while the low tinkle of a tiny waterfall on our left kept monotonously sounding in our ears. The morning rays of a summer’s sun poured down upon the landscape, and every thing around was bright, and gay, and beautiful. I was still lost in admiration at the loveliness of the scene, when the old man signified his readiness to commence his tale.
“It is now fifty years ago,” he began, “since I came to this valley a young frontier-man, with a hardy constitution, a love of adventure, and the reputation of being the best shot on the border: the place was, at that time, settled principally by families from Connecticut, and even then bore traces of its present luxuriant cultivation. Many of the families were in good circumstances, others had seen better days—and altogether the society was more refined than was usual on the frontier. Among all the families, however, in the valley, none pleased me so much as that of Mr. Beverly—and, of his fireside circle his second daughter, Kate, was, in my eyes, the gem. How shall I describe her beauty? Lovely, without being beautiful, with a sylph-like form, a laugh as joyous as the carol of a bird, a step lighter than that of a young fawn in sportive play, and a disposition so amiable as to win, irresistibly, the love of all who met her. Kate Beverly was scarcely seventeen before she had a host of admirers, and might have won any youth in the valley. Why it was that she preferred me over all the rest, I cannot say: perhaps it was the consciousness of some mysterious sympathy linking us together, or perhaps it was that we both came from the same town in Connecticut, and had been school-mates in childhood—so it was, however. It soon began to be known throughout the valley that before another season should elapse, Kate Beverly would become my wife.
“Oh! how happy were those days—too happy, indeed, to last. I will not dwell upon them, for they fill my soul with agony. Suffice it to say, that while dreaming of bliss such as mortal never before experienced, the war of the revolution broke out—and, after a hard struggle between my passion and my duty, the latter conquered, and I joined the army. Kate did not attempt to dissuade me from the act—she rather loved me the more for it. Though her woman nature caused her to shed tears at my departure, her reason told her I was right, and she bid me God speed.
“ ‘Heaven bless you, Harry,’ she said, ‘and bring this unnatural war to a conclusion. I cannot bid you stay, but I pray that the necessity for your absence may soon cease.’
“Time rolled by—the American cause was still doubtful, and the war bid fair to be protracted into years. I had risen to be a captain in the —— regiment, when I received information that the tories and Indians intended making a descent on the valley of the Wyoming. I knew the unprotected situation of my adopted district, and I trembled for the lives of those I held most dear. At first I discredited the rumor—chance, however, threw in my way an opportunity of ascertaining the reality of the reported descent, and I became convinced that not a moment was to be lost if I would save the lives of those I loved at home. My determination was at once taken—I solicited for leave of absence—it was refused: I then resigned my commission, and set forth to Wyoming.
“I never shall forget my emotions when I drew near that ill-fated place; it was on the very day of the massacre—and the first intimation I had of the calamity was the mangled body of one of the inhabitants, whom I had known, floating down the stream. A cold shiver ran through every vein as I gazed on the terrible sight, and a thousand fears agitated my bosom; but my worst surmises fell far short of the truth. When, hours after, I met some of the fugitives, and they rehearsed to me that tale of horror, I stood for a moment thunderstruck, refusing to believe that beings in human form could perpetrate such deeds—but it was all too true.
“Almost my first inquiry was for Kate. No one knew, alas! what had become of her. One of those who had escaped the fight, told me that her father had been killed at the beginning of the conflict—and that, deprived of a protector, she had probably fallen a victim to the infuriate savages, while the other inhabitants were severally engaged in protecting themselves. How I cursed them for this selfishness! And yet could I expect aught else of human nature, than that each one should protect those dearest to them, even to the desertion of others?
“But my mind was soon made up. I resolved, come what might, to ascertain clearly the fate of Kate—so that if dead I might revenge her, and if, living, I might rescue her. Bidding farewell to the flying group, I shouldered my rifle and struck boldly into the forest, trusting in the guidance of that God who never deserts us in our extremities.
“I will not tire you with a protracted narrative; I will only say that, after numerous inquiries from the fugitives I met, I learned that Kate had been last seen in the hands of a party of savages,—this was sufficient for a clue,—I once more began to hope. I waited until night-fall, when I sought the spot which had been described to me as the one where Kate had been last seen—and, never shall I forget my feelings of almost rapturous pleasure, when I found in the neighboring forest a fragment of her dress sticking on a bush, by which it had, doubtless, been torn from her in passing. I was now satisfied that Kate had been carried off captive. Fortunately I had met, in the group of fugitives, a hunter who had been under some obligations to her family, and he was easily persuaded to join me in my search. Together we now began a pursuit of the savages. He was an adept in forest warfare—could follow a trail as a hound the chase—knew the course which would be most likely to be chosen by a flying party of Indians, and withal, was one of the keenest shots who had carried a rifle on the border.
“ ‘It’s my opinion,’ said he, ‘that these varmint did not belong to the regular body of Indians who followed Butler, though even they were bad enough. I think, however, he wouldn’t suffer a deed like this. These villains seem to have acted on their own behalf—and, if so, they would fly to the back country as soon as possible. You may depend upon it we shall overtake them if we pursue that way.’
“I felt the truth of these remarks, and assented to them at once. In less than a quarter of an hour after first discovering the trail, we were threading the forest in pursuit of the savages.
“Let me hasten to the close. Hour after hour, all through the livelong day, we pursued the flying Indians—crossing swamps, clambering over rocks, fording streams, and picking our way through the labyrinthine woods, until, towards night-fall, we reached the edge of an open space—or, as it were, a meadow, shut in by gently sloping hills.
“ ‘Hist,’ said my companion, ‘we are upon them. Do you not see that thin thread of smoke curling upward over the top of yonder aged hemlock?’
“ ‘Ay—it must be them—let us on.’
“ ‘Softly, or we lose all. We know not, certainly, that this is the party we seek; let us reconnoitre.’
“Slowly and stealthily, trembling lest even a twig should crackle under our feet, we crept up towards the edge of the meadow—and peeping cautiously through the underwood, beheld the objects of our search in six tall swarthy savages, sitting smoking around the remains of a fire. At a little distance knelt, with her hands bound, but her eyes upraised to heaven, my own Kate. Oh! how my heart leaped at the sight. I raised my rifle convulsively, and was about to fire, when my companion caught my hand, and said:
“ ‘Softly, or you spoil all. Let us get the varmint in range, and then we shall fire with some effect. Hist!’
“This last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden rising of one of the savages. He gazed a moment cautiously around, and then advanced towards the thicket where we lay concealed. I drew my breath in, and trembled at the beating of my own heart. The savage still approached. My companion laid his hand on my arm, and pointed from my rifle to one of the Indians. I understood him. At this juncture the advancing savage, warned of our presence by the crackling of an unlucky twig beneath my companion’s foot, sprang back, with a loud yell, towards the fire.
“ ‘Now,’ said my companion, sternly.
“Quick as lightning I raised my piece and fired. My companion did the same. The retreating savage and one of his companions fell dead on the ground: each of us then sprang to a tree, loading as we ran. It was well we did it, for in an instant the enemy was on us. Shall I describe that dreadful fight? My emotion forbids it. A few minutes decided it. Fighting from tree to tree—dodging, loading, and endeavoring to get sight on a foe, we kept up the conflict for nearly five minutes—at the end of which time I found myself wounded, while four out of the six savages lay prostrate on the ground. The other two, finding their companions dead, and despairing of being able to carry off their prisoner, suddenly rushed on her, and before we could interpose, had seized their hapless victim. I had only been prevented, hitherto, from rescuing Kate by the knowledge that an attempt of the kind, while the savages were still numerically superior to us, would end in the certain ruin of us both,—but now, worlds could not have restrained me, and, clubbing my rifle, for the piece was unloaded, I dashed out from my covert, shouting to my companion—
“ ‘On—on, in God’s name, on.’
“ ‘Take care of the taller varmint,’ thundered my companion.
“The warning was too late. In the tumult of my feelings I had not observed that the savage furthest from me had his piece loaded, and before I could avail myself of my companion’s cooler observation, I received the ball in my right arm, and my rifle dropped powerless by my side; had I not sprung involuntarily aside at my companion’s cry, I should have been shot through the heart.
“ ‘On—on,’ I groaned in agony, as I seized my tomahawk in my almost useless left hand.
“ ‘Stoop,’ said my companion, ‘stoop lower;’ and as I did so, his rifle cracked on the still air, and the Indian fell dead.
“All this had not occupied an instant. I was now within a few feet of her I loved, who was struggling in the grasp of the other Indian. He had already entwined his hands in her long hair—his tomahawk was already gleaming in the setting sun. Never shall I forget the look of demoniac fury with which the wretch glared on his victim. A second only was left for hope. My companion was far behind, with his rifle unloaded. I made a desperate spring forward, and hurled my tomahawk at the savage’s head. God of my fathers! the weapon whizzed harmlessly by the wretch, and buried itself, quivering, in the trunk of a neighboring tree. I groaned aloud in agony,—there was a yell of triumph on the air—a sudden flashing in the sun, like a glancing knife, and—but I cannot go on. She I loved as my own life; she who was the purest and loveliest of her sex; she with whom I had promised myself a long life of happiness—oh! must I say it—she lay a mangled corpse at my feet! But her murderer, aye!—he was cloven to the breast by a blow from his own tomahawk, which I had wrenched from him with the strength of a dozen men.”
The old man ceased,—big tears rolled down his furrowed face, and his frame shook with emotion. I saw the remembrance of the past was too much for him, and I sat by his side in silence.
I subsequently heard his sad tale from others, and then learned the manner in which Kate had been carried off. The old man’s companion was right—she had been made a prisoner by a predatory band of Indians, who had followed Butler, and deserted him directly after the massacre.
Beautiful as the Valley of the Wyoming is, I never have seen it, from that day to this, without thinking of the sad fate of Kate Beverly.
WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.
———
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
———
We were boys together,
And never can forget,
The school-house on the heather,
In childhood where we met:
Nor the green home to memory dear,
Its sorrows or its joys,
Which called the transient smile or tear,
When you and I were boys.
We were youths together,
And castles built in air!
Your heart was like a feather,
While mine was dash’d with care!
To you came wealth with manhood’s prime,
To me it brought alloys
Ne’er dreamed of in the primrose time
When you and I were boys.
We’re old men together—
The friends we loved of yore,
Like leaves of autumn weather,
Are gone for evermore!—
How blest to age the impulse given,
The hope time ne’er destroys,
Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven,
When you and I were boys.
LAME FOR LIFE, OR LESLIE PIERPOINT.
A TALE, IN TWO PARTS.
———
BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM, AUTHOR OF “LAFITTE,” “KYD,” “THE QUADROONE,” ETC.
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